Howdy folks! It’s been awhile.

I feel I must explain why the book isn’t here yet. That house purchasing deal I mentioned in my last post dragged on and on. Financial issues suck. Every day they need something else. Every day the story changes. I don’t need to get into details or name names, but the first half of this year has been one of the most stressful in my life. Unfortunately, that struggle led to a bad case of the dreaded “writer’s block” we hear so much about. This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced it, but it has been the worst.

The good news is that’s over now. The house is ours. The burden is lessened. Life goes on. I’m back at it. I estimate that Noose Jumpers is just a few short weeks from being finished.

I know that most of you are waiting for the next Bowl of Souls novel, (And the audiobook for The Ogre Apprentice which is currently in production.) but I hope you are excited for this book as well. It’s new and exciting for me. It will be the first non Bowl of Souls book I have written and the beginning of a new series that I’m hoping will continue between installments of the adventures of Justan and Co. It’s a new world, an alternate history of the Old West, and full of mythological tropes, (Gods and spirits and otherworldy power.) that I think make it really unique.

To help keep you hungry for the project, I’m posting a third chapter from this book. The last sample was an introduction to one of our three young outlaws; the gunfighter, Luke Bassett. This one introduces Sandy Tucker; the Red Star Gang’s sharpshooter.

Now, if you haven’t read the first two samples, I suggest you read them first. Links below:

Part One

Part Two

Half an Outlaw

An excerpt from The Tale of Sandy Tucker

“The ignorance of these bastards! Just ’cause a man’s good at using a gun don’t mean he’s bad.” – Wyatt Earp, while reading the paper one morning in San Francisco, 1896

The town of Puerta de la Muerte was a Texas town located fifteen miles from the New Mexico Territory border. It was a no-good place full of no-good folks and the hills around it were no better. It was bandit country, a lawless part of the countryside where bad men could freely roam. Unfortunately, it was also on a prime spot of land. Built over an aquifer, the town was an ideal stop for people looking to take the long journey over desert plains to the more populous areas of the state.

Folks who knew the area avoided the place whenever possible. But not all people were savvy enough to understand the wisdom of taking the long way around. Folks with the misfortune of having a desire or need to travel through the area had a difficult time finding drivers willing to take them. Those few carriage drivers willing to make the journey charged high fees for their service.

Ted Bertram, was such a driver. He was a weathered man with a hunched over frame, but keen eyes and a sharp mind. He was a veteran coachman with decades of experience and had been guiding folks through Puerta de la Muerte for a number of years. In all that time, his carriage had only been robbed twice and that was because he had a system that worked.

On this day, though, he was wondering if the extra money this journey made him was worth it. It was a hot day and he had a head cold and, to make matters worse, his passengers were wealthy and naïve to the ways of the frontier. They looked it, too. The old man and his granddaughter were the types of folks that would get an outlaw salivating. Ted worried that his usual methods for passing through the area unscathed would fall short this time.

His plan required making it within five miles of town without being hassled. This was normally an easy matter. Just stick to the main road. The bandits knew better than to attack people on the way into town. But this day there had been several times when Ted’s keen eyes had caught the figure of a rider in the hills. The rider had kept his distance so far, but seemed to be watching the coach.

Several times, Ted grasped the rifle he kept on the bench next to him, taking strength from its comforting weight. He also had a short barreled shotgun in a holster next to the bench, but he rarely had to use it. These weapons were mainly for show, something he carried in plain view to give his passengers confidence. He wondered if he would have to use them this trip.

Time crawled by at an incredibly slow pace. Ted would have urged his horses forward faster if the road hadn’t been so heavily rutted. Despite his concerns, the rider never approached. Ted chuckled with relief as the carriage came to the top of the large hill at the appointed place without incident. His contact would be waiting nearby.

Sure enough, standing in the middle of the road at the bottom of the hill, was a gray horse with a yellow flag affixed to its saddle. A man stood in front of the horse and waved the carriage down. Ted’s smile faded when he saw the silver star gleaming on the man’s lapel.

Ted slowed the horses down and brought the carriage to a stop at the bottom of the hill. He scowled as the man approached.

Deputy Ed Willis had an odd shape. He was slender all over except for a tight potbelly, like a snake that had just swallowed supper. In fact, a snake was a good description for the man. His eyes darted about too much and his lips wore a permanent sneer.

He approached the carriage, walking with the strutting bravado of an underling confident in the power of his position. He looked up at the driver and his voice had an oily drawl as he said, “Morning, Ted. You don’t look too happy to see me. You prefer to see Santos or some of the Black Spots maybe?”

“Some days,” Ted replied gruffly. In his mind, Willis was almost as bad as those bandits. “Where’s Buddy?”

“Couldn’t make it,” the deputy said with a smile. “Got himself shot last night.”

From the pleased look in the man’s eyes, Ted wondered if Willis had been the one to shoot him. “That’s too bad.” Not that Ted had any particular affection for his regular contact. Buddy was just another one of the Sheriff’s lackeys. He was a lot less likely to be trouble, though. “Buddy gonna be okay?”

Deputy Willis shrugged. “He was only shot in the foot. The doc’s looking after him, but then again, Doc got shot in the hand, so . . .” He chuckled. “We’ll see.”

Ted tried not to let his disgust for the deputy show. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the Sheriff’s toll?”

Willis raised a sarcastic eyebrow in response. “Ain’t standing here waiting to shine your shoes.”

Ted reached into his jacket. Willis warily placed his hand on the gun at his waist in response. Frowning, the driver pulled out a pouch of coins. He tossed them down to the deputy. Willis weighed the bag in his hand and peered inside.

Ted waited for the deputy to give him a nod, then held out his hand expectantly. “Now give me the flag so I can go on my way.”

The flag told the outlaws in the area that the bearer was under the Sheriff’s protection. None of the local outlaw gangs would dare rob someone riding under that flag. Ted’s agreement with the Sheriff was the only reason he was still in business.

Deputy Willis reached into his jacket, but paused, staring at the carriage door. Ted leaned over the side of the bench and peered back. He winced when he saw that the old man inside the coach had opened the door and was sticking his head out.

“I say!” the old man said in a pompous manner. A neatly trimmed wisp of white curls surrounded the sides of his balding head and he wore a golden monocle tucked over his right eye. A polished brass chain hung from his vest pocket. His voice had an aristocratic British lilt as he continued, “Driver, why have we stopped? It was hot enough when we were moving. It’s insufferable without a breeze through the window.”

A greedy smile grew on the deputy’s face as his eyes took in the man and his finery. Then he saw the pretty woman peering out from behind the old man and his grin turned into a leer. Willis removed his hand from the inside of his jacket and to Ted’s dismay, he wasn’t holding the flag.

“It looks like I’m not quite ready to let you go yet, Ted,” Willis said. The deputy walked to the side of the carriage and turned his predatory smile on the two passengers. He took off his hat, revealing a greasy tangle of thinning hair. “Howdy folks. I’m Deputy Willis.”

The woman pushed the door further open and gave the deputy a skeptical gaze. She had a head full of red curls, plump lips, and wore a lacy dress that strained under the weight of her bosom. Her voice had a similar tone to her grandfather’s, but with a light and airy lilt. “Deputy of where, sir?”

Willis’ smile just broadened as he took her in. “Why I come from the town of Puerta de la Muerte, just a few miles away.”

The old man, finally noticing the unsettling demeanor of this newcomer, narrowed his eyes. “Er, and why are you stopping us, good deputy?”

“Well if you ain’t noticed, you just entered the great state of Texas,” Willis replied, putting on a serious face. “The border is a dangerous place. Banditos and outlaws everywhere. Hell, you’re lucky that Puerta Muerte’s so close by. Sheriff has me patrol this here road. You know, just to make sure that honest folk such as yourselves are safe.”

The old man sighed with relief, but the young woman just squinted at him. “Outlaws everywhere, you say? And you patrol this road alone? One man?”

“Oh, it only takes one if’n you’re the right kind of man,” Deputy Willis said. He leaned up against the carriage, his leer reappearing. “And what is your name, miss?”

She hesitated at first, then arched a haughty eyebrow. “Sarah Covington.”

Ted cleared his throat loudly. This was a scene ripe to get out of hand and exactly the reason why he had been so worried at the deputy’s arrival. “It’s time we left now, Willis. I got a place to be with these folks by sundown. Just give me the flag.”

Deputy Willis didn’t take his eyes off of the woman. “You ain’t leaving yet, Ted. I need to inspect the contents of this here wagon. I think I smell . . . contraband.”

The old man swallowed. “Now that, sir, is an insult! What is this about?”

Ted raised his voice. “Look, like I said, these folks are in a hurry. I already paid the Sheriff’s toll. He and I have a deal and that means you let us be.”

The deputy drew his gun and turned, pointing it at the driver. His face was twisted with anger. “You’ll stay till I say you can leave!” He returned his attention to the passengers. “Now step outside! Both of you! Unless you mean to get yourselves arrested!”

On a hilltop a short distance away Sandy Tucker sat astride his horse, watching the confrontation. Despite being just twenty-four years of age, he had a rugged look. He had sharp eyes that had been pinched by the sun and a rugged stubble covered his jaw. He wore a battered felt hat, a tan duster, and had a bandoleer of rifle bullets slung across his chest. On his belt hung a seldom used revolver and in the center of his wide silver belt buckle shone a tilted blood red star.

Sandy tsked in mild concern as he saw the deputy shove the rich old man roughly against the carriage. With trembling hands, the old man reached into his coat and handed over a thick wallet and a gold pocket watch. The deputy then switched his focus to the woman.

Sighing, Sandy reached down to the long holster attached to his horse’s saddle and drew his rifle. He was proud of this gun. It was a Winchester 1863 model, modified with an elongated barrel for extra range and accuracy. He peered down the sights, observing the deputy approach the woman. He watched as, with a growl, the woman swung her hand and delivered the lawman a ringing slap. Sandy smiled.

“What’re you waiting for?” asked a man from a horse a few paces to Sandy’s left.

Sandy’s companion was a much older man, looking to be in his late forties. He had a weathered face and a thick handlebar mustache that was peppered with gray. He wore a tall hat almost as battered as Sandy’s and he kept an unlit cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth. His brow was furrowed in amusement as he gave Sandy an assessing look.

“A good entrance is all about timing. You taught me that, didn’t you, Pecos?” Sandy asked, narrowing his focus on the stagecoach below as the deputy threw the woman to the ground.

Pecos scratched at his jaw. “Well, sure, son. But this is gettin’ on the hairy side. No hero needs to wait till mid-rape.”

“I never claimed to be a hero,” Sandy replied. He shifted his shoulders slightly and focused tighter, his finger moving around the trigger. “Still . . .”

Deputy Willis’ grin was all teeth as he looked down on the woman in front of him. She glared back up at him in outrage. “Get back in the carriage, Sarah. You and me are gonna have us a little reconnoiter.”

“Stop that this instant!” shouted Sarah’s grandfather. His face was beet red with fear and indignance. “What kind of lawman do you propose to be?”

Willis pointed his gun at the old man. “The kind that’ll shoot you if you don’t do what I say. Now you and Driver Ted are gonna take you a little stroll back up that hill and wait there until the young lady and I are finished with our little talk.”

“Hey!” snapped Ted and Willis looked up at the driver to see that the man had a rifle trained on him. “That’s enough! I may have to let you rob me from time to time, but I’m not putting up with this! You put that pistol away and get out of here.”

Willis’ grin turned to a snarl. He kept his gun trained on the old man. “You toss that rifle to the ground right now or I will pop this old man’s melon! If that happens then you and the girl will be next.”

Ted grimaced at having his bluff called. He was in a bad spot. If he fired first, he would likely drop Willis before he could get his shot off, but then he’d have to explain a dead deputy to the Sheriff and he knew that wouldn’t go over well. He let his gun drop to the ground. “I will make sure your boss hears about this.”

“Yeah? He ain’t hearing nothing,” the deputy snarled and pointed his pistol at the driver.

A shot rang out. Blood blossomed from the base of the thumb on the deputy’s shooting hand and a bullet splintered the wood of the stagecoach beyond him. He stared at the hole in the meat of his hand in shock as the pistol tumbled from his numb fingers and dropped to the ground.

Everyone glanced around, looking for the origin of the shot. They saw Sandy riding towards them at a trot. He was standing in the stirrups, his rifle still trained on the deputy.

Willis saw him coming. Clutching his wounded hand to his chest, he bent down to pick up the pistol with his uninjured hand. He fumbled with it for a moment, trembling with shock. By the time the deputy raised his gun, Sandy had closed in.

“I wouldn’t try that, Willis,” Sandy said. “You ain’t left handed.”

“I know you.” The deputy’s mouth quivered with pain and rage as he lowered his pistol. “You shot me in the shooting hand. You don’t shoot a man in his shooting hand! Might as well have shot me in the balls!”

“Believe me, it was tempting,” Sandy replied. “But I thought it was nicer this way. At least your hand has a chance of healing.” His voice turned serious. “Drop your gun, Willis.”

Willis’ eyes narrowed. “You shot a man of the law. You know what that means?”

“And I’m willing to put another one in your skull right now,” Sandy replied. “Now drop it!”

Deputy dropped his gun with a snarl. “You got a hankerin’ for that noose, don’t you, Red Star? The Sheriff’ll have your neck for this.”

Sandy grinned at that remark. He swung his leg over the saddle and hopped down from his horse, then pulled his own pistol. He stowed his rifle away in its saddle holster and approached the deputy.

“I doubt the Sheriff likes you that much,” Sandy said. “Hell, I doubt anyone would miss you. Now raise your hands.”

Willis gave out a pained gasp as he lifted his wounded hand into the air. Blood dripped down the man’s arm as Sandy went through his pockets. Sandy retrieved the old man’s pocket watch and wallet, along with the driver’s toll. Finally, he dug a yellow piece of cloth from within the deputy’s jacket.

“I think that’s almost everything,” Sandy said. He cocked his head. “But I know you don’t walk around without any money of your own.”

“Don’t carry any out of town,” Willis snapped.

“Check his boots,” offered Pecos helpfully. Sandy’s companion was leaning against the rear of the carriage. He had taken off his hat, exposing a mop of graying blond hair. He began tightening the hat band. “The sneaky ones always keep a stash in their boots.”

Sandy wrinkled his nose at the thought of touching bills that had been nestled against the greasy man’s foot, but shrugged. Money was money after all. He nodded towards the deputy’s feet. “Take off your boots.”

“That ain’t right,” Willis protested.

“Come on, now. I checked everywhere else,” Sandy pressed.

The deputy scowled. “It’s in my right boot. But my hand . . . How am I supposed to get it off?”

Sandy gestured to the wealthy old man. “You. Take off his boot.”

The British man looked aghast. “Me?”

“You,” Sandy insisted.

The old man hesitantly moved to the deputy’s side. Willis lifted his foot and wobbled on one leg as the gentleman, with a look of repulsion, tried to remove the boot using just the thumb and forefinger of each hand.

While the two men struggled, Sarah still sat on the ground her arms folded indignantly. She addressed Sandy. “Tell me, sir. Now that you have stopped this scoundrel, what are your intentions?”

“Yeah, Tucker. What’re you up to?” Ted asked. He had been watching the events unfold with a mixture of relief and concern.

Sandy waved a hand absently. “We’ll discuss that once the deputy’s gone, Ted.”

“Do you know this man, driver?” Sarah asked.

Ted shrugged. “I’ve seen him around.”

Sandy repressed a chuckle. Ted received most of his business from folks traveling through Luna Gorda. He was practically a local.

“I have it,” the old man announced triumphantly, holding the boot up. Deputy Willis lowered his bare foot to the ground and gave him a pale glare.

“Didn’t your momma teach you to wear socks with your boots?” Sandy asked. He nodded to the old man. “Take out the cash,”

The old man screwed up his face again and he stuck his hand inside the boot. He pulled out a loose handful of damp bills. “It’s not much,” he said, sounding offended that he’d had to stoop so low for so little.

“Well how much did you expect to find in my damn boot?” Willis grumped.

“It’s good enough,” Sandy assured the old man. “Now hand me the bills and toss the boot off the road.”

“But!” Willis said, watching in disbelief as the old man threw the boot into a tangle of tumbleweeds. “Now you’re just being mean!”

“That’s me,” Sandy replied. “Get out of here, Willis.”

Deputy Willis took a few steps and hesitated, eyeing the discarded revolver that lay in the dirt. “My gun-.”

Sandy pulled back the hammer on his pistol in response. Deputy Willis, scowling and wincing, walked over to his horse and mounted up. Before leaving, he looked back over his shoulder. “Wait till the Sheriff hears what you did. Next time I see you, you’re dead!”

Sandy gave him a half grin. “Ride back to Puerta Muerte with one boot. See if the Sheriff stops laughing long enough to care about your story.”

Having no response to that, the deputy growled and galloped away. Sandy holstered his gun and picked up the deputy’s discarded pistol. He spun it in his hand, looking it over. It was a nice gun, one of those newfangled Peacemakers. But Sandy preferred his older Colt. He had fine-tuned its accuracy and it used the same cartridges as his Winchester Rifle.

He turned to face the others and saw that they were all looking at him warily. Pecos, who was still leaning against the carriage behind them, chuckled. “So what do you have to say to the folks you rescued, El Bandito?”

Sandy ignored him and opened the old man’s wallet. He leafed through the bills, nodding appreciatively, then pulled half of them out and folded them up before tucking them into the interior pocket of his duster. He tossed the half-empty wallet to the old man and inspected the watch for a moment before shrugging and tossing that back to the old man as well.

“Can’t say as I need another watch,” Sandy said.

The old man frowned at the lightness of his wallet. “But my money . . .”

“Only took half of it. Finder’s fee,” Sandy said. He glanced over to Driver Ted as he pocketed the pouch of coins. “I’ll be keeping the Sheriff’s toll too.”

Neither of the two men looked too happy with this result. Pecos cleared his throat and gestured with his head at Sarah, who was still sitting on the ground, evidently waiting for someone to pick her up. Sandy pursed his lips and extended his hand to the woman. “Ma’am.”

She hesitantly reached out and allowed him to pull her to her feet. He took a step back and spun the deputy’s gun in his hand again. “Do you have a handbag?”

Pecos snorted, shaking his head.

Sarah scowled and reached in through the carriage’s open door. She yanked out a frilly looking purse and opened it up. Grumbling, she pulled out several bills and crumpled them, then threw them at Sandy with a snarl. They struck his chest and he caught them with his free hand.

“There!” she snapped. “Now you have half my money too!”

Sandy blinked as he tucked the crumpled money into his pocket with the rest. “Much obliged, ma’am. But that’s not why I asked.”

He lifted the deputy’s gun and walked over to her. Her eyes widened and she took a step back, but he simply shoved the gun into her hand bag.

Sandy gave her a dull look. “Next time a man like that tries to put his hands on you, shoot him.”

The woman frowned as if trying to decide whether to pull the gun out and shoot him for starters. “Then can I have my money back?”

Sandy smiled. “That’s a pretty hairpin. Are those real pearls?”

“It’s a hair comb!” Sarah growled and tore the item out of her hair, sending her red hair cascading about her shoulders as she shoved the comb into his hands. He hadn’t seen the detail before, but it was a beautiful piece, backed with polished silver. “And yes, those are real pearls. Except for the green ones. Those are jade!”

Sandy stowed the hair comb away, then bowed and held the carriage door open for her. With a harrumph, Sarah stormed inside. Sandy looked at the old man and jerked his head towards the door. The old man cleared his throat quite snootily and joined her.

Sandy shut the door and turned his attention to the driver. “If I were you, Ted, I’d get moving in case the Sheriff sends someone looking for you.”

The grizzled man nodded. “I’ll be needing that flag then.”

Sandy threw the yellow piece of fabric up to the driver. “You know this’ll only be good till the Sheriff tells everyone the color’s changed.”

Driver Ted busied himself fastening the small flag onto a pole attached to the side of the driver’s seat. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m keeping these folks as far from Puerta Muerte as possible.”

“Smart,” Sandy replied. “You’d best be on your way then.”

He turned and strode over to his horse. Without so much as a look back, he climbed up and set off up the hillside at a gallop.

Sarah watched Sandy leave, not sure whether to be grateful or hate him. She stuck her head out of the carriage window. “Who was that man, driver?”

“That there was Sandy Tucker,” he said, giving her a knowing look. “An outlaw with the Red Star Gang.”

“An outlaw, Sarah!” said the old man excitedly.

Sandy kept up his speed until he was a good distance away. Once he was sure that he was completely out of eyesight, he slowed to a trot and began counting his money. A self-satisfied smile spread across his face.

A sudden gust of wind blew over Sandy and Pecos appeared beside him. “I can’t believe you took their money,”

Sandy frowned at his mentor. “I only took half of it.”

The old cowboy chewed the nub of his cigar in amused disapproval. “And the lady’s hair thing? Really?”

“Don’t look at me like that. I am an outlaw after all,” Sandy snapped. “What would you have done?”

Pecos shrugged. “I never had much need for money.”

“Well I do.” Sandy sighed and looked westward towards the New Mexico border. “Besides, I doubt I’ll be getting any where we’re headed next.”

END OF SAMPLE CHAPTER 3

READ PART FOUR HERE

Howdy Folks,

Things have been a little quiet on the site for the last few weeks, I know.  The writing of this book has taken longer than expected. Partially because this is an all new world and all new characters and has required more research and creation time than I thought it would. Also partially because I am in the middle of trying to sell my old house and purchase the one we have been living in the past two years, (A long story that I don’t need to get into here.) Thus, the release date has been pushed back a bit. I’ll tell you know something more specific when I am close to being finished.

In the meantime, as an apology for the delay, here is a second preview chapter of Noose Jumpers. If you haven’t had a chance to read the first one, (The Death of Bobby Estrella) it’s here. http://trevorhcooley.com/noose-jumpers-preview-chapter-the-death-of-bobby-estrella/

Also if you haven’t seen the short film that I wrote based on the concepts in this book, you really should. It was directed by my brother, Jared Cooley (who you might recognize from the cover of War of Stardeon), and stars some great hollywood actors. See it HERE. http://trevorhcooley.com/noose-jumpers-short-film-and-book-trailer-premiere/

One last thing. Narration is underway for Protector of the Grove. We hope to have the audiobook available for purchase by the end of the month.

Now here you go. Preview chapter 2.

A Glassful of Worms

An excerpt from The Tale of Luke Bassett

“A bit o’ the devil in every bottle!” – Promise made by a horned cherub in an ad for ‘El Diablo Fine Spirits’ placed in the Tombstone Epitaph, June 21, 1886

The mid-summer sun blazed overhead as Luke reigned in his horse atop a dusty hillside just outside of Luna Gorda. He paused to peer down into the town below and a frown tightened his brow. So much had changed.

The town, which had already doubled in size in the twelve years since Estrella’s hanging, was quickly growing. The railway station in Luna Gorda had only been complete for just a few short months, but a whole new street of buildings had already been constructed. The builders weren’t finished, either. Luke saw the pale skeletal frames of several structures and could hear the rap of hammers and nail.

He supposed that the changes were a positive thing for the locals. More people passing through would mean more money brought in. His mother would be busy running the schoolhouse and with all the new construction, his stepfather was likely bringing home a lot of money. What Luke didn’t like was the possibility of Luna Gorda turning into a major town. More people meant more law.

Luke wiped the back of his arm across his brow and sighed at the muddy streak of sweat he left behind on the sleeve of his duster. The weather on his journey had been hot and windy. Dirt coated him like a gray blanket.

He slid down from his horse and removed his duster, shaking the road dust off of it. Luke folded it and put it away into his saddlebag, then beat the dirt off of his hat and pulled out a small mirror to examine his image. He saw that the duster had protected his finely-tailored blue suitcoat and vest against the majority of the dirt but, except for the one clean spot in the center of his forehead, his face was filthy.

Luke untied his canteen from the saddle and shook it. He had filled it at a creek early that morning and it was still half full. He took a quick swig, then used some of the water to wet down a clean bandana. He began to wipe the grime off of his face, keeping an eye on the mirror to be sure that he was getting all of it.

The face that appeared from under the dirt was still as freckled as it had been when he was a boy, though his face had filled out some. A thick red goatee now grew around his lips and prominent jaw. The green eyes that looked back at him had seen a lot in the past few years and there was a hardness in them that Luke noted with satisfaction.

“Primping?” asked a deep throaty voice.

A black horse appeared next to Luke’s, forming into existence with an audible whoosh. The Stranger sat astride it on a saddle red as blood. A black mist wafted around them for a brief moment before evaporating into the air. The Stranger wore his familiar black duster and black hat and, unlike Luke’s, both were clean of dust. He cocked his head and gave Luke a questioning look with his good eye.

Luke spared his theatrical arrival little more than a glance. He continued to wipe the dirt and sweat from his neck. “Aren’t you the one who told me how important appearances are?”

“It’s true folks should see you’re not some common dirty outlaw,” the Stranger conceded. “But no need to polish up standing out here in the open.”

“No one’s paying me any mind right now but you,” Luke replied. Satisfied with his appearance, he put the mirror and damp cloth away. He then reached down with his left hand and drew his revolver.

It was a well-used Smith and Wesson top break revolver with a smooth action and mahogany grips. It was his favorite gun, purchased with the money from his first big score. Quickly, Luke inspected it, wiping a thin coat of road dust off of it. He cracked the weapon open to spin the cylinder. He had cleaned it the night before, but it never hurt to check again.

Nodding in satisfaction, he slid it back into the holster at his waist. Then he reached his right hand into his suitcoat to withdraw his spare gun from its shoulder holster under his left arm. Luke knew it had probably been protected from the dirt, but he checked it anyway. This one was also a top break revolver, as he preferred, but he wasn’t sure of the manufacturer. It had a short barrel and a five shot-cylinder. The dead man he had taken it from had claimed he’d had it custom made, but there were no markings on it that Luke could find.

“You expecting trouble?” the Stranger asked, his voice filled with irritation.

Luke gazed down the hole in the barrel and spun the cylinder again. “You’ve always demanded I be prepared.”

“Still shouldn’t check your gun so often,” the Stranger said. “Makes you look nervous.”

“You seem awfully particular today,” Luke replied with a chuckle. He snapped his spare gun closed and put it away. He looked the Stranger in the eye. “Is there a problem I should know about?”

“Problem?” A cigar appeared in the Stranger’s fingers. He lifted it to his lips and blew on the end. The tip of the cigar burst into flame. He turned his eye to the streets of Luna Gorda below. “It’s this town. I don’t like it when you come back here. It’s a weakness.”

Luke snorted and climbed back up onto his horse. “It’s just a town, Stranger. No different from any other.”

The specter took a deep draw from his cigar. Smoke curled around his lips as he said, “Bobby Estrella told me the same thing.” Then he and his horse disappeared in a burst of black mist.

Luke winced. He had grown used to his mentor’s dark and demanding demeanor, but that last remark had hit a bit close to home. He shrugged it off and rode down the hillside towards Luna Gorda.

The new section of town was busy with people strutting about, some of them in fancy dress. These weren’t locals, but travelers stopping in town along the way. From the dearth of horses, many of them were likely passengers perhaps waiting for the next train to Albuquerque. The newest buildings were inns and shops built solely for the purpose of catering to the needs of these visitors.

For some reason this made Luke’s skin crawl. This place reminded him of other towns, bigger ones. It seemed wrong for something like this to spring up in Luna Gorda. He quickly turned down an alleyway and headed for the old main street.

Some of the tension left his shoulders as the familiar buildings came into view. Yet even here there were changes. The windows of the old barber shop were boarded up, the barber pole taken down. The street wasn’t even as well maintained as in years past. The huge ruts left by carriages on rainy days past hadn’t been filled in.

Luke paused outside the sheriff’s office, noting that there was no rocking chair in its place in front of the jailhouse. Old Sheriff Paul had retired a few years back and his replacement, Sheriff Dale, had decided to part with tradition. Luke’s eyes were drawn to the bounty board outside the office and a smile crossed his lips as he saw some familiar faces.

A peal of raucous laughter from across the street caught Luke’s attention. He slid down from his horse and tied it up outside the saloon. This, at least, would be a place where he could feel at home. His smile faltered when he saw that the old saloon sign had been taken down. In its place was a newly painted sign that said, Hank’s Saloon. Luke pushed his way through the swinging doors and stepped inside.

At least the interior hadn’t changed much. He found the familiar jumble of mismatched chairs and tables comforting. The only surprise was how empty the place was. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, the place was usually at least half-full of travelers and the sound of piano playing could be heard from the street. Today, the piano at the back of the room stood vacant and there was only one table occupied.

The three men sitting there were talking loudly and laughing like they had been drinking for a long while already. Luke’s eyes gave them a practiced glance. There were two bottles of liquor opened on the table and they were playing a game of cards but there was no cash at stake. The two of them with their backs to him wore pistol belts, but he dismissed them as a threat. Their clothes weren’t dirty and the fact that there hadn’t been any horses tied outside told him they had likely come by train.

Luke walked up to the bar and eyed the old barman who was facing away from him, cleaning a glass. “When did you start calling the place ‘Hank’s Saloon’?”

The barman spun around, rag and glass in hand, and blinked in surprise at his sudden appearance. A reproachful smile lit up his weathered face. “Well, hello to you too, Luke.”

Luke raised an eyebrow in response. “The hello was implied.”

The old man chuckled. “Got the new sign done last week. Some railroad tycoon built a saloon of his own next to the station. Don’t want folks to get confused.” He cocked his head. “You been to see your momma yet?”

“Just pour me some mezcal, Hank,” Luke said.

The men at the table behind him chose that moment to burst out in a round of laughter. Hank shot them an irritated glance, but returned his attention to Luke. “You should see her. I saw her over at the church just this Sunday. I heard her telling the pastor how worried she was, you know with that bounty on your head and all.”

“If I was looking for a lecture I would have been to see her first,” Luke interrupted with a glower. “Mezcal.”

The barman shook his head and placed the glass on the counter in front of Luke. He turned around and grabbed a bottle off of the shelf. “Just see her before you go. I promise I won’t tell her you came here first.”

Hank pulled the stopper and went to pour, but Luke placed his hand over the top of the glass. “Uh-uh. The real thing.”

Hank frowned and bent to fuss around under the counter. Bottles clinked and when he stood back up, he held a dusty clear bottle. He lifted it and wiped off the dust to reveal a gold label with a demonic skull on the front that read, El Diablo Mezcal. There was very little liquor remaining in the bottle and Luke could just make out the fat white worm sitting in the bottom.

“Don’t care what you say!” shouted one of the men at the table. He was the loudest mouthed of the three men, his voice gravelly and thick with whiskey. “I done worked the tracks on three different railroads and I say one injun’s worth ten of them lazy Chinamen!”

Hank rolled his eyes, but didn’t look directly at the men, instead focusing on wiping the dust off the neck of the bottle. He pulled out the stopper and sniffed at the liquid inside, his lips twisted in disgust. “I can’t believe you still like this rotgut, Luke.”

Luke watched as Hank poured the last dregs of the bottle into the glass, skillfully stopping just before the worm fell out. The bartender then started to set the bottle down, but Luke raised his hand. “Don’t spare the worm.”

“You know that thing’s not supposed to be in there,” Hank said, but Luke just gave him a dull look in reply.

Hank sighed. He tilted the bottle over the glass again and tapped the bottom. The pale plump worm tumbled out of the neck and plopped into the glass. Luke picked up the glass and tilted it slowly back, draining a good third of it. He swallowed and hissed through his teeth.

Hank winced. “Disgusting. This brand’s garbage. I used to tell Estrella that too. No decent brewer would let a worm into their liquor.”

“Nonsense,” said the Stranger’s deep voice. The specter appeared in a flash of black mist, leaning against the bar next to Luke. “Diablo is the only brand.”

Luke wasn’t surprised when the bartender didn’t react to the specter’s presence. No one seemed to be able to see or hear the Stranger except for him. He had learned that lesson early on, though it had taken several embarrassing episodes before he had been convinced.

A full glass appeared in the Stranger’s hand. Unlike Luke’s glass, it was filled with living worms. They squirmed in the clear liquor. He lifted it in front of his face and a grin parted the Stranger’s pale lips, exposing a set of yellowed teeth, several of them capped with gold. He chuckled. “A piece of the devil in every glass.”

Luke ignored him and took another swallow. “Don’t make any changes, Hank. That mezcal is why I keep coming back to you.”

While he nursed his drink, the men at the table behind him continued their argument. Evidently they weren’t mere passengers, but employees of the railroad; overseers of the workers. The gravelly-voiced one was highly opinionated and responded angrily to the quieter words of the other men at his table. “I tell you I seen ‘em every day! Sittin’ around the tracks in their stupid hats, layin’ down, beggin’ for water! Hell, the water boys spent half the day fillin’ Chinaman cups.”

“Pshh!” said another one. “C’mon, Gary! No way they’re lazier than any average Irishman. Half the layabouts in every town I been in are red-headed paddies.”

Hank shot Luke a cautious glance. When he was a child, Luke had been sensitive about his red hair and freckled face. He used to get into scraps with the other children when they teased him about it. But if the remark bothered him, Luke didn’t let it show.

“Bull!” said the one they called Gary. “That’s only if they’re drunk. You put a common sober Irishman on the line and he’d outwork any two Chinese!”

“What about the injuns?” asked the calmest of the three. “I used to work the chain gangs and they was always a problem.”

The Stranger growled and drained his glass in one big gulp. He slammed it back down on the bar and said, “Ain’t it a bit loud in here?”

“Damn right,” Luke said under his breath. He threw back his head and poured the last of the liquor into his mouth. The stiff worm tumbled across his tongue and he pinned it between his molars as he swallowed the liquid down.

The burning of the alcohol was nothing compared to the sensation when the worm burst. An acidic tang filled his mouth and the burning sensation travelled upwards from his throat into his mind, settling somewhere just behind his eyes. Luke shook slightly as he let out a slow breath. The Stranger grinned.

“ . . . and we hardly had to water the injuns,” Gary continued at the top of his voice. “Naw! I tell you it don’t matter if a man’s red, black, or brown. They’s all better than them yellow-!”

“Would you shut the hell up?” Luke shouted. He didn’t turn around, but just stared at his empty glass, processing the sensation in his head.

The men at the table were momentarily stunned into silence. Loudmouthed Gary was the first one to come to his senses enough to summon some outrage. “You talkin’ to me?”

“You’re the one hurting my ears,” Luke said, still not bothering to face the man.

The chair scraped against the wood floor as Gary stood. “What’s your problem, boy? Your momma a Chinaman?”

Luke said nothing. He wondered if the burning in his mind had really been caused by the worm or if it was the Stranger’s doing? He’d never had that particular reaction from eating a mezcal worm before. Whatever it was, he sure felt alive.

“You know who I am, boy?” Gary pressed, his low voice threatening.

There was another slight scraping sound and Luke turned his head just enough to catch the man’s silhouette out of the corner of his eye. Gary now held a rifle in his right hand. The reason Luke hadn’t noticed the weapon before was that it had been lying on the ground next to his chair.

Luke’s jaw tightened. How sloppy. “Yeah. You’re the loud one.”

The Stranger chuckled.

Gary growled and strode forward. He gripped his rifle in both hands and swung it back, aiming to slam the butt right into the back of Luke’s neck. He wasn’t expecting his prey to be so fast.

Luke spun, his left hand drawing his sidearm in one fluid motion. He shoved the revolver between Gary’s upraised arms and jabbed the end of the barrel right into the base of the man’s nose. Gary flinched in pain and let go of the rifle with one hand as he stepped back, but Luke moved with him, keeping his front sight jabbed into the man’s septum.

The other two men’s jaws dropped in shock as Gary stumbled backwards. The back of his legs hit the table and he fell backwards across it, sending their liquor bottles spinning onto the floor. Luke didn’t let up, putting one knee up on the table and leaning over the man, his gun still pressing painfully into tender flesh.

Gary cried out in pain and Luke reached for the rifle with his free hand, attempting to pry it from the man’s fingers. Gary resisted until Luke pulled back the hammer with his thumb and pressed harder. Luke’s eyes were feverish with intensity and to Gary it seemed he was looking into the gaze of a madman. Gary let go of his weapon.

“Luke!” said Hank, alarmed. “Don’t pull that in here!”

At that point, one of Gary’s friends had gathered his wits enough to grab his own pistol. Luke sensed the movement and released the rifle. By the time the man brought his weapon to bear, Luke had drawn his spare from the shoulder holster and had it pointed at his face.

“I’d put that back away if I were you,” Luke advised, his intense gaze still focused on the man pinned underneath him.

Gary’s friend trembled. As Luke had drawn his spare, his jacket had flapped open, exposing the offset red star sewn into the silky black interior. He put his gun away, licking his lips as he said, “Red Star, Gary.”

Gary swallowed. “Y-you’re Luke Basset? The gunfighter? I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nothing about your mama.”

Luke smiled at the recognition in the man’s voice. It was good to know that his reputation was growing. Luke Basset of the Red Star Gang had a $150 bounty and a tendency for challenging other gunfighters.

Luke let his expression grow eager. “So . . . Gary who? You were anxious for me to know. You anyone . . . famous?”

“N-no! I’m a nobody!” Gary promised. “Just a drunk railroad man is all.”

Luke looked at the other two men that shared Gary’s table. “Is that so?”

The two men nodded their heads, backing away. Luke pulled away from Gary and stepped back, letting the man sit up. He kept both guns trained on the men as Gary rubbed blood from his nose with one shaking hand.

“Then get out,” Luke said. “You bother me.”

Gary snatched up his rifle and he and his friends rushed out of the saloon. Luke smiled and put his guns away. He returned to the bar.

The Stranger shook his head and downed another wormy shot glass. “I’d have shot him.”

Hank wasn’t so pleased. “What’re you doing, Luke? Chasing away my customers? They ain’t even paid yet!”

Luke sighed and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a stack of bills and peeled off a few. He smacked them down on the bar. “I didn’t want that loudmouth around anyway. I’m here to meet someone.”

Hank picked up the money and counted it quickly. “Fine, but what if those railroad men bring back the sheriff?”

“Dale?” Luke scoffed. “He won’t do anything. No one was shot.”

“Yeah?” Hank said. “Don’t forget that bounty of yours. What if they try to collect it?”

“Dale’s not so eager to bring me in. My bounty’s not big enough to make it worth his while.” He smiled. “Yet.”

The barman gave him a wary look. “Will you promise me you’re not going to shoot this person you’re meeting? Least not in here?”

Luke leaned against the counter and lifted his shot glass, gesturing for Hank to fill it. “I paid you enough to open another bottle.”

Hank frowned, but bent down behind the bar again. When he stood he was holding an even dustier bottle of mezcal, this one full. Luke could see two worms drifting lazily in the bottom. “This is my last bottle. You’re lucky I didn’t just throw it out.”

“Order more. You know we’ll be back for it,” Luke said, gesturing with his glass again.

“We?” Hank said.

Luke pursed his lips, irritated by his slipup. The Stranger chuckled again and vanished.

Luke didn’t correct himself, but waited until Hank had opened the bottle and filled his glass before saying, “Don’t worry. I’m not here planning to shoot anybody. The person I’m meeting here is an old friend.”

END OF PREVIEW CHAPTER

READ PART THREE HERE

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