“Understood, Captain,” Wash responded.
“That’s good,” the captain replied with a relieved nod. Then he scowled. “I’m sorry we couldn’t locate two unoccupied cabins that were next to each other.”
“As long as we have four beds, we’ll make do,” Wash assured the captain. Marshals escorted prisoners amidst the general public all the time; sometimes on boats, often on trains, and on the rare occasion, stagecoaches. They were used to it.
Flynn glanced over at Cage again and found the man frowning at him. As soon as Flynn met his eyes, Cage gestured for him to come closer and look.
Flynn took a wary step toward him. “What is it?”
Cage turned and pointed down the dock, past the huge paddle wheel to where several wagons of cargo had been delivered for loading onto the boat. Soldiers were wheeling crate upon crate of what appeared to be something very heavy toward the landing stage. Further down, a man in uniform sat astride a horse with a shotgun over his lap as he watched the proceedings, and several more armed, uniformed men stood along the loading gangplanks that led to the wooden dock. They scanned the rooftops of the buildings surrounding the waterfront, and their eyes peered into the darkness of the alleyways.
It was obvious to Flynn’s well-trained eyes what they were doing. The soldiers weren’t supervising the loading of the crates. They were keeping a lookout.
Flynn squinted and examined the crates curiously, trying to read what was written on them. All he could make out was that the words stenciled on the crates indicated the contents were property of the United States Government.
“What in the hell?” he murmured.
Cage tapped him tentatively on his elbow, and Flynn looked back at the silent man. He tensed as Cage reached out for his lapel pocket, but he allowed the movement. Cage’s fingers gently plucked at the gold chain that held Flynn’s pocket watch, and then pointed again at the crates.
Flynn watched Cage’s fingers, then he scowled down at the crates in confusion. It dawned on him suddenly, and he glanced back at Cage.
“You think it’s gold?”
Cage nodded.
Flynn examined the crates more closely. “Well,” he finally said with a small huff. “Ain’t none of our concern.” He placed a hand on Cage’s shoulder and urged him to turn away. If he knew anything about soldiers on guard duty, it was that they didn’t like overly nosy onlookers. The milling crowd around the busy docks was enough to make those soldiers tense already.
They headed back over to the wagon as Wash continued to deal with their lodgings. Rose still sat on the end of the wagon, his coat held over his hand irons, swinging his legs freely. He either didn’t know or didn’t care that the right side of his head was covered in dried blood. Flynn suspected that he knew what a stir his appearance was causing and enjoyed the looks passersby were giving him.
Flynn pointed for Cage to go join him, and he watched as the big man shuffled over to the wagon obediently. Rose’s eyes followed him, and as Cage sat beside him, their shoulders touched, and they both smiled
Flynn scowled at them. He couldn’t help but get the feeling that he and Wash had been bamboozled somehow. Rose didn’t seem at all put out over his escape attempt being foiled, nor did he seem upset that he had dragged Cage into deeper trouble. It made Flynn uneasy.
“Sourpuss.”
Flynn actually jumped. He turned around and smacked Wash in the arm. “Don’t sneak up on a man with a gun.”
“Ow!” Wash cried, but he was laughing as he rubbed at his arm.
“Sorry!” Flynn winced and placed a hand on Wash’s injured shoulder. “Sorry. I keep forgetting.”
“Yeah, I barely know it’s there,” Wash said wryly. He looked back at Rose and Cage. “Getting irritated at Rose is like barking at a knot, friend. He don’t care, and he likes it that way.”
“Yeah, I know,” Flynn said with another disgruntled glance at their prisoners. He kept his hand on Wash’s shoulder as Wash rubbed it.
“They really bother you that much?” Wash asked. His fingers grazed over Flynn’s.
Flynn yanked his hand away and rubbed his palm over his mouth and chin. “No.”
Wash raised an eyebrow as he watched the movement of Flynn’s hand. He shook his head. “Let’s get them settled,” he suggested softly as he brushed by Flynn and headed over to the wagon. “I want to get them in the cabins before the other passengers start boarding.”
Flynn closed his eyes and jerked his head to the side irritably. When he opened his eyes again, he found Rose watching him with a small smirk as Wash unlocked his hands from the wagon. Flynn glared at Rose briefly before looking away. He pondered the soldiers laboring with their mysterious crates until he could wrangle in his temper.
He had gotten twitchy around Wash lately, and it was all Gabriel Rose’s damn fault. Flynn didn’t know why or how exactly, but he was sure it was.
“That dog ain’t coming, Rose,” Wash was saying sternly when Flynn finally looked back over at them.
“But he can’t swim to New Orleans,” Rose protested in all earnestness.
From what Flynn had seen of the dog’s loyalty, Rose was probably legitimately worried that the mutt would try it.
“Tell him to stay here, then,” Wash said.
Rose stared at Wash mutinously for a moment, then his shoulders slumped and he sighed. Flynn looked on with the barest hint of sympathy as Rose turned to the dog and pointed for him to go away.
“If you want to go downriver, you have to walk. No swimming, you understand? Now, go on.” Koda sat and gazed up at him adoringly, completely ignoring the order. “Go on,” Rose repeated. The dog lowered its head, looking up at Rose expectantly. Rose pointed again and the dog slowly turned away, slinking off and whining as he went.
Rose watched him go, then turned to Wash and raised his chin. For a man who had seemed to worry overly much about the dog, he didn’t strike Flynn as being all too upset about finally sending him away. Flynn would have put up more of a fight for his horse, let alone a constant companion like that mutt. He was sure it wasn’t a question of Rose’s character, either. Rose obviously thought he would see the dog again soon enough. Wondering what Rose had planned for the trip downriver raised the hackles on the back of Flynn’s neck.
He reminded himself to remain suspicious and wary of the Englishman until he was no longer Flynn’s responsibility. It was too easy to be drawn into his charismatic personality and forget that he was a very capable shootist and a clever grifter. Wash had fallen for it at the hotel, being convinced to leave them alone.
It had surprised Flynn to discover during the fiasco that Wash was a bit of a romantic. He would never have guessed it before this morning.
Flynn watched his fellow marshal with what might have been longing as Wash rearranged Cage’s chains and then gathered Rose’s duffel bag. He unceremoniously dumped the heavy bag in Rose’s hands. Flynn looked away again before Wash could catch him.
Wash gestured for Rose and Cage to head up the gangplank toward Flynn. Flynn cleared his throat and turned his head to watch them as they made their way to him.
“You ever play poker, Marshal Flynn?” Rose drawled as he neared where Flynn stood at the foot of the landing stage. “Your bluff is highly impressive.”
Flynn glared after him as Rose and Wash passed by, but said nothing. He refused to let Rose draw him into any discussion even remotely related to his emotions.
Cage followed them and glanced at Flynn as he passed by, something close to pity as he made brief eye contact.
“Shut up,” Flynn grumbled to him as he took the man’s elbow and fell in beside him.
Cage bit his lip, presumably to keep from smiling.
Flynn shook his head and glanced down at the stained oilskin clothing Cage was wearing. He stopped short and tugged at Cage’s elbow to stop him as they headed up the gangplanks of the landing stage to the steamer.
Cage furrowed his brow, as if expecting him to change their plans at t
he last minute, but he stood there obediently waiting for Flynn to speak.
“Hey, Wash,” Flynn called.
Wash and Rose turned to look back down at them.
“We should get him some new duds if we’re going for laying in the grass.” Flynn waved his free hand at Cage. “He’s going to stick out like a damn sore thumb in these.”
Wash scowled and cocked his head critically. “You might just be right,” he agreed. “But we used all our folding money on the passage. What do you want to do, commandeer trousers and boots for him?”
“I wouldn’t be averse to bending an elbow in the saloon while you gents talk this over,” Rose said. He squinted up at the sun, as if judging the time.
“Shut up,” Wash and Flynn responded in unison without even looking at the man again.
“He’s too big to borrow any of our duds,” Flynn argued. It wasn’t like they had an overabundance of spare clothing anyway.
“I ain’t saying he don’t need new clothes, Flynn, I’m just waiting to hear how you intend to get them,” Wash said patiently.
“If I may,” Rose interjected as he raised one slender finger to get their attention.
“Shut up!” Flynn turned his attention back to Wash. “Maybe we can open a line of credit at the Emporium. Let the government pick up the tab.”
“St. Louis is a lot rougher than last time you was here.” Wash shook his head. “They don’t take credit from strangers no more, no matter if they’re wearing badges.”
“Marshals?” Rose said as he stepped forward. They both looked at him in irritation. “May I remind you that you have at your convenience a fairly adept player of cards? Perhaps we could take a short bypass to the saloon and I could acquire us additional funds?”
The two marshals stared at him expressionlessly for a moment before sharing a look. Wash finally raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.
“No.”
“But—”
“Wash, you can’t really be considering—”
“I don’t see the harm in it,” Wash interrupted with a shrug. “He knows next time he tries to escape I plan to shoot him, so he won’t try nothing.”
“He’s quite right,” Rose muttered as he rubbed the side of his head. “Besides, Cage needs new clothing, and I’m wholly willing to assist.”
Flynn glared at Rose, trying to see the truth in the words. He was leaning toward believing the man, just this once. Rose did seem to genuinely care about Cage, to the point that Flynn was now almost positive he had engineered his attempted escape with the express purpose of having Cage charged with helping him. It was entirely possible he’d known if they charged Cage with the crime he’d have to make the trip to New Orleans with them. It made Flynn nervous to think they’d given Rose what he’d wanted.
He shook his head as he met Wash’s eyes, and Wash shrugged carelessly. “We’ll see if maybe we can find a place that’ll deal with us on good faith,” Wash decided as he took Rose’s arm and began walking back down the gangplank toward them. Flynn gestured for Cage to head back toward the dock.
Rose sighed heavily. “I suppose we could just use my line of credit,” he said, as if that option had been an afterthought.
Flynn turned and glared at him over his shoulder.
Rose shrugged. “Perhaps I could even find a new hat.”
“You’re getting a new hat when you jump out that window after your old one,” Wash snapped.
Flynn breathed deeply and turned away, resisting the urge to knock Rose into the river. He remembered hearing that Rose’s family back East had been wealthy. What was the harm in letting him use his own money? It was no skin off their noses.
Flynn scrubbed at his face in irritation. “Let’s get this over with, then,” he muttered as he tugged at his silent prisoner’s elbow. He suddenly grinned with relish as they headed back down the gangplank. “Come on, Cage. We’ll find you something nice and expensive to put on Rose’s tab.”
Cage stood back with Flynn, watching with amusement as Gabriel dragged Wash all over the Emporium in search of proper clothing. Cage could appreciate a nice new set of clothes, but he wasn’t what one would call fussy. As long as it fit, he didn’t much care what it looked like. Hell, sometimes he didn’t even care if it fit.
Gabriel, obviously, had a different view on the matter.
Flynn sighed and shifted his weight. Cage glanced over at him apologetically, his fingers finding the chain between his hand irons and playing with it, fighting down a flutter of nerves.
“Ain’t your fault,” Flynn muttered to him.
Cage snorted. They’d had him measured, an awkward process when the tailor was frightened of the two prisoners and trying to work around the chain that bound Cage’s hands. Of course, they didn’t have time to order clothes made for him, and parcels bought off the shelves weren’t going to fit as well as something tailored. But Gabriel insisted it would make the marshal’s lives easier if Cage looked respectable, and off he’d gone with Cage’s measurements to find pieces he thought suitable.
Cage sought him out again, and found Gabriel with Wash at his side, arguing over something on the shelf in front of them. Cage couldn’t tell what it was, but he almost hoped the sensible marshal would win the argument. There was no telling what Gabriel would dress him in if they allowed him to do as he pleased.
“You’re going to end up in evening dress and ascot,” Flynn said wryly under his breath.
Cage nodded, and he turned to point at Gabriel and Wash. Then he gestured to his neck. Neckwear was probably what they were arguing over. Gabriel probably would try to get an ascot for him, that was certainly his style, but they usually had to be worn with a stickpin. Cage was surprised that the marshals hadn’t confiscated Gabriel’s stickpin when they first picked him up.
“They’re looking at choke straps, fighting over the stickpin,” Flynn agreed as he offered Cage a small smile. “Let’s go hurry this along.”
Cage trailed after him, and was both amused and exasperated to find that they’d been right. Wash and Gabriel were discussing ties, and even as they approached, Wash reached to Gabriel’s neck and pulled the stickpin out of his collar.
Gabriel huffed at him indignantly. “What damage could he possibly do with a stickpin?” he asked Wash as he reached up and yanked at the limp ascot around his neck. He waved it accusingly, as if Wash actually cared that he was less dapper without it.
“He might not do any damage with it, but I don’t trust you any farther than I can throw you,” Wash responded with an easy smile as he waved the stickpin and then slid it into the pocket of his vest. “Now pick out a four-in-hand or he’ll go without.”
Gabriel turned back to the shelf where a scant few ties were on display. He looked at the more ordinary ties for a moment, his fingers fidgeting with the ascot in his hands, before his eyes drifted over the display shelf and he inhaled sharply and ducked his head to hide behind the free-standing case.
“What in the Sam Hill are you doing?” Flynn demanded between gritted teeth. He calmly pushed his jacket back to make the butt of his gun easier to reach as Rose cowered at his feet. “Get up!”
Cage frowned down at Gabriel in confusion as the man shook his head, putting a finger to his lips to shush Flynn. Cage saw nothing to be alarmed at when he glanced over the display case; just a man in a gray suit, browsing through the rack of dime novels on the far wall. Cage met Wash’s eyes and shrugged. The imperturbable marshal shrugged back.
“That man over there,” Gabriel whispered to them, pointing over the display. “He tried to kill me once!”
“Shocking,” Wash said wryly.
“He did!”
“Only once?” Flynn asked, his voice taking on the same tone Wash’s had.
“This is not a joking matter,” Gabriel said as he squatted on the floor at their feet. He put the ascot over his head, as if he could disguise himself with it. “Go over there and arrest him or . . . something. Oh! Let me shoot him!”
“
No!” Flynn and Wash both replied in harsh whispers.
“His name is Baird. He works for the government in some fashion.”
“Is he a lawman? Because technically we’re hoping to kill you too,” Flynn responded as he glanced over at the man Gabriel had identified as Baird.
“Decidedly not a lawman,” Gabriel mumbled. He crawled a few feet, then craned his neck to peer around a large barrel full of peanuts. Cage watched him incredulously, wondering if this was another attempt at escape, or if Gabriel was sincere in his peculiar brand of caution. He looked positively ridiculous.
Cage bit his lip so he wouldn’t start laughing.
“Would you get up off the blamed floor, please?” Wash muttered as he bent to take Gabriel’s elbow.
“Marshal, what portion of ‘he tried to kill me’ was difficult for you to understand?” Gabriel whispered as he let Wash yank him to his feet.
He still hunched, ducking his head and keeping his face hidden behind Wash’s shoulder and holding the ascot against his mouth and nose.
The effort was wasted, in Cage’s opinion. Anyone who had looked into Gabriel Rose’s black eyes would recognize them from a mile away.
Cage frowned again. He didn’t think Gabriel was actually afraid of the government man—and he certainly was a government man, Cage could tell that much just by his appearance. Stiff shoulders, straight back, heavy walrus-style mustaches of an indistinct brown color drooping over his lip. He stood with one hand in a pocket of his gray frock coat, and in the other hand he held a dime novel he had picked from the rack.
Cage recognized the dime novel as the very same that related the misadventures of one Dusty Rose.
He carefully touched Marshal Flynn’s elbow to get his attention. The marshal was already standing with his hand on the butt of his gun; Cage didn’t want to give him reason to draw it. But Flynn merely glanced at him, his eyes following the finger Cage pointed at Baird. Flynn obviously noticed which dime novel Baird had picked up as well, and he took a step closer to Wash and Gabriel.