I fumble for the soap, fish it from the cloudy water.
A story that will help you and Mother, I remind myself.
I will not be swayed by fear. It is fear that fosters silence, that breeds ignorance, that causes half-truths to be printed over fact. It is fear that has kept me dutiful so far. No more.
If my career will not come waltzing to me, I will hunt it down myself. I will claim it for my own.
I scrub at my garments until my fingers are raw.
Chapter Nine
* * *
Reece
The first sign of our salvation comes as a whistle in the night.
It sounds a bit like the cactus wrens that feast on insects on the plains, but that bird only sings with the sun. This is our crew, whistling. This is the call Boss teaches all his men when they agree to ride with him. For emergencies and mishaps. In case you get separated from the group. To announce yer near without the enemy being none the wiser.
It’s a dark night. The slivered moon’s doing little to light the land, but Diaz peers down the street. Hobbs sits a little straighter. And Boss don’t twitch a muscle. He’s still staring at the lone man the deputy left watching us. Some guard. I ain’t got a notion how he’s meant to keep an eye on us when he’s sound asleep in his rocker. The local men brought the chair outta one of the houses ’round dinnertime and set it up a few paces from the Jail Tree. They been taking turns watching us since. Most have kept their eyes keen, their focus unshifting, as if they think us slippery enough to wriggle from our cuffs and saunter for the horizon. If we could, we’d’ve done it by now.
But this sleeping guard . . . His chin’s slumped to his chest, his hat tipped low over his eyes. A wool blanket’s wrapped ’round his frame so tight, he don’t even got a hand on his pistol. He’s gonna pay for it dearly.
I hear movement somewhere nearby. Boots crunching ’gainst dirt, paces quick and sure. I can see it in my mind: Our men creeping up the side streets, setting diversions and distractions, stationing themselves with purpose. They’re circling the city like wranglers rounding up a herd—Crawford and DeSoto and Barrera and Jones. Four men can do an awful lot of damage when leveraging the element of surprise.
Their attack begins quietly, with nothing but a flicker, down near the general store. Faint. Glowing. ’Bout half a block away. Several buildings obstruct my view, but it only takes a few minutes for those flickers to become a blaze, flames dancing above the other rooflines and licking for the sky. At the first scream of “Fire!” our guard leaps to his feet and reaches for his gun.
“Godspeed, partner,” Boss says to him.
I realize what’s ’bout to happen the same instant Hobbs and Diaz do. We go diving for shelter, flattening ourselves ’gainst the mesquite best we can as a shotgun discharges.
Splinters fly from the rocker. The guard goes tumbling back and hits the dirt, dead.
“Good to see you, Boss,” Crawford says, appearing from the dark. He tucks his shotgun beneath his arm and darts for the guard. With a shove, the dead man’s rolled over and Crawford fishes the keys from his belt.
He frees Boss, then Hobbs.
By now, lanterns are winking to life all through town. Shouts of concern fill the night.
“Faster!” Diaz urges.
But it’s hard to work the key with such little light.
Across the way, the door to the deputy sheriff’s house bursts open. He stumbles into the street wearing only his night things, but his arm’s raised, and I don’t got to see the pistol to know it’s there.
A bullet screams our way, thankfully going wide.
Crawford turns away from Diaz’s cuffs and fires back on the deputy. As they engage, shots ring and wood splinters. A chunk of the Jail Tree explodes near my ear. I curse and cower, yanking at my chains.
“Dammit, Murphy!” Diaz shouts. “Hold still.”
He’s got the keys, I realize. Crawford must’ve finished with Diaz’s cuffs and passed ’em off before turning to face off with the deputy. If only he’d managed to get his hands on our effects too. There ain’t much none of us can do to help him without our pieces.
Heat sears my neck. A bullet, just missing me. Thank God the boys set that fire farther up the street. It’s keeping folk occupied, and the poor visibility down here by the Jail Tree is the only thing that’s kept the deputy from shooting me dead. Granted, that same shoddy lighting’s also keeping Crawford from hitting him, and keeping Diaz from fitting the key into my cuff locks. Don’t help that our hands are damn near frozen, neither. December nights can get wickedly cold, and I reckon it’s dipped near freezing in the past few hours.
The key finally slides home and clicks with a turn. I swivel my wrists in relief just as the gunfight dies. Looking ’cross the way, I find the damage. The deputy sheriff’s lying in the middle of the street, crawling for his pistol, which he must have dropped when Crawford finally hit true.
“Horses’re ready?” Boss shouts to Crawford.
“Along with all yer effects.” He hands his pistol to Boss and with a pump of his shotgun yells, “Stay close.”
We race up the street and toward the smoke. Already flames are flapping hungrily from the small wood-framed general store and reaching toward neighboring buildings. If’n folks don’t act quick, the fire’s gonna take the strip in a frenzy.
I yank my bandanna up over my nose and mouth. I feel naked without my pistol, and my muscles are stiff with cold, cramped from being chained to that blasted tree. I draw the knife from my boot, knowing right well it ain’t gonna help me fend off bullets. Still, I need something in my grasp.
We race through a thick cloud of smoke, passing the fire with no real issue. For a moment I think we truly might just jog straight outta town, but then Crawford rounds a corner and pulls up short, swearing. “Jones was supposed to be here with the horses!”
There ain’t nothing in the alley but a taut, empty clothesline.
“Musta been forced to move,” Boss says. “Where’s the fallback point?”
“The river. We gotta get to the river. Something musta gone wrong.”
Boss looks ’bout ready to murder Crawford for his sloppiness, but there ain’t time for it. He leads the way back onto the main drag and we sprint past Etter’s, only to find ourselves the target of a couple of long rifles. Bullets chase us from the roof, and no matter how hard we run, they keep smacking the dirt behind us. One catches Crawford in the knee. He goes down hard. Boss yanks him back up, but Crawford’s in bad shape, dragging us to a pace that’s sure to get us all killed. We ain’t gonna make it to the river. We ain’t even gonna make it outta town.