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Two men went down in the initial onslaught. They had been running down the mound for their horses, but with a hail of rapid gunfire Finlay’s gunmen had waylaid them before they’d reached the bottom.
Two men rolled to the ground. They didn’t get back up so Martin beckoned the rest to stay flat on the ground at the summit. Aside from Yves and himself, there were two other men: Cameron Boyd and his brother Galloway, which meant they were evenly matched in numbers to Finlay’s group.
“We’ve got no hope,” Yves said, eyeing the two bodies lying at the bottom.
“We have a high position,” Martin said. “That gives us an advantage, provided we use it sensibly.”
His positive thinking made Yves nod, but the other two men cringed down.
“The best way to use our position is to defend ourselves until Finlay moves on,” Cameron said.
Martin snorted in derision. “You were brave when you were ambushing defenseless men in the dark, but now you’re proving you’re just yellow-bellies.”
Any hopes that his chiding would spur them into taking positive action died when Cameron and Galloway merely shrugged. They dropped down to the dirt to use the long grass as cover, their resolute manner suggesting that they wouldn’t take the initiative, no matter what Finlay did next.
Martin and Yves nodded at each other, confirming that they were more positively minded and that they’d take any opportunity that presented itself. Yves moved into a position where he could monitor the length of the fence where Finlay had gone to ground, leaving Martin to hunker down and face the other side of the mound.
All was quiet on Martin’s side and Yves gestured that his view was calm, which meant Finlay wasn’t taking advantage of their reticence to flee. For the next hour the impasse continued, the gunmen not showing themselves.
Martin reckoned this situation couldn’t continue indefinitely, and with every passing moment he became more tense. When his right palm became so damp that he had to struggle to hold his gun, he raised himself.
The grass on the mound rustled in the breeze. With his heightened senses he was sure that not all the movement came from the wind, so he turned to a position to his right on the edge of the mound.
Sure enough, someone was crawling through the grass. The man was thirty yards away and aiming to reach the summit, close to where Yves was lying.
“They’re coming,” Martin said while gesturing.
His comment attracted Yves’s attention. He nodded and then turned to the indicated direction, but the other two men were lying too far away to hear Martin and they didn’t react. Martin still tried to alert them, but when he edged closer, a second ripple of movement in the grass closed in on Cameron and Galloway.
He kneeled and rooted around for a stone so that he could get their attention silently, but he was already too late. In a rush of movement the man who had been closing on them leaped to his feet and hurried up the last section of the slope.
His decisive action took his quarries by surprise and he covered the last few paces unopposed before spraying a wild slew of gunfire into the grass. Galloway screeched in pain, staggering to his feet with a hand clutched to his bloodied chest.
As he tumbled over to lie still on the ground, Cameron rose to his knees, but a bullet in the stomach made him fold over and a second shot to the head downed him. While the gunman’s attention was still on these men, Martin leaped to his feet.
He settled his stance and took careful aim at the gunman. He fired. His shot caught the gun-toter with a glancing blow to the upper arm. The gunman twitched and came to a sliding halt as he sought out the shooter.
He turned toward Martin. He was still swinging his gun arm around to pick him out when Yves thundered a second shot into his chest. He keeled over. When the gunman didn’t move again, Martin turned quickly, but before he could thank Yves his savior was already aiming at the second gunman, who followed the first man in making a frantic dash to the top of the mound.
Four rapid shots rang out as Yves and the gunman exchanged gunfire. As Finlay’s man ran along the edge of the summit past Martin, neither man hit his target, but the gunman presented Martin with an easier target.
Martin repaid Yves for his quick action by slamming a low shot into the man’s guts. With an agonized cry the gun-toter folded. Martin dispatched him with a second shot to the neck that made him flop down on to his side before he rolled away down the mound.
Martin turned to Yves, who was raising a hand to him. Martin assumed he was saluting him, but Yves had a pensive expression. He froze and listened. Long moments passed during which he heard only the wind rustling the grass, making him think the third gunman had stayed with Finlay at the bottom of the mound.
Using facial expressions and guarded hand gestures he and Yves agreed to spread out and examine the summit. Yves took the station house side of the mound while Martin explored the other side.
Both men found nothing to concern them on the top of the mound, and they shuffled slowly toward the edges. When Martin reached the top of the slope, he stood still and crouched low, waiting to pick up on any movement.
Minutes passed quietly. The thought crept up on Martin that the gunman wasn’t on his side of the mound. He turned. Yves was standing doubled over, examining his side of the slope. His senses must have been attuned to notice any changes, as he twitched and then shifted around to face Martin.
They both shrugged. They had started to move toward each other when the grass behind Yves parted. Then the third gunman loomed up behind Yves. Martin fired past his colleague’s side.
His shot whistled through the air two yards away from the gunman’s right hip, but it made Yves flinch, uncertain where the gunman was. When the gunman went to one knee, Yves must have heard him move as he threw himself to the right, twisting as he went down.
The gunman followed him with his gun and blasted off a quick shot that sliced into the grass behind Yves’s tumbling form. Martin made the gun-toter pay for his mistake when he hammered a shot into his shoulder that cracked his head back before he toppled over backward.
The gun-toter landed on his back and slid down the mound. Yves raised himself to monitor his tumbling progress down the slope and by the time Martin had scurried across the summit, the gunman had thudded to a halt beside the man shot earlier, ten yards from the house.
His forces all but wiped out, Finlay showed his hand for the first time. He emerged from hiding and loosed off a couple of wild shots before he scurried for the house. Yves and Martin stilled their fire as they directed triumphant smiles at each other.
“It’s time to finish this,” Yves said simply.
“For our families,” Martin said.
He and Yves reloaded. Spurred on by their success and without further comment, they spread out and moved down the slope toward the house. Martin took the right-hand side while Yves went to the left.
Both men moved quickly, keeping low. Although they were unlikely to approach the house without Finlay spotting them, Martin felt none of the fear-fueled tension that had consumed him while he’d waited for the gunmen to attack.
In a matter of minutes they had wiped out Finlay’s men. Now he felt close to delivering justice to the man who had hanged his father, had tried to kill Honoria and had caused the deaths of Nathaniel’s brothers.
With every stride his anger at Finlay’s actions grew, adding strength to his movements. By the time he was halfway down the slope he was running so quickly that a wrong step would make him plunge chin first into the dirt.
Movement below alerted him to the fact that the final gunman was still alive a moment before the man fired up the slope. Martin didn’t detect where the bullet landed and he fired off a retaliatory gunshot, but he was running too quickly to aim accurately and dust kicked twenty feet from the shooter.
Despite his poor aim, his gait remained assured, while Yves dug in his heels to slow himself down. Yves skidded along for ten yards before he came to a halt on his back. The gunman lay prone on the ground and loosed off another wild shot before Yves got him in his sights and dispatched him with a deadly shot in the back.
Yves set off down the slope again, fifteen paces behind Martin. When Martin reached the base he sprinted and made no attempt to stay covered. As he passed the dead gunman a gunshot tore out.
There was a flash of light in the corner of the single window to the right of the door, but Martin wasn’t sure how close Finlay’s shot had been. Finlay followed through with a sustained volley of lead, but Martin continued to run unharmed.
He figured his speed was saving him and didn’t try to slow himself as he pounded along for the twenty paces to the door. Finlay paused in his firing, suggesting he was reloading. He didn’t fire again until the door was a body’s length away.
This time when the shot ripped out, Martin felt the brim of his hat kick as the slug sliced by his forehead. Then he reached the relative safety of the door, leaving Finlay out of his sight. At the last moment he twisted and put a shoulder to the door.
It was unlocked and he went barreling inside. In a few strides he reached the facing wall. He slammed sideways against the wall, jarring his gun arm. By the time he’d regained his senses he realized the blow had dislodged the gun from his hand.
He dropped to one knee and scrabbled around for it as Finlay took aim at him. He had yet to locate his gun when Finlay fired. His shot was wild and it hammered into the wall several inches away from Martin’s right leg.
Finlay’s poor aim made Martin raise his head. He didn’t have Finlay’s full attention: the man was aiming at him while concentrating on Yves, who was approaching the house even more recklessly.
Having time to act, Martin found his gun lying beside his left boot. Using a deft movement he scooped it up and aimed at Finlay. As Yves was in his line of sight, Martin didn’t dare shoot, which gave Finlay enough time to turn his gun on Yves and fire.
His shot made Yves stumble as he reached the window. Then with a frantic lunge he reached through the window, grabbed Finlay’s gun hand and thrust the gun up above their heads.
Quickly Finlay dragged the gun down, revealing that Yves had been shot in the forearm and was bleeding heavily. In his weakened state he couldn’t hold Finlay off for long. Martin hurried across the room.
He reached the window as Finlay dragged the gun down level with Yves’s chest. Before Finlay could fire from point-blank range, Martin turned his gun around in his hand and swung the butt at the back of Finlay’s head.
A moment before the gun hit its intended target, Finlay flinched away and the weapon caught him only a glancing blow. The force was strong enough to swing Finlay around so, using his other hand, Martin followed through with an uppercut to Finlay’s chin, which stood him upright.
Finlay shook off the blow and with a grunt of anger he tore his gun hand free from Yves’s weak grasp. He faced Martin, swinging his gun down to find a true aim. While off balance Yves lunged for Finlay’s arm.
He gathered a fleeting hold of his elbow, which slowed Finlay’s attempt to aim at Martin and gave Martin enough time to deliver the blow he’d intended to give earlier. With all the pent-up rage of the last few hours speeding his arm, Martin swung his gun hand around in an arc that Finlay couldn’t avoid.
This time the gun connected squarely with the side of Finlay’s head. Without making a sound Finlay spun around on his heels before dropping to sprawl on the floor. Martin turned to the window.
Yves gave him a relieved nod and then cradled his wounded arm and slumped down to sit against the wall. Martin kneeled and turned Finlay over on to his back.
“You’ll get the same treatment the rest of the hangrope posse got,” Martin said.
With his eyes flickering and possibly unfocused, Finlay sneered at him.
“Who are you?” he said groggily.
“I’m Martin Drake, Sherwood’s son.”
––––––––
“Alice’s clearly not worried about you returning with me,” Honoria said as they approached the mission.
“She should be,” Braxton said when, with one hand raised to shield her eyes from the low sun, Alice waved at them from the porch. “I intend to run her out of town.”
Despite Alice’s duplicity, he wouldn’t arrest her, as she hadn’t gained anything from impersonating Honoria and now Cassandra. That meant he didn’t have to return to town. Instead he would stay with Alice to make sure she left.
He figured that in his current depressed state she wouldn’t enjoy her time with him. Not that she appeared concerned about this possibility as she beckoned them on before heading inside.
With her jaw set firm Honoria dismounted stiffly and moved on quickly to ensure she followed Alice in ahead of Braxton. When Braxton arrived in the doorway Honoria and Alice were facing each other, ten feet apart.
Honoria had set her hands on her hips. Alice was smiling. Her smile grew broader when she noticed Braxton and she moved around Honoria to take his arm and draw him inside.
“I’m pleased we’re finally all together,” Alice said.
“I only met you a few hours ago,” Braxton said.
“We did, but I feel like I’ve known you for longer than that, after spending time with your brother, and now that I know about our shared past.”
“What shared past?”
Alice smiled sweetly but made no reply. Honoria, however, found her voice, her irritated tone sharpened by Alice’s airy demeanor.
“You betrayed my confidence when I was vulnerable by trying to steal my father’s legacy. Then you impersonated me and failed again. Now you’re trying another scheme and it’s already failed. So just leave and let me get on with my life.”
Alice turned to Braxton as though imploring him to defend her, but as he agreed with Honoria he said nothing. His failure to support her didn’t appear to disconcert Alice and she laughed.
“I will leave, but only after we’ve resolved this matter of your father’s legacy.”
“There’s nothing to resolve. The money is in a bank and Marshal McSween will bring Finlay to justice for trying to steal it.”
“I know that. The fearless and handsome Deputy Braxton Drake explained everything on the way here.”
Braxton stayed silent. Alice gripped his arm fondly, but he shook his head.
“I didn’t,” he said. He cast his mind back, struggling to recall what he and Alice had talked about earlier. “From what I remember, she already knew what had happened here.”
“It’s all right,” Honoria said. “Alice is skilled at getting information, especially from men.”
“She said I’m skilled,” Alice said with a chuckle. “Did you hear that, Braxton? May I call you Braxton, because I can’t keep referring to you as the fearless and handsome Deputy Braxton Drake, even though—”
“That’s enough!” Braxton snapped. He drew his arm away, although a moment before he reacted she had worked out what he planned to do and it came free easily. “You won’t make a fool of me like you did with my brother, and you won’t treat Honoria without respect at this difficult time for her.”
Alice pouted. When that didn’t make Braxton react, she dismissed the matter with a wave of the hand and gestured at the door.
“You’re right. You and I should leave now. We have our new life to begin.” Her retort made Braxton blink in surprise, making her giggle before she turned to Honoria. “Decide how much of your legacy you’d like to keep. Then we can leave you to mourn in peace.”
“You’re getting nothing,” Honoria said, aghast.
“I thought you should keep the mission, along with five hundred dollars,” Alice said, regardless. “I’ll take the rest.”
“I’d accepted you were devious, but this performance makes me wonder if you’ve lost your mind.”
“I haven’t.” Alice narrowed her eyes. When she spoke again, her tone was low and, for the first time, menacing. “You’ll give me what I want, as you know I can destroy everything you believe in with a single sentence.”
Honoria gulped. “Finlay threatened me with something like that, but in the last week I’ve lost my father and my husband, so I’m no longer prepared to give in to threats.”
Honoria turned to Braxton for support. When Braxton moved toward her, Alice grunted with irritation and hurried forward to intercept him.
“Don’t think he’ll help you. If you don’t give me what I want, he’ll take it instead.”
This suggestion was so shocking that Braxton didn’t resist when she again took his arm.
“Why?” he said.
“Because seven years ago four men joined forces to defy the railroad. They failed after they were blamed for stealing money they never even saw. Those men were Sherwood Drake, Pierre Couder, Mitch Douglas and . . . and Bill O’Shannon.”
When her voice caught on the last name Braxton flinched, making him squeeze her arm so tightly she winced.
“So that’s how we’re connected.”
“It is, and the fearless and handsome Deputy Braxton Drake should be able to figure out the rest.” Alice sneered at Honoria. “Then we’ll leave.”