As soon as Jacob realized that he was witnessing an attempted jailbreak, his mind started whirring on all the resources and possibilities before him. What could he use, what were his options, if he was going to be able to stop this from happening? He prayed that someone—anyone—had sent word to the marshal. Jacob couldn’t stop a dozen men on his own, but hopefully help was on the way.
The noises from inside the jail grew louder. Several heavy thuds. A gunshot. The mob sounded like they were cheering. Whatever they were attempting seemed to be successful. Jacob darted inside to do what he could to stop it.
Some light poured in from the open door, illuminating the crumpled figure in the corner. The group of men had moved farther into the building, but Jacob rushed to the man’s side, recognizing Deputy Little. The man grasped his left shoulder. Jacob saw a dark, damp patch where a bullet wound had bled through the deputy’s shirt.
“Deputy?” he said.
“Jacob?” He blinked, his eyes seemingly unable to focus. “Jacob.”
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” the bounty hunter asked. He tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of the man’s shirt to wrap around the bullet wound.
“My head,” he croaked. “They slammed me in the head with something. Might’ve been a piece of wood from the door.” With a nod, the deputy indicated the wide, broken beam lying on the floor near him. “I blacked out. Jacob, I—”
“It’s okay, Deputy,” he said, trying to reassure him. “We’ll get you fixed up. I’m sure you did your best.”
“No!” Deputy Little let go of his wound and clasped Jacob’s forearm with his bloody hand. “Jacob, the keys! I think they took the keys.”
Utter panic broke in a wave over Jacob’s body.
“No,” he whispered. “No …” He visually searched the deputy, patting his pockets, checking the floor all around him. “Were they on you? Were they in the desk?” He grew more frantic, backing up from the corner where the deputy lay and searching all around.
No sooner had he stood up, then he heard a triumphant cheer coming from the hallway where the jail cells were. The tell-tale jingle of a keyring met his ears, clear as day, cutting through all the other sounds the raucous group of men were making.
He thought quickly as the footsteps headed his way.
“Do you still have your gun?” he asked Deputy Little.
The prone man shook his head miserably.
Jacob looked around. He was in the office of the jail, his back against the wall, an injured man at his feet and only a small desk between him and a potentially murderous mob. In that split second he realized he didn’t want to be cornered in that small room. He had to get out. If he had any chance of stopping the outlaws, he couldn’t allow himself to be hemmed in that way.
As Jacob made his way back out to the street he realized that in the chaos most of the gang had poured into the jail. This left the street nearly deserted. Only Mrs. Bart and Mr. Hansen remained trying to clean up the mess that the outlaws had left behind.
Jacob had only a few moments to formulate his plan. Where was the marshal? Where was the other deputy? Could Jacob even hope to subdue a gang of this size on his own?
With gun leveled at the doorway, Jacob stood in the street and faced down the group of outlaws about to exit. If he shot once, the rest of them would shoot back. Even if he somehow managed to get off all six of his shots and take down six of the men, there would still be more to take their place. He wouldn’t survive it.
And yet, he couldn’t just let them walk away with the prisoners.
The first masked man exited the jail. He was short and thin, with his hat pulled low over his eyes. So much of his face was obscured that Jacob had no inkling whether or not he had seen him before.
“Stop!” the bounty hunter demanded. “Stop right now.”
A second man exited the jail, striding through the street toward Jacob. A third man, and a fourth who appeared to be maybe the prisoner Escobar, though with a mask now covering his face.
“Stop!” Jacob yelled louder. “You have no right to free these men.”
He pointed the gun, but with no real hope of accomplishing his aim. Jacob was failing. He was outnumbered and outgunned, and all he could do was yell fruitlessly.
“Stop now!” he yelled again.
But the masked men kept coming. One by one they stepped through the open doorway, into the dirt and toward Jacob. He kept his gun aimed, but without any real threat behind it. He still hoped to escape this attack with his life, if nothing else.
Jacob backed up several steps as the crowd approached him. With so many men against him, he found himself cornered again, despite the fact that he was outside.
Before he could run or make another move, one of the masked men approached him, right up close to him, his eyes above the mask flat and cold.
The man hauled back and punched Jacob hard across the face.
It took all of the bounty hunter’s willpower to tamp down his immediate reflex—to shoot. He wanted to shoot back, to defend himself, but he knew he’d be bringing a storm of bullets back upon himself. He clutched his revolver, but took the punch.
One man after another stepped up, surrounded him. Each man punched Jacob—in the face, shoulders, the gut. Jacob Payne was a strong man, a capable man, but even he couldn’t defeat more than a dozen men at once all set on tearing him down. Blow after blow landed, bruising his muscles, breaking his nose. One of the men must have been wearing a ring of some kind—Jacob felt a cut sear across his temple and blood ran down his face.
He stayed on his feet as long as he could, but soon the gang of outlaws was continuing to pelt him even as he lay in the dirt.
He had lost. Jacob Payne had lost.
Fortunately, for him the focus of the mob’s action was not to destroy him. As soon as they realized he was no longer a threat, the group of men all moved away from him, down the street and following the leadership of one of the others.
Jacob blinked through the blood in his eyes at the man who seemed to be in charge. Even from this distance, he could spot the ice-blue eyes penetrating from above his mask.
Jacob recognized those eyes.
Elliott “Slippery” Stone was here in Tucson.
Stone was in Tucson and he was leading a jailbreak, freeing three of his men.
Blows and kicks continued to rain down on him and the gang leader disappeared from Jacob’s view.
“Leave him,” a cold voice said. “He’s mine.”
As Jacob tried to pull himself to his feet, to see who was speaking, the sharp toe of a boot landed directly in the bullet wound in his side. Jacob groaned, the pain so bad that for a moment he felt like he might vomit. He closed his eyes and lay with his face in the dirt.