The Lawless Deputy (Preview)

Prologue

Territory of Colorado 1874

Shiloh Kearns shivered in the dark. He lay on the icy ground, hat pulled low, fists tucked deep into the coat pockets, trying to get a little shut-eye before they had to move. Every time he managed to forget about the cold and the wind, drifting into listless sleep, someone in the group started talking again. He’d keep still, eyes closed, hat low, and listen. He’d been around unsavory men before, but the gang lying low on the lee side of Whispering Winds Pass were men that unsettled him more than most. 

“We’ll freeze to death before anything shows up,” Windy Bill said from the scrub several yards from where Shiloh was next to his brother. 

Sometimes, Windy Bill talked out of both ends, which made it easy for Shiloh to understand the man’s nickname. He was a small man with a big belly. He chewed on tobacco plugs and swallowed the juice when he got hungry. 

“Are you sure it’s coming this way?” he asked. 

“Yeah, it’s coming,” Zeke snapped. “Shut your pie hole.”

Zeke was a mean man who bore bullet scars from encounters during the war and years after. Like the rest of the gang, Zeke rode with Tulle Marsh and the others for years outside Shiloh and his brother Samuel. They still called him Captain Marsh. He was always near Marsh, usually close enough to be in the leader’s shadow. Even then, lying on the hillside, watching the trail, Zeke was close enough to Marsh to reach out and touch the man.

The captain and Zeke planned most of the robberies. They ran with most of the same men. Over the years, their gang had whittled down, chipped away by bullets, prison, or nooses. Somehow, they skirted the big cities and the posses, managing to keep ahead of lawmen long enough to stay ahead of the bullets. 

“Well, my ass is numb sitting in this grass,” Windy Bill said. “I’m sick of waiting around.”

“Windy, maybe it’s a good thing you can’t feel your butt right now,” Gus said. “That means you can’t stink up the rest of us.”

The rest of the group on the hillside chuckled quietly. Gus was the youngster of the gang. He’d been nearly fifteen when he signed up to kill Yankees. But he was almost a decade older than Shiloh and Samuel Kearns.

“You should have waited down by the horses with Bascom,” Thorpe said. His low, rumbly voice came through clearly, even if he didn’t speak loud. 

Thorpe lost his left eye during the war. The story changed depending on who told it. So far, Shiloh had heard three different versions from the men who knew the man. Thorpe preferred using a shotgun. The coach gun had a smaller barrel than a barnyard shotgun, which meant it was easy to swing around, and double-barrel lead pellets up close rarely missed. 

Shiloh once saw Thorpe blast an outhouse nearly in half with both barrels because Windy Bill just finished using it. The shorter barrels exploded the wooden shell. Bascom was a quiet and dangerous man who could throw a knife with deadly accuracy. 

“He has been sitting close to me, stinking up the hillside,” Orena said. The Southerner had a thick accent with a French flair. He was lean with pale blue eyes and a thin brown mustache. He often sparred with Windy Bill, much like Shiloh and Samuel sparred as siblings.

“You can move,” Bill said. “Ain’t no one says you need to stay there.”

He shivered again and sighed as the men continued their vigil and quiet conversation. Samuel stayed quiet beside him. 

“Are you asleep?” Shiloh whispered. 

“Maybe,” Samuel answered. “It don’t matter, anyway. Why?”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” It wasn’t the first time Shiloh posed the question to his brother. 

Samuel was three years older, at nineteen, Shiloh only saw his brother as a force of nature. They were victims of the war, orphaned and discarded. When the Catholic orphanage took the boys in when they were nine and twelve, Shiloh stayed as close to his brother as possible. Shiloh often endured spanking and starvation when he didn’t understand the lessons and questioned the orphanage staff too much. 

Samuel learned of his little brother’s mistreatment, he planned an escape for the duel. They slipped away in the night during a summer storm and had been on the run ever since. The orphanage was a nightmare from the past, and Shiloh quickly pushed deep down. They survived through petty thieving and risky behavior throughout Tennessee and made it westward, jumping the boxcars along the railway. 

They traveled through Chicago and south on the Mississippi River, and they were hired by a steamboat captain to shovel coal. When that wore thin, Samuel pulled Shiloh into riskier behavior. They broke into a trading post when Shiloh was fifteen and stole their first guns. The proprietor slept in the loft of the place, and they were unaware until the shotgun blast cut a hole so large into the floor that it made for a better escape for the brothers than out the front door. Samuel had made it a game. Shiloh knew stealing wasn’t a game, it was survival.

Now armed with pistols, Samuel taught Shiloh how to shoot. One thing they seemed to agree on without having to talk about it was not using guns during robberies. They never stole much more than food, sometimes tobacco, booze, and fresh clothes. They hadn’t encountered any merchants or proprietors. They never pulled their weapons on anyone.

For the next year, Shiloh trailed after Samuel along the railways, breaking into random shops and merchant depots until they managed to steal two horses from an unattended livery stable outside Silverton along Guninson’s River. The horses gave them the freedom of range, veering away from the railroad stops into uncharted territories. 

Samuel decided to join up with Tully Marsh’s Gang. They caught up to the men at a saloon in Fort Stanton. Word went out for anyone looking to join a big payback if they had fast horses and faster guns. Samuel quickly reached out to men, pointing in Tully’s direction. They rode with the gang for nearly three weeks, always skirting large populated areas, always tracking the same stretch of trail, almost twenty miles both ways. 

It wasn’t until the night before the intended holdup that Tully and Zeke let the rest of the gang know their plans. During a corner meeting at a small tavern, Samuel and Shiloh first learned they would rob a mail coach. He hadn’t stopped shaking since the announcement. Bascom sent Shiloh to get the others’ beer. The tavern owner poured flat beer into thick mugs when he went to the bar and put down the money. 

Red Flack appeared at Shiloh’s shoulder, took his beer, and wandered away. It turned out, grinning, Red had swiped the coins Shiloh left on the counter. His black, wiry beard covered even his high cheekbones, nearly up to his eyes. He had to pay the tavern owner a second time. Even among thieves, Red Flack was an untrustworthy man. The rest of the group was untrustworthy, unpleasant, and unlikable. Shiloh spent the last of his money twice for ungrateful people. 

Three nights later, they were waiting for the mail coach on a hillside.

“You awake?” Shiloh asked after several minutes of listening to the war veterans talk about events that didn’t include him and Samuel.

Samuel finally pushed the hat up to meet Shiloh’s gaze. When he breathed out, steam vented from Samuel’s nostrils before the breeze snatched it away. “What’s wrong now?”

“I don’t like this,” he said. “It ain’t right?”

“What’s right about breaking into trading posts and stores?”

“We didn’t use guns,” Shiloh quickly added. “We didn’t hurt anyone directly.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Samuel said with venom. “There ain’t no one around that will give us a chance. Captain Marsh needs us. We’re not going to shoot anyone. The mail driver will hand over the case and move off. We’ll be on him and gone before he knows it. He’s driving the mail coach. He’s got to expect someone stealing from him.” Samuel nudged Shiloh as if to add comfort to the idea. “I’ll bet it ain’t the first time he’s been robbed either.”

“Alright, boys,” Marsh said, projecting his voice with authority. “There they are. Let’s go.” 

Zeke and Marsh were the first to start down the hillside. When Windy Bill attempted to get up, he only fell on his rump again and used his hands to scoot downhill. Shiloh and Samuel exchanged glances when they saw what had alerted Marsh’s call to arms. It wasn’t one stagecoach, but two. They had twin railroad lanterns mounted on both coaches, casting the trail ahead of four-horse teams as one coach led the other. The drivers and coaches were no more than black squares behind shaky lamps. The coaches were nearly a mile away, heading toward the area where Marsh and Zeke decided it was best to jump the mail coach.

“Hey Samuel,” Shiloh said, skirting down the hillside while his brother moved ahead.

“I know, Shiloh.”

“But—”

“Damn it, I know.” Samuel had stopped. Shiloh slid into him. They were the last to leave the area, the others already on level ground, gathering the horses. “It ain’t what they said. I get it. But we’re here now. You need to stay close to me; don’t step out of line.”

A cold knot had churned in Shiloh’s guts, swallowing chilly air on the hillside mixed with fear. He couldn’t stop shaking, and even at night, the pale cold must have shown up on his face.

“Is there something wrong, boy?” Marsh asked. 

Zeke sneered at Shiloh and did his best to look at the captain. In the dark, eventually, everyone adjusted to the area without lamps or campfires. The lanterns made their approach, maybe a half mile from them. 

“No, sir,” he said. 

“You got that look like someone shot your mama,” Zeke said.

Shiloh frowned, still keeping his eyes on the gang leader. Marsh smirked. “You’ll do fine,” he said. He then handed Shiloh a bandana from one of his pockets. 

Shiloh took it, unsure if he was to use it to blow his runny nose. Samuel elbowed his brother, tying a bandana around his face. The others began doing the same. Shiloh used the bandana to mask his face, his cold fingers barely tying the necessary knot.

“Don’t worry, boy. You and your brother hang back. When the coaches stop, you and Sam step behind them. If they got on riders other than the coachman and guard, well, do what you think is right.”

“Mind those shotguns,” Red Flack said. “Ain’t that right, Bill?”

As if to answer the notice about the coach shotgun, Windy Bill snapped closed the loaded gun and thumbed the hammers. He’d donned a red bandana over his face. With the masks and hats, it was nearly impossible to distinguish them. Shiloh felt small and insignificant. The bandana he wore smelled like rainwater or sweat.

Samuel pulled his arm, yanking him to the roadside timberline. They were to wait until the others hauled the stagecoaches. They would close in behind. 

“Don’t be scared,” Samuel said. It was impossible to ignore the fear, which made his voice unsteady. “Just stay close to me.” 

They found a spot twenty to thirty feet from where the others had fallen logs and pulled over the trail. Windy Bill and Orena had managed to lever boulders off the hillside, rolling into the trail. At a glance, it looked like scree from a landside, including saplings. It would be too late before the coachmen saw it was a trap.

Shiloh’s teeth chattered as he hid in the bushes until Samuel nudged him. They could hear the clanging of chains against wood. The coaches had four-horse teams, not two horses. It was another deception. As much as Shiloh regretted Samuel dragging him into holding up a mail coach, it only got worse when he saw the bank emblem in the lantern glow.

“Samuel, those are Wells Fargo coaches,” he said.

“Shut up,” Samuel said. Fear made his voice rise. “Keep down, stay down.” 

“What are you doing?” 

Samuel had pulled the Remington pistol from the holster. The others had already their weapons ready before ducking for cover. The horses snorted as their hoofbeats thumped the ground, drawing closer. The coachman and guard talked loud enough for their voices to carry ahead of them. 

The ambush spot halted the stagecoaches, making it impossible to turn around. On one side, the hill rose nearly thirty feet, while the other side had thickets of maple and popular sprouted from sucker seeds leading down to a ravine. The timberline had mountain water runoff pooling at the base of the slope that continued downward. 

The spot was a natural slow point, forcing the stagecoaches to ease up or risk muddy banks pulling at wagon wheels on one side or threatening to tip the coaches if the wheels rode too high on the rise. They had it set up for one stagecoach, not two. With two carriages, there were likely twice as many men. The gang didn’t scheme for the other team of horses.

When the first stagecoach passed Shiloh and Samuel, it was already slowing. The driver and his guard saw the rocks and trees. The guard got to his feet, cradling the short-barreled double-barrel shotgun. 

The second coach hauled further back, too far back for Shiloh and Samuel to get behind. They had to break cover and circle beyond the trees to get behind the last Wells Fargo stagecoach. Before Shiloh could protest or move, the second coach halted as the guard from the first coach called back and climbed off the jockey box. 

“Hold up, there’s something here.” It was the last words from the men in the carriages Shiloh heard before the gunfire. The explosive exchange caused him to cower and whimper.

When he looked up again, he stared right at the face of the guard on the second coach. The man had an elevated view of the hiding spot from the jockey seat. Shiloh hadn’t noticed the man because he had to lift his head and hat. The lantern glow on his pale, sweaty face must have shimmered in the light. 

“What the?” the man said, cranking around the shotgun.

The bullet from one of the gang snapped the man’s head sideways, thrusting him out of the driver’s seat. The coachman attempted to pull his sidearm, jumping up. The scared four-horse teams lurched and pivoted, screaming as the air went thick with gun smoke. The driver barely got to his feet before he took three rounds in the chest and stomach. He fell over the hitch rails. The read horses bucked and rose. 

“Oh, no,” Samuel said. He grabbed Shiloh’s arm, pulling him along the timberline. “Come on.”

“Sam, this is bad.” Shiloh didn’t need to repeat himself. His brother knew as much as he did they were in over their heads. 

When the heavy shooting ceased, they were several yards from the ambush. Samuel paused, hunkered down, pulling Shiloh into a crouch. They waited, listening to Captain Marsh barking orders.

“Check the backs; they’re usually riding with more guards than that,” he shouted. 

They saw Windy Bill sidling alongside the rear coach from a distance, going for the door. Before he could reach the handle, a massive blast came through the wooden wall. Windy Bill pitched away when he took the shotgun blast to the stomach. As he went down, his trigger finger twitched. Both barrels returned fire, catching the rear hatch. 

The door swung open. One guard fell out, the other hurtled over the fallen body, turning with the lever-action rifle. He stumbled backward, rushing closer to Shiloh and Samuel as he fired rifle rounds toward his pursuers. Orena caught two rounds, one in the thigh and the other in the shoulder. He went down wailing. 

Gus was next to fall. He caught a round in the chest, flopped forward over the wet grass, skidded to a stop, and didn’t move again. Thorpe spun sideways when a bullet clipped his arm. He returned fire. More men spilled out into the open. Two guards had hidden in the back of both Wells Fargo carriages. They came out shooting. Bascom caught a bullet in the head, spun his hat off, and high enough into the air, the wind caught it, pulling it up and out of sight. 

The bullet ricocheted off the thick carriage; others whizzed into the dark. One smashed a lantern, spilling oil over the ruined back of the coach. Flames leaped from the wick to the splashed wood, igniting the carriage. The added light spilled over the tall grass and wiry saplings. 

When the rifle ran dry, the guard pitched it and pulled his sidearm. He nearly fell, thumbing the hammer, pointing the pistol back at the flaming stagecoach. A bullet tore through him in his upper body. When he fell, Samuel rushed forward, staying low. Shiloh hesitated but followed. 

Samuel grabbed the man. No, he was younger than a man, closer to Shiloh’s age. The guard saw them. Panicked, he swung the pistol around, but Samuel batted it away.

“Stay down,” Samuel said. “Help me, Shiloh.” 

They hooked the young man by the armpits on either side and dragged him further from the carnage. The young man whimpered, gasping. When they moved far enough from the firelight, Samuel halted and looked down. Shiloh saw the light had vanished from the young man’s face.

“Damn it,” Samuel said. He fell away from the dead boy. Shaking his head, he didn’t see Zeke running toward them. 

When Shiloh pulled his pistol, Samuel frowned and turned. Zeke slowed to a walk. His pistol pointed at the ground. He’d pulled the bandana to his neck, and a sideways smile showed on his gaunt features on tarnished leathery skin. Zeke had bad breath and yellow-tinged eyes. Shiloh had overheard a few men talking about jaundice when they mentioned Zeke. He didn’t know what it was, only that if it affected Zeke, even if it was a deadly disease, the man was too mean to die.

“You got that one?” he asked.

“He’s dead,” Samuel said, noticing Shiloh hadn’t raised his pistol yet. The knowing glance warned Shiloh not to shoot Zeke.

“Good.” Zeke sniffled and tilted his head back to the stagecoaches. He pointed the pistol at the dead man’s back. “That little shit killed Orena.”

“Yeah.” Samuel was at a loss for words, sitting on the wet grass. Shiloh wondered if he was too scared to stand up too. 

“That all of them?” Captain Marsh shouted from the wreckage. “We got all them bastards?” 

The rest of the captain’s words were lost to Shiloh as he stared at Zeke’s yellow eyes. Zeke didn’t take his eyes off Shiloh or Samuel when he answered.

“There’s still these two,” he shouted over his shoulder. “They went yellow and ran for it.”

“I knew they was good for nothing,” Red Flack said from the dark. He approached from the stagecoaches. Marsh and Red had managed to douse the flaming carriage. The horses began settling. “I ain’t sharing anything with two yellow-bellied turncoats. I knew they was too stupid to help.”

“Yup,” Zeke said, his sideways smile broadened to cover the rest of his face. “You sure called it.” He stared at them. “You’re too yellow to be useful and too stupid to get caught in the firefight.”

Shiloh had nightmares for years following the incident. His mind never worked out if Samuel had pulled first or if it was Zeke. When the gunfire started again between his brother and the killer, Samuel took most of the six shots. One bullet found Shiloh’s leg, but his older brother had gotten him into the mess. And it was Samuel who pitched himself over Shiloh to take the rest of the bullets in the back, shielding Shiloh. 

“Run.” The last slip of air in Samuel’s lungs warned Shiloh before his big brother died.

When Shiloh shot back, he knew he hit Zeke. One bullet even found Red Flack rushing to join the gunfire. Zeke slapped at his face, spinning away, dropping out of sight. Red fell like a lead weight in the grass. Shiloh managed to crawl away as the men swore from the tall grass. Fear and shame drove him toward the ravine. He dropped over the edge, head first, catching himself among the thin saplings before hitting the creek bed. He crawled away in the dark to safety. And for the next six years, Shiloh crawled into a whiskey bottle, hoping to keep the nightmares at bay. 

Chapter One

Territory of New Mexico, 1880

The stranger grunted before finishing the last swing of stale beer. He’d been quietly listening to the long-winded tale without much more than the occasional guttural sounds. The man wore layers of deerskin and strips of fox fur. He had listened to Shiloh Kearns talk about the past. 

The trading post proprietor leaned against the back cabinet facing Shiloh and the hunched-over man in the ragged deerskin and furs at the bar. He scowled at Shiloh, arms crossed, shaking his head. 

Behind the broad man with the beard and the suspicious glare stood with his back to something Shiloh had never seen in person before walking into the place. It was an oddity in the frontier setting. The Masonic lodge mirror had decorative masonic motifs, flanked with fluted columns, topped with an orb painted with a cross and stars. The mirror was a little more than twenty-five inches wide and thirty-six inches tall. It sat on the shelf behind the owner at an angle that showed the cobweb rafters, the top of the entrance, and Shiloh’s head and upper shoulders. 

He’d never seen himself in a mirror. He saw shadows of his brother in his features. The cool gray eyes under the hat, the thin lips, narrow nose, and square jaw were similar to Samuel, now long gone. When Shiloh looked in the mirror, he only saw his dead brother staring back at him. Shiloh lifted the mugshot of watery whiskey to Samuel before throwing it back. The liquor didn’t burn as much as it used to when he started drinking. 

“You got some story,” the proprietor said. He reached under the counter, leaning forward. The sound of metal scraping wood happened moments before he stood upright again with the Parker 12 gauge hammer shotgun. He made a show of thumbing both hammers but didn’t point the weapon. “I recall something like happening outside Silverton. Six Wells Fargo security guards got gunned down. They lost more than five thousand dollars between the two coaches.”

“It was eight men,” Shiloh said, not looking at the gun or the proprietor. He turned the empty shot glass on the counter. “Eight guards died that day.”

Since the older man sitting to Shiloh’s left didn’t seem concerned with the shotgun, he glanced to see if the man was awake or too drunk to care. Shiloh clapped the old man’s shoulder. A dust cloud erupted. 

“Can I buy you another beer, Mister?” Shiloh wiped his hand on his trousers. He didn’t wait for the answer, dropping a nickel on the counter near the gun barrel. 

The owner didn’t move, staring at Shiloh like he expected something more than 5¢ for the advertised nickel beer. 

“You were there?” the owner said.

Shiloh nodded, feeling the mild throbbing in his leg from sitting too long. When he shifted, the proprietor turned the shotgun to point at him. Shiloh lifted empty hands, keeping them above the bar. 

“You got a lot of gull coming in here telling a story like that,” he said. “I should shoot you right now.”

“You could,” Shiloh said. “Or you can get my friend here that beer. And I’ll pay for another whiskey.”

“Why don’t I just shoot you, take your pistol and your money, and we could drink over your dead body?” 

Shiloh kept his hands raised and balanced on the stool. He glanced at the floor behind him. The stains on the floorboards were tobacco juice, not blood. It was a promising sign. Shiloh did his best to keep the man interested as long as his finger didn’t twitch on the twin triggers. 

“What’s your name, friend?” Shiloh asked.

“I ain’t your friend,” the man said. “Did you see the sign above the door when you came in?”

“Yup, sure I did, Handsome, right?”

“Hanson,” the man said. “It’s Wilber Hanson. And that is Lucky Jasper. He’ll vouch for me killing an outlaw. Ain’t that right, Lucky?”

Lucky Jasper grunted and cast a quick sideways glance at Shiloh. The man had more beard than face, and the shadow under the hat brim stole his eyes. 

“Well, now, Mr. Hanson, Lucky, if you let me finish my tale, you might not be so inclined to shoot me and ruin your clean floor.”

It was Hanson’s turn to grunt, a quick smirk showed before he lowered the shotgun enough to make Shiloh lower his hands to the countertop again. 

“Now, as I was saying, eight Wells Fargo men died that night, six years ago.”

“Whispering Winds Pass,” Lucky said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Shiloh said. “You remember?”

“No, I read about it, or heard about it.” His hunched shoulders shrugged.

“Well, see, after the slaughter, and believe me, it was a slaughter; eight dedicated men died protecting ten thousand in banknotes and coins.”

Hanson frowned. “I heard it was five thousand.”

“Yeah, I heard upwards of thirty thousand, but I was there, and near as I could figure, both coaches were supposed to carry five thousand each. I wasn’t certain,” he said. “I got shot; they killed my brother, too.”

“Serves both of you right,” Hanson said. 

“I would agree with you, except the law figured otherwise.”

“You should hang for what you did,” Hanson said.

“What do you think, Lucky; do you think outlaws gunning down hard-working family men should hang for it?”

Lucky stayed quiet. He stared at the empty, thick beer glass in front of him. Shiloh only saw his right hand on the counter. 

“So, after Samuel died, I went downriver, got away before Tully Marsh’s Gang could do me in like they did the others. I caught a bullet in the leg, and I wasn’t sure what happened to others.” He took a chance, shaking a finger at Hanson. “Now, I know for certain that I shot Zeke. I saw him grab for his face, dancing backward like he got kicked by a mule. He deserved it. He plugged my brother full of holes.” Shiloh wanted another drink to deaden the pain brought up by the images. If Hanson wasn’t pouring, he could keep going. “Sam took five rounds in the back, laying over me. All accept that one that hit me here.” 

With the words, Shiloh tapped his right leg. “I got damned lucky.” He laughed lightly. “Ha, funny, ain’t that right, Lucky?” Shiloh shrugged when the humor fizzled. “I carried my sorry ass into the nearest town and threw myself in front of a lawman. I told him everything and expected him to bleed out or die of infection. When neither happened, I thought I’d seen my last days and dance the dead man’s jig at the end of a rope. And that didn’t happen.”

“Why not?” Hanson asked, obviously invested in Shiloh’s tale. 

“I asked the same thing.” Shiloh wanted more whiskey, but since Hanson was interested in what he had to say and Lucky Jasper wasn’t talking, he figured he would keep going. “It turns out that lawman was a federal marshal. U.S. Deputy Marshal Cody McAllister. I believe if I wasn’t shot in the leg, he would have beat me nearly to death when I told him about the Marsh Gang.”

“I would have,” Hanson said. He glanced at Lucky, who stayed still and quiet as if he wasn’t much more than a fat scarecrow in deerskins.

“Yeah, I expected as much. But here’s the thing: Marshal McAllister gave me a proposition. He took me to a federal judge in Denver and vouched for me. He didn’t want to see me hanged or rot in jail. Neither would do any good for what he had planned.”

“What was it?”

“Huh?” Shiloh heard something outside, at his back, but the mirror with its poured glass and mercury back gave him a view of the door as it opened. He didn’t bother turning around. He could see fine without taking his eyes off Hanson or Lucky Jasper.

Hanson pulled the Parker shotgun from the countertop, sliding it out of sight but not out of reach. Lucky Jasper turned in his chair. He didn’t use the reflection to watch the two men enter the trading post. 

“Gentlemen, what can I get you today?” Hanson moved from the bar to the merchant counter, ready to supply the newcomers with whatever he had available in the trading post. Each counter was five feet apart, separated by more shelves of inventory.

Shiloh turned the shot glass in slow circles on the countertop with his left hand. Lucky Jasper moved slightly on the stool beside him. Shiloh watched the reflection of the men look at Lucky before they looked at Shiloh’s back. 

“You sure are out of the way in this place,” one said. He wore a black hat with a white band. “It’s getting dark out there. We saw the lantern. Are you still open? You ain’t got many customers.”

Shiloh had stopped at Hanson’s Trading Post for whiskey and respite. He’d been riding for nearly six hours. The horse needed as much rest as he did. He had a destination in mind and hoped Hanson’s Post was near where he needed to go.

“Well, it’s late, and I got two thirsty men here.” Hanson’s chin jutted. “What can I get you two?”

One stayed close to the door. It looked like he might not let anyone leave or anyone else inside. Black Hat stepped closer to the merchant counter. He wore a sidearm in a holster and had another Colt pistol tucked in the gun belt on his pants. The guns didn’t match. The holster’s weapon was cleaner and well-oiled. The one tucked under the belt buckle looked like something that hadn’t seen much use or hadn’t been used much for the man liberated of the weapon. Shiloh finally looked at Black Hat fully.

“You look a little familiar,” Shiloh said, trying to break the uneasiness that came into the place along with the stench of horse sweat. “Do I know you?”

“Naw, I don’t know you, do I?”

“That’s what I asked.” He glanced at Hanson. The proprietor looked back with mild confusion. The man didn’t get the hint. “I was thinking I saw you somewhere, maybe back in Silver City.”

“We was in Silver City,” the quiet one by the door said. 

Black Hat glanced at him. The man stayed quiet after that, eyeing Hanson and Lucky Jasper. 

“Yeah, I was there maybe two weeks ago. I’m on my way to Ghost Valley. I think it’s near here. Where are you gentlemen going?” Shiloh turned on the stool, keeping his right leg stretched out, but didn’t move his hand closer to the holster. “Can I buy you gentlemen drinks? I bought one for Lucky Jasper here, but Mr. Hanson hasn’t been pouring beer too fast.” Shiloh pointed at Lucky. “Do you either of you know Lucky Jasper?”

“No, we don’t know you or him, Mister.”

Hanson left the merchant counter and returned to behind the bar. He took the nickel and Jasper’s beer mug and filled the mug with flat beer. When Hanson put it down again, it sloshed on the countertop. Lucky didn’t reach for the glass. 

“Well, I’m Shiloh Kearns,” he said, touching his chest with his left hand before extending it toward his drinking buddy. “And this is Lucky Jasper. At least, that’s what he says his name is; that’s the name he gave Mr. Hanson here, and he, in turn, gave it to me. So, I suppose, he’s Lucky Jasper.”

“You ain’t making much sense, Mister.”

“It’s Kearns. You can call me that, or Shiloh. Makes no difference to me either way,” he said. “The thing is, I look at you, and I swear I saw you before back in Silver City.” He shook his left index finger at Black Hat. “I think it was at the Kitty Hole. I was having a drink or two and thought I saw you upstairs with one of Kitty’s girls. You didn’t want to pay, and she had some colorful names for you.” Shiloh glanced at Hanson, trying to catch the man’s eye. He also watched the reflection of the man guarding the door as the hand swept back the coat. 

“So, you know Kitty’s painted ladies are feisty, and that girl had some real colorful things to say about this gentleman.” Shiloh looked at him again. “She was saying you was a fiddlehead and loco, and you was rawheel in the bedroom.” 

“Mister, you got a sour mouth and you’re a windbag. If you don’t keep it shut, I might need to stick my boot in it.”

“Yeah, I got a bum leg, too,” Shiloh said. “It happened back when I was too young and stupid to pay attention too much. But I got to say, I think that girl, from what I know, she ended up dead. They found her in the outhouse behind Kitty’s Hole. Someone gave her a new smile with a big knife. You know anything about that?”

“Nope,” he said. He didn’t go for the gun or the large hunting knife on his other thigh. “But if you got more to say, you’re welcome to come outside. I don’t want to get this man’s floor bloody.”

Shiloh laughed, lifting his head and turning to face Hanson again. “See, he don’t want to get your floor dirty either.”

Shiloh faced Black Hat and his friend again. They didn’t see the Colt in his grip until the first of two shots struck his chest, causing Black Hat to stumble backward, shocked. He gasped, dropping to his knees, opening the space for the second shot to take out the man pulling the pistol at the door. The bullet struck the man’s left side, causing him to grimace, jolt, and fire back. The mirror behind Hanson exploded as he dropped behind the counter. The second slammed the countertop as Shiloh’s third shot hit the man somewhere vital, stopping him from shooting back. 

When Shiloh recovered, pulling himself up with his left hand and right leg tinging from the exertion, he had the smoking Colt pointed at Lucky Jasper. The man hadn’t moved, but the beer mug was knocked over the counter, spilling beer across Lucky’s lap. 

Hanson came up with the shotgun aimed at Shiloh.

“Hold it,” Shiloh said. “Before you finish painting your floor with more blood, consider me shooting your patron here.”

“You’re a cold-blooded bastard. Those men didn’t do anything to you.”

“Not directly, no,” Shiloh said. He glanced at the bodies close to the entrance. Black Hat had already stopped moving. The second man twitched some but settled. It was over in under a minute. “They killed that whore in Silver City.” 

“You don’t know that,” Hanson said. He looked at Lucky Jasper. The man remained frozen on the stool, staring at the spilled beer mug. 

“Yeah, I do know that. See, I remember seeing them that night. And I was heading out this way thinking they were heading west, too. He killed that girl because she laughed at him and refused to pay her.”

“Oh well. You just murdered them in my place,” Hanson said. He shouldered the shotgun, aiming at Shiloh’s face. “I might be picking up pieces of you for a few months, but it’s worth it.”

“I’ll shoot Lucky Jasper if you try to kill me,” Shiloh said. “I don’t care for leaving this world without my head attached to my shoulders, but if it comes to that, see that they bury me next to my brother.”

“You’re one crazy son-of-a-bitch,” Hanson said.

“Yeah, I know. I learned to stop being afraid of everything.” He kept the steady arm stretched, pistol pointed at Lucky Jasper, while Hanson kept the double-barrel shotgun leveled at his face. “See, a few years ago, having that big gun a few feet from my head would have made me yellow. And killing two murderers in your place wasn’t something I intended. But one thing you hadn’t considered is why Lucky Jasper hasn’t tried to move or pull that hog leg on his hip.”

Hanson frowned, looking at Jasper. “What’s he talking about?”

“Yeah, Lucky, what am I talking about?” When Jasper didn’t answer, Shiloh stared at the man while filling in the mystery for Hanson. “See, back during that robbery, a lot of the crew got shot up. I saw Windy Bill gut shot. I know I shot Zeke. I’m pretty sure I shot him in the face. Bascom went down, Gus died. Red Flack went down. And I ain’t sure about Captain Marsh. But the thing is, when Thorpe got shot, it was in the arm. From what I recollect it was the left arm. And since I was floating downriver, I figured they were counting the money, splitting it up between the survivors.”

Shiloh waited, watching Lucky Jasper. His arm ached, and the barrel shook some. Even Hanson’s arm trembled, shouldering the shotgun outright. But Lucky Jasper still didn’t move. 

“See, Marshal McAllister took pity on me. And so did the judge,” Shiloh said. “They gave me a choice of spending five years in prison for being a part of the robbery, or I could help the U.S. Marshals hunt down the last of the Marsh Gang. Since I knew who they were and what they looked like, they must have figured I was better out than sitting in jail. They gave me a choice, and I owed it to my brother. Sam wasn’t a bad man. He didn’t know any better. I learned a few things from him. But I learned more from Marshal McAllister. And I know a few things about Lucky Jasper, too.”

“What?” The barrel bobbed when Hanson looked at Lucky. Shiloh sidestepped some, so it wasn’t pointed directly at his face anymore. If Hanson wanted to shoot him, he could still do it, but he needed to swing the shotgun left about a foot. 

“It turned out the Wells Fargo coaches weren’t carrying five or ten thousand dollars,” Shiloh said. “Ain’t that right, Lucky? They were heading out to pick up the money, not carrying any back. That’s why they were riding tandem. You got bad information from Zeke and Captain Marsh. And I bet you were fit to be tied when you found out, weren’t you?”

“What’s he talking about, Jasper?”

“Yeah, Jasper, tell him. What am I talking about?”

Lucky Jasper’s fingers drummed on the countertop near the spilled glass. He reached for it, and Shiloh hissed through his teeth. Jasper righted the glass on the counter with two fingers and kept his hand visible. 

“They got bad news,” Jasper said. “Zeke had Marsh convinced it was a big score.”

“I’ll say,” Shiloh said. “They paid for lousy plans. They got what they deserved.” He glanced at Hanson. “See, Zeke’s dead, and Captain Marsh, well, last I heard was in a shootout in Texas with the Rangers. But when I knew Lucky Jasper six years ago, they used to call him Thorpe.”

“Thorpe?” Hanson asked. The double-barrels began a slow swing right toward Lucky Jasper.

“Yeah, I was a dumb kid. Me and Sam didn’t know much and they wanted to get us caught up in the crossfire. We were eager to please, easy picking. When Thorpe got clipped, he ran for the hills. It was almost a year later before I learned his first name was Jasper. Ain’t that right, Lucky Jasper Thorpe?”

The hat turned. He couldn’t rely on the reflection to watch Shiloh anymore. If he intended to shoot Shiloh, Thorpe had to face him. His right hand dropped off the counter as he twisted on the stool. Shiloh shot the man and ducked as Hanson’s trigger finger twitched in the sudden explosion. Both barrels blasted. Gunsmoke from pistols and shotguns layered through the air. The 12-gauge buckshot discharge scarred the floor where he’d been standing seconds before. Shiloh blew a hole in Lucky Jasper Thorpe’s side, knocking the man off the stool. 

Hanson came up from the cover of the counter. “What the hell, Mister?” He had to reload if he intended to shoot again. Shiloh wouldn’t give him a second try. “Look at my place.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about the mirror. And if you get in touch with the lawmen in Silver City, they’ll pay you the bounty on those two by the door. That should cover the repairs.” Shiloh kicked the pistol away from Thorpe’s corpse. The man’s left arm wasn’t much good. It was sinewy and shriveled. He kept it hooked in his coat pocket. The bicep rotted off the bone years ago, so it never worked properly again. 

Shiloh dropped banknotes on the bar and grabbed a whiskey bottle from Hanson’s stock before gesturing to Jasper Thorpe whose luck had finally run out.

“This one still has a federal warrant,” he said and pointed at the other dead man in the center of the shop. “And if you check for the owner of that gun tucked in this one’s belt, you’ll probably find another dead man between here and Silver City.” 

Shiloh got to the door, kicking the dead man away. He opened it to let out the reek of death and gunpowder. 

“Where are you going?” Hanson asked. “You can’t leave.”

“I’m heading to Ghost Valley. When I get there, I’ll tell Sheriff Dawes what happened here, Mr. Hanson. I’m sorry about the mess.”

“You’ll hang for all this,” Hanson said.

“Somehow, I don’t think so,” he said. Shiloh pulled the badge from his trouser pocket. “See, I got hired to be Sheriff Dawes’ deputy once I did my five years working with Marshal McAllister. I’m on my way to start my new job with the sheriff.” He closed the door before Hanson’s cussing could bruise his ego.