Chapter One
Daniel Dawson surveyed the mountains east of Dixie, surrounding the common grazing grounds. The horse sensed trouble and so did he. Behind him, Dick Spalter and Bob Docter squinted in the bright Utah sun, warm in the spring sky. A Northern harrier cried out overhead, circling a thermal in a slow, ominous circle above them.
They rode in an unhurried gait, each man armed with a Winchester rifle and two Colt pistols. The grass and shrubs hid rattlers and gila monsters, but those were the least of Daniel’s concerns.
There was no sign of any Navajo, but that was little reassurance. They could be hiding in the crags of the mountain range south of the grazing grounds. If so, they might spring out at any time, and in almost any number.
But there had been a tense peace, one all of them could only be grateful for. In the year of the Lord, eighteen-hundred and fifty, the Utah territory had become a burgeoning wellspring for the white man, and the Navajo and other local tribes were sensing the growing desperation of their situation. And with that area directly in the path of settlers heading to regions further west, some all the way to the Pacific Ocean, things were only going to get worse for the Navajo and all the rest—Apache, Blackhawk.
They rode through the foothills toward the new homestead of the Robinson family, tools clinking against their saddles, hardtack and tobacco and vegetable seeds and other supplies in their saddlebags.
It was their third trip out in almost two months, as much time as Daniel could take Spalter and Docter off the Sundowner ranch. His father was agitated enough about what he called his son’s “little errands,” but he saw the wisdom in it as much as Daniel did. Few enough ranchers, and absolutely no new settlers, had the kind of power and security the great Dutch Dawson had created in the area. But instead of seeing them as potential competition or simply a nuisance, as his father did, Daniel saw potential in every new family, the American dream being built beam by beam, brick upon brick.
Daniel looked around those crags and hills, the flatlands stretched out to the northeast. He would be inheriting his father’s ranch, and all the power and influence that would go along with it. All that in a country that was ever-changing, ever-growing. It would be an empire, and Daniel and his generation would rise even higher than his father’s, elevating the Sundowner from a mere fiefdom to a verified empire.
But Daniel knew that would take more than just money and power. It would take expanding his influence through reaching out, not merely hiring or firing as his father did. Instead of lining the pockets of local officials and buying gunmen to enforce his will on the flatlands and in the mountains, Daniel knew he could win power through loyalty, and loyalty would be earned through friendship, through sacrifice.
Thereafter, he’d have the support of the local population, his empire expanding without a single act of aggression. Like the ancient world before Alexander the Great, the Utah territory would willingly open its doors to Daniel Dawson, and he would simply walk in and possess it. And, like Alexander, he would be benevolent, compassionate. He would provide for those under his rule, their rights preserved, their ways of worship unmolested.
And it was more than just a way to improve his prospects for the future. The Robinsons were a good family, faithful Christians, the good and noble Carl Robinson eager to make his fortune for his wife Sally and their daughter, Caroline.
Caroline, Daniel thought, visions of her striking the back of his brain, where his memory lay; that pretty face, blue eyes and back hair, a body shapely and of child-bearing years despite the obvious youth of her face. She’d been quite coy and friendly, and Daniel had good reason to think that the attraction between them might well be mutual. Further, her parents were gracious and grateful for his aid with their new home, cutting and hauling lumber, setting the foundation and the walls, as much as he and his hands could do in their limited available time.
They won’t object, Daniel thought, though the notion of asking still made him nervous and that was beyond his own understanding. He was the heir apparent to one the biggest, if not the biggest cattle ranches in the Utah territory. He was the object of desire of many women in Dixie and even Cedar City. And some of them had gotten what they’d desired, and a lot of them desired more.
But Daniel had lost interest in them, thinking more and more about that sweet, demure young woman standing with her family against the wilds of the territory. She was so supple and soft against the brutality and ruggedness of her surroundings; she seemed to Daniel like an Angel sent to him from the Lord Almighty Himself.
They rode over one crest and down toward the stream leading them toward the Robinson homestead. The log cabin was protected from desert storms by mountains to the south, a rugged entry to the north. But it was also a horseshoe formation, with just one way in and out.
Daniel led Spalter and Docter deeper in, the stream rippling calmly, a horned lark chirping happily in the aspen. It was calm, but that was no sign of a peaceful situation. The horses seemed nervous, whinnying and shaking their heads as they clopped toward the homestead. Daniel’s eyes scanned the mountains on both sides of the stream, searching for the sharp glint of light, the glare of a metal rifle barrel catching the sunlight before that cowardly assassin’s bullet fired. But it wasn’t just Navajo that worried Daniel or either of the others—or the Robinsons, for that matter. There was the black bear, the cougars, the coyotes, gila monsters, rattlesnakes. The winters could be brutally cold, the river basin where they staked their claim could become flooded. There was little way to be prepared for any eventuality, though they’d all done what they could.
They rode on, Spalter and Docter also on the alert, though both knew as well as Daniel that they were still terribly vulnerable. Every hoof step took them closer to danger, to ambush, to being trapped in that mountainous dead-end.
The homestead came up on the right, the logs of the house visible through the maples and pines. There had been some progress on the walls, Daniel could already see. And he was eager to congratulate them and to lend a hand to erect them even higher.
They’ll have stew on, Daniel told himself, and nice, hot coffee.
He led the other men toward the homestead, calling out, “Greetings from the Sundowner, Robinson family!” It was a loud, cheerful call.
It got no response.
Daniel glanced at the other men, Spalter already raising the Winchester, Docter pulling a Colt from the holster hanging from his gun belt.
Silence surrounded the area, only the rush of the water and the song of the black-capped chickadees. Daniel looked around as his speckled stallion brought him closer. The house was quiet, personal effects scattered everywhere, a human arm extended from the open entry of the cabin’s central room.
Daniel’s heart was instantly pounding faster, sweat collecting on the back of his neck as he jumped off his horse and ran to the house, looking over the five-log-high cabin wall to see good Carl Robinson laying on his back, a Colt pistol lost to him on the floor just a few inches from his empty, lifeless hand. He lay face up, the upper left quarter of his head blasted away by gunshot, brains and blood splattered across the wall above and behind him, his one eye staring out into a hopeless eternity.
Daniel’s heart was pounding in his chest as he looked around the cabin, not seeing Carl’s wife Sally anywhere. Daniel’s imagination jumped to the obvious conclusion, only confirmed to see that young Caroline was gone as well.
Daniel called out, “Caroline, Sally! It’s your friend, Daniel Dawson!” He hoped they’d come crawling out of hiding, that Carl had made his last stand while they scurried into the junipers and mountain mahogany to escape the Navajo’s terrible attention.
No answer came back.
Spalter and Docter looked around the mountain area surrounding the meadow, a magpie crying out in the distance. Daniel checked Carl’s body again. It was not yet cold, though blood was clotted, the color fading from the skin.
“Not dead long,” Daniel said to them. “No scalps taken.”
“Hostages instead,” Spalter said. “Godless heathen sons of bitches musta took yer woman an’ her momma back to their camp.”
Daniel nodded as he stood to survey the area. “But… no sign of them coming in. They could be an hour away, and in any direction.”
“Buried in the hills,” Doctor said. “No way o’ findin’ em now.”
“Unless they brought their hostages back to their reservations. We can find her there.” Spalter and Docter shared a glance, shaking their heads and looking back at Daniel. “What?”
Doctor said, “Look, Daniel, we’re glad fer the work at yer daddy’s ranch, an’ we’re happy to help folks like these when we can, even kill some of those dirt worshippers if we gotta. But… to ride into a reservation like that? I… I ain’t that anxious to get myself killed.”
“I agree,” Spalter said. “Ain’t no point now, anyway. She’ll be ruin’t by the time you get her back. An’ there’s other fish in the sea, like my daddy used to say.”
Bang!
Spalter’s upper right arm burst with a bright red plume of blood, leaping out of his chest amid a cloud of red mist and smoke from his charred shirt. He screamed and spun, dropping the Colt from that hand but drawing with his other.
Daniel and the other two looked around, ready for the onslaught that was surely to come. Horses galloped nearer, louder, Navajo screaming a battle cry as a line of warriors rode down the stream toward them, water kicking up from the horse’s furious hooves, each armed like one of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse.
Chapter Two
The Navajo rode in fast and hard, rifles blazing, ponies snorting as they bore down on the three men.
Bang, bang-bang!
Daniel drew a Colt in each hand. He fired, the line of Navajo breaking off under the men’s defensive fire to encircle the homestead. Two of them circled the abandoned house in one direction, the other two rode around clockwise. The move was meant to surround and confuse their enemy, to find the vantage point from which they could not defend themselves. With this attack, they would always be attacking from behind, and that would be as good as a certain kill.
Daniel turned and fired, hitting one of the Navajo as he peeled around from behind the unfinished house.
Bang! The warrior was hit in the shoulder, snapping to the side without being thrown from his mount. He squinted and refocused to return the fire, but Daniel was ready with a second shot to finally throw the man off his pony. He lay motionless on the ground as his pony rode off, the pony of another warrior trampling him as it rode in the other direction.
Spalter, already wounded, fired on another Navajo. He’d clearly been pegged as vulnerable, and they bore down on him with terrible fury. He ducked around his horse, who took several shots and cried out, stumbling to the side and falling to nearly crush Spalter under its lifeless weight. Spalter staggered back but the horse was moving with terrible fear and agony that finally pushed it to its side. The man was almost quick enough to escape it before his ankles were caught under the horse’s writhing, tortured torso.
Spalter hissed out his pain, trying to push the massive beast off him, flailing on the ground as the Navajo circled around to come back for the kill.
Daniel turned to offer supporting fire, but two Navajo were already firing on Daniel, seeming to know they’d taken Spalter out of the fight.
Bang, bang-bang! Daniel and Docter opened fire on the advancing Navajo, Daniel taking one of the horses out with a shot right between the eyes. He’d been aiming for the rider, center-mass, but the unfortunate shot was still a boon in the struggle. The animal rolled forward, tumbling to send the Navajo flying forward, rolling to avoid the falling horse in an ironic picture of Spalter’s unfortunate circumstance.
But the Navajo was quicker, more agile and adept, and he rolled forward and to his feet, pulling a massive hunting blade from his vest in a single, swift motion.
Bang! Docter shot at the Navajo, sending him spinning but not putting him off his feet. Daniel’s fire finished the job.
Bang-bang!
Two Navajo remained, their gunshots pouring in from every direction, it seemed. Gunsmoke hung heavy in the air, the ponies a pair of brown blurs as they circled the two survivors. Daniel took two shots at once, one of the riders instantly thrown from his horse, the other still circling the homestead.
Docter took a shot in the back, staggering forward and spinning to return fire.
Bang, bang-bang!
But the Navajo had Docter dead to rights as the man staggered back in a hailstorm of gunfire. Daniel knew he was dead before he hit the ground. But Daniel took advantage of the Navajo’s choice to fire on the rider and avenge his friend and ranch hand.
Bang, click, click.
Both guns were dry, and there was no time to reload. The Navajo shot at Daniel, who jumped out of the bullet’s path just in time. The deadly horseman galloped up on him without time for a second shot.
Daniel jumped up and grabbed the Navajo as he rode past, pulling him down off his horse into hand-to-hand combat. The two men rolled, each reaching for the other’s face, throat, lips, eyes, any vulnerable spot. Finding himself on top, Daniel managed to hold the Navajo down and deliver a hard punch into his face. He hit with a satisfying crunch, the warrior’s nose shattering. Daniel punched the Navajo again, but before he could deliver a third punch, the Navajo threw him up and over his head to land flat on his back.
Daniel turned to engage the Navajo again, but he charged and rammed Daniel backward. The two men stumbled, Daniel backward and straight into the massive trunk of a nearby big tooth maple. Daniel hit him hard, the wind pushed out of his lungs, the tree stiff and unyielding behind him and the Navajo enraged in front of him.
The Indian threw a hard punch into Daniel’s gut, further debilitating him. He grabbed Daniel, spun him, and then threw him to the ground. He pulled a hunting knife from a leather sheath strapped to his calf and approached Daniel, who was trying to push himself up from the bloodied grass.
Bang! The Navajo snapped back, looking over in shock, knife still in his hand as he tried to stand his ground. He took another step forward, but a second shot finished the job. Bang! The Navajo dropped to the ground and Daniel looked over to see Spalter holding his Colt, his body twisted underneath that dead horse.
Daniel pushed himself up and surveyed the area, dead men and horses strewn everywhere. He stumbled to Spalter and knelt to shove the horse free of the injured man’s legs. He turned to help Spalter to his feet, but Spalter winced in pain, barely able to stand.
“Y’all right?”
He shook his head. “Right one’s broke, I think, shit!”
Daniel looked around. “Those Navajo… if they’re with the raiding party, then the women might be close. They wouldn’t have ridden off and left most of their party behind to wait for us, but they would have to distract us and let them escape with their hostages.”
Spalter nodded as he seemed to think it through. “Yeah, makes sense.” He jutted his head toward one of their surviving horses, still nearby. “Go on, see if you can find them.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “I’ll be fine here. G’on, ‘fore it’s too late.”
Daniel nodded and left Spalter to limp toward a tree to lean against while Daniel jumped on the horse and rode out of the only point of escape.
He had ridden in with Spalter and Docter from the east and hadn’t seen anything, so Daniel headed west, riding hard around the foothills, the grazing prairies to the north. He knew they’d have gone south, but the only way was through those hills, and it was a maze of dead-ends and labyrinthian trails in and out of caves and other hidden passages. Beyond them lay the great spans of territory once and still dominated by the Navajo and other nations. And the Navajo alone had hundreds of different tribes. Once integrated into them, Daniel knew his men were right—Caroline Robinson and her mother would likely be beyond his reach.
Daniel’s blood ran cold to catch sight of a dark figure in the grass about fifty yards ahead. Daniel kicked his horse to ride him up to the figure, becoming more recognizably human as he approached—clearly a woman, by her dress—face down in the mud. Daniel’s heart stilled as he looked around, no trace of anyone around them.
He climbed down off his horse and approached the body, gently turning her over. Daniel knew right away that she was dead, her body feeling lifelessly heavy as he turned her over. The body turned easily, but the head was unresponsive until the body was completely on its back. Daniel reached over and turned the head to face him and answer the terrible question ringing in his conscience and in his heart.
The empty face of Sally Robinson looked up at him, head lolling on a clearly broken neck. The body, like that of her husband, was warm but chilling, and had been dead for much more than several minutes. Daniel looked around again, compelled to ride further into the mountains in pursuit. But he knew that, once in those mountains, even a brief head start would give those wily Navajo an impossible lead, and in land they knew like the backs of their bloodied hands.
And in the meantime, there was injured man who needed medical attention, bodies to load up to take back to Dixie, and a necessary meeting with his father and Sheriff Boone Travers.
Chapter Three
The crowd at the Big River Saloon in the center of Dixie could barely contain the action of another wild Saturday night. Miners and ranch hands and cowpokes all converged on the tiny community, Cedar City being too far a ride for a simple night on the town.
Though by Lillian Gale’s experience, the nights rarely wound up as simple as they’d begun. Lillian stepped out of her office in the corner of the upper floor, an open balcony along the small row of rooms open to the expansive main floor, housing the bar, the piano, the card tables, and everyone gathered around them.
Smoke poured up from the big saloon floor, a hundred different conversations crackling as men stared at their cards, their drinks, or the girls’ more pleasing assets. The piano jangled in the corner, the occasional shriek and holler punctuating the roiling din of negotiations, bluster, bragging, and begging.
Lillian sighed, looking down at the girls in her stable. Long years had passed since she had been in their place, though she was still just past thirty; feeling old for that way of life, to be sure. She treated them well, punished them as rarely and as mercifully as possible, but she didn’t trust a single one of them. Memories of her own sad past as a woman for rent came back with too much clarity, and Lillian wondered if she’d ever be free of her woeful history however much she tried to correct it and make up for it.
The concern was that her mercy would be mistaken for weakness; that among those smiling, painted faces were hidden snarls, conspiracies to replace her, to remove her, to murder her if necessary. It wouldn’t be the first time such thing had happened, not even in Lillian’s own memory. It had only been seven years since Colorado Bill was killed by his own second, Spike Gilligan. Only the cancer in Spike’s gut could set Lillian free of him, and that had cost her everything she had to leave behind before the next man of power tightened the reins and the chains once more.
Lillian closed her eyes and opened them to refocus on her own joint. She was doing her best and had certain precautions in place, only one of which was her watchful eye. Nobody was going to take her unaware, and that could mean the difference between life and death.
But until then Lillian was not only safe, she was a force to be reckoned with; wealthy and not without influence, Lillian was perhaps the most powerful woman in Dixie—and just about everybody knew it.
“That ain’t right,” someone yelled, drawing Lillian’s attention to the poker tables. One man, tall and fat and balding, sat looking at the dealer, his back to Lillian and the rest of the room, the dealer’s back to the wall. “Yer cheatin’!”
Lillian knew it was time to go down and straighten things out before they got out of hand. The clamor had the instant attention of Owen McDonald, the Big River’s big bouncer and Lillian’s strong right arm, a red-bearded mountain with a Colt pistol and a thirst for blood. The dealer—even-tempered Neil Connelly, short and well dressed—remained calm and implacable as always. “No, sir, we have the squarest tables in the whole territory.”
“That don’t make ‘em square!”
“You played the cards you were dealt, sir.”
Owen looked up at Lillian for her silent command, but she shook her head. There were times when Lillian had to prove that, as a woman, she could be every bit as tough as a man, even tougher. Marvin Dobbs was about to become an example.
Lillian recognized the man before she was halfway down the stairs: Marvin Dobbs, a local miner and not a successful one. His balding pate was sheeted in a thin sheen of sweat, and his odor was already pungent in her nostrils as she approached him from behind. He sat next to a half-filled bottle of whiskey, surrounded by a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“What’s the trouble here, boys?”
Dobbs turned and stood up to face her, much taller than her five-and-a-half-foot frame, still shapely and compact even at her age. “Trouble is, yer cheatin’ me! You an’ yer swill beer and your marked cards—”
“Our cards are not marked,” Lillian assured him, loud enough for all around to hear. “We run the squarest games in the territory.”
“So you say,” Dobbs said. “Then prove it.”
Lillian looked around, skeptical eyes falling onto the scene. Expectant expressions greeted her, and she knew they were going to judge her on what happened next. So she turned back to big Marvin Dobbs, hands on her hips, a ringlet of red hair falling over her forehead.
“If you’ve been cheated, it’s up to you to prove the charge. This is the Utah Territory, friend; around here, anybody is innocent until proven guilty.”
“Sure, you’d say that!”
“And I mean it!” Lillian’s voice took a sharp, authoritative tone, the room going silent around them. Even the piano went quiet. “Now you have disparaged my joint, you have stifled my business, and you have personally insulted me!” After a mean little pause, Lillian added, “I’ll accept your apology… if I get it now.”
The crowd gasped, some people looking at one another, others at Lillian and Dobbs. Out of the corner of her eye, Lillian saw her best girl Glory Frost watching with a pitched focus, holding back the adorning and profitable arms of her latest John.
“I’ll apologize in hell,” Dobbs said, thrusting his belly forward just a bit, snarling down at Lillian.
“Then explain yourself,” Lillian said. “The cards are marked, you say?”
“I do!”
“Then show me the marks! Show these good people how I’m robbing them, no doubt they’ll take arms with you and against me!” Dobbs raised the cards still in his hand. He turned them over in his chubby grip as the room looked on, silent tension gathering around him, even more sweat gathering around the big melon that passed for his head. “Well?”
“I… I… they’re clever, I can’t tell. But that don’t mean yer not cheatin’!”
“No,” Lillian said, “it means you don’t know what yer talking about. And it means you’re banned from my joint! Now take what’s left of your pride and get out!”
Dobbs looked around at the silent condemnation around him. His beady eyes widened, his jowls quivered as he watched his social standing plummet by the second. Urgent reaction was required, and Lillian knew just what he’d do.
Dobbs slammed the cards down onto the table and reached for his knife, in a leather sheath on his belt. But Lillian had grabbed the half-filled whiskey bottle and was already bringing it up to smash down hard on Dobbs’ big, bald forehead. The man grunted and flinched forward, the bottle shattering, whiskey pouring into his eyes to blind him. Lillian held the shattered neck of the bottle to his neck and grabbed him by the ear, pulling his head down to her shoulder level. He bent forward, awkwardly twisted and bleeding from the forehead, grunting and hissing as she dragged him across the saloon to the door.
“Like I said, Marvin Dobbs, show your face in my joint again and you’re gonna leave it on the floor! Got me?”
“Yes!”
“Got me?”
“Yes… yes!”
She led him to the front doors and stopped, pulling him closer with an obviously painful yank. “Also, you owe me an apology!”
“I… I …”
She gave him a sharper tug, his massive body bending even more. “You what?”
“I… I apologize, fer shit’s sake!”
Another hard yank nearly sent the bloodied, blinded man to the floor. “Like you mean it!”
Everyone looked on in rapturous silence before that grunting, sweating fat man finally said in a nice, compliant tone, “I… I’m sorry, I… I really am… I’m sorry.”
Lillian held his ear tight, squeezing it just a bit to help illustrate her point. “I accept… this time!” With that, she raised her left foot, twisted his body by the head to position his fat backside in front of it, and gave him a hard kick to send him toppling out the front door and into the street.
Lillian turned to face the crowd, silence illustrating their stunned reaction. She raised the shattered bottleneck up and shook her head. “That fat bastard… cost me half a bottle of whiskey!”
The crowd broke out in a huge round of laughter and applause. The piano went on playing, conversation resumed, the liquor kept flowing. Lillian shook her head and carried the shattered bottle to the bar to be thrown away as Jimmy Timmock, the ginger boy she paid to clean up, appeared with a broom to do just that.
Lillian leaned close to him. “You catch that rat yet?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Tryin’, Miss Lillian.”
She looked around, pulling her lips tight over her teeth. “Damn things. You see it, get rid of it fast. I’m not havin’ the goddamned plague screwin’ up my action.” Jimmy nodded and started sweeping up the shattered bottle as Lillian crossed the room toward the bar.
Chapter Four
Sheriff Boone Travers stood on the elevated wooden sidewalk in front of his office, surveying the main thoroughfare of Dixie, in the heart of the Utah Territory. Not as big as Salt Lake City or even nearby Cedar City, Dixie still held all the promise of any burgeoning American town, offering as much possibility to any burgeoning American.
Whale oil lamps on wooden posts lit the town, robber flies hovering around them. Horses clopped down the street in both directions, nearly colliding with carriages and pedestrians as the muddy street filled up. Men and women of every class and stripe made their way down the sidewalks, raised higher in some spots than others, many tripping and complaining along the way. The town stank of feces and urine both equine and human.
Another spring night brought the possibility of more violence, more danger for himself and his citizenry. Boone knew he couldn’t afford to let his guard down, not even for a minute. Too much was riding on it, too many people’s lives.
Life in the territory was more dangerous than they realized, tensions between the ranchers and the Navajo always simmering, bandits and Mexicans and charlatans coming in from the East Coast were only the beginnings of their concerns.
His attention turned to the Big River saloon, across the street and a half a block down. The place was alight with activity, notably loud even in the growing clamor of the thoroughfare. It was a den of thievery and sin, Boone knew that. But he also knew that he could not legislate the morality of everyone in the place, govern their every conspiracy or activity. They would have to commit crimes which he could prove; and that was increasingly difficult in that expanding town, growing more dense by the day.
Crime grew with the population, and his best efforts seemed increasingly ineffectual. He couldn’t close that saloon or arrest every cutthroat who walked in or out. And he couldn’t prevent those throats from being cut, or prevent those gambling debts from resulting in dead bodies piling up in the alleys as they were. It seemed endemic to the conditions of the town itself, of any town.
There was only so much he could do; but Boone stood ready to do it, whatever it was to be.
The Big River, he thought, how apropos. Like the times themselves: massive, fast moving, impossible to stop. At least that particular river is navigated by an honorable woman.
Lillian Gale, he thought, eyes fixed on her rowdy saloon. She’s a capable woman, more ready and able than most men I’ve met! But… will she be able to hold her head above the current of criminal activity around her forever? She has a good grip on her end of things in the town, that odd mix of influence and authority which came from a variety of vague and dubious sources which I can only speculate on.
That jangly piano seemed to have stopped, the crowd quiet in the saloon. Surely, she knows things about some people, Boone thought then as he often did. And people owe her favors, in addition to other debts. The saloon’s sudden quiet attracted his attention, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.
Then the front doors opened and a fat miner came toppling out of the saloon, through a crowd of shocked pedestrians to collapse into the street. He was nearly trampled by a horse clopping by, but it was slow-moving enough and he was fast-moving enough to push his fat self to his feet, staggering safely away. But he glared at the saloon, almost turning to go back in before stopping himself, waving it off, and staggering away.
Boone had little doubt about who had thrown him out as the crowd busted up laughing and the piano resumed, tinny from that distance.
Lillian.
“Sheriff! Sheriff Travers!” Boone turned to look down the other side of the street, a familiar young man approaching with an expression racked with urgency.
“Daniel Dawson,” Boone said, “something wrong?”
“Plenty. Let’s go inside.” Boone nodded and opened the door, Daniel stepping in before Boone followed, closing the door behind them. The din and clatter of the thoroughfare was quickly muffled as they stepped into the office.
“What, Daniel?”
“The Robinson family, you know them?”
Boone didn’t have to reflect for too long before nodding. “Sure, newcomers from… Philadelphia, wasn’t it? He’s a farmer?”
“Was.” A chill ran up Boone’s back. He hardly had to say more, but Boone knew more was coming. “Found his wife too, not far from his cabin.”
“When was this?”
“Just now, I… I was with my hands, Spalter and Docter. Docter didn’t make it, Spalter’s at Doc Larson’s.”
“Is he gonna make it?”
Daniel shrugged. “Doc said he may lose a leg.”
Boone’s blood ran cold as he shook his head. “Sorry for your loss, pal.”
“I’ll be writing the note to Docter’s widow. But… that’s not the worst of it. The Robinsons had a daughter, and there was no sign of her. I… I found the wife about a five minute’s ride from the homestead, her neck broke. I’m no lawman, but… I’d say they killed poor Carl Robinson to abscond with both women. Maybe the matron put up a struggle, fell off the back on the ride out. Once she was neck-broke, well, not much reason but to leave her behind.”
Boone ran through the scenario, and it did make some sense—almost too much sense.
“No trace of the girl?”
Daniel just shook his head. “They got her, I know it. That’s why I’m here!”
Boone nodded and started pacing around the little wooden office, the jail cell dominating one half. “They,” Boone repeated, “who?”
“Navajo! Aren’t you listening? They bore down on us just as we came upon the homestead. We weren’t sure at first, but we figured that the Navajo were making off with the women as we rode in, and sent most of their party to kill us so they could get away with those women. You know how they are; you know what they do!” After a challenging little pause, he added, “In case you forgot.”
Boone looked at Daniel with a hard stare, facing him down with unspoken disdain. “I keep the peace with the Navajo, that’s right. I’m as friendly with them as I can be, just as I am with everyone here in Dixie. Don’t make it difficult for me to be friendly with you.”
“You’ve got your nerve! You’re a public servant! I pay your wage!”
“I serve the law and the law serves the public,” Boone said. “Keep that straight, young man. I don’t care how rich or powerful your father is. Are we clear?”
“It’s not about that! You have to try to get Caroline Robinson back, that’s what I’m saying!”
Boone nodded, rubbing his chin as he paced a few more feet. “I’ll go talk to Chief Great Eagle, but… there may be a limit to what he knows or what he can do. I’m not well known among the other tribes, not even the other Navajo. Great Eagle is my… my conduit to them, if you will.”
“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”
Boone held an angry finger in front of Daniel’s face. “Don’t push me past the limit, kid. I’ll do what I can, that’s my job.”
Daniel looked him up and down, disgust in his judgmental sneer. “It’s your lot,” he said before turning to stomp out the office, slamming the door behind himself.
“Blood and Mystery in the Saloon” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!
Lillian Gale has taken ownership of the famous Big River saloon in the Utah Territory, since her husband’s passing. When a powerful rancher’s son is found dead behind her saloon, all fingers point at her. There is no doubt that someone wants Lillian behind bars. Luckily for her, Boone Travers, the sheriff of the town, will do whatever it takes to rescue his good friend and the woman he is falling in love with. Will Lillian manage to escape from a dangerous trap, or will she be sentenced for a crime that she never committed?
With the real killer out there, no one in town can sleep peacefully. Boone is determined to shed light on the mystery and find out who committed this bloody crime. For now, he has no choice but to arrest Lillian, as she will be safer in prison. Boone knows deep inside that he will solve the case and that Lillian’s terrible nightmare will end for good. Will he eventually find out who set Lillian up and serve justice, or will he fail to complete his most challenging missions?
The trial tears the town apart and sparks a range war between local ranchers and the neighboring Navajo people. Blood feuds become complicated, and lives are pitted against one another in an epic clash of power and passion, love and loyalty. In the end, will Boone arrest the vicious killer and help Lillian celebrate the clearing of her name?
A gripping, action-packed western adventure filled with mystery, adrenaline, and drama. A must-read for fans of Western action with a touch of romance.
“Blood and Mystery in the Saloon” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.
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