It was now or never, so Josiah mustered all the energy he had, kept his mouth clamped so he wouldn’t cry out in pain, jumped over the boardwalk, and took off straight across the street—hoping like hell he could disappear into the shadows before O’Reilly’s man was able to get a shot off at him.
The door to the Darcy Hotel was ajar, and Josiah pushed it open without slowing his run from across the street.
Somewhere behind him, a shot was fired, and Clarmont yelled for him to stop, but Josiah didn’t stop running, he just kept on pushing, the burning pain in his leg not slowing him down, hanging on to the rock like it was a brandnew Peacemaker made out of solid gold.
A tall woman dressed in the latest fashions gasped and pulled her daughter close to her, most assuredly assuming that Josiah was an outlaw on the run, as he ran into the hotel lobby.
The woman had perfect blond hair, suddenly reminding Josiah of Pearl Fikes. Pearl was the daughter of the late Captain Fikes, and the first woman since Lily had died that had caught Josiah’s eye. This woman wore an elegant, tall, dark blue velvet hat with several white and gray bird feathers sprouting from the center. Her jacket covered a blouse of scalloped lace, with a standing pleated collar, and she was wearing a long skirt the color of which perfectly matched her blue hat. She was a fine-looking lady, well put together, probably waiting for a Butterfield to points unknown.
The Darcy Hotel was a three-storey affair, an example of perfection and high manners rarely seen in such a small town as Comanche. Josiah wouldn’t have noticed the stateliness of the lobby and the hotel itself if it wasn’t for the woman and child, who was probably about twelve, near the age of his oldest daughter—if she had lived.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Josiah said, slowing to doff his sweatsoaked brown felt Stetson.
The woman stepped back, fear frozen hard on her face as she gripped the little girl tighter.
Josiah stopped for just a second to get his bearings, looking for a way out of the hotel. “I’m not here to cause anyone harm,” he said, making eye contact with the girl. The thought of causing a child any undo stress was unthinkable to Josiah.
“You will have to leave this instant, sir!” A mousy clerk yelled from behind the marble counter just inside the door.
The clerk’s collar was pressed into high wings, a black ribbon tie pulled tight at the neck, making his Adam’s apple bulge unnaturally. He looked proper, well scrubbed, like he’d been a fixture at the hotel for a long time. For all Josiah knew, the man was the owner.
But it didn’t really matter.
Josiah took a deep breath and ran directly toward the clerk, propelling himself over the counter with one hand, trying his best not to land on his injured leg, making sure at the same time he didn’t lose the rock.
The clerk screamed and went tumbling backward, trying to avoid Josiah’s perceived attack.
The noise from the clerk’s mouth sounded more like something that would have come from the woman’s 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.