He checked both his Colts, thumbing a cartridge into the empty chamber on each weapon where the hammer usually rested. He made sure all the loops in his shell belt were full, and then stuffed his pockets full of ammunition, too. There was no telling how many bullets he would need before this day was over, but he was betting that it would be a lot.
Matt hung his hat on the saddle horn, rubbed the stallion’s nose one last time, then turned toward Cottonwood. He moved in a crouch through the tall grass, then dropped once again into a crawl as he drew near the edge of the settlement.
He didn’t look behind him, but if he had, he might have seen the dark gray clouds building along the southwestern horizon. A little puff of cooler air stirred the buffalo grass for a few seconds, but Matt’s attention was focused on the task in front of him, and he didn’t notice.
When Sam regained consciousness, his first thought was one of surprise at still being alive. His next was the realization that his head hurt like hell.
That, at least, came as no surprise. He remembered Linus Grady shooting him. The small-caliber slug must have just grazed his skull, with enough of an impact to knock him out but not enough to penetrate into his brain. However, there was the matter of that second shot Grady had fired down at him at point-blank range.
Somehow he’d survived, and Sam was thankful for that. As the pain in his head subsided to a dull ache, he began to wonder where he was.
After a moment, he figured out that he was lying on rough planks. His cheek was pressed against them, since he was sprawled on his belly. He forced his eyes open and saw a stone wall about six feet away from him. Something about it looked familiar. Without moving his head, he managed to lift his gaze along the wall until it came to a small, barred window.
He was in jail.
That was why the wall looked familiar. He had seen it before. He was in one of the cells inside Cottonwood’s jail. Curiosity overwhelmed him, and he lifted his head for a better look around. The movement made a fresh burst of pain explode inside his skull. He couldn’t hold back the groan that came from him.
“Take it easy, Sam.” The voice belonged to Marshal Coleman. “You’ll be all right.”
Sam gritted his teeth against the pain and rolled over. He saw that he was alone in the small cell. Coleman was behind the locked door of the cell across from him. Sam scooted closer to the bars, reached out to grasp one of them, and used it to help pull himself into a sitting position.
The left side of his face felt stiff. He checked it and found that it was covered with dried blood. He knew from experience that scalp wounds usually bled freely and often looked worse than they really were. The painful gash on the side of his head above his ear was no different. Blood must have flooded down his face from it.
“Yeah, you look like you’re in pretty bad shape,” Coleman confirmed. “You bled all over the floor of my parlor. But at least you’re not dead.”
“H-Hannah…” Sam rasped.
“That’s right. She jumped Grady again and pushed his gun to the side just as he pulled the trigger. Put a bullet hole in my floor, to go along with all the blood. Better that than your brains, though. After that, Grady decided maybe it would be better to keep you alive, so he made me carry you down here and locked us both up.”
“No. I meant…is Hannah…all right?”
Coleman’s face was lined with worry. “As far as I know. Grady took her with him. I don’t know where they are now.”
“What the hell…is Grady…upto?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Coleman replied with a shake of his head. “All I know is that he showed up at my house a little while before you got there. He pulled a gun on us and said we’d be all right if we just did what he told us. He had the drop on us, so we had to go along with him. Lobo started carryin’ on, so Grady told me to put him outside. Then you showed up a couple of minutes later. Grady said for me to get rid of you without makin’ you suspicious. I tried.” Coleman shrugged. “But you saw how well that worked out.”
Sam’s brain was beginning to function at a higher level. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Grady’s just a gambler. Why would he do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. I reckon he’s got some sort of plan, though, or else he wouldn’t have locked us up and let everybody else go.”
Sam looked around. In his dazed state, he hadn’t really thought about it until the marshal mentioned it, but the rest of the cells in the cell block were indeed empty. Ambrose Porter and the crooked deputies were gone, along with Dud, Wiley, and Nelse Kane.
“Where are they?” Sam asked.
“They left with Grady and Hannah.” Coleman’s voice caught a little in his throat as he added, “Lord, I…I hope she’s all right.”
“I’m sure she is,” Sam said, although he wasn’t really sure of anything anymore.
“Porter wanted to shoot both of us,” Coleman went on, “but Grady talked him out of it. Said that havin’ us alive might come in handy later on, whatever that means.”
Sam thought about it and had an idea he knew what Grady meant. The gambler intended to use them as hostages. That meant he had to be worried about Matt for some reason. But Matt had headed back out to the Harlow place earlier today. Grady had no reason to worry about him…
Unless Grady knew something Sam and Coleman didn’t, such as a reason to suspect that Matt might be returning soon to Cottonwood. A picture began to form at the back of Sam’s mind, a theory that everything going on around here was connected in some way.
“We have to get out of here, Marshal,” Sam said. “Whatever Grady has in mind, we can’t stop him as long as we’re locked up in here.”
“I know,” Coleman said solemnly, “but there’s not any way out. I’ve been the marshal here for five years, and I know good and well that this jail is as sturdy as can be. Nobody’s ever busted out of it.”
“There has to be a way,” Sam insisted.
Coleman shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Sam hated the feeling of helplessness that gnawed at his guts. He had never given up on a fight, and he didn’t intend to start now. He grabbed hold of the bars in the door again and hauled himself to his feet. Once again, he had to hold on for a moment while a wave of dizziness swept over him. When it passed, he stumbled over to the window and grasped those bars, looking out into the alley beside the jail. When he pressed his face against the bars and craned his neck, he could see a narrow slice of Main Street.
That was where he was looking when he saw Barnabas Smith stumble past.
“Psst! Barnabas!” Sam called as his hands tightened around the bars. “Barnabas, come here!”
The little former prisoner stopped and peered around in owlish confusion. Sam saw the way Barnabas was swaying slightly, and knew that he was drunk. Barnabas must have found out somehow about Ike Loomis’s secret saloon and had come up with enough money to buy some whiskey. Either that, or he had begged a few drinks. After a moment, Barnabas shook his head and looked like he was about to move on, no doubt thinking that he had just imagined someone calling his name.
“Barnabas!” Sam said again. “Down here at the jail window!”
This time Barnabas turned toward the alley and frowned as he looked along the side of the building. Sam stuck a hand out through the bars and motioned to him.
Unsteadily, Barnabas came toward him. When he got close to the window, he looked up and said in surprise, “Deputy? Is that you?”
“That’s right, Barnabas,” Sam told him. “It’s Deputy Two Wolves. I need your help.”
“Wait a minute. Are you locked up in there?”
“That’s right. I—”
Barnabas giggled. “You’re locked up. Now you know how I f-felt, locked up in that wagon.”
“You have to come into the marshal’s office, find the keys, and let us out of here.”