Chapter One

New Mexico Territory

1867

The first few flakes of snow drifted down from the gray sky in the northern New Mexico Territory as the stagecoach rattled along. For the past few days, the coach had been heading north along the Rio Grande without much incident. The closer Jake Lagers and his driver came to Sante Fe, the more confident the driver became that “none of them banditos come this far up”

About an hour after they’d set out that morning, a handful of those banditos proved him wrong.

Jake was the first to see something amiss, but even that was just a mixture of dumb luck and an unprofessional gang. He had worked as the guard on more than one stagecoach run in his time and knew the smartest way to come up on a coach was from straight behind it. At least for as long as possible. The dust kicked up by the coach itself made it difficult to keep any kind of eye on the rear. It also made for less than pleasant riding conditions for anyone coming up, and that’s what alerted him to this gang’s approach.

One man had apparently had enough, slowly working his way out of the dust cloud and becoming visible off to the right of the coach. Jake tried to tell Walter, the driver, but that was when Walter gave him his reassuring—if completely inaccurate—assessment.

“Besides,” Walter laughed, patting Jake on the leg. “That’s what you’re here for.”

Jake’s dark eyes narrowed. It was barely nine in the morning and he could tell the driver had already been drinking. But, in the desert, there were fewer things to watch out for, he supposed.

Jake turned around backward in the seat, holding the shotgun ready on the roof of the coach. He shaded  his eyes to try and make out shapes in the cloud of dust behind them. For a brief moment, he was inclined to agree with Walter. It appeared to be just one man on their tail. It was uncommon but not unheard of, for a man to try and catch up to the coach, a letter in his pouch that needed to make the trip. But as the rider approached, bandana over the lower half of his face, Jake became more and more sure this was no government rider.

Just about that time, another man broke formation. He reined his horse off to the left, either attempting to avoid the dust himself or simply giving up once his compatriot had been seen.

Two, Jake thought. He could handle two without trouble. He’d done it plenty of times. It was when another pair split off, giving him four men to deal with, that Jake became uneasy.

“Now’d be a good time to see what these horses can do,” Jake said, although he knew the weight they were pulling made them no match for the gang.

“Don’t worry so much,” Walter laughed, trying to glance back over his shoulder. “Could be anyone.”

Jake looked over at the man, trying to figure how anyone had survived this long as a stagecoach driver with such blatant disregard for common sense.

Just then, the first shot rang out.

It was a warning, more than anything. No matter what he’d seen when the fair had come through town, no one but the best trick shots could fire well from a galloping horse. When he added in the distance, the odds of accuracy were basically none.

“Could be,” Jake said. “But whoever they are, they aren’t too friendly.”

“Was that a shot?” Walter asked, the look on his face showing much more fear than Jake had hoped for.

Then again, a scared man would be more inclined to keep moving. As long as Walter kept it steady and straight, they might have a chance.

Jake patted the revolvers he wore on either hip, just as he’d done every time he climbed on a stagecoach. What had begun as habit had grown into reassurance. If the shotgun didn’t finish the job, he knew he had twelve more chances.

Another pistol cracked, this time from the opposite pair. The sound was difficult to hear over the galloping horses, but the sharp report pierced the cacophony around them. One of the men to his right was now riding with both guns drawn, his knees clenched tightly to the saddle for balance.

It was another foolish move, Jake thought. Done more for intimidation than anything. Judging by what he’d seen so far, this wasn’t a group to be overly concerned with. Then again, any time the odds were four against one (because let’s be honest, Jake thought, Walter would be more likely to shoot one of the horses on accident), he wasn’t precisely comfortable. If they kept up the showboating, though, he just might have the time he needed.

“Keep it steady,” Jake hollered over to Walter.

“What’re you gonna do?” the man yelled back, a quaver in his voice.

“My job.”

He adjusted his position on the bench, bracing one boot against the footboard and bringing the other up to the wooden seat. Nothing was exactly steady on a coach, but if he could hold himself at least close to still, the bulky body of the wagon provided a small amount of cover as well as a platform to aim from. He’d tucked a handful of extra shells in his shirt pocket that morning—another habit, and one he was thankful for now. It was one less thing he needed to root around for while the horses picked up the pace.

The pair on his left seemed to be approaching faster. Whether this meant the leader of the group was in that gang, or the four just couldn’t keep track of one another, Jake couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that the closer they rode to one another, the better his chances were.

He looked down the double barrel of the Parker Brothers gun, the scrollwork on the barrel lining his aim. It was a pretty piece, Jake thought, but pretty didn’t do much good in this type of situation. He pushed the safety mechanism forward with his thumb, wrapping his finger around the foremost of the two triggers.

Dust billowed around him. The rattle of the wheels on the dirt and the hooves behind him crowded in his ears. But as he focused in on his target, everything became quieter, less somehow. He had a job to do, and it was time to do it.

Timing his move with the bouncing of the wagon and the riding of the men, he waited until just the right moment, when the two banditos behind them were close together. This pair was more cautious, at least keeping the reins in their hands, but not cautious enough to put some distance between them.

Feeling the rhythm of the horses and securing the butt of the gun against his shoulder, he pulled back on the trigger, smoothly, purposefully.

The kick was what he’d been practicing for. He’d seen too many greenhorns let the barrels fly up, not only ruining the trajectory of the shot but throwing the shooter off balance. Jake took the impact like a piston, letting the gun move back slightly, but keeping his aim steady on the men.

The man on the right immediately fell back off his horse, having apparently taken the brunt of the shot. The second, hunched over now, jerked his horse over to the side, falling back immediately and almost instantly disappearing in the dust.

This might be easier than he anticipated. He was only one shot in and already halfway done.

“Ya get ‘em?” Walter yelled up at him.

Jake glanced down at the driver and grinned a little to himself. Walter was hunched over, almost looking like he’d rather be riding under the bench seat than on it. Jake had to wonder again exactly how this man made a living running banknotes like this.

“So far, so good. You just keep doin’ what you’re doin’.”

Jake felt some of his confidence fade as he swung the barrels around to the other pair. In the time it took him to deal with the first two, these men had put space between themselves, not just laterally, but linearly, one falling back and gaining at least a little cover behind the other.

That, Jake thought, must be the leader. The one man smart enough to keep himself safe at the expense of the others. It wasn’t someone he’d want to work for, but when it came to outlaws, rules changed.

Jake knew he wouldn’t have such good luck with this pair as he had with the first. To be honest, catching both men with the same blast had been more than he’d really felt right hoping for. But he also knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. He laid himself across the roof of the coach and settled in for his shot.

The crack of pistol fire came at him. He knew he was almost assuredly safe, positioned like he was. He was already a small target, comparatively speaking, and the coach covered all but a tiny part of him. Still, it didn’t do to take chances when he didn’t have to.

Jake pulled in a loose aim on the leading man and almost simultaneously pulled the second trigger on the Parker Brothers. The bandito was literally knocked out of the saddle, falling almost straight off the horse and only just missing being trampled by his companion following behind. Jake pressed the lever and cracked the barrels open, letting the empty brass casings fall to the bench. Those Parker boys might be on to something.

He slouched down on the bench, bracing himself as he reached in his breast pocket and pulled out two new shells. “We about got ‘em,” he yelled over to Walter, just as a lucky shot splintered the wood by the man’s shoulder.

Wide-eyed, Walter looked over at Jake, the color draining from his face.

“Just about,” Jake said.

He spun in his seat, staying low on his knees. The shot could’ve been chance, but it also could mean the last man had moved in closer. Heaven knows it didn’t take much time at all for the tables to turn out in the West. He poked his head up over the edge of the coach. Shots rang out immediately, one whizzing by close enough for him to almost feel the bullet.

Jake hunched back down next to Walter, laying the shotgun down at their feet.

“New plan.” He hunkered down and pulled a revolver from its holster. “You just stay steady now,” he said. “We’re gonna have to be close for a moment.”

Jake crouched down at the footboard, scrunching his body into the small space between Walter’s legs and the wooden plank intended for their boots. The position had him bouncing like he was on a bronco, but it would give him the advantage he needed. He inched forward, keeping his body as much behind the coach as he could. Finally, looking around the edge of the wagon, he could see his man.

The bandit had indeed made up some ground. He’d be close enough to reach out and make his move to the wagon before much more time passed. Thankfully, this also made for a much larger target. And between Jake’s unsteady position and the pistol’s limited accuracy, he needed every bit of help he could get.

The man had kept his gun hand free, but tucked into his chest. This was Jake’s best chance. Moving fast, he pushed himself out past Walter’s feet, bringing his gun arm up while holding onto the wooden bench above him to keep from tumbling over the edge. The outlaw behind them had time for one brief, startled look, before Jake’s gun shot out fire, twisting the man back and around. The outlaw flailed partially out of the saddle before getting hung up in a stirrup.

The frightened horse shied, lunging from side to side before finally shaking its burden free and racing off into the desert. Jake watched it go, knowing that, if nothing else, the horse was likely in for a better life on its own than it would’ve been with an outlaw gang like this. He’d met their type plenty of times and knew everything was a tool for them. When a man didn’t work for anything, when he didn’t buy his horse, but rather snuck up in the night and stole one from another, the idea of value was meaningless.

He did regret not being able to ride the animal into Santa Fe on his own though. He would have had more maneuverability while protecting the coach, and if no owner turned up the animal would’ve fetched a pretty penny.

He supposed his luck had taken him as far as it would for one day though. He reached up and patted Walter’s leg, getting the man’s attention.

“Hold up!” Jake called to the driver. “We’re all right now.”

Walter slowed the horses, bringing them in a wide arc back toward the last man Jake had shot. He knew better than to hope for life in the body, but every now and again there was a way to at least identify the men. Otherwise, it would be up to the marshalls, or more likely the overworked sheriff, to try and tie things together. While he was there, though, Jake couldn’t resist a little investigation of his own. Besides, this is gonna be my job soon. He hopped down and approached the man.

He used his boot to flick one pistol away, kneeling down and plucking the other from the dead man’s holster. Just another dead outlaw. Maybe with a little more fashion sense than most, judging from the intricate pattern on his red and white bandana.

“Well, you got ‘im, all right,” Walter said from his perch on the coach. “But what about the rest of ‘em?”

“Two are dead,” Jake said. “Or at least are in the process of dying. The last one, I couldn’t tell ya. He run off with some shot in his side.”

Walter nodded. “Serves ‘em right.”

“Yeah,” Jake stood. “I reckon it does.” He looked out over the empty desert. Life and death played out here every day and so rarely was anyone around to even witness it. No wonder the gunslingers had gotten braver. He turned back to Walter. “How long you been driving for the bank?” he asked.

Walter laughed. “This here’s my first time.”

“That a fact?” Jake said, looking down and shaking his head slightly. “I figured somebody woulda let me know that.”

“Nah,” Walter waved a hand. “One of my girls, her fella runs this coachin’ operation and she convinced him to give me a shot at it. I’d say we done all right, wouldn’t ya think?”

Jake laughed a little. “Yeah, we done somethin’ here, leastwise.” He looked around, touching the pocket where he had put his uncle’s telegram. “You gonna get us to Santa Fe in one piece?”

“Well, shoot,” Walter said. “I’d say we ain’t got nothing to worry about with you on board. That’s what I told Gregory, that’s my girl’s fella. Told him, you get me a good man ridin’ shotgun and we ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. I’m the driver after all. I just hold the reins. You do the rest.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “It does certainly seem that way.”

He climbed back up on the bench next to the older man. “Tell you what, you just keep ‘er moving straight and fast. I got a train to catch and some kin waiting on the other end of the line.”

“You riding the rails out, huh? Meeting the folks for Christmas?” Walter asked, flicking the animals back into motion.

“Uncle a’ mine,” Jake said. “Truth be told, more like a father to me. Man raised me since I was five. Got a deputy spot open up in Utah territory and said it’s mine if I want it.”

“Long ride from here,” Walter said.

“Indeed it is,” Jake said. “So we may as well get a move on.”

Walter hollered at the animals, flicking the reins again, as Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out two more brass shells, reloading the Parker Brothers. Just in case.