Trouble on the Wagon Train (Preview)

Prologue

A whiff of smoke exiting the barrel of his pearl-handled Army Colt .44, Judd “Red” Wheeler glanced up the street at the youth sprawled on the ground, yet to feel the sharp edge of a razor against the blond fuzz on his cheek. With a slight shake of his head, he twirled his gun back in the holster that he kept oiled and tied to his leg. The pistol made a soft plop as it returned home. Red slid the loop over the hammer.

“What a waste,” Red mumbled as men, some with half-filled whiskey bottles in their hands, watched from the saloon porch, wide-eyed. Other farmers and ranch hands jawing on the porch of Bill’s Feed and Seed across the street had stopped all conversation to rush into the street. Seeing them flooding the street, the men on the saloon porch did likewise to form a circle around Red and the blond boy’s body.

Red regretted having to kill the kid. He could have tried to wing him, but doing so might have allowed the blond kid to get off a shot. Of course, the bullet would have been meant for Red, but it could have struck one of the gawkers on either side of the street. No, Red did what he had to do and put the .44 into the kid’s heart.

“He’s dead, Red,” a thin, gray-haired, bespeckled old man, Doc Jones, said after taking a knee and examining Toby Wallace.

Toby had ridden into Cripple Creek this morning. He had made straight for the Mad Dog Saloon. After a couple of shots of whiskey, he’d told anyone who would listen that he meant to outdraw Red Wheeler to prove he was the fastest gunman in Missouri. When Willy Smithers, the local drunk, had laughed at the kid, Toby had drawn his pistol and shot the old man in the chest with his Navy Colt, preferred by him and other hired guns because of its light weight and short barrel. Then the kid had pointed his Colt at Charley Lewis and told him to fetch Marshal Red Wheeler.

“Shot through the heart, Red,” Doc Jones said.

Red, standing straight as a fence post, his hands still lingering near the pearl handle of his pistol, nodded. “Yup,” he said. He didn’t need Doc Jones’s confirmation of the placement of his shot. He had hit the kid where he had aimed.

The kid’s Navy Colt lay on the ground next to his body. Toby had been quick, just not quite fast enough. Had the duel occurred after the kid had matured a few more years, Red figured he might be lying in the dirt and Toby standing with the smoking pistol. Maybe.

Red removed his black felt hat. He’d had a full head of flame hair since he had taken his first breath. Red rolled his hat in his hands as was his custom when considering things.

The name Red had rolled past his father’s lips when the midwife had shown him to his father, Joseph Wheeler. However, the following words had been, “Damn you to Hell! You killed your mother,” when his father had glanced past the midwife at Margret Wheeler, lying pale and motionless on sheets stained with the same red color as his son’s hair. “Your hair is as red as the flames of Hell, and that’s where you are heading for killing your mother.”

That was what Nancy Wright, the midwife, later told Red his father had declared upon seeing him for the first and only time.

Red had grown up in an orphanage until he left to make his way in the rough-and-tumble streets of Kansas City at the age of seven. There, he had fallen in with a gang of four other boys whose mothers worked in the saloons. The boys did odd jobs for the owner of the Red Slipper Saloon and some saloon patrons. Red had learned to shoot and ride at the age of eight, thanks to an older gambler who had taken a liking to him. Realizing that he was better with a pistol than the other boys, Red decided that becoming a fast draw and accurate shot was his way to make something out of his life. So, he’d practiced daily until no man in Kansas City could match his accuracy or speed.

Doc Jones stood, pulled a bandana out of his left hip pocket, and wiped off the fingers he had touched to the kid’s neck, seeking signs of life. “Red, I saw the whole thing. He forced you to draw on him; he drew first. He would have killed you ifin’ you hadn’t beat him to the draw.”

Red shook his head. “It’s a shame, Doc. He wasn’t no more than fifteen. I’ve been forced to face four men this month trying to prove they’re faster than Marshal Red Wheeler.”

Red had taken the job of marshal in Cripple Creek, Missouri, fifteen years ago, thinking he would turn his skill with a big iron to protecting folks. However, the badge and his growing reputation as a quick-draw artist had attracted men seeking the reputation as the man who killed Red Wheeler like a fire draws moths. Red was tired of the unnecessary duels.

“But the kid had already broken bad,” Doc said. “He said in the saloon that he had killed his pappy on his twelfth birthday. And that he killed a man in Independence for no reason at all. I don’t know why he wasn’t in prison. Then he up and shot unarmed Drunk Willy.”

“Yup, and he shot Drunk Willy dead for no reason except to get my attention,” Red said. “But as for the other kills he confessed to, I didn’t see any wanted posters on him. He might have just been bragging.”

Doc shook his head and asked, “Who would brag about shooting his father?”

Red shrugged.

“So why do you look bothered, Red?” Doc Jones asked.

Why?

He thought of all the men he had sent to boot hill the past fifteen years, some for good reasons but others he had been forced to kill just because they wanted to prove they were faster on the draw than him. He had started to recall their faces in his dreams. I’m tired of killing men just to prove myself.

“I’m just tired, Doc,” Red said.

Men, some half-drunk, crowded closer around Red, smiling at him and discussing how they had never seen someone draw a pistol so fast. Their praise felt like salt on an open wound to Red. No one felt sorry for Toby except him.

Red pushed his way through the crowd and mounted Wrangle. Before he knew it, Red found himself halfway to Mayor Blunt’s office. He didn’t understand why he had turned the gelding toward city hall until he reached the hitch rail and dismounted. By the time he walked into the mayor’s office, he had made a decision.

The scent of the mayor’s cigar mingling with the smell of whiskey in the shot glass on the man’s desk made the room smell like a saloon, except for the unwashed bodies and the overpowering perfume worn by the girls.

“I heard a shot; I reckon you sent another outlaw to boot hill,” Mayor Blunt said, smiling while holding the cigar clenched in the left corner of his mouth. He lowered the newspaper. “I suppose you’re here to ask for a raise to continue to keep the peace in Cripple Creek for another year.”

Red unpinned the marshal’s badge from his black shirt. He tossed the tin star on the desk. “Nope, I’m leaving town. Well, Missouri.”

The mayor sat straight in his chair. “Red, you can’t leave Cripple Creek. The town was a haven for outlaws before you pinned the badge on your shirt. Now decent folks can walk down the streets without fearing for their lives,” he said, pulling the cigar from between his teeth and pointing it at Red. “Damn it, Red. You’ve been marshal of Cripple Creek for fifteen years. You can’t just up and leave the town without a marshal.”

“I’ll tell Deputy Bobby Crawford to see you for his promotion.”

“Damn it, Red!” the mayor exclaimed again.

Red shrugged, turned, and walked across the room. He opened the door and left without another word.

“Well, where in the hell are you going?” Mayor Blunt called out before the door closed.

“West,” Red said before he closed the door behind him. That surprised Red as he hadn’t planned to go west before saying the word.

Red walked out of City Hall, untied Wrangle, and mounted. He walked the big gelding up the street in the opposite direction of the crowd, still gawking at the kid’s body.

He was pleased to see Bobby’s bay gelding tied to the hitching rail. Red slid out of the saddle.

“I ain’t going to be long, Wrangle,” he told the animal, through which flowed the blood of a quarter horse and a thoroughbred. He looped the reins over the hitching rail and headed for the jail.

Walking up the steps to the porch, Red realized this would be the last time he entered the jailhouse. The thought bothered him a little. Red had enjoyed his duties as marshal of Cripple Creek for the past fourteen years—well, except for all the men he had sent to Hell.

Red found Bobby Crawford sitting behind his desk with his feet propped up when he opened the door. Bobby quickly swung his boots off the desk and sat straight in the chair.

“Marshal!”

“Not anymore,” Red said as he approached the gun rack. He lifted his Winchester 76 from the rack and then picked up the two boxes of .50-95 cartridges at the bottom of the rack.

Red had bought the Winchester 76 three months ago and gave Bobby his old Winchester 73. The powerful cartridge the 76 used had almost the stopping power of a Sharps .50 caliber buffalo rifle. However, it made more sense for Red to carry it since it was a repeater instead of a single shot like the Sharps. Next, he lifted the sawed-off double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun with its custom-made pistol grip handle and placed it in the pannier. The shotgun’s length was only 20 inches.

He grabbed the pannier and loaded all the shotgun shells and the rest of the cartridges for the 76.

Bobby walked across the room and stood watching Red. “What do you mean?”

“I resigned. I left my badge with the mayor. You can go and pin it on your shirt. I’m heading West, maybe to California, as soon as I finish packing,” Red said. He turned and carried the 76 and the pannier over to his desk. He opened the drawer and pulled out a gun belt with an Army Colt in the holster. The pistol featured a plain wood grip instead of the pearl handle of the Colt he now packed. Red placed the gun belt and a couple boxes of .44 cartridges from the drawer in the pannier.

I reckon I’ll have to buy more ammo before I leave town. You can never have too much ammo, Red thought.

“Marshal Wheeler, you ain’t just funning me, are you?” Bobby asked.

“Nope,” Red said. He stepped from behind the desk and headed for the door. He paused before opening it. “You had best mosey over to the mayor’s office,” he added before walking out of the jailhouse.

Red placed the Winchester 76 in his scabbard on Wrangle’s left side, pulled the sawed-off 12-gauge out of the pannier, and stuck it into a sheath specially made for the weapon. The scabbard hung forward of the saddle within easy reach of Red’s right hand.

Red paused to look one final time at the jailhouse before he placed the pannier behind the saddle and mounted Wrangle.

He turned the black gelding around and rode toward the saddle shop and his room above it. The undertakers had removed Toby’s body, and the crowd had dispersed.

When Red reached to saddle shop, he tied off Wrangle, grabbed the pannier, headed for the stairs, and almost ran into April Clark.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said and took a step back.

April smiled. “Howdy, Marshal. I haven’t seen you since I married Rex. You didn’t come to the wedding.”

“No, ma’am. I’ve been kind of busy marshaling.”

“Yeah, I saw your handiwork a little while ago in the street. Too bad such a young man’s life had to end so soon.”

“Yes, ma’am. I hated to send him to the cemetery,” Red said.

“Yes, I know you’re a compassionate man,” April said. “Well, nice seeing you, Marshal; I’ve got to go and work the butcher shop counter.”

Red touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”

He watched April walk away and sighed. She had almost thrown herself at him for several months before giving up on him. Then, less than a month later, she’d married the butcher Fred Clark.

Red had liked April but had a problem talking seriously with any woman. He could chat about the weather and everyday things, but he clammed up like a mute when expressing his feelings.

It all went back to his upbringing in the orphanage in Kansas City. He’d grown up with only boys; even the attendants in the orphanage were Jesuit priests. Then, when he ran away from the orphanage, he’d joined the gang of boys whose mothers had abandoned them. So, he had gone through his entire adolescence without meaningful contact with women.

Red climbed the stairs and stepped into the small room. As he filled the pannier with his extra shirts, skivvies, and socks, he thought back to when he had taken the job as marshal. He’d thought then that he could overcome his problem with women in Cripple Creek and, as the marshal, could find a nice woman, settle down, and raise a houseful of children. He had found April, but he just couldn’t bring himself around to courting her.

I’m hopeless, Red thought as he walked out the door. He stood a moment to look out at the town of Cripple Creek before he stepped off the landing. He wouldn’t miss the town or the job.

Chapter One

“Whoa, Wrangle,” Red said. He glanced down Independence’s main street. The dusty street teemed with men on horseback or driving mule-drawn covered wagons and folks afoot.

Red had never seen so many folks at one time on a street since leaving Kansas City. Men dressed in clothes that looked foreign crowded the sidewalk, peering into shop windows or jawing among themselves, some in languages he couldn’t understand. With so many people, Red figured they should all be strangers to each other. However, groups of men and women talked among themselves like old friends as they walked along the boardwalk or stared into shops.

Settlers headed West.

That made sense to Red since Independence, Missouri, anchored the Oregon and Santa Fe Trails heading West.

With all these folks heading West, there must be wagon trains leaving regularly. I shouldn’t have a problem hiring on as a guard.

As Wrangle walked along the street, people stared at the black horse and his rider dressed in black from head to toe. The glistening white handle of Red’s Army Colt in his right holster drew their eyes. They probably wondered why he wore another holster with a wooden-handled Army Colt; they often stopped jawing and turned to watch him ride past.

Wrangle nickered and tossed his head as though to show his displeasure of the crowded conditions of the street. “Yup, we aren’t in Cripple Creek,” Red said as he urged Wrangle forward, ignoring the glares of the folks he passed.

It ain’t as friendly of a town as I thought it would be.

Red caught up with a mule-drawn wagon and spotted two little blond-haired girls peeking out of the canvas cover. A man and woman sat in the wagon’s seat. The woman wore a multicolored dress the likes of which Red had seldom seen.

He figured the covered wagon was heading to the west end of town to meet with other wagons for the journey on the Santa Fe Trail. Although some settlers used the Oregon Trail, it wasn’t getting as much use since the continental railroad had been completed.

The Santa Fe trail ended in Santa Fe, New Mexico but connected to the Old Spanish Trail that would take settlers to Los Angeles, California. Tired of the cold winters and snow, Red had decided California might be a good place to hang his hat. He had heard that southern California was a place where the sun shone every day. He planned to seek out a wagon train headed out on the Santa Fe Trail. He hoped the wagon master wouldn’t already have enough guards and hire him.

As Red approached a building with a sign hanging from its façade proclaiming it the Wagon Trail Saloon, men burst through the batwing doors with a man dressed in a blue jacket and pants worn by the US cavalry, dragging him by his long black braided hair.

His curiosity piqued, Red reined Wrangle to a stop in front of the saloon. He recognized the bronze skin of an Indian. He almost winced when he spotted the old scars on the young Indian’s face. Scars crisscrossed both cheeks and his forehead. The author of the knife work hadn’t left an inch clear of the jagged scars.

Wrangle snorted, wanting to keep walking. Red ignored the big gelding.

One of the men following behind those dragging the struggling Indian lugged a straight-backed chair. The men holding the Indian between them waited for the chair to be placed on the edge of the porch.

“Who’s got the rope?” someone called from the press of bodies spilling out of the saloon.

“I’ve got it, Dan,” a fellow shouted as he pushed through the swinging doors. He held up the rope, one end tied in a hangman’s noose, over his head for all to see.

“Hatchet Face, this is the last time you’ll cheat at cards,” shouted a young sandy-haired man dressed and a fine leather vest and wearing a double-holstered gun belt filled with a pair of Schofield revolvers. He pushed his way through the crowd gathering on the porch. “Put the noose over his head.”

“Sure thing, Dan,” the man carrying the rope shouted cheerfully as he walked up behind the young Indian.

“I didn’t cheat,” the man said. He paused and laughed. “You just don’t know how to play poker. Hell, I can read your cards by the look on your pretty-boy face.”

“Stand him up in the chair,” Dan ordered once the noose had been placed over the Indian’s head.

The Indian fought the men, but the two riders finally forced him onto the chair.

Red frowned but didn’t speak as he watched the goings-on. I ain’t marshal here. This isn’t my concern.

He started to urge Wrangle past the lynch party but didn’t press his knees into the black’s sides. Instead, he shook his head as the memories of Toby Wallace lying in the dirt with a bullet hole in his shirt flashed through his mind. Sighing, he drew his Colt, lifted it, and fired.

A sudden hush descended on the lynch party and the street. Everyone glanced in Red’s direction.

“Someone fetch the sheriff,” Red demanded, his deep voice cutting through the silence following the gunshot. Eyes had turned from the Indian standing in the chair with a hangman’s noose around his neck to the man in black astride a magnificent black horse holding a pearl-handled pistol.

“Stranger, you need to holster that hog leg and mind your own business,” Dan said as he stared at Red. “It ain’t none of your damn business if we hang an Injun card cheat.”

Red waved the barrel of the Army Colt in the Indian’s direction. “What’s your name, Injun?”

“Hatchet Face,” Dan replied for him.

The young Indian shook his head. “My name is David McGregor.”

Red shook his head, “Hell, what kind of name is that for an Injun?”

“Sitting Bull was taken,” David said.

Red paused a moment and then smiled. “I reckon that’s a joke. Did you cheat at cards?”

“Does it matter?” David asked.

Red nodded. “Yup, it does to me.”

“No, the dandy rancher’s son don’ know an ace from his ass,” David said.

Dan’s hands moved toward his pair of Schofield revolvers. Red made a clicking sound with his tongue as he leveled his Army Colt at him. Dan glanced over. He froze when his gaze locked on Red’s cold blue eyes.

Red shook his head.

The pedestrian traffic in the street, which had stopped when he fired his Colt, started moving again but gave Wrangle a wide berth. However, a few men paused to watch the outcome of the confrontation.

“You’re making a big mistake, stranger…”

“I’m Judd ‘Red’ Wheeler, former marshal of Cripple Creek,” Red interrupted.

A wispy bearded man standing next to Dan leaned forward and whispered something. Dan nodded his head. “Red Wheeler. Hmm, you’re supposed to be lightning-quick with that pearl-handled peacemaker. Hell, I’ve been hankering to meet you.”

“Well, you have. Now, order your rider there to stop fastening the rope and take the noose from around the Injun’s neck,” Red said as a man tossed the end of the rope over an iron hook screwed into the façade below the saloon’s sign and tied it to the porch support.

Dan shook his head. “Nope, I don’t lose at poker to no redskin.” He chuckled. “If you were a lawman, you ain’t going to kill anyone over a stinking half-breed Apache.” He nodded at the man standing behind the chair. “Hang him!”

The two men standing behind the chair kicked the chair’s legs.

The sound of the legs scraping across the planks of the porch caused Red’s eyes to narrow just before he fired his Colt. The .44 bullet shredded the rope, except for a few strands. They snapped from the weight of the falling Indian.

David landed on his feet cat-like. He glanced at Red. “Thanks, amigo.”

“I ain’t your amigo,” Red said, lowering his pistol and pointing it at the men standing on the porch. “Fetch your horse and make tracks!”

David shook his head. “Not without my pistol, my rifle, and my knife!”

The Indian’s demands surprised Red. He had expected him to bolt off the porch like a scared rabbit. Red let out a deep breath as he shook his head.

David must have seen his expression. “I ain’t leaving them my possessions.”

Red pointed his pistol at an older man with a graying handlebar mustache, “Fetch the Injun’s belongings, old timer.”

The man didn’t budge.

Red cocked the hammer of his Army Colt and leveled it at Dan. “Tell him to fetch the Injun’s things or I’ll shoot the handle off one of your fancy pistols.”

Dan’s face turned beet-red. He paused momentarily before nodding. “Jerry, fetch the stinking Injun’s weapons.”

“Sure, Mister Dan,” Jerry said. He pushed through the crowd of gawking men to disappear into the saloon.

The young, fancy-dressed rancher glared at Red. “Mister, you just made the worst mistake of your life. My name is Dan Weatherby. My father, Matt Weatherby, owns the biggest spread in Missouri. I have over a hundred riders at my beck and call. You ain’t getting out of Independence alive for humiliating me!”

Red smiled and nodded but didn’t speak.

“What in the hell is going on?” a man shouted as he pushed through the spectators lingering in the street as though watching a medicine show.

The saddle squeaked as Red turned. He spotted a short, stout man shoving onlookers aside as he marched toward the front of the saloon. Red spotted the tin star on the man’s blue plaid shirt.

“Hell, someone speak up!” the sheriff demanded. His gaze finally fell on Dan.

“Sheriff Clark, I caught this Injun cheating at cards!” Dan said. He pointed at Red. “He stopped me from hanging him.”

The sheriff glanced at Red. Red nodded.

“Hmm, you look mighty familiar. Where have I seen you before?” Sheriff Clark asked.

Red didn’t answer.

“Holster your pistol!” Sheriff Clark demanded, seemingly irritated by Red’s silence.

“I will, but if I have to draw it again, someone will die,” Red said coldly.

“I remember that red hair and voice. You’re Red Wheeler, the marshal of Cripple Creek,” Sheriff Clark said. “I jawed with you in the saloon at Cripple Creek when I rode over to attend my cousin’s wedding. What are you doing here?”

“Just passing through.”

“Arrest him, Sheriff, and let me get on with hanging the Injun,” Dan said.

Sheriff Clark glanced at David. “Boy, did you cheat Dan in a card game?”

“Hell. He can’t play poker worth a damn!” David said, nodding at Dan.

“You speak American pretty good for an Injun,” Sheriff Clark said. He seemed to look at David’s face for the first time. “And what in the name of God happened to your face?”

“I’m only half Apache. My father was a Scottish trader. My last name is McGregor,” David said. “I’ve got more white man’s schooling than you.”

“Hmm, if you’re an army scout, then you must have Injun schooling too,” Sheriff Clark said, rubbing his chin.

“Spent a lot of time with the Apache,” David said. He smiled. “Scalping white men, sometimes.”

“Sheriff, stop jawing with the ugly redskin and give me the word to hang him,” Dan said. “You heard him. He’s killed white men.”

“Shut up, Dan. I’ve seen you play poker, and the half-breed is correct; you only win because your daddy’s riders let you win,” Sheriff Clark said. “And even if the Injun did cheat or killed white men, I ain’t about to go against Red Wheeler. He’s put more men six feet under than your pa has range riders.”

“What do you want me to do with these?” Jerry said as he walked out of the saloon carrying a gun belt with a Walker Colt in the holster, a Sharps buffalo rifle, and a hunting knife with a leather handle.

“They’re mine!” David said as he turned and faced Jerry.

Jerry glanced over at Dan for instruction.

“Give them to him!” Dan said through clenched teeth.

“Are you satisfied, Red?” Sheriff Clark asked, nodding in Red’s direction.

“Hatchet Face, get on your horse and get the hell out of town,” Red ordered as he glanced in David’s direction.

“I said my name was David.”

Red smiled. “But I’m guessing the Apache call you Hatchet Face.”

David didn’t respond. He grabbed his belongings, jumped off the porch, and hurried down the crowded street, vanishing.

“What brings you to Independence, Red?” Sheriff Clark asked, shifting into a neighborly tone.

“Like I said, I’m just passing through. Going to California with one of the wagon trains,” Red said. He touched his fingers to the brim of his black felt hat before he pressed his knees into Wrangle’s sides and joined the traffic heading west on the street.

“I ain’t finished with you, Red, or that ugly redskin,” Dan shouted.

“Unless you’re heading to California, you are finished with me,” Red called over his shoulder as Wrangle navigated the busy street to avoid bumping into other riders.

Why in the hell did I bother saving a half-breed Apache? Well, I reckon he didn’t deserve to be hanged by some wealthy rancher’s son. And I feel sorry for him being burdened with all those facial scars, Red thought.

The pedestrian traffic lessened the farther west Red rode along the street. However, later when the traffic thinned out, Red caught the clomp, clomp sound of a horse following close behind.

Someone is heading toward the wagon yard, the same as me.

Twenty minutes later, Red neared the west end of town and still heard the horse following him. Sighing, he reined Wrangle to a stop and turned in the saddle.

It didn’t surprise Red when he spotted the half-breed Injun. What did surprise him was the spotted mule the half-breed rode.

“Why are you following me?” Red asked.

David reined his mule over to stand beside Wrangle.

“You saved my life. It belongs to you now,” he said. “It’s the Apache way.”

“Well, I ain’t no skulking Apache. I don’t follow their ways,” Red said.

“I do,” David said.

“You’d better hightail it out of town before that rich kid and his range riders come looking for you, Hatchet Face.” Red purposely used the name Dan had used for the Indian.

“They do, and they die,” David said. “They got the drop on me back in the saloon.” He shrugged. “It won’t happen again.”

“So you say,” Red said, urging Wrangle into a trot. He shook his head when he heard the mule following him. “He can ride where he chooses. It’s a free country,” Red mumbled, glancing ahead at the mass of covered wagons filling the grounds in front of a huge building.

This must be the wagon yard.

Red reined Wrangle through the parked wagons, some with mules hitched to them and others with their wagon tongues resting against the ground. Men and women moved among the wagons or sat in the seats while several children peeked out the canvas opening at the rear of the wagons. Some of the men nodded at Red. He touched his fingers to the brim of his hat in response as he rode past.

The five hitching rails in front of the long-porched building didn’t have a vacant spot to tie Wrangle. Red looked up and down the row of hitching posts as though doing so might make a spot appear. Finally, he shook his head, dismounted, and threw Wangle’s reins to the ground, knowing the big gelding would stay put. Red didn’t like leaving his horse ground tied with so many men milling around on the porch and in the wagon yard.

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“Trouble on the Wagon Train” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

In the dusty streets of Cripple Creek, Sheriff Judd “Red” Wheeler faces his biggest moral dilemma when he is forced to take the life of an eighteen-year-old outlaw. The realization hits Red like a bullet: How many more young souls would he have to send to Boot Hill before he became the villain of his own story?

Torn by guilt and wanting a fresh start, he longs to escape the haunting shadow of his past…

In the chaotic town of Independence, David, a proud Indian with scars on his face, finds himself at the end of a rope for winning a card game over the wrong man. In the sea of angry faces, salvation comes in the form of Red Wheeler, the infamous sheriff who only brings death. How could David, who’d always relied on his wits and quick draw, ever repay him for saving his life?

An unexpected alliance forms, one that could be the redemption he didn’t know he needed…

Joining a wagon train of settlers seems like their ticket to a new beginning in California. But with a washed-up drunkard for a wagon master, threats from bandits and Native tribes, and the ever-present danger of their bounty, will the combined strengths of Red and David be enough to guide the innocent settlers to safety? Or will past sins continue to haunt their journey, claiming everyone around them?

“Trouble on the Wagon Train” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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