Riding Under the Texas Sun (Preview)

Chapter One

Shane Cassidy sat in the shade of an old mesquite tree, its branches reaching out over the sloping meadow. Yellow buds littered the creek where his paint, Winnie, refreshed herself, and a cool spring breeze animated the bluebonnets blanketing the meadow. Shane could have stayed there forever, daydreaming or napping, but he was still a day’s ride away from his destination.

By this time tomorrow, Shane would meet up with the men known to most folks as the Becker Gang, a band of robbers notorious throughout three territories for their successful plundering of banks and railroad shipments, as well as for the sheer ferocity of their attacks. To Shane, they were his partners in crime, men he looked up to and trusted with his life.

He removed a letter from his shirt pocket. He’d read the letter enough times to have it memorized, but he wanted to read it again.

Dear Son, I hope this address is till current, and that you are doing well. It’s been a spell since we’ve last seen each other, but I’m glad to say that another opportunity to do so is imminent. I will be traveling through the town of Huntersville the week of April 4th. You can find me staying at the hotel in town. I’m pretty sure there’s only one, but if there’s two and I ain’t at the one, then try the other. I look forward to swapping old stories with you and maybe creating some new ones. Sincerely, Dad

Shane smiled and tucked the letter back in his pocket. He should have burned it after the first reading, but he’d realized the value of retaining it. The letter could provide documentation to justify his movements. One never knew when some nosy lawman might inquire as to what had brought a stranger to his town or jurisdiction. A letter from home would surely assuage the concerns of even the most suspicious sheriff.

The letter was postmarked from New Orleans, and ‘Dad’ was, in fact, Major Frederick Becker, the leader of the gang. This was his summons announcing a new venture, and one would have been sent to all four of his ‘sons.’ There was no need for the major to include an RSVP; he knew the men would converge at the location and time he’d designated. If they didn’t show, it would be because they were dead or had sworn off the outlaw life, in which case, they would be replaced. Shane knew that of the four subordinates, he was the most expendable.

He was the newest member of the gang with a tenure of only two years. The others had ridden with the major almost since the beginning, shortly after the war ended. The major’s right-hand man, Clarence ‘Bulldog’ Casey, had served as a master sergeant in the battalion that the major had commanded. Major Becker and Casey weren’t the kind of men to return to looking at the backside of a mule after their military careers ended, especially not the major. He was, without a doubt, the most brilliant man Shane had ever known, using his expertise as a military strategist to meticulously plot their capers. Shane had taken part in a dozen such operations, and he considered each one to have been a success, unfolding almost exactly as the major had envisioned. The operations had always been profitable and, thus far, the gang had emerged unscathed.

Among the gang members, Lance Larrikan was the odd duck, an Australian with an unfailing sense of humor and devil-may-care attitude, though he could turn deadly grim in a heartbeat. Joseph Two-Knives, the Indian of the group, was, for the most part, an enigma—hardly ever speaking and keeping his distance from the others, both physically and socially. Yet he was always at their side in the thick of things and was, unquestionably, a man who could be counted upon to pull his own weight.

It had been four months since they’d last convened, a long stretch of inactivity by the major’s timetable. They’d made a pretty good haul from that heist, a train carrying a payroll bound for troops at Fort Griffin, but most of Shane’s cut had gone toward stopping the foreclosure of his fiancée’s parents’ house. Mary Lou had never asked him to bail them out, but she didn’t need to.

Shane was determined that this would be the last operation in which he’d participate. He hoped that the major’s target would yield sufficient bounty to allow him and Mary Lou to settle down. They would be wed, buy a modest spread, and raise a family. Shane knew he’d been lucky so far, but he also knew that the more risks you took, the more likely you were to meet a bad end. Shane had too much to live for to end up that way. He was sure the major would understand.

Deciding that he’d done enough lollygagging, Shane mounted Winnie and pressed onward in his trek. He could hear the water sloshing in the paint’s belly as she clopped along. Shane would take it easy on her for a few miles before spurring her into a full gallop.

The major had picked a good time of year for a long ride. Shane had been up and down Texas a number of times, working the cattle runs up from San Antonio to Abilene, Kansas. He wasn’t familiar with Huntersville, figuring it to be a small town of no consequence, but evidently, the major had discovered something to recommend it. Small towns were good: not too many lawmen to offer resistance, and not too many citizens to get in the way.

Shane couldn’t help thinking about Mary Lou as he rode farther and farther from her. She was the reason he was doing this, after all. Sure, he enjoyed the company of the Becker Gang. He felt himself come alive among them in a way he never felt elsewhere. It was invigorating, being in the midst of men who, together, were capable of achieving damn near anything they set their minds to. He grinned, thinking that if Mary Lou ever beheld the transformation that Shane underwent when he was riding into the jaws of hell with the gang, she would surely have had grave doubts about whether she truly knew the man to whom she was engaged.

Enough mooning over his girl and dwelling on the past. Shane gave Winnie a kick with his heels and off she went. As Winnie thundered over the prairie, Shane let out a whoop. It was going to be wild, he knew. Real goddamn wild!

***

“Mary Lou Donaldson, have you been crying?”

“Just got something in my eye,” Mary Lou replied to her mother, attempting a smile, but it quickly crumbled. She turned away and busied herself clearing the dishes from the breakfast table. Her father, Horace, peeked over his newspaper at her, but did not intervene.

“That seems to happen every time Shane rides off on one of his cattle drives,” Esther Donaldson observed. “How long’s he going to be gone this time?”

The tears welled up again in Mary Lou’s eyes. She asked herself that every time Shane joined up with those outlaws, always afraid that he might not return at all. She cleared her throat.

“Hard to say, Mama. He said he’s only going so far as Oklahoma, so maybe a couple weeks or less, but you never know. Things change.”

Esther put her arms around her daughter and turned Mary Lou around to face her. “Well, one thing that won’t change is how much that man loves you. You know that, right?”

Mary Lou closed her eyes, squinting as the tears trickled down her cheek. “Yes, I know that, Mama.”

“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about him taking up with some painted woman in one of those cattle towns. That man’s got both feet planted on the ground. He doesn’t drink, or chew, or blaspheme, either.”

“Painted women?” Horace echoed. Receiving a sharp glare from his wife, he retreated behind the newspaper.

“I’d say you’ve got yourself a good one, Mary Lou,” Esther concluded.

Mary Lou nodded. She wished she could unburden her fears and tell her mother that Shane wasn’t on a cattle drive, that he was meeting up with a gang of robbers, and that she was worried senseless Shane would end up getting shot or imprisoned. But she pushed that impulse down deep inside her. The act might offer her a brief emotional respite, but it would only alarm her mother, and she and Papa would no doubt forbid her from ever seeing Shane again.

“And I’m not just saying that out of gratitude for what he did for us,” Esther declared, “though grateful I should forever be.” Now it was Esther’s turn to tear up. “When I think of how most men his age would have spent that payday… Well, it just goes to show the kind of man he is, if one required proof of such a thing.” She squeezed her daughter’s arms. “You just need to be strong, honey, for Shane’s sake. Why, if he knew that you were moping about like this, he’d probably turn around and come back, and then we’d never be rid of you!”

Mary Lou laughed and accepted the handkerchief her mother offered. Another round of waterworks began, but these were tears of happiness. “Oh, Mama, I’m gonna miss you and Papa so much. But we haven’t decided on which property we’ll buy. With any luck, we’ll be close enough to visit you regularly. Or you can come visit us!”

Esther patted Mary Lou’s shoulder. “Well, we’ll just see how it plays out. Proximity to your parents shouldn’t be foremost in your planning. Don’t you worry. Trust in the Lord, and it’ll all work out. As long as you don’t move to Wyoming or one of those places where it snows half the year, we’ll make do.”

“I’ve always wanted to see Wyoming,” Horace said to no one in particular.

Mary Lou smiled affectionately at her father. Since his stroke, he’d lost his job at the mill. His left arm was still weak, but he took in work sharpening blades, carving religious knick-knacks, and sign painting—anything he could to bring a little money into the household. She knew Papa was in Shane’s corner, too.

Mary Lou realized that, even if she’d wanted to, there wasn’t much she could have revealed to her parents about Shane’s whereabouts. Shane had told Mary Lou long ago that secrecy in these matters was for her own good, as well as for his compadres.

“Think of it like a battle campaign,” he’d told her. At twenty-one, Shane had been too young to serve in the Civil War, but he understood the concept of keeping one’s cards close to the chest. “If you don’t know anything, you can’t let something slip. If something bad did happen, and if the law came asking how much you knew about what I was up to, you can look them in the eye and honestly say that you didn’t know a damn thing. That’s the plus side of keeping you in the dark about our activities. The less you know, the better it is for everyone.”

Shane had promised Mary Lou that this would be his last ride with the outlaws. She didn’t badger him into making that vow; she would never try to tell Shane Cassidy what he could or couldn’t do. Shane ha offered this commitment of his own volition. That could all change, she knew, if this particular ‘campaign’ fell apart, but she prayed he would find success. With luck, they could close the book on this chapter in their lives and never open it again. Mama was right; Mary Lou had to stay strong—for Shane’s sake, and for the sake of their unborn child.

Shane wasn’t the only one who could keep a secret.

Chapter Two

The tall, blond-haired man strode through the modest lobby of the Hallmark Hotel, turning the heads of patrons and staff alike. From his weather-beaten slouch hat—with one side of the brim turned up and fastened to the crown—to the polished, green and white speckled, pointed snakeskin boots, nobody had witnessed the likes of a cowboy like this before.

He flashed a broad smile at the desk clerk, and his teeth seemed twice as bright in contrast to his tanned, leathery face. “G’day, mate. You got a guest here by the name of John Vernon?”

The clerk squinted suspiciously back at the cowboy with the loud, nearly unintelligible accent who stood before him. “And what is your name, sir?”

The cowboy’s smile spread wider still, threatening to burst open one of the deep cracks in his craggy face. “Y’hear that?” he bellowed, turning toward the onlookers. “Answers a question with a question! You must’ve been a lawman back in your prime, eh? Name’s Larrikan. Lance Larrikan. Want me to spell it for you?”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” the clerk replied dryly, turning to the mail slots on the wall behind him. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Lance. His name was written on the envelope.

Lance removed a large, gleaming knife with a serrated edge. He sliced open the envelope and slipped the blade back in its holder in less than a second. “I see,” he said, scanning the contents. “That’ll do, then. Say, did he leave any other envelopes in there?”

“Yes, he did. Just one.”

“And who’s it addressed to, mate?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t share that information with you.” The clerk scowled.

Out came the knife again. Lance slammed it down, burying a couple of inches of the blade in the counter. “You know, it may have sounded like I was asking, because it was a question, but I wasn’t asking!”

His words echoed in the room.

He regained his composure. “Now, if you’d like, I’ll jump over there and grab it myself, but if I do, you’re gonna look like you got run over by a bloody buffalo herd!”

The clerk could only make out half of what Lance said, but he accurately deduced the hint of a threat. He reached for the envelope. “It’s addressed to a Shane Cassidy.”

“Shane? No one else?”

“No, sir. This is all I have,” The clerk’s voice was shaky now, as if anticipating a violent reaction from the strange cowboy.

Lance’s smile returned. He plucked the knife from the counter, returning it to its sheath. He held out his right hand. “Right. No hard feelings, then?”

The clerk hesitantly shook the cowboy’s hand. The cowboy squeezed the clerk’s soft, pale palm like a python, causing the blood to pool into the clerk’s fingertips till they were ripe to pop. When the grip was released, the clerk’s hand throbbed with pain.

Lance tipped his hat to the onlookers as he departed. He stopped short of the door, spying through the front window a figure standing to the side of the door. He pulled out his knife and burst through the door. Lance pivoted toward the figure, slamming him against the window, the serrated blade pressed against his throat.

“You filthy savage!” he hissed. “Looking to bushwhack me, were you?”

The man said nothing, nor did any sign of fear cross his face. His eyes stared into Lance’s, and then the corners of his mouth turned slightly, almost imperceptibly, upward.

It was one the of the few times Lance had seen Joseph Two-Knives smile, and he soon found out why. Something hard poked into his groin, and Lance saw that, without seeming to have moved a muscle, the Indian had slipped a knife from under the blanket cloaking his shoulders and pressed it into Lance’s family jewels.

Lance lowered his knife, as did Joseph Two-Knives.

“How you been, Chief?” Lance grinned. “They hire you to stand out here? Couldn’t afford a wooden Indian, eh?” He held up the envelope. “Y’know what this is, mate? It’s a treasure map!” Lance unfolded the paper inside and showed Joseph the map Major Becker had drawn, pinpointing his location. “So, you had the place staked out, huh? They sure wouldn’t allow no Aborigine to set foot in that flea trap, would they? The major must’ve reckoned that, too.”

Joseph simply stared back at Lance, offering no explanation.

“When I saw they didn’t have an envelope for you,” Lance continued, “I figured you either got here before me, or you were lurking nearby. Casey got here first, looks like. Figures. Old Bulldog, he’s the Major’s shadow, ain’t he? Well, I think we’re about done here, eh, Chief? You got a horse?”

Joseph whistled, and his pinto galloped out from the alley of the hotel. Joseph hopped on its bare back and galloped off toward the destination he’d viewed on the map.

“Hey, wait for me, you godless bastard!” Lance shouted, and soon the two men were barreling toward the major’s campsite on the edge of town.

***

Major Frederick Becker stood near the campfire being tended by Casey, staring out at the two men riding toward the campsite. He smiled as he recognized the riders. Lance dismounted and shook the major’s hand, then nodded at Casey. The major held up his hand in greeting toward Joseph, who remained on his horse, staring at the smoke rising nearby.

“Good to see you, men,” the major said. “That leaves Shane Cassidy the last to report. We’ll give him a couple days. After that, we’ll either find some local talent to replace him, or we’ll do without. How you been, Timothy? How’s the missus?”

Lance grimaced at the mention of his real name, which was Timothy Neal Finn. The major was the only man in America who knew it. Lance had abandoned his given name when he’d signed on as labor for a California-bound freighter. Australian authorities had sought his arrest in connection with two murders and a number of robberies, and Lance believed that a fresh start in a new country was in order. Lance had conjured his new surname from Aussie slang for a rowdy individual who holds little regard for social convention or the law. And Lance was added as an alliterative reference to his self-proclaimed ‘prodigious’ sexual appendage.

“Good, the both of us.” Lance beamed. “I was tempted to bring her for conjugal purposes,” he joked, “but she said the rest would do her good. The poor gal is so bow-legged, she walks in circles!”

The major laughed heartily. He always enjoyed the ribald banter of the Aussie. Casey, however, merely scoffed and spat in the fire. To him, the talkative braggart was a vexation, as irritating as some gossipy shrew, which was but one contributing factor to Casey’s lifelong bachelor status.

“No, no place for creature comforts here,” the major observed. “I will, however, allow you to indulge in spirits tonight—within moderation—but that will cease when Cassidy arrives, understood? I want my men clear-headed and steady on the draw once the operation gets underway.”

Lanced strode to his saddlebag and retrieved a bottle of whiskey. “Then, let’s celebrate! Hate to admit it, but I’ve sure missed you fellas. Even you, Bulldog!” he said, splashing the liquid into the major’s tin cup. He offered some to Casey, but the scowling older man held his cup away from the bottle.

The major frowned. “Come on, Sergeant Casey,” he chided. “We’ve got reason enough to celebrate. All of us survived our last mission, and we’re about to embark on yet another successful endeavor.” For emphasis, he added, “You know that I value esprit de corps almost as much as individual courage.”

Casey grudgingly held out his cup to receive the whiskey.

“That sounds like a toast to me!” Lance exclaimed and tipped the bottle back, chugging down the fiery fluid. He held the bottle out to Joseph, but the Indian simply looked away.

The major didn’t prod Joseph to partake as he had Casey. “Joseph is too disciplined to indulge, and I respect that. Tell me, Mr. Two-Knives, do you still live up to your moniker?”

In a blinding flash, Joseph pulled two knives from a harness strapped across his chest and hurled them simultaneously. The daggers stuck in the trunk of a Mexican sycamore, quivering less than an inch apart.

“Splendid.” The major smiled and held up his cup in salute to the Indian’s marksmanship. “And you, Lance? I trust your skills haven’t atrophied while basking in domestic bliss.”

Lance set down the bottle and fetched his rifle. He stared out at the horizon, scouting for a suitable target, when he spied three buzzards circling in the air over the carcass of a coyote. The major followed Lance’s gaze. The buzzards were so far away that they appeared and vanished like the imaginary specks one sees after staring at the sun.

Lance aimed and fired three shots in quick succession. Each of the birds fanned their wings from the impact before plummeting to the ground.

Major Becker slapped Lance on the shoulder. “Well done. That’s a Spencer repeater, isn’t it? New?”

“Bought with the ill-gotten gains of our last operation,” Lance boasted.

“Well, I hope you brought plenty of ammo,” the major said. Lance nodded and received a pat on the back. The major walked back to the fire to address the men. “I know you want to hear the details of our next mission, but I’d prefer not to repeat myself, so we’ll wait till Cassidy arrives. Go ahead and relax while you can. Sergeant Casey has had a pig roasting underground for about eight hours. How much longer till it’s ready, Sarge?”

Casey looked over his shoulder. Smoke rose up from the ground three feet away. “Two more hours, I figure, maybe more. The longer it roasts, the more tender the meat.”

“Well, I’m going to get some shut-eye,” the major announced. “I’ll be stretched out back there in the tree line, if you need me. Otherwise, give me a holler when the pig’s done.” He raised his hand and offered a slow, casual salute to the men, but Casey stood and returned a crisp salute, as if he were still in uniform. Lance raised his rifle in recognition, and Joseph nodded.

“Go ahead and fall out,” Casey growled. “And don’t be makin’ any noise that’ll wake the major. He says he does some of his best thinking when he’s asleep.”

Chapter Three

It was dusk when Shane arrived, map in hand, at the campfire. From a distance, he’d heard the loud laughter and mouth-watering aroma of roast pig. He hadn’t figured on a party out on the prairie, but his senses indicated otherwise.

The major appeared to welcome Shane, shaking his hand and inquiring about his well-being. Despite the dimming light, Shane beheld a clean-shaven Major Becker. The major’s attire was impeccable for a man living in the woods, his pale Stetson free of dirt and sweat stains, his corduroy coat clean and creased, and his dark, chestnut-hued boots sporting a shine. None of the others troubled themselves with their appearance, but the major was a man who set the example.

Once he’d been served a plateful of the tender pork, Shane sat with the others around the fire.

“Did you observe anyone else on your trip from town?” Major Becker asked.

“I thought I spied old John Vernon, but it turned out to be a mirage,” Shane quipped.

The others chuckled at the mention of Major Becker’s alter ego. “That reminds me,” the major said. “I want you to toss those maps and letters I sent you in the fire, if you haven’t already. We’re not leaving any clues, no matter how obscure, along our trail.”

“I still don’t know how you got word to Joseph there about the meet-up,” Lance said.

Major Becker smiled, and looked over at the Indian. “You don’t mind if I tell ‘em, do you, Joseph?” Receiving no response, the major continued, “I have a contact at Fort Worth. In fact, this contact was the man who initially recommended Joseph to me. You see, I wanted a man tracked down, and damned if I didn’t find him, with Joseph’s help. Casey, you remember Sergeant Weston, that scoundrel supply sergeant back in Virginia that I suspected of selling our materiel on the black market? Well, by the time I could finally prove it, he’d already slithered to Texas, but I wasn’t going to give up. His crimes demanded justice, and that’s exactly what he got.”

“What did you do to him?” Lance asked, intrigued.

“Well, I wanted to hear a confession from his own lips, but that bastard swore on his mother’s life that he was innocent. That’s when I discovered Joseph had other skills besides tracking. You ever heard that Chinese expression, death by a thousand cuts? Well, we tied Weston to some stakes out in the blazing sun, and Joseph commenced to carving on him, bit by bit. Once those fire ants discovered him, you could hear his screaming for miles.” The major smiled at the memory. “He never did confess, but I don’t fault Joseph for that. I believe that if Weston’s heart hadn’t given out on him, we’d have gotten what we wanted to hear. He went to his death an unrepentant liar, but justice was finally served.”

“I’d have just squeezed his head like a grape,” Casey spat. “A traitor like that don’t deserve any more time on this Earth than’s necessary to kill him.”

“I understand,” Major Becker said. “But if I’d just put a bullet in him in Virginia, it would have been me facing a court-martial. Plus, I would never have encountered our Tonkawa friend here. Now, in addition to his numerous skills, Joseph has demonstrated a singular sense of character. His father was the chief of his tribe, but for some reason—temperament, politics, or whatever—the chief chose his younger son to succeed him. And a woman Joseph had his eye on was thrown in as part of the bargain.

“Well, Joseph was a proud man and he refused to accept this humiliation, so he left the tribe. Not long afterwards, the Tonkawa were decimated by a Comanche attack, so it appears he made the right choice. But that’s just the kind of man Joseph is. He carries no allegiances, is welcome nowhere, and trusts no one. I’d say that pretty much defines each of us, as well, wouldn’t you?”

The men looked upon the Indian with newfound respect, though none of them were willing to view themselves as pariahs, like Joseph.

“Well, come on,” the major persisted. “Lance, when you arrived on these shores, did you choose sides in that California range war based upon principle? Did you really care whether the cattlemen were in the right, or if those fencing off their properties were the underdogs? No, you picked a side based on who paid the best. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir,” Lance agreed. “It was the silver I was after.”

“Exactly.” The major smiled. “And Shane, we plucked you out of that Abilene jail, remember? There you were, enjoying the fruits of your labors, relaxing and playing cards after a long cattle drive, when some slick, card dealer tries to cheat you. You call him on it, and the dealer pulls a gun, but you beat him to the draw. The sheriff didn’t want to hear some transient cowpoke’s account of what had transpired. His only concern was that a local man had been killed, and the other locals expected you to hang for it. So much for justice. Fortunately, providence intervened.”

“Yeah,” Shane grinned, “ya’ll were comin’ to free old Webb Foote, my cellmate. Weaver, I think was his actual name. He told me you’d be coming for him. And when you yanked on the bars in that window, Webb scrambled about halfway through, but a deputy came and shot him in the ass, so I took his place. Man, old Webb went at that deputy, fixin’ to finish him off, but a couple other guards swarmed on him. I heard one club crackin’ his skull real good. I’m sure they finished him off.”

The major nodded solemnly. “And you haven’t returned home to San Anton’ since, have you?”

“No, sir,” Shane replied. “The law had my name and knew where I was from. I’m afraid to show my face back there. And I’ll be damned if I’ll ever set foot in Kansas again!”

“And your loss was my gain.” Major Becker smiled. “We decided to give you a chance, and you’ve proven yourself time and again.” The Major looked at the fire. “Somehow, all these orphans and outcasts have flocked under my wing—except for Sergeant Casey, of course, who’s been by my side for nearly fifteen years.

“Gentlemen, it’s been less than a century since our forefathers threw off the shackles a monarch put on them, but have things really changed? Seems to me we’ve just exchanged one king for a bunch of little princes. When the laws are stacked against you, the little guy doesn’t stand a chance on his own. He gains strength by joining with others who are willing to fight back. And so, we hit them where it hurts: in their wallets!

“All those good people who go about their business every day, working at their humdrum jobs, handing over their meager earnings to the local bank, raising families—they all hope that by being dutiful citizens, they’ll somehow be immune if some calamity comes along. But all it takes is an accusation, or a downturn in the economy, and their lives are blown away like dried cow chips.

“We’ve all been there, doing what we’re told and thankful for the scraps from their table, but we’ve found our own way of defining ourselves and standing up to the corruption that seeps through society like poison through a snake. Now, I’ve fought the good fight on many a battlefield, but I will tell you, with absolute honesty, that I’m most proud of serving with the men gathered around me now. You are my brothers, my outlaw kin, my avenging angels!”

“Hear, hear,” Casey agreed, pouring a round into the cups held out around the fire. The men sipped the whiskey while basking in the major’s warm words.

“You know, I was having a chat with John Vernon the other day.” The major winked. “Seems he was playing cards with some prominent potentates and poo-bahs, as is his lot. And as the game went on, and the politicians got deeper into their drinks, one of ‘em let slip some insightful information about the bank in yonder town.”

Major Becker stood and walked a few feet from the fire, looking out toward Huntersville. “Although it’s a modest, little town, they house a sizable store of gold and currency in that bank. There are some very successful agricultural entities in the area that stockpile their fortunes there, with minimal protection from the law. That, to me, seemed too tempting to ignore.” He cast a glance at Lance. “Like the world’s most beautiful virgin, waiting to be plucked.”

“Amen, Major!” Lance crowed.

“Of course, the ramblings of a drunken judge are not alone sufficient to risk our lives,” Major Becker continued. “I believe it would behoove each of us to rest our eyes on the bank personally, with a mind toward the execution of the robbery. Starting tomorrow, no more drink!”

“No, sir,” the men muttered.

“Each of us will ride into town and scout the layout. Each of you is unique, and each of you will spy something significant that the others won’t. Do we all charge in together, or do we slip into town, one at a time? Do we exit the same way we entered? We need to identify the resources of the local marshal, check the type of businesses nearby. Wouldn’t do to have a gun shop right across from the bank, would it?”

The men chuckled.

“Lance, I expect you to find a suitable location for a sniper position.”

“Yes, sir, Major. You know I will.”

“We’ll send each of you out at different times of day to determine when we should strike. And Casey and I have already secured a rendezvous location to join up, should we become separate, about five miles from here. Provisions have been stored there, along with additional ammunition. That’s where we’ll split up our haul.” The major paused. “There’ll be no maps made up this time. I’ll reveal the location later, once you’ve all sobered up.”

The men laughed as the major turned toward the city again. He rubbed his hands together, warming them against the cool night air.

“You know, I could’ve stayed at that cozy hotel and relayed my instructions to you via Sergeant Casey, but I wanted to gather with my men, under the stars, because we need to think and move like a team! We need to shake off that city dust and howl with the coyotes! We need to return to our true, animal selves.”

Major Becker raised a fist toward Huntersville. “We’re coming for your money, you bastards, and we don’t play by your rules! Resist us, and you’ll feel the consequences!”

The men cheered, like a church congregation swept away by a powerful sermon.

“Raise a hand against us, and we’ll drop you to the ground!”

“Yes!” Lance called out, unsheathing his knife.

“Fire upon one of us, and we’ll kill ten of yours!”

The men were on their feet, rallying around their leader. They were ready for battle. If he’d given the order, they’d have ridden into town right then to take that bank.

The major turned and looked into the faces of his men. His eyes seemed to glisten with emotion.

“We are warriors, gentlemen,” he said, softly, but firmly. “If you just keep that in mind, you can forget everything else!”

***

Shane was thankful for the arrival of dawn, yet dreaded the task that awaited him. For most of the night, he’d been unable to fall asleep, despite the weariness that overwhelmed him from his long ride. Staring up at the stars, his body had relaxed in the cushion of his bedroll, but his mind had raced in anticipation of the topic of discussion he would need to broach with Major Becker: that this would be his last ride with the gang.

Shane had never deluded himself into thinking he was an especially valued member of the group. He could easily be replaced. His skills with a pistol and a horse were decidedly average. While he wasn’t a fancy gunslinger, when urgency prevailed, he could hit his target dead center, delivering death in one, clean shot, but so could countless others. And his riding skills paled in comparison to Joseph Two-Knives, who could maneuver every which way on his horse while still firing accurately.

Shane believed that what set him apart from the pack was his devotion to Major Becker. Something in the major’s character demanded an effort from his subordinates to meet or exceed expectations, not just physically, but mentally, as well. The gang was a well-oiled machine that required all of its components to run with perfect synchronicity. If any man slipped up through inattentiveness or loss of nerve, the entire apparatus could falter and fail. But when the gang saddled up and the operation commenced, Shane never held back, nor merely parroted how the others conducted themselves; he plunged wholeheartedly toward the objective, alive in the moment, his energy and commitment second to none.

And now, the prospect of telling Major Becker that he intended to turn his back on the gang, to take the money and run, filled Shane with a sense of guilt and anxiety—even more so after the major’s rousing testimonial the night before. Shane felt unworthy of the major’s praise, like a deserter slinking away from his duties, as if admitting that their camaraderie was an illusion, secondary to his own self-interests.

On the other hand, Major Becker was a man of the world, Shane reasoned. Although he’d never shared with the others anything regarding his personal life, never mentioning a wife or children, the major would know that a young man had other interests besides merely performing his duties. Surely, the man had given his heart to someone or something other than The Cause, or the thrill of the outlaw life. Surely, he understood that the same impulse that allowed a man to risk his own well-being for his brothers-in-arms would also fuel his desire to share his life with the woman he loved.

Surely, the major would understand.

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All Shane Cassidy wanted in life was to marry his childhood sweetheart, Mary Lou, and earn enough to buy a patch of land to call their own. What he didn’t expect though was that he would join the notorious Becker Gang and lead the outlaw life instead. When after a couple of years he finally decides to quit the Gang, Shane’s luck runs out, as he gets captured on his very last heist. As the days pass, Shane realizes that no one will come to his rescue and he is afraid that he will soon be facing the hangman’s rope. Will Shane manage to escape the prison bars, as well as his doomed fate, and lead the life he has always craved?

When Shane crosses paths with Captain Moses Ramsey of the Texas Rangers, a chance at redemption appears, as he is being offered a deal for a reduced sentence. However, a misguided sense of loyalty to the notorious outlaws will initially prevent Shane from riding with Ramsey’s posse and help identify his former confederates. Soon enough, he realizes that these outlaws are not worthy of his sacrifice, and he considers cooperating for the sake of justice as well as his love. Will Shane help Ramsey track the Becker Gang, and bring an end to their pillaging, dead or alive? If Shane betrays the Gang to save his own skin, will he end up regretting that decision?

Catching the Becker Gang will not be an easy task, as it is made up of four formidable opponents. It will take all of Shane’s skills to find the people who turned their backs on him and confront them face to face. Will Shane and Ramsey prove to be worthy adversaries of the ruthless men? Or will Shane lose his last chance at happiness, disappointing the woman who has been the most important person in his life?

A pulse-pounding drama, which will make you turn the pages with bated breath until the very last word. A must-read for fans of Western action and romance.

“Riding Under the Texas Sun” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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