daughter than a man. His rimless glasses went flying into the air, the shattering of the lenses mixing with the commotion as the glasses smashed to the floor in a thousand tiny pieces.
Josiah stumbled over the man and yelled in pain as he landed on his ankle. He quickly righted himself and kept on going, rushing through a curtain that led to an office and, hopefully, to the outside of the hotel.
Just as the curtain was about to fall and close off any sight of what was behind him, Josiah looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Clarmont, followed by two more men, pushing into the lobby, causing even more fright to the woman and child. They had rifles in their hands now, as well as their six-shooters, drawn and ready to fire.
Sweat dripped from Josiah’s forehead. His heart was pounding a mile a minute, and worst of all, he was leaving a bright red trail of blood with every step he took.
Once he ran out of the office, Josiah suddenly found himself in a long hallway. He ran toward the back of the hotel, disregarding the shouts and screams behind him to stop. He expected a bullet to pierce his back at any second.
CHAPTER 6
The Chinaman held no emotion on his face at all. He stood at the door of the kitchen, a collection of pots boiling on an iron wood stove filling the air with the aroma of simmering chicken broth, mingling with the pungent odor of bread set out to rise. The yeast was not so stinging to the nose, since it was offset by the sweetness of the broth, but the smell of food of any kind was an unwelcome encounter for Josiah. His last bit of food had been early in the morning when the world had been right, when Red Overmeyer still had the ability to smile and laugh aloud, and did so frequently.
It looked like the Chinaman, who was dressed in traditional black garb, with shaved head, pigtail and all, was standing there just waiting for Josiah to arrive. He was less than well scrubbed though, and there was a hole in his boot, large enough for his big toe to be sticking out.
Truth be told, the cook was probably alarmed by the commotion in the lobby, fidgety as a rabbit to loud noises, uncertain about what violent act was coming his way next, and wondering if the violence, as it probably had in the past, was going to be directed toward him.
Just as Josiah ran by the Chinaman, not slowing down since he didn’t sense the man as an immediate threat, the short little man shook his head no, put his hand out, and said, “Not that way.”
Josiah stopped dead in his tracks, trying to catch his breath. “It’s the only way out.”
“They probably have a man there waiting.”
“Where then?”
“Upstairs. Go to the end of the hall, jump across the roof.”
Footsteps rushed closer, pushing through the office just as Josiah’s had. The rumble on the wood floor was like thunder, a coming storm, the ground shaking, but instead of lightning, there were rifles and anger, a score to settle from days long past that could not be solved in a gentlemanly way.
“Then what?” Josiah asked.
The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders, then walked back into the kitchen. One of the pots was boiling over.
Josiah decided to take a chance with what was behind the door. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop sounded like certain death to him.
The air was cold. Night had not hesitated but had fallen in a thick black curtain, covering everything in its path as if a load of coal dust had fallen unexpectedly from the sky. It was not cold enough to snow—that would have been all too rare, but the glow of light would have been welcome.
Josiah did not rush headlong out the door.
He pushed it open slowly, as slowly as he could, looking over his shoulder with sweat pouring from his forehead, the burning in his eyes matching the burning in his calf. He was certain his boot was full of blood.
He did not have time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he slipped out of the door, sliding along the outside hotel wall, gripping his weapon, the simple rock, as hard as he could, hoping upon hope that the Chinaman was wrong.
Maybe there had not been time for the man, or men, to reach the back of the hotel.
At the moment, Josiah’s gamble seemed to be paying off. But he had to decide quickly what to do next.
He could make a blind run for it.
There seemed to be houses in the distance, oil lamps just starting to burn in the windows. There were no other tall buildings behind the hotel. Nor was there an alley as there was behind the saloon. Since he had no idea where he was and had no knowledge of the lay of the land in and around Comanche, running into the darkness seemed to be a huge gamble.
Or he could find a place to hide and hope he would be safe.
It only took Josiah a second to decide to run.
But the decision came a second too late.
The back door of the hotel pushed open and slammed against the wall with a loud bang. The darkness was immediately cut with bright, intense light, shadows, movement, and the smell of anger and sweat, as well as that of fresh coal oil. A torch had been lit.
Clarmont pushed out the door, leading with his rifle.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Josiah swung the rock as hard as he could, smashing it into the man’s skull with as much force as he could muster.
He didn’t want to maim the man; he wanted to stop him dead in his tracks. It was a life for a life—war had been proclaimed, in Josiah’s mind, the moment his hands had been bound and he’d been taken captive by Big Shirt and Little Shirt.
Clarmont yelled out in astonishment and pain. His surprise was mixed with the sound of shattering bone, blood escaping his brain through any avenue possible; ears, mouth, and nose.
The damage done, Josiah let go of the rock, and tackling him with all of his remaining strength, he jumped at Clarmont, who was already halfway to his knees.
Josiah only wanted one thing now: Clarmont’s rifle.
The rifle looked to be a Spencer repeating carbine, in which case, if Josiah was right and the man had a fully loaded the rifle, he would have seven shots to protect himself and flee.
There was no mistaking that Liam O’Reilly and the Comanche brothers were not far behind.
Tackling the man was another risk, another gamble, but it was the only option Josiah had. A rock against a gang of men was less than practical. He needed a gun to protect himself.
Clarmont fell to the ground with a heavy thud, now silent. More footsteps followed down the hall past the hotel kitchen, and two more men pushed out the door. One of them was holding a blazing torch, trying to see what was going on. The other one had a new model ’73 Winchester in each hand, cocked and ready.
Josiah had judged the motion and gravity of the tackle correctly when he dove at Clarmont, and he was able to grab the Spencer before it hit the ground.
And as he rolled, all of the action had loosened the rope on his wrists, and it fell away completely with one final hearty shake, freeing his hands once and for all.
In a quick series of maneuvers, Josiah was up in a squat position and firing the first round, catching the man with the two Winchesters square in the right shoulder.
The man fell back into the hotel, knocked back partially by the force of the shot, but also by his own will, realizing that the upper hand was no longer theirs, since Clarmont was lying on the ground, nothing more than a mound of lifeless flesh, his lifeblood quickly draining out of the gaping hole in his head—and Josiah now possessed a rifle of equal power.
For good measure, Josiah fired off another shot. His aim was certain, catching the man just above the ankle,
