CHAPTER ELEVEN A Marshal on His Knees #2
Harrow had built it on land once belonging to three smaller cattle families. The main residence stood two stories high, with white columns, shaded verandas, and irrigated gardens surrounded by miles of dry country.
Barns, bunkhouses, corrals, and a private telegraph station filled the lower compound.
Jude watched from the ridge through Gideon’s field glasses.
Riders came and went.
Cutter’s black coat appeared once on the main porch.
Gideon did not.
Jude knew the lower ranch.
At seventeen, he and Noah had helped dig an irrigation channel carrying spring water beneath the western pasture. Harrow had purchased the land years later and expanded the house, but water followed older laws than ownership.
The stone tunnel remained.
Jude hid the black gelding in a cottonwood hollow and waited for darkness.
He reorganized the evidence.
The complete ledger went inside a leather satchel tied tightly across his back. Original deeds and Cutter’s letters remained inside the oilskin packet beneath his shirt. He hid the empty strongbox under stones in the wash.
If captured, the men might believe the evidence remained elsewhere.
If killed, his body would still carry enough truth to matter.
When night came, Jude entered the irrigation channel.
Cold water reached his knees. The tunnel narrowed beneath the western pasture, forcing him to crawl with his face inches above the surface. Stone scraped his shoulders. The ledger pressed against his back.
He moved in darkness.
No lantern.
No match.
Only memory.
At the end of the main channel, the tunnel divided beneath the ranch compound. The northern branch supplied the house gardens. The eastern opened near the horse barn.
Jude chose east.
Voices traveled through the stone.
Two riders discussing the mine collapse.
Another complaining that Brill had been given the interrogation.
Then Gideon made a sound.
Not a shout.
A rough, involuntary breath cut short by pain.
Jude went still in the water.
Rage entered him so completely that the tunnel seemed to warm.
He continued.
The irrigation passage opened behind a stone trough outside the barn. Jude emerged slowly and lay beneath the wooden platform until the yard became quiet.
Six lanterns illuminated the barn and surrounding corrals.
Two guards occupied the main entrance.
Another smoked near the rear.
Jude crawled beneath the raised floor.
The first lamp hung from a hook near the tack room. He reached through a gap in the boards and lowered the wick until the flame died.
One darkness.
A rider cursed.
Jude moved beneath the next section.
The second lamp went out.
Then the third.
By the fourth, the men knew someone was killing them.
“Brill?” a guard called.
No answer.
Jude emerged inside an empty stall.
He caught the nearest rider from behind, covered his mouth, and drove his head against the partition. The man collapsed without firing.
Jude took his revolver.
The fifth lamp went dark beneath a bullet.
The sixth followed.
The barn disappeared.
Men shouted.
Horses kicked inside their stalls.
Jude moved through the darkness toward Gideon.
He found Brill first.
The foreman stood beside the ceiling rope with a bloody glove and revolver drawn.
Jude fired at the pulley.
The bullet severed the rope.
Gideon dropped.
Brill turned toward the shot.
Jude struck him from the side.
They crashed into a stall door.
Brill was heavier. He caught Jude’s throat and drove him against the wall. Jude saw the white of his teeth in the darkness.
“Calder.”
Jude drove the captured revolver beneath Brill’s jaw.
“Let go.”
Brill tightened his hand.
Jude pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Brill laughed.
Jude brought his knee upward.
Brill folded.
Jude struck him across the temple with the revolver and let him fall.
Then he went to Gideon.
Gideon knelt where the rope had dropped him.
His bound hands remained above his head, though the severed line lay slack across his shoulders. He appeared conscious only because his body had not yet understood it could stop resisting.
Jude crouched in front of him.
“Gideon.”
The marshal lifted his head.
Blood covered one side of his face. His shirt hung open where Brill had torn it, exposing bruises and the reopened wound at his ribs. Both hands were wrapped, the fingers swollen and red.
Gideon focused slowly.
“Jude?”
“Yes.”
“You went south.”
“I changed direction.”
“You should be across the border.”
“You have made several poor suggestions.”
Jude took the knife from his boot.
“Rope,” he said. “I’m cutting it.”
Gideon nodded.
Jude cut the bonds.
Gideon’s arms fell.
He made no sound, but pain tore across his face. His body pitched forward.
Jude caught him.
Gideon’s full weight collapsed against his chest.
Jude lowered them both to the dirt.
“I have you,” he whispered.
Gideon’s head rested against his shoulder. Jude held him with one arm while the other moved toward his injured face.
He stopped before touching.
“May I touch you?”
Gideon opened his eyes.
Even barely conscious, he understood the question.
“Yes.”
Jude cupped his face.
Gideon leaned into the palm.
“Your shirt,” Jude said. “May I open it?”
“It is already open.”
“Permission.”
A faint change passed over Gideon’s mouth.
“Yes.”
Jude opened the torn fabric.
Bruises covered Gideon’s chest and stomach. One rib had begun swelling along the left side. Blood soaked the bandage on the right. Rope burns circled both wrists.
Jude’s hands trembled.
“Did Harrow do this?”
“Brill.”
Jude looked toward the unconscious foreman.
“Still alive?”
“Probably.”
Jude reached for the knife.
Gideon caught his wrist weakly.
“No.”
“He tortured you.”
“We need to leave.”
“He tortured you the way they tortured me.”
“And you are still not him.”
Jude looked at Gideon.
The words recalled the canyon.
They are not us.
Jude set down the knife.
He pressed his forehead against Gideon’s.
“I came back.”
“I knew you would.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No.”
Gideon’s torn hand touched the back of Jude’s neck.
“I hoped.”
Gunfire sounded outside the barn.
The guards were returning.
Jude tried to lift Gideon.
Gideon stopped him with one hand against his chest.
“Wait.”
“We have no time.”
“I love you.”
The words stilled Jude more completely than gunfire could.
Gideon looked at him through blood, pain, and darkness.
“I love you,” he repeated. “Not because you returned. Not because you rescued me. Not because you carry the evidence or because you chose me instead of the border.”
Jude’s grip tightened around him.
“You owe me nothing for it. You do not have to stay, forgive me, or love me back. It will remain true.”
Jude’s eyes burned.
Gideon continued.
“I love you without qualification. Without secrecy. Without expecting payment.”
Jude took Gideon’s face between both hands.
He pressed their foreheads together.
“I love you too.”
The words shook.
“Not because you went back for me in the mine. Not because you gave me the key. Not because I need an honest man.”
Their breath mingled.
“I love you because I know you. Every scar, every bad decision, every impossible order.”
A gunshot split the barn door.
Jude kissed him.
The kiss was brief, fierce, and alive.
Then Jude stood.
“Can you walk?”
“With assistance.”
“That is almost honest.”
“Practice.”
Jude placed Gideon’s arm over his shoulders and lifted.
Gideon was nearly half a foot taller and heavier by at least thirty pounds. Jude’s healing ribs protested, but he tightened his grip around Gideon’s waist.
They crossed the barn together.
Jude extinguished the remaining sparks of lantern light as they moved. Darkness protected them.
A rider entered through the main door.
Gideon felt Jude shift and followed without needing instruction.
Even injured, they moved as partners.
Jude ducked.
Gideon used his free arm to drive the man against a stall.
Jude caught the revolver before it struck the ground.
They reached the tack room.
Gideon’s original gun belt hung from a peg beside his coat. His badge and cuffs lay on a shelf as trophies awaiting Harrow’s decision.
Jude took everything.
“The ledger?” Gideon asked.
“On my back.”
“You brought it here?”
“I told you I make poor decisions.”
“Apparently contagious.”
Jude strapped the gun belt around Gideon’s waist.
Gideon’s damaged hands could not draw efficiently, so Jude placed one revolver in the waistband of his own trousers and kept the other.
They entered the rear aisle.
The black gelding waited outside the stable. Jude had left the animal tied near the irrigation trough.
He brought it to the door.
“You first,” he said.
“I cannot mount.”
“You can.”
Jude placed both hands around Gideon’s waist.
The gesture mirrored Red Mesa.
No irons.
No custody.
Only the same body Gideon had once lifted now lifting him.
“On three,” Jude said.
“You never wait for three.”
“Neither do you.”
They moved on two.
Jude forced Gideon into the saddle. Gideon nearly fell across the horse’s neck but recovered.
Jude climbed behind him.
He wrapped one arm around Gideon’s chest and took the reins with the other. Gideon’s weight rested against him.
“Stay awake,” Jude said.
“Order?”
“Request.”
“Yes.”
They rode.
Bullets followed them across the yard. One struck the water trough. Another tore through Jude’s coat.
Harrow’s men mounted.