One Man's Revenge

Nick placed his black stetson back on his head as he stepped onto the boardwalk and made his way into the bank. He had hoped that he would be able to extend his loan with the $50 he had. He needed just enough of an extension to get him through the month and hopefully the cows would produce enough milk to sell. He walked into the bank and tipped his hat to Dan, the head cashier that day. Suddenly three men entered the bank. One man fired his pistol while one made his way to the tellers. The second man pointed his revolver around. His commands were clear.
“Everybody! On the ground! NOW!”
The third man was at the door with a Winchester Rifle. He meant business.
The first robber pointed his gun at the Dan.
“If you don’t hand over that money right now, I’m going to have to kill you! You understand me?”
Nick remembered exactly what the man at the bank looked like as the terrified cashier held his hands skyward.
“I swear, I don’t know the combination. I’m not the cashier!”
“Bullshit! Open the goddamn safe!”
The three bank robbers with red handkerchiefs over their faces had taken the bank at precisely 9:07 am, Tuesday Morning June Seventh. The three men were in their mid twenties and wore tan trousers. The main robber wore a faded red shirt. The second a dingy white shirt and the third, a rustic yellow colored shirt.
Nick was face down on the ground and pushed his tan duster back, slowly placing his hand on his Remington Revolver as the bank robber and his two associates kept an eye on everyone in the bank. Nick took a deep breath and slowly made his way to his feet, adjusting the brim of his hat to help him settle his nerves.
“OPEN THE SAFE!! NOW!!”
The leader of the bank robbers eyes were darting back and forth nervously. Nick watched as the man watching the door turned his direction. Nick turned quickly and fired directly into his chest. He clutched his chest and fell to the floor in a heap. Nick retreated outside as the second bank robber fired at him grazing Nicks right shoulder.
“Shit!” He mumbled as he stepped behind a wall for cover.
Nick grimaced as he braced for the hail of bullets that was about to come. Looking to his right, he saw an older woman hunched in the corner who had soiled herself.
“Somebody ruined your plans for the day!” He thought to himself.
Nick counted three shots and he was sure that all of them had come from the second bank robber. Nick stood and fired off his second shot and heard a grunt. A fourth shot hit closer to his head than he wanted and he took cover behind the wall again.
“Come out you son of a bitch! Or i’ll kill this Goddamn cashier!”
Nick ducked down and peeked through the window. He could see the second bank robber bleeding from the leg but still standing. The main bank robber had his gun pressed against the cashier's head.To the right of the door, Nick saw a chair. He knew that he had just one chance to end this.
“Come out NOW!!”
Nick made his way back to the door. He knew he only four shots left and he knew he had to be precise because an inch the wrong way and he would kill the cashier as well. Nick took a deep breath and walked back into the bank, his hands skyward and his revolver dangling from his right index finger. It was an old trick he had learned in the Army and if he timed it right, he could spin the revolver on his finger and fire off a shot and take the leader out. The second robber was the trick as he had only been hit in the leg. Nick knew that his quickness was about to be put to the test. Nick dropped the revolver into the spin and hit the lead robber in the right shoulder, freeing the cashier and dropping him to the ground. He then quickly kicked the chair hitting the second robber in the leg and pulled his Colt Army Model from his left hip and shot the second robber in the center of his frontal lobe. Nick's right shoulder was throbbing and the adrenaline has produced enough sweat to make his eyes sting. The lead robber lay on the ground clutching his shoulder. Nick walked up and kicked the gun out of his hand.
“Go ahead! Shoot me!”
As Nick looked down at the man, he heard the town sheriff behind him. He was greeted with a pat on the back.
“Nice job Nick!”

Nick took a deep breath and smiled, tipped his hat to the Sheriff.
“Much obliged sir!”
“I think you need to go see the Doc.”
“I need to make my payment for my loan sir.”
The sheriff laughed. “How much do you owe?”
“$400 sir.”
The sheriff looked around the bank.
“I think Mayor Palmer would be much obliged to relieve you of that debt. Now you go see Doc ‘bout that shoulder hear?”
Nick nodded and walked over the body of the third robber and headed south down the boardwalk to see the town doctor. As he walked in, the doctor greeted him and Nick recounted the story while ol’ doc listened starry eyed. Doc was in his mid 60’s and the most action he had seen was watching one of the town whores hitch her skirt up over her knees. Doc asked Nick to take his shirt off. He dabbed the graze with some alcohol. He then placed a large patch over his wound and taped it up.

“That’ll be $5.” The Doc said

Nick obliged and reached into his pocket with his good arm, then mounted his horse that was tied up in front of the bank.

========================================================================
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. Just one more month—long enough for the cows to produce milk he could sell.
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, and 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. “Much obliged, 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?”
“One hundred & fifty 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 five dollars,” Doc said, stepping back to admire his work.
Nick fished a bill 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.



—————————-

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 Earl Whitaker had a complicated relationship with Palmer. The two men had grown up in Patience together, and Earl 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. Earl 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 Earl to maintain order in town, and Earl 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 Earl 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.
—-----------------------------------
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 $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.


**********

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.

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.


********

Nick looked across the horizon and smiled. The scent of Judith’s cooking drifted through the crisp morning air as the sun began to rise. 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.

———————————————————————————————————-
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.
—-------------------------------------------
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 loosened the saddle cinch and methodically stowed 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 partway—see you don’t do nothin’ too stupid before you get there."
Nicholas chuckled dryly. "Fair enough."
The two men saddled 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.
—---------------------------
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 an executioner’s blade, 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 owe one hundred and fifty 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 $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.
———————————————————————————


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.
Tom poured another shot, and Butch calmly set his glass down, placed a silver dollar on the counter, and tipped his hat to the barkeep. “Keep the change.”
As he turned to leave, he muttered under his breath, “Addle-headed fool.”
“That’s right, boy! Walk on outta here!” Jarrod hollered after him, grinning as he spread his arms wide. “Ain’t no one wants ya here nohow!”
Laughter rippled through the saloon—until the sharp rack of a Winchester rifle silenced it.
Tom stood behind the bar, the rifle gripped firmly in both hands. His voice was calm, but there was steel in it. His gaze settled on Jarrod, steady and unwavering.
“I’ve had about enough.”
The air in the saloon grew thick with tension. A few men shifted in their seats, hands drifting toward their holsters, unsure of how far things would go.
What the others didn’t know—what Jarrod sure as hell didn’t know—was that Tom and Butch had fought side by side. Butch had saved Tom’s life more than once, and Tom wasn’t about to stand by while some loud-mouthed drunk disrespected the man who had his back in the war.
And now, Tom was making a business decision that not everyone in the saloon was going to agree with.
————————————————————————————————




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 revealed 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?"
—-----------------------------------------------------


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. But before they could step inside, the thunder of hooves broke the peace. Six 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 had already tossed a torch into the crops. The dry field ignited instantly.
On the far side, two more cowboys hurled torches, setting the entire field 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 into the night. Nick and Butch turned toward the house.
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 to the ground. 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 to the spot they had chosen together, the place where they had promised to be buried when they were old and gray.
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.


-------------------------
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 leaving deep prints 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. The house and fields are burned, 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.


******************
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.
A deep, heavy sigh left his chest as he clenched his fists at his sides.
“I died with Judith,” he said, 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.
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.
As she moved, Nick reached into his coat pocket, his fingers brushing against the cool weight of gold. He pulled out a sizable nugget, no bigger than a chicken egg but worth more than most men made in a season. Without a word, he slipped it beneath the napkin on the table, ensuring it was hidden from immediate view.
Standing, he took his hat from the back of the chair and set it on his head. “Thank you, Annabelle. For everything.”
She turned slightly, giving him a nod over her shoulder. “Safe travels, Nick.”
Without another word, he stepped onto the porch, the morning sun casting long rays over the quiet land. He mounted his horse and rode toward town, the weight of unfinished business settling back onto his shoulders.

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.
Meanwhile, across town, Jarrod, his brother Jasper, Clyde, and their youngest brother Fate (formally known as Lafayette) stood in another saloon, drinking heavily. They had just lost a cousin in the battle of Picacho Pass. None of them were cowards, but they knew a losing fight when they saw one. So, they rode west and holed up in Patience, drowning their sorrows in whiskey.
After two hours of steady drinking, Fate left the bar to relieve himself. It was an hour past sunset, and the streets were dark, illuminated only by torches in front of the still-open shops. As he stood beside the saloon, his business nearly finished, he heard footsteps approaching. He glanced over his shoulder.
Two scruffy, burly men walked toward him.
“You gentlemen want a peek?” he quipped.
The man in front laughed, his thick Irish accent unmistakable. “Look, we got ourselves a wisecracker and a deserter.” His companion chuckled along with him.
“Now I says, there's a seven-hundred-dollar reward for deserters, and I think little man here is gonna come with us.”
Fate smiled, his back still to them. “If y’all don’t mind, I’d like to hitch my trousers up so’s I don’t go danglin’ down the street.”
The two men nodded. The second Fate fastened his belt, he spun, dropped to one knee, and fired. Three shots from his revolver struck each man square in the chest before they could even react. They gasped their last breath before crumpling to the dirt.
Jarrod and his brothers burst out of the saloon, guns drawn.
Fate holstered his weapon and dusted off his trousers. “Had some unwanted company,” he muttered, nodding toward the bodies.
Before they could process what had happened, the sheriff arrived, a calculating gleam in his eyes. He surveyed the scene, then turned to the brothers.
“Looks like you boys got some fight in ya,” he said. “I might just have a proposition for ya.”
The sheriff explained how Nicks' gold ran from out of the plains into his land, making it rightfully his. Seeing an opportunity, he offered the brothers sanctuary in exchange for their services. With a new alliance formed, the brothers found themselves in league with the lawman.
It wasn’t long before they set their sights on the biggest prize in town—the bank. Three brothers took the job, the fourth one disappeared. And when it was done, those who survived rode back West, richer than they had ever been.


---------------------------------------------------------------
It would be two hours before Palmer finally stepped out of his office, flanked by two men. One was younger, the same man who had barely escaped death earlier, his face still pale with fear. The other was larger, built like an ox, his presence radiating the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing he was the most dangerous man in the room. The brewing storm overhead did nothing to unsettle him.
Nick stood alone in the middle of the street, the dim glow of his cigar casting a faint ember in the cool night air. The wind had picked up, carrying dust and whispers of coming violence through the narrow street. He exhaled a slow plume of smoke before tossing the cigar aside, his boots scuffing against the dirt as he took a step forward.
"Palmer!"
At the sound of his name, Palmer turned. His white handlebar mustache caught the moonlight, his expression unreadable.
Nick’s voice was calm, steady. "I’m going to kill you."
Palmer sighed, shaking his head as if disappointed. He placed a firm hand on the bigger man’s chest, patting it twice before stepping past him into the open street. The firelight from the saloon behind him cast his silhouette long and menacing across the dust.
"Seems I underestimated you, Richmond," Palmer mused, flipping his cigarette to the ground and grinding it beneath his heel.
Nick shook his head slowly. "That man is dead."
Palmer let out a dry chuckle. "Planning your own funeral, Richmond?"
Nick stepped closer, his gaze locked onto Palmer, the smirk on his lips barely noticeable. For the first time, Palmer hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—but it was enough for Nick to see it. He knew fear when he saw it, even when a man tried to hide it.
Palmer squared his shoulders, his voice turning sharp. "You’re a dead man."
Nick only smiled, his fingers twitching near his holster. "I’ve got nothing to lose."
The wind howled between them as the town of Patience held its breath.

Justice longed for Judith’s touch. Even now, he could still catch traces of her scent on his duster—the perfume bottle had shattered against it the night she died. He held the worn fabric close, inhaling deeply as a single tear traced down his cheek. But there was no more time for mourning. Hardnose had to die.
Seventeen hours had passed, each one spent waiting, each minute stretching his patience thinner. He slid his arms into his duster and checked his revolvers—two Remington Model 1858s, well-worn but deadly as ever. With steady hands, he spun the barrel of his Winchester rifle before slinging it over his shoulder. His boots thudded against the wooden stairs as he descended through the vacant saloon, his silhouette a ghost against the early morning light filtering through dust-streaked windows.
He stepped onto the boardwalk, pausing as his gaze landed on the figure at the east end of the street. Hardnose. A gunslinger from Montana, a hired killer in the pocket of the now-dead sheriff. Justice took a step forward, but a soft touch on his left shoulder stopped him. A young woman whispered a silent prayer, her eyes filled with worry. He gave her a small nod and patted her hand before stepping off the boardwalk.
As he moved into the street, he reached into his jacket and pulled out Judith’s ring, rolling it between his fingers. He could almost hear her laughter, see the warmth of her smile.
“If today is my last,” he murmured, “may God have mercy on me.”
Hardnose chuckled, his voice carrying across the dusty street. “Ain’t got all day. You gots to get to dyin’.”
Three days ago, Hardnose had ridden back into town, the last survivor of the five-man crew that had ambushed him under the sheriff’s orders. The others were dead. Now, it was just him.
Justice stepped forward, sweeping his duster back to reveal his Remingtons.
Hardnose scoffed, hovering his fingers over his own weapons. “You ain’t gotta die like this,” he called out.
“You were there when they killed my wife,” Justice growled. “That makes you just as guilty.”
Hardnose made his move, his hand shooting down, but Justice was faster. His left revolver barked twice, both bullets hitting their mark. Hardnose staggered, clutching his chest before dropping to one knee. Justice took a slow step forward, raising his gun once more. A final shot sent Hardnose sprawling into the dust.
The acrid scent of gunpowder still lingered as Justice stood over him. He squinted into the midday sun, tugging the brim of his hat lower before crouching down beside his fallen foe.
Hardnose let out a ragged breath, his voice barely a whisper. “Son of a bitch…”
Justice exhaled sharply, his tone almost pitying. “Give Sheriff Thompson my regards.”
With practiced ease, he unbuckled Hardnose’s gun belt and slung it over his shoulder. His gaze drifted to the gray horse tied near the hitching post—the same one Hardnose had ridden in on.
“I suppose you won’t be needin’ this horse no more neither.”
Justice turned toward the west end of town, his blood still running hot. He let out a slow breath before shouting, his voice cutting through the silence.
“PALMER!”
He strode forward, the weight of vengeance propelling him on. “Come out, you son of a bitch!”
Two men stepped onto the boardwalk in front of the mayor’s office, hands going to their holsters. Justice didn’t wait—his Winchester cracked twice, and both men crumpled before they could fire a shot.
A door creaked open. Jeremiah stepped onto the boardwalk, hands raised. “Come on now, Justice. You can’t just go killin’ the mayor. I know he done you wrong, but—”
Justice took a slow, steady breath. “Jeremiah, get out of my way.”
Jeremiah hesitated. That was all it took. The butt of Justice’s Winchester met his skull, and he hit the ground hard.
A sudden rush of hooves pounded against the dirt road. Justice turned just in time to see a rider in full gallop tearing down the street. Palmer.
Without hesitation, Justice untied the gray horse, mounted, and kicked it into a sprint. The chase was on.

Nick stood over the bodies of the three men, his chest rising and falling as he watched Nedson Palmer flee into the distance. A grimace set deep into his face, he wasted no time—grabbing the reins of a nearby horse and spurring it hard, kicking up dust as he pursued the terrified mayor.
The chase was short-lived. Nick pressed his steed forward, pushing it faster, matching Palmer’s speed with practiced ease. As he came alongside, he leaped from his saddle, tackling Palmer clean off his horse. Both men hit the hard dirt with a bone-jarring thud, sending up a cloud of dust. Nick landed on top, his weight knocking the wind from Palmer’s lungs. A pained grunt escaped the mayor’s lips just before Nick's fists started raining down.
"It wasn't me!" Palmer gasped, his voice cracking between blows.
Nick’s knuckles ached, but he wasn’t done. He grabbed Palmer by the collar, hauling him up so their faces were inches apart. His voice was low, filled with rage barely held in check. "You're a liar."
The sun hung heavy overhead, bearing witness to the warpath of a man who had long since lost his soul. The bloodshed, the vengeance—it had all led to this. Nick pulled his revolver from his waist, cocking it with a slow, deliberate motion, the muzzle pressing against Palmer’s forehead.
"Tell me who it was. Tell me who killed my wife, and give me one good reason why I shouldn't end you right now."
Palmer’s bloodied lips trembled, his hands raised in submission. "You don’t understand the kind of people they are! These men will kill both of us if they find out I said anything."
Nick’s finger twitched over the trigger. "And why the hell should I believe a damn thing you say?"
"If you follow me," Palmer pleaded, his breath ragged, "I can take you to them. They’re holed up at the Good Horse Saloon. That’s all I can give you, but I swear it’s the truth. If they suspect I told you anything, they’ll kill me and my family."
Nick narrowed his eyes, studying the fear in Palmer’s. There was truth there—but not enough to save him.
"Get up," he ordered, keeping his revolver trained on the trembling mayor.
Palmer stumbled to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. "If you take them down, then I guess we’re square."
Nick’s cold stare bore into him, the weight of years of pain settling in his bones. He spit onto the dirt between them.
"We ain’t never gonna be square. You gave the order to have my wife killed. And for that, you’ll pay—in this life and the next."
Palmer swallowed hard. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord."
A slow, knowing smile crept onto Nick’s face. "When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers."
Palmer paled. He knew the verse, knew the warning buried in it. His lips moved in a silent prayer.
"What do you think God thinks of all this killing?" Palmer asked weakly.
Nick took a step forward, his voice a whisper of steel. "Which way to your friends?"
Palmer nodded toward the Good Horse Saloon, his hand shaking. "They're in there. I don’t know which rooms, but the man you’re after—the one who killed your wife—his name is Hardnose."
Nick reached into his saddlebag, rolling a cigarette with steady hands while Palmer drank from his canteen. He struck a match, the orange flame flickering in the wind as he lit the tobacco and took a long drag. The silence stretched between them.
Finally, he exhaled, leveling a look at Palmer. "If I don’t find him, I’m coming back for you."
Palmer nodded, knowing the truth of those words. No matter what happened next, there was no escaping justice.
"I don’t suppose you’d forgive me for my sins?" Palmer asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Nick flicked the ashes from his cigarette, shaking his head. "Only God forgives sins."
.--------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









(End book here?)

(Set up that a Mexican gang has discovered there is a bounty on Nicks head.)

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!