Flynn dismounted as Wash stood and wound the reins around the wagon brake. They set up the camp methodically, hobbling the horses and mules and building a fire from the store of wood they’d brought with them for the trip, trying to have everything set before the cold of night truly fell upon them. Wash started the coffee brewing and unpacked the grease paper packet of bacon as Flynn rummaged through his saddlebags, looking for the tin mugs and plates.
“We could help, marshals,” Rose offered almost tauntingly as he sat with his back to them, blowing smoke up at the emerging stars. “We promise we won’t run,” he practically sang.
“Why don’t you just shut your damn bazoo, huh?” Hudson sneered at him. “I’m gettin’ tired of hearing you talk.”
“I’m getting tired of watching you breathe, but you don’t see me doing anything about it,” Rose shot back. “Yet.”
“Shut up!” Wash and Flynn shouted in unison.
There was silence as Flynn stoked the fire and, when he glanced back over at the prisoners, Rose was once again chuckling as the big soldier sat and glared at him. The other man, Cage, was still silent. He was eyeing them warily, as if he expected them to begin fighting any moment.
“What’s your name?” Rose asked him as he brought his cigarette to his lips. His chain clanked when he moved and Flynn studied him again in annoyance.
Cage sighed softly and then glanced at Hudson with obvious chagrin.
Hudson answered for him grudgingly. “Folks calls him Cage.” He didn’t indicate whether that really was the man’s name or if it was just what people called him.
“Cage,” Rose repeated as he lounged in the back of the wagon. “You can call me Gabe, if you like.” It wasn’t exactly a friendly offer, more like Rose was testing the waters.
Cage looked at him warily, seeming to sense the challenge, and then merely nodded in acknowledgment.
Rose brought his cigarette to his lips and inhaled, holding the cigarette from underneath with his thumb and forefinger. He struck Flynn as completely relaxed as he sized Cage up.
Flynn didn’t think he had ever seen a prisoner quite as unperturbed as Rose seemed to be. It made him almost nervous, wondering why Rose wasn’t worried about his plight. If they found him guilty, he’d hang.
“You’ve not got much to say, hmm?” Rose commented to Cage between exhalations of fragrant blue smoke. He had given the man plenty of time to respond.
Cage met his eyes evenly and simply shook his head.
“Do you have an issue with me as well?” Rose asked.
“’Course he does,” Hudson barked. “Anyone with any sense got a problem with you, Mary.”
Rose’s head turned as if he was looking Hudson over. Flynn couldn’t see his expression, but he stood and waited tensely, wondering if it was about to get ugly. To Flynn’s relief, Rose looked back to Cage without committing any violent acts.
“You let him speak for you?” Rose’s tone was darker than it had been before. There was a lingering hint of curiosity in it, however, as if he was still willing to give the man a chance.
Cage shook his head again and then lowered it, pursing his lips. His eyes, though, were on Rose. He struck Flynn as a man who was used to being pulled into fights he didn’t want. He still hadn’t uttered a word.
Rose leaned forward, his irons clanking again as he moved. “Are you deaf and dumb?” he asked suddenly, his tone no longer threatening.
Flynn watched in fascination as Cage shook his head again and pointed to his ear, then covered his mouth with his hand.
“He ain’t deaf,” Hudson supplied with a huff.
“You’re dumb, but you can hear,” Rose translated, apparently more for himself than anyone listening to their conversation.
Cage nodded.
“And you were a soldier?” Rose asked doubtfully.
Cage brought his hands up again to place one hand at his forehead, as if he was shielding his eyes from the sun and looking into the distance.
“You were a scout,” Rose said with a certain degree of pride in his ability to decipher the man’s gestures.
Cage nodded again, with a hint of excitement to it this time. It was the most activity and emotion Flynn had seen from Cage since they had picked them up. He obviously wasn’t used to men conversing with him at length. Anyone who wouldn’t or couldn’t speak their mind was practically invisible out here. Some men liked it that way, and for the most part people rarely pushed if you didn’t answer the first question. Flynn found it interesting that Rose had given the man the time of day. Flynn certainly hadn’t.
“What did you do as a scout for the Army?” Rose asked. “Tracking and the like?”
Cage nodded and rolled his finger through the air as if there was more.
“He could understand the Injun hand signals,” Hudson said grudgingly. “Talk to ’em.”
Rose glanced at him and then back at Cage thoughtfully. “That’s fascinating,” he commented. “Most Army men just kill the Indians they encounter. Consider them savages.”
Cage stared at him, obviously not willing to comment on that.
Flynn met Wash’s eyes across the growing fire. He didn’t know if they should allow this to continue, but Wash shrugged as if he saw no harm in it. Flynn didn’t see much harm in allowing them their idle chitchat either, and so he kept quiet. Until they started threatening each other again or devising ways to escape, whatever they talked about was irrelevant to Flynn.
Rose continued to question him. “How did you alert your superiors when you were scouting?”
Cage turned his head to the side and gave a low whistle in answer.
“Can you make your letters?”
Cage nodded and mimicked writing with his hand in the air, the irons on his wrists clanking just like Rose’s had done.
“I suppose you have to if you can’t communicate any other way,” Rose mused. “When those around you can’t read, what do you do?”
Cage glanced at Hudson carefully and then back at Rose, shrugging. He lifted his hands then set them back in his lap. Rose nodded as if he’d understood. Flynn wasn’t sure he himself had, but then he wasn’t really trying to.
“What did you do to land yourself in this wagon?”
Flynn cocked his head at them. That was a question a man just didn’t ask another in this country. Especially if you were sitting in hand irons on your way to trial. It was part of the unspoken code of the West. Don’t ask questions you wouldn’t want to answer yourself. Rose didn’t have any care for the laws of the country, and he didn’t seem to adhere to those unspoken rules either, which was probably why he’d been run out of every town he came to.
But Flynn was curious despite himself. The papers on the two soldiers hadn’t included much information about their crimes. He could see the bad in Hudson just looking at him, and it was anyone’s guess what he’d done to get sent to the gallows. But Cage didn’t strike Flynn as the type to be on the wrong side of the law. He was quiet and unassuming, and he didn’t appear to want to cause any trouble. Flynn wondered what he’d done to be heading for a probable noose back East.
Cage was licking his lips and frowning, but he didn’t seem offended by the question like Flynn had expected him to be. He seemed to be considering how to answer in a way that would be understood.
“Dumb shit,” Hudson said with a harsh, ugly laugh. “They catched him burnin’ the Army’s blankets.”
“Is that right?” Rose drawled without ever taking his eyes off Cage.
The scout nodded curtly and diverted his eyes again, peering off over Rose’s shoulder.
“Why?” Rose questioned after a moment. Cage looked back at him sharply, as if he hadn’t expected Rose or anyone else to care about the reason.
“He writ it on a paper, but no one at the fort gave a care,” Hudson told them. He was beginning to warm to the job of translating for them. Flynn thought he simply enjoyed recounting someone else’s misfortunes. Hudson sniffed at the aroma of the bacon frying
over the fire, and Flynn narrowed his eyes, spitefully hoping the man would give them reason to deny him dinner.
Rose glanced at Hudson in apparent irritation, then back at Cage, who was digging under his filthy oilskin jacket. Flynn could no longer help his curiosity, and he edged closer, leaning over the side of the wagon to watch. Cage finally produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to Rose. Rose reached out and took it with difficulty, their chained hands barely able to reach and make the exchange. Flynn read the charcoal scrawl over the man’s shoulder as he held the paper up.
blankits was making peepel sik
Rose turned his head to find Flynn behind him.
“Ever heard of such a thing, Marshal? Burning blankets to keep them from making people sick? Sure sounds like a hanging offense to me,” he observed in a wry, almost bitter voice as he frowned at Cage. He folded the paper carefully and handed it to Flynn.
Flynn took the paper and looked up at Cage, scowling. He had heard rumors from old soldiers, stories about their grandfathers handing out blankets rife with disease to the Indian tribes back East during the early years of the country. He had never really given it much thought. That was far in the past, and these days the Army just rounded up the Indians and shot them. They didn’t hand out blankets to them.
“Who were they making sick?” Flynn questioned.
Cage laced his fingers together nervously and glanced at Hudson, who sat beside him, oblivious. He then looked back at Flynn and nodded his head sideways at the soldier.
The revelation gave Flynn a sudden sinking feeling. “He’s sick?”
Cage shook his head and closed his eyes in apparent frustration.
“I believe he means the soldiers in general, Marshal,” Rose drawled as he leaned back against the side of the wagon.
That got Cage’s attention again and he nodded, pointing at Rose.
“Where’d you come from, Fort Riley?” Flynn asked. Cage nodded. “I ain’t heard nothing about soldiers being sick or dying up there.”
Cage sighed soundlessly and then gestured to Hudson again.
“The hell I will!” Hudson bellowed. “I answered enough questions already; I ain’t your damn puppet!” The bigger man shoved at Cage’s shoulder.
Cage’s hands moved with the speed of a rattlesnake, wrapping the chain of his irons around Hudson’s wrist and capturing him neatly before the man could assault him. He then yanked him closer and jammed his elbow into Hudson’s nose in retaliation.
“That’s enough!” Wash shouted from behind Flynn. He stood and glared at them from the flickering light of the fire.
But Flynn made no move to stop them. As far as he was concerned, Cage had the right to defend himself. Flynn watched impassively as Hudson put his hands to his face and held his nose.
Cage snorted at him and shoved him further away. He looked back to Rose and covered his mouth with his hands, making a coughing sound to explain.
“Consumption?” Rose guessed, completely ignoring the tussle and the blood pouring from Hudson’s nose.
Cage shook his head and put his hand to his forehead, then fanned himself like a lady might do when she overheated.
“Fever,” Flynn murmured, ignoring the blood as well. Cage nodded, pointing at him. “Go on.”
Cage put his hands to his throat and mimicked having trouble swallowing, then spread his hands out to indicate his throat bulging.
“Diphtheria,” Rose said suddenly, and Cage nodded eagerly.
“Wash,” Flynn called as he turned away from the wagon and squinted past the light made by the little fire.
Wash was watching him with interest. “I’m listening.”
“You broke my damn nose, you savage!” Hudson hollered nasally.
Rose merely chuckled at him in response as Cage shrugged.
“Shut up!” Flynn ordered. “Don’t touch him again, and he won’t break things on you!”
“You dumb bastard!” Hudson howled.
Rose slouched and kicked the man in the thigh.
“What does it say on Cage’s warrant?” Flynn asked Wash, ignoring the bickering prisoners and turning away.
Wash set down the frying pan and reached into his jacket as he stood up again, leafing through the leather packet until he found the right paper. He read it with difficulty in the firelight, then answered in a disgusted voice. “Destruction of government property, undermining morale, disobeying direct orders. For that, they’re trying him? He’s looking at a hanging if they find him guilty.”
“Don’t that beat all,” Flynn huffed as he handed Wash the note Cage had written and turned to the fire.
Wash remained where he had been, and Flynn glanced at him. He was watching Cage with a thoughtful frown. The man sat in the wagon with his head bowed again. Rose had managed to get all the way on his back and was pushing his boot heel against Hudson’s neck, slowly choking the life out of the man, who flailed and gripped at his leg. Wash bent and picked up a rock, then chucked it at Rose and hit him on the side of the head.
“Knock it off!” he shouted in the commanding voice that always made Flynn shiver with delight.
Rose rolled to his side and cursed as he held his head, and Hudson gasped as he was able to get his breath once more. Cage merely sat watching them both expressionlessly.
“That ain’t right, Flynn,” Wash murmured as he stood examining Cage.
“Your aim’s still pretty good.”
Wash gave him a dirty look and shook his head. “I mean about Cage. Ain’t right to hang him for trying to save lives.”
“It’s the law, Wash,” Flynn reminded gently. The conversation he’d had with Wash several days ago was still clear in his mind. He glanced at Wash carefully. He agreed with Wash on this particular point; sometimes the law was just wrong. Life wasn’t always black or white; there were gray areas that needed a human eye to distinguish the lines. The law didn’t see those gray areas. But their job was to uphold it as it was written, not decide which ones to follow and who got to follow which ones, no matter how often Flynn thought maybe they should just let justice have its own way with some people.
Flynn had always been a stickler for the rules and regulations, even back in the Union army. He played life according to Hoyle, and that was how he liked it. Wash, on the other hand, was a firm believer in seeing both sides of a story and finding the truth behind them.
Sometimes the two weren’t good bedfellows, the law and the truth.
“Law don’t always make it right,” Wash murmured as he slid the warrants back into his jacket.
Flynn prepared dinner in silence. He didn’t know what to say, and so like any smart man, he kept his mouth shut.
John Baird had spent seven rail days of his life traveling to Colorado, and seven on the return to New York, which made a fortnight of wasted days he would never get back. Now he was once again on a train, heading west toward St. Louis and the gateway to the frontier, wasting even more time overseeing an operation that would gain him very little in the end.
Not that he had anything particularly pressing to tend to at home. If this strategy didn’t go like it should, his life would be worthless anyway.
It irked him that Dusty Rose had gotten away in Colorado. To this point, Rose was the only hitch in his plan. What sort of unholy fiend could utilize an act of God like an earthquake to escape an otherwise perfectly conceived murder?
The very providence of it grated something fierce, and the train he rode could not go fast enough for Baird’s taste. And to add insult to injury, before leaving New York he’d received word by telegram that Rose was being brought to St. Louis by a US Marshal, en route to New Orleans to stand trial for murder.
It was hard not to plot his revenge on Rose, knowing they might very well cross paths in Missouri. Rose had somehow gotten out of a second scrape alive, killing the two men Baird had hired to track him down and murder him, but even a cat only had nine lives. Baird was determined to make sure he took every one of Rose’s lives even if
he had to fill the man with lead himself. Eventually.
That would have to wait, of course. And it was possible Rose might be hanged before Baird could get to him. That didn’t sit well with him. He wanted to do it himself. He hadn’t anticipated Rose being captured for the killings. It made it easier to find him, but it would be difficult to get to Rose while he was in custody. It would require a little cunning and even more luck.
Baird had to remind himself again that Rose was a secondary concern. His primary goal was to reach New Madrid in time to see the Oil Cake set sail.
The fire was barely giving off enough warmth to keep the cold from getting to Flynn and Wash, and the prisoners were safely chained to the wagon wheels not far away. The fire popped and sizzled. It didn’t have the same cheerful smell that a wood fire emitted, but a man made do using cow chips as added fuel. They were trying to conserve their store of wood in case they hit trouble by using whatever they could find to supplement their fire. It was cold enough that Flynn could pretend he had wrapped his bandana over his nose and mouth to ward off the chill, and not the pungent odor.
The night was quiet and peaceful, but Wash still seemed restless as they hunkered down against the frigid wind.
“You okay?” Flynn finally asked of him.
“My back’s cold.”
Flynn raised an eyebrow at him and tried not to smile. He refrained from making any comments about Wash living the easy life back in town for too many months.
“I’m not complaining,” Wash added quickly, huffing like he knew what Flynn had been thinking. He gave a nod of his head toward the three prisoners. “It’s just, if my back’s cold, they’re all over cold.”
Flynn glanced over his shoulder. The unfortunate men were curled as tight as a person could get. Rose and Hudson weren’t bickering for perhaps the first time since leaving Junction City, and none of them were moving save to shiver. Rose and Cage were chained to the same wheel, and they had scooted together as close as they could, resting their backs against each other and trying to share their body heat.