Prologue

Independence, Missouri

1859

“Two bodies… one male, one female, look to be Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast…”

Sheriff Caleb Rourke listened to the words of his deputy, Isaac Harlan, while his boots crunched on the red earth. In front of him was the lacquered black carriage, its horses standing to one side where Isaac had tied them to a tree.

“Carriage is too fancy for us,” Caleb said at once. It was one of those city carriages with a fresh lick of paint and real brass ornamental fittings on the door handles and corners. Silly to have something as fine as this on the trails to the small, back-wood town of Independence, where Caleb was sheriff.

“St. Louis, maybe. That’s where she’s coming from.” Isaac nodded up the wide, main trail that cut across the prairie, as straight as a ruler as far as the eye could see.

“Who notified you?” Caleb asked, taking his time to walk around the carriage first, before he took a look at whatever grisly sights awaited him inside. He saw bullet holes in the doors and walls. One of them had chipped a wheel frame.

Huh, Caleb thought. No bullets on the driver’s bench. You would have thought a bandit would have wanted to take the driver out first, wouldn’t you?

“Some ranch hands. Saw it sitting here this morning, and it was still here when they drove their cattle back this way from watering. They rode right down to the sheriff’s station with the news,” Isaac said. Caleb nodded. That was often how news worked around here. He didn’t have enough officers to keep patrol on all the trails in and out of Independence. It infuriated him, but he often heard of news through other people—or by investigating himself.

“Pendergast, you say?” The name rang a bell in Caleb’s mind, but he couldn’t quite recall why. Had Mayor Whitmore mentioned the name recently?

“Okay, let’s take a look then.” He grabbed the door handle and pulled it open to see exactly what he expected to see.

Two dead bodies, a man and a woman, dried red, soaked through their clothes. They had been shot not just once, but a few times. They hadn’t stood a chance.

“Good carriage, and good clothes, too,” Caleb noted. If they hadn’t been covered in blood, that is. The man wore a suit jacket and long breeches, while the woman had a full dress and corsets. They looked to be in their fifties, and the woman had pearls about her neck and silver in her ears.

“Go figure—bandits who are squeamish about taking from the dead?” Caleb nodded to the woman’s jewelry. “Now, in my experience, a bandit wants to steal everything of value, including the jewelry and the horses,” he said.

Something about this didn’t make sense, he had to admit. Did the bandits suddenly find their conscience when it came to stealing from a dead body? Or had they been disturbed?

“And the ranch hands didn’t see anyone around? No riders?” he asked.

“Nuh-huh,” Isaac grunted. “Said it was quiet. A normal day.”

“Then they weren’t disturbed either…”

Caleb drummed the wood of the carriage with his fingers.

He didn’t like this. The thing was, this wasn’t the first unexplained murder in or around Independence recently. Just last month, they had found a dead body out near Rattlesnake Ridge. No one knew who he was, only that he looked like a rancher or herder. But when they had searched around, they had found an old tumbledown shack in the woods with a couple of crates of Sharp’s rifles inside, still in their straw packing.

Smugglers, Caleb had thought at the time. Someone was trying to shift stolen goods through his territory, and they must have had an argument. Was that it?

His father, the previous Sheriff of Independence, had been convinced there was a smuggling ring in the area, and Caleb felt a shadow cross his heart. His father was only a couple of years gone—gunned down in the middle of Independence Main Street. His jaw clenched tighter a little.

But if that was the case, what did smugglers have to do with the murder of a wealthy couple on the road into town? It didn’t make any sense.

“Okay. Call up Doc Walker. And the pastor,” Caleb sighed, stepping back as he shook his head. He looked over to see how his deputy was doing, and saw he had a decidedly green cast to his face.

Isaac Harlan was a young man, not as tall as Caleb was—no one was as tall as he was, Caleb knew—but he was broad-shouldered and practical-minded. He still had a bit of fluff to his cheeks and a sort of pudginess that made him look softer than he really was.

But he’s good people. He never backs down from anything I ask of him, Caleb thought. In the days after Caleb’s father was gunned down, it wasn’t just Doc Walker who had turned up at his door. The young Isaac Harlan, still red-faced and barely into his twenties, had shown up and asked to help.

‘I know I’m not ready to be sheriff yet, Caleb. Everyone knows it, and I’m not ashamed to say it. But if you need a second…’ Isaac had stated awkwardly.

It was as natural as dogs growling at coyotes for Caleb to take on his pa’s sheriff’s star. No one had opposed him, and everyone knew that old man Rourke’s only son—already a deputy—was the only one for the job.

But now that job had just got a whole lot more confusing.

***

“Heads up!”

Caleb Rourke raised his head a second before the small, fast-moving golden orb flashed through the blue sky.

Heck! I guess I must be slowing up! Caleb felt every one of his thirty-three years, and hadn’t expected his young attacker to be so quick on the uptake. But Sheriff Caleb Rourke was quicker still.

With a huff of air, Caleb twisted his long, athletic body. He was taller than most grown men by a good hand span, and that put him several feet over young Cody Walker, the eleven-year-old son of his best friend, Doc Miles Walker.

His hand shot up as he sidestepped, and a moment later, his palm was ringing with the stinging slap of the apple as he caught it. He turned on his heel, his brown calfskin leather boots scraping the dirt of the Walker yard as he swerved back to his gleeful foe.

“Back atcha!” he called, allowing his momentum to throw the apple in a high curve back to the boy.

Cody’s grin turned into a squeal of delight. His golden curls fluffed around his face as he dived to catch the returned apple—only for his fingers to graze the fruit as it danced past his outstretched grip.

“Darn it!” Cody stumbled, skipping to one side as the apple hit the dirt and bounced several meters back to the tree from where it had been pilfered.

“I didn’t hear you say that,” Caleb said gruffly, and earned a sudden look of shock from his younger compatriot, who blushed a bright red.

Cody Walker nodded fervently. He was a good kid, but he was at that age when he was just starting to put on rangy spurts of growth. Caleb reckoned the kid would either get wilder and rougher around the edges—especially in a town like Independence, where there wasn’t a whole lot going on for bored and curious minds—or he would straighten out and follow in his father’s footsteps to become a decent young man. Maybe even a doctor one day.

“You’re quick, Sheriff Rourke,” Cody said. Caleb could hear the admiration in his voice. Maybe that was why Miles had asked him around. He wanted Cody to think well of lawmen, and not the other hard-nosed drifters who blew into this town now and again.

“I’m passable,” Caleb shrugged. “There’s been quicker than me, for sure. And plenty slower.”

“You ever drawn on a man, though? On an outlaw?” Cody said, his eyes still wide. He made quick, drawing movements with his hands to fire off invisible six irons into the air.

Yes. But not the ones that mattered. Not the ones that killed Pa and stole Cherry from me…

“I have,” Caleb said, brushing aside the darker thoughts. His voice dropped. Anyone older would have known that was the point to stop asking questions. But Cody was still just a kid, wasn’t he?

“I bet you got him, didn’t you? I bet he didn’t even stand a chance. You reckon I could be a quick-draw like you someday?” Cody asked. He was getting excited again, and already half off in some daydream where he had a star on his chest and was riding down the most famous outlaws the west could offer…

Pray that you don’t, kid, Caleb wanted to say. But he didn’t. Cody needed his dreams. He needed to know what it meant to feel brave. It was just that Caleb hoped he would never have to prove it.

“You can if you practice. It doesn’t come easy.” Caleb said.

“Show me! Da lets me take out the rifle to shoot rats. I went with him this winter hunting, y’know. He says he’s going to teach me pistols this year!” Cody’s eyes went wide.

Caleb put his hand on the holster at his hip. He cursed himself for bringing it along instead of leaving it in his saddlebag when he dismounted. Of course, Cody was at that age when all they wanted to do was to play with guns.

No. Caleb’s first instinct was to turn the boy down. But then a new thought occurred to him.

It was better for the kid to know a healthy respect for guns now than not know anything about them later, wasn’t it?

“I’ll have to check with your father,” Caleb started to say.

But Cody was insistent. “Oh, please, Mr. Rourke! Dad says that there’s no better man to learn shooting off than you in all of town. He says you’re the best of the best!”

But maybe that was why Miles had brought him up here, Caleb considered. Cody was almost at the age when he was going to start wanting to make his own sense of things and ignoring his dad. He was already cussing.

“Okay, listen up, sport,” Caleb drew himself straight up and settled his hand on his holster.

At once, Cody’s eyes managed to go even wider if that was even possible. The kid fell silent and copied his stance.

“You want to step aside. Never willingly stand right in front of a gun. Not if you can help it,” Caleb said.

At once, Cody pranced to one side, still watchful and still silent.

“A gun isn’t a toy. It’s a weapon. And a dangerous one at that. More people have been killed by accident with these things than those who have been killed on purpose,” Caleb said heavily. He wasn’t actually sure if that was true, but he saw Cody’s face blanch a little whiter and knew that his message had gotten through.

Caleb popped the buckle on his holster and drew the pearl-handled Colt slowly, holding it high so it caught the sun.

“That’s the safety. You know what the safety is, don’t you?” Caleb asked.

Cody nodded.

“Just so long as you leave that alone, then there’s no problem,” Caleb said, and suddenly twisted his wrist. The gun went spinning in his hand, twisting through the air before he threw it lightly. It dazzled as it spun in the air over his hand—and then he caught it with a sharp slap, turning to attention as he suddenly trained on the apple lying at the foot of the tree.

It was body memory. Caleb didn’t even think about his hand or his arm, but he knew as sure as there was blood pumping in his chest that if he pulled the safety and the trigger, he would have shot a bullet clean through that apple, even at thirty paces.

“Pow,” Caleb said, mimicking firing the gun and once again sending the pistol into dizzying twists and spins before slamming it comfortably back in its holster.

With the tension broken, Cody suddenly whooped.

“Bull’s Eye!” he roared, jumping up and down in place, and then acting out spinning his own non-existent firearm and firing at poor, unsuspecting prairie fruits.

“Bang! Bang-bang!” Cody hooted, leaving Caleb to grin. The kid had a wild streak, which was probably a good thing if he could direct it in the right way.

And heaven alone knew that Independence would need good people defending it, wouldn’t it? Caleb thought. It was luck as much as anything that had kept the bandits from their streets. Missouri was full of traveling sorts and vagrants these days, wasn’t it?

“You gotta learn the basics first,” Caleb said loudly, cutting through Cody’s theatrics. “You go hunting with your pa, and when you can bring down a deer or a coyote, then you ask your Dad if you can come find me. Then we’ll start seeing what you can do,” he promised.

“Really? Gee sir! Yes!” Cody said, as there was a crunch in the yard dirt behind them.

“Thank the sheriff, Cody,” the voice of Miles Walker announced, and Caleb turned around. Any fear that the doctor of Independence might be angry at him for showing the teenager his gun evaporated with Miles’s steady nod in his direction. A flurry of movement and a bark at Miles’s knee heralded the arrival of Bobby, the Walkers’ enthusiastic yellow hound, who tore towards Cody in an instant.

“You sure this is a good idea, Miles?” Caleb said, walking up to the older man as Cody and Bobby started chasing each other around the apple tree.

“He’s fourteen. And if he doesn’t learn it from me or you, then he’ll only learn it from someone else,” Miles muttered under his breath. A sad smile teased the older man’s face. Caleb guessed that was what it must be like as a parent—forever having to make difficult choices and not knowing if the ones you made would turn out right.

Pretty much like being the sheriff.

“Anyway. Thanks for keeping an eye on him, but there’s something else.” Miles said gruffly. The men turned back to the yard, leaving Cody to his games as they walked back to the Walker house. Caleb lifted his eyes to see Margaret, the doctor’s wife, working out front, weeding the herb beds. The doctor paused in his step and lowered his tone.

“Word is there’s newcomers in town. You know, I hear a lot through the clinic. A load of young men. No one knows them,” Miles said gruffly.

Newcomers, Caleb thought. Could be nothing. Could be just teamsters passing through, right? The older man was suspicious, and Caleb could forgive that. A town like Independence relied on people looking out for each other.

“They might just be looking for work, doc,” Caleb pointed out.

“Maybe. But they won’t find a whole lot here. Independence isn’t big.” Miles stood stock still, his mouth a firm line. “People don’t like the look of them. Hard men, if you catch my drift. City accents. Look the sort to be as happy starting a fight as talking,” he said.

“Still, that’s not-” Caleb started to point out, until he saw the doc’s face.

“I heard they arrived in a couple of carriages at the Shooting Star saloon, and look as though they’re staying,” Miles said.

The Shooting Star? Caleb frowned a little. Now that was something.

The Shooting Star was an old saloon right on the edge of town, which had a reputation for gunfights. His father had been convinced there was a smuggling ring working it, although Murray, the owner of the Shooting Star, always protested his innocence.

Smugglers. The Shooting Star. Weapons stashed in the middle of the woods. Newcomers in town, and now two businessmen dead in their carriage on their way to Independence. Caleb squinted at the horizon, as if he could see through the miles.

It was probably nothing. But Caleb didn’t like it.

Beside him, Miles glanced over at his wife, and then back to where Cody was playing in the top meadow. “I just don’t like any of it, Caleb. Seems to me that Independence is getting more dangerous these days. I don’t like thinking about how I’m going to protect my family.”

Caleb reached out and laid a steadying hand on the doc’s shoulder. “That’s my job, doc. I’ll grab Isaac, and we’ll ride over, get some eyes on these newcomers, don’t you worry none,” he promised.

Caleb tipped his hat to Margaret as he walked past, before saddling his pale gray Palomino and wheeled with a shout towards the edge of town, and the Shooting Star.

Chapter One

Independence, Missouri

1859

“Huh. Should have guessed they’d choose this place,” Caleb reined in Blue, his horse, by the side of the granary storehouses, and eyed the decrepit saloon at the end of the street.

The Shooting Star was about as low down a place as Independence had to offer. And in a town that was as close-knit as Independence was, it was hard to see how a place like Murray’s Shooting Star remained open.

But Murray, the saloon keeper, was a man who kept things to himself, wasn’t he? Caleb scowled a little. The older innkeeper had already been in trouble a bunch of times with Caleb’s father, with a string of investigations on whether his liquor was properly taxed. Caleb had been wondering for a while whether to reopen Murray’s file, but the old scoundrel had been keeping a quiet profile of late. Not even any bar fights to talk of over the last two years.

But he was known. Caleb raised his eyes to glance at the two wagons that were parked to the side of the saloon. The Shooting Star was known not just in Independence as the place where there was most likely to be trouble, but Caleb guessed it was known further abroad, too.

If there was anywhere that a ‘certain type’ of newcomer was going to come to first, it was here. Men with hard glances and not a lot of work credentials behind them. So now they had to keep an eye on newcomers. Because who knew what the trails would blow in next?

“How d’you want to play it, Cal?” Isaac whispered.

Caleb looked at the saloon. The Shooting Star had been grand once, way before Caleb’s time. It had two wings and a back room. But the money had bypassed this place just as it had bypassed the whole town. Especially with the new railroads going into the south of them.

It was big enough to get lost in, Caleb thought, if they were careful.

There were some shouts and rowdy noises coming from behind the building, and the hint of wood smoke in the air.

“I’m guessing they’re using the saloon yard. There’s a lot of space out there.” An inkling of a plan blossomed in Caleb’s mind. He turned and quickly briefed Isaac on what he wanted him to do. To his credit, Isaac took the orders with a firm nod.

“And uh…if there’s trouble?” Isaac said, already pulling off his star, as Caleb did the same.

“Then you’ll hear the gunshots along with everyone else,” Caleb said casually, swinging his legs over Blue’s neck and landing on the floor with practiced ease. Caleb pocketed his sheriff’s badge and stripped off his jerkin, replacing it with the dustier riding poncho. His hand snaked up to his dark brown Ten Gallon Stetson—but then his hand froze.

It was his father’s Stetson. One of the last bits left of the old man…

But still, work came first. Caleb took off the hat and placed it carefully in one of his saddlebags before replacing it with a kerchief tied around the head.

Last of all came the pistols. Caleb swapped his pearl-handled one for his regular Smith and Weston, slipping his unique pistol behind his shirt and into his belt. He might not have long before someone recognized him, but the pearl-handled pistol would be an instant giveaway.

“You good?” he asked Isaac, who nodded just the once and walked towards the Shooting Star.

Caleb stood by the granary for a long pause after Isaac had disappeared inside, and took the opportunity to inspect the wagons. They were large, pulled by two horses each, with high tarpaulin sides. There was nothing to say they were stolen, and no marks of gunfire across them, but they were the sorts of wagons that work teams or settlers might use, not just itinerant men.

He had a bad feeling about this. What was a gang of men arriving in Independence for? The town had no railroads. It had no big mines, and it certainly hadn’t had a gold rush for over a generation. There was nothing bringing itinerant workers here, save for getting lost.

There was a dull thump, and Caleb saw one of the saloon windows open a moment later. It was Isaac’s sign, just as Caleb had ordered.

If the newcomers were inside, then he was to do nothing. If they weren’t, then he was to open the window.

Caleb checked that his holster was unbuckled, and then sauntered over to the Shooting Star, and around the back, to the rear yard.

If he had any luck today, then he might even get eyes on the men who had come to his town before Murray recognized him.

***

“And THAT, my friends—is why no one ever likes going to Wyoming!” A voice like a rasp of rusted iron shouted as Caleb turned the corner of the Shooting Star and into the large yard at the back.

It wasn’t much of a yard in truth, more a patch of dead grass and a haphazard attempt at a fence where cowboys could tie their horses. There was little between it and the open trails save for a few tumbling down storehouses. Murray had made some attempt at turning it into something, with a scattering of inn tables and benches around a large campfire.

All of the tables were occupied by the new folks, Caleb saw at once, as well as a few Shooting Star regulars clustered at one end. Caleb kept his head down as he sauntered up to the fire—even though it was still daylight.

The speaker was a man with dark russet hair that hung to his ears and looked as though it hadn’t been washed in weeks. He was a man who was used to spending long stints on the road, Caleb saw at once. His face was thin and sharp, and his clothes were of good quality but durable.

The sort you might need if you wanted to present as a banker or as a laborer, Caleb squinted a little.

He was also charming and held his group in the palm of his hand as he told stories of their travels.

“You from around here, friend?” A voice at Caleb’s side interrupted him.

Caleb turned and grunted, finding himself looking at a man who was burly and large, with a flat top stove pipe hat and a broad grin under his brown beard. It wasn’t anyone that Caleb recognized from town, and he guessed that he must have come with the newcomers.

“Not really.” Caleb shrugged. He scanned the crowd for signs of Murray, but he wasn’t out here. The saloon keeper was probably too lazy to actually serve drinks outside, which was good for Caleb.

His plan was working perfectly. Isaac had gone in the front and was clearly keeping Murray busy in conversation as Caleb got a glance at these rough-and-ready men.

And they looked tough, too, Caleb thought. Most of them wore shirts and jackets—but Caleb could see trail dirt on their trousers, and guns at their belts. They were no gentlemen, and underneath their smiles there was the tan and silence of those who were ready to defend what was theirs.

But were they a gang? Or just workers looking for the promise of employment? Caleb wondered.

“I was working the cattle drives a few months ago. Old boss cut me loose; now I’m here,” Caleb lied easily, and offered a half grin and a roll of his eyes. “Not sure there’s much to keep me here though. Place looks pretty quiet.”

“Do you think?” the larger man said, turning to survey the crowd as they laughed at the speaker’s stories. “I don’t know. There’s some life to it yet!”

Uh-oh. Caleb didn’t like that insinuation. The man here, and presumably he spoke for his fellows, didn’t seem to want to leave town so quickly.

“You got work?” Caleb asked, as the larger man turned back to the others and laughed.

“Ah, we’ll find work. We always find work! Stick with us, and we’ll see that you do, too!” The man clapped Caleb on the shoulder in a friendly way, clearly thinking he was a fellow drifter of the roads and trails.

“You can call me Gus. Come meet the boys. This is Tobias—just don’t ever call him Toby! ” Gus laughed, pointing up to the red-headed speaker who had just jumped down from the tables to join the men.

Caleb nodded at some of those around him, but he kept his face blank. It was the same expression he’d seen a thousand times on the faces of newcomers that he wore on his own face.

It worked. The others around him gave him a careful nod, but they didn’t immediately react to him or take offense. Caleb knew their sort at once. You had to show you weren’t a pushover, and then maybe they would talk to you.

“You picking up strays already, Gus? I thought you’d learned enough of that back in St. Lois!” Tobias spotted them making their way through the crowd and summoned Gus over.

Called him like he was their boss. Or captain, Caleb thought. None of these men wore military badges, but they acted as if they might. Were they soldiers? Were they deserters? Had Tobias been their officer?

“Ah, gosh, it must be the poor swill they serve here,” Gus laughed as he introduced Caleb. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t give it.” Caleb gave another of his wry grins. “Cal Jakobs. Up from Oklahoma.” Caleb said.

He saw Tobias watching him, his eyes sharp. They were the sort of eyes that didn’t miss a beat.

“Oklahoma, hey? I know Okie City. Which part you from? Did you work the stockyards? I got a good friend who ran them,” Tobias said, taking a swig. Caleb got the sudden impression he was being tested.

“Nah. I was down near Indian territory. My family was trappers. Had a little place. Traded some,” Caleb said quickly. He hoped his slow and careful speech would pass off as another man who had spent too long in the wilds and had been raised in them.

“Huh. I got the picture. You got some Indian blood in there somewhere? Your pappy preferred the sweat lodges to city streets, huh?” Tobias said, his mouth twitching with humor.

It was a fair question, Caleb supposed. There were many settlers out on the edges of the Indian Territories who had more in common with the native folks than they did their fellow countrymen.

But Caleb didn’t like the way Tobias asked the question. That flicker of a grin was his way of saying that he was superior to any Indian, and any Cal Jakobs, too.

“Maybe so,” Caleb shrugged, and pulled himself up a little straighter. He felt that shadow on his heart once more, but shrugged it off. This man had never met his father, had he?

“Ha! I’m only pulling your whiskers, man. Stop and have a drink!” Tobias burst into laughter, taking one of the other men’s ales and sliding it over the table to him. There was a brief groan of displeasure, but Caleb saw that the offended party wasn’t going to argue about anything that Tobias said or did.

It’s true then. He is their leader. But leader of what?