Alliance Against the Devil (Preview)

Chapter One

Antelope Spring, Montana 1875

The overland stagecoach had left Virginia City headed to Ruby River Reservoir on time, promptly at six on Friday evening. As the sun set that June day, there was a hint of rain on the horizon. The territory had absorbed ample heat from several days of cloudless skies. Running the horses overnight had saved the animals from overexposure.

The enclave terrain made it logistically impossible for railroad companies to put down tracks. The iron horses had limitations based on geography. At the same time, stagecoach companies like Wells Fargo continued to provide overland services that would be otherwise unobtainable without their continued business ventures. Since the railroad companies undermined the majority of smaller stagecoach profiteers, Wells Fargo’s mission was to hire coachmen with experience in the inhospitable country to drive their passengers between railroad stops.

Stagecoaches continued to reach hamlets and small towns outside the modern range of the rails. The tickets were cheaper than the train rides but took twice as long to reach destinations. Most coach riders understood the risk of traveling in a harsh environment.

When the stagecoach left that evening at six, seven passengers had purchased tickets to various stops along the way. Some intended to take the coach to Dillon — the Union Pacific Railroad departed from Dillon, Montana, headed westward. They had between two to four days’ ride in the stuffy confines. It meant passengers needed to endure each other and maintain pleasantries between strangers for the duration of the trip.

The rules for riding on stagecoaches were simple enough. The company had sufficient sense to post plaques inside each of the coaches as reminders. It made for interesting reading — if passengers knew how to read:

Abstinence from liquor requested, but you must share the bottle if you bring it. Otherwise, you appear selfish and unneighborly.

Chewing tobacco permitted, but spit with the wind, not against it.

Don’t snore loudly while sleeping or use fellow passengers as pillows.

Gents guilty of unchivalrous behavior toward lady passengers will be put off the coach; it is a long walk back.

In the event of runaway horses, remain calm. Leaping from coaches in panic will leave you injured, at the mercy of the elements, hostile Indians, and hungry coyotes.

The majority of the seven passengers aboard the Wells Fargo and Company stagecoach were men, except for the wife of a Methodist minister. The woman had traveled to Nevada City the month before, paying her last respects to a dying father. Now that she had buried the man in the Pine Grove Cemetery on the city limits, Jeanette Davidson was on her way home to her husband, Harold, and the rest of the waiting congregation.

Mrs. Davidson took the Virginia and Truckee Railroad from Nevada City to Virginia City earlier that day. She had a short respite in the stuffy comfort of the coach depot, where she got to know each of the other passengers traveling on the stagecoach.

It was at the Wells Fargo depot where Wendell Clayton met the woman. She had offered to share a small window table overlooking the rugged landscape and livery stables for the depot horses. Wendell had had a proper upbringing with a mother who believed household chores included learning how to read and write. His father had taught Wendell the importance of taking care of workhorses when managing the stockyard.

Before Wendell left Chestnut Longspur Ranch shortly after his fifteenth birthday, headed to Chicago, the Jones Preparatory School was Wendell’s opportunity at intellectual freedom. His parents, Edwin and Alice, believed their hard work and long days on the cattle ranch were to ensure their son had more prospects in life than either of them had had.

Their endless sacrifice wasn’t lost on Wendell. He’d studied hard, gotten to the head of his graduating class. He never passed on manual labor because his parents paid the hefty tuition to get him into a school that expanded his possibilities. He took odd jobs around the campus when he wasn’t in class. Wendell had earned a lot of respect from his instructors and businessmen, who saw he wasn’t afraid to pick up a broom or roll up his sleeves if something needed doing.

Unlike the other students at Jones Preparatory, Wendell never lost sight of his upbringing. He was a long way from Antelope Spring, Montana, but funds from his father’s cattle ranch kept him in school for five years. His parents wanted more for him and gave him everything he needed to succeed. He had the grit to stand tall against other school bullies, undisciplined, ungrateful boys from affluent northern families that had never faced accountability. Wendell knew it took hard work and sweat to make a man worth knowing. He’d looked up to his father and cherished his mother. He had studied hard and worked hard. When he earned wages, Wendell had sent the money back to his parents, never losing sight of how important it was to honor them and work as hard as he could to do what was right.

“You’re the boy from the fire,” Alfred Burton said, pointing at Wendell a few hours into their ride. “You are that boy, right?”

Wendell wasn’t a man to take pride in fame and use it as a commodity. Many brave men and women had done their best the night of the Great Fire. Humbly, Wendell only nodded. Even hundreds of miles away from Chicago, a selfless act had promoted Wendell’s celebrity status.

The interior of the stagecoach allowed for minimal legroom. It wasn’t part of the rules to leave boots on while inside, and the majority of the men had removed their footwear. It took a few miles with the windows down to vent the sweaty foot stench.

Wendell had a seat between Mrs. Davidson and a man named Darrell Andrews. They had a forward-facing seat, which faced a man named Alfred Burton.

“Which boy is that?” Jaime Knowles asked from the rear-facing seat where he sat between Daniel and Shane Hogan.

The query woke Shane from a light doze, his head lolling against the stagecoach wall. Michael Stephens had the corner rear-facing seat and took up most of the room because he wedged himself in the corner using a coat as a pillow. He opened one eye when Knowles spoke.

“Young Mr. Clayton saved an orphanage full of children during the big fire,” Burton said.

Mrs. Davidson had nodded off and was one of the first passengers to break the rules by using Wendell’s shoulder as a pillow. He had done his best to make her comfortable. The pressure on his side had forced him to remain rigid without trying to push against Andrews.

“Is that a fact?” Stephens said. Illuminated by the small interior lantern hanging from a small hook at the center of the carriage, his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Wendell.

“You saved all those children,” Daniel said. He nodded admirably at Wendell.

“How many was it?” Stephens asked with indifference.

“The Chicago Tribune reported that you single-handedly saved twenty-three children from that fire,” Knowles informed him. “That is most extraordinary, young man.”

It was too dark to read on the coach. And the swaying of the carriage had caused Wendell’s stomach some discomfort when he’d tried to read in the past. He still hadn’t found the right occasion to speak, instead, listening to the passengers talk around him about something that seemed more important to them than it did him.

“I read it was thirty children. The youngest was a crib child, perhaps less than a year old.”

“Well, it all depends on the source, I suppose,” Knowles said. “Regardless, you are a hero, Mr. Clayton.”

The first drops of rain began slapping against the leather curtains covering the window openings. Raindrops sizzled against the bull’s eye railroad lanterns hanging from four posts outside the coach.

The shotgun messenger climbed over the side rail and peeked into the cabin. He was perhaps between twelve and fifteen years old and wore a heavy leather coat, even in the heat of the night. The hat over his ears fit his head with a tie under the chin.

“Hey, folks, the driver says we got some heavy rain coming,” the boy said. “He don’t want to stop, but we might need to slow down depending on how muddy the trail gets.”

“Thank you, young man,” Mrs. Davidson said. She sat up to arch her back, allowing Wendell to slump in the seat and get comfortable.

Raindrops splashed against the windowsills in the doors. No one seemed too eager to pull the leather curtains to stop the rain or fresh air from entering the cabin.

“Yes, Mr. Clayton is an angel sent by the Lord,” she said.

Mrs. Davidson sat back with her soft chin against many layers of that made up her dress and petticoats, eyes closed. When the conversation around her had turned to Wendell’s heroics, she’d lifted her head out of the light sleep. In her lap, the Bible rested on the folds of her dress and the layers of skirts. She patted its leather-bound cover.

Mrs. Davidson wore a bonnet, and she didn’t allow anything below her chin exposure to the world. The black cloth of her dress retained heat. She perspired under the bonnet, and the collar of her dress had salt stains from sweat like a broken halo she wore over her shoulders.

“What caught on fire at the orphanage?” Stephens asked. It was a long way until their next stop, and since everyone woke with the rain thundering against the roof and their loaded luggage, the conversation was all they had left.

Mr. Andrews removed a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his jacket and draped it over the windowsill to soak up rainwater. He used it as a washcloth on his face and hands. The good idea inspired the other passengers, who had different handkerchiefs to collect water. Wendell didn’t have anything to use for washing his face and hands, and his limited mobility prevented him from leaning over anyone else to get to the windows.

“It was during the fire in Chicago in October ’71,” Burton said. “Surely, you know about it.”

“I was in Texas in ’71,” Stephens said. “I don’t know nothing about a fire.”

“It was devastating,” Mrs. Davidson asserted. “Simply dreadful, so many lost souls. The fire burned for a week.”

“It only lasted two days, tops,” Andrews corrected. When he finished refreshing himself with the handkerchief and wringing it out, he soaked it with rainwater again and handed it to Wendell.

“Thank you, Mr. Andrews.”

“You’re very welcome, young man.”

“So, which was it?” Stephens asked. “How many kids you save?”

Wendell pressed the cool cloth against his face, tasting sweat and rainwater. He didn’t want to talk about the fire, didn’t want to relive it. The newspapers portrayed him as a hero. He didn’t think it had been heroic, only necessary.

“Mr. Clayton isn’t motivated by hubris, Mr. Stephens,” Mrs. Davidson said. “He performed his civic duty and nothing more.”

“There were a lot of people around,” Wendell said. “I wasn’t the only person looking to help.”

“What did they give you for all that?” Stephens asked.

Wendell’s forehead wrinkled as he blinked at the gentleman taking up most of the space across from him. He had no regard for the other passengers on the rear-facing seat. The other three men had to huddle together away from Stephens.

“I don’t understand the question, sir.”

“You know, you took a bunch of kids out of a building that was on fire. The people from the orphanage didn’t stay around to help. Did someone from the city give you a reward for doing that?”

Wendell didn’t answer immediately. He half-expected someone else to speak on his behalf. But by the enthusiastic expressions watching him, it was up to Wendell to confirm the details.

“It was a bad year for a fire,” he said, hoping someone might pipe up and redirect the subject away from him.

When the newspapermen found out about what he’d done, it had gotten worldwide acclaim. Wendell never sat for a photograph. He didn’t want people looking at him and remembering what had happened. He’d spent weeks after the fire in the hospital, and that had served him well enough because he could ignore the press.

One day, a week following the Chicago fire, a man had come to Wendell’s bedside, dressed in the obligatory white doctor’s coat. Wendell had assumed the gentleman part of the medical staff, but the man had been polite and interested more in Wendell’s mind than his physical being. Wendell hadn’t suffered any facial burns. When the gentleman had lifted a camera from his carpet bag at the foot of the bed, Wendell allowed a photograph. The gentleman had explained it was for the hospital records.

It wasn’t until Wendell’s primary physician brought in a newspaper that he realized the ruse. The following weekly release of the Chicago Tribune had a photograph of Wendell recumbent and healing in bed of Mercy Hospital. The pretend doctor had been a diligent reporter for the newspaper. With Wendell’s likeness published, the story of a daring orphanage rescue ran anew.

“That’s very true,” Burton said. “Chicagoland didn’t see any rain for fourteen weeks. I lived in Kenosha at the time and we saw the red sky glow from that far north. What were you doing in the city at the time, son?”

“I was in preparatory school,” Wendell said. “The headmasters had evacuated the campus. I decided to volunteer my services to the city to help extinguish the blaze.”

“Doesn’t seem like you got much out of it,” Stephens said.

“I didn’t do it for fortune, Mr. Stephens. I thought it was the right thing, and I wanted to help.”

“So, how many children did you save?” Shane asked. He looked expectantly at Wendell.

“The newspapers make exceptional stories out of things ordinary people do,” Wendell said. “I did nothing more than many other people did that first night.”

He felt the tightening of the scar tissue as sweat-soaked his body. The swinging lantern overhead made Wendell anxious talking about the fire. He smelled smoke that wasn’t inside the coach, saw the charred remains of those he couldn’t save. Wendell’s scorched throat needed quenching, and they had hours to go before the stagecoach stopped again.

Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead while rain pelted the stagecoach around them. He didn’t want to see the small, withered frames, didn’t want to remember the stench of burnt children or singed human hair.

The fire had started at the backside of the Redemptorists Children and Infant Orphan Asylum on North Franklin. The steady wind from the southwest had forced flames over the Chicago River, licking buildings and setting fires indiscriminately.

City officials had tasked Wendell and a small group of men to run from house to house and wake anyone who hadn’t heard the shouts and chaos caused by the conflagration. When Wendell had reached the gates to the orphanage, others in the group bypassed the building because its dark windows and lack of property lights made men believe it was an unoccupied building. Since a high wrought iron security gate surrounded the large, three-story place, everyone assumed it was vacant.

Smoke had obscured much of the surroundings. No one saw the orphanage sign until after the fire had consumed most of the building. But Wendell had already scaled the iron fence and made his way inside the building to find frightened and confused children. Later, investigators learned the overnight caretakers of the orphanage had absconded from the facility when they’d heard the fire. Three women on duty that night watching over the orphans had claimed that it wasn’t their responsibility to remove unwanted children.

“I had the older ones help with the first batch of children,” Wendell said. He wiped his forehead with the borrowed handkerchief.

Mrs. Davidson pressed her hand on Wendell’s forearm. “God bless you, son.”

The discussion went on around Wendell. It gave him enough of a reprieve to regain composure. He straightened up in the seat again. Mrs. Davidson gave him a reassuring smile.

 “Did they pay you for that?” Stephens asked.

“No, of course not,” Wendell said. There was the issuance of money from the city and the orphanage founders, but Wendell had refused the funds. He wanted no reminders once he left the hospital following his recovery.

“I wouldn’t have done it for nothing,” Stephens said. “You got a bunch of unwanted kids, and there weren’t no one there that wanted to stick their necks out for them.” He shook his head. The others in the seat did their best to keep away from Stephens. The man showed his lack of regard for life. “You keep any of those kids yourself?”

“No,” Wendell said. “I am unmarried, Mr. Stephens. Having a child comes with certain responsibilities.”

“So, you save them, but you don’t want any of them, either.”

“Mr. Stephens, perhaps we should find another topic if we are continuing our discussion,” Burton said. “Mr. Clayton did something that very few people would if faced with the same circumstances. Life is precious, and sometimes we must face overwhelming odds before we know for sure what we’d do in his stead.”

“I know what I wouldn’t do,” Stephens said. He extended his hand around the leather flap covering the window and banged on the exterior wall of the stagecoach. “Driver, I need to take a piss.” He grinned at Mrs. Davidson, like his words were meant to stain her godly sensibility.

The coach immediately slowed. Wendell returned the handkerchief to Andrews. When the coach came to a stop, Wendell had to wait for Andrews and Mrs. Davidson to exit before he could get out of the confined space to get air.

Chapter Two

The first stop for the stagecoach was at a small livery stable and cabin on a lakeside property with a horse corral. Wells Fargo owned the property and employed the two men who kept the lanterns burning throughout the night for the driver and shotgun messenger. It was a place for the passengers to climb out and move around.

Two large outhouses meant no one had to wait. Wendell had helped Mrs. Davidson by offering a hand while she stepped out of the coach. She immediately took the path to the outhouse.

Wendell stretched his legs. He watched as the driver and his young partner worked with the horsemen switching out the four horses for the next part of the trip. The rain fell steadily, leaving misty halos around the lanterns from steam.

Burton stood under the porch light, checking the time on his pocket watch before swishing away the insects buzzing around his face. He nodded at Wendell.

Stephens and Knowles went to the stables to watch the men change over for fresh horses. Andrews eventually took the same path as Mrs. Davidson but had the courtesy to wait until the woman had entered one of the vacant latrines before occupying the other.

Daniel and Shane Hogan rolled and lit cigarettes between them before wandering to where Wendell waited on a bench far enough away from the hanging lanterns not to draw mosquitoes. Wendell learned on the trip back to Chestnut Longspur Ranch how he’d eventually absorb each of the passenger’s histories the further they traveled. Most of the time, it was a matter of patiently waiting until someone told their anecdotes — most people liked talking about themselves.

Burton strolled away from the cabin and joined Wendell near the bench. He put a boot on the bench seat and nodded at Wendell. The outdoor seating had a lean-to roof that kept the rain off anyone sitting on the bench or standing around it.

“That was a damned good deed you did, Mr. Clayton,” he said. “With a story like that, I could go places.”

“What is it that you do, Mr. Burton?” Daniel asked. He and his brother wandered to the bench. Neither man sat down; instead, they smoked cigarettes and listened to Burton.

“I am a purveyor of spirits,” he said with a grin. Burton tugged on his satin puff tie.

He had removed his herringbone jacket when he got out of the carriage and now it was draped over his arm. He wore a floral scroll vest over a pinstriped shirt. Burton wore a brown bowler hat with his sideburns combed flat against his jaw.

“Gentlemen, did you know there are more social halls, beer halls, taverns, and saloons than churches from west of the Mississippi River to the Pacific coast?”

“I think half of them are in Virginia City,” Shane said. The Hogan brothers were close in age, a little older than Wendell by a few years.

“Well, you know what makes good saloons better places?” Burton said.

“Loose women and lots of them,” Daniel said. Three of the four of them laughed. Wendell glanced to the outhouse to make sure Mrs. Davidson hadn’t overheard their conversation.

“Well, aside from the warmth of a good woman’s embrace,” Burton said, “it is the taste of fine spirits that make men come back again and again.”

“I’d say it was the girls that didn’t charge much for their time,” Daniel said.

“It is the establishment’s spirits that bring patrons through the doors.”

“And that’s your business, Mr. Burton?” Shane asked.

“Tell me, young man, do you know the difference between whiskey and bourbon?” Burton looked smug, jutting his chin with confidence.

“Aren’t they the same?” Shane asked.

“Yes and no,” Burton said, lifting his index finger with emphasis. “See, superior bourbon comes from Kentucky, Tennessee, and Pennsylvania. But by the time it gets to Virginia City, those bottles get more molasses and water to make up for what’s poured out during their trip westward.”

“So, you sell spirits?” Daniel asked, seemingly bored with Burton’s proud speech.

“I work for the people, my young man,” Burton said. “I work for you and you.” He pointed that index finger at each of his listeners. “My job is to ensure that anyone who orders a whiskey from the Rocky Mountains to the Alamo will get the same drink, no matter where you are in America.” He looked at his fancy pocket watch. This time, he wound the watch before it returned to the pocket on his vest.

“You see, we want to make sure that whiskey stays pure. Did you know some establishments will go so far as to put tobacco plugs or rattlesnake heads in their bottles?” Burton asked.

“Ain’t that to add to the medicinal value of the liquor?” Shane asked. “Ain’t that what the snake oil salesman wants to sell?”

“Perhaps, but if it cheapens the bottle of bourbon, it has no business being in it.”

As the stagecoach driver and his apprentice brought down four fresh horses from the stables, Shane and Daniel wandered off to watch them mount the animals to the coach. Andrews left the outhouse, running a sleeve over his face. After he departed one, Mrs. Davidson exited the second latrine. They made their way casually back to the courtyard. Andrews joined the others while Mrs. Davidson took up a seat next to Wendell.

“You know, Mr. Clayton, I believe you could use your heroism to make sales for my company,” Burton said. “We’re expanding, and we’re looking for young men such as yourself to make an impact. What is it you intend to do now that you’ve finished your education?”

“I haven’t given it much thought, Mr. Burton.”

He stood up and stretched his legs. Mrs. Davidson remained seated. The Bible occupied her lap like a permanent fixture to her person.

“Educated men in the new world are a necessity, Mr. Clayton. You can work such as I do, travel across the country, see many towns and interact with people all over God’s fine nation.”

Wendell saw how Burton nodded at Mrs. Davidson, like mentioning the Lord was a way to sell her on his business.

“Your notoriety could open a lot of doors, young man. Mark my words.”

“I will take that into consideration,” Wendell said. He had no intention of maintaining an association with what happened that night in the orphanage.

“We have more than enough time to talk about business prospects. Are you going all the way to Dillon?” Burton asked.

“No, sir, my parents’ ranch is in Antelope Spring. That’s where I intend to disembark.”

“All right, folks, let’s get back on the road,” the driver called as he checked the wheels.

Rainwater had quickly made puddles and mud, and Mrs. Davidson strode through the soup. Wendell walked next to her, feeling obliged to keep the woman company in case she needed assistance. Burton followed behind them.

Wendell saw Stephens conversing with the driver and the shotgun messenger. They had similar worrying expressions under the brims of their hats.

Once inside the stagecoach, Wendell felt the stiffness of his rain-soaked clothes. The others got mildly comfortable again, removing their boots as the coach jolted away from the depot yard. Before the leather curtain dropped over the window, Wendell saw the two men return to the warm and dry cabin.

Stephens took up space in the front corner of the coach again. He removed the pistol from his holster.

“Mr. Stephens, I would very much appreciate if you put away your weapon,” Mrs. Davidson said.

Wendell wasn’t comfortable around guns. He’d had the frontier experience growing up on his father’s ranch. But life in a private education institution in Chicago had softened Wendell’s hands as well as his disposition on the necessity of firearms.

Stephens seemed to ignore the woman. He carefully removed each of the bullets from the cylinder.

“Sir, is it too much to ask to respect the lady’s wishes?” Andrews asked.

“Well, I ain’t looking to get shot when we run into trouble out here,” Stephens said.

“Sir, that is highly unlikely,” Andrews said. “I travel overland at least once a month. I’ve never had any dangers come my way. Your misjudgment is upsetting Mrs. Davidson.”

But it wasn’t, not that Wendell saw. The woman lived in a small town with her husband, trying to save the wicked from themselves. The way of the gun wasn’t unfamiliar to her. Instead, Mrs. Davidson squared her shoulders and glared at Stephens.

“You put your faith in a gun instead of where it needs to be,” she said. “I am not worried about highwaymen.”

“No, why not?” Stephens asked.

“Because men like you, Mr. Stephens, rush to judgment too quickly. You wiping the water from those bullets is a show of cowardice, over-relying on our driver to safely get us to our destination. I believe we’re more likely to get shot by you than see any riffraff on the trail.” She folded her fingers over the Bible and took her eyes from Stephens.

“Well, I know what the driver knows. There’s trouble out here lately,” he said. His fingers rolled each of the .44 caliber bullets on his thigh before replacing them in the chamber again.

“We’d know if the coach had trouble with bandits,” Knowles said. “They wouldn’t send just a boy and driver out here if they expected a nuisance.”

“Well, I sure hope you men got enough ammunition in your words in case we run into fracas, because when shit goes bad, I will make sure to get out of it. I ain’t waiting around for diplomacy when the bullets start flying,” Stephens said. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders before leaning against the stagecoach wall again.

“We’ve got four hours until daybreak,” Burton said. “We will reach Ruby River without delay.”

“If none of you are carrying weapons,” Stephens said, “I sure hope, for your sakes, you’re right.”

Chapter Three

Something in the road jarred Wendell awake. It had caused the rest of the group to fall and violently shift inside the stagecoach. The interior lantern snuffed out when it swung and cracked against the roof. Mrs. Davidson ended up on her knees among the men’s legs, wool-covered feet, and miscellaneous footwear. Wendell and Burton immediately helped the woman back into the seat between them.

Stephens pulled back the leather curtain over the window. One of the bull’s eye railroad lanterns had shattered when it smashed against the coach wall. The men who had removed their boots struggled inside the dark carriage to retrieve their footwear.

“What happened?” one of the Hortons asked in the dark.

“Is anyone hurt?” Knowles asked.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Mrs. Davidson said, upright in her seat again.

Daniel dragged a match head against the interior wall. The flame flared with the heavy scent of phosphorus and a puff of black smoke. Wendell saw startled and tired faces illuminated. Outside the stagecoach, the driver climbed out of the driver’s box and the coach swayed with his movement. They heard shouting from outside the carriage.

“What are you doing?” Knowles asked as Stephens reached for the door latch.

“I’m going to see what’s happening,” he said.

“What if there are bandits out there?”

“I’d rather die on my feet out there than sit like a duck inside here,” Stephens said before slipping out the door with his gun in hand.

Before the match burned out, Daniel and Shane got out of the coach from the other door. Leaving both passenger doors open allowed the remaining exterior lanterns to illuminate the inside of the carriage.

Mrs. Davidson, Andrews, Burton, and Wendell waited while they listened to the patter of raindrops and distant voices outside the stagecoach. Andrews was the next person to get out of the cab. He immediately ran toward the left front of the stagecoach, disappearing into the dark and rain. Burton cleared his throat and pulled at the bottom hem of his vest. He attempted to look brave in front of Mrs. Davidson, but he wasn’t getting out of the stagecoach without a good reason.

“Mr. Clayton, perhaps you should go check on what’s happened. I will stay here with Mrs. Davidson,” Burton said.

“I don’t need you to watch after me, Mr. Burton. I have the Good Lord for that,” she said and pressed the Bible to her breast.

Wendell had already climbed out of the carriage before Mrs. Davidson’s revelation. Burton looked nonplussed when he got out. His boots sank into the trail mud. Wendell wasn’t concerned about muddy boots or wet socks. He saw the log before Burton. It was too late to warn the gentleman.

“Damn it,” Burton shouted. He fell to the ground, catching himself with both hands, wrist-deep in the mud.

“Let me help you up, Mr. Burton,” Wendell said, hooking his hand under the man’s elbow.

“Thank you,” Burton said. From the front of his knees down was black and brown sludge; muck covered his hands. Burton had lost his bowler hat. It rolled under the horses, and one of them trampled on it.

Wendell looked at the collection of logs under the carriage and horses’ legs.

“What is all this?” Burton said, noticing the long lengths of the various branches and logs.

Wendell began pulling pieces of wood from under the carriage wheels. That was when he noticed one of the ends. It had a flat edge, not broken. As soon as Wendell saw it, he felt goosebumps rise over his arms and face.

“We need to be careful,” he whispered.

“Where is everyone?” Burton said. The volume of his voice didn’t change. “I think they’re over there.” He attempted to remove one of the lanterns mounted on the stagecoach. It wouldn’t come off, but Burton managed to twist it, so the bull’s eye shone out to the left side, away from the road.

Wendell saw the driver hunkered on the ground down the slope, the Horton brothers with Knowles and Stephens watching over the man. Burton remained next to the carriage, holding the lantern to provide some light through the raindrops.

Wendell slipped in the wet grass on the slope, skidding on his rear until the terrain leveled out again. He saw the men surrounding the driver. There was a body on the ground, not moving. Wendell saw Stephens had holstered his sidearm but had a short-barrel shotgun in his grip. It was the weapon that belonged to the shotgun messenger. The stagecoach security man lay unconscious on the ground.

“Is he alive?” Knowles asked when Wendell reached the group.

“I can’t tell,” the driver said. “He’s busted up. I didn’t see those tree limbs. He pitched off the shotgun seat as if someone yanked him out of it. Are the horses all right?” He looked pleadingly at the rest of the men.

“I think one of them has a lame ankle,” Wendell said. “I saw the back left horse favoring a leg.”

“Damn it,” the driver said. He kneeled in the tall grass next to the young man. The leather raingear protected the driver and the guard from the storm, but it didn’t pad the young man’s fall.

Wendell kneeled next to the boy. He put his hand on the young man’s throat. It was warm to the touch, and there was a pulse under his fingertips.

“I think he got knocked out in the fall,” Wendell said. He pulled the leather duster away from the young man’s chest. The skin along the right shoulder had a purplish hue and bulged, something protruding against the flesh from inside the body. It showed dimly from the weak lantern light at the top of the knoll.

“Let’s get him up,” Knowles said.

“No, you don’t want to move him.” Wendell did his best to look over the rest of the young man. “What’s his name?” he asked.

“It’s Johnny,” the driver said. “He’s my brother’s son. This is his first ride.” The driver’s face showed anguish. “Is he going to live?”

“We can’t stay out here in the rain,” Stephens said.

“I agree, Mr. Stephens,” Wendell said, looking up at the men. “Those branches across the road looked cut with axes. That tree didn’t just fall there.”

The men suddenly became aware as a group that they weren’t alone on the trail. The driver snatched the shotgun from Stephens’ hand. He looked at Wendell. “Watch over Johnny,” he said before attempting to climb the hillside. It took some effort to reach the top.

“You think there’s someone out there?” Stephens asked. He pulled the pistol from the holster.

Before he turned away from Wendell to climb the ditch, the bullet shattered the man’s chest, propelling him backward and away from the remaining group. The pistol disappeared in the long grass.

The figure ratcheted another shotgun slug and aimed. Wendell saw the shadow on the road with a vantage that put him in line for death. The next shot took Shane Horton off his feet. His brother, Daniel, caught him. Both men fell when the third shotgun blast hit Shane and passed through to Daniel.

Knowles whimpered and tried running for the black thicket that surrounded them. He caught the slug in the back and fell face-first. All of it happened in seconds. Wendell, who had hunched over Johnny’s body when the shooting started, heard men calling to each other. The gunman overlooking where the boy had landed ratcheted another round into the shotgun chamber.

“I’m sorry,” Wendell said as he slid over Johnny and belly crawled through the tall grass until it turned to cattails and mire. He passed Knowles’ dead body and continued into the thicket, under the branches.

More gunfire happened on the roadside. The shotgun menace shot two more rounds into the huddled bodies, including Johnny. The boy would never regain consciousness.

Wendell sank up to his neck in mud and icy water. He felt his waterlogged body sink into the sludge. Wendell used smaller movements, attempting to keep the surrounding vegetation from moving and giving away his location.

It was a blind path in the dark and rain. Under his stomach, the muck gave way to more water. His crawling turned to treading water and he continued swimming into the darkness. Wendell kept his arms submerged, paddling to reduce splashing. His head bobbed underwater several times. Every time he resurfaced, he heard more gunfire. He heard men yelling, but it was far away. Weeds clung to Wendell’s ankles and wrists, threatening to keep him in their underwater embrace. The water tasted like mire and freedom.

Wendell felt the tug of a drift. He allowed it to haul him through the water, pulling at his body. The current shifted Wendell, facing him parallel with the shoreline. The turn allowed him to look back over his shoulder. He felt the gut-wrenching ache of spinelessness, fleeing from the stagecoach and the people he had met on his journey homeward. He saw the distant glow of lanterns hanging from the coach. He heard the horses whinnying in the confusion and gunfire and saw more than one silhouette running along the shore. He recognized the bell-shaped skirt as Mrs. Davidson left the carriage. Her screams were cut short by gunfire.

Wendell turned away from the scene of death and mayhem. Highwaymen had killed the driver, the boy, and all the passengers. Wendell felt he had betrayed everyone because fear had made him flee instead of fight. He wasn’t strong enough to stand up to the robbers.

Wendell allowed the current to sweep him away from the carnage. The rain and river washed away his tears.

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“Alliance Against the Devil” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

On his return home after years away, Wendell Clayton, a young man with incredible focus and determination, finds himself witnessing a stagecoach robbery that turns into a violent murder. Being the only survivor, he manages to escape and get back safe, only to discover that his beloved hometown has more than its share of violence. To add fuel to the fire, Wendell sees that his parents are suffering because of an unscrupulous businessman who’s now running them off their ranch. From that moment, the young man vows to kill the person who took away his parents’ livelihood… When the time comes though, will he have what it takes to pull the trigger?

During Wendell’s quest to bring down the man who destroyed his family, two ruthless men attack him. Luckily, the fearless Samantha Bowen stumbles across the scene and saves his life. Just when Wendell was convinced that he would never find support in this dangerous undertaking, an opportunity for a coalition appears; apparently, Samantha’s father is an ex-lawman who has survived hundreds of gunfights. Even so, she and her father are facing a big dilemma, as they fear that helping Wendell might cost them their lives. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking and Wendell has to act quickly if he wants to save his family from a living nightmare. Will Samantha and her father finally join him, or will he have to deal with the vicious criminals completely on his own?

Blood and bullets are a dirty business, and it takes a cool head to decide when to use a gun and when to hold back. When the dangers of this wilderness become more than Wendell bargained for, he knows that he needs to shoot straight in order to survive. Will he manage to tear down the merciless businessman once and for all? Will the young man protect his family and set out to forge a new 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.

“Alliance Against the Devil” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 60,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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