According to Hoyle (5 page)

On the front was a sketch of what the publishers thought Rose looked like. Flynn had found, though, that they were never as handsome or as dashing as the public thought. And they were rarely ever as skilled or heroic. Most were just two-bit horse thieves with catchy names and a knack for dramatics.

“Says he can shoot with either hand,” Wash observed as Flynn opened the book and scanned it with morbid curiosity. “Says he’s got a dog he trained to take keys out of a man’s belt, follows him everywhere he goes. Says he’s a bit of a dandy and that he don’t drink one lick. Never gambles, never swears, never goes a day without bathing. Can’t all be true if he was dealing faro with Doc Holliday, though.”

“Always to be found in dapper dress,” Flynn read with distaste, “never a gold button or silk kerchief out of place.”

“Nary a damsel in distress or blushing maid can resist his smiling face,” Wash supplied, his voice shaking with laughter.

Flynn grunted and tossed the dime novel over his shoulder. It landed with a plop in the back of the empty wagon. Wash laughed raucously, obviously having expected the reaction.

“I wouldn’t put too much stock in it,” Wash offered after a while, still snickering. “Kid Antrim down in New Mexico was said to be a dandy too, and you’ve seen those tintypes of him. Ugly, dirty, little bastard.”

“Lots of things was said about Kid Antrim,” Flynn huffed. “He’s a damn hero now that he’s dead and not shooting folks left and right. They’ll never call him a hired killer like he really was, though.”

“What is it they’re calling him? Billy the Kid?” Wash asked in amusement.

Flynn offered that a rude noise. “That’ll never stick.”

Wash shook his head and laughed softly as he pulled the mule to the right to avoid a rut that probably would have broken an axle. Flynn watched him as they plodded along; feeling the ache in his chest that he always did when he got a chance to sit back and watch his friend. It was a familiar ache; one that he had lived with since their early days in the Union army.

“Dime novels never get it straight,” Flynn continued when the ache became too much to deal with and he needed a distraction. “I heard that Rose favors the gentlemen over the ‘blushing maids’, or whatever the hell they called ’em. Wouldn’t that shock the genteel society types?” he mused.

“I’ve heard that too,” Wash agreed in a neutral tone. “Not uncommon out here. That bother you?” he asked Flynn carefully.

Flynn glanced back at him in surprise and then shrugged uncomfortably. Something about Wash’s tone of voice told him that he may have offended him with the subject. “Man’s welcome to do what he likes, so long as it don’t hurt no one else. I guess,” he answered in a mumble. “I thought Rose was all bluster,” he added, irritably shifting his body in the saddle, hoping to change the subject. “All tenderfoot hooey and big talk about how fast he was with iron. Finally turned real outlaw, did he?”

“Word is he killed a man,” Wash answered, giving a lopsided shrug. “Two men, actually.”

“Word is he’s killed lots of people,” Flynn countered in confusion. “I thought it was all bull.”

“Well, he’s been tried twice in New York, but he was absolved of guilt and let loose both times. Some say his family has big political pull, lots of money,” Wash said with another tug on the reins. “But he had to go west after the second trial to save his family’s name. Got into more trouble out here. He escaped from a sheriff in Arkansas somewheres, but after the fact it was proved he wasn’t even in town when the man he was accused of killing was shot, so they let him be.”

“Escaped, huh?” Flynn asked, frowning heavy.

“Seems to be pretty good at it. He’s been found innocent of four separate murder charges,” Wash said dourly. “They were all self-defense incidents with witnesses and sworn statements and the like. But, rumor has it that in other cases he’s escaped from five different lawmen in three territories before ever being brought in front of a magistrate or judge.”

“Five,” Flynn repeated flatly.

Wash gave a jerk of his chin and smiled. “We’ll have our hands full.”

“Well, ain’t that just a treat,” Flynn muttered. “So, what makes this time any different? With the murder, I mean.”

Wash shrugged again. “Nothing special about it, I don’t think. He shot two boys in the street, neither of yet twenty, then he stuck around until the sheriff showed up, claimed the other men drew first. I guess he was counting on the self-defense thing again. Local magistrate ain’t gonna be around for another month and they’re worried about him escaping, so he’s being sent off to New Orleans for trial.”

“Huh. Stuck around,” Flynn mused as he glanced up at the darkening sky.

“Yep,” Wash responded curtly.

“Peculiar,” Flynn commented as he cut his gaze sideways to look at his companion again.

“Yep,” Wash answered again without glancing over at him.

“That his real name, y’think?” Flynn asked after a long moment of nothing but the creaking wagon wheels and the clopping hooves. “Dusty Rose,” he intoned sarcastically.

“Nah, it’s an alias,” Wash said with a small laugh. “I’m sure there’s another name on the papers.”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough, huh?” Flynn said as the squat gray buildings of Junction City came into view over the horizon.

“Yep,” Wash drawled after several moments.

“
Y
EP
,” the old Junction City sheriff greeted drolly. He took the papers Wash handed him. “Yep, yep, yep,” he muttered as he looked at the papers with a sigh.

“Good to know we’re in the right place,” Wash responded wryly, giving Flynn an amused glance.

Flynn rolled his eyes and then peered up and down the street warily. A smattering of people had gathered as they’d guided the cumbersome wagon into town, recognizing them as lawmen and obviously aware of the name of one of the men they had come for. Flynn hadn’t quite appreciated the amount of fuss this infamous prisoner might cause them as they took him toward the Mississippi. They would have to stay far away from the bigger towns along the way, where word might have already spread. It would alter their plans, making the trip longer, more expensive, and certainly more dangerous.

Flynn’s horse shook its head and snorted restlessly, sidestepping toward the water trough as Flynn and Wash strode up onto the wooden sidewalk. They followed the sheriff into the tiny jail. It was dark and cramped and dusty; a typical territorial Sheriff’s jail as far as Flynn’s vast experience went, built out of mud brick and luck.

He stood in the doorway, leaning his back against the doorjamb and holding Wash’s shotgun in the crook of his arm as Wash dealt with the warrants. Men like Dusty Rose had a lot of admirers and a lot of enemies, any of whom might like to catch him as he was being led from a jail cell in hand irons. It was Flynn’s and Wash’s job to make certain the prisoners got where they were going alive, preferably without much loss of limb. The government wanted them to still be breathing before they stretched their necks.

But Flynn was of the opinion that if anyone intended to harm Dusty Rose in this particular town, they would have done so already. It would be plenty easy to stick your gun through the bars of the jail cell’s window and blow someone away. Lynch mobs were still nearly uncontrollable in these parts too. But, regardless of what his gut told him about the lack of danger, Flynn kept one eye on the street, just in case.

“Just the two of you sent to get ’em?” the sheriff asked as he eyed Wash’s sling with rheumy blue eyes that had probably once been sharp and hard.

“You expect them to give us trouble?” Wash asked, his tone of voice conveying that he was not at all concerned with the implication that he wasn’t able to handle the job with his injured arm.

The sheriff shrugged and handed Wash back the leather packet that contained their papers. “See for yourself,” he invited with a gesture of his hand toward the cells in the back partition of the rickety building.

Wash slid the warrants into the waterproof pouch inside his duster and turned around to incline his head at Flynn. Flynn gave one last look at the calm street outside and then glanced to the two sheriff’s deputies who were to keep guard for them. They nodded in unison, and Flynn turned to follow Wash into the back. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but soon Flynn could make out two small cells, along with their occupants.

Two men sat in one cell. One of them was wearing what was left of a tattered Army uniform and glaring up at them balefully. The other wore oilskin pants and a jacket that looked to be homemade. His greasy hair fell over his face as he sat with his head bowed and his hands hanging between his knees. He didn’t look up at them when they entered.

Both men were filthy and unkempt, long hair and overgrown beards full of dirt and grit. Flynn had been dirty before, the trail always did that, but even he had to wrinkle his nose at the state and smell of the two men.

“How long they been here?” Wash asked with obvious distaste.

“Four days,” the sheriff answered as he stood in the doorway, keeping his distance.

Four days wasn’t long enough for them to have achieved the level of filth they had managed, and Flynn glanced at the sheriff doubtfully.

“They was dragged behind a chuck wagon from the Fort. Don’t know how long they kept ’em. Ain’t our job to delouse ’em,” the sheriff explained with a shrug.

Flynn looked back at the two men. “Great.”

The last prisoner sat alone in the other cell, lounging against the plank wall with one foot pulled up onto the cot. A dream book
—
a packet of papers used to roll cigarettes
—
sat on his knee. He was rolling a thin, brown cheroot between long, graceful fingers. Flynn examined him as he licked the paper and folded it over with exceptional care.

He was younger than Flynn had expected for a gunman of his expansive reputation. Flynn was certain he hadn’t yet reached thirty. He looked to be about as tall as Flynn and Wash both were, but he was all wiry muscle. It made him appear lanky and taller than he probably was. And, for once, the picture on the dime novel cover didn’t really do its subject due justice. He had sharp features: thin lips, an aristocratic nose and high cheekbones. His black hair had been cropped shorter than was the style, the ends just barely curling over his ears, but because he had been denied any visits to the barber during his incarceration and trial, it had grown slightly wild. His goatee and sideburns were unkempt as well, but he still managed to appear put-together. His black eyes were dancing with amusement as he observed them.

Wash walked over to the other cell and looked in at him. The sheriff had said he’d been in the jail here in Junction City for a little over a week, waiting for transport, but he was clean and calm. His clothing was rumpled, but that was only to be expected; he appeared to be wearing the same clothing he had been arrested in. He’d either been traveling or having a night on the town. Or he was just a dandy. He wore a black shirt under a tailored vest that was the color of rye whiskey. A black silk ascot was tied neatly around his neck and tucked into his vest. In Flynn’s experience, neckwear was the first thing a prisoner would loosen and toss to the floor of his cell in frustration. The fact that it was still there meant Rose was a cool customer. His boots, Flynn noticed, weren’t even dusty. He hadn’t paced while in the cell. All in all, he cut a mighty fine picture for a man stuck behind bars.

“Dusty Rose?” Wash asked him in a low voice.

The man looked up at Wash with unreadable black eyes and slipped the cigarette he had been rolling into his mouth. The cigarette jumped between his lips when he spoke.

“I don’t really go by that name,” he answered in a soft, surprisingly deep voice as he reached into his breast pocket and extracted a match.

“You’re an Englishman,” Flynn blurted in surprise. Nothing he had ever heard or read about Dusty Rose had ever mentioned him being an Englishman.

“So it would seem,” the prisoner murmured as his eyes traveled steadily to land on Flynn and examine him critically. He reached down and struck the match on the side of his boot, carefully lighting his cigarette and then waving the match out without ever looking away.

“What’s your real name?” Wash asked, obviously not as thrown by the revelation as Flynn had been. But then, Wash never seemed thrown by anything. Unless you counted that one horse.

The prisoner looked from Flynn to Wash again and lowered his foot to the floor as he leaned forward on the hard cot. “I was arrested under the name Rose,” he answered with something like amusement.

“Is that your real name?” Wash asked impatiently.

“Does it really matter, Marshal?” the prisoner asked softly.

“Are we sure this is the right man, Sheriff?” Wash demanded as he pushed away from the bars and turned to look at the sheriff.

“That there’s the man known as Dusty Rose back East, Marshal,” the sheriff answered with a confident nod. “His real name, as far as we know it, is Gabriel. Gabriel Rose.”

“Gabriel,” Flynn echoed.

“You didn’t think his Christian name was Dusty, did ya?” the sheriff asked in amusement.

“I can’t say I’ve ever given him that much thought,” Flynn grumbled with a restless shift of his weight.

The prisoner snorted. “Do you give anything much thought, Marshal?” he asked wryly. He inhaled from his cigarette deeply as he watched Flynn with amusement. He was sitting up straight now, one leg crossed genteelly over the other as he rested a forearm on his knee. He held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger daintily, and when he exhaled, the smoke formed a perfect ring as it floated away from him.

Flynn watched him with a frown and decided the best response at this point was no response at all.

“I’m Deputy Marshal William Henry Washington. You can call me Wash. And this is Deputy Marshal Eli Flynn. You can call him Sir,” Wash announced to the three men. “We’re going to be taking you to St. Louis.”

“Are you going to bathe them before we get under way?” Rose asked with an elegant wave of his long fingers at his fellow prisoners. “Or shall I stock up on more tobacco and papers before we begin?”