Prologue

Black Hawk, Colorado

March, 1868

Jesse Mercer grunted as he pulled on the rope that was tied around the dead deer’s legs. With one last heave, he managed to pull his fallen quarry up to a level that was perfect for him to start butchering the animal. Once he tied off the rope, he took off his dirty hat and wiped the dirt from his brow, thanking God for letting this deer wander too close to his cabin in the wilderness. He pulled his bowie knife from the leather sheath, ready to gut the animal.

He looked at the long blade of his trusty hunting knife and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the shiny blade. A man with long, dirty, blond hair, an unkempt beard, and tired brown eyes stared back at him. He almost didn’t recognize himself and, in a way, that was fine by him. The less he looked like a soldier, the better. His stomach growled, he shook his head, and returned to his work.

Just as he was about to start cutting open the deer’s belly, he heard the galloping of horses’ hooves and voices. At first, he thought the ghosts of war had come back once more to haunt him. He braced himself, waiting to hear the blood-curdling screams of his comrades and cries for help from wounded soldiers on the battlefield that came to him from time to time. But then, he realized that these were the sounds of the living, not the dead, that were disturbing him.

He sheathed his knife and turned around to see where the voices were coming from. Through the forest, he could see the three figures dismount their horses and approach his cabin but he couldn’t make out what they were talking about.

Jesse grumbled to himself and ducked into the trees. As far as the three figures were concerned, he was just another shadow under the leaves. His lean frame gave him the swiftness and agility to quickly and quietly move from tree to tree until he was finally close enough that he could hear and see the intruders. A tall, lanky man with a wide-brimmed black hat, a stout man in a fur coat, and the third was a short man who spoke loudly.

As he got closer, Jesse was able to make out what the three men were talking about.

“You sure this feller lives here?” the short one yelled out. “The place looks as empty as a whorehouse on a Sunday.”

“Our friend in Black Hawk said Jesse lived up in these here woods,” the lanky man said.

“Y’all had better hope he’s here,” the stout one said. “This trip has made my wallet light.”

“Relax, you old muttonhead,” the short one said. “Once we get some nice pelts, we can take a train ride around the whole dang world with all the money we’ll make.”

Jesse watched from the shadows of the forest as the three men continued to argue. He continued to observe them silently and noticed that the lanky one had a limp in his left leg and the stout one was rubbing his head often. As he watched them, he thumbed the hilt of his knife. He didn’t want to kill them. He’d seen enough death to last two lifetimes. But, he could tell that these men weren’t the type to take “no” for an answer. He sighed and made a plan in his head to get rid of the trespassers.

He moved silently from tree to tree, circling the three men until he was behind the short one. Then, he crept up behind him, and once he was about ten paces behind him he shouted.

“Hey!” Jesse’s voice echoed through the forest. “Y’all best clear out of here.”

The short one jumped. He put his hand on his gun and turned around quickly, but took his hand away from his pistol once he had a good look at Jesse. His clothes were hand-made out of animal furs or hides, save for his shirt, pants, and hat.

“You must be the tracker that we’ve been looking for,” the short one laughed. “Jesse Mercer, I presume? You certainly look the part.” He grinned.

“I am he,” Jesse said bluntly. “What do you want?”

“We ain’t here to rob ya, son,” the lanky one spoke up. “We’re looking for a man to lead us to some buffalo.”

“Yeah,” the rotund one snorted. “We’re… Naturalists of sorts! We’ve come to observe the great buffalo in all their glory and report on their behaviors.”

The words from the two men felt like poison in Jesse’s ears. To him, it was obvious they were lying. It wasn’t just the crooked, fake smile from the rotund man, but it was the look in all of their eyes. He felt like he could see into their souls and feel their evil intent.

“No,” Jesse said bluntly.

“No?!” the short one said. “Can someone show him the cash?”

The stout one rifled around in his pockets until he pulled out a thick stack of bills.

“There’s two hundred dollars in it for you if you just take us to where we can hunt some bison.”

Jesse didn’t so much as move. He knew this wouldn’t end well. The tension in the air was palpable.

“Hey, tracker!” the big man waved the stack of bills around. “All this money is yours if you just take us to where we can see some bison.”

Once more, Jesse didn’t say a word. He just held the gaze of the trespassers, hoping his silence would be a good enough answer for them.

“Is he touched in the head?” the short one joked. “Maybe being out here made him forget that this country runs on the dollar bill?”

“I don’t care how much money the likes of you offer,” Jesse finally said firmly. “There’s barely any bison left in this territory, much less in this country. I know your type, you’ll shoot as many animals as you want and then strip the horns and pelts off of ‘em, and leave all the meat just to rot. It ain’t right. I’ll have no part in wipin’ the last of one of God’s creatures off the face of the earth.”

“Oh, a righteous man, are ya?” the short one said as he stomped towards Jesse. “Now listen here, you’re gonna—”

Before the short intruder could finish his sentence, Jesse grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, drew his knife, and put it up to his throat.

“Think carefully about what’s gonna come outta your mouth next or I’ll—”

Jesse looked into the man’s eyes. The confident grin had completely washed away and was replaced with an expression of complete terror. His eyes were as wide as dinner plates and Jesse could feel him shaking.

Suddenly, Jesse felt like he was back at Antietam. He could hear the yelling of commands from officers, and the Rebs yelling, but worst of all he could remember the faces of the people he’d killed. He remembered charging with his bayonet through the corn fields and sinking it into the chest of a confederate soldier. He remembered the soldier’s young face and the horrified expression he wore as he looked into Jesse’s eyes, coughing up blood. It was all he could think of as he looked into the eyes of the short trespasser. He began to shake, unable to move, and his breathing became quick and heavy.

“Let go of him, you sunovagun!” Jesse heard the skinny one yell as he charged him. He wanted to move, to act, do something but his body felt frozen. When he saw the thin man charging at him all he could think about was the rebel charge at Gettysburg, their terrible yelling, and the look of murder in their eyes.

Jesse shook his head and snapped out of the haunting flashback. He threw the short man to the ground and kicked the lanky man in his bad leg; he fell over clutching his knee, yelping in pain. The stout one rushed him next, and he came at Jesse like a charging bull. But, with one swift step, Jesse easily dodged the enraged trespasser, and as he passed by, Jesse hit him in the temple with the butt of his bowie knife. The big one crashed onto the forest floor, holding his head and groaning in pain.

Just as Jesse was about to tell the trespassers to clear out, the short one hopped in front of him and gave him a swift punch to the gut. To the tracker, it felt like someone had slapped him with a feather pillow. He barely moved. He looked down at the short man, scowled, and punched him squarely on the nose. He watched the short man fall to the dirt, holding onto his bleeding and now crooked nose.

The tracker looked down at the three home invaders, they writhed in the dirt like worms, groaning and grasping at the parts of their bodies Jesse had hurt.

“Crazy mad dog—” the short man groaned. “Who turns down that kind of money?”

“Anybody who’s read the Bible, I reckon,” Jesse said. “Now the two of you get up and help your friend. The three of you better scram, and if you ever come back, I’ll do more than just hurt ya. And don’t tell nobody I’m out here, ’cause I’ll just track you down and you don’t want that happening, believe me.”

He stared at all three of them with malicious intent. He watched as the short and the stout man rose with strained effort and helped their lanky friend back up onto his feet, putting him on their shoulders as they walked slowly back to their horses. Jesse did not move from where he stood until the three men had disappeared into the forest and he could no longer hear the sounds of their galloping horses.

The tracker let out a deep sigh. He reached into a pouch that hung around his belt and pulled out a pipe, a small gift from his commanding officer during the war. It was simple in design but featured engravings of trees around it; a later addition from Jesse. He packed tobacco into his pipe and lit it. On the first puff, he could feel his nerves beginning to settle. Smoking always helped him calm down — even during the war he’d have a smoke before and after a battle, sometimes in the middle of one, if God allowed it.

After he finished his tobacco, Jesse stowed the pipe in its pouch and returned to the deer he was set to butcher. As he worked, he reflected on the three men who had come to his house in the wilderness. He wished that people would just tell the truth and be honest with him from the start. Greedy folk like them who thought throwing money around was the solution to everything, aggravated him no end. That sort of behavior reminded him of his brother.

He wished people would just leave him alone. He had no wish to be a part of society, not in Black Hawk, or anywhere else. As he carved through the deer all he could think about was how he didn’t deserve to be a part of society, in any way. Didn’t they know that he was a killer? That he was dangerous? Why else did he prefer to keep people at arm’s length or farther?

Jesse stopped butchering the deer for a moment and rubbed his forehead. He knew getting frustrated like this was not the answer to his problems. He took a few deep breaths and concentrated solely on gutting the animal. It was already the afternoon and he still had a long list of chores to finish before the night set in. His rifle still needed cleaning, his horse needed to be fed, and after he had made dinner he would have to preserve any of the venison he didn’t eat.

As he continued cutting, the lonesome tracker’s thoughts drifted.

Will I ever find peace? he wondered. Maybe a man like me don’t deserve peace…

Chapter One

It was late in the morning, nearing high noon, and Jesse was brushing down his horse, Cannon, in his paddock. It was a black and white dapple horse that the lonesome tracker had purchased right after the war and he was named before Jesse had bought him. He was a well-built and tough horse that was used to pull artillery and wagons, which made Jesse’s job of transporting pelts and animals that much easier. In the winter months especially, the tracker could use his horse as a sort of mobile camouflage to sneak up on unsuspecting prey. Cannon was Jesse’s only true friend in the wilderness, and the hunter took good care of him. He made sure that his coat was clean, his saddle and bit were comfortable for both of them, and he would give him treats when he could. The two of them had become quite the team during the last three years.

A few days had passed since the three buffalo hunters had showed up at Jesse’s rustic cabin. It had been days of relative peace for the tracker and he was thankful for it. He had expected the three men to go to the sheriff in Black Hawk, to spin some story about how they had been attacked without provocation by some crazy man in the woods. Then, Jesse would try to explain how he was defending himself and God’s creatures from a few greedy fools. But, since it had been a few days, the tracker figured the sheriff had better things to worry about or the three of them never sought help from the law in the first place.

As Jesse finished brushing his horse, he scratched Cannon’s chin and smiled. But suddenly, the horse’s eyes went wide and his ears went flat. A split-second later, Cannon let out a low-disturbed whinny.

“Somethin’ wrong, boy?” Jesse said to calm down his horse. He looked all around and listened for what could be disturbing Cannon. That’s when he heard the faint but distant sound of horse hooves approaching his cabin. It was just one set of hooves this time, coming forward at a relaxed pace.

The sheriff? Jesse thought to himself. Or maybe they hired someone to come and kill me…

Both of his hands clenched into fists, and his knuckles turned white.

Why can’t y’all just leave me alone? The anger boiled up inside of him. I just want some peace and quiet, that’s it! How did those three cowards find me in the first place?

He was fed up with dealing with people showing up at his home unannounced, even if it might be the law.

Jesse quickly marched into his cabin and grabbed his hunting rifle. It was a breech-loading, high-caliber, Sharps rifle that Jesse had customized with a folding rear sight, longer barrel, and double-set triggers. The stock had a brass plate with his initials engraved on it, and it was also custom-fit to sit perfectly on Jesse’s shoulder while shooting. It was perfect for taking down big game, of which Colorado had no shortage and he’d never missed a shot with it. However, this time Jesse felt he might have to use it to put a big hole in whoever was coming up the road to his house.

The angered mountain man took cover at one of the two windows in his cabin, cocked the hammer back on his rifle, and carefully peered outside to catch a glimpse of this new intruder before they got to his house. As the new arrival came into view, Jesse knew that something was off about this one. Even with them being a good distance from the house, the trapper could see brightly colored clothes and a big, black Stetson hat on top of the trespasser. If that wasn’t enough, they also rode a pearl-white horse.

A sinking feeling crept into Jesse’s stomach as he observed the well-dressed rider. He was too well-dressed to be a hired killer. Rich folk, he knew, would never get their hands dirty, and any gunslingers he knew of would never dress so brightly. Not only that, but the few times that he had been to Black Hawk, he’d never heard of or seen someone dressed so fancily as the rider on the white horse. Something was wrong here; he could feel it in his bones.

Jesse continued to watch and wait as the white rider came more into view. Now, he could make out most details about him. He wore a bright red shotgun coat and a black paisley vest. He could also see the man wore red pants to match the coat, and his snakeskin boots had glimmering silver spurs on them. The rider’s face was obscured by the shadow of his Stetson but he could still see the heavily waxed and styled mustache that was on his face.

For a moment, Jesse remembered what it was like to wear clothes like that, to be cleaned up like the approaching rider. He missed having nice-fitting clothes that didn’t require patching all the time and that didn’t stink. He missed taking regular baths, having haircuts, and shaving. Then, the strange man picked up his head and Jesse’s heart jumped up into his throat.

At first, he believed he was looking at a ghost — a ghost of himself. Jesse saw a phantom of the man he was before the war. The rider had extremely similar facial features, the same dirty-blond hair, and the same brown eyes. But his eyes weren’t tired, they were full of life and… something else. There was something wrong with them; something that Jesse couldn’t trust about them.

The frightened trapper felt his heart sink back into his chest and he took a deep breath. Ray… he thought to himself.

Jesse watched as Ray rode near the front of the cabin and finally dismounted. He looked over his shoulder and then all around him. He wore a nervous expression, the kind that someone would wear if they were expecting to get shot in the back at any moment.

“Jesse!” Ray called out. “You in there, brother?”

Jesse uncocked the hammer of his rifle but didn’t say a word. His brother’s voice lingered in his ears; he hadn’t heard it since before the war. He remembered the last words that Ray had said to him before he was deployed.

“Try not to get your head taken off by a cannon!”