According to Hoyle

  “Who’s your new friend?” Stringer asked, and he eyeballed Wash critically.

  Wash stared at him from several feet away as Cage glanced between them furtively.

  “Oh, don’t tell me he can’t speak neither,” Stringer drawled, obviously amusing himself as he stood, then bent over and hauled Cage to his feet. He reached up and took Cage’s chin in his hand, glaring into his eyes with sadistic pleasure. His fingers dug into Cage’s cheeks. The fourth finger on his right was missing, and Cage knew exactly how that had happened. Stringer didn’t seem to be bothered by its loss now. Cage jerked away and huffed at him, jaw clenching angrily. The number of guns at his back helped him to keep his temper in check.

  “Leave him be,” Wash ordered in a low voice.

  Cage was surprised at the marshal’s continued attempts at protecting him, but he also knew that the man was asking for a beating if he said much more. He discreetly gestured for Wash to be calm and quiet.

  “Leave him be?” Stringer repeated in a soft, taunting voice. He put his hand to his chest and offered Wash an apologetic pout. Then he lashed out, catching Wash under the chin with his closed fist.

  Several feminine screams emitted from amongst the passengers, then dissolved into whimpers and sobs.

  Cage reached for the marshal as he staggered backward, but missed him completely. To Cage’s surprise, Wash kept his feet, only swaying before righting himself and turning to look back at Stringer with a glint in his green eyes as blood trailed down the side of his mouth. Cage had rarely seen Stringer hit someone who didn’t end toe-up, just like he himself had done.

  Cage stared at Stringer emotionlessly. He couldn’t let Stringer think that he was upset over the attack, or Wash would take more beatings just so Stringer would have the pleasure of seeing Cage in distress.

  Stringer was rubbing his knuckles absently and pondering Cage. “Why are you here, Cage?” he asked finally. “Are you here for the cargo as well?”

  Cage was determined not to answer in any form.

  Stringer stepped closer and narrowed his eyes. “Or is it merely Lady Luck that set you in my path? I know you can answer me,” he murmured in a voice that was much too intimate for Cage’s comfort.

  Cage remained still and silent, looking back at Stringer blankly. Stringer moved quickly, backhanding Cage with all the force his large frame could deliver. Cage staggered sideways as several of the terrified women and children in the salon screamed again. Stringer kicked at the back of Cage’s knee and it gave out on him. He fell to his knees hard, pain lancing through him as his kneecaps slammed into the Oriental rug that covered the wooden floor.

  Stringer’s hand clenched hard in Cage’s hair, yanking his head back so he could tower over him. “Talk to me, my dear old friend,” Stringer drawled out. The anger was beginning to show through his calm exterior. He wasn’t accustomed to Cage being unresponsive and unreadable; Cage knew it was frustrating him. He murmured against Cage’s ear. “You were always more expressive when you were on your knees.”

  Cage repressed another shiver and continued to stare into the distance silently, not making eye contact with anyone. Stringer always had liked it rough.

  “Do we need to find somewhere private to discuss this? Or would you rather your friend answer for you?” Stringer asked in a whisper.

  Cage jerked his head to look up at him, and Wash shifted defiantly between the other two men that held him. Cage shook his head in answer to Stringer, glaring up at him briefly before returning his gaze to the floor.

  Stringer released him and straightened up, studying him for a long time before turning to give Wash the same unnerving once-over.

  “You found these two together?” he finally asked one of the men who had dragged them out of their cabin.

  The man nodded and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scowling heavily at Cage.

  “Show me,” Stringer demanded as he smirked at Cage. “Let’s see what they were up to in there.”

  Cage returned the look with barely concealed contempt. Stringer thought he and Wash were here as partners, working to steal the cargo themselves. Or as lovers, maybe.

  Stringer merely grinned at him, obviously pleased to have finally elicited some sort of emotion. He ordered that Wash be kept in the salon, but separate from the other passengers, until they returned.

  He spoke to his men, loud enough for all the captives to hear. “Don’t harm none of ’em unless someone kicks up a row. He comes with us,” he added with a crooked smile as he pointed for Cage to be hefted to his feet, and then gestured for his men to lead the way. Stringer took Cage’s elbow and walked beside him, squeezing hard as he gripped him. “I’m happier seeing you again than I would have reckoned,” he whispered to Cage, amusement and anticipation clear in his voice. “This thing just keeps getting better and better.”

  Cage tensed and shook his head as Stringer marched him toward the rear of the boat, past the graceful, curving stairwell in the main cabin. He jerked his arm away, only to have Stringer snatch it back, gripping it even harder.

  “It’s good to see you again, partner,” Stringer said as he pulled him closer. “I’m gonna enjoy paying you back for what you done.”

  Flynn crept along the upper causeway of the steamer, stopping and flattening himself against the wooden siding of the ship whenever he heard a noise. There were no passenger cabins on the top level, and so apparently after their first sweep, no one from the boarding party had bothered to come up here.

  He stopped next to the top of the large paddle wheel on the side of the ship, listening as it churned through the water and splashed back down rhythmically far below. He calmed himself and tried to reason through the situation. Rose had been right; they had to be after the gold. There were a lot of men involved with the hijacking and there was nothing else valuable enough—not that Flynn knew of anyway—that would split that many ways and be worth the trouble they were going to.

  This was an operation led by someone with cojones the size of a bull’s. Flynn knew that part of the appeal of robbing a riverboat was the notoriety it would gain the group of robbers. It certainly hadn’t been done too many times. With this many men, they could have just boarded, overpowered the crew, taken the gold, and left without ever touching a passenger. Hell, Flynn thought maybe they could have done it without being detected by the majority of the people on board. It would have been a straightforward operation, he decided. Get on board, kill anyone guarding the cargo, and then get out fast. No one would be the wiser if it went smoothly.

  But they were gathering up witnesses and making a big scene, moving everyone on the boat around and stirring up trouble. Trouble they may or may not have been able to handle. The plan was full of holes and things that could go wrong, which led Flynn to believe they weren’t merely after the gold. They were after something else as well. The only other thing Flynn could think of was the notoriety that would accompany such a feat.

  That meant two things to Flynn. One, they weren’t likely to kill many of the passengers, if any of them at all, because they would want witnesses to spread the story about the robbery, and they would want to be heroes in the retelling, Robin Hoods not murderers. Or two, the scarier option was that anything they could do to further the brashness of their actions, they would do. Killing a US Marshal or two was one thing that could appeal to them. Killing a famous shootist and gambler was yet another.

  Flynn thought of Gabriel Rose, aka Dusty Rose, the Desert Flower, famous gunman, gambler, and grifter, locked up in the broom closet, hurt and without a weapon if anyone found him. The chances of him being found were slim, but it could still happen. And they would kill him if someone recognized him. Rose’s face was pretty well-known. People recognized him. People tried to kill him.

  Flynn had seen it with his own eyes, and he was becoming more and more of the opinion that with all those charges he’d faced in the past, maybe Rose had only acted in self-defense after all.

  He’d seen it plenty
of times before: a young kid with stars in his eyes challenged someone with a name and a gun just to make his own name famous. It was possible that Rose was an innocent man. Did Flynn have the right to leave him defenseless like he had? Even if Rose was guilty of killing those two men in a showdown, did Flynn have the right to decide his fate like this? Because it was very nearly a death sentence if someone found him.

  The law don’t work like that, Wash had told him.

  Flynn crouched down in the shadows and listened intently to the sounds of the riverboat, indecision flooding him. He’d killed men in battle. He’d escorted men to the gallows. But those were different, weren’t they? It hadn’t been his decision to fight that war. It was never his decision to sentence a man to death. His conscience had always been clear. Flynn had always seen the law in black and white. Guilty meant you paid for it. Wash, though, he saw the shadows amidst the rules, the ones that gave his conscience a hard row to hoe sometimes when he walked a man to the gallows. Flynn had never been concerned with those shadows, not until he’d met Rose and Cage. Damn it.

  After a long moment of silence, he cursed under his breath in utter disgust over his indecisiveness and glanced back and forth down the causeway. He then began creeping back the way he had come. If they had as many men as Flynn thought, he would need help. It wasn’t a matter of innocent or guilty, he reasoned with himself, it was simple numbers. He couldn’t take them on alone, not if he planned to win the fight.

  He reached the closet door and waited, listening. He could hear movement and shouting on the deck below, but there was no one close. Slowly, he pushed open the door. The hinges, constantly attacked by the elements, creaked under the pressure. Flynn stopped, his heart pounding as he listened to the shouts from the deck below getting louder. When they died down again, he shoved the door open and stepped inside, turning quickly to close the door behind him.

  He was hit from behind with what he thought might have been a broom. The wooden handle snapped with a crack as it made contact with his head, but he was hit again in the lower back with what remained of the handle, and again in the ribs before he could even react. He turned and grabbed at it, trying to stop the next swing before it hit him in the head again.

  Rose held the broom’s handle with his one free hand, his grip shockingly strong as Flynn grappled with him in the confined space. Neither man made a sound above a grunt or huff as they struggled, until Flynn finally gasped, “Rose! It’s me!”

  Rose tugged on the broom handle one last time and then calmed in the darkness. Flynn warily let the broom handle go, and Rose raised it quickly and whacked him. “I know it’s you! Bastard!”

  “Son of a bitch!” Flynn snatched at the broom handle and tossed it against the wall with a muffled curse.

  “Shh!” Rose hissed angrily.

  “You shh.”

  “You left me!” Rose said, heedless of his own advice. He swung at Flynn again, hitting him with his bare hand this time. Flynn shielded himself and tried to take cover against the door as Rose swiped at him.

  “Quit hittin’!” Flynn snapped. “I come back for you, didn’t I? Calm yourself!”

  “Calm myself? Go fuck yourself!” Rose practically shouted.

  Flynn pounced on him and clapped his hand over his mouth. They tumbled to the ground awkwardly, since Rose’s hand was still attached to the wooden shelves, and Flynn used his weight to restrain him after they landed.

  “I’m sorry, all right?” he whispered as Rose struggled weakly beneath him. “I’m sorry I left you, but I seen I was wrong and I come back for you, see? I was wrong to do it.”

  Rose snorted against Flynn’s hand and stopped struggling, his black eyes glittering up at Flynn in the near darkness. Flynn slowly removed his hand and Rose glared at him, remaining silent.

  “Good,” Flynn whispered as a loud bang sounded just below them. They both jumped, and Rose shifted, yanking against the irons restlessly. “Now,” Flynn said in the eerie silence that settled after the loud sounds. “If we want to see sunrise, we’re going to have to work together. Can I trust you?”

  “Trust me?” Rose repeated, his voice incredulous. He yanked at the chain again and narrowed his eyes. “I think the question is: can I trust you? I’ve not been convicted yet, Marshal. You tie me up somewhere and leave me to be found, it’s as good as a hangman’s noose!”

  “I know. I said I was sorry, all right? Now give me your word.”

  Rose glared stubbornly, jaw set. “Fine,” he finally said. “You’ve got my word I won’t handcuff you to a blasted piece of furniture and run off to frolic by myself. Now, let me loose.”

  “Rose,” Flynn growled warningly.

  “What do you think they’re going to do, Marshal!” Rose asked urgently. “A US Deputy Marshal and a prisoner who refuses to speak when they question him? They won’t believe Cage can’t talk! They’ll kill them both and be done with it! They may have done already, so let me loose and let me help you!”

  Flynn stared at him for a long moment, the truth of his words sinking in with a sickening lurch. He nodded and retrieved the key, unlocking Rose carefully.

  “What did you find?” Rose demanded as he shook off the irons and stood with difficulty. His side was caked in dried blood, but he didn’t seem to be favoring it much any longer, even after their little tussle. He bent and picked the handcuffs up again, clutching them in his fist.

  “There’s a lot of action below us,” Flynn said grimly. “I didn’t get much farther ’fore my conscience caught up to me.”

  “All right, then. We need to reconnoiter,” Rose said as he pointed to the door.

  “We need to what?” Flynn asked flatly.

  “We need to take a gander at the works, Marshal, have a look-see at the enemy,” Rose said wryly, his accent flattening until it sounded almost like Flynn’s. He shoved at him and reached for the door handle, the hand irons jangling in his fist.

  “Well, why didn’t you just say that, then?” Flynn whispered. They listened at the door and then carefully exited the closet.

  “Americans,” Rose grumbled.

  Cage stood out in the hallway with Bat Stringer as their escorts pointed the big man to the cabin Cage and Wash had been sharing. Stringer shoved Cage into the cabin ahead of him. Cage stumbled, but caught himself before he could run into anything.

  Stringer stalked in after him and looked around, frowning as he surveyed the cabin’s interior. Cage could clearly see the chain still connected to one side of the cabin’s berth and the marshal’s badge sitting on the side of the water basin where Wash had set it after washing his face.

  And so could Stringer.

  Stringer stepped over to the basin and picked up the piece of round metal. Cage had never looked at one too closely, and they were all different depending on what town you were in and which territory had deputized the man wearing it. Most of them were carved out of coins because the government didn’t actually issue them. This was one of those badges, made from a silver Morgan dollar. It was a simple circle, about one and a half inches wide, with a marshal’s star cut out of the center, connecting the circle with its points.

  Stringer palmed it and turned deliberately to look at Cage, shoving the badge into one of his pockets. “Did you go and turn marshal on me, Cage?” he asked quietly.

  Cage stared at him and fought back the urge to make a rude gesture. Stringer had known him well enough to understand almost everything he tried to communicate; he would definitely understand those.

  Stringer stepped closer to him and snagged his hand. Cage wrenched it away and shoved at him, but Stringer grabbed his wrist again and yanked him forward, then slammed him against the wall of the cabin. Cage was a big man, but Stringer was bigger, and his strength worked to his advantage. It always had. The gun at his hip didn’t hurt either.

  Stringer held Cage’s forearm and looked at his wrist, which was bruised and chafed from the hand irons. Stringer’s eyes moved up to meet Cage’s, and he smirked. “Finally g
ot yourself caught, did you?” he asked, taunting, flawlessly understanding the clues he’d gleaned.

  Cage jerked away from him and pushed at him, snorting hard through his nose in anger. The men who’d accompanied them moved restlessly, hands on their guns. Stringer waved them off.

  “Well, we’ll take care of that,” he said gleefully as he stepped right back up to Cage, crowding him against the wall. “One bullet to that marshal’s head, and you’re a free man again.”

  Cage shook his head furtively, hating himself for pleading with a man he had grown to despise. But he knew what Stringer was doing, and playing into it a little wouldn’t hurt anything but Cage’s pride.

  “No?” Stringer asked mockingly. “Why not, Cage, you got a thing for the bull? You sure were sharing a bed with him.”

  Cage clenched his jaw and shook his head again.

  “I didn’t peg him as the type you liked,” Stringer murmured, so low only the two of them could hear him. Stringer stepped closer, trapping Cage. Cage put a warning hand on his chest. Stringer ignored it and pressed in, placing his hand on the wall beside Cage’s head. He tapped his fingers against the wall and Cage glanced over at his hand. He looked pointedly at the missing finger and then back to meet Stringer’s eyes, letting the corner of his mouth curve into a smirk.

  “I owe you for that,” Stringer growled, reading even the smallest of Cage’s gestures correctly. He continued in an oddly intimate voice. “Before the night’s over, I promise you . . . you’ll be missing a lot more than your fingers.”

  Cage snarled and shoved him, only to be backhanded again and pushed into the wall harder. He licked his bleeding lip and met Stringer’s eyes with open hostility. Stringer stepped into him and kissed him roughly. Cage was still for a moment as memories of an old life assaulted him, but then he jerked his head to the side and shoved at Stringer again. His hand moved quickly at Stringer’s belt, searching for a hidden knife or some other type of weapon he might be able to pocket.

  Stringer merely laughed at him, pressing their bodies closer. “What’s wrong, Cage? I don’t hear you complainin’.”