Reign of Terror in the West (Preview)

Chapter One

It had started out as one of those perfect Colorado summer mornings. Zane Blevins had had his coffee in the breakfast nook. Not in one of the big opulent Capitol Hill houses where the elite of Denver lived, but in an apartment. He would own one of those magnificent mansions that he could see from where he sat, but not yet. His mentor Isaac Kaplan told him patience was the businessman’s greatest virtue.

As he did every morning, he had read the paper while Azalea prepared breakfast. That enabled him to see how people and businesses thought and operated, essential information in making him adept at negotiations and market analysis.

But the news that morning made his blood run cold …

After breakfast, he had numbly ridden the horse-drawn trolley to the garment district. Now he walked down the street with the newspaper folded under his arm, thoughts roiling in his mind.

Sharky fell in step beside him. “Why the long face, my man?”

“Oh, hi, Sharky. Because I found out that you and your fellow pool sharks weren’t bullshitting me yesterday.”

“Me, bullshit my favorite cloth tycoon? You’re my favorite turd.” Then, noticing his troubled demeanor, “Sorry, Zane. What did we say?”

“You guys said you’d heard rumors about murders in some small Colorado towns that sounded similar. This morning, the paper mentioned three that happened within days of each other.”

Sharky scoffed. “Miners kill each other for jumping each other’s claims all the time. And cowboys shoot other cowboys over women or card games whenever they get drunked up.”

“This is different, Sharky. The killer used the same MO: strangled young women, most of them redheads.” Zane didn’t tell him the evil memories the news had dredged up from his depths.

“They’ll catch him, Sport. Don’t worry about it. But hey, I caught up with you because me and the boys are going to a new joint tonight. Thought you might want to come along.”

“Can’t tonight. Where is it?”

“At Seventeenth and Market, on the southeast corner. It’s called the Tivoli Club. Saloon downstairs with gambling one floor up: faro, roulette table, a gambling room.”

Zane shook his head. “That’s one of Soapy Smith’s joints. You know too much about his cons to go near one of them.”

“He’s a con man who separates money from suckers, not people like us. It’s 1889, man. Times are a-changing, and we gotta change with ‘em.”

“You can change them in my place,” said Zane. “I have to go to work now. Here’s my warehouse. Good luck, Sharky. Tell Charley and Steve I said hi.”

“Will do, my man, and watch you cry when you see how much money we make off the suckers.”

As usual, Zane had arrived early to finish some paperwork before the others came. But, seated in his office, he couldn’t concentrate. He tried but failed to banish the sight of his mother as last seen by his thirteen-year-old self: bulging, blood-red eyes, open mouth from her last scream, swollen lips, tiny red splotches on her skin, and purple bruises on her neck. Those sights, something he could never unsee.

He got up and paced, unable to concentrate.

“You okay, Boss?”

He turned to see Whitey Pollock standing at the door with a cup of coffee for each of them.

“Why, uh, yes. No. Look at this.” He handed him the newspaper, which he had unwittingly mangled, stabbing the article with his forefinger.

“Yes, I saw that this morning.” Whitey looked up at Zane. “But I’ve never seen something bad enough to make you walk around in the office cussing, especially the goings-on in some small town. In fact, I never heard you cuss much before.”

Zane hadn’t been aware that he was speaking aloud.

Whitey asked, “Anything I can do to help you, Boss?”

“Yes, quit calling me ‘Boss.’ You’re ten years older than me.” He knew Whitey did it to irritate him.

“I did have a reason to see you, Zane, in addition to listening to your creative language. A guy here wants to talk to you about outfitting miners up in Clear Creek.”

“Send him in.”

Whitey ushered in a husky, red-faced man with muttonchop side whiskers and a bushy mustache that covered his mouth. He looked like he’d be more comfortable in overalls than the business suit he wore.

Whitey said, “Zane, this is Mr. Michael Flannery. He owns a dry goods store in Clear Creek. Mr. Flannery, Mr. Zane Blevins.”

“Mr. Blevins, pleased to meetcha.”

“Likewise,” said Zane. “And it’s Zane. Please have a seat.” Zane indicated the chair in front of his desk. And after Whitey went out and the storekeeper sat down, “What can I do for you?”

“And I’m Mike. Your friend Mr. Hiram Elkhart recommended you to me, Mr. uh, Zane. As you know, Clear Creek’s a mining town. We’re more of a general store. We sell miners whatever they need, from pick axes to tin pans. And we sell clothes but the kinds they wants is costing us too dear to compete with stores in Denver and Golden.”

“What kind are they looking for?”

“Clear Creek’s at a high elevation, so they need good coats in the winter. And they like these here Levi Strauss trousers made outta canvas ‘cause they take such a beating in the mines. The high price of wagons bringing them across the mountains from San Francisco is driving our costs up. Clear Creek’s too small for us to sell enough of ‘em to keep ’em down.”

Zane said, “They make their trousers out of denim now instead of canvas – folks call them Levi’s, by the way – and they’ve added copper rivets to the pocket seams to keep the gold nuggets they carry in the mines from tearing them out. They also make denim overall jackets with turned-down collars and four or five pockets.

“But maybe you’re in luck, Mike. Since we’re wholesalers, we sell goods to a lot of stores. The more we sell, the lower our cost is. We can pass those savings on to you. Let me show you a price list.”

Zane pulled a folder out of a desk drawer and opened it, so it faced Flannery.

After the storekeeper looked the prices over, he said, “Why, that’d put us on a footing with the stores down here.” He looked up at Zane. “Hope you don’t mind me asking, young fellow, but how could someone your age build such a successful wholesale company? Did your daddy –?”

“My father has nothing to do with my business,” Zane said, more tersely than he intended. He was a sheriff, now retired, based in Rangerly, Boscombe County, on the western side of the state.

“Oh, I’m very sorry. It’s just that you only look about twenty years …”

“I’ll be twenty-six in a couple of months.” Zane stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll turn you over to Whitey to look over our merchandise and see if you find items you can use.” He put out a hand for Flannery to shake.

And as he did, Flannery said, “I’m really sorry I offended you, Mr. Blevins …”

Zane forced a smile. “No offense taken, Mike. And remember, it’s Zane.”

“If I could buy you lunch …?”

“Sorry, but I’m having lunch with a friend. Tell you what, though, next time I’m in Clear Creek, I’ll buy you lunch.”

After Zane had delivered the shopkeeper to Whitey, he returned to his office, closed the door, and sat behind his desk with his face in his hands.

Chapter Two

The Mr. Hiram Elkhart who had recommended the wholesaler Blevins Fabrics to Mike Flannery was more than a friend of Zane’s. He was, Zane hoped, his future father-in-law. He owned Great Western Mining Technologies, a supplier of large-scale equipment to gold and silver mines in the nearby Rocky Mountains. At ten minutes to twelve, Zane left for Great Western’s office at Seventeenth and Larimer Street.

Penelope rose from the reception desk to greet him. “Oh, Mr. Blevins, Miss Elkhart is on the telephone with her father. She’ll be through in a moment.”

Zane said, “I didn’t think the old bird believed in telephones.”

“He doesn’t,” said Laura Elkhart from down the hallway. “But he’s in St. Louis with a pump manufacturer so he has no choice but to use one if he wants to nag me. He claims that the telephone keeps people from doing business the only honest way, which is face to face.”

She looked lovely in a green high-collared dress that matched her eyes. It had a full overskirt swagged and tucked to reveal the underskirt beneath it. A small hat covered her coiffure of rich chestnut-colored hair.

Zane grinned. “Which is why, I suppose, he went to St. Louis. To carry on business face to face.”

“Exactly.” She came forward and took his arm. “Let’s flee before he calls back.”

On the way down the stairs he decided to keep their conversation light and put aside dark thoughts. It wasn’t right to burden Laura with his personal tragedy.

Once on the street, he said, “Your father’s penchant for calling on his customers personally instead of telephoning them got me some business today.” He told her about the conversation with Michael Flannery. “I have to admit, your father’s partially right. He’s correct that meeting customers builds personal relationships that’re otherwise impossible. I owe your dad for that insight.”

“Let’s forget business,” she said. “Where shall we have lunch?”

“At your favorite grill. We’ll take the tramway.”

But once in the car, images of strangled young women rose up before his mind’s eye.

She encircled his arm with both of hers and said quietly, “You read the article, didn’t you?”

He gave a single nod.

“But it’s not like your mother, darling. They were three different girls in three different towns.”

And my mother was one of six, he thought, in six different towns.

“And that was a long time ago. The villain that did that must be dead. He wouldn’t just suddenly quit killing and then start up again twelve years later. Someone either arrested or killed him.”

I’ve got to know, he thought. Laura’s face, frozen in terror, with her dark reddish-brown hair, came unbidden to his mind. The dead girls were redheads. My mother had reddish blonde hair.

She took his hand. “Let’s go riding this weekend. Dad doesn’t think it’s fitting for me to work in the office – that’s man’s work – but he doesn’t mind me riding with you.”

He turned to her. “I have to leave town for a few days. It may be over the weekend.” And when she started to protest, “On business. Like I mentioned earlier, that’s something I learned from your father. Keeping close personal contact with clients builds trust, reassures them of your commitment.”

“I know, I know. You’re trying to ‘prove yourself’ to my father. Our courtship has lasted two years. If he doesn’t trust you by now … I mean, if that’s why you’re really waiting …”

He took her hands. He would have taken her in his arms if she hadn’t considered it unseemly in public. “You know I love you, but I want your father’s blessing. Not just because he’s such an influential person in Denver but out of respect for him. He’s one of my two most important mentors. Remember what he said when I first asked to take you out?”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Of course. ‘I won’t have my only daughter seen with a cowboy’s brat. We come from a fine heritage of old money from Pittsburg.’ He didn’t know we’d already been seeing each other. But I don’t care what he thinks, Zane. You’ve already proven yourself to me. Isn’t that enough?”

“Of course.” She was right. Her father’s colleagues and other prominent people had looked down on him when Zane started courting his daughter, one of the most beautiful and eligible young women in the city. But his growing business and honesty had made them take note of him. He numbered some, like Sharky Barclay, son of the financier, among his friends. He grinned inwardly, thinking of how Sharky’s father hated young Carl’s nickname.

“Well, isn’t it?” demanded Laura petulantly.

It took him a minute to regain the thread of their conversation. “Of course, it’s enough.” He kissed her nose. “Let your father get home and recover from his trip – you know how he hates to travel – and me from mine. Then you and I will plot my strategy for asking for your hand.

“Now, don’t look at me like that. I’m determined. I love you and will never let you go, no matter what he says.”

And then, to his surprise, and those sitting around them, she grabbed him and kissed him full on the lips. Then she pulled away, still holding his coat sleeves, and said, “But what about your father? Don’t you want to discuss this with him?”

He looked down and said, “Our lives don’t intersect anymore.”

Then they noticed they had gone two stops beyond where they had intended to get off.

~  ~  ~

Zane would honor the commitment he had made to Laura. She was the love of his life, after all. But would she regret it? Her primary residence was a palatial mansion in the southern part of the city with a score of servants and a small ranch south of the city where her family kept their horses. Her mother was a socialite who spent as much or more time in Manhattan and the Back Bay area of Boston as in Denver.

Now that they had committed to marriage, he was determined to follow through. The question, though, was whether she could adjust to a life she had never known: in an apartment, albeit a high-toned one in the Capitol Hill District with a part-time cook/maid named Azalea from New Orleans who nagged him when he didn’t put his dirty clothes in the hamper.

He had no time to think about that now. He had to plan for the time he would be out of town, probably for more than a week. After escorting Laura back to her office and returning to his, he called Whitey, Minnie Ross, head of bookkeeping, and Chad Ripley of shipping into his office.

“I have to be gone for a few days,” he said. “Routine trip. Keeping clients happy, like I do. This is Wednesday. Count on me being back Monday.” Going over the following week’s schedule took about an hour.

After he dismissed everyone, Whitey lingered. “Everything okay, Zane?”

When he didn’t call Zane Boss, Zane knew he was serious. Zane fiddled with some papers. “Of course. Why shouldn’t it be? I take business trips every month.”

“You play close to your vest, Zane. Nobody can read you but me. This has something to do with that newspaper article and –”

“It’s none of your business, Whitey. Get back to work.” He put the papers into his valise and brushed past Whitey on the way out.

He should never have told Whitey about his mother’s murder.

He stopped by the telegraph office and sent a telegram to his father asking for all the information he had about his mother’s murder and the others. He didn’t know if his old man would comply.

Then he went home to pack for the ride to Carruthers, Colorado, where the first of the current three murders and the first of the six that claimed his mother took place.

Chapter Three

Zane had enjoyed his early boyhood. He had inherited his mother’s fair treatment of others and his father’s penchant for keeping his own counsel. They lived on a small ranch just outside Greggs, Colorado where his father Wesley Blevins, the county’s sheriff, had his office. He had been close to his parents, though his favorite times had been those spent with his father. Along with his teaching Zane the proper care of horses and gun safety, they had ridden horses, fired a variety of firearms, and hunted.

He had his mother Melody’s fair complexion, reddish-blond hair and open expression that made him look younger than his years and encouraged everyone’s trust. He thought of his mother as the most genuine and loving person in the world and his father as a fair but tough enforcer of justice. In fact, Wesley intimidated him a little.

It happened the summer Zane turned thirteen when he and his father were away from home. Zane had spent two weeks in Wyoming with his father’s parents on their ranch, as he did every summer. Wesley was escorting a cattle rustler he had apprehended and a jury found guilty to the state penitentiary in Cañon City.

Deemed mature enough to travel by himself that year, for which Zane felt very grownup indeed, he had taken the stagecoach to his grandparents’ ranch and thence back to Greggs. For the first time he remembered, his mother was late meeting him in town with her horse and his to escort him home.

After a half hour, he went to the house of Dr. and Mrs. Watson, friends of the family. Perhaps she had gone there to wait and lost track of time. They hadn’t seen her. Mrs. Watson offered to take him to the ranch in their carriage, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He had proven himself competent to travel to Wyoming and back without adult accompaniment, and the ranch lay only a short distance from town. With some reluctance, the Watsons loaned him the horse the doctor rode to make rural house calls.

At the ranch, he didn’t find his mother in the house. In the back yard, he saw clothing hanging on the clothesline and wet laundry in a basket. That’s when he began to worry. He searched and called her name.

He found her in the barn. Unable to rouse her, he lay next to her and wept until the Watsons found him after dark.

Zane and his taciturn father had never spoken much, but he had always felt they were close. But after the funeral, when Zane needed someone to help him make sense of all that, Wesley had no time for him. He seldom even spoke to Zane but spent every waking moment looking for Melody’s murderer, sometimes spending nights away from home, where Zane stayed wrapped in loneliness and despair.

Zane grew moody and aloof at school. Though the other students voiced their support, they drew away from him, even the few he had considered friends. Nevertheless, he felt more comfortable there than at home.

Wesley continued his search for the murderer as other victims appeared, never more than one in a town. He threw himself into work during the day and drank to drown his grief at night. Chores and what little housecleaning that got done fell to Zane.

A big man, Wesley had the reputation of a tough but fair sheriff. Now he treated those who perpetrated the slightest crimes viciously. One night, after drinking in the Salt Lick Saloon, he severely beat a man others had accused of mistreating his wife. When the bartender tried to call Wesley off, the sheriff put a large fist up before his nose and said, “You want some of this, Mac? And a night in a cell with this asshole?”

He detained drifters and strangers as suspects in the murder of his wife and the others and only released them after questioning them none too gently. The district court chief judge reprimanded Wesley for interrogating suspects he had not arrested. People who had once honored him avoided him and muttered behind his back.

After the murders ceased, Wesley’s search slowed to a halt. His vicious behavior lessened, but his drinking did not. Then, drunk, he struck the sixteen-year-old Zane because he hadn’t gotten Wesley’s horse ready as soon as he wanted.

Until then, Zane had maintained respect for his father. He forgave him for his belligerent attitude and drunkenness because of his loss. But Wesley’s wife had also been Zane’s mother. The vision of how she looked in death had been burned indelibly into his soul. A silent rage against his father built within him. He resolved never to become a drunk like his father.

Seeing the ruin of the ranch, with all his father’s money going into the saloons, he promised himself he would become rich. He had to leave home to do that – he now wanted to get as far away from his father as possible – and to go far enough, he needed money. He started working part-time after school, sweeping out the pool hall, washing dishes at the Bluebird Café, and feeding horses at the hotel’s stable. In summer, he helped ranchers with haying and whatever other odd jobs they had.

Wesley remained aloof from him. He hardly knew or seemed to care if Zane came home to supper. When Zane was younger, he and his father had talked about him getting into law enforcement. Zane looked forward to following his father, whom he considered a hero. After Zane’s mother died, neither of them spoke of it. Zane had no intention of entering the field.

Zane had continued to draw apart from others at school. A few days after graduating, he said goodbye to his few remaining friends, withdrew his meager savings from the bank, and packed a few possessions.

Wesley came into the kitchen as he sat eating breakfast. He nodded at Zane’s saddlebags in the chair beside him and said, “Going somewhere?”

“Yes. I’m moving out.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

“I was going to leave you a note.”

“Where to?”

“To Denver.”

Wesley scoffed. “You’ll never make it there.”

Zane got up and, while washing his breakfast dishes, said, “We’ll see.” He took up his saddlebags and left.

~  ~  ~

Zane drifted toward Denver, taking odd jobs at ranches whenever he could find them so that when he reached there in the fall, his money remained about the same as when he left home. He knew the highest buildings marked the downtown’s location; he reached it about midafternoon. The people, men dressed in suits and women in fancy dresses, hurried about, getting on and off the Denver Tramway cars. The sight excited him and dispelled part of his gloom. I’ll soon be amongst ’em, Daisy, he thought to his horse.

Chapter Four

Looking at the downtown hotels, Zane could tell that he couldn’t afford to stay in them. Seeing a drayman sitting on his seat while other men unloaded heavy boxes from his wagon, he rode over to him.

He asked, “Do you know where a poor man from the country could get an affordable night’s lodging?”

“You could ask if there’s a room where I’m a-staying,” said the man in an accent Zane had never heard before. He had a flamboyant black mustache that turned up at the ends. “It’s-a the Bon Vivant. Follow Sixteenth Street down to the South Platte River.” He pointed the way.

“Thank you.”

“Prego.”

He found the hotel without difficulty. Knowing the French bon meant something like “good” in English, he hoped it applied to the hotel’s insides because it didn’t fit the ramshackle clapboard exterior. The lobby’s shabby carpet and the paint peeling off the walls gave him little hope. But the price was affordable, and the room comfortable.

He spent the next two weeks looking for work, to no avail, watching his money dissipate along with his hopes. But he would not return home to prove his father right that he couldn’t make it in Denver. Though the November nights had grown chill, he would live under a bridge along the South Platte rather than return to Greggs.

One night he saw the drayman entering the hotel lobby as he was going out to an affordable restaurant he had found. He had learned the man was a recent immigrant from Italy named Luigi.

“Ah, my young frien’,” said Luigi. “Have you found a job yet?”

“No, but I sold Daisy yesterday, which broke my heart, but it will allow me a couple more weeks to find something.”

“Daisy?”

“My horse.”

“Ah. Well, try the old Jew, Kaplan, the tailor. When I took him fabrics today he tol’ me the boy who ran errands for him quit yesterday. His shop is down Seventeenth Street. First, come have some wine with Tony and me. Life will feel better.”

So Zane did, despite his earlier misgivings about imbibing alcohol. And indeed, life did feel better.

Zane found and entered the shop early the next morning. The stooped old tailor looked at Zane over his glasses. Yes?”

“Hello. I’m Zane Blevins. Luigi Antonelli told me you need someone to run errands for you.”

“Yes, I do. Do you play chess?”

“Why, uh, no.” He hoped that wasn’t a prerequisite for the job.

“That’s all right. You look like a bright young boy. You’ll learn. You see, I’m seventy years old and mostly retired, so I don’t have much to do. But my lumbago is so bad I need someone to run errands and carry things for me when I go to meetings.”

So, Zane got his first job in Denver. He found Isaac Kaplan an amenable boss. Zane read the newspaper every morning to find out what happened in the city and the news of its most influential people. Over the next few months, he found that Isaac knew a lot of important people in the fabric and clothing business by accompanying him on his rounds. Zane spoke little but listened to them intently. He met gophers like himself, clothing designers, executives, and others. He also met Isaac’s nephew Nathan who Isaac had set up in the fabric business. When they left his office, Isaac shook his head as though disappointed with Nathan.

Kaplan still practiced his tailoring skill, but only expensive garments made of the finest materials for wealthy people he liked. And Zane became proficient at chess, which he and Isaac played in their many slow hours.

Isaac had been in the fabric business for a long time, and Zane listened to him and learned.

Isaac took Zane’s measurements and made him two perfectly fitting suits and a couple of shirts. “This is not a Christmas gift,” he said, “but I can’t have a ragamuffin making my deliveries.”

Isaac gave Zane a paltry raise in the spring but made him a new linen suit. Zane began to make friends among the upper class, primarily, he thought, because the expensive suits made him look more affluent than he was. One of the first was Carl “Sharky” Barclay.

After he had worked for Isaac for a year and a half, Zane asked him, “I’d like to be in the fabric business. How could I get into it?”

“You have a talent for it. You look friendly and attentive, but people never know what you’re thinking. And while working for me, you have learned a lot about different kinds of fabrics.” He slapped a bolt of wool twill. “What would you do with this material?”

“I’d hire you to make a suit to your measurements, gift it to you for all you’ve taught me, and sell the rest.”

Isaac nodded portentously. “Good. I set my poor dumb nephew Nathan up in the wholesale fabric business, but he is going broke. I’ll let you have a shot at reviving it, loan you the money at a fair interest rate to buy him out and send him back to New York to make pretzels. He excelled at that. I’ll have him make you one before he leaves.

“But let me warn you. If I don’t see a turnaround in two months, I’ll boot you out just like I have him. You’ll give me back the money you haven’t pissed away yet and either come back to work for me or go your own way. No hard feelings on either side. All right?”

“Perfect.” Having never run a business before, Zane wasn’t sure he could make it, but even if he failed, this man he had come to respect wouldn’t abandon him.

Isaac said, “I’ll have to make Nathan understand he’s better off making pretzels in New York than selling fabrics on the frontier. That’ll take a while, not least because Nathan’s father, my younger brother, sent the troublesome youth out here to be rid of him. I have to convince Abe that coming west has matured his wanton son remarkably.”

And so Zane waited, played chess with Isaac, ran a few errands, and made deliveries. Spring came at last.

One day, Zane saw Isaac working on a style of garment he had never seen before. The top portion looked like a feminine version of the jacket men wore while riding, though with the high-fitted collar and snug sleeves favored by women. The long full skirt looked bifurcated.

Zane commented, “I’ve never seen such a thing, Isaac. It looks like it doesn’t know whether to choose a gentleman or a lady to wear it. It’s like a skirt but is split into two parts, one for each leg.”

Isaac snorted.  “It has selected a young woman to wear it, a mere girl, and I never thought to see such a bastardization of clothing in all my long life. It allows a young woman to sit on a horse like a man instead of decently riding sidesaddle like her mother.”

Zane thought that a novel idea. It allowed the woman to sit on the horse in a more natural position like a man did.

“But who might this young lady be?” he wondered aloud.

“You’ll find out this afternoon. You’ll deliver it to Miss Laura Elkhart.”

---

“Reign of Terror in the West” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Zane Blevins is not your average businessman. He’s a man on a mission, hunting a serial killer who’s eluded capture for far too long. Driven by the brutal murder of his mother when he was a boy, Zane has built a successful wholesale company despite his humble beginnings. But his success is only a means to an end: catching the criminal who has haunted him for years.

Is he willing to risk everything to make that happen?

Laura Elkhart is the perfect partner for Zane in his quest for justice. She’s empathetic, kind, and willing to do whatever it takes to help Zane heal from his trauma. But she’s also concerned for his safety as they embark on a dangerous journey to catch a murderer. As they delve deeper into the investigation, she begins to realize that the monster may be closer to home than anyone thought…

She will find out that the most dangerous threats come from where one least expects them…

Just when Zane and Laura think they are making progress, the killer returns to haunt them, striking closer to home than they ever imagined. Now, they must face a ruthless adversary who will stop at nothing to avoid capture. Will they be able to bring him to justice, or will they become the next victims of this insane bloodbath?

“Reign of Terror in the West” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 60,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!