Free According to Hoyle by Abigail Roux

supplied, overhearing the question. “He’s just a puppy.”
    “Shut up,” Flynn snapped at him without looking back. He glanced over at Wash to see the man smirking at him. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes as he turned his head away. “Yeah, probably,” he answered, dejected.
    Wash pulled the mule to a stop and Flynn slowed his horse.
    “It’ll give us a chance to water the horses, anyhow,” Wash reasoned with a grin he tried to hide as he set his shotgun on the rickety footboard and tied the reins to the wagon brake.
    Flynn dismounted with a disgruntled mutter. “Call your blamed dog, Rose.”
    Rose put two fingers to his mouth, the irons pulling his other hand up to his chin along with them, and he let out a ringing whistle that carried impressively across the flat land.
    In the distance, a delighted yip could barely be heard, and Flynn squinted and watched the lone figure of the dog begin to race toward them. Beside him, Wash laughed, and Flynn turned away before the prisoners could see his own lips quirk in amusement.
    The dog turned out to be a medium-sized, run of the mill, long-haired mutt . He appeared to be intelligent, though. Rose insisted that he could not, as the dime novels claimed, steal a man’s gun from his holster, lead a horse with the reins in his mouth, or do anything more than offer companionship and keep him warm at night.
    Flynn wasn’t sure he believed him.
    “And he can stare at you pitifully until you give him your last bit of food,” Rose offered as he rested his hand irons on the back of the mutt’s neck and rubbed his ears with both hands. The dog’s tail banged against the wooden slats of the wagon in agreement. “But I’m afraid he’s capable of little else.”
    “If we start starving, he’s the first thing we eat, got it?” Flynn warned in all seriousness.
    Rose nodded and gave the dog’s rump a pat. The dog leaped from the side of the wagon and trotted over to Flynn, sitting down in front of him and looking up at him expectantly, tail wagging.
    Flynn groaned and turned away. The dog was just as annoyingly charming as its master.
    Wash merely laughed at them both. “He got a name?”
    “That’s Koda,” Rose answered as he leaned an elbow against the sideboard and watched them. The dog whipped its head around when he heard his name and stared at Rose as if waiting for a command. “Hello, darling,” Rose drawled to the dog fondly. The dog’s long, fluffy tail began to whap the dusty ground at Flynn’s feet, stirring up a minor dust storm.
    Flynn took off his hat and waved it at the bits of dust and straw floating toward him. He cocked his head at Rose and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You spent time with the Sioux?”
    “Why do you ask that, Marshal?” Rose asked in real interest.
    “That’s a Sioux word, ain’t it? Koda? I’ve heard it a few times.”
    Rose gave him a pleased smile. “It is, indeed. I spent some time with the Santee, up near Flandreau,” he answered with a touch of wistfulness. “Even the law won’t follow you there.” The mischievous addition completely ruined any admiration the information may have kindled in Flynn. “That was where I found him. Koda means friend in their fine language.”
    “Fascinating,” Flynn muttered as he finished saddling a fresh horse.
    “What were you doing venturing all the way up to Flandreau?” Wash asked Rose.
    “This and that.”
    “How long were you there?”
    “Many moons,” Rose intoned dramatically. He smirked at Wash. “I find the savages can teach a man quite a lot that’s useful in this country,” he went on with a hint of wry humor to his voice. It was difficult for Flynn to tell when he was being sarcastic and when he was just being English. He suspected Rose was simply dissembling, waiting until they tired of the subject so he wouldn’t have to answer honestly. He’d made it very clear previously that he didn’t approve of the way the Indians were treated out here, and