Enemy on the Edge of Town (Preview)

Chapter One

Jake Brandt sat silently sipping whisky in the Desert Rose Saloon when he saw Stack Donovan walk in. At least he thought it was Donovan. He hadn’t seen the man for almost three years. But Donovan had a distinctive look – six-two, with black hair and craggy features. His nose and mouth appeared to be carved from flint. His features could be almost frightening but usually Donovan was smiling a big, friendly smile that alleviated any fears from onlookers. He had a deep bass voice too and a bushy mustache on his lip. Brandt took another sip of his whisky and thought that if Brandt was in town, some other man with a price on his head must be in Jenkins Bend too. That was how the two of them met; they were now in the same profession – if gunslinging could be called a profession. 

Brandt sipped his whisky again. It was early afternoon so only a few men were in the saloon. The bartender cleaned glasses with a white towel. Three men stood at the bar. Brandt didn’t know two of them but the third was the gambler and bully Grayson Cole. From what Brandt had heard, Cole often dealt from the bottom of the deck. But, if challenged, he did have a fast draw to back up his crooked dealings. Few men wanted to challenge him. He was also known to have a vile temper. He wasn’t sipping his whiskys. He was drinking fast and furiously. Cole was two inches below Donovan in height. Oddly, it was Cole who had a scar on his cheek. Donavan, for all his experience in hunting men, had a face free of scars or bullet wounds. He must be lucky, Brandt thought, or very good. Cole also lacked Donovan’s smile and amiable manner. Cole usually frowned. He had a big nose over small lips, giving him an odd look. But due to his fast draw no cowboy commented on his peculiar facial arrangement.

At one table three cowpokes played what looked to be a friendly game of poker, with low stakes. That’s probably why Cole was not at the table. He wasn’t friendly and he didn’t like low stakes. Brandt hadn’t been in Jenkins Bend long but he knew most people in the town didn’t like the gambler. Brandt chuckled. He thought Cole might have ridden to greener pastures and more profitable poker games if it wasn’t for his fruitless pursuit of Emily Jackson, daughter of a rich rancher, perhaps the richest man in the county. More than a few town residents chuckled about that.

Donovan walked to the bar and ordered a drink. The bartender smiled, put a glass before him and filled it with whisky. Cole stood about five feet from Donovan and grumbled something about the Civil War as he raised his glass to his lips.

“Lee was praised as a gentleman and a great general. He was neither,” Cole said, seemingly talking to himself. “If he was a great general, how come he lost the war? He was nothing but southern trash. Should have been shot after the war as a traitor.”

Donovan had begun raising his glass to his lips. His hand halted for a moment. The gunman’s eyes flashed angrily. He raised the glass again, took a sip of the liquor, then lowered it to the bar. He turned toward Cole.

“I think you should rephrase that. I fought for the South. And I served under General Lee. He was a fine man,” Donovan said.

The words, Brandt thought, were not said in anger. The gunman didn’t raise his voice. But somehow the quiet tone had steel in it. The murmuring in the saloon halted. Cole stared at Donovan with hatred in his eyes. The next sentence Donovan said was in the same steel-gentle tone.

“General Lee is dead now, but you should still apologize to him.”

Cole sneered. “I’m not apologizi—”

His voice stopped as Donovan turned to face him. His hand eased down to his holster.  “There’s one reason I won’t kill you now, mister. I wouldn’t get paid for it. I try never to kill a man unless he has a price on his head. I guess if you did, the price would be two cents, and bullets cost more than that. If I shot you, I’d lose money. But apologize or I’ll take the loss.”

Brandt smiled and almost laughed. He nodded his head. “That sounds like Donovan.”

The gambler’s confidence fled from his face. He looked edgy and nervous. His hand shook slightly. But he tried to keep his voice steady.

“I’m a gambler. In any game I want to know the odds. I don’t know who you are, mister, so I don’t know the odds in this game. So it’s better not to play, now…but maybe later.”

“I’m still waiting for the apology,” Donovan said. “And, mister, I’m not a patient man.”

Cole clearly didn’t want to spit out the words, but he choked and swallowed his pride. He knew the stranger might be faster than he was, especially if he hunted men for a living. 

“Perhaps I was hasty in my judgment. For those who liked General Lee and come from the South, I apologize. One should not make political comments while drinking,” Cole said.

“Very good advice. In the future, take it.”

“I have to be leaving anyway. I bid all you gentleman goodbye, at least for now.”

He turned and walked out of the saloon, not looking back.  Donovan watched him as the man walked out, then saw Brandt out of the corner of his eye.

“Jake, is that you?”

Brandt lifted his glass in a salute. “Long time since I’ve seen you, Stack. Come join me.”

Donovan smiled, walked over and sat down at the table. He signaled the bartender. “Bring a bottle.”

“How’s the hunting?”

“It’s been fine. Captured a few of the bad guys without getting shot or even wounded. The bank account is growing.”

“That’s always good news,” Brandt said, as the bartender placed a bottle on the table.

“What are you doing here?” Donovan asked.

“Basically just passing through. Staying a few days to think about where I should go next and what I should do. I tried your profession a while back. Grabbed a bank robber worth seven hundred and fifty dollars. So I’m taking a brief vacation,” Brandt said.

Donovan grabbed the bottle and filled his glass again. He nodded. “Well, one good thing about bounty hunting is, at times, you get to set your own hours. When you’re ready to work, there are always posters in the local sheriff’s office. You grab one and off you go. My last bounty was a man accused of killing a deputy. He came high. There was a thousand dollars on his head.  Now eight hundred of that is in my bank account. I already spent the rest. I may just take a break myself.”

“I see you made the acquaintance one of the town’s nefarious citizens.”

Donovan jerked his thumb toward the bar. “You mean the bad gambler?”

“Yep, but how do you know he’s bad?”

“I like to gamble and I’ve been in my share of poker games. I don’t think he would have the patience or the good judgement to win at poker. By the way, what’s his name?”

“Grayson Cole.” Brandt chuckled. “He’s probably on the way out to see the one man who hates him more than you do.”

“I don’t hate him. He ain’t worth hating. You should step on him as you would a bug, but he ain’t worth hating.” He sipped his drink and laughed. “But who’s the guy who hates him?”

“Brig Jackson. Brig is short for Breckenridge. With a name like that you can guess he would have objected to the man’s slur on General Lee too. Brig has the biggest ranch in the area. He’s built it up for more than fifty years. His wife died several years ago but he does have a twenty-year-old daughter.  Cole is trying to get Mr. Jackson’s permission to court the young lady. Of course Brig, to his credit, hates the shifty gambler. Cole hasn’t a snowball’s chance in the nether regions of getting permission, but he keeps trying. Seems to be obsessed with the woman. She is a very nice lady and very good looking.”

“Then she must have many suitors.”

“She does. As I said, she’s a real nice lady and is in no hurry to make a choice.”

Donovan sipped some whisky. “No reason to. If you’re deciding on a husband, a lady wants to make the right choice. I imagine she’d want to take her time and make sure she chooses well….you say Mr. Jackson has a big ranch?”

“Very big. The biggest in the county, maybe the region. He’s a fine man.”

“Then he should be about to spot a low-down cheat like Cole. Should just shoot the gambler. Or take a horsewhip to him.”

Brandt laughed.  “If you’re sticking around try the White Plains Motel. It’s a good place for a few days. It’s pretty cheap, you can get a warm bath and, for an extra dollar, you can get meals and the place has a good cook.”

“Then I will have to try it. I am thinking of relaxing for a spell. Is there good hunting around here?”

“Yes, great hunting around here. Elk, moose, bear, cougar. We got a lot of mountains and hills here and the woods are crawling with them.  We have so many around the critters almost jump in front of your gun. Good fishing too.”

“Sounds like heaven for a hunter.”

“Close to it. You gotta keep off the farms and ranches but there’s still plenty of open land. In fact, if you shot some deer, the hotel might may pay you for the carcass and you can eat what you’ve shot.”

“That sounds good.”  Donovan sipped his drink again. “Who’s the sheriff here? Always like to know that about a town.”

“A man named Elmer Benton. Been sheriff ten years.”

“Any good?”

“Yes, he’s a good man and an honest man. He’s a good sheriff. He can’t be bribed, and he doesn’t scare. The town likes and respects him.”

“Good. I’ve seen one or two sheriffs who tried to get a cut of my earnings.”

“He’s not like that. He’ll treat you fair, although he doesn’t….er….”

“Like bounty hunters?”

“Let’s just say he doesn’t have fond feelings for the profession.”

“And a lot of sheriffs feel like that, although I don’t know why. We’re helping them out. We’re corralling the bad guys. They should appreciate us.”

“Perhaps they feel some aggravation because we are paid more than they are.” Brandt said.

Donovan smiled. “That could explain it. That killer I brought in got me a thousand dollars. Most sheriffs would have to work a long time for that kind of money.”

“Or steal a lot from bounty hunters.”

Donovan’s laughter bounced off the walls.

Chapter Two

Grayson Cole rode toward the Jackson ranch. He reached for his canteen and washed down the bitterness and anger he felt toward the stranger at the bar. He had rarely, if ever, been so humiliated. But while he could face down and outdraw cowpokes and storekeepers, he recognized the stranger as a professional – a man who made a living by his gun. Cole didn’t believe in drawing against three aces and he didn’t believe in going against professionals. He guessed the stranger was faster than he was. Since he was hoping to one day tie the knot with Emily Jackson, he didn’t want to risk his life in a useless gunfight. He took another swig of water.

Cole was an ambitious man and he hoped to soon make his dreams come true, although his dream was currently turning into a nightmare. He wanted to be married to Emily, which would put him in line to inherit the finest ranch in five counties. Brig Jackson was a rich man and was aging. He couldn’t live forever, and his bank account was worth a hundred poker games. And when Brig was planted securely in front of an ornate tombstone, his son-in-law would inherit both his money and the ranch. His plan was ambitious but Cole knew he could make it come to pass.

He hooked the canteen back on his saddle-horn and spurred his horse. True, he was experiencing some current difficulties, but he could overcome them. Emily seemed to be not impressed with him at all. In fact, she seemed to dislike him; a trait shared by many people who knew him. Plus, her father had flatly refused his request to court her. It was impossible to gain a young lady’s favor without her father’s permission. If he tried, Brig Jackson, who certainly knew how to use a gun, would put about six bullets in his hide and no local jury would convict him.

He scratched his lips with a finger. He told himself that many women had been attracted to him. He was suave and he could be a smoothtalker when needed. He was in good shape and he wondered why Emily was not taken with him. He wondered if she suspected he only cared about her money. He admitted she probably had a number of suitors with dollar marks in their eyes and had become wary of men seeking to court her, especially if they hadn’t grown up in the county. Perhaps she was suspicious of strangers.

For a gambler to attempt to win the hand of a local and very rich landowner was, at best, close to an impossible task, but Cole’s ego was as wide as Texas and he believed he could do it. He looked up when he rode under the huge “Bar J” sign. That meant the Jackson’s large ranch house was still about a mile away. He sighed. He didn’t like riding. He hated horses and didn’t like to be out in the wild. He liked to be inside, in a comfortable house with servants. That was his dream and he was getting desperate to make it come true. He doubted his chosen profession of cards would achieve it. He was a fair poker player.  He could win, or cheat, cowboys and weekend poker players. But his opponents were getting sophisticated. More than one had looked at him with a wary gaze and he knew the men suspected he was cheating. Times were getting rough for a second-rate player. Those who were more professional could eat him for lunch at the tables. And win his money too. He could win an occasional hand but more and more, winning hands were few and far between. But if he married Emily Jackson he wouldn’t have to worry about that. In fact, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything. He would be set for life. Sitting on a pot of gold called the Jackson ranch and holding the key to the Jackson bank account.

He smiled as the ranch house came in view. But first he had to get in the good graces of Brig Jackson…and that was not going to be easy. All of his smooth-talking words had just bounced off Brig Jackson’s tough hide.

Well, he would make one last try. If not successful…he would have to use other methods.

When he rode up to the house, he didn’t see either Jackson or his daughter Emily. Near the barn one cowhand was hitching two horses to a buckboard. He walked up the steps to the large house and politely knocked on the door. To his surprise, the door was opened immediately and he stood face to face with Brig Jackson. Jackson was a big man, with a broad chest and hefty arms. While he must be over sixty, Cole thought, the years hadn’t made him look weak. Even now, he wore a holster and pistol and he gave off the impression that he had used the gun often and wouldn’t mind pulling it again.

“Saw you ride up Cole. What do you want?” Jackson said, in a voice that sounded like grit and iron.

Cole quickly whipped his hat off. He tried to give his best smile. “Mr. Jackson, I came out to ask you if I may be allowed to come calling on your very lovely daughter. She is a exceptional woman and I—”

“You’re a gambler, Cole. You don’t have an honest job. I don’t consider gambling honest work. You take money from people.”

“Gambling is legal, sir. There are any number of men who make their living by playing cards.”

“And none of them is worth diddly-squat,” Jackson said.  “A man needs an honest and honorable job. There are good, fine men who built a ranch or a farm. They grow crops that provide food for people. That’s a fine profession. A man like that is creating something, building something that will last through the years. A gambler builds nothing, establishes nothing. You do not build or create. You don’t add anything to the land. You take away. You take the hard-earned money of men. You subtract from a city and from a civilization. People like you are parasites, Cole.  Gambling may be legal but it’s not virtuous. So, no, you do not have my permission to court my daughter. I won’t have scum like you coming to my door. So you are forbidden to ride out to this ranch again, and Emily is forbidden to see you; not that she would. She doesn’t like you, Cole, and that’s an indication of her good character. So now, if you would, get back on your horse and ride back to town. Leave now or I will have my men throw you off the property.”

Cole gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. His face became red with anger. But Jackson’s hand was near his pistol and Cole was too intelligent to challenge him, especially on Jackson’s ranch. If he tried anything violent, he’d be shot and dumped into the nearest ditch. 

“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Jackson. I have nothing but respect for you and your daughter.”

“That respect is not reciprocated. Now get off my land.”

Jackson slammed the door in Cole’s face. Cole snorted and cursed under his breath. He slammed his hat back on his head and walked back to his horse. He mounted and spurred the animal.

“You won’t get rid of me this easy,” he muttered. “I’ll make you pay for those insults. You thought you could wipe your feet on my back. I’ll get my revenge.”

He rode under the Circle J sign, still cursing.  He halted his horse and turned around, staring back at the ranch. His voice became low and guttural.

“I don’t work alone, Jackson. I’ve got a few friends who will help me pay you back and we’ll make a lot of money while doing it. You looked down your rich, landowner nose at me.  But I will have the last laugh. And it will be hearty one. I’ll be living on a big ranch when there is nothing but ashes around you.”

Jackson, after watching Cole ride away, walked out to the cowhand hitching up the buggy. Josh Handle tightened a cinch and nodded to him.

“Good morning, Mr. Jackson.”

“Morning. Josh, I want you to do something for me.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I want you to accompany Emily when she drives into town. She’s going to pick up some things and do a little shopping. I would like you to escort her around and keep your eye on her.”

Handle, a long and lean man with a sunburnt face, nodded and smiled.  “Sure will, Mr. Jackson. This have anything to do with that visitor I saw come up to your door?”

Jackson nodded. “You saw Cole, did you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve seen skunks before and you can smell them coming. I smelled that polecat a mile away.”

“He wanted to come court Emily. I told him that was out of the question. But something tells me Cole will have difficulty taking no for an answer. But the answer is no and will never be yes.”

“I understand, Mr. Jackson. I’ll go strap on my gun before I drive Miss Emily to town. You don’t have to worry.”

Jackson rubbed his chin. “I could send another rider too. Cole is about as slimy a snake as I’ve seen for a while. I’m guessing he’s a back shooter too.”

“You don’t have to worry, Mr. Jackson. I’ve handled varmints before.  If he tries anything, there’ll be one less polecat in the county. I’m a bit lean but I’m stronger than I look. And I shoot straight.”

Jackson nodded. Handle was a good man. A fact that comforted him. He took a deep breath. Perhaps his utter disdain for the gambler caused him to worry too much. Cole had made no threats and left when told to. But skunks were skunks. Tigers didn’t change their stripes and polecats didn’t run around without the white strip on their back and the smell around them. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought.

“Thank you, Josh,” he said, then walked back to his house. When he opened the door, he heard Emily humming and singing a few words to a song he didn’t know. It was a beautiful sound. She sang as well as the angels, he thought. Her singing always made him feel joyous. Even when there were polecats around.

Chapter Three

Burning Wolf, rifle in hand and red warpaint on his face, stood watching the farmhouse and barn, both encased in flames, and scowled. The farmer had been a much tougher fighter than he’d expected. He had pumped bullets in the band of Comancheros as they raided his farm. He was eventually killed, falling into the flames after five bullets had struck him. The Comancheros had killed his wife and three children and had shot him twice but the man refused to die. Even as he fell to the ground, he was firing his pistol and killed one last Comanchero, who fell beneath the hooves of his horse.  The dead man was one of the white members of his band, which is why he yelled as the horse’s legs crushed his ribs. A full-blooded Comanche would not do that. A warrior would die with dignity. The man’s death was not regretted. Burning Wolf wanted to lead warriors, not women. He respected the white settler, although the loss of four warriors and the woman wearing men’s pants bothered him. The man whose hands used a plough also knew how to use a rifle and pistol. He had died well. His house was his fiery tomb. But Burning Wolf had not expected to lose five men. He hadn’t expected to lose one man. It was a bit of bad luck. The man was in the house when the Comancheros swept down the valley and attacked, yelling and screaming their bloodthirsty warrior cry. Two of the children were in the field and were killed instantly with arrows to their chest and back. The third child, a young man, was in the barn. He had the courage of his father. He didn’t run away. He didn’t cringe in fear. He grabbed a rifle and fired at the galloping warriors. He had good aim, even although he was trying to shoot riders on galloping horses; not an easy shot even for skilled sharpshooters. The boy brought one down and wounded another before bullets plunged into his chest. Burning Wolf’s warriors grabbed the rifle before they scalped the dead child.

The wife had been digging in the garden when the attack came. She ran for the house but was cut down in a hail of bullets. Her husband had been inside the house. He ran out with a rifle and began shooting. Two of the braves fell and another groaned as the rifle cut through his side. He didn’t fall. He gritted his teeth and kept riding. When the man realized his wife was dead, he ran back into the house for cover but he carried two back wounds with him – two spots of blood in his side. But that didn’t deter him. He was full of range and anger. He struggled to a window and fired, bringing down another warrior.  Burning Wolf had signaled his band, telling the riders to back off. He didn’t want to lose any more men. His warriors shot arrows into the house and barn and soon fire and smoke spread through the buildings. Even though he’d ordered his warriors back, another fell before the farmer’s gun was silenced.

Five men dead, others wounded in a raid when he expected to have no casualties. That troubled Burning Wolf. If his next, much larger raid was successful, he could not lose many men or the white eyes would defeat his band. But the farmer, and his son, were brave men. He hadn’t expected that, and he did not like surprises.

As three of his men jumped from their horses, knives in hand, to mutilate the young man at the barn, he yelled for them to stop. They halted instantly.

“Let him be. He was a warrior,” Burning Wolf said.

The black smoke from the house blew across his face. The man’s body had been incinerated.  He pointed at the storage shed and told his men to take any supplies they found. Three horses had run from the burning burn and his men captured them. A band of marauders could always use horses and food. 

But as he looked over the burning buildings, Burning Wolf was not happy. He had to be more skillful, he told himself. Rolling Cloud would join him in two days with twenty more warriors, bringing his band to fifty men, enough for a major attack on his white eye enemies. But he had to be careful. He should have waited on this raid until the man had left the house. He should have attacked when the brave farmer was between the house and his field. Then, the man could not have found the rifle that killed several warriors.  And he should have made sure the courageous young man was out of the barn and also in the field. He should have attacked only when all members of the family were defenseless. He must accept the blame for the deaths of his four men. And the woman, who didn’t matter. He would be more careful next time. Next time, there would be no weaknesses in his battle plan. He would destroy the white eyes and only a few of his own men would die. And after the news of the victory spread across the land many more warriors would arrive to join him to win more victories. His name would be shouted over the plains and the mountains. He would be famous, and the white eyes would be driven back. 

It was time, he thought. After a string of victories, it was time for the white men to be defeated. One problem was that the whites had better weapons but his Comancheros now had the finest rifles. But the soldiers had the advantage in numbers. But Burning Wolf believed his victories would be so bloody that whites would withdraw from the land. At that time, no man or woman would dare trespass on Indian land. There was yet time to stop the advance of the whites. It was not too late, not yet. But he and his people had to strike quickly before time ran out.

He raised his rifle and yelled a victory cry. Then, with his murderous band riding behind him, he rode away.

Chapter Four

Sitting at a table behind the large window at the Desert Bloom Saloon, Cole saw his friend and fellow outlaw Will Hinton walk across the street. Hinton was an average built, average looking man whose main talent was that he was loyal to Cole and seemed to believe Cole was his key to success. Cole did nothing to dissuade Hinton from that opinion. Hilton pushed back the swinging doors, saw Cole and moved over to his table.

“Ordered a drink for you,” Cole said, pointing to the filled glass opposite him.

“Thank you,” said Hinton, easing down into the chair. “What’s up?”

Cole leaned over the table. “I want you to contact Buffalo and Dalton. I want four men on this job, men I can count on. This will be the biggest haul we’ve ever seen.  You know where they are?”

Hinton nodded. “I can find them. It may take two or three days. But I can track them down.”

“Good, get them here as soon as possible. Tell them we can make at least five thousand apiece on this job. And it shouldn’t be risky. But it’s not a quick bank job or stagecoach robbery. Itwill  take a couple of days to complete but it will be worth it.”

“What are you planning?”

“I don’t want to give the details yet but it may involve a kidnapping. There’s a little rich girl around here and I’m sure her daddy would give everything has to get her back. And that’s gonna be close to her price.”

Hinton frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Kidnapping? That’s a bad business, boss. A lot of guys don’t like kidnapping.”

Cole sniffed, as if a bad smell had floated into the saloon. “What? You think Buffalo and Dalton are going to get choosy? With this kind of money at stake?”

“They might. I mean hitting a bank is fine and robbing a train is fine. But more than one outlaw halts the train at kidnapping, especially if it’s a child or young woman. I mean…well, boss, I don’t exactly know how to put it into words but it’s looked down on. Most robbers won’t hit a bank if there’s women and children around.  They wait until they leave. I mean kidnapping is akin to killing children. It just ain’t done. I…I don’t know how those two feel about it but that makes some uneasy. It’s not something Johnny Winters would do.”

Johnny Winters was a smiling bandit who, before being arrested and sent to prison, had established a reputation as the “Gentleman Bandit.”  The red-headed Winters and his gang would hit banks, trains or stagecoaches but Winters would not wear a mask, and he would tell those being robbed not to worry and that his gang didn’t plan on shooting anyone. Once when robbing a train he walked down the aisle saying good morning and promised no one would get killed, not even wounded. So they should stay calm and the bandits would be out of their hair in a few minutes. It was said by those he stole from that he had a friendly, vivacious personality and seemed like a real nice guy. He was finally captured and, as he was leaving the courthouse, many people crowded in to shake his hand and wish him well.  A dime novelist from the East heard the story and interviewed Winters in prison. The outlaw spun an amazing tale and the writer penned a novel with Winters the main character. When it sold well, the writer wrote another one and generously granted the inmate royalties from the books. A few months later, the gentleman bandit was heard to say he was making more money from the pen than he ever did from a gun…and that it was legal.

“Being an outlaw was almost respectable when Johnny did it,” Hinton said.

“Winters is in prison and that’s one place I don’t plan to be and I don’t plan on being respectable,” Cole growled.  He paused for a minute. “OK, I do understand your concern. Tell the boys we won’t hurt anyone. We’ll just hold the girl briefly until her father, who is the richest guy around here, hands over the money. We won’t put a scratch on her. All we want is the money. Tell them after her father pays the ransom we can each ride off with five thousand shiny new dollars and five thousand goes a long way in the West. They will have plenty of money to do whatever they want for just a few days work. Besides, I’m gonna house the woman with my sister. She’ll go along with me, not because she likes me but because she knows better than to object. Our pretty little girl will stay with my sister, and they can girl-talk. We’ll be outside, just to make sure no one takes her without paying the ransom. Good enough?’

Hinton nodded. “That should be fine.”

Cole shook his head in frustration. Men like Winters gave outlawing gave a bad name. Who knew outlaws had etiquette rules? But he had been in the West enough to know many outlaws did. Women and children were often off limits to them. He understood the queasiness some outlaws might show but he didn’t agree with it.

“OK, round them up. I’m staying in the motel. Room seventeen. Let me know when you have them ready,” Cole said.

Hinton nodded, drained his glass and walked out. 

Cole was shaking his head again when he saw Emily Jackson through the window. She had just walked out of a dress shop. If she could see reason, he might not have to use his plan, Cole thought. There was an element of danger in it. If caught, a posse might not wait for a trial for a man who kidnapped a woman. He’d be strung up in the nearest tree. Perhaps he should try one more time to convince Emily of his affections.

Brandt stopped and lit a cigarette. As he did, he noticed Cole walked across the street. He was walking steadily, as if he had a destination in mind. Brandt turned his head and saw Emily Jackson saying hello to another lady. He had seen Emily only twice before, both times when she came to town to pick up things for the ranch. Emily was so lovely that even if you only saw her once, you remembered her. He noticed Cole ease onto the sidewalk in back of her.

“Momma told me always try to do a good deed every day,” Brandt said. “Think I’ll mosey over. Maybe there’s a good deed to be done.”

When Emily had finished talking to her friend, she turned around and almost walked into Cole, who stood before her. She hastily backed away. Cole took off his hat.

“Sorry to surprise you, Miss Jackson,” he said.

“Mr.….Mr. Cole. Good morning.”  Emily didn’t like the gambler and started to walk around him. He barred her way.

“Pardon me if this sound presumptuous but there is going to be a town social in a few days, and I would like to invite you to attend with me. I’ve admired you from afar for some time now.”

Emily took another half-step back. She had done nothing to encourage this man.  She didn’t like him and also thought Cole was too old for her.

“I should think you for the polite invitation Mr. Cole but I must decline. My father doesn’t like gamblers and, I must admit, neither do I. Besides, I must seek my father’s approval before accepting any invitations from men and he has not given it in regard to you.”

“Then may I inquire who you are going with?”

“No, you may not. If I go, that is my own business.” 

Cole thought Emily was a lovely woman but he had also assumed she was a woman who was weak and could be easily persuaded in any number of matters. But her blue eyes flashed with strength as he talked to her.  “Mr. Cole, I would never attend any type of event with you. You are a fancy dresser, and a smooth talker, but there is more than an ounce of cruelty in you. Perhaps not everyone can see it but I can. A cruelty that I could not live with. No woman should have to live with it. Now, good day, sir.”

Cole angrily grabbed her arm. “I’m tired of you fancy folks looking down your noses at me. Your father and you think  you can sneer at me. I—”

“Mr. Cole, you’re hurting me.”

“I’ll do—”

The cold voice, like a freezing Arctic wind, came from behind him. 

“Let her go! Now!”

Cole whirled around, releasing Emily. “Who are you?”

“Jake Brandt.”  Brandt walked toward Emily and gently touched her arm. “I’m sure you’d like to be getting on with  your business, ma’am. This so-called gentleman won’t bother you anymore.” 

Josh Handle ran up, his hand on his gun. “Sorry, it took longer than I thought to find a place for the buggy, Miss Emily.” He cast a cold stare at Cole.  Cole looked at the two men and backed away. He turned and headed down the street.

“Thank you for your help,” Emily said, offering her hand to Brandt. “May I ask your name?”

“Jake Brandt, ma’am,” he said offering his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Brandt. I’m Emily Jackson.”

“Call me Jake, ma’am. I still think Mr. Brandt is my father.”

She nodded. “I will do that, Jake. Please, call me Emily.”

“Emily, it is.” He looked down the street but Cole had disappeared. “What was that piece of riff-raff bothering you about?”

“He asked to take me to the upcoming church social. I told him no.”

“A very wise decision. But I imagine a whole lot of men have asked you.”

Emily gave a sly smile. “Not really…actually, I’ve been holding out for a man who can deal with the riff-raff.”

“I will gladly offer my services, ma’am. During my career I have worn a badge; a deputy’s badge, not a sheriff’s. But at times I’ve had to deal with riff-raff.So I am at your service.”

“I gladly accept. You are very gracious, Jake.”

“Well, my mama taught me to always be kind to ladies. And try to do a good deed every day. I always tried to follow that advice.”

“Your mama must have been a fine woman,” Emily said.

“Yes, she was, ma’am.”

“Jake, my father has a ranch a few miles from town. Why don’t you come out this afternoon and have a glass of tea with me? We should get to know one another a bit better before the church social.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, ma’am,” Brandt said. 

“Would three o’clock suit you?”

“It would suit me fine.”

“Then I will see you then. Now I must continue my shopping. So very glad to have met you, Jake.”

“It was my pleasure, Emily.”

He watched as she walked down the sidewalk, escorted by Handler. Beautiful woman, he thought. And a strong lady too. Women have to be tough in the West. At times it’s not an easy life.  She’s not loud but there is a strength in Miss Emily, he thought.

As he turned to cross the street he almost bumped into a tall, broadshouldered man who wore a silver badge on his chest. He eased back.

“Pardon me for listening to the conversation. Your name is Jake Brandt?”

Brandt nodded. “Yes.” He had expected a booming, deep voice from a man so big. But the voice was distinctive; it didn’t blast him off his feet.

“I’m Elmer Benton. I’m the sheriff here. I like the way you handled that polecat Cole. And I overheard that you have worn a badge.”

“Yes. But, in all honesty, the pay was a bit low. I’ve also hunted men from time to time, outlaws and killers.”

“Bounty hunting pays more than sheriffing, I have to admit that. But I need another man in the office. Are you looking for a job?  The pay, as you say, is not great. But Brig Jackson, Emily’s father, when you go out to tea, would look more fondly on a deputy than a stranger who doesn’t have a job.”

Brandt had to smile. “Well,  guess that’s one of the advantages of being a deputy.”

“In this town, yes. But I’m serious about needing someone. You’re an ex-lawman and, as I said, I liked the way you handled Cole. Want to come down to the office and discuss the job?”

Brandt hooked his fingers into his belt. “Well, mama always taught us not to be lazy.” He shook his head. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, she would say.  So maybe I shouldn’t be sitting around doing nothing. Just might get into trouble.” He also thought what the sheriff had said about Emily and her father and having a job as deputy made a lot of sense. “So why don’t we mosey down to your office, sheriff?”

At the office, Sheriff Benton sat behind his desk and gestured to a chair in front of the desk. Brandt sat in it. The sheriff pulled a badge out and held it up.

“Before you put this on, I should tell you one of the reasons that I want another deputy.”

“Need someone to talk to?” Brandt said.

“Nope, that’s not it. I’m not a big conversationalist. Fort Malone is about thirty miles from here. The army has heard rumors of a renegade Comanche band in this area. About twenty miles from here, two days ago,  a farm was attacked and burned and the family who lived there killed. A man, his wife and children were slaughtered. I’ve got one deputy, Dean Franklin, and if you put on this badge, all three of us may be doing some scouting. If the Comancheros are around, we need to find them, notify the army and put the town on alert. But hunting Comancheros can be a dangerous job.” Mason held up the badge again. “You still want the job?”

“I’m a pretty good tracker. If Indians and half-breed whites are around burning farms and killing people, I should be able to find them.” He shook his head. “That’s a real problem, sheriff. Comancheros are even worse than Indians. In a Comanchero band, you have the worst of both races, and they will kill anything that moves.”

Mason nodded. “I just wanted to let you know what you might in for. Now there’s a chance they’ve headed the other way. Maybe they’re riding to Mexico. Or up north to Wyoming or Montana. But we can’t count on that. They could be staying around here too.”

“By the way, what’s the pay for a deputy?”

“Fifty a month.”

Brandt smiled. “Frankly, that’s more than I expected. Taxpayers must be generous around here.”

“They are but they expect good work for their money.”

“And I will give it to them. Sign me up, sheriff.”

---

“Enemy on the Edge of Town” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Jake Brandt, a young gunslinger and former bounty hunter, travels to Jenkins Bend seeking his fortune, or at least his next job. Little does he know that the sleepy little town will soon be a firestorm and he will be caught right in the middle. With Indians lurking around and thirsty for blood, he knows that he needs to stop them from attacking the village. Is his fearlessness enough to help him in this risky mission?

Jake’s life becomes more exciting when he meets Emily, daughter of one of the wealthiest ranchers in the area, and he is instantly attracted to her. Even though he longs to get to know her better, his priority now is to trace the Indians, find out their plan and protect Jenkins Bend. His mission becomes even harder when a greedy shadowy figure’s betrayal will change the course of events. Are Brandt and the townsmen truly prepared for the approaching threat?

With a traitor among them and with time running fast, the stakes become too high. Will they manage to defend Jenkins Bend and triumph over the enemy before it’s too late?

A gripping, action-packed story, featuring authentic and captivating characters, vivid descriptions, and suspense, that will leave readers breathless. A must-read for fans of Western adventures with a touch of romance.

“Enemy on the Edge of Town” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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