On the Hunt for Justice (Preview)

Chapter One

Rodrigo Dominguez crouched by the back end of the big cow; her great black-and-white legs splayed in front of him.

“Just hold on, Mother,” Cam Horn said between his gritted teeth, arms deep inside the cow’s body from the back. “Hold on …”

“Señor Cam?”

“She’s turned around, and the umbilical cord’s wrapped around the calf’s neck,” Cam said, wincing as he blindly groped around inside the animal. Rodrigo could only look on, helpless and anxious, his heart beating faster. He and Cam and the rest of the hands had been anticipating the event for months, one the Triple Horn Ranch desperately needed. Rodrigo had been working the ranch for years, during its long, sad decline, even since before Cam lost Señora Anne to consumption. He knew how dangerous a birthing could be, that both the calf and the cow could be lost in cases like these.

“Come on,” Cam muttered, “stop struggling, take it easy in there.”

Two other hands held Summer at the bit, her legs pursed to keep her upright, the tumult inside her forcing her to pull her head to both sides, unable to endure her condition or to escape it.

The cow began bucking, moaning out in agony, head thrashing from side to side.

“Easy, old girl, easy!” But Summer seemed beyond Cam’s comfort. The other hands held her at the head, Rodrigo waiting to assist as necessary. “Come on … come on … There!” Cam twisted his arm, deep into the cow’s womb, but he winced in pain, teeth gritted.

“Señor Cam?”

“It’s … biting me!” Cam twisted his arm again and then pulled out past the elbow. He fell back, his arm still extended, and when his hand reappeared it was holding the calf’s two hind legs, slipping from between Summer’s legs, glistening and slick. The calf’s slender body and front legs and head followed, clumsily collapsing into Cam’s embrace. Shaky and unsteady, the gangly creature was quick to find its footing. Cam wiped the little bull down, chuckling with relief before inching back and wiping his brow.

Rodrigo sat on the nearby milking stool, once more amazed by the capabilities of his longtime boss and friend and at times guardian. This was the man who had practically raised him from a young man into a true man; strong, private, unwilling to back down even in the face of birth … even in the face of death.

“What shall you call him, Señor Cam?”

Cam shrugged, head tipping a bit as he clearly gave it some thought. “He very nearly didn’t make it, put up a helluva fight. How about … Hercules? Bet he lives up to his name.”

Rodrigo looked the little calf over, already able to imagine the fine, strapping bull he would one day become; proud and powerful like the man who saw him into the world.

Cam reached out his hand and Rodrigo took it, the two men standing together as the other two hands stepped away from Summer and her new calf, mother tenderly licking child.

“All right,” Cam said, wiping off his hands, “let’s get back to work. There are still the vegetables to be seen to. Mabel’ll have dinner by five, as usual … make sure to be cleaned up by then, you know how she is.”

The other two ranch hands walked out first, Rodrigo already anticipating Mabel’s delicious corn bread.

Bang! Bang, bang!

The gunshots seemed to come out of nowhere, and Rodrigo’s body tensed as he looked around in quick terror.

Bang, bang!

The bullet pushed him back before he could trace its source, four men on horseback barreling toward the Triple Horn Ranch, the outskirts of her property, storming in from the front yard. His head was suddenly ringing, sweat instantly pouring down the sides of his face. He trembled, unable to think clearly before the second shot hit him for a second time in the chest. The ground seemed to be racing up behind him, world tipping on its side as he fell back, eyesight going blurred, ears a dull hum.

*

Cameron Horn turned from Rodrigo’s slain body, the cloud of dust not even settled around the body, before he turned to see the four men riding up on the Triple Horn Ranch house. The other two hands stood in shock as their friend fell dead to the ground, precious seconds clicking away before they drew their guns and readied to face the riders.

Cam knew at once that they wouldn’t make it, but he was grateful for the assist, and needed it.

Bang, bang … bang-bang!

But Rodrigo had been a lucky shot, and the men’s aims seemed to have been influenced by their feverish ride, faster as they closed in on Cam and the others.

Cam’s hand reached for his favorite weapon, a surefire way to better his enemies. His fingers wrapped around the wooden handle, pulling it from his belt and preparing to face the four men, head-on.

Gunfire crackled around him, one of the hands behind him managing to get a good shot into one of the riders’ shoulders. He snapped to the side but remained on his mount as they galloped toward them.

Cam let the bullwhip uncoil in his hand, eight feet of leather, tapering into a fine tip. He shook the handle, rounded and wrapped in leather, sixteen inches long and two inches wide. The leather whip sprang out like some slender snake, hungry for blood. Raising the handle, the serpent seemed ready to strike.

He charged toward one rider, swinging the whip over his head, that leather strap cutting the air with a heavy whoosh, louder as he spun it faster over his head. The rider aimed and shot but missed, no doubt confused by the black blur around him. By the time he was ready with his second shot, Cam sent his whip out to coil around his wrists. With a single, easy tug, he brought the man toppling off his mount. He fell straight to the ground as his horse rode on, his gun firing errant before he hit with a hard crunch.

He rolled to a stop and scrambled to his feet, mindlessly charging Cam, who welcomed the move. It was easy enough to wrap the bullwhip around the front of the man’s neck and hold him up as a human shield to absorb the firing of the other men as his own hands sought to avenge their friend Rodrigo. Cam’s victim took two shots in the belly, meant for Cam himself.

Cam had a chance to reach for the man’s other gun, drop him, and charge the other riders.

Bang, bang!

One of the other riders took a hit from one of Cam’s other ranch hands, Manuel Munos. It gave Cam the chance he needed to drop the dead man and charge the other riders, circling around for another attack. Cam felt his senses rise to the highest, his body acting as if on its own. His years of training had taken over, raising him to an elevated level of awareness, his place of power.

Cam swung the whip wide over his head, cracking it in front of one rider’s horse, near enough to spook the creature with the sharp burst of air, sound, and pressure. The horse shook its head and huffed out, stopping to rear up. But the horse had been running too fast, and it struggled just to remain on hooves. The rider had no chance at all of staying on his mount, and he was thrown forward and up and to the side, his body twisting as he fell to the hard ground and landed with a dull thud.

His horse rode off, and the man scrambled into an attack, Cam dropping the whip to meet him, fist to fist. Cam threw several good punches, gut slams to keep him from toppling backward, but the man pulled a hunting knife from his belt and charged Cam again, screaming a battle cry as he raised the blade.

Cam used the man’s energy against him, grabbing the man’s knife hand and spinning to send him falling in the other direction and straight into the unsuspecting charge of the last horseman.

The horse charged directly into the man, the clash of man and beast a clamorous eruption of screams and momentum, the horse falling forward, its own rider another victim of the sudden clash.

The horse fell forward, the lighter rider pitched just a bit further and just a bit faster. He hit the ground face-first, head bending back as the horse rolled over on top of him, his body crackling into a fleshy pulp beneath the wayward beast. The horse recovered, flailing a bit, legs kicking as it tried to right itself. Finally, the mustang rose to all fours and galloped off, leaving the rider behind to be eaten by bear and flies and everything in between.

The last of the horses ran away to leave five corpses, including poor Rodrigo. Manuel and the other hands gathered behind him as Mabel came running out with a rifle in her fat, stumpy arms, belly jiggling in front of her.

“Mister Cam, Mr. Cam … is you all right?”

“Fine, Mabel, thank you.” He turned to Rodrigo. “But Rodrigo …” They stood with heavy hearts and heads hanging low. There was a grave to dig, and a horse to hitch up for Cam’s ride into Santa Fe to see Sheriff Mal Davers.

Chapter Two

They stood on a low hill overlooking the ranch, a place Rodrigo had always enjoyed for a midday rest. Cam, Manuel, and the other hands dug the grave, Mabel joining them for the burial. She sang the negro spiritual, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. The New Mexico sky was a bright, pale blue, light spring clouds hovering in silent respect, a vermillion flycatcher fluttering overhead.

Mabel stood with the other hands, sharing their sorrow and sense of loss. She’d known Rodrigo for years. feeling for him just as if he was one of her own. As she looked at Cam standing over the grave, she couldn’t help thinking what a fine man he’d become, so welcoming of others. Mabel knew the sadness he carried with him, only brought back to his mind and heart by such a sad thing as a funeral, especially of somebody so close.

He’s thinkin’ on his poor Anne, she knew, wishing only that she could ever have brought him the kind of comfort which she’d hoped to. But Mabel knew a man and his needs, this man in particular. He needs a new wife, Mabel thought, even as they all said goodbye to their fallen friend.

We all need love.

After reading from King David’s Book of Psalms, Cam looked out over his reduced family of ranch hands and his household servant.  But they’d been Rodrigo’s family too, one he’d lived and finally had to die for.

“Rodrigo Dominguez was more than just a ranch hand, more than just an integral part of the Triple Horn Ranch. He was a friend; he was part of the family. I’ll never forget the first time we met, he and his family were on the run from some angry Comanche, I was … I was in the right place at the right time, little more than that. I only wish I could have done more … but afterward, well, I … he made the ranch a better place; he made us all better people. For his sacrifice, and that of his family, there can’t really be any justification. But I will always be proud to have known him, to call him … my brother.”

Mabel couldn’t contain her tears, wiping them as they trailed down her cheeks. Images of her own beloved Thomas flashed in her imagination, and she could still hear the gunshots that killed him ringing out in the back of her ears. Echoes of the hound dogs barking and howling and yelping still haunted her, the bogs of Houma offering her deadly protection from the mob.

“Who were these men,” Cam asked, not expecting an answer, “who came upon us unannounced, by cowardly surprise? They paid the price for their aggression, for the toll they extracted for the simple act of living peacefully with others. Does it matter who they are now? How many more will there be? The wickedness of men would seem as inexhaustible as their number. Four fall but four more shall rise, and four after them.”

But Cam did not say what he was truly thinking; there was no need.

The hands shared a grim nod, Manuel seeming especially embittered by their friend’s death. Mabel knew all too well that Cam was right, for her and her kind more even than Cam himself. But he ain’t like them other whites, Mabel knew, Mr. Cam treat folks good an’ kind, no matter ’bout they’s skin or if they speak English or not.

“But we won’t allow Rodrigo to have died in vain. We will stand against this vile act and against all others of its kind. We will advance against these criminals with the power of the law, bring the full weight of the badge to protect us and our fellows, to finally bring some peace and stability to the area. And if there are others … associated with these cowards, these thugs, then I will root them out, and I will repay them for their injustice personally.”

A chill ran up Mabel’s spine. She was struck with the feeling, the certainty, that more violence was coming. She looked out over the lightly clouded sky, sensing a storm on the way. Best get to prayin’, she thought, looking at Cam and knowing that, of all of them at the Triple Horn Ranch, he would face the greatest peril. The Devil comin’ to Santa Fe, I know’d it.

A solemn silence surrounded the grave. “And to our fallen friend, to our Rodrigo, we bid a fond farewell. Someday, we will see you again. Until then, we will miss you … very much.”

Maybe we be back like a family sooner’n you reckon.

*

Cam rode Harvest, his brown and white paint north toward Santa Fe. He’d set out after the funeral, and the day was on the wane, streaks of yellow already darkening to orange as the sun crept over the Sangre de Christo Mountains. Cam led Marigold, a speckled mare, with the bodies of the four dead raiders piled on her back. They lay face forward, tied together and to the saddle in a hideous heap.

Death was trailing him again.

Doesn’t seem to matter where I go, he reflected, doesn’t matter where I go. I can’t seem to escape it, that grim grinning skeleton, the most ruthless of all gunslingers.

The bastard always wins … eventually.

The flies started gathering around the bodies as the buildings of Santa Fe got larger in the distance.

Thoughts of death brought him to memories of Anne, so beautiful on the day of their wedding, young and pretty and sweet, a smile that put the painted desert to shame. He couldn’t resist reflecting on her soft, blonde hair and blue eyes, so different from his own black hair and blue eyes.

But his unending torture continued as Cam went on to remember how Anne’s complexion changed, her eyes becoming gray and pocketed as consumption overtook her. Instead of standing by his side, she was suddenly laying on her death bed, looking up at him, her hand becoming weaker and weaker in his own.

“Listen to me, Cam,” she’d said, just a day before passing, “I want you to find another love, Cam. I want you to marry again.”

“No,” Cam remembered saying through his tears, “never … never.”

“I know, I know this is hard,” Anne had said, coughing blood into her handkerchief in another feverish spasm. “But you cannot mourn me forever, my love. You are too good a man; you have too much to give, you deserve better than to be alone.”

“You deserve better than to …” Cam had stopped himself, too late. She held his hand a little tighter, with the rest of her fading strength.

He rode on, unable to think about it any further. Cam passed the occasional farm or small adobe house on the outskirts of town, the larger hotels and shops of the main thoroughfare getting slowly closer.

What are we doing to this country? he wondered. Is it really better off for our presence here? Is it really our destiny to own this place, to have dominion over the other races here? Many have been here for centuries, and the nature seems untouched, pristine.

But how long will that last? Cities like New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago are already changing the face of this continent, bringing the blight of our European squalor. We may have won our independence from England, but to what end? Simply to bring London over here, spoil this paradise with the pollution and violence we seem so naturally attracted to and skilled at.

Doesn’t matter where we go, there’s no escaping it.

He glanced at Marigold and the four dead men piled on her back.

Are such as this the future of the country, and of the white race? They call the Indians savages, and some of them can be quite brutal; the Mexicans too. But the whites are surely no different, no better. What population wouldn’t rise against an invading force, such unruly immigrants as the Europeans? Even the French manage to get along with the others, trading and hunting in perfect peace.

Still, we of Anglo ancestors relish our dominance, what we see as our superiority … even as we eat our own young.

Cam surveyed the streets of Santa Fe as he led Marigold into town. The adobe buildings were lined up on the sides of the dusty streets, walled courtyards protecting the entries from the flash floods which plagued the area’s winters. He passed a livery, horses nearly filling the place, an old brown-skinned woman peering at him from beneath a black wool shawl.

Men and women populated the sidewalks, horses and carts parked on the sides and hitched to posts in front of the hotel, the local jail, the hospital, none too far from the others.

Cam looked around, reminded of why he spent so much time on the Triple Horn. Too many people here, too much activity. What do any of these people have to do with me? What is my business to them, or them to mine?

Cam couldn’t help wondering if coming into town wasn’t a mistake.

So what if the sheriff can identify these men? Just another group of road agents, probably. And it’s not like they’re a danger to anybody now. But Cam rode closer to the jailhouse at the end of the street.

It’s something to do with that man who came around trying to buy the Triple Horn, I’m sure of it. Baller, Nick Baller, he called himself. If he hired those thugs to drive me off my ranch, killing poor Rodrigo in the process, then he’ll hang for murder under the color of law.

I will see to that.

And if not, well, there could be others out there. Sheriff Davers may still be able to do something to protect somebody else from somebody else.

Have to try, anyway, Cam knew. Ignore the law and the law will disappear, and the nation will soon follow.

Cam rode to the hitching post in front of the Santa Fe jailhouse, a cold feeling in his stomach to know that his hopes, and the hopes of the future, were in the hands of a man Cam had never considered adequate. But effectual or no, Cam knew that he had to do whatever he could, the very best that he could do. He’d lived by that code, and he would die by it.

Chapter Three

Sheriff Mal Davers’ waistline had expanded since Cam had seen him last, almost a year before. His tan hair was receding, his head taking on a rounder shape and paler complexion. Must be staying indoors more, Cam thought, as opposed to being out there finding and killing road agents and raiders.

Cam had led him out to the two horses, Sheriff Davers lifting the dead men’s heads to take a good look before leading Cam back into the sheriff’s office and holding cells.

“One of ’em’s Jarvis … Jarvis Henry, I think. He was hanging around town a few months back. I don’t know the others.”

Cam tried to reason it out. “Okay, well, what do you know about this man Henry?”

“Not a lot,” the sheriff said, opening a bottle of whiskey and pouring a drink. He held the glass out to Cam, who shook his head to refuse the offer. Sheriff Davers held onto the drink and waddled back to his desk, Cam following. “Drifter, came in with some cash, went through it pretty quick. Fell in with a few others, these men I suppose, and disappeared.”

“He didn’t get into any trouble while he was here?”

“None that I know of,” Sheriff Davers said. “And it’s a pretty small town.”

“Getting bigger every day.”

“You’re right about that.” The sheriff looked Cam over. “You’re looking well, Mr. Horn, none the worse for wear anyway … and against four men.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Cam said. “Lost a good man in that raid, a good friend.”

“Sorry to hear it. Seems as if justice has been done, not sure what more I can add.”

“And I’m sorry to hear that. Is this what passes for the law in this country?”

The sheriff sighed as he sat down behind his chair. “The law is not a … a magic wand in the hand of some ancient wizard. There are limits to how much any of us can do. I keep the peace here in town, and —”

“And the rest of us have to fend for ourselves?”

“You’re not the first person to be raided, Horn! But I can’t be out there hunting down every road agent prowling around the Basin and Range Province.”

“I brought you four bodies, one of them you know.”

“So?”

“So, why don’t you ask around. If he was here, some of your locals might have known him. They may know these others too —”

“And then what? Invite them to the funeral? Horn, you’ve solved this matter, case closed. Unless you’d like me to find somebody interested in accusing you of murder.”

“Murder, me? They attacked me in my home, there are witnesses.”

“Ranch hands,” Sheriff Davers said. “Whites, I take it.”

“Mexicans, to a man,” Cam said. “And there was my cook.”

“Chinese?”

“Negro.”

Cam sighed and shrugged. “Go back to them then, get on with your life.”

“What about the man who tried to purchase my land, only six months ago?”

Sheriff Davers gave it some thought, then shrugged. “I know nothing of it.”

“His name was Baller, Nicholas Baller, at least that’s what he called himself. Offered me a pretty penny.”

“And you refused.”

“I did.”

“May I ask why?”

This gave Cam pause. “Reasons of my own,” was his only answer.

The sheriff emptied the little glass. “I don’t know every name of every man, woman, and child in Santa Fe, Horn.”

“But you do know this one.”

“No,” he said, his voice taking a suddenly stern tone, “I do not.”

“Aren’t you interested in finding out about him then? Clean shaven when I saw him last, dark brown hair approaching the shoulders. The man may have paid off these thugs to raid my ranch!”

Sheriff Davers sighed as he gave it some thought. “That is possible, perhaps, though just as likely that the two things are unrelated. There are a lot of people coming across the country now, Horn. People are buying and selling, robbing and raping all over the states and territories. It’s very nearly a lawless country, my friend.”

“Very nearly? What you call laws, I call a joke.”

“But they are the best we have,” Sheriff Davers said. “And as to this man, whoever or wherever he is, short of a living witness to such a deal, what could the law possibly do?” Cam searched his imagination, but he could come up with no answer. After a pause to consider, he went on, “I am sorry for your loss, Horn, and I’m impressed with your … your willingness to further the common good. Interested in work? I could use another deputy.”

Just the idea of spending the rest of his life in that town, dealing with the scum of the population, incapable of making any real progress or defending any innocents, a job that was more of a joke, was enough to turn Cam’s stomach. He answered only, “No, thank you.”

*

Ariel Senter had been on her way back to the new offices of The Santa Fe Inquisitor when she spotted the two horses hitched in front of the jailhouse, one of them piled up with four dead bodies. She looked the bodies over before stepping into the sheriff’s office.

The sheriff was there, as usual, but Ariel did not recognize the other man, tall and very handsome, with black hair and blue eyes.

Black Irish, Ariel knew immediately from her own experience, her own red hair and green eyes revealing her own Scotch/Irish lineage.

Sheriff Davers said, “Miss Senter.”

“Sheriff Davers, good afternoon.”

The sheriff nodded. “For some of us more than others. This is Cameron Horn, of the Triple Horn Ranch.” Cam tipped his hat to her as the sheriff went on to Cam, “This is Ariel Senter, of the new Santa Fe Inquisitor.”

“Miss,” Cam said to Ariel.

“Sir,” she responded, turning to the sheriff and pulling out a tablet of paper and a small pencil. “I couldn’t help noticing the four men out there. Is there something you’d like to share with my readers?”

But Sheriff Davers held his hand up to indicate Cam. “Horn’s work, matter of fact. Seems they raided his ranch. One of them is Jarvis Henry, don’t know the others.”

Ariel scribbled the information down in shorthand. She asked Cam, “When did this happen?”

“This morning, matter of fact. They killed one of my hands, Rodrigo Dominguez.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Ariel said, noticing that the sheriff seemed to be eyeing his two guests, trying to disguise some keen interest in the conversation. “How old was he?”

“Twenty-five, I think, about five years my junior.”

“My age,” Ariel said, scribbling before turning to the sheriff. “What shall I tell my readers you intend to do about it, Sheriff?”

Sheriff Davers shrugged. “We’ll bury the men tomorrow; you can print that.” He seemed to digest her deadpan expression, the man Cam Horn wearing a similar expression, calmly impatient. “And … and you can reassure the good people of Santa Fe that I am diligent regarding other transgressors. These men wound up dead, and peace has been returned to Santa Fe.”

The sheriff let a long silence punctuate his silence. There was either no more to say or no more that he would say, but nothing about either one surprised Ariel, not one bit.

Chapter Four

As they stepped out to the street, Cam was taken aback by how attractive this Ariel Senter was. She had the look of several Irish girls he’d grown up around back in Boston. Her green eyes shone out from her creamy, lightly freckled complexion, lips small and plump. He looked down upon her, shorter than his six-foot height by about six inches, her body small and compact and curvaceous in her bodice and skirt.

But Cam was there on grim business, and he was determined to keep his mind on the matters at hand.

She asked, “No help from the sheriff, I take it?”

“I’m not sure if he’s corrupt, lazy, or simply stupid.”

“Perhaps a combination of all three,” Ariel said, the two sharing a little chuckle. “You say you didn’t know any of these men? And you can’t think of any reason the men would strike your ranch … other than the obvious, I mean?”

“I can,” Cam said. “I was approached by a man who wanted to buy the land, and my concern is that he hired these thugs to kill me so he could just take it. Though I have to admit I haven’t a shred of evidence, and the sheriff, well, as you say …”

Ariel nodded and glanced around. “There was another raid on a nearby ranch not long ago, just outside of Santa Fe.”

“Really? That’s something the sheriff should have mentioned.”

“Maybe,” Ariel said. “Where is this … Triple Horn Ranch of yours?”

“About ten miles east.”

“I see.” A moment of consideration passed, and she seemed to read his impatient silence. “The other was about twenty miles southeast; a bit less, I think.” Cam tried to imagine the raiders’ course, drawn between one ranch and the other. Ariel went on, “Four people killed among the ranch owner’s people, some of their family, a few of the bandits too.”

“And the sheriff didn’t do anything?”

“He investigated,” Ariel said, “so did I. Didn’t come up with much. Nothing about a man making any offer. But with a second strike, maybe we’ll find a connection.”

Cam gave it some thought, but few enough possibilities appeared to his mind’s eye. “Suppose it’s the very same men, raiding their way west. Like the sheriff said, their raiding days are over.”

“Theirs,” Ariel said. “But at least I’ll be able to tell my readers that an errant band of raiders has finally been taken down … and of the hero who put an end to their reign of terror.”

Cam broke a little smile. “You can leave that part out.”

Ariel paused, seeming to give that some special consideration. But there were other things to think about, even more immediate. She glanced at the bodies on Marigold’s back. “You know where the mortician is?” Cam shook his head. “I’ll show you.”

Cam smiled and unhitched the horses. He helped Ariel onto Summer’s back, then climbed up onto the saddle behind Ariel to lead Marigold down the street, the sky darkening above them.

*

Nick Baller lit a cigarette, smoke wafting out above the cafe courtyard, street traffic and pedestrians passing without paying him the slightest notice.

They have no idea, he thought, the fools. Look at them going about their lives, thinking themselves important, even successful. If they survive to forty with half-a-mouthful of teeth and a dollar in their pockets, they’re happy. But they have no clue what true success is, how much wealth there is here.

People walked by, women in bell-shaped pagoda sleeves and tatting and men in four-in-hand neckties and frock coats. Many were white, a trend Baller expected to continue, though very few of them shared his good taste in fashion. Men wore their hair short, instead of over the shoulders the way Baller’s brown hair fell. Several had mustaches like his own, though few were as well-combed and flowing as Baller considered his.

He took a sip of the tequila, hot in his throat, pleasant in the cooling spring of the New Mexico evening.

Scanning the pedestrians, Baller noticed increasingly how many darker faces there were among them. Negroes and Mexicans were allowed on the street as well, wearing rags and smelling of labor and misery. Like packs of dogs, he thought, smoke pouring out of his nostrils, I’d put them all down if I could.

But they do have function, purpose, utility. Those negroes can earn even more money as freed laborers than they ever did as slaves. The Mexicans are as good as slaves as well, or they soon shall be. And the Indians? They’re as good as dead.

It was easy to imagine the streets of Santa Fe in the years to come, crowded with more horses and carts, more buildings built wider and taller and closer together. There would be progress, there would be money, and he would help bring it to them.

Not that any but the lucky few among them will enjoy it. Most will go on suffering in their squalor, grubbing around in the dirt like snakes and scorpions, thinking of themselves as dangerous, even deadly.

But they’re nothing; fodder to be used, bugs to be crushed underfoot.

Among the rabble, Baller noticed a familiar and very pretty face, red hair tucked under a wide-brimmed bonnet. Ariel Senter walked with a man Baller also recognized, a tall fellow whose black hair and blue eyes indicated a black Irish heritage.

The newspaperwoman, Baller told herself, with the rancher Horn, Cameron Horn?

They walked toward the cafe and would soon be only a few feet from Baller, who stood to step into the cafe, choosing to remain out of sight. He’d been trailing the woman for weeks, and though he’d taken precautions, in a town like Santa Fe there was a real danger of her finding him out. And he had little doubt why the notoriously reclusive Cam Horn was suddenly in Santa Fe and speaking with a newspaper reporter.

Steps would have to be taken, and quickly.

---

“On the Hunt for Justice” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

On the east part of Santa Fe, there lives a lone rancher who only uses a bullwhip for defense. Defying guns is Cam Horn’s way of seeking redemption for a mysterious event that happened years earlier. When raiders attack his ranch he will discover he’s only the latest victim of a series of raids around the area. With the help of a plucky newspaperwoman, Ariel, he will start investigating the shadowy figure behind the attacks with her. Is the whip master strong enough not only to defeat the culprit but also to escape the wrongdoings of his past?

When a gunslinger who is an old friend of Cam’s shows up with the key to revealing his hidden past, a tense alliance will be formed. Step by step, the three of them will start putting the puzzle pieces together. But when the gunslinger takes a new interest in Ariel, he will become a rival for her affections. Will they uncover the secret of the little desert town, or will they discover that some things are better stayed hidden?

A pulse-pounding tale of tested loyalty and love forged in blood and gunfire. Will the greedy and powerful overwhelm the innocent and truthful, or will justice finally prevail on the streets of Santa Fe?

An action-packed story of seeking justice and solving crimes, featuring complex and fascinating characters and twists that will leave the reader breathless. A must-read for fans of Western action and romance.

“On the Hunt for Justice” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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