A Bullet for the Wronged (Preview)

Chapter One

The sky to the west was clear. That meant the evening would be as pleasant as a summer evening could be. Storms and weather came mostly from the west. If there were dark clouds over the mountains, all hell might be rolling in. A storm would spoil the night’s festivities. Wyatt had promised Emily an evening of fine theater, which did not include lightning and rain.

He glanced over the white picket fence. The painted house and neat garden spoke of money and care. Frank was known for that. It was the reason he had been elected mayor of Eagle Pass. 

Wyatt liked to think that the sheriff’s office he ran had contributed to Frank’s success. Wyatt knew that Frank’s endorsement helped with Wyatt’s election. Of course, that was the general outcome for best friends. When one succeeded, they both succeeded.

Wyatt pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and struck a match on his saddle. Taking a puff, he patted Nelson’s neck. Nelson was the second-best horse Wyatt had ever owned—and he had owned a few. 

Horses were valuable animals in the mountains. They had to be replaced at regular intervals, as the terrain played hell with hooves and such. Wyatt figured he had one, maybe two years before he replaced Nelson. 

“Don’t you worry, Nelson. Emily is comin’.”

The horse nodded its head as if it understood. Maybe it did. Wyatt didn’t know. Sometimes, horses made a lot more sense than humans. Horses were better at finding their way home. Many a drunk simply climbed into the saddle and “clucked”. The horse knew the way.

He pushed up his hat and rubbed his hair. He had put on his best hat for the evening, and it didn’t fit like his regular one. The hat accompanied his third best shirt and Sunday jeans. 

He didn’t dress up nice often. When he did, he liked to think he cut a pretty fine rug. Not that he was set on impressing Emily. That wasn’t what the evening was about. Mostly, it was about doing Mayor Grayson a favor. 

The green door opened. Frank Grayson stepped out and waved. Emily, a fourteen-year-old go-getter, zipped right past her father and marched down the stone path like a queen. 

Wyatt couldn’t help but notice how she had changed in the last year. The little girl figure was transforming into a young woman’s figure. That alone made Wyatt glad he wasn’t her father. Frank was going to have a devil of time for a few years. The young men of the territory would camp out on Frank’s doorstep.

Frank followed his daughter to the gate. He limped which told Wyatt that Frank’s lumbago was acting up again. Frank’s pasty face said the pain was severe.

“Mr. Mayor.”

“Sheriff.”

The two men studied each other for a few seconds before they broke out in laughter. The greeting had been the same for years.

“Been chopping wood again, Frank?”

“Winters are rough, or don’t you remember.”

“You need to hire it done. You’re too old to be tossing around an axe.”

“If I was rich like you, Wyatt, I would pay someone.”

“Otis Penrod. He’ll do it for a couple bottles of rye.”

“The damn fool would chop off his foot.”

“Hell, you don’t give it to him until he’s done.”

Frank frowned, and Wyatt immediately addressed Emily.

“Pardon my French, Emily. Sometimes, I cut loose when I should stay quiet.”

“I’m fourteen, Uncle Wyatt. I’ve heard cussing before, and what you said is not French.”

Wyatt laughed. “You been listening to your pa again? I’m sure his lumbago has added some color to his language.”

“If you think I’m weak enough to curse in front of my daughter, then you’ve become addled. Never in the company of women and children.”

Wyatt held out his hand. “Come along, Emily. We hang around here too long, we won’t see the play.”

Emily hesitated, staring at Wyatt and motioning to her dress.

“You don’t have to ride side-saddle just yet.”  Wyatt waved. “Come on up.”

She grabbed his hand, and he half swung her up behind him. She settled and smoothed out her blue dress with its small pattern of white and yellow flowers. 

“You bring her home right after.”

“What? And miss introducing her to the Silver Dollar?”

Frank frowned. “I hear you took her to the Silver Dollar, and you’re out of a job.”

Wyatt laughed. “Stable your horses. Uncle Wyatt knows what he can and can’t do. We’re buyin’ candy before the show, not after.”

Frank moved closer and rubbed his daughter’s calf. “You obey your Uncle Wyatt. Don’t mind him drooling. That happens when a man can’t shave proper.”

“What are you jabbering about?”  Wyatt brushed his bushy handlebar mustache. “Looks good to me.”

“You got stubble around that tree limb you call a mustache. Next time, use a mirror.”

“You’re the one to talk. You got that beard because you’re not trusted with a razor.”

Both men laughed.

“Let’s go, Uncle Wyatt. I don’t want to miss the first act.”

“You heard the lady, Wyatt. I’ll wait up.”

With a wave, Wyatt turned his horse and started off. 

“You hold onto me, Emily. If something spooks Nelson, I don’t want you falling off.”

He felt her thin arms hug his waist. She didn’t hug too tight as she had ridden behind him before.

“Do you know what we’re going to see?”

“I’m not certain, Emily, but I think we’re going to see a play called Cinderella. You know the story?”

“Oh yes. It’s about a young girl with a horrible stepmother. And there are glass slippers and a handsome prince. I like the story very much.”

“You know a lot of plays don’t you.”

“Not so many. But I want to know more. I’m going to be on the stage, Uncle Wyatt. I’m going to sing and dance and act.”

“I think you will. You have the push. Just don’t let your father throw water on your dream.”

“I know, I know, he’s not one for the theater.”

Ahead, the shadows were slipping away from the mountains. While the ride wasn’t long, Wyatt knew they would come back in the dark. He guessed Emily would be excited by then. She would be jabbering, and he would simply listen. 

Would she become an actress?

Wyatt knew that becoming an actress was a common dream for young girls. While many aspired, few would actually get to dance across the stage in front of the candles or lanterns. Most would marry and raise a family—if they could. The western mountains were unforgiving. That was certain.

“Did you ever want to be an actor?”  Her voice was soft, as if she was asking him to tell a secret. 

“Can’t say I ever gave it much thought. I mean, acting wasn’t something we did. And my education stopped after the seventh grade. I know my letters and numbers, and I read some when I have time. But I never tried memorizing stuff.”

“I’m going to be an actress. I’m going to St. Louis and then New York. Then, I’m going to Europe. I will act in front of kings and queens. They will give me jewels and perhaps a castle.”

“I’m not sure they’re in the business of handing out castles.”

“A handsome and rich prince will fall in love with me and ask me to marry him. I don’t know if I will. Perhaps, if I fall in love with him too. That hasn’t been decided.”

“This is sort of your own Cinderella story, isn’t it? Handsome prince falls for you, and you live happily ever after.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“No, no, I think everyone should have a dream. I had a teacher once tell me that I needed to build my castles in the sky. I lacked lofty ideals. She thought I was a whole lot smarter than I proved to be.”

“My father says you’re very smart, only not in a book way.”

“Your father is a good friend.”

Wyatt stopped his horse. 

“Why are we stopping.”

“I want you to take a deep breath.”

“Yes, sir.”

He heard her fill her lungs. “Can you smell it?”

“I smell something. It’s quite lovely. What is it?”

“Aspen leaves.”

“Aspen?”

“Nelson here smashes the leaves, and they give up a scent. It’s almost a perfume. It’s faint right now, but later in the fall, the aspen forests will draw all manner of people.”

“I wasn’t aware. We don’t have aspens by our house.”

“Take that smell with you when you leave the mountains. You might need that memory when you reach Europe.”

Wyatt clucked to Nelson, and the horse walked on. He knew Emily was considering what she might be leaving behind. Not that aroma of smashed aspen leaves was a treasure.  The smell was a small coin in the realm of the West. He hoped Emily would take the coin with her.

“Uncle Wyatt, please don’t tell my father about my dream.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Emily. You’ll tell him when the time is right.”

At the edge of town, Wyatt acknowledged the good wishes and greetings from the townsfolk. Dressed in Sunday best, the men tipped their hats, and the Women nodded or waved a kerchief. 

The traveling theater excited everyone. While the young children were not invited, the older boys and girls accompanied their parents. The chances to introduce culture into many lives were few. When a troupe appeared, the town put on its holiday garb. 

At the sheriff’s office, Wyatt slung Emily to the ground. He tied Nelson to a hitching post. His office was close to the town hall, where the play would be performed. Before he could take Emily’s hand, a man Wyatt didn’t recognize exploded from the Elk Heart Saloon across the street.

The man landed hard, which kept him from running away from the Harmon brothers.

Joseph, Matthew, and John were nearly the same. Big, brawny, they worked their father’s ranch. They appeared half drunk, which accounted for their swearing. The curses included a number of accusations of cheating. 

It seemed the man on the ground had done something wrong at the poker table, and the Harmons were going to teach the cheater a lesson. Knowing the Harmons, the cheater was about to get a right good beating.

“Stay here, Emily. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

Wyatt was miffed, as he didn’t have time for the Harmons or their idea of frontier justice. Cheats couldn’t be tolerated, but three strapping young men against one aging cheat didn’t sound like a fair fight. 

Wyatt loosened his Colt revolver in its holster. He had learned a long time ago not to take anything for granted.

“Hold on, hold on!” Wyatt intercepted the brothers. “Want to tell me what this is all about.”

“That man cheats.”

“We want our money back.”

“But not before we beat the cheat out of him.”

Wyatt glanced to the side where the poker player had managed to get to one knee. He didn’t look particularly dangerous or glamorous. Worn clothes, disheveled, thin, grayish hair, boots that even a good polishing couldn’t rescue. He looked more vagabond than car shark. Wyatt figured the man followed the theater group. The event would fill the saloons and make finding a game easy.

“You can get your money back, boys, but I can’t let you beat him to death.”

The brothers frowned and tried to argue, but Wyatt would have none of it. He had made his wishes clear when he heard the first gunshot.

Wyatt turned, pulling his pistol at the same time. 

Fifteen feet away, the cheater had managed to stand with gun in one shaking hand. He was aiming for the brothers, but the only thing he did was scatter the Harmons. They knew better than to stand in the line of fire.

“Hey!” Wyatt yelled. “Drop your gun!”

The cheater didn’t drop his gun; he half turned and fired. 

That was more than Wyatt could tolerate. He fired his first round into the man’s shoulder. His arm dropped, and the gun hit the dirt. Wyatt’s second shot hit the man’s thigh, and that felled the man. Wyatt was about to take the man into custody when the heard a woman scream.

Wyat spun, half expecting to find a Hamon brother with a rifle. Instead, he found an older woman in a yellow bonnet kneeling beside Emily.

It took but seconds for Wyatt to hurry to Emily, only to discover that a stray bullet, a bullet meant for him, had found her head. Blood had pooled around her, and there was only one conclusion.

She was dead, utterly dead.

An anger fiercer than anything Wyatt had ever felt exploded inside. Fire raced through his body. His vision turned red. He could think of nothing, nothing at all. He was feral, totally controlled by the rage inside. He did the only thing he could think to do.

He stomped back to the cheater in the dirt. 

The man moaned. “You got to get me to a doctor.”

“She’s dead.”  

Wyatt didn’t explain who was dead.

He aimed his revolver and put the next four bullets into the cheater’s chest. Wyatt would have put in more, but the Colt only clicked, the cartridges in its cylinders already spent.

Chapter Two

Maisie wrapped the thick sandwich inside a clean towel and added it to the tin box on the kitchen counter. The sandwich was nothing special, the usual mix of wheat bread, butter, some leftover beefsteak, and sliced onion. She included half a raw potato to offset the onion and added the lid to box. 

Even as she did, her mother slipped into the room. She carried a bolt of colorful fabric that she dropped on the table. 

“Whatever happened to that Eagle Pass boy that used to come over?”

Maisie frowned. “Eagle Pass?”

“Martin or Michael? What was his name?”

“His name was Matthew Harmon. That was two years ago. He stopped coming over after that incident with the Eagle Pass sheriff.”

“I liked him. He had spunk.”

“He made the trip from Eagle Pass because none of the women there wanted him…or his brothers.”

Ingrid unrolled the bolt on the table. Maisie wondered what had gotten into her mother’s head, but she wasn’t about to ask. That would open the door to all manner of talk, most of which wouldn’t apply.

“Well, if you don’t get a move on, your brother will marry before you do.”

“Let him. I’m in no hurry.”

“Maisie Bleu, you don’t want to end up an old maid like your cousin Bethany. That’s not why the good Lord put you on this planet.”

“Bethany is but twenty-six, hardly an old maid. What are you doing?”

“Dorothy Engle’s child doesn’t want to go to school because she doesn’t like her clothes. I thought I’d sew up something.”

“You’re going to dress her like a rainbow?”

“Children love colorful clothes. You could stand a bit more hue in your dresses too.

Maisie nodded and didn’t argue. She respected her mother. She wasn’t about to dig another dry well. 

“You best be goin’, Maisie. Your brother needs his victuals.”

“You made the sandwich with onions again, Ma. You know Donald doesn’t like them.”

“The boy is worried about his breath. And balderdash to that. Onion is good for digestion. That’s a proven fact.”

Maisie didn’t believe onions were good for anything but tears. However, she wasn’t about to argue with her mother. Ingrid Bleu claimed she never argued because she was invariably correct. Being correct was why Ingrid Bleu wore a dress without sleeves whenever she was in the house. Neither summer heat nor winter cold could add sleeves to Ingrids’s dresses. “Arms have to breathe” was Ingrid’s reasoning.

“Did you remember the potato?”

“Of course, I did. The potato is the only thing that cuts the smell of onion.”

“Let’s not argue, Maisie. And remind your brother that he’s expected home for dinner. I will not tolerate him stopping by the Lucky Dog for a drink.”

“It’s one drink.”

“It’s one drink that becomes five drinks and two hours of wasted time. I know I sound a bit harsh, but I do love to have Donald and you at the dinner table at the same time.”

“I’ll remind him.”

“While you’re at it, remind your father. He’s as bad as his son most days.”

Maisie left the kitchen and stopped by the front door. She plucked her green bonnet from the oak coat stand and tied it under her chin. 

She was no great fan of bonnets, but they made sense in the summertime. Not because of rain. It was the sun and dirty birds that were the enemies of her long, black hair. Why the birds had to drop on her head was unknown. Perhaps the green bonnet would look like grass to the birds. They never did their dirty business over grass.

“I’m leaving!”

“Make sure to wear your old boots. That work site is a boot killer.”

Maisie rolled her dark brown eyes. Her mother always, always, always had to have the last word, and that word was usually something about Maisie’s appearance. 

Maisie did change boots, as she was sure her mother would check the boot rack. Swapping boots was much easier than arguing the point.

In the barn, Maisie saddled her horse–a pinto–smaller than the ones her father and brother rode. Buttons was an unexcitable horse, the type Maisie preferred. She had ridden more spirited steeds, and that was fun. Yet, Buttons proved to be her favorite.

The summer sky was pure blue. Maisie adjusted her bonnet to shade her face. The summer sun in the mountains burned unshaded skin. She had no desire to face that pain or look like the red man in a book she once read. The day was amenable. Her task was as pleasant as it could be.

She walked Buttons out of town, heading for the railhead, where her brother was probably busy clearing away a mesa or boulder that blocked the railroad’s progress. 

She thought her brother was too young to be setting dynamite charges. He had landed the job for two reasons. One, he was facile with the dynamite, able to spot a cliff’s weak spot and adjust the explosion so the most damage was done. 

He had explained his skill to her once, but it was all rock colors and veins and ore lodes and whatever. She had little interest in the “art” of blowing up rock formations. She preferred to be quite far away when the dynamite went “boom”.

The second reason Donald was the dynamiter was because his father was the project foreman.

Her father’s office, a worn railcar at the end of the track, was Maisie’s first stop. 

As she wound her way through the mass of workers, she received the usual smiles and greetings. The men who knew her were respectful. The few newcomers whistled or offered their names for a date. She ignored them. The few Chinese on the property bowed their heads, their wide brim, circular hats bobbing up and down. Maisie didn’t quite understand that. Most of them didn’t speak any English.

Maisie was no fan of the railroad. She knew the advantages of having a rail line run through Grand Junction, but that hardly made up for the inconvenience caused by the construction. Why couldn’t they build a railroad without all the booms and whistles that came with trains? She had no answer to that question. Neither did her father.  Still, it was 1882.  Progress such as the railroad couldn’t be held back.

She tied Button’s reins to the hitching post and mounted the steps to railcar door. A swift knock brought a “come in” return. 

Maisie’s father, Leo, looked up from a long table covered in maps. She knew the value of the maps, even if she couldn’t quite unravel them. She waved away the smoke as she kissed her father’s bearded cheek. 

“You should open a window.”

“I would, but that brings in the flies and birds. Birds drop their loads all over my maps. I can’t have that.”

“Perhaps a wire mesh of some kind over the windows?”

“I’d rather have the smoke.”

“Because my mother doesn’t like you smoking in the house?”

“There is that. I do my best to please her. You do too.”

“We all do. Which brings me to my task. I’ve brought lunch for Donald. Where is he working today?”

“The east fork. He’s clearing out a mesa. That means dynamite. You shouldn’t go out there. Leave his lunch with me. I’ll see that he gets it.”

“I would, but I’m not sure you’re trustworthy. You might eat it.”

“I can smell the onion from here. I’m not about to eat it.”

“So, they all say. Which way?”

“I’ll show you on the map.”

“No, father, you won’t. Point me in the right direction. Buttons and I will do the rest. I have time, right?”

“You have an hour or so, which is plenty. But don’t dally. Once the charges are set, they’ll light the fuse.”

“In and out lickety-split.”  She kissed his cheek and slipped out.

The east canyon had been partially cleared. The track stopped a quarter mile from her father’s office. Perhaps half a mile more was the area where Donald was placing charges. 

Maisie was in no hurry. Buttons walked, and Maisie surveyed the canyon. 

The cliff sides and rock were scarred from the blasting. To Maisie, the granite walls appeared wounded, hurt. She knew better. Hard rock couldn’t feel pain. However, the rabbits, snakes, and mice that lived among the rocks could feel pain. What happened to them when explosions rocked the canyon? 

Glancing about, something atop a cliff caught her eye. She squinted into the sun. 

There on the summit was a lone rider on a lone horse. She wasn’t close enough to notice much. He was simply watching, stoic, almost a statue. His long blonde hair whipped behind him, driven by the constant winds of Colorado. 

What was he looking at?

She didn’t think he was an Indian. The horse and saddle were wrong. Who was he? What did he see?

Maisie rounded an outcropping. When she looked for the rider, he was gone. For a moment, she almost doubted her eyes. But no, he had been there. She was sure of that.

A short walk ahead was the rock wall that needed to be destroyed. She spotted her brother at the bottom, digging out a hole with a hand pick. As she watched, he hammered a spot, sending rock fragments flying. The red and black bandana over his face provided all the protection he could get. She waited until he paused before she called out.

He turned from the rock and waved. 

“You brought me lunch.”

Maisie slipped off her horse and removed the tin box from her saddle bag. “I did. Our mother made it, so you know what’s on top.”

“Onion, good old onion.” He laughed. “She is predictable, ain’t she.”

“With a potato to soften the reek.”

“Your touch, no doubt.”

“How goes the rock massacre?”

Donald chuckled. He looked much like his father, same dark hair, same Roman nose. Donald’s blue eyes were brighter than Leo’s, but that was a matter of age. Maisie found her brother’s eyes to be filled with merriment and questions.

“A bit dodgy today.”

“Why’s that?”

“Oversight. Someone left a box of sticks open, unprotected from the sun.”

“That’s bad?”

“It can be. Luckily, the mistake was caught quickly and the sticks covered. The batch seems stable enough. And we’ll use it all today. Once it’s blown, it won’t be a problem.”

“You say that about all dynamite. Once it goes off, it can’t hurt you.”

He laughed. “Maise, you always manage to cut to the core of the matter. Like most of us who plant the sticks, I prefer empty dynamite boxes to full ones.”

“Like those over there?”  She pointed to some small crates.

“Yep, those are still full of surprises.”

“You’re never surprised, are you?”

“In this business, you’re allowed but one surprise.”

“In that case, may you never be surprised.”

“I agree.”  He took the tin box and placed it by the crates.

“Oh, one more thing. Our mother demands that you come straight home after work. No stopping at a saloon with your fellow dynamiters or whatever you’re called.”

“Stickmen, we’re called stickmen because we deal with sticks of dynamite. There’s a little ditty about what happens to ‘Stickmen’, but I don’t think you want to hear it.”

“I agree. Sing your little ditties in the saloon, which you won’t be doing tonight. You are fully aware of your mother’s wrath.”

“I am. Tell her not to cut the ham until I get there. I promise to be on time.”

Maisie gave her brother a hug and climbed back onto Buttons, who felt a bit anxious underneath her. With a smile, Maisie turned around and started back. She looked for the lone rider, but he did not appear. 

She wondered why he was watching the railroad progress. Did he want a job? Was he looking for an opportunity to nick some tools? Or was he merely curious. Railroads were not so numerous as to be taken for granted. 

Did his reason matter?

She told herself it didn’t matter at all.

Maisie had almost reached her father’s railcar when she heard the explosion, a huge explosion. 

Buttons wanted to bolt, and it was all Maisie could do to keep the pinto from running off. She managed to stop the panic in time to see a huge cloud of dust racing toward her. Even as she watched several more explosions rocked the very earth. Rock shards and debris were flung high over the cloud of smoke and dust. 

Maisie could do nothing but stare, even as her father raced past, heading directly into the wicked cloud.

Chapter Three

“Did she talk this morning?”

Maisie shook her head. “Not a word.”

Leo plucked a self-rolled cigarette from the bowl atop the maps and lit it with shaky fingers. She didn’t like shaking. It was a signal that her father was battling some sort of ailment.

“It’s been two months, Maisie, two months. She hasn’t said a word since the funeral.”

“People grieve differently. Remember Otto, the man from Bulgaria? When his wife died, he took all her clothes and the bed they slept in and all the furniture in the bedroom. He burned it all. Remember the bonfire? It was huge. Did he ever explain that? No, sir. He just did it.”

“Your mother hasn’t put the torch to her son’s clothes.”

“Not yet. Maybe not ever. Who knows. I’m just saying it takes time.”

“She’s not cookin’. She’s not cleanin’. If the weather’s decent, she sits out back and stares at the mountains. In bad weather, she sits in the kitchen by the stove. Tell me that’s righteous.”

“I’m not defending her. I’m just saying we have to be patient. When she’s finished, she’ll come back to us.”

He nodded. “Alright, we’ll bide our time. You’re with her more than I am. You steer her straight.”

“I’ll do all I can. You got any word on the cause of the explosion?”

“Accident, just like we thought at the beginnin’.”

“What you thought.”

He looked right into her eyes, and she could tell that he didn’t really want to talk about what had happened. 

“Give it up, daughter. No one sees anything but an accident. There’s no evidence.”

“Evidence was blown to hell. There’s nothing to find.”

She stopped. He had stopped listening. Whatever was racing around inside his head, it wasn’t some other interpretation of events. She laid her hand on his shoulder. She knew she didn’t have to say anything more about the “accident”.

“I’m going to Taylor’s. You need anything?”

He shook his head. She noticed the slack skin on his neck, something new. She guessed he was losing weight, not eating. For an instant, she considered challenge him about his eating. She didn’t. No good would come of it, no good at all.

Taylor’s Dry Goods stood between the jail and Lucky Dog, one of the saloons. Maisie liked Jeb Taylor, the owner. 

Jeb and his wife Eunice had opened the store before the railroad came. They were well liked, and their girls Euphemia and Eulalia had made the store what it had become, the best dry goods store for miles around. Euphemia was married and living in Kansas. Eulalia followed her husband to Texas. The women were a decade older than Maisie.

“Has that shipment of calico come in?” Maisie smiled across the counter.

Jeb always wore a red garter over his right sleeve and a green one over his left. He lifted his red arm and pointed toward the back of the store.

“Not all of it, Miss Maisie. What’s come so far is back in the sewin’ section.”

“Thank you. Say, you know something about dynamite, don’t you? You used to stock some, didn’t you?”

“Did. Would still stock it if the railroad hadn’t come along. They buy it by the ton and sell off what they don’t use right away. If the railroad ever stops buyin’, I’ll start stockin’ again.”

“Everyone says the explosion was an accident. Bad storage and all that. How did you store it?”

“All by itself in a shed on the alley. Dynamite is generally stable, but you can’t take anything for granted. The stuff can turn on you like a bull in the pasture.”

“So, how does dynamite go bad then?”