“And when we departed New Orleans, I remember the sky. I remember it was near dawn because the starlight was remarkable. Starlight, bright enough to see the waves.”
Starlight.
The word drops like a stone in my gut.
I remember that morning—it was foggier than hell, couldn’t see nothing but gray. But that night in New Orleans when we cracked the hotel vault, she’d said starlight when it was time to move. It was our signal. Our go.
Why would she say it now?
I glance around the room. Two marshals by the double doors at the back. One planted near the jury box, another between the judge’s bench and the side door. One beside me, hand resting easy on the butt of his Colt. Five inside. Gotta be more in the hall based on the marshal’s estimate, maybe more outside.
I look at her and her eyes are on me, hand to her chest. She turns her head slightly, eyes darting to the side door, before she closes them, wincing as if in pain.
The US Attorney asks another question I don’t catch.
Alice sways a little, color draining from her face.
“Mrs. Sherman?” he prompts.
She presses a hand to her temple. “Forgive me. I’m— I’ve been in hospital and…I-I’m not feeling well.”
The judge starts to say something, but it’s too late. She crumples like her bones have given up. The gallery gasps, and everything snaps at once. The marshal beside me jerks toward her, his hand leaving the grip of his pistol.
And that’s all I need.
My hand’s fast. I wrench his Colt from its holster and fire point blank. The shot cracks like thunder, echoing off marble. The marshal drops, smoke filling the air, screams breaking loose from the gallery.
I shove the table aside and run for the side door. The marshal near the judge draws, fires, misses, round punching into the wall by my head. I pivot, squeeze the trigger twice. He falls back into the curtains, blood blooming dark down his chest.
The courtroom is chaos: jurors diving for cover, papers flying. The judge yells something, pointing in my direction, his voice drowned by the ringing in my ears. I reach the side door and shoulder it open, the hinges shrieking.
The hallway’s ahead, bright and open. One guard posted, running to the opposite door, but that ain’t where I’m headed. The walls are paneled in glossy wood, and against an oak rail by the door sits a box of matches—a lamb on the front. Little Lamb Matchsticks.
Salt Lick. I bought these once because of her. Thought it was funny.
Old man behind the counter couldn’t quit staring when she smiled.
I grab the box, shove it in my pocket. Ain’t got time for more.
In the smoke and shouting, I catch one last glimpse of her on the floor, eyes open, watching me go. My God, I love that woman.
I spill into the main hall. Men turn and shout. The sound catches in my ribs—metal, breath, the slap of boots. Outside theside door, the courthouse narrows into a service lane and a low stretch of yard before the street. It’s worse than I thought.
Six men rush the exit like a net—marshals and sheriff’s deputies, all with faces set like hammerheads. No escape. Two of them level Winchesters, but most of them wear Colts in plain leather. One’s got a shotgun cradled across his chest. They move quick, closing in on me.
Son of a bitch.
No time to think. I swing my weight shoulder-first into the nearest man. He goes down grunting. A Winchester kicks, and the roar cracks past my ear, damn near blowing out my eardrum. Hot air burns my cheek. I grab the fallen man, wrench his pistol free, and fire twice. One goes down on his knees, another folds to the curb.
A carbine butt slams into my shoulder, knocking me sideways. Pain blooms, searing, but it’s the kind I can swallow. Don’t stop me.
Marshals circle, voices barking commands I don’t bother to hear. I duck behind a stone buttress and return fire with the stolen Colt. The law answers in thunder. Winchesters bark from the yard, slugs blast from the shotgun and throw grit into my face. A deputy in a gray coat takes one in the leg and goes down with a howl. Another fires high, the ball tearing the plaster over the courthouse door.
I keep moving, using the angle of the walls, trading shots. The world narrows to breathing and the taste of iron in my mouth. I see one of them leaning out from behind a pile of crates. I don't aim. I shoot the crate where his head just was. He falls anyway.
The yard is a battlefield of smoke and splintered wood. The nearest marshal—ugly bastard with a badge at his vest—cocks his rifle and takes aim. I hurl myself at him, wrap my good arm round his throat and wrench the gun free. It’s heavier than Iexpect. Kicks like a mule. I shoot once, twice. He spasms and rolls.
The street is right there. A block of riders crowd the curb—more marshals, maybe Pinkertons, some in plain suits. I taste tar and the salt of the Gulf wind. A chestnut mare is hitched to a delivery wagon. Its driver slumps where he sat—caught a stray bullet, most like. I snatch the reins, swing my leg high and hard, and find the mount more willing than the men lining the curb.
