The Revenge of the Lawman (Preview)

Prologue

Vance couldn’t help but smile as he walked down the trail toward the river in the near distance. Even from here, he could see the layer of ice that had formed over this past winter, but some spots were showing signs of thawing due to the warmer-than-usual weather they’d had over the past week. The river spanned about forty yards wide at this point just after it emerged from the foothills and ran along the eastern edge of the meadow.

In his right hand, he held an auger, and in his left, the small hand of his five-year-old son, Ben, half-walking, half-bouncing as they made their way through the meadow to the riverbank.

“We gonna catch a big one, Pa?”

Vance chuckled. “I promised you we’d try, didn’t I? But just in case, there’s still some corn biscuits and eggs and sliced ham ready to heat up on the stove.” He glanced down at his son in time to see a small pout form.

“I like your fried fish better, Pa.”

He smiled again. “We might’ve gotten up too late this morning, son.” He pointed to the surface of the frozen river, his eyes narrowed against the brightness. “Why, look there, the sun is already shining right on it… any trout with a lick of sense is still resting in the shadowy parts on the far side.”

Even though he wore a heavy coat and had his battered cowboy hat pulled low on his head, he felt the bite of the cold February morning against his skin, making its way past his collar down between his shoulder blades. Still, he had promised the boy they could try some fishing today. It had been a long, harsh winter, but for the past week the skies had been clear, a brilliant blue that almost hurt the eyes to look at.

“But you said I could catch a rainbow fish today, Pa.”

Vance paused, looking down once more at his son and shaking his head. “I said you could try to catch a trout, Ben,” he reminded his son.

They reached the edge of the water. The river was relatively narrow at this point, though surprisingly deep. He found a nice, sunny spot along the western bank and pointed. “You sit down there, Ben, while I find a good place to drill.”

He watched his son take a seat on the old, familiar log that had served as his fishing perch for the past few years. Mostly it was used during late spring and through the summer months, but they’d been cooped up for days, both of them itching to feel the sun on their faces at least for a little while. A stiff breeze tugged at his collar and made its way beneath his shirt and long johns again, prompting a shiver. What had gotten into him, agreeing to fishing even though he knew they likely wouldn’t catch anything?

He walked toward the bank, glancing back once at his son, who waited patiently, the fishing pole resting across his knees. With the auger in his right hand, he eyed the stream and tentatively stepped on the ice close to shore. It was solid here, and would be for several more weeks until spring thaw took hold of the land.

He edged his way out but almost slid a couple of times as he shuffled his feet forward along the smooth ice. About fifteen feet out, he heard a sharp crack followed by a brief popping sound. He froze, his gaze sweeping over the surface of the ice, looking for any cracking. He didn’t see any, so he shifted his direction slightly and shuffled forward another ten feet or so.

This was far enough. Snowbanks had formed on the far side of the river from the stiff breeze that generally blew downslope west to east. He bent down to his knees and glanced at his son, only to find him exploring along the bank.

“Don’t go too far, Ben! I’ll have a hole drilled in just a few minutes.”

“Okay, Pa,” Ben hollered back without looking.

His hands growing cold even beneath the leather gloves he wore, Vance stuck the tip of the auger into the ice and turned the handle, the drill slowly spinning. Only a couple of minutes later, after having drilled a couple of inches down and still not seeing water, he heard Ben shout and looked up. He frowned when he saw that Ben was maybe thirty feet or so upstream, holding something up in his hand as he hurried down the bank.

“Look at what I found, Pa! It’s an arrowhead!”

Before Vance could reply, his son darted out onto the ice, laughing, slipping and sliding, laughing harder still as he made his way toward Vance. Vance’s heart leaped into his throat.

“Stop, Ben! Stop right where you are!”

Ben was giggling and either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to listen. His eyes wide with excitement, waving his arm up in the air, Ben slid and lost his footing. His legs slipped out from beneath him, and he landed hard on his back. For a second, Vance saw the surprise on Ben’s face as he landed, and then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

“Ben!” Vance’s shout was filled with horror and panic as he dropped the auger and moved as quickly as he could toward the hole in the ice, his heart pounding and his stomach in his throat, terror racing down his spine.

He too slipped on the ice and fell, landing on his side and sliding a short distance. He heard another ominous crack and froze, his eyes riveted on the hole in the near distance, Ben’s small hands grasping at the edge of the ice, his fingers and hands already red and his eyes wide with fear and shock as they met those of his father.

“Hang on, Ben!” Vance screamed, scrambling his way toward the hole on his belly, his elbows and knees trying to find purchase on the ice. “Ben!”

By the time he reached the hole, only one of Ben’s hands still clung desperately to the ice, which was thinner around the edges where he had fallen through. Just as Vance reached the hole and extended his hand to grab his son’s, the small hand disappeared. In horror, he caught a glimpse of his son’s face, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream beneath the ice.

And then the river took him.

Chapter One

Rattler Ridge, Montana – Early summer 1877

Vance woke with a shout, his heart pounding and eyes widening when he realized he was on the floor next to his bed. He was thirsty, a sour taste lingering in his mouth. He retched so hard that his back arched off the floor, and then he collapsed, his heart pounding and fingers clawing at the floorboards instead of ice. A low moan erupted from the depths of his chest and rose in timbre and volume until it left his mouth in a roar of despair.

The nightmare and the memories that precipitated it faded only slightly as he muttered to himself and managed to scramble up to his hands and knees. He reached out, one hand grasping the linen sheet and threadbare quilt that hung over the edge of his bed, the other scrambling for purchase on a wobbly bedside table. The porcelain lamp on top of it jiggled and almost tipped.

How many times did he have to suffer through the damn nightmare of that awful morning? How many times did he have to endure watching his son’s distorted features as the current tugged him under the ice? He placed a hand on his chest, rubbing at it, his knuckles digging deep as if to soothe his broken and shattered heart. How long—

He heard a noise coming from the corner of his room, a room filled with dim sunlight that forced its way past the grimy, unwashed window near the foot of his bed. That light didn’t quite make it into the corners. He blinked several times, trying to clear the fog from his eyes. He frowned as he recognized the sound of water… drops of water.

Confused, he glanced into the corner again, slightly shadowed between the edges of a narrow armoire on one side, the wash stand with the chipped porcelain bowl on the other. He shook his head again, just as he heard another sound, one he didn’t recognize until shock prompted him to stiffen.

It was the sound of chattering teeth. Frozen in fear and unable to move, he watched as a dark silhouette emerged from the corner. The shape took the form of a little boy. His boy, shivering, his clothes drenched, his dark brown hair looking almost black as it plastered to his skull. His blue eyes were the only bit of color in the otherwise pale face.

Vance moaned and shrank away from the specter while at the same time extending a hand toward it.

“Why didn’t you save me, Pa?” the thready voice asked. “Why did you let me die?”

His heart pounding again, Vance tried to answer, tried to speak, but another loud pounding jolted him. He jerked again and scrambled backward on hands and knees, eyes wide and wild. He threw off the last vestiges of the nightmare and swore. “Dammit!”

He struggled to push away the covers that had gotten tangled around his legs after he’d fallen from the bed. Muttering under his breath, he leaned forward again, elbows braced against his knees and face resting in his hands. Then, remembering, he warily glanced into the corner of the room.

This time, the wan sunlight proved to him that there was no one there.

He looked at the floor. No indication of water dripping. He realized the lamp was still lit from the night before and swore again. He reached up and turned the knob that extinguished the flame, shaking his head in self-disgust. The banging started again, and it was then that he realized the pounding came from his front door.

“Sheriff! Vance!” A pause. “Sheriff Tanner!”

He stood, his legs wobbly, every joint in his body protesting as he glanced down at himself. He still wore the pants and shirt that he had worn yesterday. He’d made it home and then inside. What had happened? How had he lost the entire night? He glanced down and sighed as he realized that at least he had removed his boots before collapsing in his bed in a drunken stupor. He sat down and pulled them on, then stood again, his balance better as he reached for the doorknob.

More banging. “Sheriff!”

“I’m coming!” he hollered. He winced at the sound of his voice, which precipitated a pounding in his head.

He lifted his hand to his forehead, grumbling under his breath as he glanced around the room, making sure that he saw no ghosts or specters. A whiskey bottle lay on its side on the floor, empty. In the other corner, near the chamber pot, he spied the splotch of a mess that told him he had thrown up. Again. Harry had warned him against the rotgut whiskey Martin Briggs sold at his saloon.

He left his bedroom, refusing to look at the closed door that used to be his son’s room as he passed it. His head pounded and every part of his body ached as he made his way into the main room, his boots thudding dully against the floorboards. He narrowed his blurry gaze on the face of the clock on the mantle over the fireplace. Nine o’clock in the morning?

He thrust open the door to find his deputy, Harry Burke, standing on the other side.“What the hell, Harry?”

A gust of fresh, crisp air rushed into the room like a slap in the face. He blinked a couple of times, doing his best to push the cobwebs of his panic-stricken nightmares from his thoughts.

“There’s trouble at the saloon,” Burke announced.

“Already? It’s not even noon.”

Harry frowned as he took in Vance’s disheveled appearance. Vance self-consciously brushed his fingers through his mussed hair and then swiped his hand down cheeks covered with a couple of days’ worth of whiskers. He probably had dark shadows under his eyes. He saw Harry glance at the clock on the mantle.

“You drinking again, Sheriff? You’ve already slept through the entire morning, or should I say most of the day?” He huffed another sigh of disappointment. “You forgot to wind your clock again. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.”

Vance did his best to ignore the judgmental comment and tone as he opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. He shook his head, regretting it immediately. “What’s going on?”

“Some strangers rode into town a little after noon,” Harry explained. He glanced down at the floor and then back up again. “You didn’t show up for work today, Vance.”

His eyes narrowed. Harry leaned closer, and even though Vance took a quick step back, he felt sure that Harry could smell whiskey oozing from his pores.

The deputy took a whiff of the air around Vance and frowned. “You drunk?”

Vance glowered at him. “Not anymore.”

He was aware that Harry knew that his drinking had gotten worse over the past year. In the beginning, there were times that he didn’t even bother to show up at the office. After a few months of that, Harry, not only his deputy but a good friend, had told him that his drinking was threatening his job.

He was leaving the townspeople without a leader, a man they had known for so many years rigidly upholding the law and keeping the peace. One thing Harry had said back then had stuck with him and encouraged him to slow down the drinking, forcing him to make the effort to be the sheriff he used to be.

What do you think your son would think of you now, the way you’re acting? The way you’re letting townspeople down? Letting yourself down, and even worse, letting Ben down?

The words had jolted Vance, infuriated him at first, but after he’d had a little time to think about it, he knew his deputy was right. So he’d made an effort. It was hard sometimes, but he had started to find the man that he used to be. In fact, it had been six months since the last time he’d gotten drunk. Almost.

He’d been doing good until June came around a few weeks ago. Then he’d started up again. He tried to ignore the sorrow and disappointment he spied in Harry’s face and mumbled an explanation.

“A year ago, Harry… a year ago today.”

He didn’t have to say any more. The entire town had mourned with Sheriff Vance Tanner when they’d heard the news that his five-year-old son had fallen through the ice in the river behind his house. The little boy’s body had never been recovered.

“I’m sorry, Vance,” Harry said. “I truly am. But there’s a group of fellows causing a lot of trouble at the saloon. I think it’s the Dupree brothers. They’re waving their guns around, manhandling the girls. One of them even bashed old Martin over the skull with the butt of his gun when he tried to kick them out.”

Vance frowned as he rubbed his hands over his face. “You think it’s the Dupree brothers or you know it’s them?”

Harry offered a small shrug. “I’ve never seen them in person before, but the quick glance I got of a couple of them niggled at my brain. I went back to the office and took a look at that stack of wanted papers that you keep stuffing in your drawer. A couple of them matched the sketches and descriptions of the Duprees.”

“And you didn’t take care of it? You had to ride a mile out to my place to tell me about it?” The moment the words left his mouth, Vance wanted to take them back.

“There are five of them, Sheriff.”

There was no mistaking his tone nor what it meant. There was also no doubt that if Vance had been in town like he was supposed to be and not drunk on whiskey and grief, he and his deputy would’ve been able to handle the notorious gang of outlaws before things had gotten out of hand. While the Duprees had never graced Rattler Ridge with their presence, he didn’t suffer fools or outlaws lightly.

Harry was a good deputy, not scared of much, but five against one? Those weren’t good odds no matter what. He had enough sense left in his head to acknowledge that.

Vance glanced back at the cast-iron stove in the corner of the room. A chipped enamel coffee pot still rested on the warming plate. He stepped over to it, poured some of the black sludge into a porcelain mug, and choked it down. It was bitter and cold but he drank the entire mug in a matter of seconds, then swept the back of his hand across his mouth, his whiskers scratchy in the silence.

His head cleared slightly and he tried to hide his shame at being discovered in a less-than-professional state by his deputy and friend. He made sure his steps were steady as he strode to the front door, snatched his hat from the peg, and jammed it on his head. He reached for his gun belt next, the leather well-worn and supple. He buckled it snugly around his hips before tying the holster strap loosely around the bottom of his thigh.

With an annoyed growl, Vance reached for his sheepskin-lined leather coat hanging on the nail by the door, then changed his mind. Though early summer, the nights and early mornings were still plenty crisp and cool. Even so, if it was necessary to face a bunch of rabble-rousers, he needed elbow room. The last thing he needed was anything hampering his ability to slam some heads together or pull his gun.

His head cleared with every second that passed and he heaved a sigh of relief as he pulled his Colt revolver from his holster, checked the cylinder, and nodded with satisfaction. At least he hadn’t been too drunk last night that he’d failed to clean it and make sure his gun was fully loaded.

He was in a mood and itching for a fight. As a lawman with ten years behind him as a county sheriff, Vance was no stranger to violence. He had killed in the line of duty, but never before this past year had he actually looked forward to it.

“They hurt anybody else?”

“No sir, not really,” Harry replied. “At least not by the time Cyrus—you remember the new stable hand? Anyway, he managed to skedaddle out of there and told me what was going on. But those brothers, they’re pretty drunk and they’re growing meaner by the second. They’re causing quite a ruckus. When Cyrus got outta there, they were pulling their guns, robbing the patrons.”

“And Martin couldn’t control them?”

“Like I said, he tried.”

Martin Briggs was the owner of the town’s bar and saloon. No one messed with him if they knew what was good for them. Vance was surprised that Martin hadn’t chased them off with his shotgun the minute trouble started.

“Five against one,” Harry reminded him.

Filled with anger and a bitter guilt that wouldn’t leave him alone, Vance knew that over the past year, he’d grown taciturn, drank too much, and took careless chances. He stepped outside, surprised to find his buckskin, Bolt, already saddled. He turned to Harry and raised his eyebrow, causing a sharp pain to stab at his forehead.

Harry merely shrugged. “You put him in the corral but didn’t unsaddle him.”

Once more, Vance heard disappointment in his deputy’s tone. He supposed he deserved it. He lived a mile outside the town of Rattler Ridge. Of course, he could bunk in the sheriff’s office if he wanted to, but if he stayed there, he really couldn’t keep his drinking private, could he?

He had started drinking again as the first anniversary of his son’s death approached. He knew he needed to stop again, but he wasn’t done wallowing yet. He had so many regrets. He’d failed his son. He’d failed his wife, who’d passed away two years earlier, and most of all, he’d failed himself. It was hard for a man to get over something like that.

He mounted his horse and fought back a brief wave of dizziness as he settled himself in the saddle. They’d have another cool night. The chirping of crickets and the deep bellow of a bullfrog kept up their racket as he and Harry followed the rough track of the stream to the east, toward town. There were times when he could hardly stand the sight of the river that had often taken on the persona of a living being, one that had taken his son from him so cruelly.

By the time he got to the edge of town, he was in a temper. He had always tried to be a good sheriff, and had been for many years until the death of his son had caused him to stumble. Still, these were his people and they counted on him. He wouldn’t let them down again.

The town of Rattler Ridge wasn’t all that big, but it was growing every year. As he entered town, he spied the small mercantile, a hardware store, the church and the school. In the past couple of years, as people moved into the area and their needs grew, other businesses had cropped up here and there. A seamstress and tailor shop. One of the widows in town had turned her two-story home into a boarding house. There was a saloon and dance hall, and of course, the sheriff’s office, whose jail boasted two barred cells. Last year, a small bank had opened, although most people around town still distrusted banks and held onto their own money.

Rattler Ridge might be small by big-city standards, but it was orderly and filled with good people and growing families—good, law-abiding, churchgoing people who just wanted to live their lives in safety and peace. He scowled at the idea that the Dupree brothers were in town. He’d first heard about them a couple years ago. There were three of them, each with a reputation as a troublemaker or rabble-rouser. They had been born and raised in Billings and had mostly stayed in the eastern part of the state—until recently.

As he rode into town, he saw a number of townspeople peeking through their windows or standing in doorways, looking to the south of town where the sound of gunfire shattered the otherwise peaceful late afternoon. He frowned at Abner Sanders, who owned the mercantile, lifting his hand and shouting his way.

“They’ve been shooting their guns in the air for the past twenty minutes, Sheriff!”

Vance sent a look toward Harry, who shared the same look of disgust. In most cases, incidents like this were just innocent gunplay by ranch hands who came into town on payday and had a little too much to drink. Sometimes they got a little too pushy with the saloon girls or slapped around a prostitute, sometimes even causing trouble with fellow patrons. He and Harry could take care of this current trouble, as they always did, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to gunplay.

He was in no mood for any of his townspeople to get hurt by a stray bullet. Then again, he wasn’t one to hesitate, and drunk or not, those brothers needed to know that kind of behavior was not condoned nor tolerated in Rattler Ridge. Not in his town. If anyone wanted to get drunk, they could do it at the saloon or in the privacy of their own home. Just like he did.

A couple more faces peered out from slightly open doors as he and Harry rode along Main Street, a couple of them asking what was going on without actually putting themselves in danger. When Vance saw them, he waved them back inside.

With every clop of Bolt’s hooves on the hard dirt, his heart began to pound in anger. Whatever had been left over from his drunk last night was now gone, a grim determination taking its place. Maybe it was guilt for getting drunk in the first place, or disgust at himself for being weak again, but he was just a man—a man dealing with the overwhelming burden of loss.

He tried not to let his anger get the best of him, though. He kept his temper under control as he and his deputy rode closer to the south edge of town toward the saloon. He didn’t rein in his horse there but across the street at the livery stable. Old Daniel McMasters appeared in the open doorway of his stable barn, scowled at the cacophony coming from inside the saloon across the way, and shook his head. After Vance and his deputy dismounted, Daniel took the horses’ reins and pulled them inside the stable, just in case.

“Those yahoos have been at it for quite a while, Sheriff.” He glanced at Harry. “Glad the deputy was able to find you.”

Vance didn’t say anything but nodded in acknowledgment. He turned toward the saloon, maybe thirty yards down on the other side of the dirt street. Six horses were tied up at the hitching post out front, a buggy parked off to the side. He recognized the buggy as belonging to the bank owner, Christopher Wilkes. He hoped no one besides Martin had been hurt.

He inhaled deeply, confident that he could handle himself as he always had. He took a quick look around. Two half-filled watering troughs stood behind him, a few feet in front of the livery, with hitching posts at either end. A span of dirt and ankle-high grass separated the saloon from the hardware store on that side of the street. On this side, an open field filled the space between  the livery stable and  the land office.

The other businesses of their fair town dotted each side of Main Street on the north end. Small houses and cabins were scattered in the open fields behind the business structures but he saw no children playing outside, no women taking down laundry from clotheslines, though he did see a bunch of sheets hanging from Sally McGinty’s lines. They had had enough sense to get inside when trouble started at the saloon.

They had just walked past the hitching posts and the side of the livery stable when the front door of the saloon slammed open. Vance barely caught a glimpse of Worthy Emerson, a gambler who often came through town, as he dashed outside, his dark brown jacket flapping as he made a dash from the door to the boardwalk and leaped down the single step into the rutted dirt street. Worthy cast a quick glance over his shoulder, spied the sheriff and gave a brief wave, and headed to the north of town.

Seconds later, the silhouette of a tall, dark figure appeared in the open doorway of the saloon. Vance barely saw the outstretched arm before a shot rang out. Eyes wide in shock, he turned to Worthy, who stopped dead in his tracks, his back arching and his head snapping back as his arms flung outward. He stumbled, took a couple more steps, and toppled face down onto the dirt of Main Street. He lay there, unmoving.

Vance didn’t even have to think about it. His gun was in his hand instantly as he crouched and turned back to the saloon, ready to fire. Harry was only a second slower. The tall man darted back just before Vance’s .44 caliber bullet took a chunk out of the doorframe.

He swore. He never missed what he was shooting at.

The figure appeared in the doorway once more. The tall man turned toward him, a wisp of smoke still rising from the end of the gun barrel. He just stood there, calm as could be, as if he hadn’t just gunned down a man in cold blood. He lifted his left hand in a sort of wave as he eyed the sheriff. The hand looked odd.

“He was a thief and he got what he deserved,” the man announced.

“Drop your gun,” Vance ordered.

Behind him, he heard Harry move a short distance away and off to one side, his 1851 Navy Colt revolver in his hand. He grinned. Harry’s Colt model might be old, but Harry kept it in near pristine condition and working mighty fine.

Two more men appeared from around the sides of the saloon, one on the right and the other on the left, half-hidden in the shadows. They must have come from out the back door of the saloon. The structure was two stories—the main floor housing the saloon, the upper floor sectioned into rooms used by the prostitutes. He saw the curtains of one of the windows move, but then it stopped.

Vance darted his gaze to either side of the saloon and swore when he spied the glint of light on gun barrels. His heart pounding, he kept his gun pointed at the man standing boldly in the open double doorway of the saloon, knowing without a doubt that his deputy was now covering the other two. Even so, they were outgunned.

He heard the soft jingle of spurs and the heavy thud of boots as the two men stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon, now mostly hidden in the shadows of the overhang. His eyes widened slightly as two more figures emerged from the saloon itself to stand on either side of the tall man with the disfigured hand who had just shot and killed Worthy.

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