Ambush in the Dusty Mines (Preview)

Prologue

March 30, 1865

Near Lynchburg, Virginia

Carson felt the round before he heard it. The air thickened briefly, the force of a ten-pound shell fired at over a thousand feet per second creating a soft shockwave that pressed lightly on the soft hairs on the back of Carson’s neck.

They’re behind us.

He had just enough time to think that before his instincts took over. He threw himself at the ground and shouted, “Get down!”

 

He heard the loud dragonfly buzz of the shell as it passed directly over him. He looked up in time to see that the few men immediately in front of him had just taken cover before the cannonball shattered them.

The men at the vanguard weren’t so lucky. At Carson’s shout, they had chosen to turn and see what the fuss was about behind them rather than follow his instructions.

That was the last mistake they ever made. The shell hit Sergeant Rickles in his sternum and carried the splintered remnants of his torso with it for three yards before impacting a tree and sending fragments of iron outward at speeds greater than a musket ball. The fragments shredded ten men but only killed three of them.

Dammit, Carson thought.

Then the wounded began to scream.

Carson started toward them, but Captain Brant grabbed his arm and yanked him back to the ground.

“It’s too late, Carson,” he said, “The Yankees know where we are now. We need to move.” He raised his voice and informed the others of the decision. “Retreat!” he called. “Mississippi Steamboat!”

That was code so the Union Army couldn’t decipher what was said and cut them off. Mississippi meant to the left of whatever the current direction of the march was, and Steamboat meant a direct course rather than a zigzag or an angle forward or back.

Carson hesitated, unable to leave his brethren behind. That nearly cost him his life. The second shell passed so close over him that he could feel the wind ruffle his hair. Then the shell crashed into the ground and exploded, silencing the screams of the wounded.

Carson didn’t think anymore. He just ran left as Captain Brant had instructed.

Behind him, a third shell whipped through the trees, then a fourth, then a fifth. The Yankees were confident they had them now and were unleashing volleys of artillery fire where the Confederate troop had stood only a moment ago.

The soldiers ran as quietly as possible, knowing that any noise that carried to the Yanks would inform the artillery of their new position.

It still wasn’t very quiet. To move quietly, one needed to move slowly, and moving slowly wasn’t an option when a platoon of field guns was shredding your position.

Carson looked over his left shoulder to see if he could figure out where the guns were firing from. He didn’t find the guns, but he did see leaves rustling and brush swaying as a company of Union soldiers chased the fleeing Confederates.

Well, so much for flanking the guns. Once more, they had no choice but to flee.

“Goddamned Yanks,” a voice said to his right.

Carson turned to see Peter Germaine, his best friend and comrade since the first days of the war, glaring in frustration and anger.

“We’ll get ‘em next time,” Carson promised as he continued to follow Captain Brant.

He didn’t believe that, though. He hadn’t believed it in years.

At first, the Confederate Army had roundly embarrassed the Yankees, routing much larger forces and destroying whatever equipment they didn’t capture and use against the Northern invaders. They even captured some Union territory and by the end of the second year of the war, they had pushed the Yankees far behind their own borders. The idea of winning this war, ludicrous at the beginning, now didn’t seem so far-fetched.

Then General Lee had gotten too big for his britches, and in three short days, he had undone all of the hard work that Stonewall Jackson had put into spanking the Union Army. Rather than shore up Southern defenses, maintain the Southern commitment to a defensive war and not an offensive one and sue for a peace that would allow the Southern states self-determination, he had decided to invade the Union.

And when he reached Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, the Union Army finally took advantage of the thin Confederate supply lines and unfamiliarity with the territory and beat the rebels badly.

Very badly. By some estimates, thirty thousand rebel soldiers had died over the course of the three-day battle, along with nearly three hundred artillery pieces and over five thousand horses. The Yankees had lost similar numbers, but unlike the Confederates, they could replace their losses.

The Confederates couldn’t. Lee should have known that. Lee should have remembered that they weren’t fighting to beat the North, they were fighting to protect themselves. If he had contented himself with punishing the North each time they invaded, the way Stonewall had punished them, then the Yankees would very likely have decided it wasn’t worth losing hundreds of thousands of their boys just to enforce their own policy decisions on the Southern states and sued for peace.

Instead, Lee had given President Lincoln everything he needed to motivate the Yankees into destroying the South. It wasn’t just about policy anymore. It wasn’t about showing the South who was boss. It was about protecting themselves from the evil Southern invaders who wanted to pillage and plunder the cities and homes of the hardworking American people. The North was now motivated for the same reasons as the South, and they, like the South, wouldn’t stop fighting until the end came.

The problem was that the end would come far sooner for the South. The South didn’t have railroads connecting every city between the Atlantic and the Mississippi. The South didn’t have massive plants and factories to churn out thousands of artillery pieces, or millions of rifles and tens of millions of rounds of ammunition. The South didn’t have shipyards that could build dozens of ironclads every year.

Lee wanted the South to believe that they had the moral authority and the Spirit of Dixieland and that these intangible qualities would guarantee them a victory over the far more well-equipped North. That was all well and good until you saw a man’s chest hollowed out the way Carson just did. It was nice to have pride, but pride wouldn’t protect you from a wall of cavalry armed with breechloading rifles.

So Carson didn’t think they would get the Yankees next time. He was pretty sure that all future battles would end as this one had, with the Confederate Army scattered and separated and in full retreat and Union forces moving forward to mop up the stragglers.

Today was day three of the rout. Carson had a feeling this one would last another three. Or four. Or ten. Actually, he wasn’t sure if it would last ten days. This one had a finality to it that past engagements didn’t have. The Confederates had been losing for nearly two years now and losing badly. The “Spirit of Dixieland” was broken, the evidence on the bleak faces and worn figures of every Confederate soldier Carson ever came across. It wouldn’t surprise him if Lee chose to surrender before the end of the week.

If he was even still alive. For all Carson knew, the hundred men or so that remained of his company were all that was left of the once great Army of Northern Virginia. It didn’t stretch the imagination as much as one would think to believe that the Yankees had wiped the Confederates out to a man or would before long.

Behind them, Carson heard another volley of artillery, followed by shouting.

This would be the critical part. They had just learned that the Confederates had left the position they had been shelling. If they could follow signs, they would know that the company had gone left. It would take some time to bring the guns, but by nightfall, they would have caught the exhausted Confederates and renewed their assault.

Carson kept his eyes and ears peeled as he ran after Brant. Around him, he could hear the heavy breathing and see the wide, frightened eyes of his comrades as they fled with him. The idea of staying to fight never crossed anyone’s mind. Half of them didn’t even have rifles anymore.

They ran for maybe three or four miles before Brant signaled for a halt. “Carson, Germaine. Climb those big trees there and see if you can find the Yankees behind us.”

Carson was weary through his bones, but he nodded and started up the giant elm to his right without hesitation. He climbed until he felt the branches start to bend under his weight. Then he looked out across the forest. His vantage point allowed him to see above the canopy. Five miles behind them, the Union artillery had begun to turn.

Away from them. The Yankees were going the wrong way.

He scampered down and met Germaine just as the other man reached the bottom of his own elm tree. The relief on Hale’s face told Carson that he had seen the same thing.

“It’s all right!” Carson called. “The Yankees are retreating!”

Captain Brant and several others stood from behind cover. “Good work, Carson,” he said, “Now we can—”

Before he could finish the sentence, a volley of rifle fire whipped through the trees. One of the bullets caught Brant just under his ribcage. Carson saw a spray of blood fly out behind Brant as the man fell to the ground.

Carson threw himself to the ground automatically and looked for Germaine. He found him on the ground a few yards away.

Part of him, anyway. He had been struck so many times in his midsection that his body had nearly been severed in half. Carson stared in disbelief at Germaine’s lifeless eyes and realized that the end was soon coming for them.

“Fight back!” Brant’s voice cried, pain etched in his voice. “Fight back!”

His words galvanized the company. Carson felt his body move of its own accord, grabbing his rifle and returning fire. He didn’t see where he was firing, who he was firing at, or if his rounds hit anything. He just kept firing, waiting for the bullet that would finally end things for him as it had for Germaine.

He didn’t think. He couldn’t allow himself to think.

He wasn’t sure how long the firing continued. It wasn’t until Sergeant Bates laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s over, Carson. Hold your fire,” that he lowered his rifle.

“Looks like a separate patrol,” Bates said. “Only a dozen or so Yanks. We wiped them out, but that artillery will have heard the fire. They’re going to be within range in a couple of hours. We need to keep moving.”

His eyes fell to Captain Brant. The officer was pale and shaking, his eyes glassy.

Carson didn’t want to think, but he was too tired to stop himself anymore. He looked at the dying figure of his mentor and thought of the broken remains of his best friend and sunk to the ground, weeping.

Brant beckoned for Carson to come closer. Bates moved off to let the others know to keep moving. Carson would have to catch up when he was finished talking to Brant.

“I got a place in Nevada,” Brant wheezed, each word coming out with an effort. “More silver there than Paradise. Planned to retire there when this was all over, but that ain’t gonna happen for me now.” He seized Carson’s arm. “I want you to have it. You’re the… closest thing to a son… I ever had.”

A spasm shook his body. He stiffened and gripped Carson’s arm tightly for a moment. Then his grip softened. A moment later, his body stopped shaking. His arm fell to the floor. He released a final sigh, then his eyes lost their focus.

Carson remained where he was, weeping, shoulders shaking with exhaustion and grief, until he heard the shouts of the Union force behind him. Then he stood and ran after the remnants of his unit.

 

Chapter One

May 10, 1867

Dixie Valley, Nevada

The soft gray of dawn filtered through the curtains of Jolene’s bedroom window. She stirred in her sleep, turning her face toward the light and the warmth it promised.

A moment later, theThe robins began their song, greeting the day with joy and love. Jolene opened her eyes with a smile and remained in bed a moment, enjoying the morning serenade.

When the first hints of blue tinged the gray, she got out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make coffee.

The full brilliance of the morning sun shone through the uncurtained kitchen window, and Jolene’s smile brightened as she saw the robins—a pair that spent most of the breeding season in the bushes behind Jolene’s house—dancing and calling to each other a few yards away.

It was a beautiful day.

All the days here were beautiful. If there was one thing that Dixie Valley, Nevada had in spades, it was beauty. The low mountain range to the northeast sheltered the valley from the worst of the winter storms but allowed enough rain to fall to keep the valley lush and green. Though the summer temperatures regularly soared high, the greater rainfall prevented the valley from succumbing to the scrub desert that covered most of the state.

The people here were just as lush and vibrant as the town. Half of the men were silver miners operating in the mountains and the other half homesteaders taking advantage of the favorable climate and raising herds of cattle, sheep, and pigs for sale to Virginia City a day’s journey southwest. They all considered themselves lucky to live in such abundance, and Jolene was no less grateful.

She loved her town. Unlike many of the young people who grew up in Dixie Valley, she had never been struck by restlessness. While many of the girls and boys she’d grown up with had moved on upon coming of age, Jolene had remained. She now ran the small school in town, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. What could the wider world offer her that she couldn’t find right here? She had friends, she had a job that gave her a sense of purpose, she had a beautiful place to live, and she neighbors that were as close to her as family.

She made the coffee, a special blend Terri Underwood had brought back for her from Virginia City when she returned from visiting her son who worked for the bank in town. It was rich and bold and not nearly as bitter as the chicory she brewed when coffee was too precious a commodity to obtain in sufficient quantity.

Well, she supposed she could go to Virginia City herself and get some. Maybe she would make a trip out there when the year ended.

She sipped her coffee and made a breakfast of eggs, bread and the last of the butter. Butter, at least, was easy enough to obtain. Hans Winkler, the dairy farmer, lived only a half mile up the road from Jolene. She could stop by today on her way home from school and get more.

It would be good to see Kate Winkler too. Jolene had seen little of her in the past five months, which was understandable since Kate had given birth to twins, but she judged the babies old enough now that she could manage an hour or so sitting with Kate and offering her company besides her children.

Not that there was anything wrong with children. Jolene loved the children in town fiercely. That was why she’d volunteered for the job of schoolteacher when Eliza Hampshire retired.
She finished her breakfast and washed and dressed for school. She left her house just as the sun lifted completely free of the western horizon. It shone on her back, a warm, comfortable glow, as she walked down the short hill that led into the town proper.

Dixie Valley was small. It had been small for as long as Jolene could remember, and she had lived the past fifteen years in the town. Her family had been one of the first to settle here. The main part of town consisted of the jail, the mayor’s office, a small branch of the Virginia City bank, a saloon and boardinghouse, a general store, a livery and a gun shop. The church sat a little ways beyond the eastern edge. It was the only building made of brick and its spire rose nearly forty feet in the air.

When it was built, the church was meant to sit over five hundred people. Now, fewer than a hundred congregants entered its doors each Sunday. Even on those rare occasions when the whole town made their way to worship, they filled fewer than half of the pews.

Jolene’s smile faded as her eyes drifted to the empty buildings scattered down the street. The apothecary was closed since last year, though Doc Sampson still saw patients in his home from time to time. The gun store had closed the year before that, when Abe Smith moved his family to Virginia City. The post office had closed earlier that spring when the postal service finally decided it didn’t make sense to send a rider four days out of his way to deliver the one or two bags of mail that came to the town every month. Since then, everyone’s mail was left at the post office in Virginia City.

She loved Dixie Valley, but she worried that it wouldn’t be around for her to love much longer. All the young people were leaving, and now, the older folk were leaving too. Not all would leave, she knew. The homesteaders and farmers were tied to the land, not the town, so they would remain.

But the town as she knew it would slowly wither away until it was little more than a supply depot to the ranchers. Jolene would stay when that time came. There would still be children to teach, and she would still have friends, but the place itself would come to mean nothing more than the stretch of land in between the mountains to the northwest and the desert to the southeast.

She didn’t want the town to die. Growing up, she’d always had a vision of the town growing and thriving and spreading out until it filled the valley. She’d imagined the railroad coming to town and making Dixie Valley the hub of civilization in north-central Nevada. She didn’t imagine the sprawling urban center of Virginia City with its twenty thousand inhabitants, nor did she want such a concentration of people, but she hoped to see some sign that the town would outlive her and maybe carry a memory of the paradise she knew to future generations.

“Jo!” a shrill, grating voice called. “Jolene!”

Jolene sighed inwardly. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to Betsy right now.

Betsy was one of Jolene’s oldest acquaintances. She hesitated to call the woman a friend. They had known each other since childhood since both had grown up in town, but while Jolene had been a strait-laced, obedient child who focused on her schoolwork and chores and didn’t get into trouble with the other children, Betsy had more often than not been the cause of that trouble and the one who suffered most from it. Jolene was fairly certain that Betsy had skipped class more often than she had attended it.

When they reached adulthood, Betsy was no different. She had never had an honest job that Jolene was aware of, and rather than Andy a husband, she had made a reputation of herself for getting into trouble with the soldiers and cowboys that occasionally passed through town.

The soldiers didn’t pass through anymore, and with the cowboys driving their wares to the railroad in Virginia City these days, Betsy didn’t have anyone to get into trouble with, but she managed just fine all on her own. She had been in jail often enough that she and Sheriff Barney were on a first-name basis.

“Jolene!”

Her voice was closer now. Too close for Jolene to pretend she hadn’t heard her. She sighed and managed to force a smile as she turned toward Betsy.

“Betsy!” she said. “Hey! How are you?”

Betsy grinned, and Jolene tried not to react to the sight of a newly missing tooth. It was horrifying to think that the beautiful girl Jolene once knew was now this thin, gap-toothed figure in front of her. She looked fifteen years older than Jolene and they were the same age.

“I’m doing just dandy, Jo,” Betsy said, wearing a lopsided grin and adopting the cheerful tone that always preceded a request for money.

“That’s wonderful!” Jolene said, deciding she could part with a dollar if it would give her a chance to escape Betsy.

“How’s your day going?” Betsy asked.

“Well, it’s just started,” Jolene replied, “but it should be a good one.”

“Getting ready for the Jubilee?” Betsy asked.

The Summer Jubilee took place on the first weekend in June every year. Each year, Jolene’s class would make decorations for the town and she and the other women would bake pies, cakes, cookies and sweetbreads. The Jubilee was supposedly to celebrate the end of the school year, but it had evolved over the years to become an event for the entire town.

The kids always loved the Jubilee, not just because it meant the end of the year but because it was a chance to do something the entire town would celebrate. Jolene remembered the way the kids had smiled the year before when Mayor Langston had presented their class with a medal for their work setting up the booths and banners and streamers that decorated the town. Jolene knew from Hans that the mayor was planning to do the same again this year.

« That’s right, « Jolene said. “The kids are excited to get the town all set up again.

“That’s wonderful!” Betsy replied. “God knows this town needs it.”

Jolene’s smile faded slightly. Betsy was right.

Virginia City was a hundred miles away, too far to affect the quiet of Dixie Valley, but close enough that it was sucking the town and its people in just as it had nearly all of the small towns in the area surrounding the Comstock Lode. The silver mine in Dixie Valley wasn’t part of the lode, and that was probably why the railroad hadn’t come through. The Dixie Valley vein was rich and profitable, but not nearly so much as the Comstock Lode. So, the railroad had built a route through Gold Hill and Virginia City north to Reno and had forced the small towns east of the lode to rely on Virginia City for just about everything.

Jolene hated it, but she didn’t know what she could do about it. No one would listen to a young schoolteacher’s reasons for why they should build a rail spur to lead to town.

“I have good news,” Betsy said, eyes dancing. “Betcha can’t guess!”

“You got a job?” Jolene asked hopefully.

Betsy threw her head back and laughed. “Ha! That’s a good one, Jo. No, I didn’t get a job… yet.”

Jolene was actually interested now. “Yet? What do you mean?”

“Well, the jobs aren’t here yet,” Betsy said. “But when the railroad gets here, they will be.”

Jolene didn’t understand at first. When it hit her, her eyes flew wide open. “Really?” she asked. “The railroad’s coming here?”

“Sure is!” Betsy said brightly. “I heard it from Barney last night.”

“That’s amazing!” Jolene said. Her earlier irritation forgotten, she smiled in delight and asked, “When?”

“Barney isn’t sure, but he says they’ll have to be done by November or the winter will ruin everything. So probably soon.”

“I’m so glad to hear it! That’s exactly what this town needs.”

Betsy scoffed. “This town needs a lot of things.”

Jolene didn’t share Betsy’s disgust, but she was too happy to feel offended by Betsy’s derision. She reminded her, “Most of those things, the railroad will bring.”

“Damned straight,” Betsy agreed. Shegestured at the basket Jolene carried. “Is that for the Jubilee?”

“Yes,” Jolene replied. “Just some pencils and paper for the children to write down some ideas.”

“Pencils and paper? Where did you get those? When we were kids, we were lucky enough to have one piece of chalk to split between three people.”

“Well, thankfully, supplies are a little easier to come by these days,” Jolene replied. “I picked them up from the general store last week.”

Betsy scratched absently at her arm. “Yeah, Tammy keeps that place pretty well-stocked. Good for us, I guess.”

She fell silent and scratched at her arm again, shifting her weight awkwardly from side to side. Jolene released another inward sigh and braced herself.

“Was there something else, Betsy?”

“Well,” Betsy said, shifting her feet again, “I hate to ask this, but I’m making some muffins to bring to the church on Sunday, and I guess I didn’t have all the flour I needed, ‘cause I’ve run out, and I still have a bunch of muffins to make. I don’t suppose you could lend me a dollar or two to buy some flour?”

Flour was five cents a pound. Two dollars would buy Betsy enough flour to make muffins for the entire Comstock Lode.

Of course, what Betsy really wanted was a glass of the “good stuff” from the saloon. Nathan George Porter Neil kept a jug of his own personal moonshine behind the counter and only shared it with his absolute favorite patrons and friends. Betsy had managed to become one of those friends   and ended up with a lot of booze she didn’t pay for.

But even Nathan George had limits, and it looked like Betsy had reached them. Jolene fished in her pocket for one dollar—Betsy could figure out the second dollar—and handed it to the woman with a forced smile. “There you go,” she said. “I can’t wait to taste those muffins.”

Betsy frowned in confusion. “Huh? Oh yes, the muffins.” She grinned. “They’re going to be incredible.”

I’m sure they will be, Jolene thought. Aloud, she said, “Well, I have to get on to the church house. The lessons will start in an hour, and I don’t want to keep the kids waiting.”

“Oh sure, sure,” Betsy said. “Well, I’ll see you around, Jolene.”

“Sunday, right?”

“Huh?”

“At church?”

Betsy still stared blankly. Jolene gave up. “I’ll see you around, Betsy.”

She headed for the schoolhouse, a bounce in her step. The old, boarded-up remnants of the apothecary no longer loomed as a portent of the future but as a relic of the past. Within a year, Doc Sampson would have more than enough patients for an apothecary. Not long after, he would have to hire a nurse, maybe two or three. By the time Jolene reached her twenty-fifth birthday, the town might have an actual hospital.

And a new schoolhouse! She hadn’t even thought about that. The children were meeting in the church house for now, but with the money the railroad would bring, they could build an actual school. They could have a garden and a small farm for the children to raise chickens and a dairy cow and maybe a pig. They could get brand new textbooks and materials, the latest available. She could hire other teachers and become the first Dixie Valley Superintendent of Schools.

She giggled and shook her head. Her imagination was running away with her. One thing at a time.

She was so wrapped up in her fantasy that she didn’t notice the tall, dark-haired man in front of her until she nearly ran into him. Fortunately, he was paying better attention than she was, so he easily sidestepped her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, backing away quickly. “I didn’t see you.”

“That’s all right. I saw you.”

She looked up, and when she did see him, a thrill cut through her embarrassment.

The man she had nearly run into was Carson McCoy, the town’s newest resident, although new was relative. It had been two years since he had moved here, so maybe the fact that he was the newest resident was more of an indication of how the town was dying than anything else.

But it wasn’t dying anymore, and her embarrassment and the thrill she always felt when she saw the handsome not-quite-stranger paled in comparison to her joy. She smiled at Carson. “Did you hear? The railroad’s coming to town.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “That so?”

She nodded. “Betsy told me.”

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Carson’s lips. “Ah,” he said. “And who did she hear it from?”

“Sheriff Barney.”

“That’s what she said, huh?”

Jolene’s smile faded a little. “You don’t believe her?”

He shrugged. “I’m sure she remembered hearing something like that.”

“But you don’t think it’s true?” Jolene wasn’t sure why it was so important that Carson believed her, but his lack of enthusiasm bothered her greatly.

Carson hesitated a moment before answering. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Rumors get started all the time,” he finally said. “Sometimes, they’re true. I hope this one is.”

If he was hoping to sound encouraging, he had failed miserably. “Well, I think a railroad would be wonderful for Dixie Valley.”

“Yes, I agree,” Carson said. He managed a smile he clearly didn’t feel and added, “I haven’t heard it yet, but I’ll keep my ear out.”

“That’s all right, Mister McCoy,” Jolene said, rather coldly. “You’ll know about it soon enough.”

Carson looked ready to apologize, but before he could, Jolene bid, “Good day,” and continued on.

Heat crept up her neck as she closed the distance to the church house. Of course Carson would have to make her doubt.

But it was real. It had to be. Sure, Betsy wasn’t the most reliable source, but if she had heard it from Sheriff Barney…

Jolene decided to talk to the sheriff after school. The sheriff would have no reason to lie. Then Jolene would know for sure.

She reached the schoolhouse and started to set up for her lesson, but her thoughts remained filled with images of the new railroad and the prosperity it would bring to the town.

And every now and then, they would drift back to the handsome, brooding Carson and heat would once more bring color to her cheeks.

---

“Ambush in the Dusty Mines” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Carson McCoy, a former Confederate soldier who’s recently acquired an old silver mine, yearns for the solace of Dixie Valley’s rugged landscape. Instead, he finds himself thrust into a battle for his life… Branded as a moody recluse by the townsfolk, Carson cherishes his solitude—until the arrival of Clyde Huxtable, a cunning railroad baron with plans that threaten everything Carson holds dear. In a town torn between progress and preservation, Carson will soon have to remember his ruthless past to fight against a new cunning threat.

Will the ex-soldier find the strength to fight back or is it too late for his town?

As Huxtable’s ominous shadow looms over Dixie Valley, Jolene Fleming, an optimistic dreamer excited by the prospect of progress, welcomes the railroad’s arrival. However, the more she uncovers about the smooth-talking baron, the more she fears he will transform her cherished hometown into a living nightmare. With time slipping away, Jolene must forge an unlikely alliance with Carson to thwart Huxtable’s insidious plans…

Can they unravel the web of deception spun by Clyde Huxtable?

As the stakes escalate, Carson and Jolene journey through the wild, discovering that courage, trust, and the bonds of community are the only weapons against the encroaching darkness. In their quest through dark trials and deceitful schemes to find redemption, they will discover that their hometown is the indomitable spirit that binds them together. Will they find a way to outsmart Huxtable and save their town, or is Dixie Valley destined to fall victim to his tyranny?

“Ambush in the Dusty Mines” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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