“You,” Bickford said. “Barnabas, or whatever the hell your name is. Get out here.”
“I…I’m hurt, Marshal,” came the response from inside the wagon, in the voice belonging to the man Sam had been talking to only moments earlier. “I don’t reckon I can make it.”
“Sure you can. Come on out, or I’ll put a bullet in your knee and drag you out.”
“You’re just gonna kill me anyway,” Barnabas said defiantly. “I heard what you told that fella. Why should I cooperate?”
“Because you can die quick, or you can die in a hell of a lot of pain. It’s up to you.”
After a brief moment, Barnabas sighed. “All right. I’m comin’ out.”
Sam heard the man’s scraping, hesitant footsteps and knew that he was running out of time. He had to make his move…
Then suddenly, he heard a splash and Bickford cried out. Sam acted instantly, spinning away from the gun muzzle pressed against his neck. Bickford must have jerked the trigger in reaction to whatever had just happened to him, because the revolver blasted, the shot coming so close to Sam that the explosion slammed his ear like a fist and he felt the sting of burning particles of gunpowder against the side of his face. The bullet itself missed, though, and that was all that really mattered.
A stench filled the air, a foul mixture of human waste and burned powder. As Sam whirled around, he saw Bickford stumbling around and pawing at his face. The man who stood in the door to the prison wagon held a wooden bucket in his hand, and when Sam saw that, he knew that Barnabas must have thrown the contents of the slops bucket into Bickford’s face.
“Bucket!” Sam called.
Barnabas tossed it to him over Bickford’s head. Sam caught it by the handle and swung it. At the same time, Bickford jerked his gun up and fired again, aiming blindly this time at the sound of Sam’s voice. The slug whipped past Sam’s ear just as the bucket in his hand crashed against the side of Bickford’s head.
The impact of the blow from the heavy bucket drove Bickford off his feet. Sam kicked the gun out of his hand, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the sound of breaking bones he heard as the toe of his boot slammed into Bickford’s wrist. The pistol flew from Bickford’s fingers and sailed off into the darkness as Bickford howled in pain.
Sam reached down, grabbed the lapels of Bickford’s coat, and hauled the smaller man upright again. He smashed Bickford against the side of the wagon twice, then let go of him and allowed Bickford to fall forward on his face. The crooked marshal didn’t move, just lay there in the grass groaning softly.
The prisoner called Barnabas had come down onto the steps attached to the back of the wagon. “Is he dead?” he asked.
“No,” Sam said as he bent and picked up his own Colt, which he had spotted on the ground where Bickford had dropped it. “Get back inside,” he added.
“What?” Barnabas sounded like he couldn’t believe it. “I just saved your life, Deputy.”
“Yes, but you’re still a prisoner until we get this all sorted out,” Sam snapped as he lifted the gun to cover Barnabas. “Besides, those shots are liable to bring Porter and the rest of those gunmen down here, and you’ll be safer in there with the door closed. Those walls are thick enough to stop most bullets.”
“That’s true,” Barnabas admitted. He reached for the door to pull it closed after him as he retreated into the wagon. “Just don’t forget we’re in here! And don’t get yourself killed before you can get us out!”
“Do my best,” Sam muttered. He still had to deal with Ambrose Porter and the other eight deputies, and those were bad odds.
But he suspected that Marshal Coleman would have heard the shots, too, and would be coming to investigate. Coleman might unwittingly plunge right into a hornets’ nest. Once Porter realized that Sam was on to their scheme, he would have to eliminate any possible witnesses.
The whole town might be in danger, Sam realized as an icy finger traced a trail down his spine. Porter might try to slaughter all the citizens and then burn Cottonwood to the ground to cover up the massacre.
Surprise was the only thing Sam had going for him, and considering the odds, that was going to be only a slight advantage.
He picked up Bickford’s pistol and tucked it behind his belt, then found the rifle that the guard on the lead wagon had dropped. Armed for bear now, Sam retreated behind the wagon and peered around the end of the vehicle, waiting to see what was going to happen.
He didn’t have to wait long. Heavy, hurrying footsteps thudded on the ground, and Ambrose Porter ran through the trees and up to the creek, trailed by several of the deputies. At least all of them hadn’t come with Porter, Sam thought. Porter must not have been able to find the others, who could have been playing cards at the hotel, eating at the cafe, or involved in some other activity that kept Porter from locating them easily. So the odds were only six to one. Right now, Sam would take any stroke of luck he could get, even that.
“Bickford!” Porter called as he spotted his partner’s body lying on the ground. “What the hell?”
Dropping to a knee, Porter grabbed Bickford’s shoulder and rolled the man onto his back. He recoiled at the smell that drifted up from Bickford’s clothes.
“What in damnation happened here?” Sam heard Porter mutter. Then the man straightened and turned toward the wagon.
Sam realized too late that even though Barnabas had closed the door, he had neglected to replace the padlock, so Porter knew right away the door had been opened. Sam saw Porter stiffen with that realization. Then Porter said to the deputies, “Get ready. We may have to kill all the prisoners.”
Before Sam would stand by and let that happen, he would take his chances and shoot it out with Porter and the other men. He tightened his grip on the Winchester and tensed his muscles, ready to leap out into the open and start firing.
A second later, the thunderous roar of gunshots filled the night—but they didn’t come from Sam Two Wolves, Ambrose Porter, or any of the crooked deputies.
