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On Truth's Edge

Where destiny gallops wild, one man’s mission for justice blazes a trail through the untamed heart of the frontier.

In a bustling American town, Arthur had built a name as the local reporter, revered for his keen eye and relentless pursuit of truth. With his own paper, he had become an integral part of the community, helping to capture outlaws alongside the old sheriff.

Until that cursed day…

Enter a new era under a corrupt sheriff, a former con man known to Arthur from whispers in the shadows. With no solid evidence but a reporter’s instinct, Arthur is on the brink of exposing a heinous scandal involving the trafficking of young girls.

But tragedy strikes hard, leaving his family murdered and his youngest son mute with shock…

And now comes Georgia, a barmaid with ties to the dark underbelly of the town, who seeks out Arthur. Haunted by the truth of her uncle’s nefarious deeds as the new sheriff, she brings with her crucial information and a plea for help.

Will he keep this new girl safe against all odds? Will he bring to justice those who murdered his kin?

It’s time to meet Arthur Wright, the Smart Eye.

Written by:

Western Historical Adventure Author

4.3/5

4.3/5 (367 ratings)

 

Prologue

Abbottsville, Nevada 1865

 

Arthur Wright took a deep breath. He was a bit short by most people’s judgment, but wiry and tough. His dark close-cropped hair was offset by a messy beard and burning Copper eyes. Right now, they were fixed on a wild mustang that he’d lately found himself calling ‘Thunder.’

The beast let out a low snicker, eyes wide and watchful. Arthur moved with quiet ease, speaking softly, letting the animal know there was no danger to be found there.

For the past three days, Arthur had been trying to break that danged horse, but she had proven to be nothing less than a force of nature.

“You’re okay, girl. I just need you to work with me. You don’t gotta go and do anything stupid. If you settle down a little bit, you’ll be in a new home with plenty of food, a roof over your head, and maybe even a nice stallion or two who might want to come a courting. How’s that sound?”

Arthur reached the horse and grasped the breaking saddle by the horn; in one fluid motion, he pulled himself up and settled into the saddle.

Then Thunder decided to earn her name.

She bucked, lifting all four feet off the ground, twisting and contorting, and Arthur couldn’t do more than hold on and pray. The horse whinnied and kicked from left to right, then bucked one more time, throwing Arthur like an old shoe.

The moment Arthur hit the ground, he heard Pete’s laughter spilling out into the morning air. Picking himself up, Arthur looked over to where his uncle stood.

“I reckon that horse don’t realize she’s dealing with ‘Smart Eye’ Wright, the most dogged newspaperman in the entire state.”

Arthur rubbed the side of his leg and found himself grinning, despite the pain. “You could take a turn, you know? Maybe help out a bit?”

The old sheriff spit out the shell of a sunflower seed. “I’m retired, which means I don’t need to do nothing.”

“You don’t need to do anything,” corrected Arthur. “You just used a double negative—”

“I get it, Artie,” said Pete, putting another seed between his teeth. “You got all your fancy New York learning and such, but right now the only double negative I see is that you’ve fallen off that horse twice this morning.”

Arthur straightened his vest, trying to pat away the dust of his fall. “I’m just wearing her down.”

Thunder let out what sounded like a snort of laughter.

“Reckon Thunder ain’t seein’ things quite your way.” Pete laughed and spit out another piece of seed. “If you want to break a filly, you need to show her who’s in control.”

“I’m trying to build trust with her.” Arthur approached her carefully. “It’s about patience and knowing the right way to approach.”

“Artie,” said Pete, “This ain’t some interview you’re conducting. She’s a killer. Maybe you should just sell her off to someone with a bit more experience?”

The black horse looked Arthur square in the eye and snorted a cloud of warning.

“No. She’s got a lot of spirit, Pete—but my gut tells me if I can win her over, it’ll be worth it.”

“The question is, which is gonna break first—that darn horse or your backside?”

Arthur tried to meet his uncle’s laughter with a straight face, but lost it after a moment and let a smile break through. He found that could never stay stone-faced around the man for long. The old man, with his long gray hair and mustache, plain clothes, and even plainer way of speaking, was just too full of life. His mirth tended to be infectious.

“Back when I first started working at the Tribune, everyone told me I couldn’t be a journalist and a rancher at the same time, but I proved them wrong. I’ve never walked away from a challenge, and I’m not about to start now. Sooner or later, she’ll trust me.”

His uncle’s face clouded over, the amusement fading from his eyes. “I still don’t see why you gotta go and play newspaperman instead of just keeping your mind on the ranch and your family. You’ve already stirred up more trouble than I want to think about with your investigating, Arthur. It’s not good for you—or anyone else.”

The younger man sighed, looking back to the modest ranch house he called home. It was nothing but rough-hewn timber and wooden planks, weathered by years of sun and the occasional storm. A wide covered porch stretched across the front with thick, sturdy columns of aged wood. Around it sat a modest yard with a garden of hardy desert plants and a corral for the horses. It wasn’t much, but it was Arthur’s, and he’d be damned if anyone was going to tell him he had to choose between it and his chosen profession. One was his love and the other his duty, though he admittedly couldn’t always tell which one was which.

“Uncle Pete, I know you think I’m being foolish, staying with the paper and all, but it’s the right thing. Back when you were sheriff, things were different. People felt safe in Abbottsville, but ever since Gross became sheriff and Wilson took over the saloon, things have soured.”

Pete nodded, looking off into the distance. “You’re right, but that don’t mean you gotta fix things. Sometimes it’s better to just walk away, Artie.”

“You ever walk away?”

The older man turned back to his nephew. “We’re not talking about me, son. We’re talking about you and that family of yours.”

“My family is why I’m doing this. Henry and Jacob need to have a home they can be proud of, a place where they can feel safe. You’re the man who told me that sometimes you gotta stir things up to make sure folks don’t get too settled into ignoring what’s wrong.”

“I hate it when you use my words against me,” Pete muttered and crunched a sunflower seed.

“It’s called quoting you.” Arthur laughed. “That’s why I’m a good reporter. I never forget a thing I’ve seen or heard—even when I wish I could.”

“I was younger when I said that.” Pete looked Arthur square in the eye, worry crossing his usually grin-creased face. “I’m older now, and I’m warning you that sometimes you gotta keep your head down, or you might end up losing it. I don’t want to see anything happen to you, Artie.”

“I’ll be fine, Pete.”

Chapter One

Abbottsville, Nevada 1866

One week later

 

“Arthur Wright, how long are you planning on staying up tonight?”

Arthur glanced up at the woman in the doorway of his office. As always, he was struck by her presence; he got up from behind his desk, going over to his wife and pulling her into his arms.

“I’m just going over some notes, that’s all. I’ll be home in a little while.” He swayed with her in his arms.

Julie Wright looked at him sideways, clearly not believing him. With sharp features, she could put on a stern face when she was in a mind to do so, but it made her no less beautiful.

“You’ve been digging into that Veronica Jean story for months now. When are you gonna let it go?”

Seeing the concern in her blue eyes, he said, “You knew her. How can you ask me to just can’t walk away from it?”

“We grew up together,” she said, nodding, “but I don’t owe her anything and neither do you. Can’t you just let it go?”

“You know I can’t.”

“I also know that there’s all kinds of trouble around town, and I don’t want any of it rubbing off on you. The sheriff’s paid to handle things like this. I say, let him earn his salary.”

Arthur snorted. “Jeb Gross is as much a sheriff as I’m a flying donkey. He’s getting paid to sit behind that desk and drink himself to sleep every night. He’s not going to do anything to find that girl.”

“All I know is you got a family, and that’s what you need to focus on. It may not be right, Arthur, but sometimes you can’t change the way things are.”

“That’s true.” He kissed her gently on the cheek as he drew back. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna try.”

***

The office of the Tribune was a cluttered space that smelled of aged paper, ink, and the lingering odor of tobacco smoke. Maps, faded newsprint, and old wanted posters sat scattered around empty desks. It was after midnight when Arthur closed the door to the small office he occupied as editor-in-chief.

Walking out, he put a gentle hand to the creaky wooden sign that read Abbottsville Tribune. His gut told him that something was different about the night, but he ignored it.

As he rode home, his thoughts were consumed with Veronica Jean and the other girls like her.

At first, he had thought Veronica Jean was the only missing girl, but when he asked around town, he discovered that in the past six months, four other girls had gone missing from Abbottsville. These girls had worked in Bill Wilson’s saloon, and the locals figured they’d just gone someplace a little bigger and a little better. That was what Arthur had thought too—at first.

Abbottsville wasn’t a big town, and other than some local ranches and a few farms, there wasn’t much to tempt someone to put down roots. Saloon workers came and went all the time; four girls deciding to try greener pastures wasn’t without precedent.

But Veronica Jean wasn’t a saloon girl. She was a serious young woman who was dedicated to her ailing mother and taught at the local school.

She wouldn’t have just up and left. Arthur was certain of that.

When he’d first asked Sheriff Gross about the investigation, the heavyset man had given him a cold look and a tight smile, saying, “Reckon some handsome fella stopped in town for a couple days and sweet-talked her into heading with him outta town. Her mama ain’t gonna last much longer, and that probably hit her real hard.”

Arthur didn’t believe it for a minute.

As he reached the outer field of his property, Arthur saw lights on at the main house. His gut tightened, and he kicked his horse into a gallop.

There was no reason for all the lights to be burning in the house after midnight unless something was wrong. Either one of the animals was having issues, or one of his boys was sick.

When Arthur reached the house, Devon Landers, his foreman, rushed over to him. Devon was tall and lean, with skin like old leather and an easygoing air that belied his extensive experience. The man was unshakeable; Arthur had seen him stare down a hungry mountain lion, but tonight, his foreman regarded him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Arthur!” The man rushed over as Arthur dismounted. “You . . . you need to brace yourself.”

The uneasy feeling in Arthur’s gut came roaring back. There was no denying the pain and terror in Devon’s voice.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

“It’s—It’s . . .” Devon trailed off, words failing him.

Arthur pushed past him and rushed into the house. Two things struck him at once: the acrid smell of gunpowder and the coppery scent of blood.

His vision moved in and out of focus, and he no longer felt in control of his body. His eyes were set on his feet, watching in grim fascination as they headed towards his bedroom of their own accord.

The door was slightly ajar, and through the small opening, he saw blood. Then he saw Julie’s pale leg sprawled out on the floor.

He’d seen death before. As a reporter, he’d witnessed some of the worst things one could imagine, but this was different.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and suddenly Devon was there. The foreman was talking, but his words didn’t make any sense.

“ . . . out in the barn because the horses were acting up . . .” Devon was saying, “and then . . . I heard the shots from inside the house . . . found her and Jacob in the bedroom . . . musta heard me coming . . . no sign of anyone by the time I got here . . .”

Arthur blinked, as if hoping to reset the world around him. This couldn’t be happening. He must’ve fallen asleep at his desk in the Tribune’s office. This was a dream—no, a nightmare.

Finally, he pushed the door open and went into the bedroom.

The scene he found burned itself into his memory. His wife and eldest, lying on the floor. Ugly gunshot wounds on their bodies. Blood pooling around them. Eyes staring, lifeless, toward the heavens. Screams affixed on their mouths.

It looked like Jacob had been trying to defend his mother and paid with his life.

Arthur sank to the floor, unable to tear his gaze away from what had been his family. Something important nagged at his mind, but he couldn’t focus. He felt like he was trapped in a fog, lost and unable to breathe.

Arthur knew he needed to stop staring at the bodies, but the reporter inside of him took over. The details of how they lay, the blood under their fingernails, the placement of the wounds, all seared themselves into his memory. He took it all in, as if he were preparing to write tomorrow’s front-page story, all while something in his head was yelling at him, trying to get through.

“Henry . . .” he whispered, pushing himself to his feet. “Where’s my other boy?”

He and Devon tore through the house, searching for the child. Arthur went from room to room, and with each passing moment felt a wave of despair pushing against him, the reality of the situation slowly becoming undeniable.

They checked under the beds, in the closets, down at the barn. They looked all around the property, the flickering lanterns throwing grotesque shadows as they frantically searched. Where could he be? Was he alive? What had happened to his boy?

“Henry…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Where the heck are you, son?”

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