Chapter 2

Dapper George cursed under his breath and spurred his horse to a gallop. The cocksuckers were running. Why did these stagecoach fellows always run? There wasn’t no percentage in it.

Well, he supposed, every man has some sort of code.

“Stop the damn wagon!” he bellowed, whipping Bluebell to a lather and drawing forward on the left. Aiming to punctuate the command, he raised his pistol and let off a couple of rounds into the sky.

Then: “Oh, Jeezus fuck!!”

Up there next to the driver, the guard was leveling a long-gun at him. Instinctively, George hauled on the reins. The filly read his intentions faster than he’d have thought possible, and reared to bleed off speed, juking wildly into the lee of the coach. Only just in time, too. Before the outlaw had drawn his next breath, a barrelful of lead went zipping past both horse and rider, mere feet away.

A series of hard, metallic peals rang out in response. Yuma Joe had been edging closer on the other side and he had a good angle. Yuma was a hell of a gunslinger, and at least one of his slugs landed home, because the shotgun-agent reeled off the seat and tumbled gracelessly into the dusty ruts of the track, head-shot and bound for the pearly gates.

The remaining coachman was quick to lose heart after that. By the time Tomo and his appaloosa came sprinting dramatically out from behind a rockfall up ahead, barring the road, the vehicle’s pace had already begun to slacken, grinding before long to a cheerless, flabby halt.

George and Yuma cantered slowly toward the cab—affecting an easy manner, but deep-down tense as a coiled wire and ready for anything. George’s nerves were riled up, and against his will he fell to chiding his lieutenant. “You really oughtn’t to a killed him, you know. Weren’t no need of it.” Bloodshed was a thing he didn’t generally prefer.

Yuma Brown’s placid eyes remained fixed on the horizon, conceding nothing. He worked his chaw for a minute, then spat. “Don’t know about that, George. Way I figure, if I ain’t killed him, he’d a most likely killed us.”

It was hard to argue with the logic in this.

Tomo had the driver down on his knees and disarmed by the time they got there. George banged impatiently on the cabin door, and a small, sallow, owl-eyed gent poked his head out timidly. From up in the saddle, George aimed a six-gun idly at the man’s nose and cocked it with an ominous click, savoring the theatrical flourish. “Why don’t you and your friends come out and join us.”

As it transpired, there were only two passengers, and they tumbled hastily forth into the open air. First that pint-sized city chap, and then hot on his heels ... well, what have we here?

George couldn’t suppress a low whistle. The other traveler was a young woman—and a damn fine piece of calico too. She had a delicate round face, lively blue eyes, and flawless porcelain skin, all set off by lustrous mahogany ringlets. Her figure was stunning, accentuated by a simple-yet-fetching rose print dress sporting a delightfully narrow waist. But even more than her looks, it was the lady’s comportment that truly marked her for distinction. Where her companion had lurched to the ground like an anxious string-puppet, she flowed with elegant grace, as serene and unflappable as Sunday church.

George felt his mouth get dry and his heart beat faster. Yep, she was the sort of wholesome gal from down the road that you always thought you’d grow up to marry. Right until you did grow up, and learned that feckless roustabouts like you don’t get girls like that.

Perhaps the bookish twerp caught a whiff of these meditations, because he chose that moment to step in front of the woman, as if shielding her from harm. The outlaw had to swallow a belly-laugh at the sight. Why, not only was the man plainly incapable of protecting anyone, even himself, he was also a full head shorter than the damsel he sought to defend.

Nevertheless, the city fellow plunged ahead, piping up in a reedy voice. (The son-of-a-bitch must have some balls, George thought, or else he’d simply gotten too accustomed to telling the hoi-polloi where to get off.) “Villains! Murderers! You’ll be straight on your way if you have any sense! And don’t even think of assaulting this good matron’s honor.”

That final comment made the corner of George’s mouth turn down, and his face prick hot. True, he may’ve earned his livelihood lightening people’s purses at the business end of a .45, but he had his code too. “I don’t much care for your tone, flyspeck. The Devil’s got a cot laid for me in hell, I’ll own, but I ain’t never forced my attentions onto a member of the fairer sex against her wishes, and reckon I never will. So pipe down, before you get yourself hurt.”

Right about here, Tomo—having no use for such verbal jousting, and perhaps fearing George was losing focus—decided it was time to cut the exchange short. Grabbing the upstart by the collar, he hauled the man over next to the driver, and wrestled him efficiently to the ground.

And with the prisoners thus secured, it was Yuma’s turn to trundle into action. Pulling himself from the saddle, he climbed laboriously up onto the coach and tossed down the strongbox. “Don’t know about this George, it feels light.”

George wasn’t one to fret unnecessarily. “Takes naught but ounces of gold to make us all rich.”

This drew a snort from the coachman. “If it’s gold you’re looking for in that box, you’re in a world of hurt. There’s dribs and drabs of silver, to be sure, but mostly it’s stuffed full of the Federal mail. Good luck making a prize out of that.”

He was answered by a withering look. “Well, a man in your position would say that, wouldn’t he? Yuma, why don’t you get the accursed thing open, and then we’ll know for sure.”

The Negro gunslinger clambered back down to the ground and unstrapped a massive axe from his mount. With a single mighty swing he cleaved the lock from the chest. Then, opening the lid, he stared morosely down at the contents. “Damn. It’s like the man said.”

Hetty kept her head up and face tranquil, but her heart thudded to a frenzied, primitive beat. No matter how she’d steeled herself for the dangers of the road, she had never honestly believed she’d encounter such a knife-edged eventuality as this. Yet now she had—and the risks and uncertainties of the situation were enough to drive a woman halfway round the bend.

Still, it wouldn’t do any good to swoon, so she just eyed the proceedings warily. Which became a good deal easier once that native-looking ruffian removed Mr. Darnell (or more specifically, his hat) from her line of sight.

The slick, bronzed desperado they called George seemed to be in charge, and an ugly thunderstorm settled on his face after he heard what the colored one had to say. Acting like he couldn’t believe his ears, he stalked over to rifle through the strongbox himself, tossing mailbags left and right. In the end, he was left with a paltry little sack that jingled. He decanted the glinting contents out onto a handkerchief, and a snarl curled his lip. “Silver.”

The Indian was clearly irked by this development. Crossing his arms over his loose linen shirt, he confronted George—a revolver squeezed in each fist, but not (as yet) raised in anger. “You said there’d be gold.” His face was blank, his intonation flat, but Hetty heard the menace dripping in his words.

George stood his ground. “The tip was good I tell ya.” Then he rounded on Darnell, seizing him by the ear. “You’re with Missouri Union Bank, ain’t you? Bringing a shipment of bullion for the South Pass City branch? Where’d you stash it?” It was more accusation than question.

In spite of his uncomfortable position, the clerk indulged a snicker. “You ass, I’m nothing but an accountant. Someone up at South Pass is skimming, and Missouri Union sent me to dig into it. I’ll catch the bastard, too. But even wearing stripes, he’ll still cut more dash as a criminal than you ever will.”

Dapper George had heard enough, and he decked the bookkeeper with a nasty right hook, laying him flat. The man covered his head and whimpered in pain, showing no inclination to get up. Hetty was unimpressed. Admittedly, Mr. Darnell should have had more sense than to provoke their captors—yet that didn’t justify the highwayman in venting his frustrations on the hapless paper-pusher, nor in such violent fashion.

Anger mollified somewhat, George nudged his derby hat back on his head and peered sheepishly at his compatriots. “Well, fellas, guess my guy got buffaloed on this one. But that don’t mean the whole thing’s a bust. This weasel’s got money on him, sure as shootin’. And the lady must have some trinkets we can wrap our fingers around as well.”

As an afterthought, he squinted at Hetty, vaguely repentant. “Mind you, I apologize for the imposition, ma’am”—and then, with a quick, cold glance at Darnell still puddled on the ground—”mister. It ain’t our habit lifting from passengers. But, we got to make up the loss somehow. I’m sure you can see that.”