Brunson ignored the man’s comments, poured a cup of coffee and motioned for the door. “You boys best get at it if you’re gonna be ready for them wagons. I’ll meet you at the dugout when the job is finished.”
Trace had heard about the dugout but had no idea how to find it. He was fairly certain it was where Brunson stashed his stolen plunder. After today, there wouldn’t be anything there but a lot of bad memories.
Nervous yet excited, Trace waited as the rest of the men cleared out of the cabin and rode off toward the rendezvous point. They would ride in groups of two or three, each taking a different route. Trace was just heading out the door when Brunson thumped a hand on his shoulder. “You pull off this job and you and me will have some real business to discuss. I’ve been looking for a partner who can handle more of the heavy lifting and I think you just might be it.”
“Thank you, boss. I’ll do you proud,” Trace said, offering Brunson his most sincere grin, like a child eager to please a parent.
“I’m sure you will. Now get going, or you’ll miss all the fun.” Brunson gave him a shove toward the door, and Trace rushed outside, jogged over to his horse, and rode out for the holdup.
Two hours later, he hid behind a large rock with all of Brunson’s men around him. Trace had picked up on someone following him five minutes after he left the cabin and knew Brunson trailed him. Uncertain if the man wanted to watch the proceedings to see if he would make good partner material, or if Brunson was suspicious of him, Trace never faltered in his role of outlaw. He even went so far as to cuff Frankie John on the back of the head when he lit a smoke.
“Put that thing out,” he whispered, yanking the smoke from the man’s lips and shoving it into the snow. “Someone might smell it or see the smoke.”
The robber glowered at him, like he wanted to blow a hole right through Trace’s head, but he ignored it and looked around at the men. They were all capable of shooting a man in the back. Trace just hoped one of them wouldn’t decide to shoot him.
The jangle of harnesses alerted them to the approach of their prey. One set came from their left, the other from the right. As the sounds grew louder, Trace looked around at the thieves, then gave the signal when the two wagons were nearly passing at a blind turn in the road.
Men raced from behind rocks and swarmed over the two wagons. They took the payroll from one, leaving the driver bound and gagged in the back. The driver of the gold wagon was knocked unconscious and dumped in with the driver of the payroll wagon as Trace swung up to the seat of the gold wagon. It would be easier to drive it than try to pack out the gold. One of the men he didn’t know well set the payroll boxes in with the gold.
“Let’s get to it, boys,” he shouted as the criminals hurried to mount their horses.
Snow kicked up around him as the horses and wagon raced down the road. A few miles later, Trace stopped, and they switched wagons, leaving the mine wagon abandoned by the side of the road.
He continued driving, following as two of Brunson’s right-hand men led the way. Trace made note of landmarks as he followed the gang off the road and through the trees on a trail that was hidden by rocks the men rolled out of the way then rolled back once the wagon was through.
“Go back and brush out the wagon tracks,” he called to Frankie John and Henry, watching until they disappeared on the other side of the rocks.
It was a few more miles through snow deep enough Trace worried the wagon wouldn’t make it before they came to a stop. To the naked eye, it looked like a densely wooded area. On closer inspection though, Trace could see the outline of two buildings covered in bark and branches to blend in with the surrounding woods. The only telltale sign of life was smoke rising from the chimney of the closest building.
Trace set the brake and swung off the wagon as Emmett Brunson opened a door and stepped outside.
“You boys made good time,” he said, strolling over to the wagon, tossing back the tarp, and yelping when the barrel of a rifle practically connected with his nose.
Billy jumped up and whistled as men began pouring out of the trees.
“Kill ’em all!” Brunson shouted before Billy used the butt of his gun to knock him senseless.
A few shots were fired, but it didn’t take long for Billy’s men to subdue the outlaws, slap on handcuffs, and line them up by the wagon.
Trace had known he’d need help, considering the size of the gang and the amount of loot that had been stolen. He’d prayed Billy would get the last message he sent in time to make it to Hardman with reinforcements. When Billy sent word he’d be there, they’d managed to meet for just a few minutes to go over details of a plan, including sneaking Billy into the wagon with the gold when they switched it out.
A thorough search of the place Brunson referred to as the dugout resulted in Billy and Trace discovering a tunnel that was filled with gold, money, and even jewels and trinkets stolen during stagecoach robberies.
“You did good, Trace,” Billy said, slapping him on the back as they walked out of the dugout into the bright sunlight. “Teresa said as long as you caught the bad guy, she would forgive you for not only missing Christmas but dragging me away from home for it, too.”
“I wish Brunson had decided to do this last week. We could be home by the fire with our toes all toasty and a cup of Teresa’s special spiced cider in our hands.” Trace grinned at his brother-in-law. “Did you bring what I asked you?”
“Yep. It’s back at the hotel with the rest of the surprises I hauled along to share with you for Christmas.”
Trace gave him a questioning look as they walked toward the empty wagon one of Billy’s deputy marshals had driven there for the express purpose of hauling the outlaws to Heppner to put on the train and take to Portland. One whole train car had been reserved for the U.S. Marshals and the criminals they were transporting.
Emmett Brunson would spend the rest of his days behind bars, as would the majority of his men.
Trace had purposely sent Henry and Frankie John away, knowing the two of them were the most gullible. They’d been easily captured by Billy’s men. A smile stretched across his face to see someone had stuffed a bandana in Frankie John’s mouth to silence his constant whining.
He turned to Billy and watched in horror as Brunson lunged to his feet, grabbed a pistol from the nearest marshal, and fired it.
Without giving a thought to his own life, Trace shoved his brother-in-law out of the line of fire, feeling the bullet rip into him with a burst of fiery pain.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’m going to kill him,” Victoria snarled from between clenched teeth as she tried to work the ropes off her wrists. How dare that odious man tie her up!
Never in her life had she been as livid as she was in that moment. Not even when she’d discovered Wendell’s ultimate betrayal had she been this angry and upset.
That’s because you never loved Wendell, a voice whispered in her head.
“Hush!” she said to herself and continued working to loosen the ropes keeping her bound to the chair. Trace hadn’t tied them tight enough to chaff her skin, but neither had he left them loose, making it easy for her to escape.
“When I get free, Tressillian Agamemnon Travers is going to rue the day he met me!” Victoria stopped struggling against her restraints and looked around the cabin. Gray really had built a warm, cozy home for himself and Maddie. He’d mentioned taking her to see it a few times, but she’d been so busy falling in love with a despicable criminal she hadn’t had time for wanderings through the woods.