Memories of a Deadly Gun (Preview)

Prologue

1863 – Lawrence, Kansas

The first thing he saw, a half-mile from the house and moving steadily in his direction, was an ugly brown cloud. Raising a hand over his eyes and shielding them from the brassy glare of the noon-day sun, young Will Masters stared off into the mid-distance, toward the column of dust climbing above the trees that lined the dirt lane leading to town.

“Preacher Smyth?” the boy mouthed to himself, rising to his feet from where he’d been seated on the ground. He felt a flutter of excitement in his stomach. Preacher Smyth was one of his favorite people, outside of his own family members. The preacher almost always had a piece of candy for him, usually salt-water taffy, which happened to be Will’s favorite. Preacher Smyth was also full of jokes and riddles and interesting stories, mostly about things he had experienced during his many travels. He was one of the few adults who talked to Will like he was a grownup, rather than a ten-year-old boy. More importantly, the preacher was just about the only adult who ever actually listened to Will on those occasions the boy felt he had something worthwhile to say.

A few seconds after he spotted the wafting cloud of dust, he heard the hoof beats. Will furrowed his brow. Doesn’t sound like Preacher Smyth’s wagon, he thought with some dismay. In fact, it occurred to him, it didn’t sound like a wagon at all. Based on the sound of the drumming hooves, he figured there must be half a dozen horses on the road, maybe more.

What they were doing galloping toward the house, and at such a fast clip, the boy had no clue.

When the riders finally came into view, appearing from behind a stand of trees, Will knew in an instant they were strangers. He also immediately knew that he didn’t like the men. Something about them—their manner of dress, or perhaps the way they carried themselves in their saddles—told young Will that the men would turn out to be unwelcome guests.

  Wheeling toward the house, Will broke into a hard sprint. On the front steps, he tripped and faltered briefly before making his way across the porch and through the heavy double doors that led into the house’s big anteroom.

“Papa! Mama!” he cried at the top of his voice. “Riders! Coming this way!”

He stood in the center of the anteroom, listening for a response from his parents. He’d closed the doors behind him but, through the thick wood, he could still hear the riders approaching outside.

“Riders!” he cried out again after a brief silence. “Strangers! They’re coming toward the house! And they’re moving fast!”

“Moving fast?” came his mother’s voice. She appeared a second later, entering from the library with a slim leather-bound book in her hand.

“What are you talking about, William?” she asked harshly, clearly peeved with the boy for having interrupted her reading. “What is moving fast?”

“The riders coming down the lane.” Will pointed toward the door. “There’re eight of them. I counted.”

Frowning more severely than usual, Mrs. Masters crossed over to the window, then pushed back the curtain and peered out. Will watched her face, watched it change dramatically over the course of a second or two. At first, his mother had been annoyed by the disturbance. But now, Will could see, a look of distaste had come over her. His mother didn’t like the strangers either, the boy could tell. They were obviously bad men, and Will felt proud of himself for having warned his family about their approach.

“Go fetch your father,” Will’s mother told him. A fresh urgency suddenly filled her voice. “He’s upstairs, napping in his study.”

Without hesitation, Will ran up the stairs to the second floor, and by the time he reached the study, his father had already awakened. From where he sat on the edge of the divan, he rubbed his eyes and looked across at Will, who was standing just inside the door.

“What’s all the shouting about?” his father asked. “There’s not a tornado, is there?”

“No—” Will shook his head “—not a tornado. Riders. Eight of them. They’re almost to the house.”

His father’s face twitched with surprise. “Who are they?” he asked, the grogginess draining from his voice. “Do you recognize any of the men?”

“No,” Will answered. “They’re not from Lawrence, far as I could tell.”

His father ran a hand over his thick mustache. Will could tell that he was worried. The boy had seen the look on his father’s face before, but not for some time. He watched as his father’s gaze strayed over to a cabinet at the edge of the room. Then, glancing back at Will, he muttered, “Eight of them, you say?”

“Yes, sir.” Will nodded. “I counted them.”

His father stood and went over to the cabinet. Opening one of the drawers in the front, he withdrew a pistol—the Colt Peacemaker he kept there—a gun Will visited and held in his hand any time he could manage to sneak into the room without his parents or Rosie, their housemaid, observing him.

His father held the Colt for a second or two, staring at it numbly, before placing it back into the drawer.

After closing the drawer, he faced Will again. “Where’s your sister?” he asked.

The boy shrugged. “I suppose Lucy’s in her bedroom.”

“I want you to go to her. Tell her to go with you to the barn. I want the two of you to hide there, up in the loft, until the strangers leave. Actually, wait there till I come get you. Do you understand?”

“Hide?” Will blinked at his father. He pretended to be surprised, but he knew the riders were bad men. Somehow, deep in his gut, he’d already known they were ill-intentioned.

He asked, “Do you know the men, Papa? Are they criminals?”

“I don’t know who the men are or what their reason is for being here. But there are rumors… stories going around about things happening to people in this area.”

“Things happening?” Will’s voice rose. “What kinds of things?”

His father shook his head, as if brushing aside an unpleasant thought. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said that. Probably nothing to be concerned about. These men are probably just lost. But still… just in case they mean any trouble, I want you to get Lucy and go to the loft. When you leave the house, be sure to exit out the back door.”

Will told his father, “Yes, sir,” before leaving the study and turning down the hall toward his sister’s room.

Lucy Masters was fifteen years old and relatively strong-willed for an adolescent girl. Will and his older sister got along just fine. But whenever they played together, they almost always had to do things Lucy’s way. Will knew that if he caught his sister in the wrong mood, he might have a difficult time convincing her to go with him to the barn. Especially considering that he didn’t want to go there himself.

I don’t want to hide in the loft, he heard himself say. I want to stay… in case there’s trouble. I want to help…

Halfway down the hallway, he paused at a window and pushed back the curtain. He took one glance outside and gasped.

The riders had arrived at the house. They were arrayed on their horses in a semicircle just beyond the fence that marked off the front yard. Two of the men had dismounted and one of them had entered the yard.

“Lucy’s not in her room,” Will murmured. He’d intended to say it loudly enough for his father to hear him, but his father was already descending the stairs, well out of earshot.

His sister wasn’t in her bedroom, he knew, because he was looking at her now, through the window. She was outside in the yard, standing just a few feet from the strangers.

One of the strangers—the man who’d entered the yard—strolled up to Lucy. He spoke to her for a few seconds. Then, abruptly, and in a very rough manner, the man seized her by the arm.

Will felt his heart drop into his stomach.

Turning, he began to run toward the stairs. Passing the door of his father’s study, he paused and looked back. He wavered for only a moment before entering the study and crossing over to the cabinet at the edge of the room. Opening the drawer, he took out the Peacemaker, then hurried back out into the hallway.

Will enjoyed feeling the weight of the Colt at his side as he descended the staircase. The big pistol felt like a hammer in his hand, solid and heavy.

In the anteroom, his mother stood near the front doorway. One of the double doors stood wide open; a broad swatch of yellow sunlight streamed in through the entrance. Will’s mother was staring out the doorway, her right hand over her eyes. In her other hand, she still held the book she’d been reading earlier. 

Just as Will was stepping off the bottom stair, he saw his mother’s face contort, her mouth opening into a wide “O.” And then she began shrieking.

An instant later, a gunshot sounded outside, followed quickly by two more.

Will gripped the Colt more tightly as he sprinted toward the front door. Before he made it even halfway across the room, a shadowy shape appeared in the open doorway.

One of the riders, Will knew.

The bad men are coming into the house! he thought. Then it occurred to him that his father was nowhere in the room.

Will’s mother went on screaming, still fixed in the same spot, just a couple feet from the doorway. He’d heard her scream before, but the sound she was making now was different. It was as if her screams were coming from the depths of her being, from her very core. The sound of her wailing so unsettled Will that he nearly dropped the big revolver as he crossed toward his mother.

The man in the doorway moved forward, advancing over the threshold into the anteroom. Now, Will recognized the man’s face. He’d been the lead rider when the eight men were approaching on horseback. He was also the man who, only a minute ago, had grabbed Lucy by the arm.

A tall man, far taller than average, the stranger had a doughy white face and a pair of dark eyes that seemed too small for his head. He wore a dingy white shirt and a brown cavalry hat that was pinned up on one side. The man was holding a pistol, which he currently had aimed at the floor.

The stranger grinned at Will’s mother. “And you must be the missus,” he said. He quickly glanced her up and down, then added, “You musta been somethin’ to look at ten, twenty years ago.”

Will’s mother had stopped screaming; now she was breathing heavily, her chest heaving as if she were struggling for air. “W-w-why?” Her body shook as she spoke. “W-w-why are y-you d-doing this?”

“’Cause it’s about time somebody did it,” the stranger replied flippantly. Then, noticing Will approaching him out of the corner of his eye, he pivoted toward the boy. “And who is this little cuss?”

Pausing a few feet shy of the stranger, Will raised the Colt and leveled it at the man’s chest.

The man didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. Twisting his face into an exaggerated pout, he said, “Awe, come on, kid. You don’t really plan on usin’ that thing, do you?”

“What’s your name?” Will demanded.

The stranger chuckled. “A fiery one, eh? Just like your sister… Well, I’m assumin’ that was your sister out there and not your wife.”

“Was my sister?” Will said. He felt a sudden tightening in his throat. “What did you do to her?”

“Did what had to be done, son,” the stranger answered. “She didn’t want to cooperate. So…” The man shrugged, his voice trailing off.

Will had paused in the center of the anteroom, several feet short of the front door. Keeping the Colt aimed at the stranger, he took a step forward, then paused again.

The man’s grin suddenly vanished. “Listen, son… you don’t wanna go and do somethin’ you’ll end up regrettin’. Jus’ put that gun on the floor and go on outta this room.”

“Where’s my Pa?” Will asked sharply.

The stranger’s eyebrows rose. “Now that’s a very good question, son. I would think a real man would be here, defendin’ his family.”

Will noticed movement from the corner of his eye. His father, he realized, had just entered the room from another part of the house. Turning his head, Will saw that his father was carrying a cloth sack.

“Here you are,” his father said, addressing the stranger. “This is all the cash I have on the premises. Take it and go.”

Will’s father held the cloth sack out in front of him.

“No!” Will shouted. “Don’t give him our money, Papa! I’m going to kill him right now.”

Glancing over, his father noticed for the first time the Colt in Will’s hand. “William!” he shouted. “Put that thing down! We’ll settle this another way. The man will take my money and he and his friends will go away.”

Will shook his head from side to side. “Nope,” he said as he thumbed back the Colt’s hammer. “These men don’t deserve to get any money. They did something to Lucy. So I’m going to kill this bastard. And then I’m going to kill all of his friends.”

“William!” his father shouted again. “I’m telling you… put that gun down. Drop it now!”

The stranger was now focused squarely on Will. The expression on the man’s face had changed, had turned grave. Glancing at the Peacemaker in the boy’s hand, the man licked his lips. “Now listen, son,” he said, “how ’bout you do what your daddy told you to do? Put the gun down, and I’ll take the money and go.”

Will shook his head again. Then he squared up his aim.

“Just listen—!”

Will pulled the Colt’s trigger. The hammer snapped shut, but there was no report. The pistol didn’t fire.

He tried a second time and, again, the Colt failed to discharge.

Suddenly, Will felt gripped by panic as the realization came over him that the gun wasn’t loaded. Why didn’t you keep it loaded? he asked his father in his thoughts.

The events that unfolded next seemed to Will like scenes in a dream. He lost all sense of time and proportion; a second was a minute and a minute an hour. His grasp on the physical world also seemed to fade, so that everything he witnessed, he felt he was watching through a haze. The sights were blurred, the sounds muffled. 

After the Peacemaker failed to fire, the stranger in the brown cavalry hat—the lead rider—grinned. A demon’s grin, it was. Will would always remember that ugly grinning face, because it was the last image he saw before the evil man raised his pistol and aimed it at Will’s father. The boy heard his mother shriek again—a muffled shriek, as if she were underwater—and then he saw the flash of light and heard the crack.

His father fell to the floor, landing squarely on top the sack of money he’d toted into the room. Before Will could even begin to figure out if his father was still alive or not, he heard another crack—again, somewhat muffled, as if coming from somewhere far away. Turning his head, he saw his mother fall backward onto the floor, landing only a few feet from where his father lay.

Staring down at his parents, Will felt himself beginning to wobble. An instant later, his legs gave out beneath him and he dropped, involuntarily, to his knees. He opened his mouth—to speak, to cry, to scream—but nothing would come out. It took everything he had just to keep drawing breath.

The man in the cavalry hat approached Will’s father. Bending forward, the stranger grabbed hold of the sack and yanked it out from under the motionless body. The movement was so abrupt, so careless and rough, that it caused Will’s father’s head to thump onto the floor.

With the sack of cash in hand, the stranger turned and approached the boy.

Will looked up into the man’s eyes. They were cold, empty eyes. The eyes of a man who had killed many times before.

“On your knees is a good way to die,” the man said, raising his pistol and pointing the barrel at the center of the boy’s forehead.

At that moment, Will became aware of footsteps somewhere behind him. The footfalls were muffled, like all the other sounds in his awareness. Then, he heard a familiar voice.

“No!” cried Rosie, the housemaid, as she ran forward into the anteroom. “Please, don’t hurt him! He’s just a boy!”

The stranger swung the barrel of his gun toward the maid, firing a single shot that caught her in the throat. Will watched as Rosie—a longtime friend to him and his family—crumpled into a heap on the floor.

The man turned his pistol back onto Will. He stared into the boy’s eyes for a couple of seconds, then sighed. “I know you woulda killed me if that gun had been loaded. Hell, I know you’d like to kill me right now. But I don’t take that personal. I actually admire your courage, little fella. You remind me of myself when I was a young’un.”

Shoot me! Will thought. Kill me now! He wanted to say the words aloud, but he still couldn’t produce any sounds.

The stranger stared into his eyes for a moment longer before holstering his weapon and stepping away. “I think I did everything I needed to do here today,” he said. “My work here is finished.”

As the man moved toward the front door, Will became aware that three of the other riders had entered the house and now stood in a cluster near the open doorway. The men spoke to one another for a short while, but Will couldn’t make out their words. It all sounded like garbled nonsense to his ears.

As the men began to file out, the lead rider—the man in the cavalry hat—turned to face him once more.

“You asked me my name,” he said.

Everything was becoming hazier, but Will focused intently on the man’s face. He could just make out what the stranger was saying to him.

“I think you’ve earned the right to know,” the man continued. “It’s Claude Harlan. That’s my name. Don’t ever forget it.”

He flashed his demon’s grin once again, then nodded at Will and ducked out the door, carrying the sack of money at his side.

Chapter One

Ten Years Later

As the stagecoach juddered along past the storm-worn town limit sign, Will looked across at the man who’d previously introduced himself as Judge Cecil V. Reilly. Their conversation had started out on a cordial note when they’d left the station at Jefferson City, but the judge had ended all discussion as soon as he realized that his wife, Mrs. Mary Reilly, had taken an inappropriate liking to the handsome young passenger seated across from them.

For his part, Will had no designs on the judge’s wife. But he wasn’t at all surprised by the development. Since turning eighteen, nearly two years ago, he’d grown accustomed to receiving unsolicited attention from women of all ages. Not only was he an unusually handsome young man, but he also had a lean frame with well-muscled arms and a torso that tapered in a “V” shape to his waist. Women were constantly stealing glances at his body, but they most often made comments about his dark curly hair, his chiseled facial features, and his dimpled smile that gave him an innocent, boyish look.

Will cleared his throat, louder than necessary. “Is there a saloon in this town?” he asked Cecil Reilly.

The judged looked up at him from a book he’d been thumbing through. “You ever been to a town that didn’t have a saloon?” he replied sourly.

“West Plains is home to two such establishments,” Mrs. Reilly offered. Smiling brightly, she glanced Will up and down for at least the fiftieth time since he’d boarded the stage. She added, “If you don’t mind me my saying, you don’t seem like the type of young man who frequents saloons.”

“I don’t, really,” Will said. “I’m looking for someone. And I believe he is the kind of man who frequents saloons.”

He glanced over at the judge again, watching for a reaction. Will had considered asking Judge Reilly outright if he happened to know where one might find a gentleman by the name of Claude Harlan, who purportedly hailed from West Plains, in the Missouri Ozarks. But Will knew a thing or two about judges. They were sworn to defend and uphold justice, but not all of them performed their duties impartially. Some judges worked harder at defending the interests of the powerful and the connected than they did upholding justice for the common man. And nearly all of them worked the hardest at upholding their own interests. Will had learned these things from his uncle, James Masters—a powerful man in his own right. His Uncle James had taught him a great deal about the country’s political and economic system. Will had studied political economics in school and had read the works of all the great thinkers, but his uncle had taught him how the system really operates. And one thing Will had learned from his Uncle James was that some people had to be dealt with indirectly, in a backhanded sort of way.

The judge didn’t take the bait, but his wife did.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked Will. “Perhaps it’s someone we know.”

Will eyed the judge again before replying. “Claude Harlan. I’ve asked around about him, found out he grew up in West Plains.” He paused, then said to Judge Reilly, “Didn’t you mention earlier that you grew up here, as well?”

The judge held his gaze for a moment before answering. “I did indeed. But I don’t know anyone by that name. Maybe he’s from another West Plains, in another state.”

Will shook his head. “As far as I could uncover in my research, there’s only one West Plains in the entire country. Sure you don’t know that name?”

“Harlan, you said?”

“Right. Claude Harlan.”

The judge touched his chin as he appeared to reconsider the name. After a moment, he said, “Nope. Never heard of him. And I do know a lot of people from this town. But I suppose it’s always possible that Mr. Harlan and I never crossed paths. Unlikely, but possible.”

“Well, I don’t see how that would be possible, dear,” Mrs. Reilly said. “It’s not a very large town at all.” She looked across at Will. “I’m not familiar with a Claude Harlan, but I’ve only been living in West Plains for the past three years. I was raised in Chicago. But Cecil knows everyone from these parts. If he hasn’t heard of the man, then you must have the name mistaken.”

Will nodded, then glanced over at the judge again. “That could be, I suppose. I could have the name mistaken.”

The stage slowed to a stop, and Will allowed the other passengers to disembark first. After he stepped out, he tipped the driver, then thanked the Reillys for their companionship during the trip.

“Enjoy your visit to West Plains,” Mrs. Reilly bid Will as she looked him up and down one last time.

His face knitted in a sort of half scowl, Judge Reilly added, “I hope your visit here doesn’t turn out to be a waste of time, young man.”

“I’ll do my best to make it worthwhile,” Will promised.

The judge began to turn away, then paused and faced Will again. “What did you say your name was?”

“Masters. Will Masters.”

“I don’t believe I know your family,” the judge said.

“I doubt you would, your Honor. Most of them are gone now.”

Nodding goodbye to the man and his wife, Will draped one of the straps of his rucksack over his shoulder, then turned and strode over to the boardwalk that lined one side of the street. He stepped up onto the walk, drew in a deep breath, and scanned the street in both directions.

It was a small town that looked like just about every other small town he’d ever visited in Missouri, except, somehow, it felt drabber. A few people were milling about, but there wasn’t much activity for a Saturday afternoon. And, Will noted, none of the people in his immediate line of sight seemed to be happy. Their faces were as dirty and gray as the buildings along the town’s main street.

Guess I wouldn’t be too happy if I lived here, either, he thought as he started off toward a building fifty yards ahead that appeared to be the focus of most of the area’s activity.

As he drew closer, he could see that the building housed a saloon, or at least that was what he was able to surmise. A poorly-dressed man came staggering out the front door, then turned Will’s direction and took three steps forward before falling flat onto his face.

Rushing ahead, Will helped the man to his feet.

“Oh, jeez,” the man mumbled as he dusted himself off. “Guess I didn’t see that step.”

Will could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath. “You going to be all right?” he asked the drunk, still holding onto his arm, helping to steady him.

“Think so. Jus’ need a little nap and I’ll be fine.”

After he was sure the man could stand on his own two feet, Will withdrew his hand. “You lived in this town long?” he asked.

“Five years, give ’er take.”

The man belched. Will couldn’t help but cringe at the odor that came wafting out the drunk’s mouth. Stepping back a little, he said, “Can I ask you a question?”

The drunk grinned at him. “You already done asked me two questions!” He made a ridiculous-sounding chortle, then said, “Shoot, pardner!”

“You happen to know a man by the name of Claude Harlan?”

“Nope. Never heard of ’im. But if you go into the Goose and talk to Ol’ Wade, he’ll prob’ly know the guy. Ol’ Wade knows everybody. And I mean everybody.”

“The Goose?”

“The Golden Goose,” the drunk said. “The saloon. You’re almost there, pardner! Jus’ a few steps ahead!”

“I see,” Will said. “And Ol’ Wade… he’s—?”

“He’s the barkeep. He can be a cranky sum na bitch at times. But once he gets comfortable with you, he’ll be like your best friend. He’ll do anything to help you out.”

“That’s good to know. Let me ask, is there anything I can do to help Ol’ Wade get comfortable with me?”

“There sure is!” the drunk replied. “Listen to his stories. And don’t interrupt! After he’s told you a few stories, you tell ’im one. And it better be a good one!”

Will thanked the drunk man, then watched for a couple seconds as he staggered off down the boardwalk. Ol’ Wade at The Golden Goose, he thought as turned and headed for the saloon’s double doors. This ought to be interesting…

***

Ol’ Wade turned out to be an interesting man after all, Will decided after having spent less than a half-hour with The Golden Goose’s barkeep. It was true that he was a cranky sonofabitch, at first. But, after some time passed, his demeanor began to change, to soften considerably. Will kept ordering beers and drinking them slowly as he listened to the barkeep regale him with tales of beautiful women, of outlaws, of outlaws who happened to be beautiful women, and he even threw in a ghost story or two. When Ol’ Wade paused to roll himself a cigarette, Will seized the opportunity to tell a tale of his own.

“You know who Jesse James is, right?” he asked the barkeep.

Ol’ Wade scoffed. “Of course! Everyone knows who Jesse James is! He’s a Missouri boy. Pretty popular with folks in these parts.”

“I met him once,” Will said.

“Really?” The barkeep eyed him suspiciously. “You sure it was him? There’re probably some imitators out there.”

“I’m sure it was the real Jesse. Damn sure. I was on a train that he and his gang robbed.”

“No kidding? Now that would be something! What was he like?”

“He really wasn’t a bad guy at all,” Will said. “He was actually kind of a gentleman. But still, most of the passengers on the train were afraid of him.”

Ol’ Wade leaned in a little closer. “Were you afraid of him?”

Will shook his head. “Not at all. I don’t have anything to be afraid of. Matter of fact, I helped Jesse out.”

The barkeep arched an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean, you helped him out? How did you help Jesse James?”

“When Jesse was walking past me down the aisle, he dropped a pocket watch onto the floor. It was a watch he’d taken off one of the passengers, some banker guy. I picked up the watch and handed it to him.”

“Wow!” The barkeep’s voice rose with excitement. “What did Jesse do?”

  Will shrugged. “He just smiled at me and thanked me, then moved on without bothering me at all. He didn’t take anything from me, even though I had wallet full of cash.”

Ol’ Wade lit his freshly rolled cigarette and grinned. He was apparently pleased by the train robbery story. Will allowed a minute for the man to finish soaking in the imagery, then he said, “I want to ask you a question, Wade, if that would be all right with you.”

“Sure,” the barkeep agreed. “Any friend of Jesse James’ is a friend of mine!”

Will opened his mouth to ask the question, but just at that moment a man barged in through the saloon’s double doors. The man, who was obviously known to everyone in the place, shouted, “The trick shot man is set up ’cross the street! He’s gettin’ ready to begin his demonstration!”

Everyone in the saloon, including Ol’ Wade, began to funnel toward the door. “I gotta see this,” the barkeep said as he passed Will. “You’ll want to see it, too. Fall in line.”

“What if I don’t want to see it?” Will asked.

“You ain’t got a choice. I’m closing the Goose temporarily.”

***

Will followed the crowd out through the double doors to the other side of the street, where a couple dozen onlookers were already huddled. The man—the trick shooter—they’d gathered to see stood in an open patch of grass that lay between two buildings. He was dressed in a shirt so white it practically glowed in the afternoon sun. His white hat, which perfectly matched his shirt, was offset by his dark trousers and his pitch-black boots. The shooter wore twin holsters about his waist; a pistol rested in each holster, both of them pearl-handled.

“Gather ’round, all!” the trick shooter cried in a booming baritone. “Demonstration starts in one minute!”

Will found a place to stand in the audience not far from Ol’ Wade. As he took in the scenery around him, he noticed that thirty yards or so from where they stood was a rail fence that was obviously intended to be part of the demonstration. A number of bottles were lined up on the fence’s top rail, a few inches apart from one another.

The trick shooter began his demonstration by spinning toward the fence, drawing both of his pistols and firing off rounds in fast succession, shattering all the bottles—save one—in just a few seconds. The shooter hadn’t missed a single shot, as far as anyone could tell. The bottle that was still standing had obviously been left there on purpose.

The audience began applauding enthusiastically. The trick shooter faced the crowd and took a bow. Then, before the applause died down all the way, he pointed one of his pistols behind his back and, without turning to look, fired at the last bottle standing.

When the bottle shattered, the crowd’s applause swelled again. Several audience members began whooping and hollering.

The shooter, after taking another bow, proceeded on to his next trick, which involved him tossing a silver dollar into the air and shooting the coin before it hit the ground.

Will felt an elbow in his rib. Glancing to his right, he saw that it was Ol’ Wade trying to get his attention. 

“You ain’t clapping for the guy,” the barkeep said. “You don’t like his tricks?”

Will shrugged. “I’ve seen them all before,” he said. “I’ll clap when he shows me something new.”

The truth was, Will had performed all of these feats himself. He’d spent years learning to shoot from a real master of the craft, back in Philadelphia. Will had learned to knock bottles off a fence at least fifty yards out. He could shoot a target, such as a coin, right out of the air. He could aim and fire blindly, as long as he’d had a good look at his target before closing his eyes.

Nothing the trick shooter did impressed him. In his view, the man’s tricks were all run-of-the-mill.

After performing a few more feats, the shooter turned to the audience again. “Now it’s time for the challenge,” he announced. “One-hundred dollars cash to the man here who can shoot the spade out of this card!” With a small flourish, he produced the ace of spades, holding it up so that the audience could see the card.

“From how many paces?” shouted a man in the back of the crowd.

“Fifty paces,” replied the shooter.

A murmur ran through the crowd, then another man asked, “Anyone can try it? Using your gun?”

“Anyone can try,” said the shooter. “It’s only a dollar per try. And you get to use your own firearm. But it must be a pistol… no rifles.”
The crowd began murmuring again. After a few moments, a man stepped forward. He was tall and wore a long tan duster.

“Give ’er hell, Bill,” said another man in the crowd, clapping the tall one on the back as he approached the trick shooter.

The tall man—Bill—took out a one-dollar coin and handed it to the shooter. After the shooter pocketed the coin, he went to the fence and affixed the ace of spades to the top rail, shoving the card’s bottom edge into a groove. Bill, who’d followed the shooter to the fence, began walking back toward the crowd. After counting off fifty paces, he drew a pistol from inside his coat, faced the target, and fired.

His shot tore a chunk of wood out of the fence rail, an inch or two to the left of the card.

“Damn!” Bill muttered. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out another coin. “I want another try!”

Bill’s second shot went wide to the right. He paid for a third try, which just grazed the top of the ace.

“That’s close enough, ain’t it?” Bill gruffed, scowling over at the trick shooter.

“Nope,” the shooter replied. “To win the hundred dollars, you have to hit the spot—the spade.”

Bill cursed, then mumbled, “I ain’t got no more money,” as he rejoined the crowd, which had continued to grow as others had come to investigate the source of the gunfire.

“Anyone else up for the challenge?” the trick shooter called out. “Just one dollar buys you a chance at a hundred!”

“Can you hit the spade?” a voice challenged from the audience.

“I’ll take my turn,” the shooter said, “after everyone else here has taken theirs.”

Will pushed his way through to the front of the crowd. “I want a turn,” he declared.

The trick shooter glanced at him and shrugged. “All right, kid. There’s no age limit on the challenge. One dollar, please.”

Will paid the man, then took his place, lining himself up with the target.

“You’re more than fifty paces from the fence,” Bill called out from the audience.

“He’s right,” the shooter agreed. “Would you like to move closer, young man?”

“I’m fine right here,” Will answered, drawing out his pistol and taking aim.

He wasted no time before he started firing. The first of his bullets struck the card dead center, drilling a hole in the spade. The next four shots tore out the rest of the spade image until nothing remained of it, just a jagged-edged, spade-shaped hole that allowed the sunlight to pour through.

For a brief second, the crowd was completely silent, every man, woman and child in awe of what they’d just witnessed. Then a cheer went up and the entire crowd broke out in wild applause.

The trick shooter’s face had gone pale, Will noticed as he glanced over. The shooter stood staring at him, his jaw slack.

“Pay the kid!” someone in the audience cried out. “Give him his hundred dollars!”

The trick shooter stood frozen in place and stone quiet for a few more seconds, clearly in awe of Will’s shooting, himself. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “Congratulations, young man! You’ve managed to accomplish what very few can do. That was some shooting.”

“Pay the kid!” the voice in the audience rang out. “Let’s see that money!”

“If you’ll stick around,” the shooter said to Will, “I’ll give you your prize.” He laughed nervously, adding, “Maybe you can give me a few shooting tips.”

He shook Will’s hand and slapped him on the back a couple times. He was smiling, but Will could see that the man’s expression was forced.

Most of the crowd dispersed quickly, but a few individuals stuck around to congratulate Will. Ol’ Wade from The Golden Goose was one of the last to leave.

“I knew there was something special ’bout you,” the barkeep said as he pumped Will’s hand up and down.

“I need to ask you a question,” Will told him. “I need to know if you’ve heard of a man named Claude Harlan.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve known ol’ Claude for a long time.” The barkeep frowned all of a sudden. “You’re not a lawman, are you? U.S. Marshal?”

“No,” Will quickly replied. “I’m not a lawman. But I would like to know where I can find him.”

Ol’ Wade gave him a sideways look. Then, after a moment, he said, “I’m guessing you’ve got a grievance with my old friend.” He paused, blew out a sigh, then added, “Lots of folks have grievances with Claude. I guess whatever happens to him, he’s got it coming. You hurt that many people, it’s eventually gonna come back to haunt you.”

“I won’t ever tell him that I talked to you,” Will assured the barkeep.

“I don’t know his exact address,” Ol’ Wade admitted. “But I know that he went to St. Louis. He may be working at a brewery up there, I’m not sure about that.”

“But you’re sure he’s in St. Louis?”

“Yes. Unless something’s changed in the past month or so.”

Will thanked the barkeep, both for the information concerning Claude Harlan’s whereabouts and for the stories he’d shared earlier in the saloon.

For a second, he watched Ol’ Wade cross back toward the Goose, then he leveled his gaze on the man in the white shirt and hat. “You don’t have any prize money for me, do you?” he asked the man pointedly. “You don’t have a hundred dollars on you.”

The trick shooter began stammering. “Well… I… you see…”

Will raised a hand. “No need to say another word. Just get your things and get out of this town. I don’t want you stealing from these people. I don’t want you around them at all.”

“I’d like to get something to eat before I leave town.”

“No,” Will said firmly. “Leave now. Right now.”

The shooter’s expression changed, suddenly turning darker. “Listen, kid. I don’t take kindly to being threatened. People generally know better than to threaten me.” He opened the fingers on his right hand—almost as if he were considering going for his gun.

“Don’t touch that,” Will warned him. “I guarantee I can draw faster.”

The man stared deeply into his eyes, saying nothing. After a few seconds, the trick shooter flinched, then raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine,” he said. “You can have this town. There are plenty more communities out there that are heaping full of suckers.”

Will watched the shooter slink away before he himself turned and crossed back to the other side of the street. Not far from The Golden Goose’s front door, he encountered the same drunk he’d bumped into earlier. Once again, the man was flat on his face on the boardwalk.

“I hope to God the northbound stage is coming through here tomorrow,” Will murmured under his breath. A moment later, as he was helping the drunk man to his feet a second time, he thought to himself, not sure I can spend more than one night in Claude Harlan’s hometown…

---

“Memories of a Deadly Gun” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

When a gang of criminals murders the entire family of Will Masters in cold blood, the young boy vows to take revenge on the heinous crime. A decade later, Will’s vengeance trail leads him to Colorado territory and, luckily for him, he will meet a renowned bounty hunter who is willing to teach him how to be an expert tracker. But the learning process is more challenging than he expected. For the sake of his mission, Will is ready to risk it all, even assisting Roy to track down a perilous bounty. In the end, will he manage to trail the vicious murderer? Will he keep his word and avenge his family’s tragic death?

After a dark figure’s sudden attack, Will is left severely wounded. But he could never imagine that these wounds would lead him to Anna Cabot, the woman who will steal his heart. Day by day, their affection for one another deepens, but the moment Anna finds out about Will’s mission, she will start questioning her relationship with him. She believes that forgiveness is the only way to heal, and she loathes the idea of sharing her life with a man thirsty for revenge. Could Will continue his relentless pursuit with the risk of losing the only person that’s by his side?

Just when he thinks it can’t get any worse, an old enemy of Roy’s resurfaces with evil intentions, becoming a threat to everything Will cares for. Will he defend Anna and her family from the hands of an awful man? Will he ever free himself from the haunting memories of his past and find peace of mind?

A tale of explosive action, intrigue, and romance that will make you turn the pages with bated breath until the very last word. A surefire hit for fans of Western adventure novels, with a touch of romance.

“Memories of a Deadly Gun” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!