A Band of Unlikely Avengers (Preview)

Chapter One

South Dakota, 1876

John Walters yawned as he pulled his coat tighter around his body. The sun was setting, and it had been raining most of the afternoon. It was the middle of winter. He hated the cold.

“You think this medicine will make a difference?” Frederick asked.

“Of course,” John replied. “Even if it only helps to save one life.”

Frederick let out a long breath. “I just wish we could do more.”

“I do too,” John assured his teenage assistant. “But if you want to work in this field, you have to accept the reality of the situation.”

“And what’s that?”

John had been working as Dr. Birch’s apprentice for the past two years and had learned a great deal during that time. One of those things was that no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t save everybody.

It was harsh, but it was true. There was only so much a doctor could do, especially with limited supplies.

“You can’t save everyone,” John stated, glancing at the young man next to him.

“I know,” Frederick replied with a frown, “but we still have to try.”

“We always do,” John assured him. “Dr. Birch cares deeply about every person who comes to him for help, and even those he’s never met himself. That’s why we’re helping the people in Deadwood.”

Frederick pulled on the reins, making sure the horses kept the wagon on the dirt road. “One day I’ll be a successful doctor, just like Dr. Birch,” Frederick said with a determined smile.

“I’m sure you will. And hopefully I will, too.”

“Speaking of which,” Frederick said, straightening up, “how did you get Mrs. Walters to marry you?”

A smile formed on John’s face. “Well, I got lucky. I’m not sure whether she would ever even have looked my way if her father wasn’t my teacher.”

“You think she married you because you work for her father?” Frederick asked, raising a brow.

“No, not at all,” John clarified. “Nellie is beautiful and had a lot suitors. I had to work hard, but persistence is key. I wore her down.”

Frederick laughed at John’s joke, and soon enough John joined in. It was true, though. It had taken months before Nellie had agreed that he could court her.

“So what you’re saying is that I shouldn’t give up?” Frederick asked. “I should ask Millie on a date, and if she says no, I should keep asking?”

“Remember to be respectful,” John advised. “Sometimes girls play hard to get, but if she really doesn’t want to be with you, then you have to accept it.”

Frederick nodded his head in understanding as John lifted his dark wide-brimmed hat and ran his hand through his damp, tousled hair. Frederick was still young, but he would do well for himself. He listened and took advice to heart. John was happy that he’d managed to find a young assistant who was ready to learn.

With a sudden movement, Frederick pulled on the reins, bringing the wagon to a stop and almost causing John to drop his hat. Placing it back on his head, John looked up to see a portly but muscular-looking man standing in the middle of the road. He wore a soaked hooded jacket and looked lost.

“Are you all right?” John called, worried that the man might be hurt. “Do you need help?”

Next to John, Frederick slowly pulled the shotgun they had brought for protection onto his lap.

“I don’t think we’ll need that,” John whispered. “He’s alone.”

Frederick shrugged, his fingers tightening around the grip.

“Are you hurt?” John asked louder this time.

The man standing in the road lowered the hood of his coat and took a step forward as he started speaking. His words were loud enough to hear, but the language was foreign. John couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

Frederick glanced at John, confusion clear on his face. “What is he saying?”

John shook his head. “No idea.”

“Do you speak English?” John called, but instead of answering, the man started laughing.

“I don’t like this,” Frederick said right before there was a crack of gunshots. One, two, three. Blood splashed onto John’s face, and he turned just in time to see Frederich slump forward in his seat with a bullet wound on the side of his head.

For the briefest of moments, John froze, unable to believe what had just happened. His first thought was to grab the shotgun and return fire, but he wasn’t a great shot, and clearly he was outnumbered. His second thought was to get out of the wagon and run as fast as he could. That was a better option, but he never even got to try.

Another shot rang out, and almost instantly, he felt an immense pressure in his chest. He knew what had happened, but he looked down just to make sure. He couldn’t see the wound but watched as the light material of his coat turned crimson.

His eyes flicked from his own chest to the man standing in the road. He now held a gun in his hand with steam coming off the still-hot barrel.

The bastard had shot him.

John’s whole body was shaking, but the initial shock had worn off and the pain was starting to set in. Intense pain unlike anything he had ever felt before radiated from the hole in his chest and throughout his body. John wasn’t a qualified doctor yet, but he knew enough to know that the bullet in his chest would soon be the death of him.

From the corner of his eye, John saw movement, and he sluggishly looked to his left. A man was walking toward the wagon. He had a huge scar across his forehead and a crooked eye. John watched in horror, unable to speak or move as the man pulled Frederick’s body off of the wagon and into the mud.

“We’re going to take the medicine,” the man said, looking up at John as he put one foot on the wagon. “We’ll make much better use of it than what you had planned.”

John shook his head, the movement causing him to gasp in pain.

“You’re already as good as dead,” the crooked-eyed man stated, “but I’ll do you a favor and put you out of your misery.”

The man took his pistol from its holster and pointed it at John, a smile on his face.

“I don’t know if you’re a man of faith, but if it’s of any consolation, I can assure you that you’ll see your loved ones again in the afterlife. I know this for a fact because I saw mine before whatever cruel forces are out there decided to spare me.”

The man’s words had barely left his mouth before he pulled the trigger. John felt his head jerk back, heard the man tell somebody to unload the medicine, and then he breathed his last breath as he slumped to the side and fell off the wagon.

***

Nellie fell to the ground, clutching her chest. It felt like her heart had been ripped out. She couldn’t breathe and the world spun around her as her vision blurred.

“I’m so sorry,” the man said again, taking a step back. “There was nothing we could do.”

“Nellie,” she heard her father’s voice say, but she couldn’t get herself to respond.

The man took another step back. “I should go.”

Nellie closed her eyes, shutting them tightly. She didn’t want to see the blood-stained wagon or the bodies that lay within it.

She hadn’t looked to confirm that it was John, but she didn’t have to. Everybody in town knew her husband, and it was their wagon.

“Nellie,” her father said again, placing his hand on her shoulder.

She shook her head, unable to speak as tears streamed down her face.

“I’ll go see.” Her father took a few steps then stopped. “It’s best you don’t come look.”

Nellie wanted to run to her husband, to hold him in her arms one last time but her father was right. She couldn’t see John like that. Knowing he was dead was bad enough—seeing his wounded body would torment her for the rest of her life.

Slowly, Nellie shuffled backwards until she was sitting cross-legged against the wall. She needed the support. She didn’t trust herself not to fall over. From where she sat, she watched her father walk over to the wagon. He lifted the blanket that covered their bodies and Nellie shut her eyes again. She couldn’t risk seeing him, not like that.

When they’d first gotten word that the medicine hadn’t arrived in Deadwood, she’d thought that maybe the wagon’s wheel had come off or there was a problem with one of the horses. She hadn’t expected the man they had sent to look for her husband and his assistant to return with their bodies. By the time the man had found them, the vultures had already started to feast, and the medicine was gone.

Their thoughts were that it was a heist, specifically targeting the medicine John and Frederick had been transporting. Apparently her husband’s wedding ring was still on his finger and his pocket watch was still clipped to his pants.

John was a good man. No, he was the best man Nellie knew. He was loyal, loving, dedicated and caring. Nellie wasn’t sure whether he would have tried to put up a fight to protect the medicine or hand it over, but she did know that he was gone.

Her future had been ripped away from her, and her mind was spiraling. They needed to find whoever had done it and make them pay.

Chapter Two

South Dakota, 1877

The charcoal lines on the paper in front of Byron Jacobs were forming the face of an older man. A face he knew well, and one that looked a lot like his own. Although the man had been dead for years, Byron still saw his face often. His father haunted not only his dreams but his waking moments, too.

Throwing the pencil to the side, Byron wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. His cell was scorching hot, and his long hair clung to his neck. He ran his fingers through the knotted strands and pulled them away from his skin.

With a frustrated sigh, he picked up his pencil again and continued the drawing. He had honed his artistic talent while stuck between those three stone walls and iron bars. There wasn’t much else to do except for reading, and he’d read every book the prison had—twice.

“I’m going to get out of here,” he said aloud, as if his father could hear him. “And when I do, I’m going to kill Deacon Kross. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

Maybe revenge would set his father’s soul free and give Byron the peace he so desperately craved.

The sound of a loud steam whistle echoed through the building, announcing that it was time for lunch. It would be the same thing they ate every other day: bread, beans, potatoes, water, and maybe coffee. Sometimes the menu changed, but not often. It didn’t matter, as long as he wasn’t starving. Byron had more pressing concerns.

The rusted gears that opened his cell door churned, and Byron slowly got up. He waited until the iron bars were completely open before stepping out. Some of the other men were already in line, and he joined them without a word.

As they made their way to the communal dining room, Byron noticed something strange. Instead of the usual conversations and arguments, the men were much quieter. There was talking, but it was in hushed tones and accompanied by hidden glances. Something was brewing, and although Byron was curious, he didn’t ask. He minded his own business, as usual, but he stayed alert. If something happened, he needed to be ready.

They had barely made it halfway to the dining room before the deafening sound of gunshots echoed throughout the halls. Within seconds, chaos had broken out all around Byron. The guards blew their whistles and started yelling at the prisoners to return to their cells.

Nobody listened. Instead, some of his fellow prisoners jumped into action and charged the nearest guards. Others simply scattered in various directions. It didn’t take long before it turned into a full-blown riot.

Byron had no interest in joining the fight, but he saw the opportunity for what it was: a way to escape

Ducking and weaving, he made his way through the pandemonium that surrounded him. Prisoners were attacking the guards with axes that they must have somehow hidden away. The guards, in return, shot off their guns. They were trying to regain control, but even though they had firearms, they were outnumbered and falling fast. Dead bodies of guards and prisoners were scattered everywhere. It looked like a war zone.

Not wanting to waste any time, Byron grabbed a set of keys off the body of a dead guard and used them to let himself out. The fighting wasn’t contained inside the prison. Some of the prisoners had found their way out, just like he had, and there was a gang of masked men involved in a shootout with a group of guards.

“Come on,” a prisoner called Big Mike urged as he ran past Byron and joined a bunch of other prisoners.

Byron didn’t move. He didn’t trust any of them. They weren’t exactly enemies, but they definitely weren’t friends.

“Hurry up!” another one called.

Byron shook his head, grateful but not willing to take the chance, and took off in a different direction. The prison grounds were enclosed by high fences, but with the guards preoccupied, Byron easily managed to scale the fence and escape.

Once his feet touched the ground on the other side, he took off, running as fast as he could. The ruckus echoed behind him and slowly drifted to silence. He didn’t look back once. He was finally free and had a promise to keep.

Byron ran for what felt like hours. His feet ached in the broken boots that covered them, and the muscles in his legs burned like never before. None of it mattered. His body was fit and could handle the punishment.

The sun had long since set before Byron finally slowed down. He was breathing heavily and desperately needed water, but the only reason he stopped moving was because of the little cabin visible in the distance. It was dark out, but the cabin was lit up from inside. He had no idea what he would find, but it was clearly occupied and held the promise of water and shelter.

Drawn to it, like a moth to a flame, Byron sneaked closer. He moved slowly and quietly, not wanting to attract any attention to himself. He wasn’t worried that he was being followed. The guards had all been too busy to notice him, and even if somebody had tried to follow him, he would have lost them in the woods a long time ago.

He was worried about being spotted by whoever lived at the cabin, though. They were sure to have some things he needed, and he would prefer to acquire them without turning to violence.

Byron snuck around the small cabin and peered inside. It was only one room, and the only occupant appeared to be an old man, attending a fire in the fireplace. There was a bed on one side of the room, a rocking chair next to the fireplace, and a few cabinets on the side of the room that served as a kitchen.

The old man was poking the fire and adding more wood. He didn’t seem to have any idea that he was being watched. While observing the man, something caught Byron’s eye. There was a Winchester rifle on the mantle above the fireplace. He hadn’t expected to find a weapon so easily, but now that he knew it was there, he had to get it.

Before trying to get his hands on it, he had to secure his getaway, and what better way was there to travel than on horseback? None, according to Byron, and that was why he was delighted when he had first seen the horse behind the cabin.

It was covered by a small canopy and hitched to one of the poles. The old man had removed the horse’s saddle, which now lay on a rickety table, but its reins were still securely attached.

Moving slowly and carefully, Byron put the saddle on the horse. The animal wasn’t particularly big, probably a Morgan from the looks of him, but extremely calm. Byron was grateful that the horse didn’t put up a fuss, and once he was done, he returned to the window.

The man was now sitting on the rocking chair, and Byron had to get him outside, even if it was just for a minute or two. He simply wanted to grab the rifle, some ammunition, and maybe some clothes and water.

He needed to create a distraction, so he grabbed a rock and made his way back to the front of the cabin. Once there, he threw it through one of the smaller windows as he hid in the shadows.

The night was deathly quiet, and Byron could hear the old man moving about inside. “Come out,” he whispered under his breath. “Look around.”

To his relief, the door swung open, and the old man rushed outside. His relief quickly disappeared when he saw that the old man was holding the rifle. That messed up his plans, but he wouldn’t let it deter him. Byron had only one mission, and that was revenge. He would do what was necessary to get it.

The old man had a rifle, but he could barely stand up straight, so it was easy to sneak up behind him and knock him out with one blow. The old man crumpled to the ground, and although Byron felt bad about it, he didn’t allow himself to give it much thought. He hadn’t killed him, after all.

Taking the rifle, Byron headed inside. There wasn’t much, but he did find a change of clean clothes that fit him. He also found a box of .45 slugs and filled a gunny sack with food and a couple of bottles of cheap whiskey.

A cookie tin on the counter held some money. Byron thought about taking it but reconsidered. He had taken most of the old man’s food, so he would need the money to survive. Taking it would be wrong—and in Byron’s eyes, it would make him more of a thief than simply a man who was desperate to survive.

Chapter Three

Byron vacated the cabin only a few minutes later. He didn’t want to be around when the old man woke up. This time, he wasn’t on foot, and although it was dark, he managed to travel a good distance. The woods provided cover, but they weren’t dense, and the horse he had taken traversed the terrain easily.

When he could no longer keep his eyes open, Byron stopped for the night. He had no shelter, so he simply tied the horse to a nearby tree and slept on the ground, using the extra coat he had taken from the old man as a pillow.

Despite his exhaustion, Byron didn’t sleep well. His mind was plagued by the events of the day. The sound of footsteps nearby pulled him out of his slumber, and he sat upright as he grabbed the rifle that was closely tucked beside him. He had to be ready for anything out in the wild. When he saw the familiar face of a man draped in shadows, Byron relaxed and placed the rifle down beside him.

The sight of a dead man should have frightened him, but Byron had grown so used to his father’s ghost appearing at random times that it didn’t scare him anymore. Sometimes he appeared during the day, but it mostly happened at night. In fact, in the years since his death, few nights had passed without him making an appearance.

The apparition didn’t say anything. He simply paced up and down, kicking up dirt in his blood-stained clothes. He didn’t have to speak for Byron to know why he was there. His father was reminding him that justice needed to be served.

Byron watched his father’s ghost, or whatever it was, until it disappeared, and not for the first time, he wondered whether ghosts really existed or if he was simply losing his mind. It didn’t matter; he had waited a long time and was finally free. Now he would get his revenge so that his father could be avenged and finally rest.

Sleep didn’t come again, and before the sun even peeked over the hills, Byron was already back on the road. He stayed off the roads where he could and stopped only to eat, drink, and relieve himself.

“What am I going to call you?” Byron asked as he got back on the horse. “I’m sure you had a name, but I couldn’t exactly ask.”

The horse neighed, and Byron chuckled. “Yeah, I know I took you from your home. I’ll take care of you, though. As much as I can, at least.”

Wondering how often the horse was ridden, Byron pushed him to go faster. It felt good to be riding again after so long. Eventually night fell, and he had to stop.

For the second night in a row, Byron slept out in the open. He had no tent or bedroll to sleep in. At least he had food, thanks to the old man. Byron considered making a fire, but he knew better. He was alone and the smoke would be seen for miles. He didn’t want to attract any unwanted company or the attention of the guards on the off-chance that they were actually looking for him.

There was a big boulder and some trees, so he tied up his horse and sat with his back against the rock. He used to enjoy sitting outside, looking at the stars or the sunrise. Those were good days. His father was a stern man but had a soft spot for him. He’d always told Byron that he took after his mother. She never liked the outdoors, but like him, she loved stargazing and watching the sun rise.

Byron wished he could remember her, but he couldn’t. At least he’d gotten to see New York, her favorite place, before he was sent to prison. Byron had enjoyed his time in the big city and remembered thinking that his father was right about him being like his mother. He didn’t hate the Dakota territories, but he preferred the hustle and bustle that came with city living.

Instead of wearing denim jeans, boots, and work shirts, he got to wear fancy suits and polished shoes. He had only been there for a couple of months, but he felt at home instantly. He’d been excited to learn and to make something of himself.

Being a lawyer was the furthest thing from being a soldier, but he knew his father was proud of him. He’d always bragged to people about his smart son who was going to be a lawyer. Byron loved his father and was grateful that he had accepted him for who he was.

Byron kept his rifle next to him and pulled his bag closer. He was ravenous but would eat sparingly since he had no idea how long it would be before he could get his hands on more food or some money. With that in mind, he settled for a piece of cornbread and some tinned meat. He washed it down with a few sips of whiskey. Byron wasn’t much of a drinker and hated the taste, but it was better than nothing.

Having eaten, he laid down, pulling his coat tightly against his body and using the bag as a pillow. It was a beautiful night, and he drifted off to sleep thinking about New York.

Like almost every other night, Byron’s dreams were plagued with images of his father and reminders of the revenge he had promised him.

The sound of boots on the ground, kicking up stones, woke him from his slumber. That, too, was nothing new. Well, the kicking stones part was, but not the waking up to somebody walking around part. His father’s ghost never did him any harm but rarely afforded him much sleep.

Byron rolled onto his side and opened his eyes, expecting to see his father. What he saw was four Native men trying to steal his horse. He couldn’t allow that. He had just stolen the animal himself and needed it.

Moving his hand slowly, he gripped his rifle between his fingers. He knew how to shoot. His father had taught him and always said he was a natural, but it had been years. He hoped the skill would come back to him quickly.

Two of the men were standing with their backs to him, as if they were keeping watch. One was trying to untie the knot in the reins that kept the horse tied to the tree, and the fourth one was holding a dimly lit lantern. Byron just wanted a good night’s sleep, not a fight.

He was outnumbered and out of practice. He was going to have to act fast. Pushing his concerns aside, Byron sat up, bringing the rifle with him. In one swift movement, he aimed it and pulled the trigger.

The sound was loud and echoed into the night sky. The two men with their backs turned to him spun around, and the one holding the lantern had such a fright that he let it fall. The bandit untying the horse stumbled to the side, clutched his chest, and toppled over. Byron’s aim was still good.

The dry grass surrounding the tree caught fire, and his horse neighed, trying to back away. Byron used the momentary distraction to push himself to his feet. One of the men was only a few feet away, and when he reached for his pistol, Byron charged at him. His fist connected with the man’s jaw, and he could hear bones breaking. The man’s head whipped back, and he stumbled and fell to the ground.

Turning to his right, Byron lifted his rifle again and pulled the trigger. At the same time, a bullet flew past him. The man missed, he didn’t. The bullet hit him right between the eyes. His body was pushed back by the force, and he fell into the fire.

There were two left. To Byron’s side, the one he had punched was getting up. The other one was watching his friend burn with a horrified expression on his face.

Byron considered telling them to leave, but if he did, they would return with their whole tribe, and he would be as good as dead. Spinning around, Byron kicked the man who was trying to stand. He flew backwards, his hands reaching out to his sides to stop the fall. Byron took a step back, aimed his rifle, and pulled the trigger.

Byron heard footsteps behind him and prepared himself for a hit as he turned around. He thought the man was charging at him, but instead, he was running away. He was clever to run farther into the forest rather than toward the road. The trees would provide cover. That was, of course, if he used them correctly. In his panic he simply ran, not even trying to hide. Byron brought him down with one shot.

The fire was still blazing and growing, creeping closer to his horse. Byron quickly closed the distance between himself and the fire and fell to his knees, his hands digging into the ground. Scooping up fistfuls of sand, he put out the fire. It was tedious work, but it had to be done. He couldn’t let the fire spread. It would have been a catastrophe.

Byron fell back, breathing heavily. He was tired, emotionally and physically. “Can I please just sleep without interruptions?” he asked, closing his eyes where he laid.

Everything was quiet for a moment, but then it was there again, footfalls in the dirt. Byron sat up, raising his rifle. In front of him, pacing up and down, was his father’s ghost.

“Why didn’t you come when I needed help?” he asked, feeling a little irritated. “Could have used some help with those Natives.”

The ghost stopped walking and turned to look at him. “Your aim is still good.”

Byron frowned. “You saw what happened?” He shouldn’t have been surprised. It was a ghost, after all.

His father didn’t answer. “You need to find Deacon Kross.”

“I know,” Byron said. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

Byron was met by silence. His father turned away and resumed pacing. Byron simply sat there, watching for a long time. Eventually, his father’s ghost faded into the darkness of the night, and Byron laid back down. He wondered if the ghost was going to stop appearing when he fulfilled his promise or if its presence would be with him forever.

Chapter Four

Byron couldn’t lay there and sleep between the dead bodies, so he gathered his things, mounted his horse, and continued down the road.

He traveled throughout the day, thinking about New York, the previous night’s fight, and his father. By the time the sun was setting, he finally reached Trinity Springs. It was a good place to start his mission, so with revenge in mind, he headed to the saloon.

Years had passed, but even so, he hoped he would come across somebody who knew where he could find Deacon Kross, the man who had killed his father and ruined Byron’s life.