David Fitz-Gerald
From Chapter 1 - Settling Up Bets
​A fist the size of a skillet cracked into Seph Vermillion’s jaw. He dropped his beer and the mug hit the floor with a clatter. Foam slopped across the planks.
That punch came out of nowhere, hard as a mule’s kick. But there wasn’t time to think of a sore jaw or spilled beer.
The Green Garter was fancier than most cow town saloons, though it catered to the same crowd. A stifling fug of whiskey, smoke, and weary drover stinkum seeped into Seph’s pores. He wished he was alone on the prairie, but right now, that was the least of his concerns.
“Seph! Watch yourself!” Charlie Coppedge’s warning rose above the din just as another fist swung toward Seph’s head.
Seph ducked, sidestepping on sticky floorboards as the rancher’s punch whistled past his ear.
Missing his mark, the man lurched off balance and slammed into the bar. “You cost me fifty dollars, you scrawny drover!” he spat, whipping back toward Seph. “And I don’t like to lose.”
What’s that got to do with me, Seph wondered. “Nobody made you place that bet,” Seph said, raising his fists. Before he could brace himself, another man lunged at him from behind.
He wasn’t alone in the Green Garter. His fellow Deatherage cowboys, Sparrow, Squint, Torp, and Stoke, were scattered through the overcrowded saloon.
Sparrow rushed in to block another punch, but a sharp elbow to the ribs folded him in half. He staggered back with a grunt.
Squint darted in with a swing. His fist cracked against a brawler’s jaw, but his victory was short-lived. The pint-sized cowboy was snatched off his feet and sent tumbling backward into a table of cussing poker players.
“Stay down!” Seph barked.
But Torp ignored him. The kid’s recent growth spurt had put some starch in his britches. He hurled into the nearest knuckle-buster, aiming a kick at the man’s shin. Torp’s boot threw the bruiser off balance, just long enough for Seph to take his shot.
The rancher lunged again, his fist scudding along Seph’s shoulder. Seph twisted free and drove a sharp punch into the man’s gut. The rancher crashed into a rickety table with a wheeze.
A drover at the edge of the brawl swung a chair, busting it into splinters over a heap of whiskey bottles and tin cups.
“Look out behind ya, Seph!” Sparrow shouted, yanking Squint upright while ducking a wild swing.
Stoke finally waded in. “Enough!” He planted himself in front of Seph and yanked the rancher to his feet by the collar. “Somebody haul this fool out of here before I throw him clear across the street.”
The rancher’s friends had started to rise. One look at Stoke and they lost their nerve.
A wiry cowboy stepped forward, hands raised in half-hearted concession. “You’ll have to forgive my buddies,” he said with a smirk. “They get ornery when they’ve had a bit too much—and it’s been a long time since they seen a town.”
Laughter rolled through the crowd. Men eased back into their seats, nodding knowingly. Every drover understood the need to blow off steam after too long on the trail, or too long cooped up within the confines of a ranch compound.
Stoke handed Seph a fresh beer, shaking his head. He muttered, “A man oughta be able to enjoy a beer in peace.”
Seph took the mug with a grateful nod, his lip quirking into a slight grin. “Much obliged, Stoke. Suddenly, I’ve got a powerful thirst.” He chuckled as he lifted the mug to his lips for a long drink. Maybe he just imagined the foam popping in his mustache, but he wiped his sleeve across his face anyway. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but that first slug of beer always hit the spot and flushed the dust from his gizzard.
From Chapter 1 - Slaughterhouse Scott
A shaggy cow grazed, half-hidden in the tall grass. She was oblivious. They always were. Buffalo never knew when a hide hunter was about to go to work.
He dressed like an old-time mountain man, in a deerskin tunic, fringed leggings, and worn moccasins. A bear tooth hung from a leather strap around his neck, inlaid with turquoise like a winding trickle of a river. He liked wearing it and didn’t give a rip what anyone thought about it.
From Chapter 2 - Tumbleweed Tillie
The Arkansas River meandered in and out of sight, shrouded by a thin mist that layered the landscape like stripes on an old trapper’s blanket. The camp lay still, broken only by the distant call of a meadowlark and the occasional grunt of a restless ox.
Tumbleweed Tillie Tobiano was already up, stomping the ground as she made her rounds. Buffalo weren’t going to hunt themselves, and she had no patience for dawdlers.
Something didn’t look right. As she looked into the fog, she tried to tuck her shirt beneath the band of her skirt, got aggravated, and gave up with a curse. An itch nagged at her bottom, and she couldn’t scratch it away. If only she had a strong cup of coffee to wake her up proper.
“Noel! Leon!” Tillie bellowed. Her voice sliced through the fog like a rusty blade. “You mule-brained halfwits! Where are my beasts?” She twisted her head like an owl, but the oxen were missing.
Noel Timmons stumbled from a small tent, rubbing his eyes. His wide-eyed gaze darted around and he groped for the straw hat he rarely took off. The twins were the same deep shade of prairie dusk, nearly impossible to tell apart unless you knew their colors. Noel wore red overalls. Leon wore blue.
Leon skidded out from behind a tree. “Miss Tillie, them oxen’s done gone!” Panic nipped his voice. “I swear we ain’t heard a thing. Not a peep!”
Noel muttered, “Somebody musta hitched ’em up quiet as a mouse. Ain’t no way they just walked off.” He shot a sorry look at Tillie. “You want we should go after ’em?”
Tillie sneered as she stomped toward them. She pulled a wad of tobacco from her cheek and spat a brown stream at their feet. “Gone? How do oxen just up and vanish? Ain’t you two supposed to be watchin’ ’em?”
Noel shuffled, bare toes curling into the dirt. “We… we was watchin’, Miss Tillie. ‘Cept, uh, when we was sleepin’.”
“Don’t neither of you give me that puppy-dog look,” she barked. “I oughta tan both your hides for lettin’ ’em disappear. How’s a body supposed to run an outfit with boys who snooze while the stock gets away?”
Leon glanced at Noel, then back at her. “We… we’ll make it right, Miss Tillie. We’ll find ’em. Promise.”
Tillie snorted and stepped closer, looming like a thundercloud. “Promise, huh? And just how do you figure on findin’ ’em? They could be halfway to California by now.”
She turned on her heels and hollered toward camp, “Maggie!”
Maggie Pike appeared like a startled bird. She was known as the fastest hide-skinner on the prairie and was a tolerably competent teamster, though she was prone to flitting. Despite her fluttering hands, when work needed doing, they were steady as a surgeon’s. Now her wide eyes magnified the panic. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Tillie? What’s the trouble?” She couldn’t help repeating herself. “What’s the trouble? What’s the trouble?”
Tillie stopped, rolled her eyes, and threw her arms wide. She stood in a spot where something should have been—but wasn’t. A low, dangerous growl rose from her chest. “Where’s my wagon?”
Maggie tilted her head, blinking fast. “Your wagon?” she repeated, like Tillie had just spoken in tongues.
“My wagon!” Tillie jabbed her finger toward the ground. “Gone. Just like them oxen. And Lord help me, if there ain’t another thing missin’…” Her voice trailed off.
Noel and Leon shuffled closer, heads low, as if bracing for a storm. Their glances skipped between each other and Tillie like thieves caught red-handed.
“Miss Tillie,” Leon stammered, pointing at the bare earth. “That’s where the jug rack was.”
Tillie’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “That no-good, whiskey-stealin’ scoundrel! Gar Harbinger’s gone and took my wagon, my oxen, and every last crock of Jugsucker Joe’s liquor!” She never used that nickname for her husband, but in that moment, she couldn’t help herself.
Maggie’s arms flapped and her hands fluttered. “All the whiskey? All the whiskey? Good Lord, Miss Tillie, what’s Joe gonna do?”
Joe Tobiano stumbled from the covered wagon, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot and blinking through the morning fog. “What’s this about my whiskey?” he croaked.
Tillie spun on him with a look that could curdle milk. “It’s gone, Joe! Gone with that thief, Gar Harbinger! I told you he was no good. And if you don’t quit mopin’ around like a broken-hearted calf, I just might shoot you.”
Joe groaned and dragged a hand through his hair. “What am I supposed to do, Tillie? What am I supposed to do without it?”
Tillie planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t care what you do, Joe. It’s the rest of us I’m worried about. You’re unbearable sober, and I ain’t about to spend the day listenin’ to you groan and growl. Quit bellyachin’.”
From Chapter 10 - Laird Deekbrow
Deekbrow talked a lot, but rode alone. Mostly he talked to his horse, Raz, which he figured was short for Brazos.
It reminded him of the river where he was born. The river where the Indians killed his family and burned his farm. That tragedy was never far from Deekbrow's thoughts. It burned inside him at thirty just as hot as it did when he was ten.
Raz shifted beneath him, her golden dun coat catching the last light of the day. He reached forward and patted her neck. Whenever he petted her—which wasn’t often—he expected to come away with a handful of sand. That’s how golden she was. She looked like a lion, but the stripes on her legs were like a zebra. He'd never seen a lion or a zebra, but one time he saw a picture of them in a book.
Deekbrow sat back, adjusting the brim of his hat. It was a battered, sun-bleached slouch hat, wide as antlers, and it dipped low enough to keep the light out of his eyes. It was a true Texan’s hat, the only thing he had left of his old man.
His fingers twitched, curling toward an absent trigger. The ghosts of missing digits still lived beyond his stubby knuckles. He'd never forget how those Indians knocked off one pinky at the first knuckle and the other at the second.
One shot for Papa.
Another for Mama.
And two for little Georgie, who never got a chance to get growed up.
After the first four shots, the rest of the kills went on his own account. Kill the buffalo, starve the Indians. That was how Laird Deekbrow got his revenge. When he killed them all, he'd find something else to do, but for now killing buffalo was all he wanted to do.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You ever see so many in one place, Raz?"
Raz flicked back an ear.
Deekbrow grinned. "Yeah, me neither." His gut soured just looking at them. Maybe this was how it used to be, but things were going to change. And he was going to make that change come as fast as possible.
He straightened in the saddle, shaking off the thought. He tugged the rifle free from its leather sleeve and ran a hand down the barrel.
The Sharps was warm from the sun, cool where his grip settled. The ache in his fingertips flared up.
He thought about that night in Wichita, a couple of weeks ago. Some cowboy called him an assassin, only he stretched out the s's. It was a compliment and it stuck with him. That's exactly what he set out to be. Only he wasn't like that John Wilkes Booth. His target was shaggy monsters, not stovepipe-hat-wearing presidents.
He whispered low to Raz. "That's why we're here. To put an end to this. We can't tame Indians while dinner's on the hoof."
The mustang’s dark eyes eased toward the herd.
Deekbrow’s grip tightened. "Not yet. Be patient, Raz. Bring us up closer, sweetheart."