“The crank gun sits in the back of the wagon, its rotary of barrels pointed out the rear as a formidable deterrent to any ill-advised rescue attempt. Delmer, the Pinkerton gunner, fusses an oiled rag lovingly over the swiveled base while his grizzled and burly associate, Casey, fastens a heavy iron bracket to a wooden pole that extends skyward behind the driver’s bench. That is where they intend to secure their prisoner, amply guarded, but still in plain view during the entirety of the proceedin...gs. Casey eyes me with suspicion as I stride past him toward the jail door where Bix, the number-two Pinkerton, stands sentinel. He holds his ten-gauge at the ready and keeps a Remington rifle on his back for good measure. The sight of it reminds me how naked I feel without my Spencer. “Stop right there,” Bix says, raising a halting palm at me. The two men in the wagon pause from their chores long enough to let me know they are watching. “Your captain asked for me.” “What’s your name?”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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