Prologue
Texas, 1892
“Another day, another chase,” Hank muttered as he leaped out of the saloon, looking for the two thieves that had just escaped him. Thrusting open the doors that swung on their hinges, ricocheting off the walls on the other side, he stared down the street and watched the carnage that ensued from the thieves’ escape.
One thief was tall and thin. Each stride he took was a long one, eating up the ground fast. His friend was much shorter and stockier, glancing over his shoulder so much as he ran that it was clear he wasn’t convinced of his ability to escape. Both men pushed through the crowded street, knocking people to the ground. One elderly lady went flying, falling into her husband with her skirt ending up over her face. Another young man was tossed so far into a nearby stall that he landed on the table full of bread, casting crumbs to the ground.
“Hey!” Hank barked as he sprinted after them. He was tall, almost as tall as the lanky thief, and he was a fast runner too, allowing him to close the distance between him and the thieves fast. Leaping over the poor fallen woman and her husband, Hank managed to pursue the thieves without leaving such destruction in his wake. “You two can’t outrun me forever.”
At his call, neither man stopped.
Hank had been a sheriff long enough to know how to weigh up the odds. It was what had earned him the small amount of respect he had in this town. He was good at his job, and most of the time, he got his man. This time, he could see the difficulty he was facing, chasing two men. Without any of his deputies or the town marshals nearby, he might not be able to catch both of them.
As the two thieves darted down a narrow lane, Hank followed, skidding in the arid dust beneath his feet. The tall thief was stretching far ahead of his friend, taking the corners so fast that he didn’t bother to look back at the other one.
“Hey!” the stocky man called. “Wait for me.” Yet his friend clearly had no intention of dallying enough to get caught.
When they reached a turn, with the lane peeling off into two different tracks, the tall one knocked over a standing crate at the side of the road. It blocked the path, forcing his friend to dive for the other road.
“What are you doing?” the stocky thief called.
Hank had no choice. He had to follow the shorter one; it was his best chance of catching one of the thieves. As he pumped his arms, sweat beading on his forehead under his hat, he caught sight of another man on the road.
A tall man, young, and physically strong judging by the shirt that was a tight fit across his shoulders, was staring at Hank.
“You! Watch where he goes, would you?” Hank called, pointing toward the tall thief. “Can you hear, man? I’m your sheriff, and I’m asking for your help.” He almost skidded to a stop and waved in front of the man’s face, thinking he hadn’t been heard.
But the stranger sneered, curling his lip, and slowly shook his head. He lifted a pipe to his mouth and puffed on the end, leaning on the wall behind him, showing he had no intention of helping.
“Zounds,” Hank muttered to himself. “What is wrong with some people?”
He had never understood the urge some had to avoid danger. He’d always jumped toward it, from a young age, so much so that his sister, Chepi, frequently said he risked getting himself killed. But what else am I supposed to do? Outlaws have to be brought to justice.
With this thought in mind, Hank gained ground on the thief. The stocky man started trying the closed doors of nearby buildings, looking for one that would open so he could find a place to hide. Hank tackled him with his body, pushing the man firmly to the ground.
“Oof!” The wind was knocked out of the thief as he fell. The dust kicked up around them like a cloud of dirt, filling the air with the smell of mud.
“Thieving from a saloon?” Hank said as he took hold of the man’s wrists and turned him over. Taking the iron shackles out of his back pocket, he fixed one end firmly to the man’s right hand.
“Worth a shot,” the thief muttered, spitting out some of the dust in his mouth.
“Shame your friend didn’t wait for you,” Hank said, standing with an amused smile. “Seems to me he rather left you behind as bait.”
“He didn’t…”
The thief didn’t look convinced by his own words as Hank drew him to his feet. Rather than fastening his other hand with the shackles straight away, Hank held the man with his hands behind his back and kept an eye out for the man’s partner. He caught sight of the tall thief leaping between lanes a short distance away.
I still have a chance.
“Don’t move,” Hank ordered. Reaching the nearest hitching post in the street, he wrapped the thief’s arms around it and latched up his other hand with the shackles.
“What are you doing? Leaving me here in the street?” The man was bound fast and couldn’t escape.
“For now.” Hank checked the shackles were secure before he took off in the direction in which he had seen the tall thief. He was pumped with adrenaline, which made his strides faster, and he caught up with the thief two streets over.
When the man reached out and grabbed a rock, trying to sling it in Hank’s direction, he barely managed to avoid the blow by diving to the side. Reaching for the gun in his holster, Hank pointed it ahead of him.
He didn’t like to use his gun unless it was absolutely necessary. Something the last few years as a sheriff had taught him was that guns could cause too much damage to allow one to sleep easily at night.
“Don’t move!”
The warning was enough. The thief skidded to a stop. His boots kicked up dust as he held his hands palm up in the air.
“You’re under arrest.” Hank strode forward and grabbed the man’s hands, shackling them just as he had done his friend. The thief began to mutter curses, throwing a string of ugly words in Hank’s direction. As Hank marched him back through the lanes, heading toward the other thief, he had the feeling he was being watched.
It began as a burning sensation on the back of his neck, making the hair stand on end. On the far side of the road, he halted and turned around, seeking out who was watching him. He spotted a shadow in one of the doorways, then the man stepped forward, revealing his face.
It was the same man Hank had seen before, the one he had called out to for help in tracking the thieves. The stranger stood there puffing on his pipe, blowing smoke into the air. His expression darkened, his bright eyes becoming thin slits, before he turned and walked away.
Zounds, what did that look mean?
***
“You’re working too hard again.”
At the familiar voice, Hank looked up from his desk.
He’d just finished filling out the paperwork in his office for the arrests of the two thieves. Flanked by two flaming candles that flickered every now and then in the wind that rushed through the open window, Hank just about had enough light to keep working. Tilting his head up, he caught sight of who had spoken.
Chepi walked into the room, holding the door open wide. In her hands was a basket covered with a paisley-patterned cloth, and she had her usual easy smile on her face. She sighed dramatically, clearly exaggerating just how exasperated she was with him.
“I’m sorry, sister. Late again, am I?” Hank said, sitting back in his chair so far that it creaked beneath him.
“It’s a wonder you like to spend so much time in a place like this.” She laughed and gestured around the office. Her eyes darted to the wanted posters that littered the wall behind Hank, and she swallowed. Hank knew his sister so well that he could see her nervousness. Her cheek twitched, just once.
“Someone has to do this job,” he assured her, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk.
“And you like being the one to do it.” She smiled softly as she let the door close behind her and crossed toward him, placing her basket down on the table. They’d often discussed why Hank did what he did. All he could ever tell her was that he didn’t want to see injustice go unpunished.
It’s not the way the world should be.
“Well, you should at least have a full stomach. You’re always forgetting to eat when you’re working.” She lifted the cloth and pushed forward the basket, full of freshly cooked chicken and wafers.
“What would I do without you, Chepi?” He laughed and reached into the basket, gladly eating. For a minute or two, he distracted himself, thinking only of filling the hole in his stomach, as Chepi walked around the office.
She surveyed the wanted posters, lit another candle, then bent over the paperwork Hank had been working on at the desk. Her long dark hair that was escaping her updo fell across her cheek, hiding the frown he knew would be on her features.
“Who did you arrest this time?”
“Two thieves. Though something strange happened when I was chasing them.” For some reason, Hank couldn’t stop thinking about the man smoking the pipe. His flat refusal to offer assistance and that dark glare meant something, Hank was sure of it.
He told Chepi everything, of how he’d caught the thieves in the saloon, chased them through the street, and the strange man. As he spoke, Chepi slowly perched on the edge of a chair opposite the desk. It was odd for Hank to see her there. So often he made the criminals he caught sit there, to tell their stories.
“He was smoking a pipe, you say?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Bright blue eyes, heavy jowls.” She pinched her cheeks in emphasis.
“Sounds about right. You know him?” he said, watching as she grimaced. The expression was so exaggerated that Hank paused in his chewing of the chicken.
“I do.” She sat back, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “His name is Parker. Parker Tackett. He’s known in town for what you might call his… his…” She struggled with the words and scratched her cheek, looking anywhere else in the room but at Hank.
“For what, Chepi?” Hank’s voice had darkened.
“Is that the tone you use with your criminals?” She pretended to shudder and gripped the arms of her chair. “No wonder they tell you everything they’ve done. They probably confess to crimes they haven’t committed just out of fear.”
“That’s just my voice.” He laughed off the words, but the mirth didn’t last long. “Chepi, tell me about Parker Tackett.”
“He’s a prejudiced man,” she said simply. Moving to her feet, she crossed to the basket and pulled out a chicken leg for herself, nibbling on the end. “He’s made a few comments to people.”
“Does that mean he’s made comments to you?” Hank stilled, the chicken leg falling limp in his hands.
It was hardly something he wasn’t accustomed to by now. He and Chepi looked different enough that some small-minded people in town didn’t welcome them. Their mother was a Native American, born to the local Comanche tribe that lived just outside of town. Hank and Chepi were a proper mix of their parents, both with dark black hair and tanned skin. Hank’s face was more like his father’s, enough so that sometimes people did a double-take, uncertain of what his parentage was, but Chepi was almost a copy of their mother.
Few would mistake her heritage.
“Chepi,” Hank began slowly, aware his sister hadn’t yet answered, “has he made comments to you?”
“I work as a maid in the hotel. I see people all the time, and sometimes they make comments.” She shrugged as if it meant nothing to her, but he could see she was lying. She was avoiding his gaze and fidgeting with the chicken leg in her hand. “I don’t think he liked me very much, put it like that.”
A harsh curse escaped Hank’s lips, one so strong that Chepi actually flinched.
“This isn’t the way the world should be,” Hank said and tossed down his chicken leg.
“Maybe not, but that’s no reason not to eat.” She picked up the chicken and thrust it back into his hand. “Eat!”
Hank took a big bite, trying to distract himself. “You think that’s why he wouldn’t help me today?” he said around the mouthful. “You think he looked and me and thought…” She rolled her eyes, not quite offering an answer. “He thought I didn’t deserve his help.” Hank finished his own sentence.
“The world is mad,” she whispered. “How often have you and I seen that?” She reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle of scotch.
“My favorite.”
“I know you well enough.” She took out two glasses and slugged a little of the amber liquid into the cups. Eagerly, Hank lifted the glass to his lips, sniffing the rim and inhaling the spiced scent of the scotch.
“It happens too much,” he muttered, staring at the liquid as he spoke. “How hard did I have to work just to get a commission as a town marshal in the first place?”
“I remember,” Chepi whispered, slowly returning the cap to the bottle. “There were many who didn’t think you were right for the role.”
“How hard have I worked since?” Hank leaped to his feet in his anger, nearly knocking the chair over behind him. “Yet I got here through that work. Each time I think I’m making strides, that people respect me for who I am rather than how I look, something like this happens. By ginger, you’d think I walked around wearing a cape and a devil’s tail from how that man looked at me today.”
“You might suit the devil horns.” Chepi was clearly trying to lighten the air between them. Hank could see there was more bothering her, though.
Since they were young, he’d noticed that people made more comments to Chepi than they did him. Hank could get into fights, making it clear he was not to be trifled with, but Chepi was slender and a lady. She was often bullied by strangers in town. The comments had slowed down since Hank had become sheriff and gained some respect in town, but they hadn’t stopped completely.
There will always be those who see what they wish to see, rather than us as we really are.
Despite Chepi pretending this evening it didn’t bother her so much, she felt things keenly. Many times, Hank had held onto his sister as she’d cried, especially when she was a teenager. More and more these days, she tried to brush off the comments. She would shrug and hang her shoulders, avoiding looking Hank in the eye.
“I’m being serious, Chepi,” he said, returning to his seat as she perched on the edge of the desk. “I’m wondering when the world will change.”
“Sometimes, I see change.” She smiled a little. “You have some respect in town now.”
“Not enough.”
“I wonder…” She broke off and sat taller, her eyes casting to the window as if she was looking far beyond it, out into the night.
“What?” He encouraged her on.
“The Comanche tribe. I wonder what they’re like.”
Hank held himself still. It wasn’t the first time Chepi had spoken about them. More than once, she had even suggested they visit the tribe. Maybe they would be more welcoming to them.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she pleaded, and he softened his expression. “Is it wrong to want to know more about them? It was our mother’s home, Hank.”
“It’s not wrong, not wrong at all.” He shook his head. “I guess I just fear what else people would say if you or I did have a closer connection to the tribe.”
“That’s your worry?” She laughed and shook her head. “So you want nothing to do with them?”
“What? No, not at all.” He sat forward and reached for the glass, taking a hearty gulp of scotch. “If I had my way, I’d want the tribe and the town to be closer.” He locked his hands together. “Perhaps if they understood each other better, the Comanches and the townspeople, things could be different.” He paused, imagining a world where he and Chepi didn’t get stared at in the street, where comments weren’t made behind their backs.
“Keep dreaming,” Chepi said with a small laugh. “As nice a world as that sounds, I can’t see it happening.”
“You can’t?” Hank asked, picking up his glass.
“I’ve had enough comments, Hank. You have, too.” She shrugged and hung her head forward, evidently trying to hide her pained expression. “If the Comanches had more to do with this town, they’d probably get as many comments as us. No, in fact, they’d get more, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t be welcome.”
“That’s awful.”
“I know.” She sighed deeply. “But what would ever change things?”
Hank shook his head, unsure what the answer was. As Chepi reached into the basket and pulled out some wafers, offering them to Hank to eat, he couldn’t help dwelling on the subject.
What if there was a way for the Comanches and the town to trust each other after all these years?
Chapter One
“You think that will disarm a man, Trevor?” the deputy asked, tipping back his head and laughing. “What do you say, Sheriff? Think it will work?”
Hank couldn’t hold back his own smile. He was leaning against the wall, watching as his deputy cleared a space in the middle of the office in his effort to teach some of the newly-hired town marshals how to do their jobs.
The faces were young to Hank’s mind. He’d turned thirty not long ago, and every term that passed in this office, he seemed to be given younger and littler town marshals. Trevor and a couple of the others were barely beyond being boys. Their figures hadn’t filled out yet. They were tall but narrow, like string beans.
“Something tells me poor Trevor would end up with a knife in his back.” Hank grimaced with the words as Trevor flinched and stood straight.
“What am I doing wrong?” Trevor asked. The two town marshals behind him shrugged, none the wiser.
The youngest of the lot, Jacobson, leaned against the wall as if he was mirroring Hank’s own position, with his arms folded. He frequently smirked and stood tall in such a way that Hank wondered if he was really as confident as he pretended to be.
“I can do it,” Jacobson said, pushing off the wall. The deputy, Vincent, looked to Hank for approval, and he nodded.
“Go ahead, see what the boy can do.” Hank could tell referring to Jacobson as a boy rattled him, but it had rolled easily off the tongue, with no intention to hurt the young man.
He can’t be older than sixteen, maybe even fifteen.
“Right, come at me,” the deputy goaded the boy.
From the day Vincent had started working for him, Hank had found a true ally and a hard worker. Vincent never looked at him and saw his heritage. He only ever saw Hank for his personality, and who he was at heart. It had made Hank give the man a shot at being deputy, even when some people in the town had thought Vincent far too short to be a lawman.
He may have been tiny, so short that he didn’t even reach Hank’s chest, but Vincent had proven himself worthy. He arrested almost as many criminals as Hank did.
“Try to get this knife off me, alright?” Vincent said, brandishing a knife.
Jacobson sniffed, his acne-ridden face wrinkling, before he dove at Vincent. It was a quick tussle. Vincent managed to easily shrug him off. With two sharp movements, one dig to Jacobson’s elbow and the other to his gut, Jacobson was on his knees.
Trevor and the other town marshal laughed and applauded the deputy, clearly impressed.
“I could have gotten the knife,” Jacobson insisted as he staggered to his feet, rubbing his gut.
“Then why didn’t you?” Vincent asked and twirled the knife in his hand. Hank shook his head softly and pinched the brow of his nose. He wasn’t sure Jacobson would work well as a town marshal. The kid had gumption, yes, but he showed glimmers of arrogance. Such a quality didn’t work well when handling the law.
“I can do it,” Jacobson said, his voice firmer this time, and stood tall. “Let me try again.”
Before Vincent could step forward, Hank interjected.
“Let’s give you another test.”
Vincent smiled and stepped back, offering the knife to Hank.
Jacobson hurried to the other marshals, whispering and presumably asking for their support, as Hank lowered his voice, talking to Vincent alone.
“I’m not convinced about this one,” he said quietly.
“I know, but he’s not ready for a fight with you, I know that much.” Vincent shook his head with a smile. “You trying to put him in his place?”
Hank offered a mischievous smirk and twirled the knife in his hand. “Bring him down a peg or two, that might do the trick. Maybe then he’d make a good marshal.”
Vincent laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Place your bets, marshals!” he called. They both pointed toward the youngster, Jacobson. “If you’re going to be town marshals, you’ll have to be smarter than that.”
“I can beat him.” Jacobson stood tall and wiggled his fingers by his side, showing he was ready. “I heard my father talking about Sheriff Stephenson. He said you couldn’t fight, just like all the Comanches.”
The words put a deathly silence in the room. For a full minute, Hank couldn’t believe the kid had had the gall to say such a thing. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Vincent rubbing his eyes with a hand, evidently fearing what was about to happen, and Trevor’s jaw was so slack it might as well have been on the floor.
“Let me teach you a couple of lessons, Jacobson.” Hank began to walk slowly around the room. They’d cleared such a space, with the furniture pressed against the walls, that he could tread a large circle around Jacobson. “The first… don’t let your ego rule you.”
The young man frowned, his brown eyebrows furrowing together until they looked like one. He launched himself forward in his anger and tried to grab Hank’s wrist to take the knife. Hank easily stepped back and spun the knife behind his back, passing it to his other hand.
Jacobson launched himself again, diving for Hank’s other hand. With ease, Hank batted it away.
“What are you trying to do? Take a knife or have a catfight in a street with a lady?”
His taunt worked to rile Jacobson further. The kid tried to tackle Hank in the stomach, but he leaped out of the way and Jacobson fell to the floor on his rear, skidding to a stop. Reaching for a nearby desk, he dragged himself to his feet and rounded on Hank again.
As he reached for Hank, this time, there was some art in his movement. He tried to distract Hank with a punch to the gut, one that missed, then he reached for the knife in the sheriff’s hand.
With quick movements, Hank was able to toss the knife in the air. It flew over his head, where he caught it in his other hand. Driving an elbow down into Jacobson’s shoulder, he knocked the lad to the floor. It wasn’t a hard hit, but it was enough to take control. Taking hold of Jacobson’s wrist, he lifted the boy’s arm up behind his back.
“Argh! Alright, alright, stop!” the boy begged. Hank smiled a little and bent down.
“Here’s your second lesson,” he said quietly. “Don’t divide your world into good and bad by judging where people come from, kid. You’ll find not everyone fits into boxes so easily.” He released Jacobson’s arm and stepped back, tossing the knife through the air.
It flew into the wall of wanted posters where it landed in the middle of the etching of a conman’s face, directly on the nose. As Vincent whistled, the marshals clapped, whispering among themselves.
“Wish I could do that,” Trevor said, nodding in the direction of the knife.
“Pay attention to Vincent’s lessons and someday you will.” Hank smiled at them before he held out his hand toward Jacobson. He offered to help the kid up, but the boy didn’t take it. He got to his feet and strode to the side of the room. Judging by the darkness in his gaze, Hank wasn’t convinced the lad would take on board what he’d said. “Vincent? Try again with Trevor.”
Hank stepped back, watching as Vincent and Trevor took up their places. Trevor tried harder this time, even employing some of the moves Hank himself had used.
When the door swung open beside Hank, a figure moved in, striding so quickly that he didn’t notice the fight he was stepping into. Trevor lashed out with his hand, the strike so wild that he was about to hit the incomer.
“Watch it!” Vincent warned loudly, just as Hank leaped forward.
With a quick grab of his hand, Hank latched his fingers around Trevor’s wrist, holding the balled-up fist in the air.
“Woah… that was close,” Trevor murmured, his thin lips spreading in amazement.
Hank didn’t move and only gazed at their predicament. He had hold of Trevor’s hand, where it was but two inches from the incomer’s nose. The stranger was immediately recognizable as not being from the town.
He wore a long brown tunic that reached down to his knees, trousers made of the same brown hessian material, and a thick braided belt at his waist, inlaid with red and white thread. Around his neck was some sort of leather strap, attached to two feathers that stuck out and hung down his back. His long black hair was braided into a plait, reaching all the way down to his waist.
The unmistakable strong features of a man from the Comanche tribe stared at the fist before him. His lips quirked into the smallest of smiles before his dark eyes raised toward Trevor.
“And peace to you, too,” he said, his voice strangely lyrical and soft.
“I’m sorry,” Trevor spoke quickly, retracting his hand from Hank’s grasp. Clearly unsure how to act around one from the Comanche tribe, he offered a bow of his head.
A snort echoed from the corner of the room and Hank cast a dark glare in Jacobson’s direction. The boy had tipped his chin high and was looking down on the Comanche man, despite the fact he was much shorter.
“My apologies,” Hank said, stepping in front of the stranger in the hope of distracting him from the unfriendly snort. “My deputy and I have been trying to train some of our new town marshals in how to disarm a man.”
“I see.” There was a humored glint in the Comanche man’s eye as he stood taller, as though he was standing to attention before Hank. “Are you the sheriff here?”
“I am.” Hank held out his hand. “Sheriff Hank Stephenson.” The man stared at the hand, clearly uncertain what to make of it at first. “Alright, you don’t have to shake my hand if you don’t want to.” It would hardly be the first time someone had refused to shake his hand. Hank had seen it more than once.
“Oh, right, I see.” The man suddenly took Hank’s hand, clearly not intending to cause an offense, just shocked by it.
“He shook his hand…”
The murmur ran through the office and Hank glanced back, frowning at the one who had spoken. Jacobson is going to be trouble.
“Was there something you wanted to say, Jacobson?” he asked sharply in the young man’s direction.
Jacobson at least had the decency to look ashamed, shifting his weight between his feet. He lowered his arms from their crossed position and shrugged his shoulders.
“Not many from the Comanche tribe come this far into town, Sheriff. That’s all.”
“Well, this man has today.” Hank turned his head away, intending not to address Jacobson again. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Keme.” The man offered a bow of his head, one that Hank mirrored. He’d heard once from his mother that some in the tribe greeted each other in such a fashion, especially in what they considered formal matters. “I’m well aware what some may think of me coming here, sir,” he hesitated and glanced at Jacobson, his plaited hair swinging around his shoulder with the movement, “but I had to come. I’m in need of your help.”
Hank felt a tightening in his chest and a racing of his heart. Only the night before, he had been talking with Chepi in this office about how to bring the town closer to the Comanche tribe. This could be the very thing he was looking for.
“Come, this way.” Hank gestured at the door to his office. “Let’s talk in private.”
“Thank you.” Keme bowed his head again and hastened to the door. Hank followed, glancing at Jacobson before he hovered by Vincent’s shoulder, lowering his voice for the deputy only to hear.
“A Bloody Chase for Treasure” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!
Hank is a man who knows what it’s like to experience prejudice. Growing up with a Comanche mother, he has faced the hurtful comments and actions of townspeople who can’t see past their own biases. As the town’s sheriff, Hank is determined to bring his community and the tribe closer together. When Keme, a Comanche man, asks for his help to recover a stolen treasure, Hank sees it as a chance to bridge the divide. But can they succeed in their mission and prove that peace is possible?
Too much is at stake…
Keme is a proud member of the Comanche tribe, but his heart is heavy after the loss of a precious treasure; a golden medallion. Now Keme knows he must do everything in his power to get it back. With the help of Hank, a man he once saw as an adversary, Keme sets out on a dangerous journey to recover the medallion and restore peace to his tribe. However, the two men have different ways of seeing the world, and their partnership is put to the test as they face tremendous trials.
Can he truly trust a man he considered his enemy?
When Sheriff Hank and Keme team up, they realize that their differences could be the key to success. Together, they face deadly traps that push their partnership to the limit. Will they be able to restore the medallion to its rightful place and bring their people closer? Find out in this thrilling Wild West adventure that will have you on the edge of your seat.
“A Bloody Chase for Treasure” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.
Hi there, I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek of my latest story! I will be impatiently waiting for your comments below.