Manhunt in the Wild Mountains (Preview)

Chapter One

Animas Forks, Colorado 1876

It was like following emaciated twin snakes up the mountainside, rusty iron tracks twisting back and forth like metal sidewinders. The gravel path alongside the rails sometimes crossed the worn, mealy wooden beams used to mount the train tracks. The whole mountainside was scarred from where miners had stripped away granite over the years, searching for gold deposits in quartz.

At Mastodon Gulch’s base, Paul Coleman had made up his mind to take the donkey trail through the hills to the divot in the mountaintop. Animas Forks waited for him. The town had sprung up around the hard-rock mining.

Paul heard the distant dynamite explosions echoing through the high walls of evergreens surrounding the valley. With the heavy winter snows behind the townsite for a few months, the miners had gotten back to work, stripping and blasting away shelves of quartz, hoping to bleed the gold seam of all its life. Miners and mills left deserted ribbons of shelves, cutting earth away to expose the ground’s bleeding underbelly. Higher into the mountains, the open-air mining made the area look raw and lifeless, spreading away from the switchback rail line as mining operations had crept up the hillside over the decades.

“Where you headed?” the old man asked. He walked the donkey instead of riding it.

Lone horseback riders sometimes wandered the gravel paths near the train tracks. Most of them headed off the mountain. Paul went up. He wasn’t looking for company or conversation but he’d ended up with both.

Paul thought it was evident by the direction. The donkey and his horse had managed to comingle the higher they climbed, and as the grade steepened, he had to dismount. It wasn’t that his horse had trouble taking his weight; Paul felt dizzy from the height and found himself leaning forward in the saddle.

“I’m headed to Animas Forks,” he said. It was a foregone conclusion — Paul knew there was nothing else on top of the mountain but the town and Gold Prince Mill. No one followed the railroad tracks up the steep hillside unless they wanted to get to the mining community.

The older man nodded. His bristly white beard covered most of his face, including the wild hairs that had sprouted up on his high cheekbones. Under a torn hat, the man’s thick and tangled white mane sprung around his shoulders, draped like a fleece scarf that didn’t cover the front of his neck.

“I’m Horace O’Neill, people call me Lou,” he said, poking a hand out for Paul to grasp. Paul didn’t want to work out how Horace turned into Lou. The man had a grip like a devil reaching up from hell, and the handshake made Paul flinch. “This is Viola. She goes everywhere with me.”

The donkey’s ears flipped at the gnats that buzzed around her muzzle. Upon hearing her name, she glanced at Paul and Lou.

“Paul,” he offered. Last names served no relevant purpose in his business talking to civilians. He didn’t have a fancy title or some territory nickname. Sometimes, when Paul stumbled into certain situations where other professionals treaded, they recognized his surname. It was easier to keep it off the table — or out of the wide open, striding up the mountainside.

“You got business in town?” Lou asked.

So far, the two questions had put Paul into a mindset that the old man wasn’t looking for any substantive discussion, only fluid conversation to pass the time. Paul had a lot of time on his hands. If Lou escorted him to town, they still had a few thousand feet up and several miles left to go.

“I got a few things to take care of,” he said vaguely without sounding bitter.

“Ain’t nothing up in the old Forks except gold dust and broken dreams,” Lou said. “I’ve been living around here since before the war. I get into town about once or twice a season. It’s good to gauge how the mill’s working. It gives me a sense of what’s left to rob from the mountain.”

Certain words piqued Paul’s interest when it came to his line of work. He took the time to listen. Lou was articulate and a little cunning. His haggard appearance probably had people thinking he was a wayward prospector. Paul surmised there was more to the older man than dirty clothes and a frayed hat.

“You mean, the gold mine?” Paul asked.

“Yup,” he said.

He hadn’t heard the term ‘mill’ applied to gold mining before. But Paul didn’t know a lot about gold or mining.

“Gold Prince Mine’s the last one up here. I get the runoff from their digging and hauling. Their sluice misses a lot out of the gate. Once the waste quartz gets away from the run, they don’t care about it.” Lou gestured to the scenery with its contoured terrace steps wider than a mile and more than thirty hands high in spots. “After winter, the river below gets a good layer of dusting from the hauls. I get enough to get by on that.”

They were too high up in the mountains for trees. The windswept, heavily slanted ground didn’t afford enough firm earth for tree growth.

Paul smiled at the man’s willingness to share a secret that earned rewards if someone put in the effort. “You’re confident about disclosing that tidbit.”

“Well, you’re not a miner, and you’re not a prospector. I figure you’re not inclined to give away trade secrets.” Lou shrugged. “What’s the harm?”

“How do you know I’m not a miner?” Paul asked. Insight from observant people was a great way to get tips about his character, especially when he wanted to blend with the locals. Once people found out about his livelihood, they went one of two ways about it — either they thought he was a fool or a hero. There was no in-between.

Paul wasn’t a hero. And sometimes, he did foolhardy things to accomplish the job.

“It’s in your clothes and your horse,”

“My horse?” Paul repeated. “What if I had a jackass?”

“I would take a different path than you.” Lou paused, wheezing a little from the climb. Viola waited until Lou moved forward again before she continued meandering alongside him. Lou lifted his head as if hearing something. “We need to stand clear of the tracks.”

“What do you mean?”

Lou didn’t answer with words. He pointed to the railroad ties embedded in the terrain. Paul glanced, and after a moment, he looked again, staring at the ground. Pebbles and gravel on the rusty rails jumped around. It wasn’t something he understood until the distant train whistle screeched.

Immediately, Paul led the horse off the path and away from the tracks.

“You don’t want to get too close to those railroad cars coming off the mountainside. They pick up speed, and the wrong engineer will think the momentum will help him make good time, but even empty box cars can get away from them.”

Lou kept making his way up the steep hillside, staying clear of the wide arcing switchback trails that wound through the earth. “I saw ore cars jump the tracks back in ’69. Killed the fireman and engineer; the train raged off the tracks and dug deep into the ground. It hauled six cars that rolled end over end to the riverbed. It was a hell of a sight.”

Paul felt a spark of fear as the whistle announced the train before they saw it emerge from around a precipitous bend in the tracks. Steam funneled out of the wide-mouthed stack and enveloped around the steel monster. It took its time coming down.

“It’s in reverse,” Paul said, noticing the railcars came before the engine appeared.

The brakeman stood at the helm of the boxcar with gloves on the braking wheel, leading the way like a boatman steering the course for a landlocked vessel. Gravity pulled the train off the mountain, and inertia kept it going, while the tracks kept the massive thing from picking up too much speed. The engineer had the steam engine pushing against the weight of the cars and gravity. The tender car and locomotive were the last on the line.

Driving wheels and pistons worked against the weight of the haul, chugging and spinning in reverse, keeping the cars slow as they descended into the valley below. It was a wondrous sight, and a dangerous profession. Paul knew enough about Animas Forks to understand people didn’t take the train to town. The railway belonged to the mining company.

The boxcars carried supplies to the mining town, not passengers. It was a compact steam engine, tender, and two boxcars. It had no room for turning around at the top of the mountain. The engineer had to run the load in reverse back down the switchback rails.

It didn’t look right to Paul. He’d only ever seen a train going forward, reverse seemed unnatural.

“That is a sight,” he said.

“Imagine that monstrosity rolling downhill like giant iron logs.”

It wasn’t hard to picture it, and it gave Paul a shudder. They still had a few miles to go before they would reach the town. The steam roiled over the grasslands, snaking after the iron beast sliding downhill along the tracks.

“You haven’t been here before,” Lou said. He veered Viola back toward the trail and continued uphill.

“Nope, the first time. I know the place, but not too many people up here.” Paul took Lou’s experience into account and hoped he had advice that didn’t cost him anything. Sometimes, dialogue about people and places came at a price.

“Well, that’s Cinnamon Mountain, there,” Lou said, pointing to the green and gray peak that poked through the clouds to their southwest. “That’s Houghton Mountain over there.” The ragged peaks to the northwest still had winter termination dust coating the tops. “There are two ways into the Forks, and sometimes only one way out.”

It took Paul a while before the intrigue of Lou’s statement finally made him ask, “What do you mean, one way out?”

Lou chuckled like it was a joke as old as the path under their boots.

“The town’s drying up. Mining going cold around here,” Lou said. “They took all she’s got to give.”

Paul assumed she was an endearing term Lou used for either the mountain or the townsite.

“I give it another year, maybe less.”

“What happens when the mine closes down?” Paul asked.

“The town goes with it. People are leaving every summer now. They’re about four hundred people left in the Forks. It’s a little place, out of the way, if you like that sort of thing.”

Tall wooden-framed structures came into view. They dotted the countryside, following a single-file length down another part of the mountain. At the peak was a large building, where the train tracks led.

“That’s Prince Mine,” Lou said.

“What are those columns?” Paul asked. “Are they lookout towers?”

“That’s the aerial tramway that leads down to the conflux of Animas River and Cinnamon Creek.” Lou paid more attention to Viola and the dirt in front of him than the spindly structures jutting up from the ground in the distance. “Train’s one way to get the ore off the mountain, but the tramway takes most of the gold.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Paul said, taking in the suspended cables hung between the sturdy wooden frames.

Paul had spent the better half of his twenty-five years in larger communities and seaside towns. When he’d decided on his current employment, it had taken him away from the west coast and deep into the wilds of untamed territories. His journey had led him to some fascinating places. He’d met some interesting characters, seen impressive natural wonders. But the sight of what looked like open-topped rail cars suspended several hundred feet above ground made him a little dizzy. It was engineering beyond anything Paul had encountered before that day.

Wood and steel towers spanned across the steep hillside, in varying heights depending on the height of the ground. Lengths of thick cables stretched between the towers, the suspended steel buckets large enough for moderate loads of quartz. Paul had no intention of getting too close to the aerial tramway towers. He didn’t want to venture underneath the lines.

“It’s easier letting gravity take the ore off the mountain than man or animal. The mine went through a lot of horses hauling ore when they started. The train carries supplies up, but the tramway takes the gold down.”

Paul shook his head at the idea. It seemed like a fantastic feat of engineering and transportation.

“People don’t ride in those cars, do they?” he asked.

Lou laughed. “Ain’t no one stupid enough to try it, as far as I know. The mine lost a tram station a few years back. When the cable snapped, it cleaved a man in two. That was a hell of a sight.”

Paul didn’t want to drum up images of boxcars loaded with ore falling from steel cables down a mountainside. He took Lou’s lead by looking at the ground ahead of them. The horse and Viola had the right idea; it was easier to stare elsewhere, swish away gnats, and not think about the monstrosities of mankind.

“How long are you staying in the Forks?” Lou asked.

“I haven’t decided yet. I heard there’s a hotel.”

“It ain’t much more than a box with some rooms to let,” Lou warned.

“You stay there?”

“Nope, me and Viola have a tent. That’s been good enough for her and me.”

Lou regarded Paul for a long while. The older man watched Paul’s profile, but he didn’t say anything. Paul glanced his way a few times and decided to keep staring at the ground as they inched their way to the summit.

“You seem like you got a good head on your shoulders,” he said, finally.

“I’d like to think I do,” Paul replied.

“Maybe I can share some advice with you. It won’t cost you nothing, and you can leave it here in the dirt if it ain’t worth anything to you.”

Paul glanced at Lou. The old man chewed on something hidden inside his beard, the color of Houghton Mountaintop. Maybe he needed to mull over the words before he gave them away to Paul.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Well, you got business at the Forks. I can appreciate any man willing to climb a mountain to take care of proper business. Ain’t no telegraph lines up here. People keep to themselves, mostly. One thing Animas Forks don’t have is a lot of outside trouble.”

“That’s good,” Paul said. “I ain’t looking for any trouble.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes you’ll step in horse shit when you don’t expect it. It’s there, even when you’re not looking.”

“The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself by doing something unsavory,” Paul said.

“That there is wise words from a man on a mission.” Lou laughed and spat, as if crumbs of his advice clung to his lip. “But if you take away anything I give you, mister, you steer clear of stirring up trouble.”

“I appreciate the advice. Maybe I can buy you a beer when we get to town.”

“I ain’t interested in venturing into a saloon, Paul. That gets more attention than I need. I got a feeling about you. I sees that civilian-sized .45 on your hip. It’s got a varnished grip and blue steel. You’re not looking for claims; you’re looking for someone — not something.”

Lou’s mention of the sidearm made Paul blanch. He had to stop himself from touching the pistol on his hip. Lou had a hammer attached to the ring on his belt and a repeater rifle in the pack on Viola’s back. He was small and spry and had probably buried a few claim jumpers that came his way. But he had a sense about him that few people possessed. Paul envied the man’s intuitiveness.

“I am looking for someone,” Paul said.

Admitting truth meant trusting him. But it was clear Lou hadn’t spent his life alone by making mistakes. It took fortitude and bravery to prospect. Some prospectors started as surveyors or scouts. They started young, thinking they had a well-to-do life ahead of them — they’d strike it big and go home wealthy. But most men digging in the dirt for riches never got that old. If the ground didn’t swallow them up because they didn’t shore up mineshafts, someone younger and stupid sometimes came along with a bullet.

The older man had the right idea to steer clear of taverns. Alcohol had a way of making people think they were fearless and clever. Mostly, it just made them thick and slow-witted. Their actions led them into more trouble than they anticipated. By the time they sobered up, the blood had stained their hands.

“I don’t want trouble,” Paul said. “Once I get what I came for, I’ll leave, and I don’t expect to come back. It’s too high up for my tastes.”

“Surveyor once told me that the Forks sits two miles above the sea and twelve miles southwest of Silverton.”

“That seems pretty high up in the air,” Paul remarked. He glanced over his shoulder to the expansive view of the flood plains below the mountains.

“You can feel it in your lungs. Too many horses died hauling freight up the hillside before someone figured out it was the air more than fatigue that got to them. Their lungs give up before their hearts stop beating.”

Paul waited for several paces before he spoke again. “Can I ask you something?”

“It might cost more than my advice to you,” Lou said and followed it with a friendly chuckle.

“What did you do before you prospected?”

“What makes you think I’m a prospector?”

Paul looked at Lou sideways, considering his companion. Lou had all the earmarks and battle scars of a miner. Sometimes, the clothes made the man. Sometimes, the man inside the clothes only wore them for warmth and didn’t much care about his attire. If Lou grinned at Paul, it was hidden under the bristles on his face.

“I was a merchant marine once,” Lou explained. “I used to swim out in the Atlantic to put holes in Confederate boats. I went headlong into the water when the call came for people to do their duty. Before the war, I was a civilian worker at United States Naval Academy in Annapolis. Do you know what that is?” he asked.

“I can guess it has something to do with water and the war,” Paul said, impressed.

“You’re right on both counts. I never had much before that damned war tore apart the country, and I had even less afterward. I didn’t want to go back to Maryland. I took the train out of Virginia and never went back.”

Most prominent military men continued down the path of privilege and luxury following the war, as far as Paul knew. Volunteers earned chevrons and more respect. Many of them went into the business of restoration and made more money than anyone expected following the bitter years.

“The war’s over,” Lou said, “but it will take generations to change people’s minds about the fighting. They’ll still talk about the War Between the States a hundred years from now. They’ll still take sides. They’ll still be fighting it in some form or another.”

Paul and Lou climbed over a cut plateau that once sloped but now stepped. Miners had left the area ragged and barren in the wake of their search for precious metals. Paul climbed the rocks with ease, leading his horse. It took more time for both Viola and Lou. He offered a hand up to Lou and the old man took it, the grip as firm as a bear trap.

“Don’t stay too long around here,” Lou cautioned. “You seem like a young man with a purpose. But you don’t want to lose sight of the location.” He paused.

They had only a few miles left. Some of the buildings showed like square smudges on the hillside. Paul smelled campfire. There was a hint of gunpowder in the air from the dynamite explosion they’d heard earlier.

“Look around,” Lou said. “This is a tactical location. If it weren’t for the gold, it’d belong to the wolves and mule deer. Men are fiercely protective of their property up here. It ain’t the location you need to worry about, it’s the people. If you’re looking for someone and not something, you’ll want to tread lightly. Chances are if you find whoever you’re looking for, they’ll probably have friends up here.”

“I don’t think I could afford that kind of advice, Lou. I appreciate you giving it away,” Paul said wisely.

“Well, I’ve been wrong about people before,” he said. If Lou had more to say, he let it drift away on the springtime breeze that blew through the area. Lou paused again, watching Paul. “Good luck to you, son,” he said. “Me and Viola are going to make camp here.”

Paul offered his hand and regretted it when Lou shook it. The old man’s grip was like a rock clamped around his hand. “I might see you around?” he asked.

“You might.”

Chapter Two

The layout consisted of broken granular paths dotted with sporadic buildings. Animas Forks didn’t have many carriages or coaches. Mostly, Paul saw horses and wagons for manual labor. The place wasn’t on any stagecoach stop Paul had read about before coming to the town on the top of the mountain.

He counted about thirty cabins, ranging from small huts to family-sized dwellings. There was a hotel, a general store, saloon, and the post office, which occupied the same structure as the marshal’s office. It likely kept security needs at a minimum — wages for the mining town came in once a month from the bank in Pueblo, Colorado. Likely, it was one of the few supplies brought up by the backward train.

The building edifices didn’t include the additional false fronts seen in more accessible locations. The vertical façades to hide the gable roofing weren’t as important here, where most of the structures were rectangular or box-shaped with standard roofing. They were basic clapboard, bare-faced; raw wood grain came cheaper than painting the buildings. Wood was a lot easier to haul up the mountain than brick or stone. Quartz wasn’t the kind of building material anyone wanted to spend time developing only to make shelters.

Paul didn’t see a central avenue or main street like he’d found at  most small towns he had visited. Buildings peppered the brown-green patchy earth along the high-altitude riverbank. Foot bridges and wagon trusses stretched over the high water in various places along the shore. Some buildings stood alone facing different directions than the neighbor’s place. It was organized chaos.

This was an economy-driven town. If Lou’s prediction came true, in few more years, the miners would vacate the area, leaving a shell of the town in their wake for the elements to consume.

The highest point in town was the tip of the mountain, where the mining camp had reinforced structures with double-layered floors. Ore carts on rails carried quartz from the open mine that had sheared off the mountaintop over time, carving away the landscape and leaving the manmade structures in its place.   

The person Paul sought had mining in his blood, even if the man didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. Miners were a special breed of people who coughed throughout the night when they laid down, choking on the dust they breathed all day. They never went far from their claims or cabins. They stooped when they walked, even outdoors, bent over because of low-ceilinged mineshafts where they spent most of their waking hours.

Miners mostly bore younger miners. It was a family business insofar that boys looked to their fathers’ professions when it came to their own futures. That part of mimicking wasn’t exclusive to mining, but Paul was an exception to that rule. So was the person who he had tracked back to the mountaintop mining town.

Paul did his job because it was a calling — following in the footsteps of his father wasn’t something he wanted to do. He admired his father, but taking up the man’s profession, though necessary, limited Paul. His father didn’t seem to mind sitting all day in one place. Paul wanted to see more of the world.

With the war over, there was a need for honest men in the dishonest and untamed territories. He went west, following the settlers pillaged by lawbreakers. When Paul had begun searching for his latest quarry, the trail led him to the mountaintop village. Somewhere in that town was a man who had killed someone. It was up to Paul to make it right again.

Mining was a tradecraft for men who weren’t afraid of backbreaking labor. Chinese immigrants, organized and meticulous, had built the entire railroad systems in the territory . They worked for little to no wages, but were provided places to live, and sometimes food waiting at the end of the day. Miners were undervalued, just like the Chinese.

Paul knew to find the one he needed would take some glad-handing and subterfuge. People saw a young man looking for a place in the world. No one thought twice about Paul’s profession — not that he gave it away. Until he made his move, it was easier to keep people guessing than give away too much too soon.

“Is there a stable to rent space here?” Paul asked once he had tied off the horse and made his way into the Broken Arms Hotel. It was a name that he’d likely never forget. Paul hoped the tongue-in-cheek humor painted on the flat board over the doorway was the kind of attitude he’d find throughout the town.

“There’s the miner corral up the hill,” the woman said. She had a pale complexion and tired gray eyes. Her face had weathered in a manner that suggested she spent more time inside than outside and her hands were thin, with the same pallor as her countenance. When she squinted, the woman’s eyes disappeared in her high cheekbones. “But your horse will end up tied to an ore cart if you leave it in there.”

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Paul said. He leaned against the high counter at the front desk. The woman seemed pleasant, and she gave him a pleasing smile, suggesting she appreciated his warm charm. “I’m not planning to stay long. I might need a room for a few nights. But I’d like to keep my horse somewhere closer than the mine, and preferably accessible.”

She gave him another quizzical look that made her eyes disappear behind the pale, fleshy mounds. “I can get Pa to board your horse if you want. I don’t know what he’d charge.”

“I’ll pay,” Paul said quickly.

She grinned and nodded. “We’ll get your room. After a while, I’ll talk to Pa about your horse.”

“Fair enough,” Paul said.

The room came with a view of the tramway and mining buildings. He saw the distant bodies milling around the ore carts, loading the empties that came back up the mountainside. It was a unique sight that still gave Paul some hesitation; the heights of the wooden towers were the highest points in town.

The bathhouse was separate from the inn and cost extra. Paul paid for the added luxury. Nearby, he noticed the small migrant huts of the Chinese workers who occupied the area but kept to themselves. Paul had had enough experience with the newcomers to acknowledge them from a distance. They stayed out of the way, and settlers weren’t kindly to anyone who didn’t look or dress like them.

Paul grew up in San Francisco where the established Chinese immigrant population gave them property and leverage. They pooled their money and resources, building a smaller municipality of their own within the city limits. The further east they traveled from the Pacific coastline, the harsher the environment and the people.

His parents had had Chinese housekeepers, two women who’d worked tirelessly to pamper Paul and educate him in his early years before school had started. Paul had absorbed some of their culture and customs. He’d never learned their language because the women were fiercely protective of their native tongue. They could speak English. They knew how to read. Paul suspected, as he got older, the Chinese saw the assimilation of the Indians as a cautionary tale that could one day happen to them.

They were friendly, but not familiar. Paul knew right where to go when he wanted answers — saloon patrons always had tales to tell in exchange for beer. But the migrant workers from China weren’t interested in American alcohol. Their information was more reliable, however, if he could get one to look his way.

All that business could wait until after a long, hot bath. The metal tub sat on layers of wood planks and shims to keep it level on the uneven ground. Paul had the bathhouse all to himself. It was big enough for the extra-large water trough, a potbelly stove, and the coal heater under the tub to keep the water just below a slow boil. Rain barrels and marvels in irrigation kept fresh water flowing whenever someone needed to refill the tub. It was icy mountain water at first, but stoked coals underneath brought it up to a tolerable temperature inside the tub.

Steam seeped through the clapboard walls. Paul felt the miles and dirt drain from his limbs, mingling with the filthy bathwater that smelled of lavender and lye. The room filled with haze, and Paul found it hard to stay awake as the water crept into his bones, soaking his parched skin.

It was three in the afternoon by the time Paul had reached the mountaintop community. If he found his mark after nightfall, he could be away and back down to the valley by tomorrow evening. Paul had inquired at the hotel about the next nearest town, which was around twelve miles southwest of Animas Forks.

The statutory town of Silverton had a plentiful silver mine on Hurricane Peak. It also had a railway system, stagecoach appointments, and a marshal’s office with well-armed, well-informed deputies. Once Paul left the mountain, he’d head into Silverton to find his next point of business. It was a railroad community, a stop for the train headed back to Pueblo. If everything worked out, Paul could make contact and move on to his next assignment in three days at the most.

Climbing from the scalding bath into the steamy room, Paul had to put on his trail-hardened and dirty clothes. But he felt refreshed and ready for the rest of the night.

When he opened the door to the bathhouse, he hadn’t buttoned his shirt or tucked the tails into his dungarees — he meant to sit on the stoop of the bathhouse and put on his boots before stepping in the mud. Paul didn’t expect to see a pair of young ladies staring wide-eyed like he was a surprise apparition that had appeared in the rolling mist that followed him outside.

“Hello,” he said.

They looked to be between late teens and early twenties. One had coal-black hair and sable eyes. She wore a pale floral print dress and black shoes. The other girl had hair the color of the sandy beach on the California shoreline, ocean waves that kept the strands plentiful around her heart-shaped face. She didn’t wear her hair up or under a bonnet like her friend. The spirals dipped and swam in front of her Nordic blue eyes.

They giggled and ran off together. The girl with the ocean in her sandy-blonde hair looked back more than a few times as they disappeared on the far side of a hut.

Paul buttoned his shirt and secured the gun belt around his waist. Strangers weren’t secret in a town of four hundred people. Word got around about newcomers faster than lit gunpowder. He knew it was a matter of time before everyone knew he had arrived. He kept his business closed, but he had learned to not be obtuse when people wanted to get friendly. If the rest of the townsfolk were like Lou, Paul knew he’d have no trouble taking care of business.

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Paul Coleman is about to make his first steps as a bounty hunter, in the mountaintop community of Animas Forks. However, he soon realizes that no matter how well he knows the job, no one plays by the rules. In his quest to track down a suspected killer who’s seeking shelter with his father, a foreman at the gold mining mill, Paul will have to fight with powerful demons. It will not be long before he has to confront the Sheriff himself, discovering that sometimes lawmen aren’t all on the same side. When things go from bad to worse and Paul has to defend himself in front of the prominent town magistrate, an unlikely ally steps up right when justice is bent to the whims of the corrupt. Will Paul find the courage to defend everyone, or is something worse on the horizon that will put his own life at risk?

The moment Paul meets Eliza Tilman he thinks that his luck has finally changed, and the beautiful woman immediately captures his heart. To his surprise, her father, the town magistrate, will decide to intervene when he finds out that Paul shows up to return a fugitive from justice. With the owner of the gold mill and Eliza’s father conspiring, Paul and Eliza will join forces, determined to solve the case and put evil behind bars. Will Eliza manage to be the gateway to justice Paul has been looking for? Or will her father abort their every attempt to uncover the dark truth?

With guns blazing and knives slashing, Paul must act fast, otherwise, he might not come out alive. Plunged into a quagmire of corruption and wickedness, will Paul survive the greatest challenge of his life? Will the fearless bounty hunter rise to the challenge and eventually find peace?

A pulse-pounding drama, which will make you turn the pages with bated breath until the very last word. A must-read for fans of Western action and romance.

“Manhunt in the Wild Mountains” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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