Justice in a Corrupt Land (Preview)

Chapter One

Hiram Underwood brought the hammer down one last time.

The sharp ring of iron on iron echoed through the smithy, rolling out into the quiet street like the closing note of a song. Sparks burst from the glowing horseshoe beneath his tongs and scattered across the anvil before fading into nothing. The small building filled with the familiar scent of coal smoke and hot metal.

Hiram lifted the hammer again, turning the horseshoe slightly with the tongs, and struck twice more. Each blow landed clean. Years of practice had given him a rhythm that came as naturally as breathing. The metal bent obediently beneath his strength, the curved shape becoming smooth and true.

Satisfied, he plunged the horseshoe into the water trough beside the anvil.

Steam exploded upward with a loud hiss, rolling around his hands and arms and drifting toward the rafters.

Hiram waited a moment before lifting the cooled shoe from the water and setting it on the workbench beside several others finished earlier that day. Tomorrow morning, one of the ranch hands from the Miller spread would come by for them.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. Even this late in the evening, the forge heat clung to him like a blanket.

The day had been long. It usually was.

The town depended on the smithy more than most people realized. Wagons broke down. Horses lost shoes. Plow blades cracked. Door hinges bent. If something made of metal stopped working, sooner or later, it ended up on Hiram Underwood’s anvil.

And Hiram never turned anyone away.

He reached for the iron poker and stirred the coals in the forge, watching the red glow shift and breathe like a living thing. A few more minutes and he could let the fire burn down for the night.

Outside, the fading light of evening filtered through the wide doorway of the shop. The sky had begun turning the deep purple color that came just before night fully settled across the plains.

Hiram stepped back from the forge and rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar ache of muscles worked hard since sunrise. His shirt clung damply to his back, and soot streaked his forearms.

A long day’s work.

But honest work. He preferred it that way.

Hiram crossed to the bench where the finished horseshoes rested and began stacking them neatly into a small crate. For a moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the forge and the distant murmur of town life drifting in from the street. Somewhere nearby a piano was playing faintly, probably from the saloon. Laughter followed a moment later.

Hiram allowed himself the smallest hint of a smile.

Evening meant most folks were heading home for supper, or else drifting toward the saloon for cards and whiskey.

He had other plans.

His father would be expecting him.

Nathaniel Underwood, mayor of Warden, kept a busy schedule most days, but he tried never to miss their regular suppers. It had become something they both looked forward to. Nathaniel finished his work at the mayor’s office. Hiram closed up the smithy. Then they met outside and walked together to one of the small restaurants near the square.

Sometimes they talked about town matters. Sometimes about business. Sometimes about nothing important at all. But Hiram treasured those evenings more than he ever said aloud.

His father had always made time for him. Even when things in their household had grown… complicated.

Hiram set the last horseshoe into the crate and wiped his hands on a rag hanging from his belt. He glanced toward the open doorway. The street beyond had grown quieter as the last light faded. A few lanterns had begun appearing along the boardwalks, lighting the doorways of late night businesses.

Nathaniel would be arriving soon.

Hiram crossed the shop, grabbing a pair of thick leather gloves from a hook near the door. He used them to shift a few pieces of coal inside the forge, letting the fire settle lower. The roaring heat softened to a dying glow.

He preferred to let the forge die slowly rather than smother it outright.

This building had belonged to his Uncle Ellis before him. He had been his mother’s brother, a man who had taught Hiram nearly everything he knew about the trade. When Ellis passed away several years earlier, Hiram had taken over the business without hesitation.

The work suited him. It kept his hands busy and his mind steady. More importantly, it allowed him to remain in the town his father had helped build.

Hiram grabbed the heavy wooden bar used to secure the wide smithy doors and stepped outside. The evening air struck him cool against his skin. He drew in a slow breath, letting the breeze carry away the heat and smoke that clung to him.

Above him, the first stars had begun to appear in the darkening sky.

Hiram set the bar into place and pulled the large doors closed behind him, leaving only the smaller side door for his own entrance tomorrow morning. Another day finished. He stepped out onto the boardwalk and leaned against one of the posts, stretching his tired arms.

Across the street, a few people moved between buildings. The town was settling in for the night. Hiram turned his gaze down the road leading toward the town square.

That was the direction his father would come from.

Usually Nathaniel arrived before Hiram even finished closing up. His father liked to stand outside the smithy and watch him work for a few minutes before they left for supper. Hiram had always suspected his father found the sight comforting.

Tonight, however, the street remained empty.

Hiram folded his arms across his chest and waited. Being mayor meant Nathaniel was often delayed by town matters. Disputes between ranchers. Land agreements. Requests from travelers passing through.

Still, he was a punctual man. If he said he would meet Hiram after work, he usually did.

A wagon rattled past at the far end of the street, the driver tipping his hat in greeting as he passed. Hiram nodded back. The wagon disappeared into the gathering darkness.

Minutes slipped by.

Hiram shifted his weight against the wooden post. Soon enough, he told himself. His father would come walking up that street with his long coat and steady stride, maybe holding that silver pocket watch he liked to check whenever he thought he might be late.

The thought brought a faint smile to Hiram’s face.

Nathaniel hated being late, yet the street remained quiet. The moon began climbing slowly above the rooftops, pale and bright against the deep blue sky. Hiram glanced upward, noting how high it had already risen. He frowned. It was later than he expected.

He pushed himself away from the post and stepped out toward the edge of the boardwalk, looking again toward the direction of the mayor’s office.

Still nothing.

A small knot of unease formed somewhere deep in his chest. It wasn’t like his father to forget their plans. Not without sending word.

Hiram rubbed the back of his neck, staring down the darkened street.

Maybe Nathaniel had simply been caught up in work longer than expected. That happened sometimes. If so, Hiram could easily walk to the mayor’s office and fetch him. They could still make supper.

He waited another moment longer, just in case.

But as the quiet town settled deeper into night and the moon continued its slow climb overhead, Hiram began to suspect something unusual was keeping his father away.

The lantern outside the general store across the road flickered softly in the evening breeze. Most of the businesses had already closed for the night. Doors were barred, curtains drawn, and only a few scattered lights remained glowing in windows.

A pair of men came walking down the street from the direction of the saloon, their conversation loud and cheerful. One of them spotted Hiram leaning against the post outside the smithy.

“Evenin’, Underwood,” the man called, lifting a hand in greeting.

Hiram nodded back. “Evenin’.”

They continued on their way, boots thudding against the hard-packed dirt road before fading into the distance.

A moment later, a woman carrying a basket stepped out of the bakery farther down the street. She paused when she noticed him.

“You still working this late, Mr. Underwood?” she asked kindly.

“Just closing up,” Hiram replied.

She smiled. “Well, you be gentle on yourself, sir. The town needs its blacksmith in fine shape.”

Hiram gave a small nod, and she disappeared into the night as well.

The street quieted again. Hiram shifted his weight and glanced toward the sky.

The moon had climbed higher now, silver light spilling across the rooftops and the empty road. The night air had cooled enough that the sweat on his skin had dried completely. He rubbed his hands together slowly, still thinking.

Something had to be wrong.

Nathaniel always kept his promises. Especially to Hiram.

Their dinners together had started years earlier, back when Hiram was still learning the trade under Uncle Ellis. Nathaniel would finish his duties for the day and come by the smithy, and they would walk to supper together. Not every day, mind. But as many as the man could spare.

It had become their way of keeping close, even after life had grown complicated.

Hiram’s expression darkened at the thought. Complicated was a polite way of putting it.

When Nathaniel remarried after Hiram’s mother died, the house had changed. His new wife had never been able to accept the boy her husband already had. Hiram had been sent to live with his uncle instead.

Nathaniel had done his best to make the arrangement kindly, but it had still left a distance between father and son that had never quite disappeared. These dinners had been Nathaniel’s way of bridging that distance.

Perhaps Nathaniel had been called to settle some dispute on the far side of town. Perhaps a traveler had arrived with important news. Or perhaps…

Hiram frowned.

No. His father would have sent word if something terrible had happened. Hiram exhaled slowly and rubbed the back of his neck. It was nothing. Just a delay. But too much time had passed.

Finally, Hiram stepped down from the boardwalk onto the dirt road.

He reached back and checked the smithy door one more time, making sure the latch was secure. The shop stood dark behind him now, the last glow of the forge barely visible through the small rear window. Satisfied, he turned toward the street that led to the town square.

The mayor’s office wasn’t far. A few minutes’ walk at most.

Hiram set off at an easy pace, his boots crunching softly against the dirt.

During the day, the streets bustled with wagons, horses, and people moving between the businesses that kept the settlement alive. But now the buildings stood quiet and watchful, their wooden fronts lit only by the occasional lantern.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

Hiram passed the barber shop, then the tailor’s storefront with its neatly arranged window display. The bank stood dark and silent beside it. As he neared the town square, the faint music from the saloon drifted through the night air. Laughter followed, along with the clink of glasses.

Hiram barely glanced toward the sound. That place held little interest for him.

Instead, his attention stayed focused on the building standing at the far side of the square: the mayor’s office.

The two-story structure was one of the largest buildings in town, built years earlier when the settlement had first begun to grow into something more permanent. The lower floor held several municipal offices, while the mayor’s private workspace occupied the front room upstairs.

Hiram slowed as the building came into view. Something had caught his attention.

Light.

A lantern welcomed him from the window facing the street.

Hiram stopped walking. His brow furrowed. His father preferred to finish his business before nightfall whenever possible. 

Perhaps he had simply lost track of time while working? That would explain the delay.

Still, the uneasy feeling in Hiram’s chest didn’t quite disappear. He resumed walking, heading directly toward the office. The square itself was nearly empty now. Only a single lantern burned near the well at the center of the open space.

Hiram crossed the quiet ground, his footsteps sounding louder in the stillness. He reached the door and paused, listening. For a moment, all he heard was the faint whistle of wind moving through the narrow streets behind him.

Hiram lifted his hand toward the door. He meant to knock and announce himself. But as his fingers brushed the handle, he felt it move slightly beneath his touch. It stood partially open. Hiram’s hand remained on the door handle for a moment.

He stared at it, his brow tightening slightly. The door shouldn’t have been open.

Nathaniel Underwood was a careful man. Years of running the town’s affairs had made him cautious about small details, especially when it came to his office. Hiram had seen him lock this door more times than he could count, even when he was stepping out for only a few minutes.

Yet now the handle turned easily beneath his fingers.

Hiram pushed the door slowly inward. The hinges gave a soft creak as the door swung open.

The mayor’s office had always felt more like a working study than a political building. Shelves lined the walls, filled with ledgers, maps, and thick bundles of documents tied together with string. A large desk stood near the center of the room, positioned beneath the window that overlooked the town square.

The lantern burning there was the source of the light Hiram had seen outside. Its flame flickered gently, bending in the faint movement of air created by the open door behind him. Hiram glanced back briefly and pushed the door closed. The latch clicked softly.

For a moment, he simply stood there, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior.

“Nathaniel?” he called. When no one answered, he tried again. “Pa?”

His voice carried through the room and into the hallway beyond. No answer came.

At first glance, nothing seemed out of place. Papers were spread across the desk in neat stacks. A ledger book lay open beside the candle, its pages filled with his father’s handwriting. A chair had been pushed back slightly, as though someone had recently stood up from it.

He circled the desk slowly, glancing down at the open ledger. Columns of figures filled the pages, tax records, most likely, or land agreements that required the mayor’s attention. His father had clearly been working.

Hiram placed a hand on the back of the chair. The wood was still slightly warm. That meant Nathaniel hadn’t been gone long.

Hiram straightened, scanning the room again. “Father?” he called, louder this time.

The word echoed faintly against the walls. Silence answered him. Hiram’s jaw tightened.

He moved away from the desk and toward the hallway that led deeper into the building. Several smaller rooms branched off from there. They were storage spaces, meeting rooms, and the small archive where older town records were kept, just in case someone needed the information.

If Nathaniel had stepped away for a moment, he might be in one of those rooms. Hiram reached the hallway and paused. The lantern’s light from the desk stretched across the floor behind him, leaving the corridor ahead dim and shadowed.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices.

Only the quiet creak of the building settling in the night.

Hiram took another step forward. The floorboard beneath his boot groaned softly. He glanced toward the first doorway along the hall and nudged it open. The room beyond was empty. Just a narrow space filled with filing cabinets and shelves of documents.

Hiram moved on to the next door.

Another empty room.

He returned to the main office, his gaze sweeping the room again as though he might notice something he had missed. The door hadn’t been forced open. There were no splintered boards, no broken lock, no sign of a struggle. It had simply been left open.

Which meant whoever had last passed through it had done so without trouble.

Hiram rested both hands on the edge of the desk, staring down at the scattered papers.

His father had been here. So where was he now?

He lifted his head slowly, his gaze drifting toward the darker corner of the room near the far wall. The light didn’t quite reach there. He squinted into the darkness and frowned. Was there something over there?

A cold weight settled deep in Hiram’s chest.

A shape. Low to the ground. 

“Pa?” he called again. Still no answer came. He snatched up the lantern and made his way over slowly.

Another step.

The shadow resolved slowly as his eyes adjusted. What he had taken for a pile of discarded coats or blankets began to look different. Longer. Broader.

A chill crept along Hiram’s spine. His breath caught in his throat.

Nathaniel Underwood lay sprawled on the wooden floor beside the cabinet, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath him. His coat was still on, the dark fabric gathered beneath his shoulder as though he had fallen suddenly.

For a moment, Hiram didn’t move.

The sight didn’t make sense.

His father never rested like this. Nathaniel carried himself with a dignity that rarely slipped, even in private. To see him collapsed on the floor like a fallen stranger felt deeply wrong.

Hiram dropped to one knee beside him. “Father?” He reached out and gently turned Nathaniel onto his back.

The light caught his father’s face. Nathaniel’s eyes were half open, staring blankly toward the ceiling. 

“No…”

He placed a hand against his father’s shoulder and shook him once.

“Father.”

Nathaniel’s body didn’t move, for all it was still warm.

Hiram’s hand slid upward, pressing against the older man’s neck where the pulse should be.

He waited.

Nothing.

Hiram tried again, pressing harder, searching for even the faintest sign of life. There was none.

For a moment, he remained kneeling there, staring down at Nathaniel Underwood’s still face. The strong, steady man who had built this town… who had guided its people… who had stood beside Hiram through every hardship of his life…

Gone.

Hiram exhaled a shaky breath.

His gaze dropped instinctively, searching the body for some explanation. A dark stain spread across the front of Nathaniel’s shirt just beneath his ribs. Blood.

He reached forward carefully, pulling aside the fabric of his father’s coat. Hiram wasn’t ready for what he saw there. 

A knife wound. Deep. Clean. The blade had struck straight into the chest..

This hadn’t been an accident or an illness his father had been unaware of. Someone had killed him. 

Nathaniel Underwood: mayor, pioneer, father, lay dead on the floor of his own office.

Whoever had come here had done so quietly and struck like a snake, killing the man who had done more for the town than anyone else. 

Hiram bowed his head and prayed. 

Chapter Two

His father was gone.

Shock had always been something Hiram understood in theory. After all, he had seen men injured, horses collapse, wagons overturned on the road, all that sort of thing. But experiencing it himself was something else entirely.

His mind kept drifting back to the same thought. Someone had done this. Someone had come into this office and driven a blade into Nathaniel Underwood’s chest.

Hiram’s jaw tightened as the thought repeated itself.

Who?

The question burned through his mind like hot iron.

Nathaniel had been respected across the territory. A fair man, steady in his decisions, careful with the town’s money and land. People trusted him.

Yet respect didn’t mean the absence of enemies. Hiram knew that better than most.

His father had spent years settling disputes between ranchers, merchants, and settlers. Not everyone liked the outcomes of those decisions. Some men carried grudges for years over matters that seemed small to everyone else.

But murder?

Hiram lowered his gaze to the wound again.

The knife had been driven deep. Whoever had struck the blow had meant to kill.

A slow anger began to rise inside him, stronger with every passing second.

Hiram swallowed hard and placed a hand briefly against his father’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured under his breath.

The words felt small and useless in the empty office.

He had come here expecting to share supper. Instead, he had found a corpse.

Hiram straightened slowly, pushing himself to his feet. His knees protested slightly after kneeling on the hard floor, but he barely noticed. His eyes moved across the room again, sharper now. The shock that had frozen him moments earlier was fading, replaced by something colder and more focused.

Someone had been here tonight. Someone had killed his father. And unless they had walked out the door moments before Hiram arrived, that person might still be somewhere nearby.

Hiram turned slowly toward the desk again, studying the scattered papers.

Nothing appeared disturbed beyond what he would have expected from his father’s normal workday.

The chair remained pushed back slightly from where Nathaniel had been sitting. The ledger book lay open beneath the lantern’s glow, filled with his father’s neat handwriting.

It looked as though Nathaniel had simply risen from his work.

Hiram stepped closer and glanced down at the pages. Numbers. Land records. Property notes. Nothing unusual.

His gaze drifted toward the door.

Whoever had come here hadn’t forced their way inside. Nathaniel must have let them in. Which meant he had known them, or at least trusted them enough to open the door.

His father had been killed by someone he likely recognized, maybe even a friend. The thought made his hands curl into fists.

He turned away from the desk again, his eyes scanning the darker corners of the office.

The building had fallen completely silent.

Hiram took a slow breath, listening.

At first there was nothing. Then…

A faint sound reached him. A creak. It came from somewhere deeper inside the building.

Hiram froze.

His head tilted slightly as he focused on the noise. For a moment he thought he might have imagined it. Buildings often groaned as they settled in the evenings, timbers cooling from the blazing hot sun.

But then it came again, a soft scrape. Like a foot shifting against the floor.

Hiram’s pulse quickened. Someone was still inside.

His gaze snapped toward the hallway leading deeper into the building. The dim corridor stretched away into shadow, the faint light from the desk barely touching its far end.

Another sound followed. Someone trying to move carefully, trying not to be heard. Hiram’s body reacted before his mind fully caught up. His heart began pounding hard against his ribs.

Steeling himself, he glanced back down at Nathaniel’s body lying on the floor.

The anger that had been building inside him surged into something fierce and unstoppable. Whoever had done this was still here. Still inside the building. 

Hiram clenched his jaw. They were not leaving without being seen.

He stepped quickly into the hallway. At the far end of the corridor, a dark shape flickered past the doorway near the staircase.

“Hey!” Hiram shouted.

The figure didn’t stop. Instead it bolted down the stairs, footsteps pounding through the building.

Hiram rushed forward.

His boots struck the wooden floor hard as he ran, the sound echoing through the quiet building. Ahead of him the shadowy figure reached the staircase and disappeared around the corner.

“Stop!” Hiram shouted.

The command went unanswered. Instead, the pounding of footsteps quickened.

Hiram reached the top of the stairs just in time to see the man’s coat vanish down the narrow stairwell. The dim lantern mounted on the wall barely illuminated the space, leaving most of the staircase swallowed in darkness. Hiram grabbed the railing and took the steps two at a time.

The wood creaked violently beneath his weight as he descended, his shoulder nearly brushing the wall as he turned the tight corner halfway down. Below him, the man hit the bottom landing and rushed across the ground floor.

Hiram caught a glimpse of him in the weak lantern light. Tall, broad-shouldered. But the man never turned his head.

He shoved through a doorway leading into the lower offices, knocking it wide open as he went.

Hiram reached the bottom of the stairs seconds later and charged after him.

The ground floor was darker than the office upstairs. Only a single lantern burned near the entrance hall, leaving most of the rooms nearly invisible. The fleeing man burst through one of the workrooms, sending a chair skidding across the floor.

Hiram nearly tripped over it as he followed. The obstacle slowed him just enough for the man to gain another few feet of distance. Hiram growled under his breath and shoved the chair aside.

“You won’t get far!” he shouted.

The man gave no reply.

He moved quickly through the office, weaving between desks and cabinets as though he already knew the layout of the building.

That detail didn’t escape Hiram.

This wasn’t some stranger wandering blindly through unfamiliar halls. Whoever this man was, he knew exactly where he was going.

Hiram pushed harder, his long strides eating up the distance across the room. For a brief moment he thought he might catch him. The man reached the far side of the office and fumbled with the latch on another door. When the handle stuck, Hiram lunged forward. His hand stretched out, fingertips nearly brushing the back of the man’s coat.

Then the door flew open.

Cold night air rushed inside as the man burst through the exit and vanished into the darkness beyond.

Hiram followed immediately, slamming through the doorway without slowing. His shoulder struck the frame as he pushed outside, but he barely felt it. The town square opened before him, washed in moonlight. The fleeing figure was already halfway across the open ground.

Hiram charged after him.

The man ran fast, far faster than Hiram had expected, but panic seemed to drive his movements now. His strides were long but uneven as he sprinted toward the far side of the square.

Hiram focused on closing the distance.

His legs burned as he pushed forward, the muscles in his arms pumping with each step. Years of hammering iron had given him strength, but chasing a man across open ground was a different kind of effort. Still, he was gaining.

The man glanced back once.

Hiram couldn’t see his face clearly beneath the shadow of his hat, but the movement confirmed something important. The killer knew he was close.

Hiram pushed harder, his legs churning under him like he was making butter.

The man veered left, cutting sharply between two darkened storefronts. Hiram followed without hesitation.

They raced down a narrow side street where the buildings crowded closer together. The moonlight barely reached the ground here, leaving the path dim and confusing.

The man knocked over a wooden crate as he passed. It shattered against the dirt, spilling tools across the alley. Hiram leaped over the debris and kept running.

The distance between them shrank again.

Twenty feet. Then fifteen. Hiram reached out as they rounded another corner. For a split second he saw the man clearly in the pale glow of a distant lantern. A dark coat. A wide hat pulled low. But the man kept his head turned away, shielding his face.

Hiram cursed under his breath. Just a little closer.

The man darted across another street and plunged into deeper shadow beyond. Hiram followed hard on his heels.

His lungs burned now, but he refused to slow. The killer was right there.

And Hiram Underwood had no intention of letting him escape.

The man burst from the narrow alley into the open street beyond.

Hiram followed a heartbeat later, boots striking the packed dirt as he rounded the corner. The space gave him a clearer view of the fleeing figure ahead.

They had reached the edge of the town square.

Even at this hour the place carried traces of the day’s life. Wagons stood parked beside the boardwalks, their outlines ghostly beneath the moonlight. The well at the center of the square and the wooden storefronts stood dark and silent with their shutters closed for the night.

The killer ran straight across the open ground.

Hiram charged after him.

The distance between them stretched to nearly thirty feet again, the man gaining ground now that the path was clear. His boots kicked up small clouds of dust with every stride. 

They raced past the general store first, its wide front porch empty except for a pair of rocking chairs left abandoned in the dark. The sign above the door creaked faintly in the night breeze.

The man cut sharply toward the well.

Hiram followed the same path, his shoulder brushing the rough wooden frame of the bucket hoist as he passed. The rope swayed from the sudden movement.

Ahead, the man vaulted over a low fence bordering a small patch of grass beside the churchyard.

Hiram didn’t slow. He planted one hand on the fence rail and swung over it in a single motion, landing heavily on the other side before continuing the chase.

The man glanced back again. Hiram drove forward with renewed determination.

“Stop!” he shouted again, his voice echoing across the empty square.

The man ignored him completely. He cut hard to the right, racing along the side of the church where the lantern mounted near the door cast a weak circle of yellow light. The glow illuminated the back of his coat and the outline of his shoulders.

Hiram gained several steps as they passed through the lantern’s light, his longer stride finally beginning to close the gap.