According to Hoyle by Abigail Roux
Hudson gave a snort and kicked him in the ribs indiscreetly. To Flynn’s surprise, Rose didn’t retaliate. He merely eyed the second-story windows of the buildings surrounding them and scooted closer to the sideboard.
Wash looped the reins over the brake, and Flynn stepped over to offer him a hand down. Wash swatted at him and grunted as he hopped off the wagon and landed with a puff of dust.
Flynn glanced over just in time to see Cage stretch across the wagon and take Rose’s coat between the tips of his two longest fingers. The chains wouldn’t allow him to stretch any further, but he managed to grip the heavy silk and tug. He got a good hold on it and then spread it over Rose’s face, covering him with difficulty as his irons got in the way.
Flynn and Wash stood watching, nonplussed, as Cage gave Rose’s head a little pat and then sat back. When Cage finally looked up at them, he flushed under his protective layer of sun and dirt and shrugged at them. He gestured to the upper windows and then made his fingers into a gun, aiming it down at Rose and pulling the imaginary trigger.
Wash cleared his throat. “Good thinking.”
The man nodded and lowered his head again.
“What, he afeared of gettin’ shot?” Hudson asked in amusement.
“Shut up,” Flynn warned, jabbing his finger at the man. He watched with a sinking feeling as realization seemed to dawn on the big man’s stupid face.
“He’s afeared of bein’ seen,” the man crooned as he raised his chained hands above his head. He shouted in a surprisingly loud voice. “Hey! We got Dusty Rose right here!”
Flynn and Wash glanced around in alarm as several passersby stopped and stared. Others had slowed and were looking on curiously as they strolled by.
Beneath the coat, Rose began cursing under his breath and moving as if he were about to sit up.
Wash went over and placed a hand on what Flynn thought might be Rose’s shoulder, pushing him down. “Stay down, son,” he murmured to the man as he glared over at Hudson.
“Dusty Rose here!” Hudson continued to cry. “He’s unarmed!”
More people were taking notice and a buzz of murmured conversation began to circulate through the growing crowd. Flynn darted over the seat of the wagon, grabbing Wash’s shotgun as he went. The butt of the shotgun landed with a sickening thunk against Hudson’s head and he slumped to the side. But folks around them were already watching, whispering to each other, pointing, and staring.
“You really got Dusty Rose in there, mister?” a boy of about ten years called to Flynn.
“Let’s see him!” a man called, and several shouts of agreement rang out as the crowd edged closer.
Flynn yelled at the crowd to back up and be on their way, brandishing the shotgun and then pulling his duster aside to reveal the US Marshal’s badge on the front of his vest.
“What the hell are we going to do with him now?” he hissed to Wash as the crowd grumbled.
“You could let me go,” Rose said in a voice muffled by the coat covering him. “It’ll be fine entertainment; we’ll see if I’m able to fend for myself. You could place bets; it would be fascinating.” Flynn rapped him on the head with his knuckles.
“Ow.”
“Shut up,” Flynn responded almost without thought.
“Let’s get them into the hotel,” Wash said as the crowd backed away from them and began to grudgingly disperse.
Flynn was thankful that Cage was obliging. The other two prisoners certainly weren’t making life easy. Hudson was just large and ornery and obviously knew that he would be going to the gallows if he did indeed make it to Virginia. He didn’t care that he would be tried for attempted murder now as well, because while Rose’s attack on Flynn was arguably self-defense, or so Wash claimed, Hudson’s attacks on Rose were pretty straightforward.
It helped that Hudson was still unconscious as Flynn dragged him into the hotel. As heavy as he was, he would have been more trouble if he had been awake. Rose was actually cooperating, but word of his identity spreading didn’t make it easy to move him. Some crowded around, just wanting to look at him and be able to say they saw him, while others appeared at the hotel well-heeled, guns slung low and ready to make a name for themselves. There were plenty of men west of the Mississippi that would kill in such a cowardly manner to be known as the man who got the drop on Dusty Rose. Flynn was sure if Rose got shot today, the fact that he was in hand irons at the time would be forgotten in the retelling.
After getting Hudson inside and making certain he wasn’t going anywhere, he and Wash guided Rose to the room they had procured, Cage on one side and Wash on the other, protecting him with their bodies.
“I begin to sympathize with Rose’s predicament,” Wash muttered to Flynn under his breath after they had made it safely into their rented rooms.
“That’s what he gets for killing,” Flynn said coldly as he glanced out the window at the street below. “They’re still milling down there.”
“Your life would be a lot easier with just two prisoners, Marshal,” Rose said to Wash as he reclined on the bed behind them. He hung his dusty boots over the side of the bed, seemingly reluctant to get the linens dirty.
Wash turned around and scoffed at him. “I suppose you want us to set you free and let you take your chances?”
“Actually, I was talking about my silent companion here,” Rose answered with a nod of his head to Cage, who sat beside him on the bed.
Cage glanced at him in surprise and then at Wash with wide eyes, as if he feared being implicated in anything Rose had thought up.
“You and I both know he doesn’t deserve whatever the Army will give him,” Rose continued in a low voice.
Wash looked over Cage for a long time, his face set in a worried frown. Flynn realized with a shock that Wash was truly considering what Rose was saying.
“Wash,” he hissed. “You said it yourself, the law don’t work that way. That ain’t our decision to make.”
Wash cleared his throat and met Flynn’s eyes. “I know.” He pulled the lace curtain aside and peered down at the street for a long moment. “We’re going to have to take them one at a time. We can’t leave Rose here unguarded, and can’t just one of us handle Hudson and Cage both, not on top of the crowd now.”
“I’ll take Hudson first,” Flynn said with a nod. “You stay with these two.” Flynn stopped on the way to the door and turned to frown at Rose and Cage, who were both watching him, then he glanced again at Wash worriedly and found his friend glaring.
“You don’t have to worry about no damn escape. Take him,” Wash snarled, then turned away and thumped down into the only empty chair in the room.
Flynn pursed his lips unhappily. Nothing about this job had gone right. He turned to Hudson, who was still wallowing groggily on the floor, and gestured for him to stand. “Come on.”
Hudson stood with great difficulty, bleeding at his hairline, and sneered at him.
“First sign of trouble from you, and I’ll save the Army some rope, understand?” Flynn warned, loosening the strap over his gun.
“See you on the other end, hoss,” Rose drawled with pleasure, and Flynn hastily escorted Hudson out of the room before they could start fighting one last time.
Bat Stringer and his roughly two dozen hired men rode into the city of St. Louis just as an excited crowd was dispersing from the riverfront. Stringer watched the festivities silently from atop his horse, wondering what was going on and if it was important to them.
Finally, he decided it was nothing to concern them, probably just some local excitement over this or that, and he nodded for his boys to disband. They didn’t want to attract attention by bunching up near the docks. They were to meet later, after the scheduled departure of a paddle steamer called Oil Cake Jim. Until then, the only thing Stringer ordered them to do was stay away from the drink and keep a wary eye on the extra men they’d recruited. The riverboat pilot they’d found was a drunk, which was why he was located in a saloon and easily cajoled into h
Stringer dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to Alvarado. The man looked down at him expectantly from atop his horse.
“Head to the docks, hire a skiff,” Stringer ordered as he pulled out a leather pouch full of coins and folding money and tossed it to Alvarado.
“Just one?” he asked. He caught the bag and put it quickly into his vest.
Stringer nodded. They would need two, but Stringer intended to steal the other one just before setting off downriver. He told Alvarado as much and the man nodded obediently and went off with the horses.
Stringer watched him go, knowing how lucky he was to have a man he could trust at his right hand. The thought bent his mind toward Jack Kale, and he winced.
He stood on the bustling street alone, looking around at the city. He’d never been to Missouri. In fact, before making the trip to Colorado to take the meeting with John Baird, Stringer had never been farther from Texas than old Mexico. He wouldn’t have been tempted to make this trip if the man who’d approached him in San Antonio hadn’t said Jack Kale’s name. He’d almost hoped Kale would be in Colorado. Most folks thought Stringer had killed Kale and buried him in the Texas desert, a spat between partners or lovers or adversaries, depending on which version you heard.
But that hadn’t been the case. Stringer had indeed tried to kill Kale, but only after Kale had informed him he was leaving: just picking up and walking away, without so much as an explanation or even a proper good-bye. Kale had managed to cut off Stringer’s finger in the ensuing fight, and Stringer knew he’d lodged a bullet in Kale’s ribs in return.
Whether Kale was still alive somewhere, Stringer didn’t know. Stringer did know that if he was, he’d sure like to find him. Whether to kill him or kiss him, Stringer hadn’t yet decided.
With the amount of gold they were receiving for this simple job, Stringer could afford to pay other men to find Kale if he was so inclined.
Right now, though, he was tired. He didn’t want to think about anything but a glass of whiskey. He made his way toward the nearest hotel, rolling his shoulders under the leather duster and working out the kinks.
He nodded to two men exiting the hotel, noticing the marshal’s badge on the blond man’s lapel and the hand irons on the big guy he was dragging beside him.
Stringer tipped his hat carefully, holding his head to the side in case his likeness was known this far north.
The marshal merely nodded to him in passing, growling to his prisoner to move along and not cause any more trouble. Stringer turned and watched them go for a moment, his eyes on the chains that restrained the big, dirty prisoner.
“But for the grace of God go I,” he murmured to himself wryly before stepping into the hotel.
“Hey, boss,” Rose said after about ten minutes of quiet. “How about a bath, hmm? Cage and I both could certainly use one.”
Marshal Washington glared at him silently for a moment, then he looked at Cage and his expression softened. Why he appeared to affect the marshal in such a way, Cage didn’t know. He had seen many reactions to his muteness: most involved a distant sort of pity, others disdain or outright dismissal.
Marshal Washington’s response was peculiar in that he couldn’t seem to decide how to react. Gabriel Rose’s was even more peculiar in that the silence seemed to intrigue him. It almost felt like Gabriel admired the way Cage was.
Cage cleared his throat and glanced at Gabriel, catching a quick wink from the charismatic shootist. He’d been expecting this ever since they’d rolled into St. Louis. He knew Gabriel had a scheme, he just hadn’t figured out what it was yet.
“A bath,” Wash finally muttered as he sat straighter.
Cage leaned forward, looking at the marshal hopefully. Whatever Gabriel had planned, he longed for it to include water. He had been dirty for so long, he thought he might actually feel like a person again if he could get clean.
“I’ve got the money for it, Marshal, if that’s the problem,” Gabriel offered. “I’d pay a lot more than a dollar for a bath right about now.”
Cage nodded vigorously at Gabriel.
“So would Cage,” Gabriel supplied.
He had yet to misunderstand Cage’s actions, and that in itself made Cage appreciate the man more than he had thought possible. He would miss Gabriel Rose when he was gone.
Wash sighed long and loud, and leaned back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling speculatively. Finally, he nodded curtly at Cage and Gabriel. “First sign of trying to skin out on me, and I will shoot you,” he warned, and Cage believed him.
“You’ve got little to worry about from us, Marshal. If anything, we’d escape after the bath,” Gabriel assured him with a smile.
Cage reached over and smacked him on the arm, causing Gabriel to laugh.
Wash stood up and began to pace, holding his chin in his hand. Cage knew that he was trying to figure out how to let one of them bathe while still keeping an eye on the other and not forcing all three of them to remain in the same room.
Cage glanced at Gabriel and met the man’s intelligent black eyes. His fingers brushed Cage’s wrist under the cold iron, and Cage shivered, attention darting down to Gabriel’s hand and back up. He nodded in answer to the unasked question. Yes, he wanted more with Gabriel. Another touch, another kiss. All the time they could beg, borrow, or steal.
He could see the cunning shine in Gabriel’s eyes as he looked at him. He wondered if the two marshals understood what sort of man they were dealing with. He almost felt sorry for them.
“Marshal, Cage and I aren’t shy,” Gabriel drawled, watching Wash closely as he spoke.
The marshal stopped and turned to narrow his eyes at them.
“We don’t mind sharing the bath facilities, if it makes it easier on you."
“You’re sure interested in how easy my life is all of a sudden.”
“I’m interested in a bath,” Gabriel corrected. “Easy makes that happen. Hard continues to see us sitting here in a month’s worth of filth.”
Cage watched Wash hopefully. He was dirty, he knew that. But Gabriel had remained surprisingly clean during their travels, and Cage suspected that he had more pressing reasons to want them together in that bathing house.
“Get up, then,” Wash ordered after another few moments of thought.
Cage and Gabriel scrambled off the bed with difficulty and stood, waiting for Wash to decide how best to move them. Cage admired the marshal’s grit. It couldn’t be a comfortable feeling, being alone with a man of Cage’s size and a man of Gabriel’s reputation with only one working arm. He was handling himself with confidence and grace, though. Cage respected that, and found he quite liked the man.
Wash followed them down the hall toward the end room that held the hotel’s large cast iron tub. He ordered the tub filled and then sat Cage and Gabriel in the corner and examined the room thoroughly as the water was brought in by the two bathhouse attendants. He even stuck his head out the window, looking down at the alley street below, and then back at them critically.
“You don’t look like you got wings,” he finally decided. He had removed several sharp objects, including a shaving kit, and several heavy things that could have been used as clubs were also sent out of the room.
When he was done, the room contained barely anything but the tub, the water, and some lye soap.
Wash stood them up and stared them down. “I’m trusting you both,” he said as he took Cage’s hands in his own and unlocked the hand irons. He moved to Gabriel and did the same for him.
“You’re leaving us alone?” Gabriel asked in what appeared to be genuine surprise.
“You ain’t the only one who was kept up at night out there by your mumbling,” the marshal answered with a smile he tried to hide.
Cage found himself blushing as he looked away. The other men had heard Gabriel’s soft m
“I got a heart,” Wash told them. “I’m giving you some time together before they take Cage away, understand? Don’t make me regret it.”
He then backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
Bat Stringer sat at a table in the corner of the hotel’s small saloon, feet propped up on the empty seat opposite him, arm laid across the back of his chair so his coat fell away and made his gun easy to see from anywhere in the room. He wore the weapon border style, with the grip backward so he could draw across his body. If anyone in Missouri recognized it as being specific to men who haunted the dangerous Mexican border, they steered clear of Stringer today.
He smiled to himself as he took a drink of whiskey, enjoying the sideways looks and wary glances he always received in places like this. He could certainly add the sin of pride to his list of transgressions, and he was just fine with that.
Being outwardly dangerous had its benefits. For one, people left you the hell alone. He’d been challenged in the street a time or two, but most young bucks let him be. Every shootist in the West had his own brand of self-defense. Stringer preferred the longhorn method: appear bigger and meaner than anyone else and they’ll leave you to it. Others chose to hide, or if they couldn’t hide, at least tried to appear nonthreatening. Dusty Rose, for example, dressed like a dandy and used false ineptitude as defense, rather than brandishing his guns.
Stringer sneered when he thought about Rose. The man was a belvidere, quite a handsome man, and Stringer hadn’t instantly disliked him. He’d actually found Rose quite interesting, if a little bothersome when he opened his mouth. It was rumored that he openly dallied with men, but Stringer didn’t have a problem with that. He’d been involved with other men a few times himself. It was more common in the West than the high society folk back East wanted to think. Out here, the euphemism used when two young men found themselves sharing a bedroll for more than just warmth was “mutual solace.” The West was a lonely place; a man took companionship and pleasure where he could get it. Rose didn’t seem to mind what people thought of him.