CHAPTER EIGHT No Prisoner
The first bullet entered Sundown House through the front window and shattered Gideon’s coffee cup.
Porcelain burst across the table. Hot coffee splashed over Noah’s map, Marisol’s hands, and the front of Gideon’s shirt.
Gideon struck the floor before the sound of the rifle reached them.
“Down!”
He dragged the map from the table as a second bullet crossed the common room and buried itself in the staircase. Jude overturned the table, creating a barrier between them and the broken window.
Marisol did not duck.
She snatched the brass key from the map and reached beneath the bar for her shotgun.
“Marisol,” Jude shouted.
“I heard him.”
Glass exploded from the second window.
Jude lunged across the floor and pulled her down as a storm of splinters passed over her head.
Gideon folded Noah’s map, field notes, and letter together without regard for the spilled coffee. He shoved them into the oilskin packet and secured it inside his coat.
Outside, horses moved through the cottonwoods.
A man called, “Federal marshal! Send Calder out and walk away!”
Gideon recognized the voice.
Not the man, but the lie.
Marshal Cutter’s riders had used the same claim at the line shack.
He looked through a gap between the overturned table and floor.
At least seven horses stood among the trees. Two riders faced the inn. Others had dismounted and disappeared along the sides of the building.
Harrow’s split-circle brand marked every saddle.
Jude crouched beside Gideon.
His right hand was empty.
For several years, Gideon had carried two revolvers while transporting dangerous prisoners. One rode openly at his thigh. The second remained concealed beneath his coat for the moment a prisoner or fugitive disarmed him.
He drew the hidden weapon.
Jude looked at it.
Gideon checked the cylinder. Six rounds.
He offered it grip first.
No hesitation.
No warning.
No condition.
Jude accepted the loaded revolver.
The final practical distinction between lawman and prisoner disappeared inside that exchange.
“Front windows,” Gideon said.
Jude checked the weapon. “You?”
“Staircase.”
“You think they’re above us?”
“The western rooms open onto the porch roof.”
As if summoned by the observation, a boot struck the upstairs landing.
The floorboards groaned overhead.
Jude rose enough to look through the broken window. A bullet struck the overturned table beside him.
He dropped again.
“Seven outside,” he said.
“At least two upstairs.”
“Optimist.”
“Marisol, cellar.”
She loaded both barrels of the shotgun. “No.”
“Harrow’s men came for Jude and me.”
“They came to burn the papers Rafael died protecting.”
“You cannot defend this building.”
“I’ve been defending it alone for eight months.”
“This is not a discussion.”
Marisol looked at the badge on Gideon’s vest.
“A badge does not make you master of my house.”
“No,” Gideon said. “But experience might keep you alive inside it.”
The smell of smoke entered the common room.
Jude looked toward the kitchen. “They’ve fired the stable.”
Marisol’s face changed.
The horses.
She rose.
Jude caught the back of her skirt.
“Let me go.”
“They want you standing.”
“My mare is in there.”
“Then we reach her through the kitchen.”
The men upstairs began descending.
Gideon stood behind the banister and fired.
The first rider appeared at the turn of the staircase. Gideon’s bullet struck the wall beside his head, forcing him back.
“Move!” Gideon called.
Jude and Marisol ran toward the kitchen.
Gideon remained at the stairs.
Another man leaned over the railing and fired downward. The bullet tore through Gideon’s coat near his shoulder.
Gideon answered.
The rider’s weapon flew from his hand. He stumbled backward into the man behind him.
A third shot came through the front window.
Gideon ducked behind a support post.
The common room had become a crossing field of gunfire. Men entered from above while riflemen outside controlled the front windows. The rear door offered the only visible escape.
Jude reached the kitchen entrance and looked back.
Their eyes met.
No words.
Gideon tilted his head toward the door.
Jude understood.
He put one hand against Marisol’s back and pushed her into the kitchen. Before following, he touched two fingers to his own chest and then pointed toward Gideon.
You.
Gideon answered with one sharp nod.
Go.
Jude disappeared.
A rider descended the staircase.
Gideon fired.
The man fell against the railing, blocking the others. Gideon advanced two steps and seized the fallen man’s rifle.
Someone outside shouted, “Burn the house!”
A glass bottle struck the front wall.
Flame spread across the curtains.
Wind entering through the shattered window drew the fire upward instantly. Smoke rolled toward the ceiling.
Gideon backed toward the kitchen.
A gunman appeared on the upper landing and fired.
Gideon felt the bullet pass close to his side.
His fresh wound seemed to remember Salt Knife Canyon. Pain tightened beneath the bandage, but he remained upright.
He fired the captured rifle into the landing rail. Wood exploded. The gunman dropped behind cover.
“Jude!” Gideon called.
No answer.
The rear door stood open beyond the kitchen.
Clear escape.
Twenty feet.
Gideon could cross the kitchen, reach the stable yard, and disappear into smoke before the riders upstairs descended.
He took two steps.
Then heard Jude grunt.
Not from outside.
From the pantry behind him.
Gideon turned.
One of Harrow’s men had entered through the kitchen window. He had Jude pinned against a flour cabinet, forearm across his throat and revolver pressed beneath his jaw.
A second man dragged Marisol toward the rear door.
Jude struck at his attacker with the revolver, but the man had trapped his gun wrist against the wall.
Their eyes met across the smoke.
Gideon’s escape waited behind him.
He abandoned it.
He crossed the kitchen at a run.
The man holding Marisol raised his weapon.
Gideon threw the empty rifle.
The stock struck the man across the face. Marisol tore free and drove one elbow into his throat.
The rider holding Jude turned.
Jude used the movement.
He pulled Gideon’s revolver arm downward and drove his knee into the attacker’s stomach. Gideon closed the remaining distance, caught the man by the coat, and dragged him away.
Jude went with the momentum.
He knew Gideon would turn before Gideon did.
They moved around one another as naturally as if the chain still joined them.
Jude ducked.
Gideon’s fist passed over his shoulder and struck the attacker’s jaw.
The man spun.
Jude caught his gun wrist and twisted.
Gideon drove him against the wall.
The revolver fell.
The second rider recovered and lunged toward Marisol.
Jude saw him in the reflection of a copper pan.
He pressed his back against Gideon’s.
The pressure communicated the threat.
Gideon turned left.
Jude turned right.
They rotated as a single body.
Gideon caught the rider’s knife hand. Jude drove his shoulder beneath the man’s arm, lifting him off balance. Gideon used the opening to slam the wrist against the edge of the table.
The knife dropped.
Jude kicked it away.
A third man entered the kitchen.
Gideon and Jude stood back-to-back.
Gideon felt Jude’s breathing through their coats. One shoulder pressed between his shoulder blades. Every change in pressure became language.
Right.
Down.
Move.
Jude fired past Gideon’s side.
The third rider stumbled back through the doorway.
Gideon ducked as another bullet came through the window. Jude moved with him, keeping their backs together. Gideon fired over Jude’s shoulder.
The gunman outside dropped behind a water barrel.
Jude reached backward without looking.
Gideon placed two cartridges into his palm.
Jude reloaded.
The gesture required no words.
Marisol retrieved her shotgun from beneath the kitchen table and fired through the open window. The blast filled the room with smoke and drove the remaining gunman away.
“Stable,” she said.
The ceiling above the common room cracked.
Fire had reached the second floor.
Gideon looked through the kitchen doorway. Flames climbed the staircase, cutting off the riders above. They would have to escape across the porch roof or burn.
No time to determine which they preferred.
Marisol opened a narrow door beside the pantry.
A covered passage connected the kitchen to the stable. Smoke had filled it, but the flames remained on the roof.
They entered single file.
Marisol first.
Jude behind her.
Gideon last.
The passage shook as part of the inn’s front roof collapsed.
Burning timber struck the ground behind them.
Inside the stable, six terrified horses kicked against their stalls. Smoke rolled beneath the rafters. One section of roof had caught fire above the eastern wall.
Marisol ran to the gray mare in the nearest stall.
Jude opened every remaining gate.
The horses surged into the center aisle.
“What are you doing?” Gideon shouted.
“Creating confusion.”
A chestnut nearly trampled them.
Gideon caught Jude around the waist and pulled him behind a support post. The horse passed so close its flank brushed Gideon’s arm.
Jude’s back struck Gideon’s chest.
“You could have warned me,” Gideon said.
“I thought you enjoyed surprises.”
“I have never said that.”
“Your body has.”
Gideon tightened his hold before remembering the building was burning.
He released Jude.
Marisol saddled her mare with astonishing speed. “Black gelding’s in the far stall.”
Jude crossed the aisle.
A gunman appeared in the open stable door.
Gideon fired first.
The bullet struck the doorframe, forcing the man behind the wall.
Jude reached the black gelding and threw the saddle blanket across its back.
“I need thirty seconds.”
“You have ten.”
“Then saddle your own horse.”
Gideon entered the next stall and found a bay with a white stocking. The animal trembled but allowed him to approach.
He fastened the bridle without a saddle.
Outside, several of the freed horses stampeded through Harrow’s posse. Men shouted. Gunfire scattered them farther.
Marisol mounted.
Jude swung onto the black gelding.
“Where?” he called.
“West road,” Gideon answered.
“Harrow will expect west.”