One Man's Revenge

Still writing & editing broken down into chapters, as suggested.Feedback welcome

One Mans Revenge
A novel set in the west.

Update, April 2025: It has been at least a year since I havebeen on this site. I have slowly been changing things and moving things around in the book. Also, I am now reading Preacher, The First Mountain Man by William W. Johstone, and have 13 of his books as well as other westerns to read. Much has changed in the book since the initial writing on this site.

Book premise: The setting is 1868, Grant is no longer president. The Civil War is long since over. Nick has settled in Patience, Arizona.
Nick Richmond and his wife Judith settled on a 2000-acre plot of land. They receive unwelcome visitors one morning and are gunned down and left for dead. Nick survives and sets down a dark path to find his wife's killers. Armed with a Remington revolver, a Winchester Rifle and a military background, he sets out for revenge.

The goal was to have the book written and published by April of 2018. Obviously I was struggling with my transition at the time. There is no time frame to get the book finished. The past two months I have immersed myself in the culture. It started when I was watching a documentary called, "Heroes of the Old West." This documentary was on Wyatt Earp and had the tour guide in it that I met when I was in Arizona. It also had the entire cast of the O.K. Corral shoot out with whom I had a very interesting conversation. I then started thinking that maybe a western would help me get out of my writer's block, and thus, the book was born. I am currently reading Preacher The First Mountain Man" by William W. Johstone and already have his next book ready to go. I also have books on gun fights, guns of the era as well as the civil war.

When a man with a .45 meets a man with a rifle, the man with a pistol will be a dead man.
~ Frank Chandler


===========================ONE==========================================
Jarrod, his brother Jasper, Clyde, and their youngest sibling Fate sat hunched over their glasses in a dimly lit saloon on the outskirts of Patience, Arizona, nursing their whiskey like it might hold back the grief swelling in their chests. The room reeked of sweat, spilled booze, and old regret. An old man tinkled the ivories from a battered piano in the corner, and the crowd had thinned since sunset. But the brothers remained, each one wrestling with the same weight.
They had just lost a cousin—Eli—in the bloody mess that was the Battle of Picacho Pass. He’d taken a bullet to the neck during the retreat, and they hadn’t even had time to bury him proper. None of them were cowards, but they knew a losing fight when they saw one. After Picacho, they turned their backs on what remained of the cause, saddled up, and headed west, seeking refuge in the last town that hadn’t yet chosen a side.
Now, drowning their sorrows with cheap whiskey and bitter silence, they sat like ghosts trying to forget the war.
Two hours and four rounds deep, Fate pushed his chair back and stood up, a little unsteady. “Need to drain the devil,” he muttered, tipping his hat to no one in particular as he stepped outside.
The night was thick with humidity, the sky smeared in dark clouds. Only a few torches flickered on the wooden posts in front of the saloon and the general store across the road. The rest of the street was dead quiet. Fate rounded the corner, dropped his trousers, and got to business beside the saloon wall.
The scrape of boots on dirt cut through the silence.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing.
Two men were coming up on him—scruffy, broad-shouldered types with the kind of mean eyes that said they’d rather shoot than talk. The one in front grinned, his breath thick with alcohol and an unmistakable Irish accent.
“Well now,” the Irishman drawled, “what do we got here? A deserter takin’ a piss and actin’ like he still owns the land beneath his feet?”
His companion chuckled. “Heard the reward for turncoats is up to seven hundred. That oughta buy us a bottle of something better than what they’re pourin’ in there.”
Fate didn’t flinch. “If y’all don’t mind,” he said calmly, “I’d like to hitch up my trousers before I oblige your bounty.”
The Irishman made a mocking bow. “By all means, make y’self decent.”
Fate pulled up his trousers and in one fluid motion, spun on his heel, dropped to a knee, and drew his revolver. Three shots cracked through the alleyway like thunder. The two bounty hunters didn’t even have time to cry out. One dropped instantly; the other staggered back a step before collapsing beside his partner, blood soaking the dirt.
Jarrod, Jasper, and Clyde burst out the saloon door, guns drawn, panic etched into their faces.
“Fate!” Jarrod barked, scanning for danger.
Fate holstered his pistol, brushing the dust from his knees. “Just a couple of fools thought they’d cash in on my head,” he said coolly, nudging one of the bodies with his boot.
Before the brothers could respond, a new voice cut through the dark.
“Well now... that was impressive,” drawled a man from the edge of the street.
Sheriff Tolliver stepped forward from the shadows, a glint in his eye and a crooked smile on his lips. He was a wiry man with sharp features and a badge that gleamed just enough to remind you he could either protect you—or hang you—depending on which way the wind blew.
He looked down at the bodies, then back at the four brothers.
“Looks like you boys ain’t just good with whiskey. I might have a proposition for men like you.”
The brothers exchanged a glance, unsure.
Tolliver leaned in slightly. “You see, there’s a gold vein running through Nick Richmond’s land—used to be mine, until his daddy swindled the deed. I’ve got reason to believe the claim could be challenged... with the right kind of muscle behind me.”
He grinned. “Sanctuary, coin, and a fresh start... all in exchange for your services.”
It didn’t take long for the brothers to agree. War had taken everything from them. Loyalty meant nothing when you were left holding the shovel at your cousin’s grave.
So they struck a deal with the sheriff.
Within weeks, the McAllister boys were his shadow force—hired hands for extraction, intimidation, and frontier justice. It was Jasper who first suggested a bolder plan. The bank in Patience was thick with unmarked gold—most of it stolen. It was a symbol of corruption, guarded more by fear than firepower.
Three of the brothers took the job.
As for Fate… no one ever saw him again.
But some say a man matching his description turned up months later in Nevada, running a high-stakes poker house and wearing a gold coin around his neck.
A coin from Patience.
=========================TWO==========================================

Nick placed his black Stetson back on his head as he stepped onto the boardwalk and made his way into the bank. His boots echoed against the wooden planks, the sound steady, almost calming. He clutched the $50 in his pocket, hoping it was enough to extend his loan. Inside, the bank smelled faintly of varnish and old paper. Nick tipped his hat to Dan, the head cashier. The morning was quiet, almost too quiet, and Nick felt the unease settle in his chest just as three men stormed through the door.
“Everybody! On the ground! NOW!” barked one of them, his revolver sweeping the room. Another fired a shot into the ceiling, the boom ringing in Nick’s ears.
Nick dropped to the floor, face down, his heart pounding as he caught the faint tang of gunpowder in the air. Slowly, carefully, he slid his hand toward the Remington tucked under his tan duster. The leader was shouting at Dan, demanding the safe be opened. The trembling cashier’s voice cracked. “I swear, I don’t know the combination!”
“Bullshit! Open it or die!”
The leader’s voice wavered, and Nick caught it—fear. These men weren’t as in control as they wanted everyone to believe. Nick’s eyes darted to the door. The third man stood there, a Winchester leveled at the room. He wasn’t looking directly at Nick. Not yet.
Nick took a deep breath. This was it. In one fluid motion, he spun and fired. The Winchester-wielding robber’s eyes widened as the shot struck his chest, dropping him to the floor.
The second robber whirled, returning fire, but not before Nick caught him in the leg. Nick felt a sharp burn across his shoulder. “Shit,” he muttered, ducking behind a wall. He pressed his back to it, breathing heavily, feeling the sweat sting his eyes. A faint whimper reached his ears—an older woman huddled in the corner, her dress soiled.
Nick clenched his jaw. “Somebody ruined your day,” he thought grimly.
The robbers fired again, but the shots were wild. Nick counted three rounds. Good—they were running low. He peeked out just enough to see the leader, now clutching Dan with a revolver pressed to his temple. The second robber was bleeding from the leg but still standing.
“You got nowhere to go!” the leader shouted. “Come out, or I’ll kill the goddamn cashier!”
Nick’s mind raced. To the right of the door, a wooden chair sat. He glanced at his revolver. Four shots left. This was going to be close.

“Come out NOW!!” the lead robber roared, his voice shaking as he pressed the revolver harder against the cashier’s temple.
Nick took a deep breath. This was it. He stepped back into the bank, his hands raised, revolver dangling loosely from his right index finger. He walked slowly, every step deliberate, eyes locked on the lead robber.
“Alright, alright,” Nick said calmly. “I’m coming out.” His voice carried the weight of an old soldier—a man who’d seen this kind of standoff before.
The robber’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Drop the gun!”
Nick’s heart pounded. Timing was everything. The old trick he’d learned in the Army—spinning the revolver for a surprise shot—was a gamble. But it was his only chance to save the cashier without losing his own life.
With a sudden flick, Nick spun the revolver up and fired in one fluid motion. The shot struck the lead robber in the shoulder, sending him spinning to the floor. The cashier scrambled free, his hands still trembling.
Nick didn’t stop. He kicked the chair toward the second robber, throwing him off balance. As the man staggered, Nick drew his Colt Army Model from his left hip and fired, the shot striking the robber dead center in the forehead. The man crumpled instantly, his revolver clattering to the floor.
The bank fell silent except for the ragged breathing of the wounded leader clutching his shoulder. Nick’s own shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the graze from earlier now a burning reminder of how close he’d come. Sweat stung his eyes, but he forced himself to focus.
Nick stepped over the fallen robber and kicked the gun from the leader’s hand. The man glared up at him, defiant even in defeat.
“Go ahead! Shoot me!” the robber spat, blood staining his shirt.
Nick tilted his head, considering. “Not today.”
The sound of boots echoed behind him, and Nick turned to see the sheriff stepping into the bank, shotgun in hand. The older man gave Nick a firm pat on the back.
“Nice job, Nick!”
Nick exhaled, the tension finally leaving his body. He tipped his hat to the sheriff. “Not a problem sir.”
The sheriff nodded toward Nick’s shoulder. “You’d better see the Doc about that wound.”
Nick grimaced, flexing his fingers gingerly. “Reckon I still need to make my payment on that loan first.”
The sheriff chuckled. “How much you owe?”
“Four hundred dollars.”
The sheriff glanced around the room, taking in the chaos—the broken chair, the bloodstains, and the bodies of the robbers. “I think Mayor Palmer will be mighty obliged to relieve you of that debt. Now go see Doc, hear?”
Nick nodded, stepping over the third robber on his way out. His boots clacked against the boardwalk as he headed south toward the doctor’s office. His horse whinnied softly, tied up where he’d left it outside the bank.
Inside, the doctor greeted Nick with a mix of curiosity and concern. “Well now, looks like you’ve had a busy morning.”
Nick recounted the shootout as Doc listened, eyes wide with the kind of wonder only a man who lived a quiet life could muster. The old doctor, now in his sixties, hadn’t seen much action in his time. The most excitement he’d had lately was watching one of the saloon girls flash her knees to a drunk rancher.
“Take off your shirt,” Doc said, already gathering his supplies. Nick winced as the fabric peeled away from his grazed shoulder. Doc cleaned the wound with a generous splash of alcohol, the sting making Nick’s jaw tighten.
“You’re lucky,” the doctor muttered, carefully placing a patch over the wound and securing it with tape. “It’s a graze, but it’ll ache for a while.”
Nick grunted. “I’ve had worse.”
“That’ll be a dolar fifty,” Doc said, stepping back to admire his work.
Nick fished three fifty cent pieces from his pocket with his good arm, handed it over, and then walked back outside. His horse waited patiently by the hitching post. Nick climbed into the saddle, the leather creaking under his weight, and took a moment to adjust his hat against the midday sun.
As he rode off, the familiar rhythm of hooves on dirt was a welcome sound. It wasn’t the end of his troubles, but for now, he could breathe easy. At least until the next storm came rolling in.

Nick and Palmer had only a passing relationship for most of their lives. Nick, a small-time rancher and former soldier, didn’t have much interest in politics or the mayor’s dealings. But Palmer’s shadow loomed large over Patience, and like many in town, Nick had benefited from the man’s generosity. After the drought, Palmer had extended a loan to Nick that helped him keep his ranch afloat.
But Nick was no fool. He’d seen the mayor’s true nature over the years—how Palmer had turned from a man of the people to a man serving his own interests. Nick didn’t trust him, but he kept his head down. He owed Palmer money, and until that debt was settled, he couldn’t afford to make an enemy of him.
After the bank robbery, though, things changed. The sheriff’s promise to forgive Nick’s debt put him on Palmer’s radar. The mayor didn’t take kindly to losing leverage over anyone, especially someone like Nick, whose quiet independence was a threat in its own way. Palmer would be watching him now, waiting for the right moment to remind him who really held the power in Patience.
==============================THREE==================================
Nick glared at Marshal Thompson, frustration boiling in his chest. "Goddammit now, Marshal, Sheriff Tolliver said we were square back at the bank this mornin’!"
Thompson leaned back in his chair, resting his boots on the desk as he took a slow draw from his cigar. A sly grin curled at the edges of his mouth as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I never said we wasn’t, now did I, Nick?"
Nick’s hands curled into fists at his sides. "But you just told me you plan to take my property from me! You still ain’t told me why!"
The marshal spread his hands, palms up, as if the answer was obvious. "It’s business, Nick. Plain and simple."
Nick shook his head, his jaw tight. "I worked for the past seven years trying to keep my dad’s property. I should have let them rob the bank."
Thompson’s expression darkened. He slammed a hand down on the desk and leaned forward, the cigar clenched between his teeth. "Don’t you talk to me about work, boy! You think you’re the only one who’s put in the sweat? I gave you a whole damn year to pay half of what you owe, and I haven’t seen a cent. Now, you have that $150 in my hands by this time next week, or I’ll be forced to remove you from that property myself."
Nick clenched his jaw, biting back the fury rising in his throat. He knew there was no use arguing—not with Thompson, not here. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door.
"You hear me, boy? Have the money by next week."
Nick didn’t answer. He yanked the door open and stepped outside, letting it slam shut behind him. Anger simmered in his gut as he kicked the wooden post with the side of his heel before mounting his horse. With one last glance at the marshal’s office, he gave his horse a sharp nudge and rode off toward home, the weight of the deadline pressing heavy on his shoulders.
=============================FOUR====================================

Nedson Palmer was a large man in his late 50’s who had become the mayor of Patience Arizona in 1860. His methods were questionable but the town trusted him as outlaws and cattle rustlers didn’t seem to intimidate him although some think they may be on his payroll. Palmer won the town over in 1863 after the drought had killed all the crops and killed some of the livestock as well. In his first few months of him being Mayor, he had raised taxes slightly, all in an effort to build a water town near the east edge of town to supply the towns empty wells.Is political campaign was based on bringing water to the town and he won the town people over but after 2 years of being Mayor, he had become corrupted by money and the greed that comes with owning land and cattle. His living arrangements were not meager by any means. Once a cattle rancher, the Mayor now owned a sizable size of land and quite a menagerie of animals that he owned, enough that he had his own cattle brand.
Despite his questionable methods, Nedson Palmer was, at one point, beloved by the people of Patience. When the drought hit in 1863, he spent long days riding through town, shaking hands, and promising salvation in the form of water. His charisma was undeniable, and for a while, his vision united the town. But over the years, his relationships with the townsfolk began to shift, mirroring his own descent into greed.
For most of Patience, Palmer was both a savior and a source of quiet resentment. Many respected him for what he’d done during the drought, but as his wealth grew, so did his reputation for being heavy-handed. Palmer was known to favor those who stayed loyal to him—his “inner circle” of ranchers and shopkeepers—while making life difficult for those who crossed him.
One such figure was Joe Matthews, a farmer whose land bordered Palmer’s ranch. Joe had been vocal about Palmer’s unfair land acquisitions, claiming the mayor used his influence to pressure struggling landowners into selling. After a public argument at the saloon one night, Joe’s barn mysteriously burned down. Though no evidence linked Palmer to the fire, the townsfolk whispered. Joe never spoke out again.
Palmer’s generosity, however, kept him firmly in power. He’d often pay off debts for the townsfolk in dire straits, not out of kindness, but to ensure their loyalty. Many owed him more than just money; they owed him their livelihoods. And Palmer never let them forget it.
Sheriff Pete Tolliver had a complicated relationship with Palmer. The two men had grown up in Patience together, and Pete knew Palmer better than most. He remembered the young rancher who once stood up to a gang of rustlers with nothing but a shotgun and his nerve. Pete believed there was still some good left in Palmer, though it grew harder to see with each passing year.
Officially, the sheriff and the mayor were allies. Palmer relied on Pete to maintain order in town, and Pete respected Palmer’s ability to keep the peace, even if his methods weren’t always legal. But the sheriff wasn’t blind. He knew Palmer had his hand in every major deal in Patience, and Pete had started keeping his distance. Deep down, the sheriff knew it was only a matter of time before he’d have to make a choice: uphold the law or protect his oldest friend.
Sam Danvers, the town banker, had a much different relationship with Palmer. While outwardly cordial, the two men were locked in a quiet battle for control of Patience. Danvers resented Palmer’s growing influence over the town’s economy, particularly in the cattle trade. The mayor had been buying up land at an alarming rate, cutting deals with ranchers who owed Danvers money, and consolidating his power.
Though Danvers couldn’t prove it, he suspected Palmer of manipulating the town council to pass laws that favored his ranch. For now, Sam played nice, but he was biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to tip the scales.
Nick and Palmer had only a passing relationship for most of their lives. Nick, a small-time rancher and former soldier, didn’t have much interest in politics or the mayor’s dealings. But Palmer’s shadow loomed large over Patience, and like many in town, Nick had benefited from the man’s generosity. After the drought, Palmer had extended a loan to Nick that helped him keep his ranch afloat.
But Nick was no fool. He’d seen the mayor’s true nature over the years—how Palmer had turned from a man of the people to a man serving his own interests. Nick didn’t trust him, but he kept his head down. He owed Palmer money, and until that debt was settled, he couldn’t afford to make an enemy of him.
After the bank robbery, though, things changed. The sheriff’s promise to forgive Nick’s debt put him on Palmer’s radar. The mayor didn’t take kindly to losing leverage over anyone, especially someone like Nick, whose quiet independence was a threat in its own way. Palmer would be watching him now, waiting for the right moment to remind him who really held the power in Patience.
====================================FIVE===============================

Nick dismounted his horse and led it toward the stables, wincing as his wounded shoulder reminded him of the day’s earlier chaos. Grunting, he struggled to remove the saddle, then turned toward the house. On the way, he spotted Butch working near the corral.
“Butch,” Nick called out, “mind wiping down the horse for me?”
Butch nodded, leaning his shovel against the fence. “Sure thing, Nick.”
Nick made his way up to the house and found Judith waiting on the porch. She took one look at his shoulder and frowned.
“Let me see that,” she said.
Nick sat on the porch steps as Judith carefully peeled back the old bandage, inspecting the graze. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was raw and angry-looking. She cleaned it with a steady hand and replaced the bandage, her lips pressed thin.
“You’ve got to be more careful,” she chided.
Nick chuckled. “You sound like my mother.”
Judith rolled her eyes. “Somebody’s got to keep you in one piece.”
He recounted the events at the bank as Judith worked, grateful that it was just a graze. Once she was done, he stood and adjusted his hat, letting the brim shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun.
Down by the corral, Butch was digging in the hard soil, his shoulders glistening with sweat. Nick ambled over, watching him work for a moment before speaking.
“Say, Butch,” Nick said, “you think them heifers are gonna take to that new bull we turned out to pasture?”
Butch leaned on his shovel, a wide grin breaking across his face.
“Well, sir—”
“Now dammit, Butch,” Nick interrupted, “how many times I gotta tell you? You ain’t my help. You’re a free man, a hired man, and a damn good friend at that. So enough with the ‘sir’ business. You hear me?”
Butch chuckled, tipping his hat back. “Sorry, Nick. I’m just so used to it. Old habits, you know? But I’ll try my best to call you Nick from here on out.”
Nick clapped him on the shoulder, then stiffened as movement caught his eye. At the top of the hill overlooking the property, three riders sat on horseback, silhouetted against the setting sun.
Nick squinted. “Can I help you?” he called out.
The lead rider, a scruffy young man who looked like he hadn’t bathed in weeks, stared back without a word. He gestured to the others, and the trio turned their horses, heading west without so much as a nod.
“What do you reckon that’s about?” Butch asked, his tone uneasy.
Nick’s jaw tightened. “Did you see their bandanas? Cowboys. And I owe the bank money.”
Butch frowned, glancing back at the hill. “I don’t like it, Nick.”
Nick drove his shovel into the dirt, his frustration spilling over as he unearthed a chunk of hardened earth. He looked up, his face pale. “Damn it. I think those sons of bitches found gold on our land.”
Butch’s eyes widened. “Gold?”
Nick nodded grimly. “That’s why they were here, snooping around.” He pointed a finger at Butch, his voice low and firm. “You tell no one about this, you hear? We’ve got enough gold to buy supplies for a month, but the bank’s breathing down my neck. We can’t risk losing this land.”
Before Butch could respond, his shovel struck something solid. A loud metallic clank echoed in the quiet.
“NICK!” Butch shouted.
Nick rushed over as Butch dug around the object, pulling out a chunk of earth with veins of gold running through it. Nick brushed the dirt away, his eyes widening with disbelief.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Nick said, a grin spreading across his face. He held the rock up to the fading sunlight, letting the gold gleam. “I think we’re done for the day, Butch.”
The two men packed their tools onto the mule, both silent as they considered the weight of their discovery.
As they unloaded the tools back at the stables, Butch broke the silence. “I’m headed into town for a drink at the saloon. You coming?”
Nick laughed, slapping him on the back. “You go on ahead. I’ve got to get home before Judith starts worrying again.”
Butch tipped his hat. “Suit yourself. Don’t go digging up all the gold without me.”
Nick smirked, watching as Butch headed down the trail toward town. Alone now, he turned back to the house, his thoughts churning. Gold was a blessing, but in a place like Patience, it could just as easily be a curse.
===============================SIX====================================
Nick stood on the porch, wiping his brow as he took a deep breath, savoring the cool air of the evening. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the Arizona sky in hues of gold and crimson. It had been a long, grueling day, but the satisfaction of hard work well done settled over him. He hoped the payoff would make the effort worthwhile when he rode into town tomorrow.
His gaze lingered on the horizon, a smile tugging at his lips. Arizona sunsets were among the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen, yet even they couldn’t hold a candle to Judith. Her fiery red hair put the sunset’s brilliance to shame, and her sharp wit and intellect made her even more captivating. Nick first met Judith at a church social in 1873. She’d charmed him with her polished manners and sparkling personality, her elegance setting her apart from most women in town. Her cooking didn’t hurt either—every meal she prepared smelled heavenly and tasted even better.
Nick stepped back into the cabin, reaching for a potato on the counter, but Judith’s playful slap on his hand stopped him.
“You wash your hands first, Nicholas Richmond,” she said with mock sternness.
Nick chuckled and dipped his hands into the basin. As he reached to dry them on his trousers, Judith stepped over, holding out her apron with a grin. He obliged, drying his hands on the offered fabric before leaning in to kiss her softly.
“Where’s Butch?” she asked in her lilting Scottish accent as she set plates on the table.
Nick shrugged, still smiling. “Went into town for a bit of whiskey. I’d wager he’ll be back soon enough with a warm belly and a few bottles for the cupboard.”
“Think he’ll make it back in time for supper?”
“I’m not sure,” Nick admitted, “but you can keep it on the stove at a low simmer just in case.”
Butch arrived shortly after, stepping into the cabin and tipping his hat to Judith, who curtsied playfully in return. A tall, muscular man, Butch carried himself with quiet confidence. Unlike most people, Nick and Judith had insisted he address them by their names, a gesture of respect that Butch had come to appreciate deeply. To Nick and Judith, Butch was more than just hired help—he was family.
“Well, there he is,” Nick said as Butch placed two bottles of whiskey into the cupboard.
“Got you the good stuff this time,” Butch said, shaking Nick’s hand firmly before heading to the wash basin to clean up.
Judith smiled approvingly. “At least someone around here has manners.”
Butch chuckled as he took a seat at the table, while Nick folded his hands and bowed his head. Judith and Butch followed suit, joining him in silent prayer.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen,” Nick intoned.
“Amen,” Judith and Butch echoed.
The meal was filled with laughter and light conversation. Neither Nick nor Butch mentioned the riders they’d encountered earlier that day, keeping the unease buried for now. After supper, Nick stood and stretched, patting Butch on the shoulder.
“Join me for a cigar?” he asked.
Butch nodded, following Nick onto the porch. Judith, clearing the table, shot them a teasing glance.
“I don’t suppose I could get any help with the dishes?” she said, her tone playful.
Nick rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh, earning a laugh from Butch. Judith caught the gesture and placed her hands on her hips, pursing her lips to suppress a grin.
“All right, all right,” Nick relented, joining her at the sink. They worked together to finish the dishes, and he rewarded her with a quick kiss before pointing toward the porch.
“I’m going outside to smoke,” he said with a wink.
Judith just shook her head, her smile soft.
Later that evening, after finishing their cigars, Nick and Butch shared a quiet drink at the table. The day’s tension had eased, replaced by the warmth of companionship and the whiskey’s burn. Judith walked over, placing a gentle kiss on Nick’s forehead.
“You’d best get to bed, love. Five a.m. comes early,” she reminded him.
Nick nodded, the weight of the day finally catching up with him. About a year ago, he’d used part of the loan to build a small addition to the cabin—a room for Butch. It was far better than the stables, and Butch appreciated the gesture.
“Good night,” Butch said, standing and tipping his head to Judith.
“Good night,” Judith and Nick replied in unison.
As Butch retired to his room, Nick and Judith headed to their own. The day had been long, and sleep was well-earned for all.


============================SEVEN=====================================

The next morning, as the sun crested over the mountains in the distance, Nick looked across the horizon and smiled. The scent of Judith’s cooking drifted through the crisp morning air.. The rich aroma of coffee intertwined with the smell of the land—earthy, warm, familiar. He took one last drag from his cigar before crushing it into the dirt beneath his boot. As he turned, he saw Judith leaning against the doorframe, her cup of coffee cradled in one hand, that beautiful smile playing on her lips.
“Such a nasty habit,” she teased, her Scottish accent wrapping around the words like a melody.
Nick chuckled. “Me or the cigars?”
She took a slow sip before answering, eyes twinkling. “You are impossible, Nicholas Richmond.”
She extended a cup toward him, and he took it, savoring the warmth against his fingers.
“We’re due for a trip into town,” Nick said, surveying their small home and the land stretching beyond it. “This is the last of the coffee.”
“We’ll need flour, sugar, seeds for the fields—and for my garden.”
“Maybe some chocolate for you?”
Judith smirked. “Nicholas Richmond, are you trying to win my affection?”
“Yes, ma’am. Every single day.”
She shook her head with a soft laugh. “You sure do know how to charm a girl.”
Nick was about to reply when movement on the horizon caught his eye. Butch rode up, his horse kicking up a trail of dust. He was a tall man from Wichita, a hard worker with a reputation for holding his liquor—though not everyone accepted him because of the color of his skin. Dismounting, he wiped the sweat from his brow, his expression troubled.
“I saw those same cowboys again,” he said, voice tight. “They’re at the edge of the property, near the fence line. Armed. Poking at the ground right where we found gold yesterday.”
Nick didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside, grabbed his holster, his Winchester rifle, and his Remington Colt. Tossing a Henry rifle to Butch, he kissed Judith firmly.
“Stay here,” he told her as he mounted his horse. “If I’m not back by dinner, know that I love you.”
“Nick, wait—what’s going on?”
“There’s trouble on our land, and I intend to stop it.”
“Nicholas!”
He turned, fixing her with a firm look. “Stay here. You know how to protect yourself and where everything is.”
“Nicholas!”
But he was already gone, riding west with Butch at his side. Judith stood at the doorway, watching, worry etched into her face.
At the crest of the hill, Nick and Butch dismounted, walking the last quarter-mile to the fence. Below them, the cowboys were still digging. One of them, a burly man with a weathered face, glanced up but didn’t stop.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Nick asked, his voice even.
“Can’t say you can,” the man responded, not bothering to look up.
“What’s the reason you’re digging so close to my land?”
One of the cowboys pulled a paper from his coat. “This here’s town property. We got orders to dig.”
The digging cowboy suddenly hit something solid. A dull clunk echoed from the pit. Dropping to his knees, he scraped at the dirt with his hands before exhaling a low whistle.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He stood, removed his hat, and wiped his brow. “Looks like we struck gold, boys.”
Nick exchanged a glance with Butch. The two men stepped back, their conversation meant for only each other.
“If there’s gold on that side of the fence, there’s a damn good chance it runs onto our land,” Nick murmured. “If it’s part of a vein, they’ll keep digging. And once they find out, that’ll bring problems we don’t need.”
Butch looked toward the cowboys, his jaw tightening. “Want me to say something?”
Nick shook his head. “Not yet. We can’t do anything unless they cross onto our land.”
Butch exhaled slowly, gripping the Henry rifle. “Then let’s just hope they stay on their side.”
Nick nodded, watching the men below, knowing deep down that hope wouldn’t be enough.

=============================EIGHT==================================
The next morning, Jarrod and his cowboys moved down the hillside on foot, their boots crunching against the dry earth. Reaching the barbed wire fence bordering the Richmond property, Jarrod motioned to a patch of ground.
"Dig there. See how deep the gold runs."
As the first shovel bit into the earth, the sharp crack of a rifle shattered the silence. The men froze.
"You're trespassing," Nick called, his rifle aimed steady through the sights. "And that's my gold."
Jarrod raised his hands, stepping back cautiously as the hill sloped behind him. "Bank says you owe four hundred dollars. Until that debt’s cleared, this land belongs to them."
Nick's grip on the rifle tightened. "Last warning. Turn around, or I start unloading."
Jarrod hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Let's go."
His men dropped their shovels and stepped back, hands raised as they slipped through the clipped barbed wire. Mounting their horses, they rode off in a cloud of dust.
Nick lowered his rifle but didn’t look away.
"This ain't the last we'll see of them," Butch muttered.
"Probably not," Nick agreed, eyes still on the ridge where Jarrod had disappeared.
With a sigh, he turned toward the stables. "We need to fix that fence."
Minutes later, with work gloves on and pliers in hand, Nick returned to the damaged barbed wire. He clipped away the ruined strands and patched it up with new wire, each twist of the pliers sealing off another threat to his land.
Later in the evening, Nick made his way to the stables, his boots kicking up dust as he entered the dim interior. The scent of hay and horse sweat filled the air. He saddled the horse, stowing away his rifle, ensuring it was within reach but hidden. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though savoring the final preparations before what was to come.
A familiar voice cut through the stillness. "You look like a man fixin’ to do somethin’ foolish."
Nicholas glanced up to see Butch leaning against a wooden post, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark skin streaked with sweat from the relentless sun. His eyes, however, carried something deeper—concern wrapped in humor.
Nicholas smirked, shaking his head slightly. "I’m ridin’ into town to have a word with Marshal Thompson."
Butch arched a brow. "Mind if I join you?"
Nicholas clapped a hand on Butch’s shoulder, his grip firm. "I’ll be having that talk with the Marshal alone."
Butch studied him for a moment, then exhaled through his nose and nodded. "Then I’ll just ride with you and we’ll part ways once we get into town, so you don’t do nothin’ too stupid before you get there."
Nicholas chuckled dryly. "Fair enough."
The two men mounted their horses and rode out, the wind kicking up dust behind them as they set their course toward the heart of a town waiting for judgment.
=================================NINE======================================
Nick and Butch rode into the small town, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long, jagged shadows across the dirt roads. The town's church stood at the end of the street, its steeple looming like a tower, its shadow stretching over the buildings like a silent warning.
Nick pulled on the reins, bringing his horse to a stop in front of the marshal’s office. Dust settled around his boots as he dismounted, his movements slow, deliberate. He tied his horse to the post and adjusted the revolver at his hip before pushing through the office door.
Inside, Marshal Thompson lounged behind his desk, the dim light catching the dull glint of the badge pinned to his chest. He swirled a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand, taking a lazy sip before acknowledging the visitor.
“Well,” Thompson drawled, setting the glass down with a clink. “The hero returns.” His lips curled into a smirk. “How can I help you, Richmond?” His voice carried a mocking lilt, the kind meant to get under a man’s skin.
Nick stepped forward, his boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor. His eyes, dark and unyielding, locked onto the marshal’s. “I’m here because there’s men digging near my property,” he said, voice low and steady. “I think you sent them. They’re after my gold, and I intend to defend my land.”
Thompson let out a scoffing laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “Well now, Nick,” he said, running a hand over his stubbled jaw. “If I remember correctly, you still owe four hundred dollars on that land of yours.”
Nick’s jaw tensed, his fingers flexing at his sides. He already knew where this was going, but he wasn’t about to back down.
The room fell silent, save for the ticking of the old clock on the wall. The weight of unspoken threats hung thick in the air.

Nick glared at Marshal Thompson, frustration boiling in his chest. "Goddammit now, Marshal, you said we were square back at the bank this mornin’!"
Thompson leaned back in his chair, resting his boots on the desk as he took a slow draw from his cigar. A sly grin curled at the edges of his mouth as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I never said we wasn’t, now did I, Nick?"
Nick’s hands curled into fists at his sides. "But you just told me you plan to take my property from me! You still ain’t told me why!"
The marshal spread his hands, palms up, as if the answer was obvious. "It’s business, Nick. Plain and simple."
Nick shook his head, his jaw tight. "I worked seven years, saved for five to buy that land fair and square."
Thompson’s expression darkened. He slammed a hand down on the desk and leaned forward, the cigar clenched between his teeth. "Don’t you talk to me about work, boy! You think you’re the only one who’s put in the sweat? I gave you a whole damn year to pay half of what you owe, and I haven’t seen a cent. Now, you have that four hundred dollars in my hands by this time next week, or I’ll be forced to remove you from that property myself."
Nick clenched his jaw, biting back the fury rising in his throat. He knew there was no use arguing—not with Thompson, not here. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door.
"You hear me, boy? Have the money by next week."
Nick didn’t answer. He yanked the door open and stepped outside, letting it slam shut behind him. Anger simmered in his gut as he kicked the wooden post with the side of his heel before mounting his horse. With one last glance at the marshal’s office, he gave his horse a sharp nudge and rode off toward home, the weight of the deadline pressing heavy on his shoulders.
================================TEN=======================================

Jarrod looked up from the bar as he downed his second shot of whiskey. The saloon door swung open, and in walked Butch, a Black man who Jarrod didn’t care to drink alongside—let alone breathe the same air as. After a long day's work, all Butch wanted was a few drinks. He removed his hat, dusted it off against his thigh, and nodded at Tom, the barkeep.
Tom met his gaze, his face unreadable, then grabbed a glass and poured a shot of whiskey. The soft clink of glass on wood was the only sound in the saloon for a brief moment, before the murmuring of the other patrons resumed.
Jarrod shot them both a look of disgust. Instead of using the spittoon provided, he turned his head and spat directly onto Butch’s right boot. A thick glob of tobacco-stained spit landed with a wet slap.
A few men at nearby tables chuckled under their breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Butch glanced down at his boot, his expression still as stone. He took a slow breath before meeting Jarrod’s sneer with a steady gaze.
“I assume you figure the color of my skin don’t qualify me for a shot of whiskey,” he said, his voice even, controlled.
Jarrod smirked. “Ain’t never liked your kind, boy. This ain’t a place for you.”
Butch exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound close to amusement. He took the glass and downed the whiskey in one smooth motion before setting it down gently on the bar.
“I’ve fought alongside tougher men than you who said the same thing. Those same men are my friends now.”
Jarrod barked a laugh and turned to the table behind him, waving his hand as if swatting at a fly. “You hear this? Acts like he’s some kinda hero! I bet you never even shot a man, boy!”
A few of the men laughed, but not all. Some of the older patrons shifted uncomfortably, their eyes flicking to Tom, who remained quiet as he polished a glass.
TJarrod scoffed, but the look in Tom’s eyes told him this wasn’t just about words anymore.
“You runnin’ a saloon or a damn church now, Tom?” he spat.
Tom didn’t blink. “I’m runnin’ a place where a man like Butch is welcome. And a man like you ain’t.”
A beat passed. Two. Then Jarrod laughed again, but it was thinner now, brittle. He backed toward the doors, trying to save face, his boots louder than they needed to be.
“You’ll regret this,” he said, finger pointing but voice faltering.
Tom kept the rifle steady. “Already regretted lettin’ you through that door.”
Jarrod vanished into the dark.
A long silence followed, broken only when Tom leaned the Winchester back behind the bar. He picked up Butch’s untouched shot, held it up to the light, and gave a nod to the empty doorway.
“Next one’s on the house, old friend.”
==============================ELEVEN====================================

Marshal Thompson struck a match against the worn wood of the saloon table, lighting the cigar nestled between his teeth. He took a slow draw, letting the smoke curl from his lips before crushing the spent match in the bottom of an empty coffee cup. The saloon around him buzzed with low chatter and clinking glasses, the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke thick in the air.
Bonnie, a brunette whose best years were long behind her, sauntered over with a bottle of whiskey and six small glasses, setting them down with a practiced ease. Thompson poured generously and raised his glass high.
"Gentlemen, a toast—to finding and killing Nicholas Richmond, and taking what’s rightfully ours. His land. His gold." His voice carried an edge of satisfaction, his grin sharp as he knocked back the whiskey in one smooth motion.
Jarrod took his drink, tipping his hat slightly in acknowledgment, but there was no enthusiasm in his movements. He tossed the liquor back, the burn sharp on his throat, then set the glass down with a dull thud. He leaned forward, his gaze locked on the marshal.
"Deal everyone in, Jackson," Thompson declared, slapping the table with finality. "Tonight, we drink and gamble. Tomorrow, we ride out and put an end to Richmond once and for all."
He puffed on his cigar, leaning back in his chair as Jackson shuffled the deck. The cards slid across the table, each man picking up his hand with measured interest. The air grew thick with tension as the game unfolded.
Jarrod studied his hand, his expression unreadable. The dealer reached him, and without looking up, he placed three cards down, sliding them forward. His voice was low, steady. "They say Richmond can drop a man dead from two hundred yards with a six-shooter."
The room fell silent. Even the laughter from the bar died down as the weight of the words settled over the table. Only Thompson remained unmoved. He scoffed, shaking his head as he exhaled another cloud of smoke.
"Ain’t no man alive can make that shot," he said, a smug smile tugging at his lips.
Two men to Jarrod’s right folded, pushing their cards away. The dealer dealt the next round of cards, and Thompson’s grin widened.
Jarrod tossed another coin onto the table, his eyes finally lifting to meet the marshal’s. "You willing to gamble your life on that?"
============================TWELVE==================================
Nick and Butch mounted their horses and rode back to the house, where Judith awaited them on the porch in her white dress. She had removed the apron she had worn while preparing supper. As Nick dismounted, Judith stepped off the porch to greet him. He embraced her, and they kissed.
She pulled away, concern in her eyes. "Please tell me what is going on, Nicholas."
Nick sighed. "I have some issues with the bank, but nothing I can't fix with a little gold."
Judith looked puzzled. "Gold? From where?"
Nick walked to his horse and pulled out a large bag, nodding to Butch, who did the same. They opened the bags, revealing a sizable amount of gold.
Judith's face lit up, though her voice was filled with disbelief. "This is wonderful!"
Nick smiled at Butch before turning back to her. "I plan to take this to the bank tomorrow and settle our debts. We’ll have plenty left over for more supplies too."
They kissed again before walking toward the house.
The next morning, the thunder of hooves broke the peace. Sixteen riders appeared on the horizon.
Nick turned and rushed inside, grabbing his Enfield 1917 rifle. As he loaded it, he called over his shoulder, "Grab the Winchester and get ready!"
Judith seized the rifle and loaded it swiftly. The cowboys charged toward the house. Nick fired first, dropping two of them. Butch saw two others veer toward the fields, torches in hand. He pursued, firing from the hip and bringing one down. The other headed toward toward the stable.
On the far side, six more cowboys hurled torches, setting the stables ablaze. Butch leaped from his horse, tackling one of them. They wrestled in the dirt until Butch wrenched his rifle free. The cowboy scrambled away as the fire raged behind them. Seeing no way to save the crops, Butch sprinted toward the stables.
Nick was already there, rifle in hand, as the stables burned. "We can save the horses, but we have to move fast."
He threw open the stable doors, slapping the horses’ rears. "Better alive and loose than dead and charred. We can find them later."
The horses bolted out of the burning stables. Nick and Butch turned toward the house.
Standing on the porch, Judith fired, dropping one cowboy, but another emerged from the right and shot her in the shoulder. She staggered, returning fire, clipping him before collapsing.. As she struggled to stand, another cowboy slashed her arm with a Bowie knife. She gasped, stepping back, blood dripping down her sleeve.
She swung wildly, her punch connecting with the attacker’s face. But another cowboy grabbed her from behind. She elbowed him, breaking free, but her rifle was gone. The only weapons she had left were her fists and the dirt beneath her.
Three cowboys circled behind the house and hurled torches through the windows. Flames consumed the home within moments. Nick came around the back and dropped two more men with precise shots. The last cowboy leaped from his horse, tackling Nick to the ground. His rifle skidded out of reach as they grappled. The attacker drew a knife, slashing deep into Nick’s right arm.
Judith, bloodied but defiant, grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it into her attacker's eyes. She stumbled to her feet, gripping her wounded arm. She reached for the fallen rifle, but the cowboy recovered, wiping his eyes. He struck her hard across the jaw, sending her to her knees.
She wiped dirt from her eyes, forcing herself upright. The cowboy lunged, and they hit the ground again. She went for the groin, but he anticipated it, laughing as he twisted away.
Judith screamed, shoving at him. She scrambled back to her feet, but he grabbed her from behind.
Nick and Butch rushed toward her, but the cowboy pressed a knife to her throat. "Drop your pistols, or I’ll cut her." He motioned to Butch. Both men let their guns fall to the ground.
The cowboy grinned. Nick turned pale as the blade pressed harder against Judith’s neck. Tears streamed down her face. Her lower lip trembled. "I love you."
The words had barely left her mouth when the knife sliced across her throat. Blood gushed down her dress as she collapsed.
"Noooooo!" Nick's anguished scream tore through the night as Judith's lifeless body hit the ground.
Rage consumed him. He lunged at the cowboy, tackling him. Pinning him down, Nick rained blow after blow, his fists turning the man's face into an unrecognizable mess.
In the distance, the cattle had been set loose. The cowboys were steering them north—toward Mayor Palmer's ranch.
Nick stood over Judith’s lifeless body, the color drained from her face. Her dress was torn at the waist, and dried blood stained her mouth and nose. He wiped away his tears and gently closed her eyes, his hands trembling. Carefully, he lifted her in his arms and carried her away from the burning house to the spot they had chosen together, the place where they had promised to be buried when they were old and gray.
The next day, after searching through the ruins, they found Judiths hope chest, untouched.He wrapped her in her favorite blanket, tears streaming down his face. He kissed her forehead and gently brushed her hair away from her face.
“I promise I’ll find whoever did this,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I will make them pay.”
With a heavy heart, Nick covered her face, then tied a rope around her waist and lowered her body into the grave. He began to shovel dirt onto the remains of his beloved wife, each handful a painful reminder of the life they had shared.
As the grave filled, Nick’s gaze fell on her limp form, now hidden beneath layers of dirt. Blood had dried on her pale legs, and her face was obscured by the earth. He looked up to see their house reduced to ashes, the fields destroyed, the black smoke of their ruined crops rising into the sky.
Nick struggled to his feet, leaning on the shovel for support. Barely able to stand, he turned toward Butch, then collapsed.


===============================THIRTEEN===============================
The cowboys who had taken the cattle had steered them toward Craft Ranch, a place known for its isolation. Dust hung in the air as the cattle trudged along behind them, their hooves kicking up dust in the dry earth. As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden hue over the land, the Marshall sat comfortably in his rocking chair on the porch of his weathered cabin. The old wood creaked as he rocked back and forth, a cigar hanging loosely from his lips. He took a long, deliberate puff, letting the smoke curl into the evening air as his sharp eyes watched the cattle being corralled.
A smirk played on his lips as the cowboys guided the herd into the fenced area. He stood slowly, his boots scraping against the wooden porch as he made his way to the fence where Jarrod, the leader of the gang, was tying off his reins.
“Nice job, Jarrod,” the Marshall said, his tone laced with a dark satisfaction.
Jarrod dismounted his horse with ease, his eyes scanning the area before he walked over. He met the Marshall’s gaze with a firm handshake, his weathered hands strong and steady.
“Everything’s been taken care of, Marshall. We burned the proerty, and it looks like we took out the three of 'em. No one left to tell tales.”
The Marshall’s brow furrowed slightly as he turned toward the herd being closed in. “Looks like?” His voice held a hint of skepticism, a man who didn’t leave things to chance.
Jarrod’s expression hardened as he crossed his arms over his chest. “They ain’t gonna come for us, Marshall. They have no idea where to find any of us. We've covered our tracks well.”
The Marshall’s lips twisted into a thin line as he glanced over his shoulder toward the setting sun, the colors of dusk bleeding into the horizon. He let out a short laugh, the sound almost bitter. “Well, isn’t that convenient,” he muttered, casting his eyes toward the trail leading back into the hills. “They can’t find you and your band, but they sure as hell can find me. You think they’ll just let that go?”
He threw the remainder of his cigar onto the dirt, grinding it out under his boot with a forceful stomp. The embers hissed as they went out, lost in the dust. The Marshall straightened, his posture cold and commanding as he pointed a stern finger toward Jarrod, his voice dropping to a warning growl.
“You better hope they don’t come for me, Jarrod,” the Marshall said, his tone final, as he turned on his heel and strode back toward the cabin. The clinking of his spurs echoed in the still evening air.
Jarrod stood still for a moment, watching the Marshall's retreating form. The air seemed to grow heavier as the weight of the Marshall’s words sank in. He knew the man was right—there were always those who couldn’t be reasoned with, those who would seek vengeance no matter how carefully they were hidden. And if they were coming for the Marshall... well, it was only a matter of time before they came for all of them.


===========================FOURTEEN===================================
Nick awoke beneath the sparse shade of one of the few trees that had survived the fire. The air was thick with the lingering stench of smoke and scorched earth, the land around him blackened and lifeless. He felt the rough bark of the tree at his back and the dull ache in his body, a reminder that he was still breathing.
Beside him, Butch sat silently, his broad frame hunched slightly, hands resting on his knees. Sheriff, Nick’s horse, stood nearby, shifting restlessly, its dark coat streaked with ash. Another horse, a sturdy bay, was tethered a few feet away.
Nick blinked up at Butch, his throat dry, his mind slow to piece together the reality before him.
“I’m dead,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.
Butch shook his head. “You’re very much alive.”
Nick exhaled sharply, a bitter scoff escaping him. “Then I shouldn’t be.”
With a grunt, he pushed himself upright, Butch steadying him as he rose unsteadily to his feet. His boots crunched against the brittle, blackened ground as he turned to take in the full extent of the destruction. The homestead—what little remained of it—was reduced to char and embers. Nothing stood but ghosts and memories.

Nick looked at the two horses. One was his, his colt named Sherrif. Nick looked at the other horse that he did not recognize.
“Is that a Craft Ranch brand on that horse?” Nick asked, studying the brand.
“One of the cowboys lost his horse in all the commotion.” Butch replied.
A deep, heavy sigh left his chest as he clenched his fists at his sides.
“I died with Judith,” he said shaking his head, voice raw.
Butch shifted, his expression unreadable, but Nick knew him well enough to catch the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something close to sorrow in his eyes. They stood there for a long moment, the silence between them heavy as the sky before a storm.
Finally, Nick turned to him, his gaze hard as flint. “I’m going to find who did this. And I’m going to make them pay.”
For the first time in all the years he’d known Butch, he thought he saw something like fear in the man’s eyes. Not fear of a fight, not fear of dying—but fear of what Nick was about to become.
The two men exchanged a knowing look. No words were needed.
Nick strode to Sheriff and mounted up, settling into the saddle with a practiced ease. He reached up, adjusting the brim of his hat, then gave Butch a slow nod.
“I’ll be seeing you,” he said.
And with that, he turned his horse toward town, spurring it forward, riding away from the ashes of his past and toward the vengeance that awaited.
===============================FIFTEEN=================================
It was July 15th, and Nick had been riding for three days. He and his horse were exhausted. He knew the town of Wickenburg was just a half-day’s ride away, a place where he and his horse could finally rest.
Nick dismounted, patting the horse’s right side before leaning in close. “It’s okay, Sheriff. You’ll be able to rest soon.”
The horse responded with a tired huff. Sheriff had been with Nick since he was a colt, and through every trial—from gunfights to outlaws taking over the mining town of Bisbee—the two had relied on each other. Nick pulled his waterskin from his saddle, taking a small drink before pouring some into his palm and offering it to Sheriff. As the stallion drank, Nick ran a hand along the horse’s neck, his voice low and thoughtful. “We sure have been through a lot, haven’t we, old boy?”
A short distance away, the setting sun painted the land in hues of orange and purple. Near the horizon, he spotted a barn. Shelter. It was his best bet before nightfall. After a brief rest under the shade of a mesquite tree, Nick mounted Sheriff once more and urged him toward the property, careful to approach slowly.
As he crossed onto the land, the door to the small house swung open. A woman in a gray dress stepped onto the porch, a rifle raised and leveled at him.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone firm.
Nick kept his hands where she could see them, showing he meant no harm. “I’ve been riding for three days. Haven’t slept much, I’m hungry, and I need to bathe.” He gestured slightly, palms still raised.
Her sharp eyes landed on the blood staining his right shoulder and the dried smears on his clothes. “What happened to you?”
Nick hesitated for a moment, then spoke plainly. “Been through a lot. If you let me stay, I’ll work to earn my keep. Just need a few days to rest and recover, then I’ll be on my way.”
The woman didn’t lower the rifle just yet. “Name?”
“Nick.”
After a long pause, she finally lowered the barrel. “There’s a barn you can sleep in, and space for your horse.” She glanced at the wounds on his clothing again. “I’ll feed you tonight and let you get cleaned up.”
Nick nodded, relief washing over him. “Thank you. And you are?”
“Annabelle.”
Nick awoke the next morning in the barn Annabelle had provided him, the scent of hay and aged wood filling his lungs as he pushed himself upright. His body ached, a dull reminder of the long road behind him. With a quiet groan, he steadied himself and led his horse toward the house, the early morning light casting long shadows across the frost-kissed ground.
Annabelle stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching him approach. A woman in her early fifties, life had carved lines into her face, but there was strength in her stance. She had known loss—her husband and son taken by the Civil War—but she carried on, the weight of grief worn like a well-fitted coat.
“Mornin’,” she greeted, her voice warm yet firm. “I’ve got fresh biscuits and gravy on the stove.”
Nick hesitated, offering a polite smile as he raised a hand.
“I couldn’t possibly impose,” he said, his tone apologetic.
Annabelle let out a sharp breath, pursing her lips before setting her hands on her hips—a stance he suspected meant she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“I woke up at five this morning and made those biscuits and gravy. Now you march yourself in there and have a seat.”
Nick chuckled, shaking his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
With a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, Annabelle stepped aside, letting him into the warmth of the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread and rich gravy filled the air, mingling with the scent of black coffee. For the first time in a long while, Nick felt something close to home.
Nick set his empty coffee cup down with a satisfied sigh, the warmth of the meal settling in his stomach. It had been a long time since he’d had food that didn’t taste like the road—longer still since it had been made with care. He glanced up at Annabelle, who studied him with knowing eyes, her hands resting on the edge of the table.
“Now you best be getting to your business,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind.
Nick tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
Annabelle wiped her hands on her apron, arching a brow. “I know a man with a purpose when I see one.”
For a moment, Nick held her gaze, considering her words. She wasn’t wrong. He had come west with a reason, and there was no use pretending otherwise. Instead of answering, he simply smiled, a small, appreciative curve of his lips.
Annabelle didn’t press him further. She picked up his empty plate and cup, turning toward the sink, her focus shifting to the work of the morning.
Nicholas had planned to leave at first light, saddle up and continue his hunt. But dawn came and went, and something in him—fatigue, perhaps, or the soft ache of comfort—kept him rooted to Annabelle’s porch. The ache in his body had dulled to a throb, but it wasn’t the pain that made him stay. It was the silence. The stillness. The kind he hadn’t knownfor the few days since Judith passed.
The second morning passed slower than the first. Time moved different out here, like the clocks ticked just a little quieter. He helped her mend a broken fence post out by the pasture, the two of them working side by side. His hands worked the hammer, rough and calloused, while she held the wood steady with quiet strength.
Later, they shared coffee in the fading light. The sun dipped low, spilling amber across the hills. The air had cooled, carrying the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke. Annabelle pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the fabric worn but soft, like everything else in her home. She sat beside him on the porch knitting a new shawl.
Nicholas sipped slowly, eyes on the horizon. The steam curled upward from his tin cup, disappearing into the evening air.
“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?” she asked, still looking out at the hills.
“I am,” he said, after a pause that seemed to stretch a mile wide.
She nodded once, slow and small. “Figured.”
A gust of wind rolled through the trees then, rustling the leaves like the whisper of something ancient and forgotten. Somewhere far off, a coyote cried.
They sat there for a while longer, watching the day bleed into night. The last light clung to the sky like a promise that couldn’t quite be kept.
That night, the wind howled a little louder through the trees, and for the first time since arriving, Nicholas slept without dreaming. The kind of sleep that doesn’t pull or churn. Just quiet. Deep. Still.
===============================SIXTEEN================================
Nick rose before the first crow of the rooster, the stable still heavy with the warmth of night. He moved slow, deliberate, brushing straw from his coat as he strapped his gear back into place. The morning air bit cold against his skin, and the sky was just starting to turn the color of ash.
He stood by the stall for a long moment, one hand resting on the saddle horn, the other turning something small over in his palm—a gold coin.
He didn’t want to wake her. Didn’t want goodbyes. That wasn’t the kind of bond they had. It was quieter than that. Older. Sturdier.
Out by the well, near where she kept the wash basin and kindling, was a weathered crate she used for setting down baskets or firewood. He tucked the coin beneath a folded scrap of cloth that had been left there the day before—a dish rag, maybe, or part of an old apron. It was out of sight, but not so hidden that she’d miss it. When she came out to start her morning fire, she’d find it.
No note. No sign it was from him. Just the coin, waiting.
He took one last look at the house from a distance—lamplight still out, windows dark—and mounted up.
The wind picked up behind him as he rode out, stirring the dust along the trail. He didn’t look back.
============================SEVENTEEN==============================
Just after dawn, four riders entered the quiet town of Patience, Arizona. Their horses moved at a steady trot, hooves kicking up dust as they reined in before the town’s lone saloon. Each man wore a long gray duster, the fabric faded but unmistakable—remnants of Confederate uniforms.
Nedson Palmer dismounted first, boots thudding against the dry earth. He held up a gloved hand, signaling the others to stay put as he strode toward the bank, peering in through the window as he passed. Inside, a teller arranged stacks of bills beneath the counter, oblivious to the man watching him. Nedson smirked, then turned on his heel and headed for the saloon.
The other three men dismounted in unison and followed him inside.
The saloon was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of stale whiskey, sweat, and cigar smoke. A piano sat silent in the corner, its keys worn from years of drunken melodies. The few patrons inside turned their heads, eyes flicking toward the newcomers before quickly returning to their drinks.
Behind the long wooden counter, Tom, the bartender, wiped a glass clean before slinging a towel over his shoulder. He offered a practiced smile, though his eyes held a flicker of unease.
“What’ll it be, boys?” he asked. “I got whiskey, dry rum, beer, and even some see-gars.”
James, a lanky man with a snake-like grin, glanced at Kenny, who gave a small nod.
“A bottle a’ whiskey and four of your finest see-gars, mister.”
Tom grabbed four glasses and set them on the counter alongside a dusty bottle of whiskey. To his right, Tom stepped over to a small wooden humidor, opened the lid, and pulled out a cigar box. He handed each man a thick, dark cigar.
“That’ll be six dollars, gentlemen.”
Nedson Parker poured himself a shot, swallowed it in one gulp, and reached for another. He let the burn settle in his throat before slowly pulling a Colt revolver from his hip and leveling it at Tom.
The saloon went deathly still.
Tom’s hand, resting on the bar, twitched slightly. His forced smile faded. “Now, now, boys,” he said carefully. “We don't want any trouble here in Patience.”
A low, metallic click echoed from the darkened corner of the saloon.
All four men turned.
A figure sat alone in the shadows, his chair tilted back against the wall. The dull glow of a cigar ember flared to life before he exhaled a slow stream of smoke. Then, with deliberate ease, he pulled back the hammer of a Winchester double-barrel shotgun, the barrels gleaming even in the dim light.
As he stood, the bartender let out a quiet breath of relief.
“You seem like four very smart young fellows,” the man said, his voice gravelly and calm. “And from the looks of those fancy dusters, you ain't hurtin’ for money. I suggest you pay up and be on your way.”
The stranger stepped fully into the light. He was broad-shouldered, his rawhide vest worn over a checkered shirt that had seen better days. His tan trousers were tucked into scuffed boots, and a thick, unshaven beard shadowed his face. A veteran of many fights, if the scars on his knuckles and the steady, unwavering grip on his shotgun were any indication.
The room held its breath, waiting for what would come next.
============================EIGHTEEN=====================================
Nick longed for Judith’s touch. Even now, her scent lingered on the collar of his duster—faint but unmistakable. The perfume bottle had shattered against him the night she died, soaking the coat with lavender and something sweeter, something he couldn’t name without his throat tightening. He pressed the worn fabric to his face and inhaled, eyes closed, a single tear sliding down his cheek like it had nowhere else to go.
But grief had to wait. Hardnose still drew breath, and that made the world feel wrong.
A week had passed since the ambush. Seven days of silence, waiting, and sharpening his hate into something he could aim. Nick slid his arms into the duster, each movement mechanical and cold. He checked his revolvers—two Remington Model 1858s, black powder, hand-oiled, the grips worn smooth from years of service. Reliable. Deadly. He loaded each one with a steady hand, then spun the chamber of his Winchester before slinging it across his back.
His boots echoed hollowly on the wooden stairs as he descended through the abandoned saloon. Morning light filtered through grime-streaked windows, casting long shafts of gold across dust motes dancing in the still air. His silhouette moved like a ghost among ruins.
He pushed open the saloon doors and stepped onto the boardwalk. The town lay quiet under a pale sky. Then his eyes locked on a figure standing at the far end of the street. Hardnose.
A gunslinger from Montana. Hired steel, a mercenary for the now-dead Sheriff Thompson. Of the five-man crew that had ambushed Nick in Judith’s name, Hardnose was the last one standing.
Nick moved to step off the boardwalk—but a hand caught his arm.
A young woman stood beside him, no more than twenty, her eyes brimming with fear. She whispered a prayer under her breath and pressed her palm to his sleeve. He offered her a small nod, gentle but firm, and gave her hand a reassuring pat before stepping into the dirt road.
The wind carried the scent of sun-baked earth and old gunpowder. As he walked, Nick reached into his coat and pulled out Judith’s wedding ring, rolling it between his fingers. He could almost hear her laugh again, the way she used to—soft and amused, like he was her favorite secret.
“If today’s the day,” he whispered, “may God have mercy.”
Across the street, Hardnose spat in the dirt and grinned. “Ain’t got all day, Richmond. You gots to get to dyin’.”
Nick didn’t answer. He swept his duster back, revealing both Remingtons.
Hardnose chuckled, fingers twitching above his holsters. “You ain’t gotta die like this. Turn around, and maybe I’ll let you go.”
“You were there when they killed my wife,” Nick said, his voice low and steady. “That makes you just as guilty.”
The moment cracked open. Hardnose went for his gun.
Nick was faster.
His left revolver barked twice—two flashes, two sharp reports. Hardnose jerked as both rounds found his chest. He stumbled back, dropped to one knee, then crumpled onto his side, gasping. His hat rolled off into the dirt, his fingers scrabbling weakly at the ground.
Nick stepped forward, boots kicking up dust, and stood over the dying man. He drew a breath through his nose, then crouched beside him.
Hardnose blinked up at him, blood foaming in the corners of his mouth. “Son of a bitch…”
Nick exhaled slowly. “Give Sheriff Thompson my regards.”
He unbuckled Hardnose’s gun belt and slung it over his shoulder. The man wouldn’t need it anymore. His gaze drifted to the hitching post—Hardnose’s gray stallion pawed the dirt, reins slack. Nick walked over, untied the reins, and patted the animal’s neck.
“I suppose you won’t be needin’ this horse no more neither.”
He climbed into the saddle, eyes scanning the street. His heart beat a steady rhythm in his ears. Blood had been spilled, but justice wasn’t finished.
He turned toward the west end of town, where the mayor’s office stood like a fat spider in the sun. His voice rang out, raw and furious.
“PALMER!”
The name echoed off the buildings, scattering birds into the sky.
Two men stepped from the boardwalk in front of the mayor’s office, hands darting to their holsters.
Nick didn’t wait.
His Winchester cracked twice. Both men dropped where they stood.
The town held its breath.
A door creaked. Jeremiah—the deputy—stepped out, hands raised high.
“Now come on, Richmond,” he said, voice trembling. “You can’t just shoot the mayor. I know he did wrong by you—but this ain’t the way.”
Nick’s grip tightened on his rifle. “Jeremiah,” he said quietly, “get out of my way.”
The deputy hesitated.
That was all it took.
The butt of Nick’s Winchester caught him across the temple. Jeremiah dropped like a sack of grain, his hat rolling down the steps.
Then came the sound of hooves—a galloping fury coming from behind the mayor’s office.
Nick turned and spotted the rider bolting down the street—Palmer himself, hunched low in the saddle, spurring his horse like the devil was at his heels.

=========================NINETEEN=================================
Nick stood over the bodies of the three men, chest heaving as his eyes tracked Nedson Palmer fleeing down the road like a coward in a dying dream. The mayor’s coat flapped behind him, his mount kicking up a trail of dust across the parched earth. Nick’s jaw clenched, his grimace deepening into something carved from stone.
He wasted no time.
With fluid precision, he grabbed the reins of a nearby horse—Hardnose’s gray—and swung into the saddle. One hard kick and the stallion launched forward, hooves pounding like war drums. The distance closed fast. Palmer may have been a politician, but Nick was a hunter now, and he had the scent of prey in his lungs.
Within moments, he came alongside the mayor’s mount. Nick leaned into the charge and, with a burst of violence, launched himself off his saddle—tackling Palmer clean off his horse. They hit the ground hard. Bones jarred, teeth snapped together, and dust exploded around them like cannon smoke.
Nick landed on top, the full weight of his fury driving the breath from Palmer’s lungs. The mayor groaned, but before he could speak, Nick's fists crashed down.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, blood blooming across Palmer’s cheek like a smashed cherry.
"It wasn’t me!" Palmer wheezed, voice cracked, his hands flailing to cover his face.
Nick didn’t care. His knuckles screamed in pain, skin split wide, but he hauled Palmer up by the collar, face-to-face, inches apart. The mayor’s blood streaked across Nick’s hands like warpaint.
"You’re a goddamn liar."
Overhead, the sun baked the earth in silence, indifferent to the violence unfolding below. It bore witness to a man who had nothing left but vengeance.
Nick drew one of his Remingtons and pressed the cold steel barrel to Palmer’s forehead, thumb pulling back the hammer with a metallic click that hung in the air like a judge’s gavel.
"Tell me who. Tell me who really killed my wife—and give me one reason not to end you right here."
Palmer’s eyes widened, darting in desperation. His lip trembled, split and bleeding.
"You don’t understand the kind of men they are," he gasped. "You kill me, they’ll come after you. They’ll come after everyone."
Nick’s trigger finger tightened.
"Then I’ll kill them too."
Palmer’s hands trembled in surrender. "They’re at the Good Horse Saloon. Third floor. Room numbers I don’t know, but the one who pulled the trigger—his name is Jarrod. He’s the one you want."
Nick studied him. Sweat dripped down Palmer’s temple. There was truth in his fear, but it didn’t wash the blood off his hands.
"Get up."
Palmer staggered to his feet, swaying like a drunk. He wiped blood from his mouth and spat weakly into the dirt.
"You take them down," he said, coughing, "then maybe we’re even."
Nick stepped forward, revolver still aimed, his voice low and cold as a grave.
"We ain’t never gonna be square. You gave the order. You signed my wife’s death like it was a goddamn receipt."
Palmer swallowed hard, eyes glistening. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord."
Nick’s lips curled into a slow, grim smile. "And justice is mine, today."
Palmer went pale. His breath hitched.
"What do you think God thinks of all this killing?" he asked, voice barely more than a breath.
Nick took a step closer, letting the question hang.
He didn’t answer with words.
Instead, he reached into his saddlebag, rolled a cigarette with deliberate ease, and struck a match against his boot. The flame danced in the dry wind. He lit the smoke and took a long drag, the tip glowing like a coal in the shade of his hat brim.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he watched Palmer drink shakily from a dented canteen.
"If I don’t find him," Nick said quietly, "I’m coming back for you."
Palmer nodded. He knew it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise sealed in blood.
Nick turned away, the cigarette clamped between his teeth, the revolver sliding back into its holster.
Palmer looked down at his hands, shaking, broken, red with his own blood. "I don’t suppose…" he started, voice barely above a whisper, "you’d forgive me for my sins?"
Nick didn’t look back. He just flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the dirt, eyes set on the horizon.
"Only God forgives sins."
===========================TWENTY=========================================
Nick released Palmer from his grip and stood up, giving him one last glance. With the midday sun at his back, he made his way toward the Good Horse Saloon.
Inside, the saloon was surprisingly busy for the time of day. Nick walked in slowly, scanning the room. Four men sat at a table to the right, three tables back, playing cards. He moved to the bar, ordered a shot of whiskey, knocked it back, and let out a satisfied sigh.
As he turned, he caught the eye of one of the cowboys at the card table. The man went pale. He leaned over and whispered something to the cowboy across from him.
That’s when Nick recognized him.
Jarrod.
The bastard who killed Judith.
Jarrod bolted from his chair. Nick drew and fired, barely missing. Jarrod sprinted for the door, yanking his revolver and returning fire. Bullets cracked through the saloon as patrons dove for cover. Nick fired again and chased him into the bright midday sun.
Outside, Jarrod ducked behind a building and squeezed off a few shots. Nick dashed to his horse, grabbed his rifle, and fired in Jarrod’s direction.
The three cowboys from the table rushed out, guns drawn. Nick dropped one with a clean shot. The other two opened fire as he dashed across the dusty street, diving behind the livery stable.
A shot rang out from his left, slamming into the wall just above his head. Nick ducked, swung his rifle around, and fired. The cowboys behind the wagon lit up the air with bullets before Nick could take another shot.
Jarrod sprinted across the road. The remaining cowboys laid down cover fire as he ran. Nick squeezed off a round—one cowboy’s head snapped back and he crumpled to the dirt. The last one made a break for it, but he only got five steps before Nick put him down.
Nick turned just in time to see Jarrod disappearing down a side street, already mounted on a stolen horse. He fired a shot after him, but Jarrod was too far.
Cursing under his breath, Nick ran to his own horse, vaulted into the saddle, and gave chase.


.--------Letters from war-----------------

#1
My Dearest Judith,
The war has stolen much, and death lingers in every shadow. The air is thick with gunpowder and sorrow, and yet, in the darkness, there is still a light—your face, forever etched in my mind. I keep your picture close, tucked in my breast pocket, where it rests against my heart. It is the only warmth I know in these cold and wretched days.
I long for the time when I may hold you again, when the sound of your laughter will drown out the cries of the wounded and the thunder of cannon fire. You are my refuge, my only thought in these troubled hours. This war has taken many good men, and should it take me as well, know that I loved you with an unshakable, eternal love.
Keep these letters close, my love, and when I return, I hope to see the joy in your eyes as you tell me how my words reached you. Tell your mother that even her burned-edge apple pie would be a feast compared to the rations we choke down here.
Until fate allows us to meet again, know that you are my last and most cherished thought.
With all my love, Nicholas Richmond





==========================TWENTY ONE=================================

The church was dark, its cavernous interior lit only by the fractured beams of the midday sun piercing through the high stained-glass windows. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, disturbed only by the soft shuffle of the priest's robe as he approached the lone figure seated in the front pew. The man sat motionless, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his hat resting beside him on the polished wooden bench. His head was bowed, not in prayer, but in the weight of something far heavier than faith.
The priest hesitated before placing a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. "Nicholas," he said softly. "There is forgiveness for all the sins committed by the men you seek vengeance on."
Without lifting his head, Nicholas Richmond responded, his voice low and grave, roughened by days without sleep and years without peace.
"A mí pertenece la venganza y la recompensa; Su pie se deslizará a su debido tiempo; porque el día de su calamidad está cerca, y las cosas que vendrán sobre ellos se precipitarán."
The priest drew back slightly, his brows knitting in sorrow. He recognized the words from Deuteronomy, spoken not as a plea for guidance, but as a declaration of purpose. With a sigh, he removed his hand from Nicholas’s shoulder and stepped away. Nicholas rose slowly, retrieving his hat and settling it onto his head with a practiced motion. The brim cast a shadow over his eyes as he turned to face the priest one last time.
"Dios te bendiga, padre. Ore por mí mientras busco venganza en aquellos que hacen daño a otros."
"Nicholas, you can still be redeemed from sin," the priest called after him, but the words fell upon deaf ears.
The heavy church doors creaked as Nicholas pushed them open, and blinding sunlight flooded the sacred hall, forcing the priest to shield his eyes. Silhouetted against the brightness stood four figures, their presence unmistakable in the dry heat of the day.
"¡Venga, cobarde! ¡No hay redención aquí! ¡La iglesia no puede salvarte de tu muerte!" The voice was deep and cruel, its owner standing at the center of the group, his stance wide and confident.
Nicholas exhaled slowly, the heat of the afternoon pressing against his back as he stepped onto the sunbaked earth. He tilted his head slightly, adjusting his hat before locking eyes with the man who had spoken.
"Soy un siervo de Dios, y tú eres el siervo de la serpiente, el diablo. ¡Estoy aquí para salvar a esta ciudad de tus malas acciones!"
Laughter erupted from the group, led by their leader—a thickset man with scarred knuckles and a cruel smirk. His voice, tinged with amusement, rang out in mockery. "You speak good Spanish for a gringo, no?"
Nicholas’s expression remained unreadable. He studied the men in front of him, noting the rifles slung over their backs and the pistols resting loosely in their holsters. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his pocket watch from his vest and flicked it open.
"I am not here to save myself from you," he said. "I am here to save you from me. Leave this town and never come back. I give you until sundown."
He snapped the watch shut with a metallic click.
The leader, El Malhechor, sneered. "You have two hours." His thick Mexican accent carried a venomous edge. "I will see you at the noon hour and I will kill you before all the people of this town. If you don't come, I will come, and I will kill your friend—the black man—and you will watch him die slowly."
Nicholas let the words hang in the heat, the threat thick with promise. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, the muscles in his jaw tensing. He did not respond.
El Malhechor spat onto the ground and turned away, motioning for his men to follow. The gang retreated, their shadows long against the dusty street.
Nicholas lingered, rolling his shoulders as he exhaled. He turned his gaze skyward, toward the church steeple, where the bell would toll soon enough.
Time was moving. And so was death.


(1) To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste. (Deuteronomy 32:25)
(2) God bless you, father. Pray for me while I seek vengeance on those who seek to do harm to others.
(3) Come out, you coward! There is no redemption here! The church can not save you from your death!
(4) I am a servant of God and you are the servant of the serpent the devil. I am here to save this city from your evil deeds!