16

“Westwood.” With one dirty hand, Bloody Joe motioned him over to the circle of gang members. His thick fingers didn’t look like those of a marksman, but he’d been known to hit a target at fifty paces and his skill with a knife was renown. Not to mention that in at least three recorded fist fights, he’d strangled his opponent with just those bare hands. “Ready to prove your loyalty to this gang?”

Sharply, Cal moved his chin up and then down.

“Watch duty.” Sprawling back on a soiled red blanket, Bloody Joe pointed to the outside of the camp. The sleeve of his filthy gray jacket slipped back, showing coarse body hair and brutal muscles. “Go on outside the camp with those ten. Not that Gilman’s got much more to throw at us.” He glanced at the prisoners inside the camp and guffawed again.

Cal’s gaze followed Bloody Joe’s to the little knot of prisoners crouched in the dirt, huddling against the night wind. Silas’s chin was down to his knees and his blue lips trembled as he shivered in the darkness. Mr. Clinton sat away from the others, leaning back against an evergreen, but every two minutes he jumped with a sporadic convulsion that moved him several inches off the pine needles. The cowhands were probably in the best condition of the lot. Pokey leaned back-to-back with the big cowhand.

From this distance, Cal could faintly hear the man whistling a slow campfire tune that made the dark night seem even darker.

“Here.” A sentry member shoved a coat, which smelled faintly of horse and poor quality beer, into Cal’s hands. “Nights get cold up here.”

“Bring the mine owner to me before you go out.” Bloody Joe stabbed his finger at the young sentry member.

“Yes, sir.” The young sentry stomped across the rapidly cooling ground. Shoving his way into the midst of the prisoners, he grabbed Mr. Clinton by the rawhide that bound the man’s hands behind his back and jerked up.

Even through Mr. Clinton’s jacket, one could see his shoulders quivering. The sentry half-dragged, half-carried him over to Bloody Joe.

The little man stood in front of the hardened criminal. He held his chin high, though, and stuck out his trembling ribs. “You can do what you want with me. But don’t touch my wife or there will be consequences.”

Consequences? Yeah, that was probably true. Even the Silverman gang wouldn’t be likely to rub shoulders with Mrs. Clinton and walk away unscarred.

Bloody Joe stuck a piece of paper under Mr. Clinton’s thin nose. “Sign the silver mine over to me.”

Mr. Clinton hesitated.

“You need me to assist him?” A spare man with grease stains on his face laid hands on Mr. Clinton. The man twisted his thin fingers into Mr. Clinton’s neck, hitting veins.

A hiss of pain escaped Mr. Clinton’s lips.

The spare man found Mr. Clinton’s wrist and twisted. Mr. Clinton’s whole face went a strange shade of purple as the man applied more pressure.

“Be careful, Smith. He needs to sign with that arm.” Bloody Joe stood over the man.

“Oh, I’m always careful…” Whipping out a knife, the spare man let the blade slide down Mr. Clinton’s arm, leaving a thin trickle of red. Then, with one flick of the knife, he cut Mr. Clinton’s bonds and shoved him forward. Bloody Joe thrust a pen into his hand. “Sign.”

Muscles quivering so hard he could barely stand straight, Mr. Clinton took the pen. “All—all right.”

Bloody Joe held out the paper. The pen fell to the leaf-covered ground twice before Mr. Clinton managed a signature.

Cal’s gaze followed the hasty twists of the signature. The deed could be easily overridden with the testimony of anyone who’d seen Mr. Clinton forced to sign at knife point.

Bloody Joe knew that full well when he’d allowed the posse to witness the event. Cal breathed evenly as he casually turned his gaze away, but his gut twisted. Bloody Joe meant to kill all the prisoners. That was the only explanation for his lack of concern.

Shoving the paper into his pocket, Bloody Joe fell back on his blanket. “Off on sentry duty now, all of you. I’m trying to sleep.” He flicked his fingers toward the darkness outside the camp.

The young sentry turned away, though the spare man took another moment to tug rawhide around Mr. Clinton’s wrists and pull it so tight that Mr. Clinton screamed.

Cal wished again for a revolver in his empty holster.

“Where’s the girl, Westwood?” Bloody Joe asked from his sprawl on the blanket. He released a cough into the soiled sleeve of his jacket.

Turning, Cal pointed his thumb to the north of the campsite. Ginny crouched, arms hugging her knees in the cold.

Scooting forward, Bloody Joe stretched his toes closer to the fire. “Tell her to git closer. I don’t trust her.”

Closer? Ginny was already about fifty miles closer to these criminals than he’d like.

Cal felt the eyes piercing into his back as he walked over to her. “Ginny.”

Her head came up from her crouched position, her tangled hair plastered around her face. The bodice of her dress looked damp. She’d tucked her feet up underneath her, exposing petticoats. The moist ground below had begun to seep into her clothes, streaking the cream of her dress with brown and crisscrossing the sap stains.

“They want you closer.” Cal gestured to the campfire, scowling because he had to say it. One quick glance behind him, and he dropped the young man’s coat around her shoulders. “Try to stay out of the mud. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

“I don’t catch pneumonia.” She closed her fingers around the fabric. Her nose came a bit closer to the cloth and her back jerked straight. “It stinks!”

“I know.”

With distaste, she pushed one arm through a sleeve. Sitting there, she looked wet and helpless. If the gang harmed her…His fists tightened.

“Any plans yet?” Ginny coughed into her collar, a hacking sound made worse by the chilled air.

If only he should have ridden to Denver at first and not risked the posse’s lives, even if it meant Sheriff Thompson’s life was sacrificed. Cal shook his head. “I’ll be back by daybreak.”

~*~

Five hundred yards outside the camp, the sentries began to spread out. Cal watched them move to their positions.

“I’m Smith.” A spare, greasy man stuck his hand out—the same man who had not only stuck a gun in Cal’s back this afternoon and laughed at the whole posse, but also most recently tortured Mr. Clinton. Reaching under his slicker, the man produced a rusted revolver. “Joe said to arm you.” He held it out.

Containing his eagerness, Cal closed his hand over the grip. Rusty or not, the cool metal felt like heaven in his hands.

Striking a match, Smith leaned back against a tree and started puffing on a cigar. The tree branches blocked all but the faintest trace of smoke. “I sent the other nine around to patrol the rest of the perimeter. You stay here by me.”

So, Smith didn’t completely trust him. It would only be a matter of time before inquiries confirmed Smith’s suspicions. He needed to act soon.

“You ever been in a gang before?”

Cal shook his head.

Breathing in, Smith took a long puff of cigar and then breathed out. “More clerical crime.”

“Yeah.” Cal wished he had a more distinct memory of exactly what stories Mrs. Clinton had spread about him. If he’d just paid more attention at Temperance League…Any thought that started like that wasn’t going anywhere good.

“This town job should work well. I’m about ready for less days in the saddle, some clean clothes, and a warm bed. And frightened-out-of-their-wits townsfolk always make good servants.” Smith chuckled darkly.

Torture and now enslavement. This Smith fellow might be worse than Bloody Joe. Cal nodded all the same. How was Ginny faring back at the camp? If only he could have left her a gun.

“Did the boss tell you the plan for tomorrow?”

Cal shook his head. No one better accost her this night, no one. Maybe he should have made that clearer when he signed on to be a puppet cop.

Stretching, Smith scratched the back of his neck. “Shooting the sheriff at daybreak. A pity, really. I had a torture plan worked out, but since you arrived, Bloody Joe wants to get the town situation rolling, not waste time on torment.”

Cal gripped the dark fir tree behind. “Daybreak you say?” He steeled his voice to remain steadily disinterested.

“Yeah, right before we get off watch.”

“Shouldn’t we be there? Need enough crack shots to do a firing squad right.” In the darkness, Cal closed his finger around the rusted revolver trigger.

“Naw. Bloody Joe doesn’t want you to see the sheriff. Afraid of personal feelings getting involved. Though I say anyone with personal feelings isn’t cut out for this work. What about you?” Smith stared pointedly at him.

An owl hooted in the darkness. A cloud overhead shifted and the full moon poured its light down through the tree branches. This was scarcely the best night for escaping, but it was Sheriff Thompson’s last chance.

“Did you hear that?” Cal made the pretense of listening. “I’ll just go over there and check it out.”

Smith puffed his cigar. “You’re just jumpy. Stay put.”

“Jumpy’s what you need in a sentry.” Cal casually walked forward.

Smith tugged one gun out of his holster and pointed it at Cal’s heart. “Bloody Joe may trust you, but I’ll make my own judgment. Until I do, you stay here.”

Hand coming up, Cal feigned a gesture of surprise. “I’m on your side, Smith. After all, what’s not to like about an easy job fake-policing a gang town?” Except for morals, duty, and righteous abhorrence of men on wanted ads, that is.

“You know that circus they say you sold your brothers to? I grew up in Houston, all fifteen wretched years before I left the legal side of life, and I ain’t ever heard tell of no such circus.” With two fingers, Smith removed his cigar and extinguished the butt on his pant leg.

Making his muscles relax, Cal lounged against a pine trunk. “If you’re so sure I’m double-crossing you, why not tell Bloody Joe?”

“Once he’s got his mind made up, he don’t listen to no one. But I’m telling you, one false move and I’ll put a bullet through you so quick you won’t know what happened.” Smith took out his second revolver and spun it around his finger. “Hey, might do that anyway jist for fun.”

“Loosen up.” Stifling a fabricated yawn, Cal stretched. “You won’t catch me turning down easy money. Though I will say this sentry business is one of the less pleasant aspects of your gang. Mind if I get some sleep?”

“Suit yourself.” Smith lit a new cigar.

Sitting down, Cal leaned back against the tree trunk, and crossed his arms. Half closing his eyes, hewatched the man. The cold night wind tugged at his shirt, flapping the thin cotton cloth. Midnight passed, and then one o’clock, two o’clock. The moon rose higher and swept down beyond the earth’s shadow, but Smith stood alert as ever, gaze fixed on Cal.

Once Smith’s pistol lowered as if the man might be wearying, but he merely switched pistol hands. Smith was a crack shot, of that Cal had no doubt. The man would never have made it into the Silverman gang otherwise.

Three turned into four o’clock and still Smith held that keen-eyed piercing stare as he examined the darkness all around.

Cal looked to the trees just beyond the moonlit clearing. A dash there would give Smith time to get at least two shots in, maybe three. He’d be willing to take that risk though, except for the men back at the camp. Even if he singlehandedly eliminated all the sentries—a sizeable feat, but not undoable—the moment the gang heard gunshots they’d shoot the prisoners. So by delaying, he staked Sheriff Thompson’s life against the posse, and Ginny. Could she ever forgive him for letting her Uncle Zak die? For some reason that mattered to him—a lot.

Five thirty in the morning. “Wake up. I’m getting some chow. Joe won’t be relieving us for another two hours yet, needs his beauty sleep.” Smith dropped his twenty-third cigar onto the forest floor and ground it into the mud with his heel.

Pretending a yawn, Cal stood up, legs protesting. The wetness from the night’s dew had sunk all the way into his bones. If Smith looked away for a moment, he’d be gone. Rescue the sheriff and have two guns to fight the gang.

“You first.” Smith pointed to the trees and underbrush ahead with his gun.

With a pistol in his back, Cal led the way. As he crunched ferns underfoot, Cal eyed the horizon where the faint glimmers of daybreak broke through the dark. Once Smith came off sentry duty, he and the other sentries would sleep while Bloody Joe and the rested men went out to stand guard. Then he could cut the posse free, arm them, and take over the camp. Two more hours…if the sheriff’s execution could just be halted that long.

Inside the clearing, the campfire sent flames a pace high and a rancid odor rose from the cooking pot Widow Sullivan hovered over.

Cal searched for Ginny.

Several yards from the fire, she sat, coat still around her shoulders, eyes stolidly open. Safe.

Bloody Joe strode back and forth in front of the fire. “Can you finish up already, woman? An execution in the morning makes one hungry.”

Widow Sullivan blushed even as her hand holding the ladle trembled. “You’re going to shoot the sheriff today?”

“Already sent a man out to do the job.” Bloody Joe yawned. “But some food now—”

The soup ladle clattered to the ground below, hitting a log and throwing off sparks. “Where is he? I have to say my last good-byes!” The widow’s voice rose an octave, desperate in its shriek-like quality.

“Over past the next valley, same as before.” Bloody Joe pointed one grubby finger. Cal’s gaze followed the finger.

Gathering up her skirts, the widow ran in that direction. Brush and small woodland creatures went flying out of her way as she sped.

“Women.” Bloody Joe shook his head and grabbed for a tin plate.

A cold deeper than the dew-soaked clothes on Cal’s back wrapped around him as he glanced toward Ginny. He was glad she was a distance away and wouldn’t realize that the next shot she heard took her uncle’s life.

“Cal.” Ginny motioned wildly from where she sat.

He glanced at Smith and Bloody Joe.

“Sure, take a minute for your lady friend. If you’d rather do that than eat, that is.” Smith chortled in a smoky combination of new cigar and gassy hiccups from the brown stuff in the cauldron.

With the way that goulash smelled, one didn’t need a lady friend to choose her over the food. Walking over, Cal crouched down in the earth besides Ginny.

“Have a plan to save my Uncle Zak yet?” Ginny crossed her thin arms across her chest.

“Your Uncle Zak.” He swallowed hard. Had she overheard Bloody Joe’s words? How did he tell her that his plan would start two hours too late? In mere minutes, her uncle would leave this earth and without even a chance for her to say good-bye.

“I know they’re planning to execute him. Do you think Bloody Joe talks quietly?” She pulled the dirty coat up higher around her neck, making a tunnel for her words. “Can you keep the sentries quiet?”

“Can I what?” He stared at her.

“I’m assuming they won’t let you off sentry duty. Which may be just as well since, as it is, we will have the Silverman gang divided. I’ll arrest Bloody Joe and the gang members in the campsite. If you distract the sentries—”

The cough in Cal’s throat let up enough for speech. “Exactly how are you planning to defeat Bloody Joe and six other gang members? These men are killers, remember?”

“I’ll go cut Peter free first and leave him the knife to free the rest. Then, it’s just a matter of some simple distraction work to allow Peter and the others to grab the guns.” She jerked her chin toward the tarp-covered pile of weaponry, not twenty feet from Bloody Joe’s conscious and moving form. “Then we meet back here and go save Uncle Zak.”

How did he break the news to her that her beloved uncle would very likely be dead before this conversation ended? Not to mention that the chances of her getting the drop on Bloody Joe and his band of desperate criminals was about as likely as Mrs. Clinton taking a vow of silence. “I don’t have a knife, and I doubt I can convince Smith to give me one.”

She smiled. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I still have one.”

“You were searched.” He stared at her.

Shaking her head, she gave him a distinctly pitying glance. “There are just so many advantages to the female anatomy.”

“Time’s up, Westwood.” At the campfire, Smith let his bowl drop to the ground with a clatter and shoved his guns a little tighter into his holsters. “Back to work.”

“I can count on you to take care of the sentries?” She looked up at Cal with those big, green eyes.

How did one say no to those eyes? Maybe he could use the line, “You’re going to get killed if I let you do this!” He should have insisted on sending messengers to the Denver marshal like he’d planned to do in the first place. Now Sheriff Thompson, and if Ginny had her way, the posse, and her, too, would be dead anyway.

“Westwood,” Smith shouted again.

Too late to explain his plan to her now. “There’s no time, Ginny. Wait two hours, and I’ll set us free.” He’d not let Ginny die in this foolhardy attempt to save her uncle.

Those green eyes looked up at him again. Her soiled skirt wrapped around her bent knees. She looked so small enveloped in the gang man’s coat. Even with his plan, there could be casualties…

No answer from Ginny.

“Take care of yourself.” Cal touched her knee, looked one last time into her dry eyes, and stood up.

“You’d better take care of the sentries because I am arresting Bloody Joe.” Ginny whispered.