A second soldier rose to his feet with the enthusiasm of a slug. Both men wore their kepis down far enough that only their noses could be seen beneath the bills. A faint light glowed from the narrow warehouse windows under the overhang.
“Gentleman, thank goodness you’re here.” Devon clamored as if he’d had too much to drink. He’d swished a shot of brandy in his mouth and dabbed a little on his coat for good measure. “I’m in need of reprieve from the storm. Got a little too friendly with my lady after a bit of Christmas rum, and her papa kicked me out into the cold.” He swung his arm wide, barely gripping the flask between his thumb and forefinger.
“Ain’t no shelter here.” The first soldier tugged his collar up over his ears.
The slug reached out a hand to steady the flask. “Don’t want to drop that.”
Devon teetered. “Friend…” He leaned a hand on the sluggard, pressing the flask to the man’s coat. “All I ask is a few minutes inside before I become an icicle. Willing to share a couple drinks.”
“Can’t do that, sir. Orders.” The alert one rested his rifle against the jamb. “Best go make amends with the papa.”
“I wouldn’t mind a swig.” The sluggard tapped his hand to the flask.
Wind whipped at their backs. The pace of the sleet picked up. Precious time was ticking away. Moyer or soldiers from Camp Web south of town could show up any minute. Devon stepped in closer to the narrow shelter of the jamb. All the better to block the soldiers’ view of Gunter creeping along flush with the building.
Devon slipped the flask into the sluggard’s hand. “Just a swig.”
“Obliged.” The man grinned.
“I don’t know.” The first one turned toward the door when another blast of wind swept by.
“It’s Christmas.” Sluggard swiped his mouth. His fingers stuck out the ends of his worn gloves. “The blasted officers aren’t out here in the cold.” He handed the flask off to the first man.
“Don’t you fellows have any keys to this place? I bet they have a stove in there.” Devon slipped his hand beneath his frock coat as a shadow moved on his left.
Gunter sprang, clamping his thick hand over the mouth of the first soldier, flipping him to the ground, and knocking him out.
The drinker turned. “What?—”
Devon cracked the butt of his revolver against the man’s head. He crumpled.
“Check for the keys.” Devon riffled through his victim’s pockets.
“Found them.” Gunter held up a ring with three clanking keys and handed them to Devon.
The first key didn’t work. He fumbled with the second one. It didn’t quite fit. He jiggled it. The door clicked open. A dimly lit lantern swung from a cable strung over a rafter near the far end. Gunter came behind him, followed by Frederick.
Revolver in his hand, Devon called out, “Came in to get warm.”
No answer, and no light in the office near the street side of the building. Frederick, the dark-haired baker, who’d built his muscles working in a warehouse back east before he’d immigrated to Texas, moved through the building to verify no one else was there.
Shelves of tents, boots, cooking pots, haversacks, rubberized blankets, and more lined the walls. Rows of crates stretched along the floor. Devon picked up a lantern and lit it.
Gunter found a crowbar and pried off one lid after another. Hardtack. Cartridges. Rifles. And in the center beneath a tar-covered canvas? A couple dozen stubby powder kegs stood next to fifteen larger barrels of gunpowder.
“Should we carry some to the cotton warehouse, or leave it here?” Frederick joined them. Melted sleet dripped from his coat
Devon scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He had no idea how long Morning Fawn would be able to stall whoever it was at Sweetbriar. The safest plan would be to blow everything up here and get away as fast as they could. But that would leave a goldmine of cotton in Reb hands. A month ago, Moyer bragged he had over a thousand bales. Now with the cessation of the shipments to Mexico, maybe it could be two thousand. Devon couldn’t leave it untouched.
“Gunter, help me.” Devon rubbed his damp hands on his dry waistcoat and picked up a keg under each arm. “Frederick, help him tip one of the barrels down. Then, Gunter, roll it outside and to the warehouse. Take your time.”
“Time’s vhat ve don’t have.” Gunter swiped his brow.
“Schramm will signal if he sees anyone approaching.” Devon headed for the door and peeked out. Nothing, then a small light at the back of the cotton warehouse blinked three times. Oscar’s signal. They’d taken care of the guards at the warehouse. Devon gave a short whistle, then proceeded. “I’ll beback. And while we’re gone, Frederick, you start pouring a line of powder.”
Devon’s muscles strained against the weight of the kegs. Gunter followed him. Wind whipped at Devon’s coattails and pelted his back and ears. The tightly coopered wooden casks would keep the powder dry, but there’d be no option of pouring a trail of gunpowder down the hill toward the trees before he struck the match. No, in both cases, the trail would need to be lit within the shelter of the buildings. Close. Too close. Would there be enough time for a man to strike the match and get away?
Slick pebbles gritted beneath his boots. The ice was sticking to the ground now, not melting on contact. He hurried past the opening between the two buildings that led to the street, thankful for the cover of the storm.
