Chapter One

Summer 1873 Flat River, Nebraska

Whit Hartman quickly glanced around the empty alleyway before jumping up to grab onto the window ledge of Marshal Orrin Briggs' office. His fingers scraped against the rough wood, and he wished for something, anything, to help boost him up. With a final grunt, he hoisted himself up and reached for the window, which creaked open with effort.

At least Briggs remembered to leave it unlocked this time.

Whit slipped through the open window into the small hallway with four empty jail cells. The floorboards creaked under his boots as he landed. His eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight filtering through the window, and he hurried down the hallway to the large, open office. The marshal's office was dark, the only light coming through the small window at the end of the cells and the large bay window at the front of the office.

He didn't know how long it would be before Briggs returned. The marshal had headed toward the livery before Whit ducked in the alley and through the window.

The large windows illuminated the marshal's desk. Whit tread carefully across the room, wary of knocking into any furniture and raising suspicion. He reached Briggs' desk and rifled through the top drawer, fingers brushing over wanted posters and telegrams until they grasped a small leather journal.

Walking to the window, he flipped through the pages and took in the writing before tucking the journal into his shirt. The inaudible murmur of voices carried through the window into the office, and he pressed himself into the shadows. He watched as a young couple walked arm in arm across the boardwalk in front of the office.

The man leaned in, his hand cupping the woman's cheek, and planted a soft kiss on her lips. She giggled and playfully pushed him away before they both vanished into the darkness of the night.

As Whit watched the young couple disappear, a pang of longing tugged at his heart. He brushed it aside. Now was not the time for distractions. The stolen journal felt heavy against his chest, full of secrets which could help the Richards gang. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, stealing from the marshal, but he needed to find out what Briggs knew.

A horse's whinny outside jerked Whit from his thoughts. He peered out the windows, scanning the street for any signs of movement. Satisfied no one was watching, he returned to the desk and closed the drawer. Checking the top to make sure nothing was out of place, he rapped on the wood with his knuckles before slipping back into the hallways.

The empty jail cells mocked him in the darkness, ghosts of outlaws past calling to him. If he wasn't careful, he'd be sleeping in one of those cells waiting for the hangman's noose. He hoisted himself up onto the window ledge and slipped outside, boots landing softly in the dirt.

Why was it easier to get out of the office instead of inside?

After scuffing the dirt underneath the window to remove any boot prints, he shuffled his steps to the end of the alley to hide his boot prints and peeked around the corner. The livery stable was just down the way. The metallic tang of fear coated Whit's tongue as he pressed himself against the building, trying to blend into the shadows.

Checking his watch, he had about two minutes. A lone figure emerged up ahead. Marshal Briggs walked with purpose, back toward his office. The marshal took a drag from a cigar and flicked ash into the street, blowing smoke into the air. Whit's nose cringed at the bitter smell.

Peeking around the corner again, he made sure the lawman's attention was elsewhere before making his move. His pulse quickened as he ran across the street and melted against the side of the general store, barely daring to breathe as Briggs' footsteps drew closer on the hard-packed earth. The faint moonlight outlined the marshal's figure, making him appear tall and imposing against the backdrop of the darkened town. The dim glow from the streetlamps caught the shine of his polished badge, the only thing keeping him from blending in with the shadows.

Whit pursed his lips and let out a sharp whistle, followed by two low ones. The marshal's eyes flickered toward him before continuing toward the office. As soon as the marshal stepped onto the creaky wooden porch, Whit quickly made his way down the alley toward the back of the mercantile, passing crates and barrels stacked high against the outside wall.

His boots thudded against the hard dirt as he approached three weathered outhouses lined up, each with a small crescent moon carved into its wooden door. Next to the middle one was a broken flowerpot. He pulled out the journal and slipped it inside the pot while looking around to find something to cover it with. Grabbing the daisies Mrs. Arden grew in a pot, he lifted them by the roots and plopped them on top of the journal. Two-bit Tom would not be looking at the flowers, he just needed to see Whit was a man of his word.

He patted the dirt in the pot to make it look like it belonged and then brushed the excess on his pants. Rolling back on his heels, he stood and looked around. Not seeing anyone, he knew it was only a matter of time before Tom arrived to pick up the package.

He hummed his way back up the alley toward the livery.

"Whit, you're out late tonight."

Whit startled when Hiram King, the owner of the livery and stables, emerged from the darkness. "You scared me," Whit said as he rubbed the back of his neck and met the stable master's gaze.

"Looks like you were expecting someone else," Hiram drawled, dragging a long smoke from the same brand of cigar the marshal had been smoking.

"Nah. I'm just making my way over to Miss Marcy's."

"You need the back room tonight?"

Hiram allocated a room in the rear of the stable for cowboys who preferred not to stay above the noisy saloon. Whit had been staying there, or sometimes in the barn, at the widow's home just outside of town.

Briggs asked Whit to keep an eye on the widow and watch her pigeons. It gave him a bit of extra money, so he was happy to help. Whit didn't know why Briggs was so interested in the widow. She was a great deal younger than Briggs, but Whit went out several times a week to check on her. Mrs. Brown wasn't much of a conversationalist, but she fed him, and the sheets in the barn were always clean.

The only requirement from both Briggs and Mrs. Brown was he could not talk about the job or her. To anyone. Not even his family.

Granted, even though Whit thought it was odd, he was good at keeping secrets. He had been keeping them all his life.

"Yeah. I'll be back around ten, as I have a few things to do. Oh, I'll pay you on Friday for the next month."

Hiram lifted his hand. "It has already been paid."

A crease formed on Whit's forehead. "Who?"

"Dunno. Someone dropped off an envelope."

"Appreciate you letting me know. I'll be back later."

Crushing the cigar out with the heel of his boot, Hiram nodded. "I'll leave the back door open. I'm locking up for the night."

Whit gave a small wave to the man before setting off down the road toward the lively sounds and music emanating from Miss Marcy's place. With any luck, he might have the chance to meet Brodie Richards tonight. He had only heard tales of the notorious outlaw.

People said the Richards gang, known for causing fear and chaos wherever they roamed, had returned to town. Whit's heart raced when he heard Brodie Richards, himself, had returned. Brodie took over the gang when his brother, Duke Richards, was hanged.

Most of the stories surrounding the infamous Richards gang involved Whit's half-sister Evangeline Sarah Hartman, or Vangie as the family called her. He didn't know all the details and his pa, Randall Hartman, wouldn't talk much about it. All the Hartmans, it appeared, were good at keeping secrets. Whit knew whatever the Richards gang did had hurt Ma Hartman greatly and he would do anything to protect the woman who took him in after his own mother died.

He entered the saloon and sat in the darkened corner. Raising two fingers to Red behind the bar, the man nodded and reached underneath for an unmarked bottle. Pouring the amber liquid into a glass, he handed the glass to a new girl Whit didn't recognize, and she walked it over.

"Here you go, darlin'," she said, placing the drink down on the table. Running a long finger down Whit's arm, she smiled, showing a full set of white teeth. It was not a common characteristic with most of the soiled doves. "Need some company?"

Whit tossed her a coin. "Not tonight, sugar." He gave her his most saccharine smile. "Keep the change and leave me alone."

The woman bit the coin and turned with a huff before flouncing back toward the bar to find another customer. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip, an all too real grimace appearing on his face as the liquid traveled his throat. Closing his eyes, he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and turned the cup upside down on the table. If anyone was watching him, they would think it was whiskey in the glass and not concentrated sarsaparilla syrup mixed with a bit of quinine and water.

"Boss will meet you." A raspy growl interrupted him, and Whit opened his eyes.

Two-bit Tom pulled out a rickety chair and flipped it around before sitting down across from him. Tom tapped his fingers on the chair back as he regarded Whit through narrowed, sun-squinted eyes. His leathery face was creased and cracked like old saddle leather left too long in the desert sun. Years of riding hard and living rough had etched deep lines across his forehead and weathered his skin to the point of looking perpetually dirty.

Beneath the brim of Tom's battered hat, Whit could see his gray-streaked hair poking out, hinting at his advanced years. Tom's eyes were piercing but bloodshot, scanning the room with the wariness of a man who had dodged too many bullets. His clothes had the dull, dusty look of someone who spent more nights sleeping under the stars than in a bed. His wiry frame strained against the faded, sun-drenched shirt he wore, while his hat drooped with age. Even without knowing his name, one could tell from his appearance he was an outlaw who had spent too long surviving on the fringes of civilization.

Whit shifted under the calculating stare, trying not to show his nerves. Tom's appearance matched everything he had heard about the infamous outlaw gang. It appeared the man had been carved from rawhide and left out to cure.

"So, you're the pup who wants to run with the pack," he rasped, his voice like gravel scraping over sandstone.

Whit nodded, holding the outlaw's calculating gaze. He could feel the intensity of those pale eyes boring into him, taking his measure.

Tom leaned back and pulled a cigar from his vest pocket. He bit off the end and spit it on the floor, then struck a match on the rough wood of the table. The sharp scent of sulfur mingled with fragrant tobacco smoke as he puffed the cigar to life.

"You did good, kid." Tom curled his lip back, his tobacco-stained teeth repulsing Whit.

"That so?" Whit leaned back in his chair, resting his shoulders against the wall. Lifting his hand, he ran his finger across the wall behind him.

"Brodie said the information the marshal has is old. Some of it is right, but we can change our plans and they'll never expect what we'll do next."

"What are you going to do next?"

Tom's sneer pulled at his lip, exposing a row of yellowed teeth stained with tobacco. Whit felt his stomach churn at the sight. He resisted the urge to gag, grateful he didn't smoke or drink. Tom continued to pick at his teeth with dirty fingers, examining whatever debris he removed before flicking it across the room. Whit forced himself to remain calm, but inside the unsanitary display repulsed him.

"Can't tell you," he finally replied.

"Where's Richards?"

"He's around."

Whit let the chair land with a thud. He crossed his fingers and put his hands on the table, leaning forward toward Tom. "Let me make this very clear. I am tired of you wasting my time. I did what you asked. In fact, I've done everything you've asked for. I don't give a flying fig about you or anyone else, and I'm done here. I don't think you know Brodie Richards. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're just a lackey trying to get information on him for someone else. How about I take it to the marshal and let him know?"

Tom's lips thinned to the point of almost disappearing, and then his mouth erupted into a wide grin, accompanied by raucous laughter and a forceful slap on the table. "I heard you had some gumption. Boss is going to like you."

"I'm not interested in being one of his pawns…"

The sounds of shouting and screaming interrupted the revelry inside. The swinging doors flew open, slapping against the wall. Marshal Briggs walked into the saloon and strode over to Keys, the piano player. Tapping Keys on the shoulder, the man stopped playing for a moment. Briggs leaned down and whispered to him. Suddenly, the man got up from the piano and ran from the saloon.

"What in tarnation?" Tom looked at Whit, who simply shrugged.

"I need your attention, please." The noise of the saloon was overwhelming, and Briggs had to shout to make himself heard. No one seemed to care or pay attention. The situation quickly escalated as people began throwing cards and glasses at the marshal. Whit, who had been observing from a distance, finally intervened by putting his fingers to his lips and letting out a piercing whistle. The sudden silence was deafening compared to the chaos just moments before.

Briggs stood on a stool and looked around at everyone. "George Curtis is dead. It looks like he had the fever."

"Fever?" Red yelled over the crowd. "What kind of fever?"

"Scarlatina. There are several cowboys on ranches outside of town who have contracted it. We are asking everyone to stay in town, and we aren't letting anyone new come into town."

"How are you going to make sure it actually happens?" one patron asked.

"Yeeeeeaaaaah. How, Marshal?" another slurred.

"I'm looking for some volunteers to stand guard on the roads coming in and out of town."

Murmurs went through the crowd, and people got up to leave.

"I'll help." Whit stood from the corner and picked up his hat from the table, putting it on his head. Snickers went around the room.

Tom grabbed Whit's arm and narrowed his eyes. "You are going to lose any chance you had with Brodie, boy."

Whit shrugged his arm from Tom's grip. "I ain't your boy," he hissed. Leaning down, he looked into Tom's soulless eyes. "You need someone inside to know what Briggs knows. There isn't a better way to do it than to be working alongside him."

Tom grinned and slapped Whit on the back. "Hope you die of the fever, boy."

Whit glared at Tom before striding over to the marshal. "I said I'd help."

Briggs looked at Whit and then Tom, before glancing back at Whit. "I don't like the company you're keeping."

Whit glanced over his shoulder. "A man can choose to drink with whomever he wants."

"A man, eh? Well, you won't be drinking while you are working with me. You understand?"

"Old man, I'm only doing this so I can get enough money and get out of this hick town." A few snickers could be heard from the bar patrons.

Briggs looked around the saloon. "Anyone else?" Everyone turned and looked away or stared at their drinks. Looking back at Whit, he narrowed his eyes. "Looks like I have little choice. I'll be watching you. Every single step you take, I'll be watching. You hear me?"

Crossing his hands over his chest, Whit grinned. "I think everyone in town hears you, old man."

Sighing, Briggs ran his hand down his face. "Let's go. No one is going to get any sleep for a while."

"Right behind you," Whit said, glancing at Tom, who was grinning from ear to ear at the unexpected events. When they got outside into the muggy air, Briggs took off down the road. Whit jogged to keep up with the marshal's long strides. "What's going on?"

"I wasn't kidding about the fever. Sawyer Mills fell from his horse at the Chapman Ranch."

"Which one is he?"

"If you spent more time at home, you'd know." Briggs stopped and turned to look at Whit. "He's at your house right now. Everyone has moved out, so you can't go home."

"What? Where's Ma?"

"Annamae is taking care of him. Your ma is at the Chapman's. I would guess your brothers are sleeping in the bunkhouse, but I don't know since I'm not there."

Whit stopped in the middle of the road, panic seizing his chest. "I need to go home right now."

Briggs grabbed Whit's arm. "No, you don't. You are going to stay in town and make sure no one comes in or out. I'll let you know when you can go out there. The Richards gang is going to be watching your every move now. If you go home, they are going to follow you. Whatever you do, if you go out there without me knowing, you stay far enough away from everyone to make sure no one gets sick."

"What about here?"

"Stay far enough away from everyone here, too." Briggs glanced around and started walking down the road again. "Old man? Hick town?"

"I couldn't think of anything else."

Briggs laughed. "Do you think your friend Tom will take everything back to Richards?"

"I hope so." As they approached the doctor's office, Whit looked at Briggs. "Does this mean I can use the front door instead of climbing through the window now?"

"I'll think about it. We had to make it look convincing." Opening the door to the doctor's office, Briggs motioned to Whit. "Get inside. We can talk in there."

"Maybe Doc has something to get this horrible taste out of my mouth. The taste of quinine is nasty."