The bullet whistled and bit.
Roland Chadwick, Deputy U.S. Marshal, pressed a scarred hand against his blood-soaked shirt and half collapsed against the hotel’s cellar stairwell. Gunshots resounded outside where a gang of hired guns patrolled the frontier town’s streets with revolvers drawn.
The marshal stumbled down to the bottom step, where gaslight illuminated
“We’re clear of the stockade. Twenty yards or so.” Corporal Tiller’s sullied head emerged from the hole, poking into the shade of the primitive lean-to. “I reckon we run like hell, we can reach a river by dawn. Lord willing.”
Lieutenant Roland Chadwick helped the Union soldier from the tunnel’s entrance. Tiller
The door flung open before Marshal Roland Chadwick could finish pouring his morning coffee. The frontier town’s lawman, Sheriff Tiller, was away on his honeymoon, so Chadwick had offered to substitute. He sat at the sheriff’s desk, reading a worn copy of Emerson.
“Well?” the intruder asked, striding toward Chadwick with her dress swaying
The groom’s lips twisted in a final death cry.
Someone in the wedding party called for a doctor, but US Marshal Roland Chadwick suspected the worst. As the wedding’s officiator, he’d heard both bride and groom swear till death do us part, but not even he could have predicted such a swift separation.
The sheriff tossed the yellowed documents onto the Sutton’s kitchen table. “I’m sorry to tell you folks. The documents are real.”
A small cry erupted from Margaret’s lips.
Hank moved behind his wife and gripped her shoulder, hoping the warmth of his hand would lend her strength. “Are you sure, Sheriff?”
“I’m sure.
The Colt revolver’s song echoed through the barren terrain as gun smoke mixed with heavy snowfall. Marshal Roland Chadwick holstered his firearm, grimaced, and spat, watching bloody saliva crystalize and disappear into the white earth. The image reminded him of a disfigured candy cane. After all, it was Christmas Eve.
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Marshal Roland Chadwick pressed his nose to the desert floor and sniffed. A whiff of sulfur entered his nostrils, receded, and returned stronger. He snorted and coughed. The smell of hades wasn’t easily dismissed. But it came with the territory. Without it, he’d be out of a job.
He mounted his horse and rode,
Bounty hunter Lemuel Donovan tasted the whiskey in the air even before he heard a sharp rap on his door. He opened it to reveal deputy Thaddeus McKinsey, badge glinting in the setting sun.
“Rather early to be hitting the saloon, deputy,” growled Lemuel. “Or did you require some liquid courage before visiting?”
“Susannah Carey, did you hear a word I said?” Miss Jessup rapped a cane on her cabin’s floor. “Pay attention!”
A glowing coal skidded out of my tongs, landing back in the fireplace. Sparks flew, hot as my cheeks. Truth is, I hadn’t been listening. I was hurrying too much.
At first glance, the Wild Pony wasn’t anything special.
It looked like every other saloon I had visited. The same batwing doors adorned the entrance, creaking every time they swung open. Wooden tables were scattered around the room. The usual riff-raff crowd occupied the stools, smoking and betting money on their cards.
Arvin burst into the cabin. “We’ve got a problem.”
“And what problem would that be?” Salya knitted a few more stitches. “Has the goat escaped again? The cart hit a rut in the road and dumped the milk?”
Another overblown problem to add to the list.
“They’re back, Salya.” He shut and locked the door, and then yanked the curtains over the window. “I saw them in town.”
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