The 7th Bullet

By J.C. Loen

The 7th Bullet is the third book in the The 9 Lives of the Outlaw Known as Crazy Cat series—a Gothic western that draws upon elements from both horror and crime. It’s a foreboding tale of friendship and grief, madness, and haunts, and seeing a man about a horse.

Lee is offered a chance at freedom—all she has to do is assist a Pinkerton detective during an investigation and sign a contract where she swears to become a law-abiding citizen. She agrees to help the detective, but will she sign the contract and give up her outlawing ways?

The investigation brings her to the arid Bonneville flats and a lodge run by a family of spiritualists. They may or may not be able to talk to the dead, but they certainly have a connection to them.

- Recommended for mature readers –

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Loen
• Release date: Jul 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311653215

J.C. Loen

Wordslinger, photographer and crazy cat lady J.C. Loen is the author of the western series The 9 Lives of The Outlaw known as Crazy Cat, featuring an anti-heroine who’ll make your grandpa shit his breeches.J.C. has a bachelor's degree in literature and a craft’s certificate in photography. She's managed to include her obsession for the Victorian era in both her writing and photography. The first Crazy Cat book is set in 1877, and since 2016 J.C. has specialized in wetplate collodion; a photographic process invented in 1851.She lives in Lommedalen, Norway with two crazy cats and her boyfriend. When she’s not working on a story or taking pictures, she's most likely working on a diorama, managing her curiosity shop or pretending to be a cowgirl at the local shooting range.

Book preview

THE 7TH BULLET

J.C. Loen

Copyright © J.C. Loen 2016

Published July 2016

Cover art by J.C. Loen

All Rights Reserved

Distributed by Smashwords

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

For

Sylvester

Tipping my hat to…

Isabell Lorentzen, who is always first.

Thomas Hongseth Sverdrup, who is always there.

Carin Petterson, who is always right.

Ingvild Eiring, who is everywhere.

Contents

PART 1

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

PART 2

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

PART 3

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Note to The Reader

PART 1

Chapter One

The sun stung my eyes. It burned down the front of my black gown. Wood creaked under my feet. A coil of rope rested upon my shoulders, like a snake ready to strike.

Do you have any final words? the marshal asked me.

I held my eyes fixed on the far yonder, blue hills shimmering in the heat. I don’t want no pardon for anything I’ve done, I said.

He leaned in close and spoke with a low, soft voice: Preacher’s here, if you done changed your mind about going to hell and all.

I ain’t.

Figured as much. He stepped back and, with a wave of his hand, invited another man to creep up to my side.

The hangman pulled a sack over my head. It reeked of old sweat and tobacco juice. I stared through the fabric at a high noon turned a crepuscular murk. The faces in the crowd before me might as well have been a meadow of flowers picked clean of petals, if it weren't for the steady hum of hushed voices and yells and hollers of accusations that washed over me.

The hangman pulled the noose taut. Tight ‘nough for you? he asked.

Not yet.

You cain’t hang a woman! someone hollered in the crowd. You’ll burn in hell for this!

Get on with it! another voice yelled.

God will punish you! yet another declared.

The hangman walked off a few paces, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He returned, squatted beside me and took to securing sandbags to my ankles. His hands worked rapidly, tying tight knots with no regard for discomfort. The bags leaned heavy against my shins like a pair of friendly cats.

The crowd started parting, a slow shuffle of feet like molasses in January. A man made his way through the crowd and climbed the stairs to the scaffold—heels thumping, spurs jangling. He looked like a weed, a briar, forcing itself up and above the meadow of petalless flowers.

What’s the meaning of this? the marshal barked at him. Who are you?

Paper rustled. The stranger held up a sheet of paper and announced: I have in my hand a letter of pardon that secures the freedom of one Lilith Catherine McKinney.

I recognized the voice, but it made no sense that the man behind it would act on behalf of the law. I had busted him out of jail once.

Let me see them papers. The marshal snapped it out of the other man’s hands. He perused the letter with a droning mumble. Looks legit. He handed it back to the stranger.

The stranger tucked the letter back into his coat. It is, he said.

Goddamn it, the hangman muttered. He bent down and took to untying the ropes that were suffocating my feet.

The stranger stepped over to me and freed me from the noose. You all right? He pulled the sack from my head.

I squinted up at a tall, blonde man with a familiar face. Odd.

Yes, very, the hangman grumbled from down by my feet. He untangled the last knot and scuttled off with a sandbag in each hand. You still owe me for showing up, he told the marshal.

I have a proposition for you, Odd said. He put a hand at the small of my back. Let’s talk some place with smaller ears, he whispered.

I hoisted up the skirt of my gown and started descending the stairs from the scaffold. The clock struck noon. I was supposed to have plunged to my death at noon. The twelve chimes found their way down my spine and resonated within my bones like a forlorn spirit. I wasn’t sure whether I felt like a newborn babe or an exhumed corpse.

Chapter Two

Odd brought me to a restaurant. We got seated by a window, with a view of the thoroughfare. A few persistent onlookers who had been robbed of the spectacle of a woman dangling at the end of a rope had pursued us. They gathered outside to gawk and point. I shut the curtains. Their silhouettes lingered a mere moment before they traipsed off.

My gawd, you’re pale, Odd said. What’d they do to you? Keep you locked up in a hole?

I slumped back in my chair and eyed him, full of suspicion. There wasn't a thing on him that could have been worn more than a week. He looked altogether contrived. You didn’t peel me outta that noose for nothing, purty boy, I said. What you fixing to wheedle me into?

He leaned across the table and whispered: You reckon I'm purty? He chuckled. Seriously, though, I’m acting on behalf of a private company.

He was about to go on when I cut him off short: You’re a goddamned Pink.

That is correct. He blinked, perplexed. How’d you figure?

That getup of yours was either stolen from a magpie’s nest, I bobbed a finger at him, but I don't reckon it was, ‘cause as far as I know you, you don't care for such fancy nonsense. That's one of the things I used to admire in you. Or! I poked the air with my finger. Or you turned legal, got a job that required a certain attire—goddamned lawman, no less. Goddamned detective! It wasn’t a hard puzzle to solve. All I had to do was look at you and consider the fact that you were waving a letter of pardon in the marshal’s face. I shook my head. Christ in a train crash. Who hired you? That’s the one thing I cain’t get my head around.

Nobody. I heard about your situation and pursued to interact.

Why? What the hell does a detective agency want with the likes of me?

"It ain’t unheard of. They tend to be, well, what can I say? Creative in their hiring. Who better to track down outlaws than a bona fide bandit?"

You want me to help you track down outlaws?

He bobbed his head.

I shook mine.

"Just hear me out. I am… We are to investigate a case in the Utah territory. In order to secure your freedom you must assist me in the investigation. You ought to like it; it has been deemed extremely dangerous."

I rolled my eyes and whistled. Oooh! Dangerous! Don’t you Pinks run in packs? Ain’t got one tough ‘nough for the task? That’s how come you come running to me?

Odd cleared his throat and looked away. Weren’t none to spare.

So, you’re left with someone who can be spared. A woman who was ‘sposed to of died. What if I refuse?

Then I have orders to bring you to Joliet.

I’d rather you shoot me. I slid the curtain aside and peered out the window. People scuttled about. Women in skirts like gigantic bells bobbed along, on the face of it hovering above ground like earthbound angels not quite ready to land. What’s a girl gotta do to get a goddamned drink around here? I asked. If you won’t give me a bullet, the least you can do is buy me a shot.

Waiter! Odd snapped his fingers. Whiskey!

The waiter came over with a bottle and two glasses. He hovered over the table a moment, his eyes darting from Odd to me, before he uncorked the bottle and very carefully poured us each a shot. I don’t want no trouble, he muttered.

We ain’t here for trouble, Odd said. Leave the bottle.

I downed my shot in one chug. It burned down my throat like water afire. Damn. I’ve missed this, I said.

Odd flung a leather-bound bundle onto the table.

What’s this?

Figured it might be one of them things you’ve been missing.

Inside the bundle I found tobacco, paper, and timber. I rolled a cigarette and lit it. It was the first one I’d had since US Marshal Seth Gordon had arrested me some ten months ago. The nicotine hit me in a wash of vertigo and satiation. I blew a plume of smoke across the table at Odd. Go on, then, tell me the what-fors.

He fumbled inside his coat pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper. I need you to sign this, he said. It secures your freedom upon the solving of the case in the Utah territory.

Put away the damn paper. Just tell me what I need to know.

"For one, you