The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

35: Just Because You Are Paranoid

Cover art by Angela Taratuta. All graphics by your truly. Character art of Wash by Diego Candia.

"S' Lad." Wash's voice cut through the tense silence. Startled, Saint nearly jumped. The Irishman gave him a sidelong glance and quipped, "How's yer ass about now?"

Once again, the rolling domes of Church Buttes, black on black in the faint light of the crescent moon, were looming over their heads in the chilly darkness. It had, so far, been an easy trip. Even so, the constant state of paranoia that held them both in it's grip was, at least for Saint, becoming a little hard to take.

"Put it this way," Saint chuckled through the wool scarf pulled over his mouth and nose. "Sore enough from sitting I can tell we're close to Dev's place. You?"

"Sodding knackered."

"Well..." Saint leaned back in the seat, stretching his legs a bit. "Can't say I'm sorry to be heading home early." A thought came to him, unbidden and unwelcome. He pushed it away, mentally shooing it like a pesky gnat. And like a pesky gnat, it came back and went straight for his eye.

He missed the girls.

It was hard being away from home. Saint had been part of a close knit family his entire life. And he missed his family terribly. Getting letters from his siblings could both make his day and ruin it, all at once, because his joy at hearing from them made him miss them that much more. Wash's friendship helped, as did that of his other crewmates. But he had to admit that it was the presence of Lily and Fiona that took the edge off that wistful pang the most. Even when Fiona was calling him a "jackass." Even when Lily was giving him the skunk eye.

It wasn't an epiphany he was entirely pleased about reaching. He frowned, pulling his worn scarf up higher over his nose and mouth. The heat of it felt good against his lips and he inhaled, the scarf warming the chilly bite of the night air.

Wash shifted his carbine onto his lap and cracked his knuckles. "Aye. No argument from me on that." His breath unfurled in a feathery ghost before him and he blew on his hands, clad in fingerless wool gloves, to warm them. "You alright, lad? It'sa mite cold."

"I'm fine, Wash. And anyways, we're almost there." He glanced at Wash, who was looking dubiously back at him. "Whaat?" He rolled his eyes. "Merda, all the men on the payroll, I gotta ride with my mother."

"I s'pose if I mentioned 'ridin' and 'yer ma', I'd get a face fulla hobnails."

"Whoa...Wash...oh, shit...that was a shotgun." Saint jerked the horses to an abrupt halt, his hand flying unconsciously inside his coat to the sidearm at his hip. "Did you hear that? Did you hear it?"

The gunshots were echoing off the silent, craggy buttes, the rock throwing the sound back at them as if to make very damn sure indeed that the two men atop the coach heard every bit of it.

"Jaysus..." Wash had jerked the Sharps back up into his arms with his finger in the trigger loop, looking around wildly. "Ah...Jaysus...Where's it...where the hell's it coming from?"

Another round of shots echoed like fireworks in the cliffs. Saint and Wash instinctively ducked their heads.

"Got to be coming from...from...Dev's place...merda." Saint snapped the reins and barked a command at the team. The coach jerked forward. "Go...go!"

Wash's hand cast out on the seat for what was left of the extra ammunition, holding the box steady as the coach rattled and pitched. "Let's stop the coach and hoof it when we get closer, lad. No sense announcing our arrival."

"Good thinking." Saint headed for a stand of cottonwoods up ahead on the trail, and hurried the team towards it.

The coach rolled to a stop as the darkness under the trees enveloped it. Saint pulled the spare Sharps from beneath the seat and swung down after Wash.

"This thing loaded?"

"Of sodding course it's loaded. Put these in your pockets." Wash hastily stuffed a handful of paper wrapped cartridges into Saint's hands.

Shots were echoing off the buttes like firecrackers. Saint headed towards Devereux's cabin at a jog, Wash closely behind him. A muzzle flash burst like lightning from the window and more shots resounded in the rocks. That's probably Dev...need to find out where we need to be shooting before we start, though.

Someone was in the yard, yelling in a voice neither of them recognized. "C'mon out, you breed son of a bitch!"

He predicted this. Saint thought, anger boiling up inside him. Damned if Dev wasn't right about maybe having trouble come his way on account of him being a halfbreed. He stopped among some trees, Wash skidding up beside him. He squinted in the darkness, searching for the source of the voice. There was banging, as of someone trying to break down the cabin door, and a pistol shot.

"There," Wash whispered, as Saint saw a gleam of starlight reflected off the barrel of a long-arm. He drew a careful bead with the carbine and pulled the trigger. The roar cracked like thunder, the flash immediately giving away their position as they ducked and ran in opposite directions. The man in the yard had disappeared, and Saint had no idea if he'd gone down or run.

Saint felt the whistle of a bullet tear past him into the underbrush. I hope Wash made that shot count. He dove behind a cottonwood, bracing the carbine against his shoulder. "Dev!" he yelled. He knew that yelling was probably stupid, as it would tell whoever was attacking the station of his presence, but he had to find out where Devereaux was, and if he was alone. Or even if he was still alive. If he wasn't...well...there wasn't' much point sticking around if the stationkeeper was already dead.

"Devereux!" He yelled again, hearing another bullet whiz by.

"I'm here!" he heard Dev's gruff voice yell out from inside the cabin. "There's four of 'em...well...three of 'em...at least."

Great. Shit! I don't know where Wash is now and I don't dare call out. His eyes scanned the mottled blackness under the trees. A muzzle flash went off about twenty feet from him, the sound making him flinch. "Wash?" he said, keeping his voice low.

"Aye."

"Let's shift." Saint eased his way closer to the cabin, keeping to the darkest part of the shadows.

"They're white," Wash whispered. "They ain't Paiute or any other sort of war party."

"I'm seeing that," Saint breathed, gripping the carbine hard with his gloved hands. "And I ain't sure that makes me feel any better."

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