Blood Drops that Never Fade (Preview)

Chapter One

John Buck Barley’s faithful paint Packer carried him quietly through Louisiana’s Lower Mississippi Alluvial Plane, flat and grassy between the Mississippi River to the east and the Ouachita to the west. The horse knew what Buck was doing, playing his own part in their deadly mission. Packer had been with Buck since the war, and he was a cagy partner with a strong gallop when necessary.

Francois Tulane had led him north from New Orleans, not seeming to know he was being tracked. The vicious fur trapper and gambler was wanted for the murder of three men, one of them a Catholic priest. The price on his head was five hundred dollars.

It was about more than the bounty. The horrors of the War Between the States flashed across his memory with terrible regularity, every night and throughout every day. It had been war and it had been a bloody war, strewn with limbs and gore and screaming young men, dead horses and cannon fire that turned rows of men into clouds of red mist and chunks of burning flesh.

And there had been other horrors beyond the battlefield. War brought out the worst in men; beating and torturing prisoners, raping their way through the hapless women left behind by those brave, dead men on both sides. Either blue or gray, it didn’t seem to matter. There were good men on both sides, young and innocent and terrified. And there were bad men on both sides, greedy and rapacious and bloodthirsty.

Buck had come to know such men all too well and he’d seen what they were capable of, things they seemed to savor for their very depravity. Once on his own, the war over, he vowed to kill every such man he could.

And Francois Tulane was just such a man.

The plane was hot, even though it was only spring. Buck was anxious to get north before the humidity there became unbearable, but that was only if he survived bringing Tulane in, and that was still in some doubt.

Buck never underestimated his prey. He’d seen too many others die as a result of the same mistake, on and off the battlefield. Tulane was a trapper, and though he seemed not to know he himself was being hunted, he could know and be laying traps along the way. It slowed Buck’s progress through the tall grasses and cypress trees. But Packer kept a watchful eye out as well, already unaccustomed to the swampy areas of the region.

Buck was careful not to get too close, or to follow in a straight line, keeping the figure visible in the collapsible looking glass he’d brought back from the war. It gave him a crucial advantage; not only over his prey but over his competition as well. Buck wasn’t the only war veteran who’d taken to manhunting for a living, and the others would kill him just as soon as their targets just to thin the herd.

On the third day, Buck closed in on Tulane in a little swamp shack, a simple wooden structure on a raised platform, thick posts running into the soft ground. Buck got off Packer and slung his saddlebags over one shoulder, his Winchester rifle in his other hand, gun belt already and loaded for bear.

Night had fallen, but the moonlight told Buck everything he needed to know. There was one clear path to the cabin, but the light reflected against the metal wire pulled tight across the path between two trees. Buck followed the cable up to a shotgun fixed into the branches, aimed at the path. Somebody without his battlefield experience and years of manhunting would have fallen for it. Tulane took another route around the back of the cabin, one hidden in the dark.

Buck crept closer to the cabin, through the sawtooth and the willows, Winchester loaded and ready. Buck set down the saddlebags and peered through the tall swamp grass to the cabin. A light flickered inside; an oil lamp by Buck’s estimation.

A dog’s bark suddenly filled the cabin, muffled by the rotting wood but still shattering the swampy silence. It sounded like a hound dog, a lot of howl in that bark.

Damnit, Buck thought, don’t make me kill the damn dog, you coward!

The cabin door opened and the dog lumbered out, barking. Clearly too old for an attack it was a living alarm system, and for that it worked just fine.

Francios Tulane remained in the cabin, but called out, “Who is there?” in a vaguely French accent.

“Come to bring you in, Tulane,” Buck called out. “Killed a priest, gotta pay for that.”

“I kill you too! You want Tulane, you come and get Tulane!”

“Sure,” Buck called back, “right into one of those booby-traps you got set up all over this property.”

“Then go on home, ‘cause I ain’t just comin’ out!”

“No,” Buck answered, “I didn’t think you would.”

Buck pulled out one of the bottles of whiskey he’d brought along. He carried them commonly, and used them only when he had to. For Francois Tulane, he would need at least one bottle.

He pulled out the cork and slipped in a long stretch of cotton fabric he’d brought for the occasion.

“You still there, you varmit?”

“Ain’t leavin’ without you, Tulane, one way or the other.”

“You don’t leave now, you ain’t never gonna.”

Buck knew the strike of the sulfur-tipped matchstick would give away his location, so he’d have only a limited time. He lit the cotton, shook out the match, and pulled the bottle back to pitch it. That was the most dangerous moment, leaving him revealed and prone to a shot right in the gut.

But Tulane missed his chance and Buck threw the bottle, the burning cotton streaking across over the area to land on the cabin’s roof. The bottle shattered and the flames spread quickly over the wooden roof. The dog howled and Buck picked up the Winchester and aimed for the doorway. Most such cabins only had one entrance to prevent the occupant from being taken from behind. But the tactic could work against that occupant too, especially when unaware of new techniques perfected in the war. But a man like this would never have had the courage or sense of duty to fight in any war on any side but his own.

Francois Tulane came running out of the house, just as expected. Buck took his shot, Tulane’s grunt telling him it was a hit. The ensuing thud told Buck he’d brought Francois down. But that didn’t mean he was dead, and he still had to be brought in. At the very least, he had to die.

But the burning cabin lit up the area, making the shotgun booby-trap at the end of the private trail more obvious. Around him, the ground was clear of bear traps or trip wires. But Buck knew he had to proceed with care and caution. And every minute that went by exposed him to fire from Tulane, if he was still alive and still able. The cabin lit Buck up bright, a suitable target from any vantage. He kept low, creeping up to the burning cabin. Black smoke poured out of the cabin, bright orange flames licking up it.

Bang! Buck ducked and rolled and backed up to see Francois Tulane running out of the smoke, shooting a handgun straight in front of him, a blind charge which missed only by a few seconds. A target with less agility or experience than Buck might have been felled. Bang, bang, bang-bang!

Tulane looked around, and Buck waited for him to turn before shooting. Buck wasn’t about to shoot a man in the back if he didn’t have to.

Bang! Tulane dropped his gun and staggered back. The first shot had hit him in the upper left arm, and he stood unarmed, a massive rifle shot in the center of his chest. He was as good as dead; he seemed to know it, though he also seemed hardly to be able to believe it.

He looked down at his mortal wound, then back at Buck.

“Who … are … you?”

Tulane coughed up a bit of blood and fell to his knees.

“I’m death, partner … your death.”

Tulane fell forward, his cabin burning behind him, dog howling from the bushes. With the light of the burning cabin Buck could drag Tulane’s body back along his own path, free of any booby-traps, and back to Packer waiting nearby. He was about to earn his moniker yet again, horse-turned-pack mule for another bounty.

Chapter Two

New Orleans was bustling, horses and carriages filling the narrow, cobblestone streets, violin and washboards leaking out of the bars and cafes. Whores leaned out of rod-iron balconies, waving to men on horseback, dandies on the sidewalks. Drunks stumbled into the gutters, where knifemen awaited. The smell of urine and feces of every sort was thick in the air.

Buck rode Packer through the crowd, the body of Francois Tulane slung over the paint’s haunches. Some glanced at him, seeming to recognize him and turning away. Others looked on with fascination, most of them women. Buck thought he heard Tulane’s name being muttered, his package attracting more attention than he was.

He was going to see the sheriff in that area of New Orleans, so big and wooly a parish that it required several different departments of the sheriff’s office, a trend that was spreading throughout the burgeoning nation since the end of the War Between the States. It was a good sign for the growth of the nation and its rebirth, but a bad sign as to which direction it was going in.

Sheriff Roy Adler looked up from his desk, a relieved smile stretching across his round face, brown curly hair seeming to be even thinner than the week before. “Gawd dang,” he said, standing up from behind the desk, “back so soon?”

“Had to lag behind, tracked him to a cabin in the Lower Alluvial.”

Sheriff Alder waddled past Buck and to the door to open it and peek outside. “Gawd dang! That’s Francois Tulane all right, one and the same!”

“You’ve got that bounty?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He waddled past Buck to the safe near the desk. He bent down and spun the gears a few times. “He give you any trouble?”

“Wasted a perfectly good bottle of whiskey.” The sheriff chuckled as he opened the safe door and pulled out some paper currency, new to circulation. Buck asked, “You sure that’s safe?”

Sheriff Adler chuckled as he closed the door and pushed himself to his feet. “This is the sheriff’s office, after all.” He handed Buck the thick stack of bills. “It’d be a lot safer if you’d reconsider my offer, take up a badge, stick around.”

Buck had given it some thought. There were good reasons to stay, and better reasons to leave.

“I wore insignia in the war, Roy,” Buck said. “I ride my own way now.”

“Well you don’t have to follow here, you can be a leader! You know I’ll give you a wide berth. A man like you on the job, the streets will clean themselves up! Won’t you reconsider?”

It was tempting, but the unavoidable truth of the matter flashed in his conscience as it had so often before.

“Roy, this place, this city, any city … they may seem exciting to some; thrilling, filled with opportunity. For me, they just seem filthy, clusters of miserable souls bringing out the worst in each other. Crime, indiscriminate fornication, filth. Do you ever spend time up in the Smoky Mountains, or the Rockies?” Roy just shook his head. “It’s beautiful, Roy. Clear, blue skies, gorgeous, rugged peaks, clear valley streams. There’s good game everywhere, plenty of room to grow and farm and even ranch, if one’s of a mind.”

“That’s fine for some,” Roy said. “But … think of the sophistication! Up in the Smokeys, life is as it’s always been, probably always will be. But here, in New Orleans, we ship all manner of goods from virtually every corner of the globe, every new innovation! And we are a nation that looks forward, not back, after all.”

“Thank God for that,” Buck said. “But I’ll leave it to you to sort out the future.” It was true, and in a lot of ways, Buck knew he was still sorting out the past.

“Suit cherself, but … the door’s always open, if you change yer mind.”

Buck folded and pocketed the bills and gave the sheriff a wink. “I’ll let you know.”

Buck stepped out of the sheriff’s department. His next stop was to ride Packer to the mortician to have him deal with the body, useful only to him. It was too close to mount the horse, too far to drag the body, so Buck simply led Packer down the street.

“Buck!”

Buck turned to see pretty Sabina Charbonneaux step up to him. Her slender body was barely covered in a thin, plain dress, hardly a glamorous advertisement for a young seamstress.

“Sabina.”

Sabina smiled, her eyes wide under her long, black hair, complexion smooth, befitting her tender years. “You made it back!”

“So it would seem.”

“And you killed Francois Tulane! Mon Dieu, I was almost afraid he would get you.”

Buck could only shrug, still leading Packer down the street. “Nobody’s luck holds out forever.”

“Will you stay? Have you reconsidered the sheriff’s offer?”

Buck kept walking, keeping his eyes fixed dead-ahead. “Not at the moment, no.”

“What … what about mine?”

“Go home, Sabina, go back to work.”

She pouted, walking alongside him, a young woman in the full blossom of her beauty. “You think I’m ugly.”

“Of course not, you’re beautiful.”

“Then why? I won’t go on sewing, I’ll be your wife and give you children and cook your meals and keep your house, whatever you want!”

“But that’s not what I want,” Buck said, having to turn to Sabina even if he could not stop walking in the middle of the street. “And I’m not what you want. You need a … a quiet life, with a gentleman, a shopkeeper or a banker. Not a man of my stripe. You’re far too decent a person to go where I have to go, to do the things I have to do.”

“But … why can’t you do them here?”

Buck had to stop the horse, traffic behind him be damned. He reached up and gently touched Sabina’s chin. “Because this isn’t my place, Sabina, but it is your place. You’ll find what you’re looking for here, I won’t.”

A lone tear crawled down her cheek. “But … I have found what I want … who I want.”

“You only think that.”

Sabina turned her head with an angry snap, black hair flipping on her shoulders. “You men are all the same! You think you know all and we know nothing!”

“That’s not true, Sabina, I don’t know all you don’t know nothing. It’s just that in this case, you happen to be wrong. I can’t explain it to you but you’ll never understand until you discover it for yourself, until you meet that man. Then, you will understand. Until then, you’re just going to have to trust me.”

“Fine, go and die alone if that’s what you want! See if I care!” She turned to storm off, around the front of his horse, onto the sidewalk and down the street. Buck watched her go, reasonably certain he’d never see her again. He couldn’t ignore the pang of regret, knowing her to be a fine and pretty girl of virtue and worthiness. But Buck hadn’t lied. She would never survive in the hills, nor he in New Orleans. Their destinies would have to take them in different directions, however difficult it was for her to accept or for him to deny regretting.

After dropping Tulane’s body off with the mortician and tipping him an extra amount, Buck walked back out onto the street to survey his prospects. He had a pocketful of money; he’d just vanquished a local pariah. He could do just about anything he wanted in New Orleans, one of the most fantastic cities in the United States.

It was too late to head out again, and Buck did have hungers, and thirsts, the first of which was actually for food. And New Orleans was nothing if not a movable feast of spicy meats, robust crawfish and catfish, red beans and rice, and beer both cold and delicious.

I can stay the night, Buck decided, heading off to situate Packer in the livery and then get himself a hotel room in what was already being called the French Quarter.

“You!” Buck stopped and turned to see a familiar figure standing behind him; short and fat, stooped forward, her skin was coal-black and her eyes ivory white, her body draped in layers of silks in different floral and paisley patterns. “You … the King of Death!”

Buck said nothing as she raised a quivering hand, finger pointing at the end of that chubby arm. “Beware … beware … death itself … comes for the king.”

Buck wasn’t afraid. He’d come across the woman before, she was known as Old Hattie; just another superstitious old fool, one who preyed upon the suspicions and foolishness of others. But she was no danger to him, and her warning even seemed well-intentioned.

“Death comes for the King of Death!”

“All right, old woman,” Buck finally said, pulling a coin from his pocket and extending it to her. “Take it and go. Tell the spirits you’ve done their bidding.”

“No,” Old Hattie said, shaking her dark, round head, “you stay, don’t go! Stay and you live, go … and you will die!”

Buck was almost ready to wonder if Sabina hadn’t hired her to change his mind. But it hardly mattered. Buck put the coin into Old Hattie’s palm and said, “On your way, mother, go now.”

She stood there as in disbelief, looking at the coin in her hand, before shaking her head and waddling off. Buck couldn’t help but huff up a little chuckle before heading onward to find a decent hotel room.

Chapter Three

Timothy Horn stood with his wife Sarah, her black hair falling over her blue eyes, Winchester rifle in her hands. She stood defiant, strong, legs splayed as she held her ground. Timothy had never been prouder of her, or more afraid for her. But this was not the time to show fear.

Zeek McGraw sat on his horse with his second, a big man Timothy knew only as Pug, a mountain of a man on a beleaguered quarter horse. “Mister Horn,” Zeek said, “I think maybe you don’t quite un’erstand. Ain’t no need for them guns, and in yer own wife’s arms, that’s a shame. Should be cradlin’ a little one ‘stead. An’ I can help make that happen!”

Sarah raised the rifle, pointing it right at Zeek. “Turn around now, you varmint!”

Zeek seemed to give that some thought, scratching his thinly whiskered chin. “Oh no, ma’am, I don’t mean like that, not at all! We wanna be friends, see? An’ all we’re sayin’ is, we’ll be real good friends t’ya, make don’t nobody around here steps foot on her little homestead here.”

Timothy asked, “Who?”

Zeek glanced at Pug, then back at Timothy. “All kinds, that’s who! Y’got rouge negroes comin’ up from the South, them French is always a problem. Mexicans even, I heard tell. Aint that right, Pug?” Pug just nodded. Zeek went on, “But see, we got a new business, see? We protect you folks from them outsiders, that trash. Then yer pretty wife can go ahead and have that baby y’all gotta get to makin’.”

“That’s all I’ll hear from you on that subject,” Timothy said, a Colt revolving pistol in each hand. Between him and Sarah they had both the horsemen dead to rights, and they both seemed to know it. But they also had to know that they could come back, and attack at any time.

“We’ll be on our way then,” Zeek said. “Just as soon as you pay our fee.”

Timothy said, “Your fee?”

“To keep them rascals off’n her place, is why! What’d you reckon, we work fer free?”

“Man’s gotta eat,” Pug said, his voice very low.

Timothy and Sarah shared a glance, keeping their guns on the two horse-bound men. Timothy asked, “How’re you going to do this, keep them off our property? You’re going to be stationed here to protect us around the clock, is that right?”

“Around the — ? No, pal, no,” Zeek said with a little chuckle. “See, you pay us and we just go out and sort of … keep the Smokeys clean, right? This is our territory now, so we takes care of our own, right?”

Sarah repeated, “Our? Who’s that? Who do you work for?”

Zeek smiled, rotting teeth revealed between his scraggily beard. “I’m tryin’ real hard to be patient with you, woman.”

“Try harder,” Timothy said.

“Just pay,” Pug said, loud and low.

Timothy said, “Or what?”

“Or you won’t get no protection,” Zeek said. “Then somethin’ bad’s gonna happen.”

Pug added, “Real bad.”

“An’ trust me,” Zeek said, “I seen what these … these rascals can do, I seen it up close.” He looked at Sarah in particular. “It ain’t pretty, worse fer some than fer others, if y’take my meaning.”

Sarah clearly did, and Timothy did too. And she seemed to understand what was happening every bit as much as Timothy did.

“I know the people of these mountains,” Timothy said, “and my fellow Tennessee citizens … I’ll take my chances.”

“Yeah? Well, most of yer neighbors are goin’ along … them that’s not were just talkin’ ‘bout movin’ west … on the double-quick.”

Timothy and Sarah stood their ground in front of their modest homestead cabin.

“All right, you made your point,” Timothy said. “Now git.”

Zeek and Pug shared another glance, then looked back at Timothy and Sarah. “You sure ‘bout this? We don’t make the offer twice. It ain’t all that much money –”

“Any amount is too much,” Timothy said, “for the kind of protection you’re talking about … from yourselves alone! Now ride on outta here, and know that the next time you come anywhere close to this homestead, you’ll be shot without warning.”

Zeek pulled his ugly face back a bit. “Well, now that ain’t friendly at all! My word!” He said to his partner, “C’mon, Pug, we knows where we ain’t wanted.” He tipped his hat at Sarah. “Y’all have a very pleasant evenin’.”

They turned their horses and turned to ride back down the mountain, deeper into the Smokeys. Timothy kept his eye on then until they were out of sight before he and Sarah withdrew back into the cabin.

Once there, Timothy couldn’t help but keep his eyes fixed out the windows, scanning the thickly wooded mountain, caked with dogwood and maple, oak and poplar. All could shelter the two men for an ambush.

Sarah asked him, “Are you going to have to sit there on guard for the rest of your life?”

“Won’t make a difference,” Timothy said. “They won’t come back now, but they will come back. When we least suspect it.”

“And then what, Timothy? Then what?”

Timothy thought it through; no answer coming to him, only more questions. “Once it starts, it’ll never stop. They’re just giving themselves a license to steal; more and more, until they’ve taken everything!”

Sarah knew it as well as Timothy did, he was certain by the look in her eyes. But she was lost for a solution. Only one thing seemed clear; they’d put themselves in the sites of two murderous, rapacious extortionists, and it wouldn’t be long before they came in for the kill.

Chapter Four

The Nashville Skyline saloon was filled with cigar smoke and clamored with a hundred conversations at once, all of them bawdy and loud. The whores laughed too heartily, flattering their drunken Johns, who of course fell right for it. Not that it would matter once they got into the whores’ private rooms.

The piano jangled in the corner, several people dancing on the cleared section of the floor, tables pushed aside.

Rhea Hughes wasn’t there for the music, and she certainly wasn’t there for the whores. She was holding a pair of kings, and she was pretty sure it was the best hand at the table; not that that mattered either. Rhea wasn’t there for the gambling.

She knocked back a shot of whiskey, hot in her throat as she stared down the man at the other side of the poker table, Pete Sacks of the Bummer Shore. He didn’t seem to know her, but that was by design. He was more intrigued to be playing poker against a woman. And she knew what kind of distraction her long, red hair, pretty face, and ample bosom was to men like him. She often bet her life on it. Others did too, though they often never knew it until the bet was lost.

Peter Sacks of the Bummer Shore stared her down. His eyes kept falling to her breasts, but Rhea kept her eyes on him. He tossed a few chips into the pot, a pile of chips on the table between them. Two other men were at the table with them, plus the dealer. One man took two new cards and the other man folded, returning the attention to Bummer Pete.

He was a known murderer of children, something he reportedly took some pleasure in. He was what they called a specialist. But he’d managed to snatch the wrong kid, the daughter of a powerful man who was ready to put a hearty price on his head. Though once Rhea heard what the crime was, they’d have had to pay her not to bring him in.

Rhea tossed a few more chips into the pool, the cards a blur in front of her. The other player shook his head and tossed his cards face down onto the table in front of him. “Too rich for my blood.”

That left Rhea and Bummer Pete, staring each other down. The dealer seemed aware of the tension between the two, and Rhea was certain that Pete was. He took it for their contest, a pile of chips between them, there for the taking.

“Yer quite a woman,” Bummer Pete said. “I like yer style.”

Rhea rose one knowing brow. “You have no idea how good my style is.”

Bummer Pete chuckled. “Maybe, after I rob you blind, I’ll have a chance to find out.”

“Maybe.” A tense silence hovered over the table. Rhea tossed a few more chips onto the pot.

Things were coming to a head, and Rhea was ready. She was sure Bummer Pete felt that he was too.

Bummer Pete threw a few more chips on the table. He looked at Rhea and said only, “Call.”

Rhea cracked a little smile, laying down her cards. “Pair of kings.”

Bummer Pete drew a broad grin, cigar clamped in his jaws. “Three of a kind.” He set down his cards and reached out to collect the pot, just the moment Rhea had been waiting for.

“Congratulations,” she said, “you’re under arrest, under a warrant issued in the State of Massachusetts.”

His face went blank, bloodless, as the truth of the matter worked through his poisoned mind. He took in his pretty, feminine adversary, the pile of riches before him, the future of a hangman’s noose which awaited him.

Bummer Pete’s only option was clear, and Rhea had seen it coming before she’d even walked through the saloon door.

He stood and drew on her, just as Rhea had hoped and planned. But her skills were the better of any man’s. Bummer Pete had been drinking much more than she, only having enough to make a show of it. So when the crucial moment came, she had the advantage. She had planned what had taken him by surprise, the confusion another vulnerability that Rhea could make full use of.

It happened in a flash.

He barely got his Colt out of the holster on his gun belt before Rhea was standing, her chair falling back behind her.

Bang-bang! Two quick shots center-mass made Bummer Pete’s body cramp forward, Colt dangling in his stunned grip before falling to the floor with a loud clack. The room had gone silent, the piano still, all eyes on the two combatants; the obvious victor and the doomed loser.

Bummer Pete finally collapsed, eyes rolling up into his head for a good view of eternity. He hit hard and lay still, everybody’s attention on Rhea. She said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “He drew on me first, you all saw it. He’s a wanted criminal, a child murderer! If any of you have any grievance with what you’ve just seen, bring it to me. I won’t be unreasonable.”

The room was dead quiet, the whores and Johns and drunks and gamblers sitting quiet.

Rhea holstered her gun and surveyed the room. “All right then. I’ll pay five dollars each to the two men who carries this thing with me to the sheriff’s place, and another same payment to drag it to the mortician.”

Two young men raced up to her, their clothes tattered and filthy, hair knotted and tangled. She demanded, “Names?”

“Ricky Rist,” one said, “n’my brother, Dicky.”

“All right, boys,” Rhea said, “see to it.” The two Rist brothers carried the dead man out of the saloon, the patrons taking in the sight of a woman like they’d never seen before and would never see again.

Rhea followed her new servants out of the saloon to collect her bounty, the piano starting up again to initiate a new stream of frolicsome conversation. The whores went on laughing, the Johns went on joking, and nobody gave a second thought to the last moments of Bummer Pete Sacks.

Sheriff Leslie Deats stood when Rhea entered his office, a certain aspect of fear forever on his bony face. He was a good man, but Rhea often felt he had something to hide by his continuous caution.

“Miss Rhea,” he said, taking in the sight of the Rist brothers dragging in Bummer Pete’s body. “Oh, there’s been some business in town, has there?”

“I thought you might have heard the gunfire,” Rhea said. She caught sight of the near-empty whiskey bottle on the desk, the bleary eyes and unsteady stance of one of Nashville’s better sheriffs in their newly departmentalizing system.

All the more incompetence to go around, Rhea couldn’t help but think.

The sheriff looked the body over. “That’s Peter Sacks, of the Bummer Shore.”

“One thousand dollars,” Rhea said, “payable on delivery.”

Leslie looked them both over. “I’ll see to it. Did … did you know?”

“Know what?”

“He’s in with Charlie Barrow.”

Rhea searched her memory, an echo of the name ringing with a vague familiarity. Rhea simply turned her head just a bit, eyes sinking to shrewd slits as he wordlessly bid her to continue.

“Barrow’s moved into the area; he’s up in the Cumberland Mountains, they say, Kentucky. Runs a whole organized ring of road agents, taking over homesteads and farms and the like.”

A hot pulse flushed Rhea’s system. “Is he?”

“So they say,” the sheriff said, a weave and sway to his posture. “He’s out of my jurisdiction, of course, but … I’m told there’s a mounting bounty on his head.”

“Mounting?”

“By the day,” Sheriff Deats said. “Plus for a lot of his men. Could be in the thousands, or even … tens of thousands.”

“No.”

“For the whole gang? Even Barrow plus a few … That would be quite a feather in anybody’s cap, man … or woman.”

But that was of little interest to Rhea. “Sounds like a good candidate for the grave as well.”

Sheriff Deats sighed and looked away. “Aren’t we all?”

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“Blood Drops that Never Fade” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

John Buck Barley is a feared bounty hunter and a Civil War veteran, well-known as The King of Death. Aided by his keen mind and loaded gun, he is driven by an impulse to rid a nation of lawless men in a way no man with a badge could ever achieve. When a ruthless criminal kills his beloved cousin and kidnaps his widow, he vows to avenge his death and rescue the helpless woman from the killer’s dirty hands. But it will take all of his skills to deal with the perils he comes across and track his evil enemy. Will Buck succeed on this highly challenging mission? How far will he go to keep his promise and clear his cousin’s name?

When Buck meets Rhea Hughes, a female bounty hunter who shares the same target, they create an alliance to find the vicious killer and serve justice. Rhea’s spunk has helped her to bring down the worst of the worst of the American West, and she is prepared for a battle that has no precedent. Day by day, their incredible attraction is growing, but both of them know that they should resist if they want to stay on course. Will the two bounty hunters manage to stay focused and get their revenge? What are they willing to risk in order to carry out such a dangerous undertaking?

Time is running short, and lives are hanging by a thread. The very best and the very worst of the human experience collide, and only one side will prevail. Will Buck and Rhea capture one of the most wanted criminals who spreads death on his way. In the end, will good triumph over evil?

A pulse-pounding drama, featuring pure action and fascinating characters that will keep the reader turning page after page. A must-read for fans of Western action and romance.

“Blood Drops that Never Fade” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!