Prologue

Barry County, Missouri, 1865

Around Wade, the steep wooded hills of southern Missouri rose to where they would edge onto Arkansas Territory. It was lush and green, with creeks running every which way around here. Wade had been thinking that even the air changed as soon as he rode into Barry County.

Home. Finally.

Wade Nash squinted at the figures on the low hill ahead of him and eased Charger, his chestnut stallion, into a slow walk.

Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen trouble on this trail.

The young man reached up to push a lock of ragged, dark brown hair out of his face. His gray eyes caught the sun. Golden-headed, tall Aspen trees lined the hills that Wade was following, their branches quivering in the prairie winds. Their sunburnt leaf litter crunched on the narrow trail under Charger’s hooves. At the end of the trail, a rise of land broke through the trees, and it was here that the riders were waiting.

There were three riders up ahead; all with heavy cloaks and hats not unlike the straight-brimmed hat the twenty-five year old Wade wore himself. Wade couldn’t see rifles, but that didn’t mean these men didn’t have guns.

The colonel had warned them all that the road back was littered with deserters and lowlifes who “wanted nothing better than to take your out-pay with them”. If he was being honest, that was probably the only piece of good advice that Nash had ever heard the colonel give any of them.

A wave of nausea and frustrated contempt rose in Wade’s throat. He’d had enough of this. Of living every day wondering if it was going to be his last. The sudden memory of cannons booming and screaming horses ran through his mind. Gettysburg. It had been a charnel house.

But it wasn’t here. It wasn’t now.

Wade gently whistled to Charger to step forward a little more briskly, and his steed responded perfectly. He was a good horse. Battle-hardened and worth every penny.

“Howdy!” Wade lifted his chin and his hand, waving at the group of riders, as he made his way past them. They were still too small for him to see their faces, but he made sure that they could see his long rifle by his side.

And I know how to use it, too.

Perhaps it was his soldier instincts that told him to keep them in view, or maybe it was older, earlier instincts he learned at his father’s knee—and later as a lawman himself.

Either way, a good, strong shout was enough to tell them he wasn’t afraid of nobody. Not after what he had seen.

One of the men raised a hand in silent greeting, but then turned his horse around, and the group set off north.

Huh. Wade kept moving forward, but kept his eye on the hill just the same.

He rode out from between the two low hills, and that was when he saw the thin pillar of smoke in the distance. Smack bang where the Nash farmstead would be.

***

“Pa! Sarah!” Wade hollered. He rode hard, demanding Charger put any energy the beast had left in him into the sprint.

The smoke billowed as Wade rode towards it, marring the blue western skies with black. It wasn’t long before Wade was seeing sights he was sure he recognized. The old chestnut tree at the top of the Maplethorpe place. The steep cutaway in the side of a hill where he had seen his first coyote. Everywhere looked familiar, but at the same time not. The Maplethorpe land was overgrown and untended. The fence by the side of their track was sagging and hadn’t been fixed.

No.

His heart leaped to his throat. How many young men—just like him—had been called up to fight, abandoning their homes? Who was there to protect their families?

Sarah.

His beautiful, blonde-haired fiancée was supposed to be staying at the ranch with Pa. But surely his father, the great Samuel Nash, feared and respected sheriff across southern Missouri could have looked after them both?

Wade rounded the final bend in the trail and the sight before him choked the shout in his throat. He reared Charger in shock, his horse’s hooves skidding in the dirt.

There was his ranch, or what was left of it. The large, plank-built house was a smoking ruin. Its front porch had collapsed, its windows were nothing but blackened holes into hell.

A snarl burst from Wade, and he rode forward as if he could ride into the past.

“Sarah, my heart; my sweet, my love—Sarah!” He shouted. He threw himself from his horse, tumbling onto the ground in his haste. He tore up the lane to their yard to see that the fires had already taken hold of the rear of the building.

“Pa!” He ran toward the porch—and as he did so he saw the humped shapes on the other side of the well, sitting up as if they had only just sat down a moment before.

No-no-no!

Dead bodies never look like they’re asleep. That was something he had learned in the war. There was a stillness to them that something in his body registered. The sound of the flames in the background faded to nothing as a terrible tinnitus whine split Wade’s ears.

“But, but…” Wade refused to believe it. Sarah couldn’t be taken from him. Pa was too stubborn to die.

But Wade couldn’t find it in him to call out again. The still forms, staring eyes and the blood that had soaked their chests made it clear what had happened.

Sarah was wearing her yellow and white dress, still with the striped blue apron over the top of it, now ruined by blood. It was the apron that Wade used to tease her about, saying it made her look ten years older.

“And somehow I’m still prettier than you!” she teased right back, often with a playful pinch or a swipe with a towel.

Sarah Lewis, the love of his life, lay dead with her back to the well. Wade remembered the first time he had seen her; he’d had grazed knees and she had grazes on her arms where she had been picking berries from the thorn bushes.

“What are you doing on my land! Are you some kind of outlaw?” Sarah Lewis, then aged all of nine years old, had challenged him.

“This isn’t your land. This isn’t anyone’s land!” Wade had answered.

“Yeah? Who says it isn’t mine then?” Sarah shot right back.

Sarah Lewis—never to be Sarah Nash—had introduced herself, and she had never changed. Everyone in the town knew that they were destined to get married one day. When Wade had become a deputy for Barry County, the other wives had commiserated with Sarah that she would need ‘to get her babies in quick!’

Wade walked up to her. Gently, he closed her eyes, and kissed her forehead.

“It was meant to be me who went first. Not you.”

Next to her, in the same position, sat Pa. Killed the same way, but his face was a still a snarl of fury. Wade couldn’t imagine the fierce strength of him suddenly being snuffed out like that. How could a mere bullet stop Samuel Nash?

“You do the right thing in this job, that’s all I ask. And in the times when your back’s up against it—when you can’t even do that—then you do the wrong thing, but for the right reasons. You understand me, son?”

His father hadn’t always been a kind man, but he had been fair. Something had hardened in him when Wade’s mother passed away.

Wade couldn’t think of a fitting epitaph for his father. Weren’t there things you were supposed to say at times like this? The Lord’s Prayer?

Without realizing, Wade had sunk to his knees. One of his hands sought Sarah’s cold one. He looked up at the sky, and howled.

What world had done this? What outlaw had done this to him?

His hand fumbled at his breast pocket, pulling out the one souvenir he had kept all those long fighting years. It was his sheriff’s star, wrapped up in the silk handkerchief that Sarah had bought for him. It was the same star that Pa had awarded him the winter before war had broken out.

“You’ll follow in my footsteps, and I dare say you’ll make a better lawman than I ever did. Watch out, Barry County! The Nashes will put you straight!”

It was one of the only times Wade remembered his father beaming with pride.

But what good had his sheriff’s star done him, out in the war? Had it saved Sarah’s life? No. Had Pa’s sheriff star saved their lives? No.

An icy stillness settled on Wade’s heart. What good was the law, if it couldn’t even save his family?

His fist’s clenched around the sheriff’s star so hard that he didn’t notice the pain.

No. The law hadn’t saved his family when they needed it most. What justice could there be in a world like this? One where wars chewed up young men and spat out their lifeless bodies, or where Sarah and Pa could be executed so easily, all for just a scatter of coins?

Wade’s hand sprang open, he stared at the star he held in his hand, and the beads of blood that his fierce grip had caused. Maybe this was all it was—a useless piece of metal. It didn’t mean anything.

What have I spent the last five years of my life doing? Wade demanded answers, but there was no one but the dead to give them.

I could find the men who did this. I could track them down, make them suffer, one by one…

Wade felt a terrible, black anger consuming his heart. But his rage tasted like the ashes of his burnt home in his mouth. What good would revenge do? He had killed many, and there were probably many mothers and fathers of young soldiers who would just as surely want to find him for who he killed during the war.

And revenge won’t bring them back, will it? Wade Nash lifted his eyes to the skies, and wept.

Chapter One

Thirteen years later, Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, 1878

Cheyenne sure did look like a lively little place.

Wade eased himself off Charger’s back, who whinnied softly.

“I know, boy. It’s been a long road today, but you’ll get a warm stable tonight” Wade confided to Charger, who huffed thoughtfully. Wade paused, waiting for the clip of the wagons to pass by and the dust to die down.

And this will be a good place for me to pick up a trail job. Maybe even a trail boss position, he thought.

Cheyenne was a busy town. One of those end-of-the-line towns as the railways had reached here but no farther yet. That meant that there was business; prospectors and wagon trails starting up to make the crossing to the Pacific Coast—lots of opportunities.

Wade heaved a weary sigh. In truth, it had been a long day’s ride for both of them, but longer for Charger he feared, who was already showing gray through his mane.

He’ll be fine! Wade shoved down the worry that he was asking too much of his steed. No. Charger had been with him through thick and thin. Halfway across this glorious land of America and back again. Together they had tracked and trapped along the Oregon trail, and they had guarded cattle running the Shawnee Trail. Everything that could have conceivably been thrown at a man—from floods to wildfires, outlaws and bandits and storms, had happened to him and his steed over the last thirteen years—and they both made it through just fine. Charger might be seventeen, but he still had plenty of years in him. Didn’t he?

But still, it would be nice to have a bed and some steady work for a change. Wade fed Charger some slices of dried apple from his pack as he regarded the town ahead of him.

Cheyenne wasn’t large, but the Pacific Railroad Company must have done it wonders. Wade could see the freight yard and the miasma of dust that hung over it from where he stood. Barns larger than most churches sat around it. A fierce whistle split the air, and Wade saw the long line of a black locomotive slowing as it came into the station.

The town itself was busy with carts, riders, and foot traffic. Wade recognized the heavy riding gear and grime of the trail’s men, as well as the sharp clip of businessmen as they walked their expensive shoes on the board walks.

Yes sir, Cheyenne is a town on the up.

Wade saw the stone buildings at the heart of the town, and scaffolding ladders beyond that.

In truth, Wade preferred the peace and quiet of being on the road. He wasn’t sure he liked being bothered by other people’s shenanigans and foolery.

But there’s not much money in furs right now. Wade sighed. But that was okay. Maybe he could hire on as a guide, or a guard with someone. Just so long as they treated him well and didn’t expect him to talk too much.

Life was simpler that way.

“Come on boy, let’s see what she has to offer us,” Wade led Charger by the lead into the town. He kept himself to the side of the roadway. Wagons and carriages trundled past. He heard a group of teamsters laughing and shouting loudly outside a saloon. He raised his head warily in their direction.

Charger whinnied softly again at his side.

“Oh, don’t worry old man. I’m not borrowing trouble today,” Wade said. The teamsters were already drunk on some cheap rye or whatever rotgut they could get their hands on. Their laughter wasn’t reserved for him.

Keep your head down. Keep on your own trail. Wade forced himself to keep walking, even though his senses jangled.

It was places like this—towns, cities, places where lots of people washed up—where Wade could sense the danger. Not out there on the open plains, under prairie skies.

Wade passed by the rowdy streets, instead heading for the one which had an actual stone bank and stone post office. Across the street was a large saloon called Gilmour’s, with a green painted sign, and whose lettering was in fancy gold swirls.

Gilmour’s had a free to use stable for guests, just so long as he didn’t mind paying the extra pennies for the feed. Wade would take that cost, if only to get Charger somewhere warm and dry for the night, and himself an actual bed. Maybe even order a hot bath tub drawn up.

Inside, the place was as busy as Wade expected it to be, with a group of men singing harmonies in the background as a woman in formal dress caressed a piano. There were teamsters and cowboys in here too, but most of them looked a little older, with the air of lead scouts or project bosses. The other half of the clientele appeared to be made up of well-to-do travelers. Wade saw men in tailored dress coats and with canes, and women with small hats and shortened riding jackets.

Probably just got off the train and looking to make their fortune.

Wade afforded himself a brief chuckle. The west was changing all right. The railroad wasn’t just sending cattle and ore back east. It was also bringing eastern money out west. Young couples were starting out on new claims, while others were setting up milliners and haberdashers and tailors and print shops. Wade didn’t think it would be too long before Cheyenne even got a playhouse all of its own.

Wade selected a spot at the end of the bar, paying his dues for a room, a hot meal and a tub, before leaning over and passing another few dimes over the counter.

“You know someone in here looking to take on staff? They got to be reliable, good reputation. Treat people right,” Wade said to the skinny barman with a balding head, who made up for it with an over-large mustache that joined up to his sideburns.

“Work? You’re looking for work, you say? Try the Cheyenne Star, down at the front of town,” the barman frowned at him. The small man looked about to move, when Wade added another couple of dimes to the counter.

“I’m not looking for that kind of work, mister. I know my worth, and I’m looking for someone honest. Not chump work,” Wade said seriously.

In all honesty, Wade had done his fair share of ‘chump work’. He had grubbed out trees for mining companies. He had dug ditches and driven bolts for railway firms. He didn’t mind the hard work, but it was the monotony that got him.

And those contracts always pay terribly, and couldn’t care less if you died on the job.

The barkeep looked down at the counter and then back up at Wade, who held his eyes steadily. He wondered what the barkeep saw in him then, as he straightened up a little, and cleared his throat as if addressing someone with much better clothes than Wade currently wore.

“Well, there’s the Pacific man at the end of the bar over there. He says he’s looking for someone, but hasn’t found him yet. Mr. Hayes, I think he said.” The barkeep pocketed the money, and pointed towards a young-looking man with dark hair and a yellow cravat under his dark jacket.

Might as well go introduce myself.

Wade walked down to the bottom of the bar to see the man in question grinning, and already holding forth with a small circle of well-dressed travelers.

“No, honestly, New York is the worst. If you’re that good at cards then please don’t go there!” the man said with a cackle, earning a round of laughter from the crowd.

This Hayes was older than Wade had first thought, he realized. He had crow’s feet around his eyes and traces of silver touching his hairline. But there was something about his demeanor—his cheerfulness, his casual confidence, that made him seem younger.

“And well, if you’re looking for an investment, then it has to be Carson City to the south, or Boise in the north,” the man announced to another of their number, a well-dressed man clearly younger than either Wade or Mr. Hayes. “Busy routes, main trails for settlers and prospectors. I tell you, as soon as we get a railway through to either of them, they’ll explode.”

There was an admiring titter from the crowd. Wade was starting to wonder if he had come to the wrong man. It didn’t look like Mr. Hayes had want of anything.

“But now, that’s enough! Leave me to my meal, please gentlemen, ladies,” Mr. Hayes nodded graciously, as one of the serving women set down a bowl of something steaming, that looked delicious.

The crowd dispersed, and Wade found himself standing in front of the Union Pacific Railway man who was sitting at a small table, looking up at him.

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t mean to interrupt your food, I’ll come back in a moment,” Wade said at once. Already the serving woman, dressed in apron and red skirts was swaying back through the swing doors at the back, laden with another bowl of some steaming broth, and a plate with hunks of bread and cheese.

“Oh, you’ve come off the trails, haven’t you? Sit yourself down, man. Just keep me busy so those jackals don’t come back again!” the businessman hissed, gesturing to the seat opposite him. At first Wade wondered if he meant it, but he saw the man grinning and rolling his eyes at the well-dressed hangers on starting to flock around the singers.

The railway man waved at the serving woman moving from the kitchens to the saloon floor. “Another of the same for my friend here!”

The serving woman saw Wade and nodded.

“You’re next, mister. I’ll bring it out shortly,” she said.

“Thank you,” Wade half smiled. Although, Wade admitted, this act of kindness was probably to appear busy so he wouldn’t be bothered again. A few moments later, and a steaming dish of stew, with a fat hunk of bread on the side arrived at his table.

“Every town we go to, it’s the same,” Mr. Hayes said. “Everyone wants to know where to spend their money but they don’t have a jot of sense to go with it. Give me one decent man who can work hard for every ten of them, I tell you!” Mr. Hayes laughed, sopping up his stew and tearing into the bread. Wade waited for a pause, and realized he appreciated that. He appreciated a man, no matter what finery they wore, who got down to the business of eating. It was a soldier’s trait.

“You served?” Wade asked.

“Of course. Infantry. Made it all the way to sergeant before they realized the whole thing was over,” Hayes nodded. “You?”

“Infantry,” Wade nodded. It was a long time ago now, but he could still read the signs of the war on another man’s face. Despite his joviality, Mr. Hayes had a crinkling around the eyes, and an immediacy of speech that said, I’ve seen death, and I’m not going back there!

“But before that I was a sheriff in my home state. So I already had a fair bit of experience.”

“Which was where?” Hayes ate as he asked questions. He appeared genuinely interested.

“Missouri. Barry County,” Wade said easily. He worked his way through his own dish.

“Barry County? Say… you wouldn’t be Wade Nash, would you?” Mr. Hayes looked at him in surprise.

Wade blinked. A shiver ran down his spine. “Sir, yes, I am. How come you know my name?”