A Breathless Chase of Punishment (Preview)

Chapter One

Dale Bows rode through the Ozarks, a chilling silence surrounding him. He’d been riding alone for too long, and something told him that he had to get back to his family home. His mother Martha was aging, weakened; he found he worried more and more for her strength and good health.

A red-tailed hawk cried out as it circled overhead, seeing things Dale knew he could never see, knowing things Dale knew he’d never know. Does he see my brothers, out here somewhere? Dale wondered. Is it looking down on Mother, keeping her safe and crying out warnings of danger as it comes and goes?

Dale rode west, his brown-and-white paint huffing as it marched through the wood sorrel and toothwort. Missouri was beautiful in the spring, with redbud and dogwood bursting with green leaves, the purple Jacob’s ladder in striking bloom, pollen rich in his nostrils. The Ozarks had sheltered him and the whole Bows family for a generation, but the years were bringing changes that no man nor any family could simply ignore. More travelers were moving west through the state, bringing newer technologies and hope and dreams for some terrific future.

Dale couldn’t know what part the Bows family could play in such a future, or what part or place his own life would take in the building of his new nation. Only thirty-six years into the 1800s, the United States not even one hundred years old, things were changing fast. There were more travelers, and with them more of the men who predated on them—road agents and bandits, white men and also Mexicans and Cherokee, all of them seemingly hellbent on killing every innocent, raping every woman, stealing every horse. The Ozarks wouldn’t be able to shelter or protect the Bows family, or any family, in the face of such a deluge. Manifest destiny was sending a roaring flood current of people and progress mowing its way west, threatening to wipe out everyone and everything in its path.

Dale’s thoughts drifted to his brothers: Harland off fighting the Cherokee under the Indian Removal Act for President Andrew Jackson; twins Jesse and Blu out hunting the damned bear that had staked a claim to Bows territory.

They were the real fighters of the family, even Jesse and Blu who wouldn’t fight at all. They didn’t believe in the cause, and Dale had been required to look after their mother. He couldn’t help feeling the weight of being the youngest brother. He had little choice of whether to fight or hunt or stay to protect, running errands in and out of Jefferson City. His was to do as he was told and play his part, to carry his portion of the load and keep the Bows family together. That was their father’s dying wish, looking up at them as he coughed out his last bloodied breaths, that they each do what they could for each other, for the family. In that way, they’d build a stronger nation, a better world.

But Dale also couldn’t help imaging all the things he could be doing—out killing Cherokee with Harland, sneaking up on that bear with Jesse and Blu. Those were thrilling adventures worthy of a young man well past twenty-one. Instead, Dale and Oxford trudged through the Ozarks, bringing back sundries from the general store in Jefferson City.

Dale’s imagination drifted to Brooke Hume, the lovely redhead at the general store. She seemed quite charmed by him, at least Dale wanted to believe that she was. Brooke had everything a young man could want in a wife, as far as Dale was concerned, all that and more. If she would have him, Dale was increasingly interested in suggesting a date. Visions of her in their home, working with his mother to raise his children, glowed in his mind and in his heart.

Well, Dale had to silently challenge himself, why not? She hasn’t given her troth to anyone that I can tell, no ring on her finger! And if she has a suitor, very well then; I’ll better the man and welcome! But… what if Brooke prefers to live in town? I can’t leave Mother behind, or abandon our family home. Harland would have my head, and rightfully so!

Mother would come along, perhaps, Dale reasoned as Oxford pushed past one of the countless caves leading in a tangled web of chambers running through the mountains. But… Jesse and Blu, would they mind? Would they stay behind or want to come along? What of the homestead, where our father is buried? We can’t just turn our backs on—

“Show yer hands, rider.” A chill ran up Dale’s spine, hairs standing up on the backs of his neck, horse stopping beneath him. Dale looked around to see two white men approaching on horseback, one fat and in grimy, filthy clothes and the other very handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes and a well-tailored waistcoat. The fat man took his position in front of Dale, the handsome rider behind him.

Dale sat on Oxford with his hands hovering near his shoulders. There was little doubt about what they wanted. All Dale wanted was to escape with his life.

The big one asked Dale, “Comin’ in from Jefferson City are ya?”

Dale nodded. “Don’t have much, few things. You fellas in need?”

The two road agents chuckled. The fat man asked, “Ain’t everyone?” They all shared a tense chuckle.

“Well,” Dale said, “why don’t you boys take a few things… as a gesture of good will, share and share alike.”

The two bandits looked at each other, then back at Dale. The handsome rider pulled his horse to the side, giving Dale the option of turning to bolt back in the other direction. But Dale knew there was another reason for the handsome rider to relocate his position, and that was to be out of the fat man’s line of fire, and to triangulate their assault.

“I don’t have much, a few dollars and these other things.” He huffed up a little chuckle. “Really, there’s enough to go around.”

“There always is, pal,” the handsome rider said. Both men pulled their Colts, as if on cue. Dale reached for his own, but he’d never better both men and he knew it. The bullets tore through him, shattering his ribs, mutilating his lungs. Dale fell back and Oxford scrambled, confused and frightened.

Dale hit the ground hard, ears ringing and vision blurred, arms cramped at his sides. He could hardly control his quivering body, blood filling his throat.

“Get the horse, you idiot!” Dale thought it was the handsome rider berating the fatter one, but he couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. But he knew it was the better-looking fellow who climbed down from his mount and stooped to him, running his hands over Dale’s pockets to pull out his coin purse and few other personal objects.

“Sorry, fella,” he said with a smile, “wrong place, wrong time… shouldn’t be travelin’ through these parts without a sharp eye and a good friend.” He stepped away and crossed back to his horse.

The fat one asked, “Nothin’ good?”

“Horse and whatever it’s carryin’s best we’re gonna get.”

“All the same.” After a moment of casual consideration, the fat one asked, “Plug him?”

“And waste a bullet? He’s good as dead, anyway. Let’s get outta here, the cougar’ll come in soon enough.” The two men kicked their horses, leading Oxford away and deeper into the Ozarks and leaving Dale to bleed out into the forest floor.

No, Dale told himself once they’d clopped away, no, not like this. Have to… have to get back… so close, too close… have to… get… home…

So, Dale mustered his strength. His body was rattled with blinding pain, his arms barely able to respond. He’d never be able to stand. But he could pull himself forward, crawling along the forest floor for the last few miles of his journey.

Too close to stop, he told himself, one hand over the other, can’t… stop…

Chapter Two

Martha Bows knew there was something wrong when the shots rang out. They weren’t far off, a few miles perhaps, but it wasn’t unusual. The gunshots rang out more and more as they years went on, it seemed to her, shattering the docile tranquility of the Ozarks. The modern men with their modern world were sneaking up on them, Martha knew that. Their journeys were written in the increasingly gray hair that replaced her once-black mane; their stampede had trampled her beloved Harold, in its way.

But there was worse on the horizon, she could feel it in her bones. There was a sense of foreboding in the air, ominous as it collected among the maple and sassafras, inspiring the bald eagles to circle above in greater number. They were death upon the wing, and there was death in the air.

Martha knew the dangers that waited her or Dale or any traveler in that place and in their time. There were hunters, of course, and Dale and the rest of the Bows family knew many of them. But there were others, and they came in thickening numbers, in and out of the Ozarks. They came with red skin on painted ponies, even while her adored eldest son Harland was out there representing the family, doing his part to establish the white race as dominant against the Indians. Martha had her own doubts, and the other boys had absolutely stood fast against it. But when Harland Bows heard duty call, he answered. And she loved him for it.

But she could only hope it hadn’t yet cost the young man his life.

It had been weeks without a letter, though they were always sporadic at best. That gave her hope.

Jesse and Blu were too far off, way up in the hills; but Dale was close, just coming in from Jefferson City—her adored youngest child, the last of her loins.

He should marry that girl in town, Martha couldn’t help but think as she swept the wooden floors, staring off into a fond imagining. The redhead at the store. He fancies her, clearly, and it’s time for him to set upon his life, to begin a family of his own. The poor boy, he’s spent all his young years serving the family, working the homestead, towing the line and pulling more than his weight. And it’s made him a good man, a worthy husband and father. He oughtn’t be spending any more of his time doting on an old woman like me, that’s not what his father would have wanted. And it’s not what I want. I want grandchildren, and of all my boys Dale will be a most splendid father. He’ll be warm and funny in a way that only he can be, filling his house with smiles and laughter and creating a happy generation of admirable boys and girls, raised to be good Americans, to make a better America for all of us.

Martha kept sweeping, nodding as she distracted herself. Just hunters, I’m sure. And when Dale gets back, and I’m going to tell him. I’ll release him from his duties here; I’ll insist on it.

Visions of Dale’s refusal were too clear in her imagination.

He won’t go, he’ll never abandon our home or hearth. We’ll bring the girl here, if she’s willing!

Other visions crowded Martha’s brain, of the two bickering in the confines of that remote homestead, buried deep in the Ozarks.

No, Martha had to admit, this is no life for two young lovers, newlyweds. This was our dream, but Dale has his own dreams and he shouldn’t be denied them. I’ll put it to him that way, I’ll make him understand. Jesse and Blu will be back soon, we’ll have a family talk about the whole matter.

The times are changing, perhaps we should change with them! When Harland gets back… Harland… Martha had to snap herself out of her reverie and focus on the hopefulness that came with every day that did not present the letter from the military, the letter she dreaded.

But it hadn’t come, and she knew Harland was a man to be reckoned with. If anybody could face those frightful Cherokee and survive, it would be Harland Bows. But his great courage and willingness, his greatest strengths, could yet be the key to his downfall, Martha had always feared. She knew what kind of war he was facing out there, plains dizzy with whirling savages, blinding clouds of dust, screams and whoops and hollers and gunfire and arrows flying, men crying out their last pleas as they writhed in the dirt.

“Mommy, Maaahhhh-mmmmeeeee!”

It sent a chill through Martha’s body and soul just to imagine it.

Not Harland, Martha told herself, too ready to recall his sterling blue eyes and dark black hair, so like his late father’s. He’d die bravely, quietly, or not at all! No ten Cherokee can fell him… it can’t happen, and it won’t happen!

But the notion of death clung to her in a way that Martha couldn’t deny. She couldn’t sweep it away, couldn’t imagine anything other than that dark specter as it approached her isolated house in the Ozarks.

They were a place of life, the Ozarks, but death was always life’s silent partner, the price to be paid for that brief dance upon the Earth. A red-tailed hawk cried out overhead, the shrill sound sending a bolt of shock through her senses, body suddenly rigid.

The knocks fell heavy on the door, waves of sudden worry shooting through Martha’s body. She turned toward the door, rustling with some unseen activity on the other side. Whatever it was, Martha had to bolt to it and pull that door open. If it was death itself, come for her at long last, then that would be the least of the Bows’ sacrifices, and the most reasonable.

Let it be that grim reaper; I’ll go with him happily with one last kiss goodbye to the young men I’ve raised and the house I’ve built.

And that was just what she saw, the shadow of death, cast over her youngest son, Dale. He lay at the threshold, face colorless, eyes wide but fluttering, lips quivering.

“Dale!” She collapsed to his side. Martha’s blood ran cold and hot, tears alive on her cheeks as they fled her face. “My God, Dale, what happened?”

“Men… two… two men…” His eyes rolled back and up into his head, his mouth opening. “W-w-w-whiiiiite… white men… took Oxford…”

“Oxford,” Martha repeated, unable to fashion any other response, hardly able to say anything else. But she could see the curtain of forest debris on his blood-soaked chest. “Y-y-y-y-ou… you… crawled here?”

“Had to… get… get home…”

Martha held Dale close, his cold flesh telling her where the next steps of his brief journey would take him. He looked up and past her, Martha turning to see the empty room.

“Papa… papa… I’m sorry, Papa, I… I…” His strength failed him then, and Martha felt the spirit leak out of him.

Unimaginable pain welled up on Martha, hurt beyond hurt to utter paralysis. Her mouth opened but no sound could escape her, tears burst forth but could not express her. Her beloved boy lay dead in her lap, given to the men of the Ozarks for no reason, toward no greater good. So much life lost, so much promise wasted in the cause of a few sundries and the fickle turn of fate’s dreadful hand.

Visions of her lost husband Harold, of her missing boys, the blinding and deafening sense of helplessness possessed Martha: body, mind, and soul. It would never release her; she knew that one thing and that thing only.

But as the hours crept on, a big, mean part of Martha knew that she had to push beyond the moment, to release her little boy, only just a man, to rise to her feet once again. She’d done no less after losing Harold himself, though even that anguish couldn’t compare to the numbing, overwhelming agony that followed every step to the closet, where the shovel waited. Every step to the plot next to Harold’s grave felt like a mile of its own, even as she walked past the trail of his last pints of blood drew a muddied line toward his own front door.

Every shovelful of dirt felt like moving a mountain.

No, Martha told herself, don’t tire! Last time, the boys were here to bury Harold, to dig the grave. They were so strong and capable and noble, wouldn’t let me raise a finger that I didn’t have to. Such dutiful and worthy boys… my sons…

She could only dig further down.

Dale… dead… for what reason? Why do men kill one another this way, with such wastefulness? What thrill do they derive from it? What thirst is slaked by blood, the blood of my little boy?

No answer came as Martha dug deeper, the grave slowly pulling her into the Earth.

Yes, Martha had to concede, soon enough, great mother. You’ll have me, as you take us all. But not today, not now. You’ve already taken my most sparkling jewel, big great dirty bitch! You’ve already robbed me of the love of my life with your terrible diseases! Now the fruits of our time together, you seek to take back, one by one?

Chk,thmp,chk, thmp; the shovel pushed Martha toward the grave, dumping the dirt to the side to be used to a terrible purpose later, but not much later.

Chk, thmp, chk, thmp.

Sweat trickled down Martha’s cheeks, her heart straining, pain the only thing she could fathom.

Take me next, you hulking hump! Leave my children alone! Why did you take Dale, of us all? How much more have I lost that I don’t even know? Harland? Are Jesse and Blu out there as well, in the belly of some bear or pack of wolves? You bitch! Haven’t I given you enough? Haven’t I given you all?

Chk, thmp; chk, thmp; chk, thmp.

Finally, the job was done. There could be no casket, only sheets to provide a burial shroud. Martha stood alone after covering the body over, holding the only book in the Bows house, opened to Matthew 12:46-50.

“As Jesus was speaking to the crowd,” Martha could barely manage to read through her tears, “his mother and brothers stood outside, asking to speak to him. Someone told Jesus, ‘Your mother and your brothers are standing outside, and they want to speak to you.’”

Martha could only look around, surrounded by the quiet of the Ozarks, their promise of life and of death.

“Jesus asked, ‘Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?’ Then he pointed to his disciples and said, ‘Look, these are my mother and brothers. Anyone who does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother!’”

And Martha could only be all, and none, everything and nothing. Her glory in life had been to give life, to create it in four such fine specimens, born of a good man at the dawn of a new age.

But at that moment, Martha could only feel the shrouding of the end of that age, the premature night to a grand day, all too short upon the Earth—just like her adored and youngest progeny.

Chapter Three

Harland Bows pushed his speckled stallion through the Ozarks, not far from his family’s homestead. The blinding parade of terrible visions haunted him still. He’d forced the Cherokee back across the plains and the states, the poor bastards overwhelmed by Jackson’s forces. But that wouldn’t stand on its own, Harland knew. The Cherokee, like all the Great Nations, were a formidable foe. They had children, too, Harland knew, and fathers who fell as his own had done—to disease, to battle, to heartbreak.

And he’d brought his own share of that death to the battlefield, as he’d been called upon to do. It was true that, as his twin brothers and father had felt, that it was neither a just fight nor was it their fight. But Harland could not deny the call of his country, to do what his president called upon him to do.

Still, the hawthorn and the sparrows brought him some solace, moving toward the land that had nurtured him. The screams of the dying men of both creeds and nations and skins rang in the back of his skull.

Their blood was all just as red as the other’s.

Harland had gone through enough. He couldn’t deny the call of duty, but the parade of flesh and guts and lives lost had become too much. Believed dead in a terrible battle, Harland had found a good steed and let it and his conscience take him where they would. Missouri called, the homestead of the Bows family.

His younger brothers, the twins, had stood against his volunteer, and their voices were still ringing in his ears.

“You can’t abandon the family,” Jesse had said, “not now that Papa has died!”

But Harland had left their mother in good stead, Dale and the other boys to care for her. He was willing to represent the family in the struggle to his best, until he saw how wretched and terrible that service had been, and how wretchedly and terribly the government had treated the men in that very questionable service. They died by the score, from disease and malnutrition, of injury and infection, men and women shitting away their lives in pints of diarrhea. They took bullets and bayonets and threw showering rains of arrows and stolen gunfire, almost enough to blot out the sun.

Almost.

But that was all behind Harland, the quiet of the Ozarks a welcome respite from that chaotic tumult.

Maybe the boys were right, Harland had to challenge himself. To take arms against another race, at the behest of richer men. Is that honor? Where is the justice in that?

But it hardly mattered. He’d walked away from persecuting the Cherokee. Let them fight their fight for better or naught, Harland reminded himself, as every man must do for himself, and even every woman must do for herself! It won’t be long until the arc of history curves toward the like of my own dear mother, Martha. She’s the sort who could lead the nation just as she’s led the family!

But that was all a world away, and the Bows homestead only a few days off. There was an odd feeling to the Ozarks, something reverberating in those legendary caves and caverns running through the hills. Some called them spirits, some called them devils, most knew them to be the tales old wives told each other and their teeth-chattering wards.

Still, Harland couldn’t deny that there was an energy in the Ozarks that hadn’t been there when he’d gone on to serve Jackson against the Cherokee. Something had changed, something more than merely the timbre of the times. Destiny had come to the Ozarks in a way that Harland could perceive, even if it was something he could not quite understand. But it was in the air, and the birds seemed to know it, too.

Harland flashed on his brothers: Jesse, who so wished to be the firstborn of the great man of their family; Barney, called Blu by their father before his death for his deep and poetic soul; and Dale, so dashing and full of promise. Dale was going to carry the family forward, Harland felt certain. He would find a good woman; he would raise good children. He wasn’t a man of violence and war, like Harland or the other two. Dale was a man of charm, of consideration, a force of life and not of death.

Harland’s previous few years had proven otherwise of himself. He was a force of death, at times a wave that was unstoppable even by his own will. There had been moments in battle where the Cherokee had seemed to be moving in a slower motion, that he could see where they would be seconds before they would be there. Harland’s hand knew just where to go, squeezing the trigger at just the right moment. He’d pushed brains from skulls, hearts from chests, seen the withering misery of young men propelled almost instantly into the afterworld.

Almost instantly, but that was a long and cruel instant. And it was just enough time for the big cat to scream out its battle cry and jump out of the bushes. It hit with speed and power, claws and instincts and a position of advantage from the slope on the trail above him.

Harland’s speckled stallion bucked and clopped, whinnying and shaking its head, and the cat held Harland tight, trying to tear at his belly with its mighty hind paws. But Harland pushed himself away and stood back before any real damage could be done. Only a few superficial scratches could be chalked up to the cougar’s assault, but its eyes were wide and wild, glowing yellow and passionate with the love of the kill.

Harland had no need of the animal; he had no time or interest in butchering it or selling the hide. Though it sought his own life, he had no use for the cougar’s. So, while Harland drew his Colt—a gun so new that it gave him the advantage over almost any adversary and certainly one as dumb as a cat—Harland held his other hand out to soothe and quiet the enraged predator.

The cat screamed, waving its left paw and flashing those bright white fangs. Harland didn’t back down; he knew he could end the creature and leave it as a warning of his mastery over the land, over any part of the land subject to his feet.

But he didn’t feel the need or the right.

Life and death reigned over those hills, over all the country and all the world. Harland knew himself to be little more than a knight errant in the service of either one, or both at the same time. It was a matter of perspective, a matter of luck, a matter of fate. But for Harland, it was also a matter of survival.

The big cat seemed to know it, too. It seemed to be judging the odds of its victory. It looked at the horse, then back at Harland, and Harland knew the beast was sizing up a new strategy. It knew Harland needed the horse, that to kill the horse was to leave the man stranded. That clever bastard cat refocused and pulled back, seeming to prefer the five-hundred-pound horse to the two-hundred-pound man as a fitting—

Bang!

The gun blasted out from Harland’s side, the big cougar’s right ear vanishing in a cloud of flesh and bloody mist. The cat screamed and pulled back, wriggling into the sumac and milkweed, its agonized cries disappearing with it as the rustling of fauna covered it tracks.

Harland grabbed his horse’s reins, pulling the creature over to him and calming it down. The stallion had always been skittish, and this was an increasing liability. The filly had to be tamed. There was danger in the wind—the cougar knew it, the horse knew it, and Harland knew it, too. The only questions were where it would come from, when it would strike, and how terrible it would be.

Chapter Four

Michael ‘Doc’ Daniels walked into the big chamber of the thirteenth western chamber. The network was so vast that it had to be numbered and charted, with some areas still unmapped. The corridors were low and winding and the chambers were big and spacious, stalactites hanging down and stalagmites reaching up, pools of water rippling and sunlight streaming in through cracks in the mountain above. Torches lit other chambers, men and some of Doc’s women huddled in the relative privacy they offered.

The Ozarks had presented him with the fantastic opportunity to establish his own colony in Missouri, free from the local law—out of mind, out of sight, out of touch. But it wasn’t easy governing so many hardened men. Squeak and Coal Joe and Pretty Pete would gut-stab and throat-slit him in a shot if they could and took a mind to it, Doc knew that. He needed them and men like them, but he needed to be wary of them, too.

In the meantime, they were contented. Doc kept them feed and fucked and sheltered, paid them back most of what they stole. He stepped out of the cave to look over his colony, hidden by the Ozarks, given a chance at new life. He was the law in that lawless clutch. He was their leader, for as long as he could hold that position. The whole colony had been the wellspring of his own genius, the notion of expanding the gang into a community. There was nothing about his colony that couldn’t sustain itself. They had gardens for vegetables, tents for shelter outside of the caves, campfires and horses and the meat of the local rabbits and birds. Unlucky travelers provided women and horses and various goods. The place was thriving, word getting around that outlaws could hunker down with Doc in the Ozarks for a nominal percentage of their take. They brought him his tribute and they had his protection. It was working out quite well, as the percolating camps spread out in the valley before him could attest.

But it had to keep working, and that meant staying in power.

“Hey, Doc,” Squeak said as he wormed up next to him. Squeak’s greasy black hair and slimy quality gave him the air of a reptile, and Doc often expected a blue, forked tongue to flick out of his mouth as he writhed by Doc’s side. “There was another score nearby, Pretty Peter Marsh and Coal Joel Besser.”

“S’that so?” Doc pulled at the curl of his handlebar mustache, drawing the waxed hair upward toward his cheek. “Anything good?”

“Nah, just some dude ridin’ in from Jefferson City…a few sundries. Good paint, though.”

“A paint? That’s something, sure. Give ‘em… I dunno, a girl each for two days, five dollars each, feed ‘em and make ‘em happy. Put the paint in with the others.”

“Fair recompense,” Squeak said, spitting a wad of chaw into the dirt. “There is an issue… with one of the girls. Sarah, the one we grabbed last year.”

“We broke her,” Doc said, a smile crawling across his face as he planted a thick cigar into it. “I saw to it… personally.”

“Well, she’s healed up, is what I’m sayin’. And gettin’ all uppity about it. Talkin’ to the other women over the laundry and such, stirrin’ up trouble.”

“So, cut her tongue out,” Doc said. It had been how he’d gotten his nickname, by butchering his victims. It was always a ready remedy.

“Yeah, but… she’s real pretty, as you know, Doc. Seems a pity…”

“Then do what you want with her,” Doc sneered, puffing up a cloud of white smoke. “But she becomes a problem for me, I’ll become a problem for you. Are we clear?”

“Clear, Doc, spring-water clear.”

“All right, then,” Doc said, “enjoy yourself, Squeak.”

Squeak nodded and backed off, a muttered series of grateful parting words following behind him.

Doc glanced over the colony, looking ahead into the next generation. Women, he thought, always a colossal pain in the ass. But they had value, and the girl Sarah was indeed a lucky find. She’d been a great lay, Doc remembered with terrific clarity. She’d struggled hard, punching those little fists and kicking those long, strong legs. But they hadn’t been strong enough to repel him, and they wouldn’t be long enough to escape him. It was preferable if she not be maimed, of course. The men wouldn’t accept her as part of their payment once they knew she’d been cut. It certainly wouldn’t help her reputation for sucking a good cock, not having a tongue.

But using it to stir up the other women, that’s unacceptable. That has to stop. Maybe I should be the one to stop it, take Squeak off the case.

Doc knew he had the pick of any woman in the camp, however. This uppity bitch was nothing more than another pretty face, another tight pussy.

But it was a pretty face, he couldn’t deny that.

Doc set it aside. There’d be fresher faces, newer girls to enjoy. Let them have her, he thought. But the thought didn’t want to stick. Terrific memories stirred him to think of her, again and again, her sobbing and whimpering echoing in the back of his mind’s ear.

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“A Breathless Chase of Punishment” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Harland Bows comes back home in Missouri to find his youngest brother murdered by two merciless road agents. That very moment, Harland vows to find his brother’s killers and make them pay for the insufferable pain they have caused to his family. Luckily for him, he’s not alone; his two younger brothers are thirsty for revenge as much as he is. But the path of vengeance is rough, and his investigation leads him to an expansive criminal colony of hundreds of cutthroats working under a single evil mastermind. Will Harland find his brother’s murderers before the colony tears him and his other brothers down?

When he manages to enter the massive colony, he meets a female slave who steals his heart and his mind. But until he uncovers the killers and escapes from this dark prison, a chance of happiness remains a pipe dream for both of them. The moment he discovers the identity of the men he is looking for, Harland starts thinking that the day of revenge is not far off. However, he soon realises that the main responsible for his brother’s death is the crime leader himself. Will Harland find the way to rescue the woman he loves and turn over a new leaf in his life? Will he finally bring down the notorious leader along with his colony once and for all?

Tensions come to a boil, with internal conflicts with his own brothers and chaotic battles with Indians, making Harland’s mission harder than ever. Will he manage to resolve any heated disputes and take the revenge he has been eagerly waiting for? After severe losses and sacrifices, will justice eventually be served?

A tale of explosive action, betrayal, love and loss that will keep the reader on the edge of their seat. A surefire hit for fans of Western adventure novels, with a touch of romance.

“A Breathless Chase of Punishment” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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