High Moon Rising: Blood and Fang

By Ben Myatt

The First Novella in the High Moon Rising series:

When three outlaws enter the town of Prospect on an autumn morning, they're expecting to lie low until the authorities forget about them. What they find is that Prospect holds a deadly secret of its own - one that they'll have to face to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Myatt
• Release date: Oct 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310570469

Ben Myatt

Ben Myatt is an English author, transplanted to Liverpool from the suburbs of Kent. After studying Imaginative Writing at Liverpool John Moores University, Ben is releasing regular Novellas on Kindle, with Printed Omnibuses also available In his spare time, Ben is an avid gamer, a fan of Rugby, and an unfortunate supporter of both the England Cricket Team and Gillingham Football Club. He currently lives in Liverpool with his Wife and their two pet birds - both of whom will have eaten at least one copy of his books by the time you read this.

Book preview

Chapter One: Prospect

The tallest of the three men who rode through the forest on that September morning was called Long Jim. Long Jim, most assumed, was named for the two custom revolvers that hung at his waistband, with their longer barrels for improved accuracy.

Long Jim was always adamant that he’d been named such by a whore in Pasadena for the alleged twelve inch barrel that swung between his legs. He was a lanky man, his hair greyed by the years, but his blue eyes were sharp in his weathered face, scanning for any hint of a threat in their surroundings.

The bulky man who rode on Jim’s left was known as The Mick. Jim had recruited Mick to his gang three years before, and had found him to be deadly with a shotgun. Unfortunately, he also found him to be a goddamn annoyance, who talked constantly about matters of very little consequence - usually when he'd been drinking, and above his bushy, unkempt, muddy-brown beard, his red-veined cheeks made it clear that this was a regular occurence.

I love these little beauty spots you’re always bringing us to, Jim. Reminds me why I hang around wit’ya. 

Jim glared at the little Irishman, who smirked.

Why ain’t I shot you yet, Mick?

Well, it’s gotta be my winnin’ personality, ain’t it?

The other side of the big cowboy, Sanchez remained silent. Sanchez usually remained silent. Usually, the only thing about Sanchez that spoke was the Winchester rifle slung at the side of his saddle. 

Today, that rifle was joined by a stout hessian sack. Another was slung at other side of the Winchester, mirrored on the left flank of the Mexican's horse. Each of the men had four similar sacks slung from their saddles as they looked down through the trees at Prospects sleepy houses.

Alright, Jim said I reckon this is far enough. Mick, grab that shovel.

We burying it all, Jim? the Irishman said. 

Now, what’s the good in this stuff if we ain’t gonna spend any of it? Take some each, and we’ll get the rest after we’ve rested up some in town.

Mick pulled one of the bags from the horse, and dropped it to the ground. It made a satisfying, delightful clinking sound.

***

The weather was just starting to turn when the three men rode into the small town of Prospect on that September morning. Years later, Timothy Elliot swore that he could still remember the smell of the oncoming snows on the wind, the crispness, the coldness in the air.

When the three men rode into town though, Timothy Elliot was still too young to take part in the events that followed. At the tender age of eight years, Timothy was considered too small to take part in much of anything.

The boy barely glanced up as the three men rode into Prospect on weary horses. He was far too interested in the wooden horse and cart his father had carved for him to be interested in three travellers, no matter how rarely travellers crossed Prospects town limits. Timothy’s mother, however, was very interested in the three men, and ushered her young son inside as they rode past. 

’Scuse me ma’am, Long Jim said, tipping his hat to Mary Elliot, But would there happen to be a saloon in this town? My friends and I have worked up a fierce thirst.

Mary looked at the three levelly, and nodded her head down the road.

You’ll find the saloon at the far end of town, stranger. Though I doubt you’ll find any welcome.

Long Jim merely raised an eyebrow, tipped his hat one more time, and rode down the dirt street towards the saloon doors.

Friendly place. Mick said lightly. Almost makes me want to set up home here.

Don’t joke about shit like that. Jim said.

"What?