33

Run, Amos!”

At Grace’s shout, Amos dodged sharply right. But instead of running as instinct and the woman he loved demanded, he lunged for the mesquite that stood a mere two steps away. Its twisted trunk and curving limbs might be thinner than his own frame, but they offered more cover than the knee-high scrub brush dotting the rest of the prairie landscape.

Even as he leapt behind the gnarled tree, a gunshot boomed. Then echoed. A second shot?

The question pierced Amos’s brain at the same moment a bullet pierced his sleeve.

Amos hissed and spun to his left, planting his good shoulder against the tree trunk and making himself as thin a target as possible. An animal-like roar, deep and angry, blasted across the clearing.

Lockhart.

Grace must have gotten free and retrieved her derringer. Thank God!

Another shot rang out. Then two more. Amos sucked in a breath and tensed for impact, his eyes squeezed shut, but no bullets peppered the tree. No lead ripped through his skin. Amos’s eyes popped open. The shooting wasn’t aimed at him.

Grace!

No longer concerned with his own protection, Amos ducked beneath the mesquite’s low-hanging branches and stared back across the clearing. Lockhart lay sprawled on the ground, firing his repeating rifle one-handed. He’d tucked the butt of the rifle into the crease between his legs and waist to hold it steady as he shot.

At a woman on horseback.

Grace leaned low over the horse’s neck. The too-long stirrups flapped against the animal’s sides, keeping the beast racing at top speed. Amos’s breath caught. As dark as it was, her mount could lose its footing and crumple. Grace could break her neck.

But if she slowed, one of Lockhart’s bullets would take her down.

Ride, Grace, he silently urged. Ride.

A movement caught Amos’s eye, drawing his attention away from Grace. Lockhart was pivoting toward him, working the lever of his repeater.

Time to go.

Amos dodged around to the back side of the tree again and sprinted cross-country, keeping the tree between himself and Lockhart to make the gunman’s shot as difficult as possible. Unfortunately, that meant running in the opposite direction from Grace, but he’d veer east to search for the road as soon as he put adequate distance between himself and Lockhart’s rifle.

Grace must have gotten in a good shot to leave the gunman favoring his left side so significantly. With any luck, Lockhart would be too wounded to chase down either of them. Yet Amos couldn’t count on that. Vengeance would fuel the imposter now, and that could be a powerful motivator. Amos had to find Grace and keep her safe until Lockhart was either behind bars or dead.

So he kept running. In the dark over uneven terrain. He stumbled more than he didn’t, but he never went down. As if the Lord’s mighty hand had a steadying grip on his collar, keeping him on his feet.

The landscape changed, steepening into sloping hills and slowing his progress. Yet he ran on. Through the cramps in his side. Through aching lungs that screamed at him to rest. He ignored it all, keeping his eyes focused on a tall cylinder that began to separate itself from the rest of the darkness. Too tall to be a juniper. Too thin to be a mesquite.

If it was what he thought it was, it just might be their salvation.

So fixed was Amos on the pole that he failed to notice the road until he practically tripped over it. Even then, he paid it little heed as he crossed to the wooden pillar on the far side. A dark wire extended along its top on either side.

Telegraph wire. The very wire that led from the depot in Seymour to Grace’s office in Harper’s Station.

Amos stumbled to a halt and braced a bent arm against the pole. He rested his forehead on his wrist as he struggled to catch his breath. His chest heaved, but his mind churned, testing and discarding theory after theory for climbing the pole. If he had his clawed climbing boots, he could reach the top in a heartbeat. But he didn’t. Neither did he have a ladder. The gun belt he’d borrowed from Shaw would not expand enough to encompass both himself and the pole, which rendered it useless as a climbing belt. So he was left with good old-fashioned arm and leg coordination. Not exactly his forte.

Give me strength, he prayed as he straightened. He dug his pocketknife out of his front trouser pocket, extended the blade, then placed the handle between his teeth. Amos glanced upward, eying the distance. Twenty-five feet. Maybe thirty.

Not a problem, he told himself. He could do this.

He stepped close to the pole and hugged it at chest height. A stinging in his right arm reminded him of his injury. A tear in the fabric a few inches below his shoulder caught his eye, but he didn’t see much blood. Probably just a graze. Still hurt like the dickens, though, not that it mattered. His arm could be on fire, and he’d still find a way to get up this pole.

Amos grunted as he tightened his abdominal muscles and drew his legs up to cling to the pole, bending one foot behind the pole while pressing the instep of the other against the side. Holding firm with his left arm, he lifted with his right and pushed up with his legs. One hand up, then the other, thigh muscles straining to maintain his hold on the pole, his feet already aching from the awkwardness of their position. As he reached a third time, the soles of his shoes slipped. Down he slid, splinters stabbing his palms before he landed hard on his rear.

The shoes had to come off.

Amos yanked them from his feet, followed by his stockings. He spared a few moments to pull the worst of the splinters from his hands, then replaced the knife between his teeth, set his shoulders, and tried again.

He contorted his legs around the pole and slowly inched his way upward. He glued his gaze to the round, glass insulator at the top of the pole. That was where he needed to be.

The back of his right foot curled around the pole, keeping him from sliding down as his left foot craned sideways to find purchase. Hand over hand he crawled. Muscles fatiguing. Sweat beading on his upper lip and rolling down the back of his neck.

Just . . . a little . . . farther.

The insulator was nearly within reach. A groan ripped from his throat as Amos forced his exhausted body to pull one more time.

Finally, the top. The insulator sat at eye level, and telegraph wire bumped against the side of his head. Amos stretched his left hand up to cup the pointed top of the pole and support his weight while he crossed his legs for a more stable grip.

With his right hand, he took hold of the telegraph wire and pulled in some of the slack. Wires needed extra length so they wouldn’t snap when the wind gusted. Thankfully north Texas had plenty of wind, so he had a decent amount of play to work with. Feeding the extra line to his left hand, he held it steady a couple inches from where the main line was fastened to the insulator with a twist of support wire.

Then he eased his jaw open and grasped the handle of his knife. Working carefully, he cut a section of wire between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Once he had it cut, he dropped the knife to the ground, no longer needing it. Keeping one end of the wire pinned between his left thumb and the top of the pole, he took the other end in his right hand and started tapping out a message.

When he’d put the local operators on alert before leaving, he’d asked them to stay late in case anything urgent came through. Hopefully the operator in Seymour remained at his post.

Lockhart spotted in clearing half mile east of Gladstone farm. Injured, armed, angry. Grace making escape on horseback. Send sheriff at once.

Without a line tapping clamp with a portable sounder and key, there was no way to tell if his message had been received. He’d have to leave that part of the equation in God’s hands.

Amos twisted the wire ends back together, crimping them as best he could with his fingers. He’d put in a request for a maintainer to come out and splice it properly later.

As he released the wire to drape back into place, his feet slipped. Gasping, he grabbed for the pole with his right arm. His cheek smashed against the wood. His heart throbbed in his chest, and his muscles clenched. But his limbs were too fatigued. He couldn’t support his weight any longer. He started to slide.

Hoofbeats pounded on the road. Riders? Amos dug deep, hope of rescue lending him an extra dose of strength. Keeping his knees tight, he dragged his bare feet underneath him and pressed both insteps into opposite sides of the pole. The pads of his feet found a crevice and stopped his descent. Taking a careful breath, Amos tucked his hips and leaned his torso away from the pole, assuming the position he would have used if he’d had proper lineman boots and a climbing belt. The change in leverage relieved the pressure in his arms. As long as his feet held, he just might—

“Bledsoe? That you up there?”

He’d been so focused on not falling, he’d failed to notice the arrival of the horsemen. One of them held a lantern aloft, making it hard to see his face, but Amos had no trouble recognizing his voice.

“Mr. Shaw. Thank heavens. Is that Mr. Porter behind you?”

“Yep, I’m here. What are you doing on that pole?” The second rider urged his massive elephant of a horse past the marshal to get a better view.

“Sending a telegram, of course,” Amos replied, as if it were an everyday occurrence to find a shoeless Western Union man clinging to a telegraph pole in the middle of a country lane. “Though I could use some assistance returning to the ground. Might I make use of your horse?”

“On my way.” Porter clicked his tongue, and his giant black horse walked forward, his thick, steady hooves thumping against the ground with satisfying firmness. Once directly beneath Amos, Porter reined in the beast and patted its neck. “Stand steady, Hermes,” the freighter’s deep voice rumbled in calm, comforting tones. “Stand steady.”

Amos couldn’t see much, since Porter was directly below him, but he heard saddle leather creaking, something thudding against the ground, and a grunt as the big man shifted.

“Careful, Ben,” the marshal warned. “You’re not exactly the acrobatic type.”

Amos chanced a glance under his elbow. Good heavens. Porter was in the process of standing on his horse’s back. Amos caught a glimpse of the freighter’s white feet in the lantern light and nearly laughed aloud. He had discarded his boots. It seemed to be the theme of the night—daring feets. He did chuckle then.

Amos lifted his head and bit back a groan. The strain of gripping the pole must have pickled his brain. He was laughing at his own puns now.

“I’m in position,” the freighter said. “Let go with your legs and stand on my shoulders.”

Amos glanced down again. The big man’s palms and splayed fingers grasped the wood, nearly matching the circumference of the pole. His head bent toward the pillar, exposing his wide shoulders and muscled back.

“I’ve got Hermes’s head,” the marshal assured them. “He won’t shy.”

“Hermes would never shy,” Porter countered. “Would you, boy?”

The horse snorted as if in answer and held his position.

Tightening his arms, Amos slowly released his left leg. He needed to descend a few more feet before he’d be able to reach Porter. He willed his muscles to hold out a little longer and gritted his teeth through the painful descent. Once within range, he hooked his right foot around the pole to keep from dropping all of his weight onto his rescuer at once, then stretched out his left toward Porter’s shoulder. After that foot found purchase, he unhooked the other and brought it down as well. His arms sagged in relief as the weight transferred to his legs. Using his hands to maintain his balance, he bent his knees and walked his palms down the pole until he crouched on Porter’s shoulders. From there, he crawled down the man’s back until his feet made contact with the saddle.

“Here.” Shaw held out a hand.

Amos clasped it and jumped down to the ground. His cramping legs crumpled beneath him as he hit, but the marshal’s grip kept him upright. Amos nodded his thanks and immediately commenced collecting his knife, stockings, and shoes. “God brought you two at just the right time. I don’t think I could have held on for much longer.”

“I’m impressed you got up there in the first place,” Shaw said, respect ringing in his tone. “Not sure I could have.”

Amos sat, yanked one particularly large splinter from his right instep, then shoved his feet into his socks before starting in on the shoes. “You would if your wife’s life depended on it.”

“Nah,” Ben said, dismounting and taking up his own boots. “He’d have just blown the thing out of the ground.”

Malachi chuckled, but Amos didn’t join in. Now that he had himself put back together, they needed to make tracks.

“We have to go after Lockhart.” Amos finished lacing his second shoe and scrambled to his feet. “I can lead you to him, or at least to where he was twenty minutes ago.”

“Near the Gladstone place?” The marshal shared a look with Porter as the two of them remounted their horses.

“How did you . . . ?”

Porter leaned down and extended his arm to Amos. “Dunbar—the real one,” the freighter clarified as he swung Amos up onto the horse behind him, “was waiting for me in town when I returned. Told me about the Gladstone woman.”

“Ben headed out immediately and caught me on the road. Convinced me the Pinkerton was in good enough shape to help guard the women, so I turned around.”

Amos pointed at a spot across the road. “There’s a clearing through there. Grace managed to wound Lockhart and steal his horse, but we can’t take anything for granted. He knows the books are in the bank vault, and beyond that, he’s got a personal vendetta to settle against Grace.” He met the marshal’s quickly hardening gaze with an unyielding stare of his own. “Neither of our women will be safe until that man is behind bars.”

The marshal handed the lantern to Porter and slid his revolver from its holster. “Lead the way.”