The Name on His Last Bullet (Preview)

Prologue

Deadwood Ridge, Nevada, 1876

Clara Montrose had every reason to be in the best of spirits, even when the horse struggled to pull the buggy up the hillside in the rain.

It was the first day of spring.

While the temperamental weather didn’t understand the significance of proper calendar dates, days ahead held blue skies and promises. A festival was planned for that night, and Clara was among the handful of wives in Deadwood Ridge who took over the town meeting hall, populating it with colorful ribbons and cheerful tablecloths.

After the drudgery of another long, cold winter, even with deep snow still hopelessly clinging to every surface not exposed to the cloudless sun, Clara believed this season—this summer—would be the summer to remember.

One of the many day-worker children rushed to steady the horse when the buggy arrived at the mine. Clara sighed, ready with a few pennies for the more eager of the bunch. She set the handbrake and climbed out of the buggy.

Before she could hand over coins to the persistent, greedy hands, her boots sunk so deep in the mud that the hem of her dress floated on the surface.

“Mrs. Montrose, you’re sinking,” one of the boys said, pointing and giggling. The other six boys, ranging from six to ten, join in the merriment.

“Thank you, Billy,” she said, before tossing the coins to the side. Seven eager boys dove headlong into the mud, oblivious to the cold and the filth. Like the other boys’ fathers, Billy’s father worked in the mine.

Doing her best to remain undeterred, Clara hitched up her dress at the waist and marched across the level silt, muck sucking at her ruined boots. I should have worn my Wellingtons under the dress.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Montrose,” Harold Thomas said when he left the clapboard hut to greet her. He swept the floppy leather hat from his head, customary to his greeting Clara whenever she ventured up the mountainside.

Harold was her husband’s right hand and mine foreman. He was a burly man; loud, but not by choice. Too many close calls with dynamite charges had blistered and scarred his face and neck, removed a few toes—though Clara didn’t know how many firsthand—and deadened his hearing. It didn’t help that he was too close to steam-driven machinery most days. He had a wiry black beard that grew in patches on the left side of his face, and Harold tended to tilt his head to the left whenever he wanted to hear anyone.

“Mr. Thomas, I hope to see you and the missus at the festival dance tonight.” She did her best to smile through the cold dampness that had soaked through her thin black boots and crept up her socks. She glanced over her shoulder, where the boys continued digging in the mud for the coins. “They aren’t going near the mine, are they?”

“No, ma’am, I wouldn’t hear of it,” Thomas replied, as if the idea of youngsters digging for precious metals was impossible.

They both understood that less fortunate families needed all hands, even the tiny ones, to sift through rock and rubble. The same families lost their little ones or succumbed to maiming because ever-present dangers lurked in every dark hole. Women and children did pit-brow work. Fortunately, Clara didn’t have to do the messy work.

“The boys don’t have much to do these days,” Thomas said as they watched the more vigorous, older boys outwit the younger ones. “I make sure they know better than to be around any of the equipment.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thomas.” Clara knew that families with young boys were sought after when it came to mining. She never allowed children in the mines.

But coal mines welcomed boys from nine-years old and up, even gave them a rite of passage: Once a miner and twice a breaker boy. They sometimes got 50¢ for ten-hour days.

“Yes, ma’am. You’re welcome,” Thomas replied politely.

“Is my husband in the office?”

“No, ma’am, he was in the mine.” The foreman offered Clara a forearm for balance as they made their way to the slippery boardwalk out front of the cabin. “There is coffee if you want some while you wait.”

“Thank you.” She kicked off the sticky mud before ascending the stairs into the cabin.

The interior was functional, with no windows, just a reinforced door, a potbelly stove, a desk, and a few chairs. The glass-case scales, expensive and protected, sat on a shelf. Everything else was necessary but replaceable. Her husband used the building for meetings, while the miners stored their equipment closer to the mine, where the steam-powered stamping machine relentlessly chugged.

Inside the warm, damp space, Clara removed her shawl and sat at her husband’s desk. She didn’t want coffee. The percolator balanced on the cast iron warming plate. She looked through the paperwork on the desk before opening each drawer.

The essential documents were in their home back in town. But Daniel kept some yield samples in a ledger tucked at the back of the drawer.

It smells like tobacco and grime. Clara sniffled, rubbing her nose, and sighed. She had grown used to the overlapping stenches of mining, but quickly tired of it. The continued quest for riches drove men to prolonged sleeplessness and further from bathing than Clara could ever imagine.

She knew better than to wear white or gloves when she visited the mine. Even if they weren’t digging coal, the choking dust got everywhere. She ran her finger through the layer of settled dust on the desk. Smiling lightly, Clara scribbled her husband’s name in neat cursive. He’d find it later if he paid attention. Maybe he’ll take notice, maybe he won’t.

Before she could reflect more on the challenges of competing with the mine, she heard the gentle rumbling of her husband’s voice while he spoke to the mine foreman. She sat up and quickly ran her palm over the clever scribbling added to the desk surface just as the door opened.

Daniel Montrose was fifteen years her senior, and Clara did her best to be a dutiful wife. They weren’t the idyllic couple, but they made it work. Much like their shared interest in the mine, their marriage was a testament to the environment. She’d seen many women made widows in unfavorable conditions, sometimes having to compromise themselves in order to feed their families or keep themselves warm.

Daniel was a respectable man from a reputable family. He was business savvy and knew more about mining than the average claim holder. Unlike most men who purchased parcels of land, only to run out of money before they could properly maintain a mine, Daniel had a background in architecture. He understood how to fortify the shafts without thinning the timber supplies, making their investment dollars stretch further.

“Hello, my dear. It’s so good to see you,” Daniel said upon entering. He swept the leather candle hat from his head and opened his arms wide for a mock embrace.

Clara only smirked. It was a show for the sake of the visitors who followed him into the office. She stood from the desk and smoothed her dress front.

“I see you have company,” she said. The observation invited a discussion, which she intended to table later. Clara only smiled at the men. Each had removed their hats in her presence.

“This is Mr. Silas Thatcher and his associate Mr. Walter Wilder,” said Daniel. “They’re interested in investing. They wanted to take a tour of the site.”

“You don’t need to bother with this, Mrs. Montrose,” Thatcher said from behind her husband, his gaze on Clara like a boy eyeing candy. “This is men’s work. You can go while your husband shares more about what’s happening here.” He offered a handshake, but Clara clenched her fists. Adjusting his pencil-roll hat, Thatcher added, “That’s a lovely dress, missus, by the way.”

Clara had things to say; and she had intended to say them, but Daniel intervened, stepping between them, even lightly gripping her elbow with his dirty hand to lead her toward the door.

“Can I have a word with you,” he asked softly, but his tired, gray eyes pleaded with her. He held open the door, allowing Clara to take the steps first. “Gentlemen, give me a minute. Please, have some coffee.” He closed the door.

Clara contained her fury even as Harold Thomas saw them exit the planner’s cabin. He shuffled away, knowing it was better than interrupting the discussion. Thomas understood Clara by the sternness in her eyes; what she had to say was for her husband and no one else.

She marched through the mud back to the waiting horse and buggy.

“Clara, please,” Daniel said. “I can explain.”

When she stopped and turned to face him, he wasn’t ready for the abrupt change in direction, and nearly ran into her. Both hands went around her upper arms to keep them from slipping. Daniel’s face went through myriad expressions, from frustration to softness.

He’d learned this over the three years of their marriage. Clara wasn’t tolerable to a man who took charge of everything. They worked at what they had, and if it wasn’t for her, they might not have anything at all.

“I apologize, my love,” he said softly and sighed, his eyes lingering, pleading lightly in a way she’d grown accustomed to since their marriage. Daniel’s strengths in communicating with men of similar caliber and experience meant they saw him as the sole enterprise of Montrose Mines.

He walked with Clara back to the buggy and helped her onto the bench while shooing away the boys, who knew better than to beg him for loose change.

Thomas had moved off, monitoring the workers around the stamp machine and sluice boxes. The noisy operation helped keep their conversation private.

“Daniel, we’ve talked about you having meetings without me,” she said. “What do you expect of me?”

“I wasn’t expecting them, dear. Mr. Thatcher isn’t the kind of man who makes appointments.” Daniel shrugged with pleading eyes, and a humbled smile. “He just shows up.”

Clara regarded her husband. He was once pudgy, the kind of softness that came with his sedentary lifestyle in the city. But they were a long way from Chicago, now. In the two years they’d owned the silver mine, he’d hardened, toughened, strengthened, shedding belly fat for muscle in his shoulders and legs.

He moved from hotel restaurant meetings with wealthy businessmen, agonizing over construction details, drafting documents, and sharing cigars and expensive drinks, to agonizing over making daily mining quotas and clawing at rock deep inside the earth to squeeze out silver.

Daniel was good at both pursuits, something Clara appreciated in him. He was a businessman first; being a husband took, well, Clara didn’t want to think about it.

She gave into the softening of his eyes and patted the bristles on his cheek. “What does Mr. Thatcher want, since he’s a man who just shows up?”

“He’s interested in the mine, my dear.”

Clara rolled her eyes, and the sigh she let out then was for Daniel’s benefit. “Everyone wants interest in a mine, but no one wants to put in the work.” She left out the pet names they sometimes shared. It was a code between them, a married couple’s way of gauging each other’s level of irritation. “Does Mr. Thatcher understand your role in the mine?”

“I will explain it to him.” Daniel appeared genuinely optimistic. “This could be good for both of us,” he said. “This could be our chance to achieve the dream we set out to make.”

Clara had more to say; they had much more to talk about. But it wasn’t the time or place. Instead, she did her best to play the dutiful wife, brushing flakes of limestone from the shoulder of his leather coat. It was a lost cause.

“I came up here to remind you and Harold not to be too late tonight,” she said. “Whatever business you have with Mr. Thatcher, we can discuss it later. But I would very much like you to have time to clean up and shave before we go to the celebration tonight.”

“That’s tonight?” A worried look crossed his face before he grinned at her, even tossing her a wink.

“Oh, Daniel,” she said. Clara would put aside the mining business until they’d had their day. “I’ll expect you at six, by the latest.”

“I’ll make sure to remind Harold too.” he replied, stepping away from the buggy and turning on his heel in the mud. It wouldn’t ruin his boots or thick trousers.

Clara saw the stranger approaching the foreman cabin from the opposite direction but didn’t think much of it. Daniel made no motion to make her think any differently.

Later, Clara would contemplate on many sleepless nights what might have happened if she had only pointed out the man. If she had told Daniel about the stranger walking along the dusty path toward the cabin, would it have changed anything? Did she see the gun in his left hand, held along his leg?

Harold had returned to his post. He wasn’t near when Daniel got back to the cabin as the man approached. When her husband paused, door open, before stepping inside, the stranger—face well hidden under a frayed tan hat—lifted the pistol from his black wool coat and fired three bullets into Daniel while Clara screamed, launching from the buggy.

She had already released the handbrake, and the gunshots spooked a horse already on the fringe with the noisy mining equipment. The stranger didn’t linger or wait to see Daniel’s condition.

While Clara wailed, slipping and crawling through the slurry, her husband’s dying breath had her name on his lips. His dead eyes found her even when her hands couldn’t reach him.

Chapter One

Deadwood Ridge, 1877

Jed ‘Ranger’ Sawyer was one of the luckiest men in the world, according to his mother. Over his twenty-seven years, Jed had considered that maybe his mother was onto something.

But the funny thing about being lucky wasn’t that it might run out at any moment, it had to do with how others looked at his luck as a little more than good fortune.

Jed sat across the poker table from a man with nine fingers. Not surprisingly, and with no imagination, he’d got the nickname Johnny Fingers. Word around town made Johnny a minor, lowlife celebrity. The kind of two-bit criminal who lurked nearby open caskets, digging through a dead man’s pockets while loved ones were too busy grieving to pay attention.

Jed only knew Johnny through reputation before he agreed to sit at the table. The man was mean-spirited and chewed on a cheroot cigar because it was easier than taking his eyes off the player to light the thing.

But Fingers had an unsettling way about him. Jed had stared at death many times on the battlefield. Fingers had the eyes of a dead man: too dark, almost black. It was an attribute that could shake up unshakable men. But Jed was bored, a little hungry, and wanted to end the poker game.

“Well?” Johnny said. “What’s it gonna be?”

Jed realized there were very few certainties in life. One of the biggest was the fact that sometime, somehow, everyone would die. The trouble with having his luck, Jed considered, was that this might be the day he would die.

“Give him some time, Johnny,” Christian Ford said, who was about as close to being a troublemaker as one could get without being branded.

A handful of years younger than Johnny, making him slightly shy of Jed’s age, Ford was wiry, with a squint that meant he either couldn’t see very well, or spent too much time under the sun.

Ford and Johnny were attached at the hip, and near as Jed figured, it seemed to have been that way since before they got to town. “He’s got to add up all those numbers in his hand before he can make a bet.”

“What game are you playing, Christian?” Jed asked offhandedly. “I’m playing poker. You don’t need arithmetic in poker.”

Ford leaned against the chair, considering Jed’s words. The man looked from Jed to Fingers, to the man across from him. Juan Carlos Lérida only grunted, waiting patiently for Jed’s turn to be over.

Lérida was a miner who split his wages three ways: booze, whores, and gambling. He made more money working in the mine than he ever did at the poker tables. But he had a hefty tab with the proprietor that came out of his earnings weekly before Lérida could even sit at the tables. So, the gambling hall owner always welcomed the man with open arms.

“He looks nervous,” Ford said. “Say, Fingers, does Ranger look nervous to you?”

They had drawn a crowd. Other players had paused their game to watch the five-card stud Jed was playing with Fingers, Lérida and Ford. People crowded close enough to Jed’s side of the table that they bumped his elbows. Someone’s overindulgent gut pushed against the back of his chair. Swarmed, and nervous about his chances of capturing the hefty pot while keeping his life intact made Jed’s brow prickle and itch.

If he scratched it, they would read it as nerves. They were half right about the change in Jed’s demeanor. He held four of the five cards he needed for a hand of a lifetime. Unfortunately, if he raised the bet and exchanged the lame card for a winner, that lifetime could abruptly end on this day.

“Yep, that he does,” Fingers said. “Ranger looks nervous. What’s wrong, boy, you worried about me seeing through your bluff?”

“Was I bluffing?” Jed asked, glancing around at familiar and unfamiliar faces watching the game. He looked at Lérida. “Am I bluffing, Carlos?”

“I don’t know, Señor, but I hope you decide soon. I need to piss.” Lérida had already folded. He shifted in the chair; being the dealer that round meant he couldn’t leave the table until the game ended.

Jed had five gold pieces left in front of him. It was enough for the medicine, but the allure of the three-hundred dollars in the pot meant he might get something better than medicine. He could buy a ticket out of town.

He took a deep breath, tossed the five pieces into the pot, and offered the dud card. Lérida exchanged it with a fresh card—but Jed didn’t even look at it. Instead, he looked at Fingers.

“I’m all in,” he said.

Fingers rubbed his hands together briskly like he was warming up the stump of his missing digit. He grinned ear to ear, finished pulling the last of the cheroot into his mouth, and continued chewing. Brown tobacco caught in his teeth.

Christian Ford hooted at the pot and tossed his cards at Lérida. “That is more than I got and more than I seen all winter. You and Fingers can work it out.”

All around them, men and women murmured. Someone kept bumping Jed’s elbow until he finally jabbed back into the fork of a man’s trousers. It was the last time he got knocked.

Fingers tapped the fingers of his left hand on the table in an uneven rapping. The missing digit offset the tune. He frowned at Jeb, looking at the card still face down on the beer-stained surface.

“You ain’t looked at that card,” Fingers said.

“Nope.”

His head twisted to the right, and he spat in the brass cup on the edge of the table before running his dirty wrist against the tobacco spittle on his chin.

“Now, why is that?”

Jed glanced around at the audience. He didn’t see many friendly faces among them, but mostly he was looking for an ally. Someone who might know the rules of the game and could remind Fingers to play his own hand and not one that wasn’t dealt to him. Jed didn’t see any takers. He didn’t even see a lawman, only miners, lumbermen, and a few painted ladies.

Jed wanted to stand up and stretch, but any added movement was a tell—and any tell was a clue for Fingers.

They were at an impasse. If he folded, Jed won the pot and didn’t have to worry about turning over that last card.

“I don’t need to look if you ain’t playing anymore,” Jed said. It wasn’t meant as a challenge, but onlookers began cheering and clapping. “Are you in, or are you out?”

Jed had gambled with bigger pots. He’d lost some and won some. Some games like Brag, three-card-monte, Faro, or Chuck-a-luck were sure-fire losers. Poker was a game of luck only when dealers knew how to shuffle cards. No one could blame Lérida, because he never carried a gun or a reputation for trouble.

No matter what game Earl Stafford brought to the Silver Dollar Gambling Hall, he ensured they were fair games. Cheaters never walked out with their profits.

Legend had it that Stafford’s well-paid handlers—three men whom Earl employed to keep the peace—sometimes made sure some cheaters didn’t walk out of the place on their own, but had to be carried out.

Jed wanted to turn over that card and show the potential, but it all weighed on Fingers’ next move.

“I think you’re bluffing,” Fingers said.

“You can put in your money and turn over those cards,” Jed said. “If you think I’m bluffing, you’re welcome to pay to see.”

Fingers’ nine fingers tapped out another uneven tune on the tabletop. He spat in the brass cup that teetered on the edge of the table.

Jed wanted a drink, but calling over Earl meant he’d look like a coward or stalling. He needed backup in case that face-down card turned out to be something that citizens in Deadwood Ridge would talk about for years to come.

He knew if that card turned out to be a legend, he’d never get a better hand in poker if he lived to be a hundred. And Fingers might not let him live to see another day.

“Well, it seems to me, we got into a bit of a situation,” Fingers said finally. He gestured to the winnings of silver and gold coins at his disposal. “I call and raise you what I got here.” Absently, Fingers tossed the rest of his coins in the center of the table.

“Nope,” Jed said.

“Nope, what?” Fingers asked.

“You’re all-in, but you ain’t gonna raise me because I got nothing left to bet.”

“You got your life.”

“Hey, Johnny, I heard that,” Big Benny said. He was one of Earl Stafford’s bouncers who kept fighting to a minimum inside the gambling hall. Sometimes, there was blood in the street after disputes, and it wasn’t Earl or Big Benny’s problem when they were out the door.

The lumberjack got free beer and $5 whenever he showed up at the Silver Dollar. Earl knew having Benny around was a giant reminder that games were fair and players were civil. Having Benny overseeing the game was another piece of luck Jed hadn’t considered.

“Well, I’ll just take these back—” Fingers balked when Benny’s massive hand closed around Fingers’ wrist, twisting his hand away from the additional coins in the pot. The money stayed in the pot. “Hey, Benny, what the hell?”

Benny released Fingers’ wrist only to gather up Fingers’ shirt front in his big fist. He hoisted the man out of the chair so the Fingers’ brown whiskers scraped against Benny’s meaty chin.

“If you put it on the table, it stays on the table,” Benny said. “Those are the house rules. If you want to take it up with Mr. Stafford, you can. But that money stays. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I got it, Benny.” Fingers dropped into the chair, knee banging the table, almost making it tip over. The onlookers noticed and hooted with shock and excitement.

Recovering from Benny’s show of force had flustered Fingers enough to make him run his hands through his oily black hair before straightening his crumpled shirt. He scooped the rest of the gnawed cheroot out of his cheek and scraped his fingers on the rim of the brass pot.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and get rid of that for me,” Fingers said, nodding at the spittoon.

“Why don’t you finish your game before I fold you in half and see if I can make you fit inside that cup,” Benny said, leaning over him. Only so far had anyone tolerated the man, and Benny had reached his limit. “Are you ready to finish it, Ranger?”

“Yes, sir,” Jed said.

Fingers turned over his cards while Jed closed his eyes, breathing out. All around, the crowd cheered, applauded, and congratulated Fingers.

“Full house,” he said. “Tens over threes.”

Jed heard it and saw it. He looked at Benny and pursed his lips. Jed pushed the hat up in the same motion, scratched his forehead with a fingernail.

He saw the three tens in Finger’s hand didn’t include the ten of hearts. Jed hadn’t turned over the last card, still separate from his face-down hand.

“Well, Señor?” Lérida asked. “Turn them over before my eyes start floating.”

“You turn ‘em,” Jed replied, standing up slowly and pushing back the chair with his knees. He didn’t want to be sitting down when his cards showed.

Lérida looked at Benny before the bouncer nodded. Lérida turned over the spare card first.

“Shit,” Jed said.

“Ten of hearts,” Lérida said for the benefit of those among the gawkers who couldn’t see the table. Then he scooped up the other four cards and turned them over. “Mierda.”

“That’s what I said.” Jed smiled as he reached for the money.

“Now, hold on a hot-damned minute!” Fingers and Ford started shouting while Benny pushed them away from the table.

Lérida stood, shouldered through the gathering to retreat to the outhouses.

“That there is a royal flush,” Benny said. “That’s the best hand I ever saw in here.”

Jed gathered his winnings, stuffing banknotes and coins in his pockets. He knew Fingers wasn’t going to let him walk out of the place without a fight, and that was the extent of Jed’s luck. He’d won the pot, but surviving the rest of the day was a matter of pure chance.

“He cheated! ”

No two words bore more weight inside Earl Stafford’s Silver Dollar Gambling Hall than Johnny Fingers’ accusation. If anyone had been busy poking the keys of the tack piano in the corner, it might have stopped playing. Everyone near the poker table suddenly moved away to find other places to occupy.

Chapter Two

Earl Stafford was a firm and fair businessman who believed everyone should enjoy themselves inside his gambling hall—as long as they didn’t drink too much, didn’t fight, puke on his floor, or cheat.

He had a strict no-guns policy in the place, meaning anyone carrying a weapon had to leave it at the door. Some prominent city establishments had coat checks in antechambers. Earl had a few buckets behind a counter and paid someone to ensure no one carried a weapon. Dealing with drunks and cheaters was as simple as raising the alarm.

When Fingers made the proclamation, Stafford rang a brass bell suspended over the bar. Anyone who wasn’t already gabbing about the poker game, the impossible royal flush, and the probability of Jed Sawyer walking out of Silver Dollar Gambling Hall alive, immediately took notice.

Since it was a gambling establishment, as Jed saw the opening floor, leaving a clear space between him, Christian, Fingers, and the exit, he knew onlookers were busy making bets on what happened next.

Stafford kept a well-used axe handle over the bar near the bell. He sometimes had to use the handle when people broke the simple rules in the place. Cheaters left the place, were banned afterward, and typically had to nurse broken bones. He pulled the handle down from its hook and smacked the bar top with it.

“Who cheated?” Stafford shouted.

Jed did his best to edge closer to the front door without making it look obvious. Fingers, on the other hand, found himself in swinging distance of Big Benny as Earl was using the axe handle to get their attention..

Fingers jabbed one of his nine digits at Jed. “That there swindler stole the pot,” he growled. Refraining from calling Jed a cheat made no difference.

“You say he cheated,” Earl said, knuckling the bar while he leaned forward. Benny only needed a nod or a wink to spring into action. “Did you see him cheat?”

“Well—”

“You best make good on that,” Earl said.

Jed froze midway to the exit. He’d been shuffling closer while Christian and Fingers exchanged words with Earl. Benny kept both men in his sights.

Earl caught Jed on the spot before looking at Fingers again. “I don’t know you, Johnny. But I get to know things about people. You’re new in town, but you ain’t so new around the territory. Benny, did you see Ranger cheating?”

Big Benny somehow expanded: stature and shoulders appeared double width before he glanced at Jed. “He never touched the final card,” Benny said. “Carlos pulled that ten of hearts from the top of the deck. It was all on the luck of the draw.”

Benny’s thick hand closed around Fingers’ thin neck as the bouncer ushered the man to face the proprietor. Benny pressed Fingers against the bar. Christian pointed at Jed, showing he knew how close he’d gotten to the exit.