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

156: Tiger

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Wash by Liezl Buenaventura. All graphics by me.

Wash checked the tack on the pair of horses he'd hitched to the mud coach and sighed. The rain pounded violently on the barn's tin roof, creating a metallic roar that filled his ears. Coupled with the warm yellow glow of the lantern and the cozy smell of hay, it made him want to sleep away the storm. He wasn't looking forward to taking the coach out tonight, particularly since the thunderstorm that was pounding them had actually gotten heavier. Can't be helped. He shrugged. It's getting late, and we've got to get the lass home. Can't let her ride out in this weather.

The horses don't care much for this cack, either. Waddell stamped impatiently in his harness, snorting. Wash leaned close to the sorrel gelding and soothed him, stroking his warm muzzle. "The pair of you will have sugar when we get home, so you will. We won't be gone long." He walked back to the battered mud coach and unrolled the oil-cloth window coverings, tying them down securely. This coach isn't a Concord, but it's better than getting a drenching. And it only needs two horses and is suited for mud. So mud coach it is tonight. The lads will have to keep an eye out until I get back. He checked the harness one last time. Her da' is going to have a fit, so he will, if he ever finds out she was here on her own. Still, what a spunky lass she is, coming out here like that. He smiled in spite of himself.

Rhythmic sheets of water heaved against the walls and roof as the wind blew it into waves. Jaysus, Should we risk it now, or see if it lets up? I don't know. I should ask Storm, the spooky bastard. He might know what it's going to do out there.

He pulled his hat down low over his face and re-buttoned his duster. Sod this weather. Reluctantly, and with a sigh of resignation, he strode over to the closed doors of the barn and gave them a shove.

The heavy doors rattled on their iron hinges but stayed put, his shoulder and elbow complaining at the unexpected resistance. Wha...? He placed both hands against the rough timbers, throwing his weight into a hard push. The doors creaked but held, straining against the heavy crosspiece holding them shut from the other side. 

His temper flared. "Alright, you useless sods," he yelled through the closed doors. "Luis! Lad! This isna the time for this shite! I'll be kickin' some arses, sure, so I w..."

He stopped, his blood suddenly cold. The lads didn't do this. He remembered Storm stumbling into the bunkhouse the other night, ashen-faced and breathing hard and clearly unnerved. He whirled, his back to the locked doors, his eyes desperately searching the interior of barn and reached for the pistol he'd started carrying everywhere.

Dustmotes swirled down lazily in the amber lamplight. Waddell snorted again, rolling his eyes as his partner Arabella shivered, her mottled gray sides rippling slightly beneath her dappled hair.

Wash had really wished that Storm had been chased back to the bunkhouse by a bear or a lion. Because being stalked by a faceless boogeyman was far more terrifying than anything like that would have been. And after what Miss Rosie said at suppertime... his nerves were seriously on edge.

This ain't the Chichesters or the Dead Sodding Rabbits. This ain't the Butcher and his lads. This is one lone tosser. One lone tosser who's about to get himself shot right in the sodding face...

He carefully eased himself towards one of the empty horse stalls, ducking low and fumbling with the latches that held the shutters closed. They were jammed tight. "Bollocks!" He pounded a fist furiously on the locked shutters, leaning hard against the boards and trying to cup his hand over the seam between them. "Storm! Lads!" he yelled. Even in his own ears, his voice was lost in the metallic clattering of rain on the roof. "Lads!" He turned to protect his back, leaning against the wall of the stall, adrenaline pumping through him. No mistaking it: whoever did this planned ahead and jammed all the windows shut before locking him in. This was a calculated trap. And he'd walked right into it.

It occurred to him that Storm and the boys and Rosie were in the house, blissfully unaware of what was probably going on and a new fear set in. It doesn't matter I'm the deadliest shot around. I might as well be unarmed with me thumb up me arse. I'm trapped like a fecking rat and whoever did it isn't even in here with me.

He's out there with them.

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