Copperville

By Robert Eugene Miller

Against the arduous back-drop of the 1880's New Mexico Territory comes the epic tale of friendship and loyalty. Abel Shipstead is a gentle and easy-going man who has built himself a small ranch tucked in a remote valley resting on the foot of a mountain about six miles from the town of Copperville. He dreams of success so that he may ask for the hand of the beautiful Kathleen McGregor in marriage. Kathleen is spirited and the daughter of the couple who own the town's general store. Abel leads a simple life, one that is free from entanglements that could threaten his plans for the future. Then one stormy and cold night his dog throws a fit at some commotion outside near the barn and Abel checks it out and finds a gun-shot man who has fallen from his horse and is laying there, clinging to life. Abel takes him inside and begins nursing him back to health. When the stranger awakens it is many days later and by then it has become obvious that the stranger is a gunfighter. The man is wary and tight-lipped about his past and it is some time later that he finally utters his name. Caine. Caine is a name that is whispered throughout the southwest and is known to be a man not to be trifled with. Though the two men are so different, they begin a friendship that grows with each passing day. Abel becomes town sheriff and Caine is there to watch his back. But the greatest threat is unexpected and by far the worse. Fate rears its ugly head when Kathleen and Caine meet in a chance encounter and fall in love. Amidst heart-stopping gunfights, gut-wrenching circumstances, and impossible odds, the two friends battle side by side until the final climax is reached. Caine must then choose between the only love of his life and the great friendship that he cherishes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781633156814

Book preview

Thirty

Chapter One:

He sensed her nearness long before the faint and sporadic sounds of the horse racing towards him reached his ears. It was an almost imperceptible itch that came from somewhere deep inside his subconscious mind that caused him to turn from the broken saddle that he’d been mending at the work bench and walk slowly towards the rickety barn door. The man stood silent and still. Listening. Feeling.

He pushed the door open, causing the rusted hinges to protest with a grating sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he peered out across the windswept barnyard through the growing darkness of the impending storm. His gaze settled on the little town of Copperville, located just over five miles south of the ranch as the crow flies. He could see the distant lights of the town as they flickered on in the mounting gloom.

It’s my damned curse, he thought with great sadness as the crackling sounds of thunder filled the sky. Ever since that awful day when Ma lay dying at my feet and I killed that devil of a father I can feel the trouble brewing. Almost like it’s a part of me.

A brilliant flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the yard and revealed a grizzled, middle-aged man standing on the back porch of the ranch house where he was dumping a soapy basin of water into the flowerbed next to the steps. Old Walleye.

The older man looked up and across the yard and nodded in greeting to him, his movements illuminated by the lightning as if he were an actor in an early motion picture. He expertly discharged a dark stream of chew, careful first to gauge the wind, and then wiped his hands on a filthy apron that was tied loosely around his ample waist. He coughed violently as if a tumbleweed was stuck in the back of his throat, then spit out some more chew and looked up at the cloud covered hills that surrounded the ranch.

Gonna be a big un, growled Walleye Perkins. Wind’s coming up faster ‘an fleas on a drowning dog.

As if offended by that rude remark a large black dog brushed by the tense and watchful younger man standing in the doorway of the barn and trotted outside. He sniffed into the wind gusts and looked towards the road that led to town. The dog’s ears perked forward and the fur on it’s back raised up as though they were tiny soldiers being called to attention. The dog emitted a low growl to voice its uneasiness.

You can feel it too, can’t you Max? said the tall and lean young man as he stepped out into the howling wind and scratched behind the ears of the dog. Shore enough, trouble just had to follow me.

The first faint sounds of the horse’s hooves were carried to them on a strong gust of wind, causing the two curious men and the dog to tense up and squint their eyes towards the source. The volume began to increase in spurts, dancing with the blasts of cold air in a rhythmic pattern of sound. Perkins stepped down off of the porch, removed his soiled apron and threw it back towards the house. A strong gust captured it mid-air and flung it against the hitching post. He passionately gestured into the wind with his gnarled hand towards the man standing with the dog as if he were about to impart words of great wisdom.

Horse a-comin’, Caine, pronounced Walleye.

I hear it.

There was another brilliant flash of lightning which revealed the horse and rider rapidly approaching at a pace which could only signal trouble. A slim and bronzed Latino man walked up next to Caine and spoke to him while exhaling cigarette smoke, the effect looking much like his words were on fire.

Is Senorita Kathleen. She rides like the devil chases her.

When he confirmed a second later that it was, indeed, Kathleen McGregor, Caine felt a stab of emotion settle in his chest that lay there like an open wound. He spoke quickly so that the other two men could not see his obvious discomfort at the sight of her.

The devil always follows me, mumbled Caine. Diego! Would you saddle up ol’ Sonny for me? Something tells me I’m gonna have to ride out of here, sudden like.

Si. I will grab a poncho for you as well.

The horse and rider were now almost at the at the edge of the corrals and Caine could hear the anxious shouts coming from Kathleen as she approached. She had obviously left in a great hurry because she wore only a thin dress with no jacket over it. It must be real bad trouble thought Caine as he began to stride towards her. Thank goodness she’s all right.

Caine! Oh, Caine! The Clairbornes are at the outskirts of town and are planning to kill Abel. Please, do something to stop them! I came as fast as I could, I . . ..

She almost fell off of the horse as it stopped in front of them and Caine reached up and helped her off as Walleye grabbed the reins. The touch of her skin sent a new sliver of pain through his heart and he felt all weak inside. She was chilled to the bone and her words came out short and choppy as if the words themselves were hesitant to face the frigid and still falling mountain temperature.

I tried . . . I tried to get him to leave town but he wouldn’t listen. No one will help him. They’re all afraid of the Clairbornes so they won’t lift a hand. Oh Caine, I’m so afraid. What will happen if . . ..?

Are you sure that they’re coming for Abel and that they’re close by?

I’m sure. Elmer Grayson saw them day-camped out on the Taos road about five miles from town this morning. He said they’d been drinking a lot and getting themselves all worked up, as if those evil killers ever needed any help getting worked up in order to murder someone.

How many of ’em are there? Did Elmer say?

He counted five at the camp.

Caine felt just a split-second of indecision. If Abel was no longer around, then Kathleen would be free to love only him. But that selfish thought passed just as quickly as it had come. Abel Shipstead was the best friend that he had ever had or ever would have and there was no choice to be made at all. He had to go and try to save him.

Kathleen, you stay right here, do you hear? Diego! Bring me out Sonny pronto, okay Amigo? Walleye, can I borrow that big Colt six-shooter of yours for a spell?

Hells fire! Of course ye can. Here, she’s all loaded and ready to go. Good luck to ya.

Caine leaped up into the saddle as Sonny, his buckskin gelding, skittered a bit to the left and then settled into what he always did best: race like the wind. In their past runs together it had almost always been to escape trouble, however, and not run directly towards it. Caine never once looked back as he leaned into the mane of his magnificent horse and gritted his teeth against the cold.

Huge dark and turbulent clouds were being swept into the remote valley on the wings of a violent summer thunderstorm which now threatened to unleash its full fury on the little town of Copperville, New Mexico. The town’s several hundred inhabitants were gazing towards the darkening western skies and gauging the proximity of the incoming tempest while at the same time also watching the road which led into town from the East where an even worse form of danger was moving towards them.

Unknown to any of them, Caine was now racing against the storm up in the foothills above the town, his horse stretched out for speed as he lay almost flat on its neck in order to pick up an extra minute or two towards his destination. Lightning flashed, revealing the grim determination and urgency of his ride written on his gaunt features in the momentary light. He could see the flickering lights of the town in the distance and he spurred his horse once again as loud thunder clapped nearby.

***************************

Inside the Pair-o-dice Saloon were mingled about twenty or so very frightened men who had quickly gathered to discuss the dilemma which was about to envelop their small town. Mayor Bartholomew Yates was angrily banging his wooden cane on the bar in a noisy effort to get everyone to shut up and listen to him. But, as usual, there was not much response. Finally, after almost breaking his family heirloom cane in half with his efforts, the disjointed discussions from different parts of the saloon died down and there was an opportunity for him to speak.

Now, you all know that the Clairbornes are on the way here, and that we need to come up with some kind of a danged plan real soon. The town counsel and I have asked you to be here to address this issue and so I want to call this here meeting to order.

The Clairbornes, of whom he had spoken of with such fearful urgency, were the most infamous and feared gang in the entire Southwest. They were a particularly bloodthirsty bunch of killers who terrorized anyone who stood in their way and even those that tried to get out of their way. Ben Clairborne, one of the four brothers who controlled the gang, had been locked into the tiny town jail by Sheriff Abel Shipstead nearly a week prior and that unprecedented event had set the wheels of impending doom in motion.

The Clairbornes, upon hearing of their brother’s plight, had demanded that Ben be released immediately or promised to come and kill the sheriff and then burn down the whole town. Shipstead had resolutely refused to let Ben go and now, as a result, the pack of killers were just outside Copperville with murder and revenge on their minds.

Does anyone know when they’re expected to get here? asked Samuel Hopkins, the owner of the saloon.

His question was answered almost immediately as the batwing doors flew open and assorted pieces of tumbleweed and blowing sand entered intermixed with Deputy Whiney Wilson. All five-foot-four inches and one hundred pounds of him.

The Clairbornes are at the end of the street and coming this way! shouted Wilson in his high-pitched shrill of a voice.

The frenzied sounds of many chairs scuffing the floor and then energized boots tromping around came about a split-second after Wilson’s announcement was made. A loud boom of thunder rocked the saloon at almost the same instant and then a bright flash of lightning lit up the doorway as the wind howled its presence. All eyes turned as one to focus on that traitorous entry door and breathing suddenly became labored in the tension-filled room.

Shouldn’t someone go and warn Abel? asked the town barber.

I would do it myself but I got to tend to something really important, said Whiney as he ducked out into the afternoon gloom through the side door of the Pair-o-dice.

Maybe we should all get back to our families and perhaps they’ll not harm us, offered Big Nose Browne, who owned the livery at the end of the street.

What about just going down to the jail and letting Ben Clairborne go free? Wouldn’t that solve the problem? asked Dieter Schmidt, who owned the café.

It’s a little late for that. I can hear their horses just outside said Big Nose.

They all seemed to lean as one towards the creaking bat-wing doors which muffled the sound of angry voices and the scraping of boots and spurs on the wooden planks outside of the saloon. There was some kind of discussion going on out there and voices were being raised. There was movement suddenly towards the door and those men in the front of the saloon backed away and tried desperately to find some decent cover.

The outlaw voices stopped outside and the harsh metallic sounds of weapons being checked seeped into the saloon. A deep and raspy cough was heard and then there was silence. The smell of a cigar rode the wind currents through the bat-wing doors and took up residence amongst the terrified men in the room.

When the desperados finally did enter the saloon it was sudden-like and caused those already terrified men to practically hyperventilate. The air in the room seemed to be sucked from their lungs and then became difficult to find again. The whole place tingled as if filled with electricity as each member of the gang appeared. The only sound coming from the gathered townsfolk was of nervous breathing and an occasional whimper.

First through the creaky doors came young Jimmy Clairborne, who was carrying a huge two-barreled 12 gauge shotgun and looking cautiously about the room. He couldn’t have been any older than eighteen at the most, but looked close to thirty. Hard living does that to a man. He covered the room with the huge twin barrels and then spoke loudly to his brothers who were still waiting outside.

Come on in boys. ’Tain’t nothing in here but some scared old sodbusters and their little weak sisters.

Into the room stepped crazy Johnny Clairborne who carried a cocked pistol in each hand and puffed on a lit cigar as he gave the place the look over. The thick grayish cigar smoke trailing after him gave one the impression of a locomotive trying to get up enough steam in order to pull its load. Those standing closest to him couldn’t help but notice that his hands were literally shaking with anticipation as if he couldn’t wait to start shooting at anything standing or sitting close by. It was eerie how those eyes of his eyes had the look of a rabid dog about them. They seemed to glow from within in the dim lantern light of the saloon. Not many eyes in that room dared to meet his challenging glare.

Well now, what have we got here? Barkeep! Bring me some whiskey. Now! You spill a drop and I drop you, hah hah!

Samuel Hopkins had never before poured a glass so carefully in his whole life. When he had set the whiskey down before Johnny, he quickly stood back as far as he could and held his breath.

A huge man with a full greasy beard entered next and the gun held in his large hand looked tiny compared to his gigantic body. This was Andrew Billings, cousin to the Clairbornes and said to be the strongest man in the whole Southwest. He was rumored to have killed at least three men brutally by breaking their backs over his knee. Tobacco expulsions had stained his matted beard and gave him the look of an angry bear whose recent meal was still in evidence. Hopkins took still another step backward at the mere sight of him.

Following the huge Billings through the doors was the leader of the gang, Jesse Clairborne. He had a foul disposition at all times and was just plain mean-spirited to everyone that he came in contact with. Jesse had been credited with killing fifteen men as well as several uncounted women in his violent career. Most of them were shot in the back, it was said, although in whispers and never in his presence.

He had filed notches on his gun for each which visually proclaimed to all his ability to end the life of anyone who dared stand in his way. A vain man, he wore a long waxed mustache which curled up at the ends and he often twirled those ends as he glared menacingly at anyone bold enough to look his way. Jesse veered out of his path coming in so as to kick an old dog laying on the floor and then walked straight up to the bar where he belched, spat on the counter, and demanded whiskey.

Hopkins held his breath again as he poured a glass while trying not to tremble and spill any of the liquid. Jesse’s eyes were yellowed and threatening as he watched the bartender with malevolence. With crooked long teeth showing occasionally at the corners of his mouth, he looked almost wolf-like in appearance. It was quite unnerving to be the unfortunate person to whom he fixed those crazed eyes upon.

The last man to enter was almost feminine in his bearing. He was slender and pale with long blond hair which appeared clean and brushed. Quite a change from his outlaw mates who were unkempt and dirty. He sort of floated rather than walked as he made his way to the bar. This was the famous gunfighter, William Angel, who throughout the west was known simply as the angel of death. Black clothes accentuated his pale skin and the long blond hair gave him an almost angelic appearance as he stood in the flickering lights near the doorway. He seemed calm and easy going compared to his obnoxious friends, but everyone present knew that he was as deadly as a rattlesnake when provoked.

The area surrounding the bar quickly emptied out as the five outlaws leaned against its worn and stained wood and propped a boot up on the lower rail. There was no sound coming from anyone other than the killers as they poured down their whiskey in exaggerated gulps, their evilness almost a foul fragrance in the small room. Hopkins poured each an additional drink and accidentally spilled a little whiskey on the bar. The small pool of liquid mirrored Jesse Clairborne’s face as it danced in the glow of the kerosene lamps.

Can I get you anything else? asked Samuel as he hurried to wipe up the spill.

Yes, you ol’ buzzard. You can go and fetch me that pup you all call your sheriff and have him bring me my brother Ben before I kill you and all the rest of you do-gooders as well. Make it pronto or we’ll burn the whole town down just for fun, answered Jesse.

Yes sir, Mr. Clairborne. Now don’t get hasty with those shooters and have a few more drinks on the house, said Samuel Hopkins nervously.

The gunmen were all given their own bottles which they heartily grabbed and gulped down. All except William Angel, who stood off to the side of the bar and gazed at all those present in the place, noting where everyone was located. He seemed to be aware of everthing that was happening around him and had the gift of melting into the background. He always kept his gun hand close to the fancy pistol that he carried tied down to his right side. Someone accidentally dropped a glass towards the rear of the saloon and Angel had his gun out of the holster before an eye could blink. He smiled at his own nervousness and put the gun back in one swift motion. "Whew! He was indeed as fast as they said he was," thought the nervous group of men who watched with fear growing in their stomachs.

Jesse looked at the large wooden clock hung over the bar, noticing the time already spent waiting and grew even more agitated. He was not a man used to being denied what he wanted and his nature was not one accustomed to patience.

Where is that runt of a sheriff with my brother? If he’s not here in five more minutes I’m going to start shooting this town full of holes and you people with it. Do you hear me? When that old noisy clock sounds five times I plan to commence firing.

The town counsel consisted of six very nervous businessmen who were sitting at a back table and trying hard to decide what to do next. They were already thinking about how they would need to find another sheriff after Abel Shipstead was killed because that seemed to be a foregone conclusion to that day’s events. Maybe he was smarter than they had previously thought he was and had left town. Thunder boomed again outside and sheets of rain started to fall on the tin roof and porch. Several of those present wondered; where exactly was Abel Shipstead?

The bat-wings suddenly swung open and a man in his mid-thirties and of average height and weight stepped into the saloon. He brushed the rainwater off of his jacket and swatted his hat to his side. He had the dreamy look of a pleasant and mild mannered school teacher who had lost his way and stumbled into this den of iniquity somehow by accident.

He took off his coat and his hat and put them on top of the bar at the end closest to the doorway, revealing tousled hair the color of straw and mischievous blue eyes that twinkled over a freckle-covered nose. His grin was ever present, as well as infectious, and in the past he had disarmed many an adversary before they realized that he was not the bumpkin he appeared to be at all. Abel Shipstead was cool and calm as he addressed the outlaws standing at the bar.

I hear you all are inquiring as to the w-w-welfare of the prisoner in our fine jail, said Abel with open friendliness in his voice.

It took a second or two before the guffaws erupted from the desperados standing at the bar at hearing Abel stutter. They slapped each other on the back as their raucous laughter filled the saloon. William Angel smiled right along with them.

The only display that Shipstead gave in response to their laughter was a reddening of his cheeks as if he was embarrassed. He gave no evidence of fear.

You sound plumb scared to death, said Jesse. You oughta be. Where’s my brother?

Abel Shipstead nodded with his head towards the street outside of the doors. He brushed his tousled hair back and then scratched his chin.

Back at the jail.

I thought I made it very clear that you was to bring him here. Now.

Can’t do that. W-w-why don’t you all just leave now while you still can?

Abel Shipstead was smiling and seemed genuinely concerned for the health and safety of the gunmen. He took out a cinnamon stick from his breast pocket and began chewing on it absentmindedly as he stood there. He seemed to not have a single care in the world.

The five outlaws had expected to see a cowering man begging for his life and were stunned by his seemingly indifference to their reputations and assortment of weapons. Only William Angel fully understood what was happening and smiled in appreciation at the bravery being displayed before them. He decided he would let the others handle the killing, for he admired the young sheriff for his courage in the most impossible of positions.

"Listen, Shipstead. I want my brother brought to me and I want it done now! You are a fool to face us here and soon you’ll be stone-cold dead as a result. When this is all over I am gonna burn down this here saloon and your two-bit jail as well. Now, where is he?" demanded Jesse.

Abel leaned up against the end of the bar and nodded in apparent agreement. He removed the cinnamon toothpick from his mouth and stuck it in a whiskey glass on the bar. All eyes were on him as they waited for his final words.

Now you boys better think this whole thing over and just leave town while you’ve got a chance. I don’t want any trouble, and your brother is going to face a jury and judge next month so why don’t you just come back then? said Able with a concerned look.

Only William Angel noticed that the stuttering had left the young sheriff. His voice had become calm and clear in the heat of the moment.

What! Why you little . . .. sputtered Jesse in rage.

Kill him Jesse! roared Billings

Let me do it! screamed Johnny in between puffs on his cigar.

In all the noise and commotion, no one had seen Caine slip in silently through the side door and walk up towards the bar. He had the brim of his black hat down low over his eyes and he wore a gun on his left side turned towards the front in a small holster for a quick draw. The gun was well oiled and perfectly balanced with the hammer filed down for speed. Walleye’ s borrowed gun was in his waistband on the right front of his gun belt as he made his way to the side of the bar opposite Shipstead. The outlaws were bracketed, although they did not know it yet.

Caine had dark, almost black hair with a mustache that matched although it was just a shade lighter in color. He moved with the grace of an acrobat or athlete, almost without any wasted motion at all, and when he was in the exact position he desired he stopped and waited.

It would be a whole lot smarter for you to think this through, Clairborne. Don’t go doing something rash that you boys can’t come back from, pleaded Shipstead.

Are you crazy? It’s five to one and you’re no match for any of us, roared Jesse.

That’s two, spoke Caine in a soft voice, his dark eyes piercing under the hat.

What? sputtered Jesse as he whirled around to look at the fool who would dare butt into this affair. He had never, ever had this sort of thing happen to him before. What was the world coming to that mere sodbusters would talk back to him?

"I said it’s two against five. You just may need to go and find some more men," replied Caine in a calm voice with a small smile that made his mustache rise at the corners.

The other four outlaws turned their attention towards the intruder at once. They saw something menacing and dangerous in this new threat, but only Angel saw the magnitude of the danger. He had seen many a gunman before and this stranger fit the mold. He decided to forget about Shipstead all together and concentrate on whoever this new threat was.

We’re gonna kill you too! How does that suit you? demanded Jesse.

"Oh, I wouldn‘t like that much. But the God’s truth is, I’m gonna shoot you second. Right after I nail pretty hair over there," promised Caine in his Texas drawl.

William Angel smiled in appreciation at the raw confidence this stranger was showing. He knew that no one alive on earth could match his own speed of draw and that now at least this confrontation was going to be a little more interesting, what with this new turn of events. He began to feel the burning urge to kill in his belly and stood upright so that his movement would be swift and unencumbered.

Shipstead looked over at his friend with an appreciative smile on his face.

You don’t have to do this, Caine. This is my fight, but I do appreciate the offer.

Caine! At the sound of the name all five outlaws flinched, even William Angel. Caine was a legend as mysterious as the shadows that filled the unseen nooks and crannies hidden behind the main street. He moved like the wind and disappeared in the blink of an eye. In all those places where men outside of the law congregated, Caine was a name that drew respect. The five outlaws’ bravado was now diminished considerably but they knew that the odds were still in their favor. At least several of them could expect to survive. They cautiously moved apart so as to increase their own odds a little bit.

Caine did not move. He merely stood watching and waiting for someone to make a play for their gun so that he could act to protect his friend. He was like a coiled spring, ready to leap, and incredible tension filled the entire saloon as the two men faced the five. In the quiet of the moment someone coughed and then it was completely still once more. Lightning flashed from the street and was followed by a crash of thunder. The clock ticked loudly as Caine smiled at Abel and stood erect. The old dog whimpered loudly and then scurried outside into the dusk.

Suddenly, Johnny Clairborne could take it no more. He yelled and started to reach for his pistol and in the blink of an eye the other six reacted. Caine’s draw was but a blur and he shot William Angel as the startled gunman barely cleared his holster. Caine then fanned his second shot which hit Jesse Clairborne in the chest before the outlaw chief had even started his draw. Continuing to fan his pistol, he turned and shot Johnny as he was about to fire his first shot which left the smoking cigar hanging in the air for a second as though suspended on its own. Caine turned again and took out Andrew Billings with his fourth through sixth shots as the big man fumbled for his gun. The shots sounded almost as one as the roar filled the saloon. Caine’s pistol clicked on an empty chamber and he steeled himself for the bullet he knew was coming. He could see it coming in the corner of his eye.

Jimmy Clairborne was raising the shotgun towards Caine, a murderous look on his face, when suddenly two shots rang out and he fell to the floor with a surprised look on his face. Caine watched him fall and then glanced over at Abel Shipstead who had fired the two rounds just in the nick of time. He closed his eyes and blew out his breath with a sigh.

The noise had been deafening in the small confines of the saloon and the smell of burnt gunpowder filled the air. After quickly reloading, Caine nodded his thanks to Abel and Abel nodded back.

The outlaws were all sprawled on the floor in various unnatural poses and of the five outlaws only Angel was still alive. The sound of his raspy breathing filled the silence in the aftermath of all the noise and Caine walked over to him and kneeled down next to his side. The bloodstain on his shirt was growing larger and it would only be a matter of time before he bled out. Angel grabbed his arm and spoke in a gurgling voice.

Never . . . thought anyone . . . could be that quick . . . send my money . . . to my mother in St. Louis . . . will you?

I will. You were fast, Angel. Real fast. Anything else I can do for you?

Fraid not . . . keep my gun. It’s a good one and . . ..

With that last word the short and violent life of William Angel ended. He sighed deeply and then there was nothing. The people started coming out from behind the tables and chairs which had been turned over for protection and viewed the remains of the Clairborne Gang lying in grotesque positions on the saloon floor.

I never would have believed it! cried Samuel Hopkins with amazement in his voice.

It just ain’t natural to be able to shoot that fast, said several men in different parts of the saloon.

Someone better get Ezra over here, said Samuel.

Ezra Kemp was the town undertaker and Sam didn’t want the five bodies littering up his saloon for any amount of time. It just wasn’t good for business to have bodies laying around that you had to step over in order to get a drink. But Sam was also smart enough to realize that from that moment on his saloon would be famous for the gunfight that had just taken place. People would want to see where it had all happened and he could profit from all the notoriety. He poured himself a drink from the bottle that Jesse Clairborne had left unfinished on the bar and smiled at the thought.

The bat-wing doors violently burst open and into the still smoky saloon rushed Kathleen McGregor. Wet and windblown, she had borrowed a fresh horse for the return ride and was now wide-eyed and panic-stricken as her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside of the saloon. She looked around hesitantly as if expecting the worse and when she saw Abel standing there at the bar with Caine she burst into tears of relief. Abel rushed over to her and held her tightly in his arms for a long moment. She wiped her tears away on his shirt and started to tremble from the strain. Putting her head on Abel’s shoulder, she looked across the room at Caine and their eyes met and held.

Caine looked as if the sight of her standing there in Abel’s arms hurt him more than bullets ever could. He nodded at her sadly and turned to walk out the side door.

Caine! She spoke the word as a sob which escaped her lips a little to loudly.

He stopped and turned slowly as if it pained him to do so. His eyes were almost hidden by the brim of his hat but they looked terribly sad and unfocused to those who were close enough to see them.

Thank you, Caine, said Kathleen as she peered over Abel’s shoulder.

He said nothing. He slowly closed his eyes as if to shut out the image of what he would never possess then nodded slightly and walked out into the stormy evening, closing the door quietly behind him. Kathleen stared at the door with sadness on her face and then there was only the sound of his horse racing up the street and out of town and he was gone.

He saved my life, said Abel. Why would he risk everything for me?

He loves you, Abel. And I love you too!

Abel and Kathleen held on to each other as the large old clock chimed five times, one each for the five dead outlaws who lay sprawled on the floor. Five malevolent souls who had just departed this earth and were now residing in Hell.

I wish I knew how to thank him.

Let him go. Let him go and never stop loving me.

Kathleen began to cry again and Abel held her tight. He knew deep inside that he would never fully understand her; she would always be a bit of a mystery. His friend as well. Best just to thank the good Lord above that He had seen fit to bring them into his life.

Chapter Two:

The electrifying news about the heroic gunfight in Copperville traveled fast to all the towns and cities throughout the Southwest and as a result many visitors soon began arriving on the stage or by whatever means of transportation they could find. Among the first to arrive was a rotund reporter from the areas largest newspaper, The Flagstaff Gazette. His name was Henry Merryweather and he knew an opportunity for his own advancement when he saw one. His first act upon arriving in town was to march right over to the Pair-a-dice Saloon and interview anyone who claimed to have been present on that