Prologue
Redding, CA. 1870
Pastor Sylvester Flack sat in a corner of the Redwood Saloon, the biggest in Redding, California. It was the bastion of the wicked, two stories of fornication and chicanery, libations, and lacerations. Men stood around some tables, throwing dice and smoking cigars, others sat around and kept their cards close to their chests. A piano jangled in one corner. Girls clustered around it with breasts heaving out of their tight corsets.
Sylvester shook his head. He’d been in places like that before, in towns up and down the Northwest. They only seemed to get worse, more crowded, as people continued to pour West. They came in search of gold, of freedom, of new lives. What they found was premature death, crime, the worst cruelties of animal and man.
Sylvester marveled, and not nearly for the first time, what the Lord must have had in mind to allow His finest creation, Man, to stoop so low. He knew there was a purpose, as there was to everything God did. But the reason for it seemed beyond him, even after years of study.
Though just twenty years old, too young to have fought in that great and terrible war, Sylvester had still seen Satan’s works up close, in details too gruesome to recall. The visions plagued his memory, preventing sleep, driving him further into travails of the soul. It had been those very horrors which had sent him rushing into the Lord’s embrace. But they were ongoing, getting worse as the years went on. Sylvester struggled to find the progress, and eventually, the purpose.
But then men like Gomez and Malvoyne came along. Sitting across the table from him, they were good men, as good as the landscape would allow. Gomez was the son of a Mexican and his white wife, while Malvoyne had migrated from the East. They were an unlikely pair of bounty hunters, one a half-breed and the other a Jew, but Sylvester didn’t care anything about that. The Lord had his mysterious ways, he knew that.
Sitting and chatting with the fellows, Sylvester knew they were men of high moral quality. He knew it by the way they treated him, with respect and not disdain for a new preacher in town. Though the two men with him were new to Redding as well, passing through on the heels of a feared killer.
“A man like this,” Malvoyne said, scratching his chin through his thick, black beard, “he’d kill ya in yer sleep just to quiet the snorin’.”
Gomez nodded, his mustache long over the sides of his mouth, his chin caked with stubble. “That’s right, Padre. Dayton Kellogg, he’s the devil’s own.”
Malvoyne added, “He’s left a trail of bodies across the nation, chased him all the way from Colorado.”
“The man knows you’re after him?”
“He’s always been one step ahead,” Gomez said, “as if he can read our minds. As if he has his fingers in our very souls!”
Malvoyne said, “What did we say about all that? I don’t wanna hear it.”
Sylvester asked him, “You don’t believe in the devil, do you? As a matter of doctrine, I mean.”
“As a matter of policy, preacher. Too long on the trail, those things plague a man. Things are bad enough as they are.”
Sylvester looked around the saloon. Gaudy, bawdy women leaned over wreaking, lonely men, each savoring the interaction and the promises of more intimacy to come. Each would pay their freight and carry their weight, and each would pay their due in coin well known. The smoke was so thick that the women and their customers could hardly be seen coming in and out of the little private rooms, never there for long.
Scanning the room, it was impossible to guess how many crimes had been committed by the men there, and the women, perhaps dozens each or many more.
“They are indeed bad enough,” Sylvester couldn’t help but say.
“They’ll be a lot better once Kellogg’s kickin’ air at the end of a rope.”
“After a proper trial,” Sylvester said.
“Of course,” Malvoyne said before taking a sip of his warm beer. “We’re not killers for hire, preacher.”
“But if they force our hand,” Gomez said, “then it must be what the Lord wills, Padre.”
“Someone slaps my cheek,” Malvoyne huffed, “I slap back, my friend.” Sylvester nodded, knowing he was in no place to offer any contradictions, whatever the bible may have advised. “The bounties almost always pay. Still, what kind of a person takes any satisfaction at all in killing a man?” Malvoyne stared out for a moment, seeming to be lost in a daze, sadness overtaking his expression. It was easy for Sylvester to guess that Malvoyne was reviewing the gallery of his righteous victims, finding in them no doubt shadows of his own countenance.
“Just this one last bounty,” Gomez said, “and we are done with this life, amigo. We’ll go back to Boise.”
Sylvester repeated, “Boise?”
“Our women,” Gomez said, “our families. My boy is eight years old now!”
“God bless,” Sylvester said.
“My little Ruth just turned two,” Malvoyne said, “such a little yenta already, she is.” He turned to Gomez. “Maybe we shouldn’t have left, eh, my friend?”
“Kellogg’s worth a high price, amigo. Enough for that ranch. Make sure we can live in peace.”
Malvoyne nodded but turned to fall into another reverie. He muttered, “If ever men deserve to be at peace.”
Sylvester could sense the heaviness of the man’s soul. He knew it in his own soul, and he knew that there was some measure of peace that not even the Lord Almighty could bring to some poor souls. He wondered if he and this melancholy Jew weren’t two birds of a single feather, that fate had brought them to flock together for some reason neither could know.
It would only make sense. Sylvester had been following the voice of God for years, essentially wandering from town to town to find where the Lord wanted him to be, what the Lord wanted him to do. It seemed to be an answer that would come only at the end of the riddle of his life, long after it was of any use to anyone.
But Sylvester knew these two men were just the type of men the Lord might send, like the angels He sent down to last good man of Sodom, to Lot and his family to liberate them from God’s wrath. And like the angry Sodomites, a small party of men pushed through the front doors of the saloon, going unnoticed by most.
But Malvoyne and Gomez took a quick look and then turned together, their backs to the new customers. By the way they hunched down, sharing a dubious glance, Sylvester knew the name of at least one of the three men who’d just stepped into the Redwood.
They barked a few things, voices brash and bold, the words lost to Sylvester in the din of the room’s dozens of conversations and conspiracies. They swaggered up to the bar, not caring who or what they disrupted, if anything. It was easy for Sylvester to guess that they didn’t care about anything at all, other than the pleasures of the saloon.
Sylvester sat quietly, his body riddled with tension, muscles tight, and jaw clenched. He showed none of it, knowing that the greater good was to sit and let Gomez and Malvoyne make their play.
Malvoyne asked his partner, “How do you wanna handle this? Too many innocent people in the room to draw on ‘em in here.”
Gomez nodded, eyes shifting. “Wait, bushwhack ‘em outside.”
“Suppose they don’t go outside? Suppose they stay in? Could be all night.”
“Then that’s as long as we’ll stay,” Gomez said. “Santa Maria!”
“Hey, what’d I tell you ‘bout that?”
Sylvester’s imagination was already alight with visions, inspiration seeming to come directly from above. “What if I were to distract the man you want, and you two can disarm his fellows from behind? Then you could take them out of here peaceably and ride them off to the sheriff.”
Gomez and Malvoyne glanced at one another, then broke out into a little mutual chuckle. Malvoyne said, “Why don’t you let us tend to our business, preacher?”
“Very well,” Sylvester said, “you fellows sit here and laugh while those men rob and perhaps murder some of these people right under your noses.”
Malvoyne said, “Could raise the bounty.”
But Gomez seemed to be having second thoughts. “It’s not a bad idea, amigo.” He turned to Sylvester. “You know the one we want? With the short brown hair, clean-shaved.”
Sylvester looked over Gomez’s shoulder at the three men, one of them fitting that description. The others had long hair, one blond and the other black, pulled back in tight ponytails. The blond man had matching sideburns. The other wore a full black beard like Malvoyne’s.
Malvoyne said, “The preacher could get hurt.”
Gomez said, “I don’t want him slipping away again. Anyway, we’ll have God on our side, amigo!”
Malvoyne looked from Gomez to Sylvester and back, then sighed and seemed to deflate a little bit, clearly ready to go along with it, even in spite of his better judgment.
Gomez said, “You go in first, Padre. We come in for the others behind. Do not speak the man’s name, for the Lord’s sake!”
“No, of course not,” Sylvester said.
“You’ll tip our hand,” Malvoyne said, “get us all killed!” He turned to Gomez. “You sure about this?”
Gomez stared Malvoyne down. “You remember San Jacinto?”
Malvoyne nodded and leaned back, hands up. He wouldn’t raise any further objection, Sylvester felt certain. But he also sympathized with the man’s doubt. Still, God seemed to be calling him to action, making good on His promise to help those who help others.
Gomez turned back to Sylvester. “Good luck, amigo.”
Sylvester’s blood felt like it was rushing in his veins, heart beating strong in his chest. He pushed his chair back and stood up, pulling his bible from his jacket pocket as he walked across the crowded saloon toward the three men.
He was already piecing together how he could put the men in positions of greatest vulnerability. He walked up and then a bit past them, careful not to make eye contact. They were sharing some mumbling, grumbling conversation he couldn’t make out and didn’t need to make out. What mattered was that Sylvester attract their attention from the other side, to let Gomez and Malvoyne approach the two others from behind.
It’ll be up to me to disarm the leader, Sylvester already knew, looking down at the bible he carried. I’ll need both hands for that.
But he already knew that he may yet die holding that sacred tome. He was going face-to-face with hardened murderers on a whim with virtually no experience in such things. Still, as Gomez had said, he had the Lord on his side.
Once past the three men, Sylvester turned and caught Dayton Kellogg’s line of sight.
“Are you…is it…Daniel? Daniel Hammel?”
Dayton and his cohorts looked over from their place at the bar. “Get lost,” one of Kellogg’s men said.
“No, sir, I meant this other man here.”
“He knows who y’meant,” the other man said, on Kellogg’s left-hand side. “But he ain’t the guy yer meanin’, so get lost ‘for y’get herself kil’t!”
“Take it easy, boys,” the man behind the bar said, “that’s the new preacher in town.”
One of the other men asked him, “And who the devil are you?”
“Rupert Trent, this is my joint.”
“Well, take it easy,” the blond man said. “We won’t bust the place up none.”
They turned slowly to face Sylvester again. Kellogg himself asked, “Preacher, eh?” The three men shared a menacing chuckle.
Rupert said, “Fellas, please? I’ll take a hand.”
Kellogg held up his hand to quiet the bartender without bothering to look back, keeping his eyes on Sylvester, just where Sylvester wanted them to be.
Kellogg smiled, but there was no mirth in it, only mischief. “I always have a…a special place in my heart for preachers.”
Sylvester asked, “Is that so?” He tried not to reveal that Gomez and Malvoyne were making good progress toward them from behind. “Your father was a preacher, perhaps?”
“He was,” Kellogg said, “for an actual fact. And there wasn’t a kinder, gentler, more fair-minded man on God’s green Earth.” Sylvester could hear the strain in Kellogg’s voice, see his jaws clench. “Why, I can hardly count the times he used to get drunk with his bible, then turn all that…all that divine love on his family.” A lump rose in Sylvester’s throat as Kellogg went on, “I can still remember how…how fair he was, to my mother, even to me. He was doing the Lord’s work, that’s…that’s what he said.”
Sylvester tried not to glance at Gomez and Malvoyne, almost close enough to pounce. But it didn’t look like they’d have the chance as Kellogg and his boys stepped away from the bar and toward Sylvester, quickly surrounding him.
Big, red-bearded Rupert said, “Not in front of the bar either, boys. I don’t care what y’do, but y’can’t do it here.”
“Don’t worry,” one of Kellogg’s goons answered. “There’s a pepper tree nearby, do just fine.”
The two others lurched forward and grabbed his arms, bible still in one hand, to drag him out of the saloon and into the street.
Good, Sylvester thought, away from the innocents in the room. Out here, it should be easier for the others to do what God needs them to do. Whatever happens…the two men are there, they’ll protect me!
They dragged him out into the street, the night dark and the thoroughfare muddy and dank.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.
One of Kellogg’s men said, “Let’s just do him here’s now. I don’t feel like a whole to-do.”
“Tie him up, you sling him over the back of yer saddle.”
The two men rushed forward on each side of Sylvester, pulled away from his arms by an unseen force. He dropped the bible and stumbled forward, recovering, and looking up to see Gomez and Malvoyne already fighting with the two men. The man called Kellogg looked at Sylvester, their eyes meeting. Kellogg seemed to know that Sylvester had been involved with the other two men, that he’d been set up by a decoy preacher.
But the fight between his men and Sylvester’s was fast and terrible, guns drawing and firing as pedestrians and others gasped and ran for cover. The gunfire crackled in the night, nearby horses bucking and shaking their heads.
Sylvester felt paralyzed with fear, no options open to him. His soul was not willing to flee, but his hands were unable to fight. He was unarmed, according to his beliefs. But around him, death swirled like a storm, wiping out everyone near him. The gun smoke drifted up into the air as the men shot into each other at close range. None of them escaped the bullets’ deadly trajectories. Gomez and Malvoyne cramped and bent, still shooting as they went down. The other men with Kellogg did the same, the blond man snapping back and falling to the ground, gun still shooting as he went down.
After the furious burst of violence and death, Kellogg stood as shocked as Sylvester was, the two of them alone in the middle of the street. Kellogg drew a Colt pistol from his holster and pointed it at Sylvester, who stood empty-handed. He glanced at the bible in the mud not far from Gomez’s lifeless right hand.
Thou art with me, Sylvester silently recited. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
Pedestrians gathered in the echoing silence of the street, Sylvester feeling their witness upon them. With a glance around at them, Kellogg seemed to feel the same thing. Kellogg said to the entire crowd, “I am guiltless here! These men attacked us!”
“You were going to kill me!”
“You can’t prove that preacher! I’m innocent in all of this!” Kellogg backed up, leaving the bodies of his men behind. “Nobody follow me!” He pointed the gun at the onlookers, and they gasped and stepped further back. Kellogg turned the gun on Sylvester as he stepped away. “This ain’t over, preacher. Bet on it.”
Kellogg turned and scrambled to his horse across the street. He untied it and climbed on, his gun still poised and ready to shoot before he shook the reins and the brown paint carried him away from the Redwood Saloon.
Sylvester turned to the two men. Malvoyne lay dead, but Gomez was groaning, a long and lonely wheeze. Sylvester sank to his knees, picking up the bible with one hand and taking Gomez’s with the other.
“Do you wish to confess your sins before Christ?” Gomez barely nodded, fingers tightening just a bit around Sylvester’s. “Do you seek absolution in the blood of the lamb?” Gomez squeezed his hand again, but the grip loosened, and Sylvester felt the good man’s life slip away. He knew his family would never see him again, never see him arriving in happy victory and sweet satisfaction. “I’ll tell them,” Sylvester said, “yours and your friend’s as well, in Boise. They’ll not have to wait, forever not knowing. I promise you that. I…I promise.”
Sylvester prayed through the night while the mortician did his grim business. It was sunrise before the four graves were dug, Sylvester’s own last few coins donated toward the cause.
“Dear friends,” Sylvester read from 1 Peter 2, Gomez’s half-filled grave before him, only the gravediggers there to see good men and bad sent to their Creator. “I urge you, as foreigners and exiles, to abstain from sinful desires, which wage war against your soul. Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of wrongdoing, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us.”
Sylvester had chosen the scriptures himself, to speak for Malvoyne and Gomez and to them, to speak for himself and to himself, to speak for the community and to the community. The sheriff was there, tipping his hat in the morning glare, glancing around at anybody who would dare show any respect. Nobody did. Tall and bony and bald to the shine, Sheriff Harland Cavanaugh looked like death itself, come back to the scene of his crime.
“Submit yourselves for the Lord’s sake to every human authority,” Sylvester went on, the words having grave new meaning for him and his future, the only one of the five who still had one. “Whether to the emperor, as the supreme authority,” Sylvester read on, “or to governors, who are sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to commend those who do right.”
The truth of his revelation was clear to Sylvester. It had been so since the deaths the night before. His journey had brought him to a crossroads, he only then realized. He’d been seeking the best way to serve God, where and when, and how best to do it. Standing by while good men died, waiting for execution, seemed like folly to Sylvester. Two good men had given their lives so that Sylvester could finally see clearly what God and fate had in mind for him.
Sylvester read on, “For it is God’s will that by doing good you should silence the ignorant talk of foolish people.” It all made perfect sense, every tragedy and every day of his life lining up to put him where he was, when he was there, just as God intended. “Live as free people, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as God’s slaves.”
Sylvester glanced at the sheriff, staring him dead in the eye. The two men were on the same side, each doing what little they could to keep the law, man’s law, and God’s. And Sylvester knew he could only serve one master.
“Show proper respect to everyone,” Sylvester read on, “love the family of believers, fear God, honor the emperor.”
Sylvester knew what path he would be taking. He closed the bible and tossed it into Gomez’s grave, the gravediggers not seeming to notice as the shovelfuls of dirt collected on the old book. Sylvester felt that a part of himself had died and was being buried with the bible, with Gomez and the others. That man was dead and needed to be buried. He truly had been killed on that street the night before. It seemed clear as a bell’s toll.
It was time for rebirth, resurrection in the flesh. Sylvester turned to walk away from the last sermon he’d ever give. He was no longer a pastor by his own accounting. There was another way to serve the Lord, to follow in the footsteps of men like Gomez and Malvoyne. It would be a long and ugly road, but justice would wait at the journey’s end and the sweet release of death at last. Until then, he was in God’s service, but no longer the gentle right hand. He would have to stand at the Creator’s sinister side and haunt the hills for men like Dayton Kellogg, the vengeful Left Hand of God.
Chapter One
Redding, CA. 1875
Angie Honeywell brought her father the bag she’d packed for him, including two weeks’ worth of dried venison, hard corn biscuits, fresh apples from their own tree. It would be enough to get him through most of his journey, she hoped. But he wasn’t going without funds, guns, everything he usually took on his trips out into the mountains.
He wouldn’t hear her objections. He never did, and she’d long since come to realize and accept it. There’d always been something about his calling which had matched the measure of his manhood. Without it, Angie was afraid the venerable Orville Honeywell would lose that vitality which was his greatest advantage. She willingly packed his bags and carried them out to his horse, already loaded with his clothes and saddlebags and bedroll.
He looked at her with that gentle smile, warm eyes, a loving air she could never imagine being out in the Coast Mountain Range, facing hardened criminals and murderous rascals. He was tough, but she never featured his place among the worst men in the West, never mind tracking them down and bringing them in or leaving them where they stood.
But he’d always come back before, never forgetting his duty to her. That was what hurt Angie the most, that he ventured out for himself, it was true, but for her as well. When all was said and done, it was the only way he could make a living, and he owed it to her to do that until she could find a worthy husband of her own.
“Just this last run,” he’d told her as he climbed up onto his gray, speckled mare. “It’s Dayton Kellogg. He’s worth a fortune. We’ll be able to turn our attention to finding you a proper husband.”
“What I want is a proper father,” Angie said behind her pout. But nothing was going to stop the great man of her experience from mounting up and riding off. He’d raised Angie to be a capable homesteader and a dead-eye shot. She would be able to see to herself until his return, as she’d done since her mother’s death just a few years before. It was sad to be alone in the house but even sadder to know her father would be alone on the hunt.
Angie could only stand there as her father turned and rode away from the house. His horse took him at a steady gait. It would be a long journey, she knew, perhaps one that would have no end.
Angie took a deep breath to suppress her worry. She put her trust in her father and her faith in God and watched Orville Honeywell ride to his destiny.
The ground started to shake, a low rumble rolling in from the distance. It sounded like a herd of cattle bearing down on the property, invisible hooves ready to trample anything in their path. Angie looked around and then back at her father, riding out at about fifty feet away. He stopped, his horse turning so he could face his daughter as the ground shook and buckled around them.
Angie took a few furtive steps toward her father and away from their house. The earthquake grew stronger, a boom like thunder sending a wave of terror through her body. Wooden creaks and moans rose up from behind her, Angie spinning to see the house beginning to crumble, falling in on itself and sinking into the ground.
It seemed just as impossible as it was undeniable. Angie could barely stay on her feet, turning to reconnect with her father.
Orville stayed on his horse, looking around with what looked like frightened concern, even at that distance. Angie stepped out to run to him, but the trembling Earth shook even harder, threatening to throw her feet out from under her. Angie put out her arms to try to stabilize herself. Great fissures broke open in the ground, massive cracks stretching across the property. The slabs of land separated as the cracks grew wider, the ground falling into the darkness of the abyss just under her feet.
Angie tried to call out to her father, but her lungs were breathless. She couldn’t fashion a single sound. She wanted to run to him, but her brain would give her legs no command. And fifty feet away, the ground finally broke beneath her father’s horse. The mare whinnied and scrambled to run, but it could only flail against fate as gravity sucked it into the huge caverns opening up in the ground.
Orville looked at Angie from his mount, fear and confusion in his face as the horse pulled him down. It whinnied and cried as it fell in, rolling to cover Orville beneath its massive weight as they both fell into the depths of the planet.
Angie took another step toward them but stopped, a huge crack splitting just beneath her. Angie gasped as she tried to run, but it was already too late. She reached out as the Earth sucked her into its massive jaws. Angie’s heart nearly burst in her chest as she fell, hands barely managing to grip the edge of the fissure. Her legs dangled, her belly flat against the side of the new cliff as the planet shook, her fingers slipping little by little until she couldn’t hang on any longer.
Angie fell from the side of the fissure, her stomach lurching up into her lungs as she hovered for just a moment and then began to fall, hard and fast into the utter and complete darkness of certain, terrible death.
Angie bolted up in her bed, eyes springing open. She gasped for air, her strawberry blonde hair plastered to her cheeks by a sheen of cold sweat. She looked around her dark bedroom, eyes quick to focus on the modest furniture, the window in the corner of the room.
Only a dream, Angie could reassure herself, her heart pounding in her chest but slowing to a normal beat. Only a dream.
But dreams had meaning, Angie had long known. Her dreams were not like the dreams of other people. They had a purpose, she’d always thought. She wasn’t sure how to explain it, but Angie was not about to ignore them, not seven days after he’d left. She was due for a wire, and it would only be a few hours until daylight when the telegraph office would open.
Until then, Angie dropped herself down onto her damp quilt, hoping to get a little more sleep, confident that it wouldn’t happen.
Chapter Two
Angie saddled up her mare, nicknamed Righteous, and rode into the center of town from their property just on the outskirts. The modest farm had become even more modest with only Angie to see to it. Her father often spoke of moving to a little house in the center of town, just as soon as he had enough money.
Just one more big bounty and all would be well.
Angie generally liked going into town, though this time, her stomach was turning, her mouth dry. The increasingly crowded streets were harder to navigate, people looking up at her with soured faces, grimaces, and snarls. The whole of the town seemed to have some unknown grudge, sudden and unwelcoming.
Just my imagination, Angie told herself, has to be. Too worried about Dad, that’s all. Need a good night’s sleep.
Angie rode to the telegraph station, an office of the Redding Train Station. A heaving tide of travelers filled the big station house, but the little telegraph office was fairly quiet. The bookish little man behind the counter wore a small, tightly trimmed mustache, his hair limited to a ring around a bald pate.
“Miss Honeywell,” the clerk said, smiling to see her stepping into the little office. He turned and sifted through several pieces of paper on a nearby desk. “Something came in for you just yesterday. My messenger has quit, I’m afraid, and I haven’t found a suitable replacement.”
Angie nodded, handed him a fifty-cent piece, and turned to read the piece of paper, written by hand:
To: Miss Angela Honeywell, Redding, CA
From: Sally Norton, Eureka, CA
Dear Miss Honeywell:
When your father returns, please remind him that he owes a remittance of thirty dollars for a four-day stay on my premises and other expenses. Tell him we do not appreciate being left in the lurch. Furthermore, his custom is no longer welcome at this boarding house.
Yours in Christ,
Norton
Angie stood in the office in shock. The clerk asked her, “Everything all right, Miss Honeywell?” Angie could hardly explain, so she merely turned and stepped out of the office and into the street.
Angie knew her father would never have skipped out on a hotel tab. This was why he hadn’t sent a wire as expected by that time.
But it could mean any number of things, Angie reminded herself as she stepped idly down the elevated wooden sidewalk. He’s probably in the hills, closing in on his enemy. But then, he’d have closed out his tab and reported to me first, as he always did. No, if he’s disappeared like this, there’s something behind it, something sinister.
Everything in Angie’s instinctive mind told her there was trouble for her father, and that it originated in the coastal town of Eureka, just a few days’ ride, but through some very treacherous terrain. For a young woman to take the trip escorted was dangerous, but taking it alone could be suicide, even for a lethal shot like Angie Honeywell.
She’d need help, and she’d need it fast.
“Riding Under the Ominous Moon” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!
When Angie’s father vanishes without a trace, there is no one to turn to for help. She knows she’ll have to go on a rescue mission to find him, yet, she needs assistance. She contacts a mysterious bounty hunter named Sly, who offers to look for him while on the hunt for the most wanted murderer in the state. Despite Sly’s honest efforts, however, Angie is still skeptical about his intentions…
With both her father’s and her own life in danger, can she really trust Sly?
Sly is still having nightmares after witnessing his two friends being murdered by a ruthless outlaw. He’s devoted his life to capturing him, but when Angie turns up at his door, pleading for his help, he’s reluctant and worried about the consequences. His passion for justice wins out though, and he knows it is time to swallow his fear and challenge his demons.
Sly finds himself knee-deep in a perilous journey that is marred by a horrific tragedy…
There’s no escape for them and their dwindling allies as more powerful forces surround them. Sly and Angie will have to call upon all their faith to survive a journey that will put their skills to the test. In the meantime, they’ll discover more about themselves than they’d ever imagined possible… But will it cost them everything they love, everything they are, everything they have?
“Riding Under the Ominous Moon” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.
Hi there, I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek of my latest story! I will be impatiently waiting for your comments below.