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, fully eliminating his ability to give chase.
The man with the torch also jumped back into the hall, tossing the flaming club toward Josiah.
Josiah dodged the flame and realized that in freeing his own hands, the man was set on taking up one of the fallen Winchesters.
There was a gang rushing the hall behind the injured man, and a rousing crowd had fallen out into the street in front of the hotel in search of the latest round of trouble to befall Comanche.
A fire bell clanged, and in the distance, a trio of dogs started barking. And to add to the chaos, there were more rising voices, screams and shouts and orders, and the sound of gathering horses.
Josiah took a deep breath, then turned and ran toward the edge of the darkness as fast as he could, trying with all of his might to ignore the growing pain from the gunshot wound in his calf and the weariness that was rapidly draining his energy.
His failing physical capacity was being overridden by the heavy rush of fear that had settled in him, along with the strong need to survive, with the warning of certain death or something worse: recapture by the Comanche and Liam O’Reilly’s gang of men.
A solid wall of black clouds hid the moon. Pain ran up Josiah’s leg like it was venom from a rattlesnake bite. Sweat from exertion, fear, and pain mixed and dripped onto his lips, reminding him of his thirst, of his need to find someplace to hide.
Buildings were nothing more than shadows, and there was no way he was going to rush into a house with a burning lamp set in the window, causing more fear and unwelcome attention. He wanted to avoid human contact at all costs.
There was still a rise of orders and furious movement behind him, in the center of town and surrounding the Darcy Hotel.
Josiah worried about the little girl, certain he would be responsible for her nightmares once her head hit the pillow and sleep swept her away from the violent world she walked in during the day.
Running full out at night came with its own causes for serious concern.
A hole could take him down, making him an easy capture for Liam O’Reilly. Or he could stumble over a watering trough, smack his head on an unseen post, and die trying to escape. But thankfully, Josiah had a little experience running at night.
It was one of the skills that had saved him during the war.
Once he reached a certain level of fear or anger or need to flee, it was like his body no longer belonged to him but moved on its own accord, his feet dancing on pure instinct, his eyes cutting a path that a cat would have been lucky to see.
He could only hope that his skills would rise from wherever they slept and save his life one more time, like they had in Chickamauga and Knoxville.
His heart was beating so hard Josiah was certain his chest was rolling like a wheat field facing the wind, the rhythm of blood wild and fast, the organ preparing to jump out of his skin if he ran any faster. But he did. He had to. A quick look over his shoulder gave him even more reason to fear. There were several riders on horses, all carrying torches, heading right for him.
He zigged, then zagged, pumping his legs furiously, the concern about his beating heart gone—he was only worried about saving his hide. Plain and simple, that seemed like a slim possibility.
Ahead, he saw two barns, both small—three or four stalls at the most. The closest barn sat a fair distance from a well-lit house. The other one, a run of about five hundred yards, sat in near darkness. If there was anyone at the house it seemed to belong to, then the barn looked empty, dark, and unattended. He hoped his instinct was right.
Josiah gripped the Spencer, knowing for certain he had five shots left, and made his way to the farthest barn, sure that he was about to make his last stand.
CHAPTER 7
The posse thundered by the barn, but it was easy to tell that a few of the riders had dropped off to conduct a close search.
Josiah could only hope that there wasn’t a discernible trail of blood for them to follow. He’d scooted his feet upon entering the barn, wiping away as best he could any sign of entrance in the ankle-deep straw. But he knew that any man who could track a rabbit on hard dirt could see right through his feeble ploy to hide any evidence of his existence.
A dark corner of the barn beckoned as Josiah was able to adjust his eyesight. He had to trust his feet to find a high pile of straw and hay.
He burrowed inside, destroying well-established mice and rat tunnels. The smell of rot and rodent piss was strong, but it didn’t matter, he could go no farther. He would die where he lay, or live to fight another day. It was that simple.
Regulating his breathing took a second, then he pushed the barrel of the Spencer to the edge of the pile of straw and cleared enough of it away to have a line of sight to the huge double doors that he’d just entered through.