The Reaper

By James Ankrom

Heritage, Wyoming is not an ordinary western town. Along its dusty streets, hidden in its wood-framed buildings and camouflaged amongst its hard working people lurks a monster. He's an evil being-a killer of women and children. This vile creature has to be stopped, but it will take a tenacious, remorseless man to do it.

Enter bounty hunter George Dark, an aging loner who has a murderous reputation and few illusions. He drifts into Heritage, a trail worn gunman on a stringy, half dead horse. He's the worst of his kind-tough and deadly. He's been paid a fortune by a dead Mexican to find the killer of the man's family, and when Dark is paid, he always completes the job.

What George Dark doesn't realize, however, is that his sense of right and wrong and even his grip on reality will soon be tested. These will be hard lessons for the man they call, The Reaper.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463446796

James Ankrom

James Ankrom is a full time editor for the magazine Railroad Model Craftsman. Originally from Parkersburg, West Virginia and a graduate of West Virginia University, he and his wife Linda have four children and reside in northern New Jersey.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

Maria Vasquez Garcia shook out the last of her husband Jose’s work shirts and carefully hung them on the clothesline outside their home. The summer sun bore down on her and the laundry with a heavy, oppressive hand. In response, she wiped her perspiring forehead on her sleeve, thinking how quickly the hot, arid air should dry the line full of clothes. With the wind and dust of eastern Colorado, she didn’t want them on the line any longer than needed, or they would be full of wind-borne dirt and have to be washed again.

Out on the flat, grassy prairie, the heat waves danced a jig on the horizon in the late afternoon. To the west, dust hung in visibly, suspended layers after a small herd of buffalo had passed by a short time before on their way to a little creek two miles away. They were desperately hunting for water. Disappointment and frustration would plague the furry beasts, however, when they arrived at that creek. They’d be lucky to get more than a swallow of water.

The whole area for two hundred miles around was experiencing a drought. Buffalo and cattle were dying and grass was withering and blowing away in the incessant wind and heat. Thick, airborne coatings of dust covered every rock and blade of grass, choking anyone who dared breathe it as it clung to the mouth and lungs.

Maria had noted how small the buffalo herds were now that the hunters had thinned them out. She felt sorry for the shaggy beasts. They were thirsty and desperate for water like everyone else. Instinct and heat kept them moving, searching for a life-sustaining drink of water.

That morning, Maria had prayed for a rain storm. God had not responded, though, at least not yet. Maybe, she hadn’t prayed hard enough, or perhaps, she didn’t understand God’s ways. All she knew was that if the rain didn’t come soon, she and Jose would have to sell off their cattle for pennies on the dollar. That would spell financial ruin for them. At night she worried for her children and for their future. The west was not an easy place to live. If Indians and bandits didn’t kill a person, cholera and smallpox might do the trick instead.

Her husband Jose, like other western men, was a hard-headed, defiant man. With their meager savings, he’d gone to Fort Collins to buy more cattle. He was a gambler and Maria wasn’t. They’d argued the night before he’d left. She had told him more cattle meant more demands on the dry grassland and the dwindling water supply. This was the driest year of the eight she and Jose had been homesteading. What if the rain didn’t come this year? They would be in terrible trouble with extra cattle. Nothing detered Jose, though.

Risk was part of life, he told her. Taking chances was nothing new to him, a transplanted vaquero from El Paso, Jose realized he could now purchase feeder cattle cheaper than after the rains came and grass was plentiful. This drought was an opportunity as far as he was concerned. Maria would have to understand the ways of men and business and pray just a little more.

The sound of children at play caught her ear. Down by the barn her children, twins Juan and Sylvia, ran noisily around the corral playing tag, while Romeo their giant Belgian workhorse dipped his large, handsome head into the water trough for a drink. Maria smiled at her dark eyed, beautiful children. They were her pride and joy. They also kept at bay the loneliness out here on the prairie. Few families lived in this sparsely populated area. It was rare to have visitors, especially other women.

A long mechanical wail made all of them glance down the valley. The sound of an approaching locomotive broke the silent, afternoon air giving Maria a sense that civilization and security were nearby. The Denver & Rio Grande had just the year before built its line through this portion of the state. It passed no more than half a mile from the house. The twin lines of steel came out of the west and gave promise to an easier way of life to come. Jose had said he could graze more cattle in a shorter time, since he didn’t have to drive them so far to the railhead.

Jose would be back tomorrow. She always felt safer when he was home. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself. Maria was a woman of frontier and could use a rifle as well as any man. She had fought Indians more than once and was always prepared for danger.

As she finished hanging the last shirt, she shaded her eyes with her hand and shouted to the children. Juan! Sylvia!

The kids stopped running and gazed toward the house. They knew the price of ignoring their mother. Yes, Momma?

Make sure the pigs are fed. We’ll eat in just a little while.

Okay, Momma, they chimed in unison.

Maria put down the wicker basket she’d been carrying by the back door and stepped into the cooler confines of the parlor. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the bright afternoon sun outdoors to the cool, shadowy interior. The smell of fresh bread came from the kitchen. She baked bread once a week in the stone oven attached to the fireplace. Jose had designed it so the coals were outside the house but the bread could be accessed from inside the kitchen. This kept the heat out of the house in the summer. The solid hearth had been constructed from stone hauled from a rock basin five miles away.

Maria was proud of her wood frame house and all the nearly unique appointments built into it. She and Jose had lived in a sod house for five years while he built the house. It had required a lot of sacrifice. Homesteading wasn’t easy in eastern Colorado with the hot summers and bitter cold winters, but at least they had plenty of water. There were two springs on their ranch and so far both ran summer and winter. With the drought though, the water supply could possibly deplete them. Maria had seen it happen on other ranches.

All around her were the fruits of the years of hard work she and Jose had endured. Working night and day raising and selling cattle and hogs, they had sacrificed and prospered. Jose had also worked part time at a mill to get the lumber for the house. He had constructed his castle and fulfilled Maria’s dreams of living on the gentle knoll just east of the mountains.

Maria checked the bread, which was nearly ready and stirred the stew bubbling succulently in the pot on the wood stove. Then, she poured some water from the pitcher by the counter onto a cloth and bathed her neck and face to cool down.

Looking across the fields toward the rail junction, Maria realized how lucky she was to have a loving, hard working husband, two beautiful children and a wonderful home. Life could be worse. She recalled how many of her neighbors had worked hard and through no fault of their own, failed, packed up and moved on. She and Jose somehow hung on and, through thick and thin, they lasted.

Nothing seemed to move in the heat. What felt good was the cool washcloth on her hot skin. Then, something caught her eye in the distance through the heat waves. Maria squinted to focus.

A figure appeared and gained substance in the far fields. Some hobo probably walking this way looking for a handout. That’s all she needed with Jose not here. It was not unusual to have unannounced men show up seeking work or needing food. Those visits were the down side of having the railroad so near. Though Maria sympathized with these downtrodden men, she usually just gave them a plate of food and sent them on their way. Today, she had plenty of stew but no work.

Although not afraid of being alone, strange men appearing at her door made her uneasy. She glanced in the corner by the door. There propped up was the carbine Jose had carried during the war. He occasionally hunted antelope and deer with it. It now gave her a grim sort of solace.

Maria turned back to her work stirring the flavorful stew and wiping the counters. She didn’t want any guest thinking she wasn’t a good housekeeper. Tidiness was a trait Jose appreciated in her. Many men took such work for granted but not Jose. He was one in a million and knew how hard his wife worked. He showed his appreciation every day and loved picking wild flowers for her and helping around the house as much as he could.

How nice it would be when she saw him tomorrow. Jose was the love of her life. He had been since the day he’d ask her father for permission to marry her. Since that day she’d never regretted a single day of their marriage. Jose was a handsome man and his touch was all she needed to keep their romance alive.

For the next few minutes, Maria busied herself around the kitchen. She took the bread out of the oven and let it cool on a side board. The delicious aroma filled the small kitchen. The kids…

A knock sounded at the door.

Her head came about at the interruption. She suddenly remembered the figure she’d seen in the distance. It must be the hobo she had seen walking this way. Maybe he was hungry or had smelled the bread.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Maria crossed the parlor to the front door. On the porch stood a strangely dressed man in a worn black, broad cloth suit. The suit had to be suffocating on a day like this, but it was probably the man’s only possession. He was of medium height and build, had a long, narrow face and a dour, nearly bitter expression. For some odd reason she had the impression he disapproved of her. On his head was a black derby pulled low. His whole appearance gave Maria the notion of an undertaker come to call.

May I help you? she asked.

An unused smile came to the man’s pinched features. She didn’t like his face. It was a face that bizarrely didn’t relate humor or warmth, just irony. Why yes, madam. I was just passing time with your children. They said you might have food for one of God’s wandering servants.

Oh great, a religious fanatic.

Maria didn’t like this man or his use of the word, God. There was something irreverent in his tone. Sit on the porch, yonder. I’ll get you a bowl of stew. I have fresh bread, too.

Thank you so much, ma’am. God will bless you.

With that, he sat down on a wooden bench by the front step, drew out a book from a leather pouch in his coat and read to himself. His lips moved without sound and he didn’t look back. Reading the Bible instead of working was abhorrent to Maria. God meant for men and women to work not read. This man must be a fanatic. Religious fanatics bothered Maria. She found their narrow view of God in conflict with her firm Catholic beliefs.

She shook her head as she watched him read. A pang of jealousy struck her. How she wished she could read. It was a skill she envied in others, but her impoverished background in rural New Mexico precluded any kind of formal education.

After filling a bowl with stew and cutting two thick slices of warm bread, Maria returned to the porch and handed the stranger the food. His hands had a pale hue leading to grimy nails. It was then she noticed a blood stain on his coat sleeve. It looked wet and fresh.

Mister, did you cut yourself? she asked in concern.

He smiled in a reptilian way. Why, I must have gotten cut while jumping off the train. It’s nothing. I’ll wrap it up later.

Nonsense, she exclaimed. I’ll put a bandage on it before you leave.

No, I’ll be fine, he said in a firm, cold voice.

The voice stopped Maria. She started to say something more but kept silent. What did she care? His blood was his concern. Suit yourself.

A sudden light breeze blew across the yard, stirring up the dust. Maria’s eyes went to her clothes as she took note of the sound and just as suddenly the lack of sound from her children. They were usually so very noisy. Where were they? Hadn’t they told her they’d stay by the barn?

She stepped from the porch to the yard and stared down the slope to the corral. They were nowhere in sight. Romeo was still standing in the shade of the barn with his head resting against the top rung of the fence. Had they gone to the creek to wade?

Juan! Sylvia! she shouted. Supper.

All was silent.

Worry crossed her face. Surely they heard her.

Juan! Sylvia! It’s time to come in!

Their names echoed off the walls of the barn. Still they didn’t answer. She then looked back at the stranger who had an odd smile on his face. The smile made her uneasy. Did you see my children by any chance?

The smile turned to a cold grin. Why yes, ma’am. The darlings were playin’ right there by the barn. Sweet children, I’m sure, always gettin’ in trouble. It was a pleasure knowin’ them.

Maria shook her head as she shouted once more. If they were hiding and didn’t come in soon, they were in big trouble. Maria and especially Jose were strict in their upbringing of children. Kids out here needed to do as they were told. Survival depended on it. Her kids weren’t going to be saddle bums or hobos like the spooky stranger on her porch.

I don’t want them down by the creek, she said mostly to herself. My husband says there’s rattlers down there.

Those snakes are God’s creatures, too.

Maria turned to the stranger who was wiping up the last of the stew with his bread. I don’t like ‘em.

His expression told of another opinion.

The stranger set the empty bowl down on the porch floor and wiped his dirty hands on the black coat. Maria noticed his nails again and the abundance of dirt under them. She wondered if he was right in the head or just weird in manner.

He suddenly looked off at the sky. You know ma’am, rattlers and such were put on earth to correct the sins of man. I like to think I was put here for the same reason. Redemption ma’am…always redemption.

Maria wanted this man to go. He made her nervous. Something was not right about him.

Well, if my children are bitten by a snake, it wasn’t by God’s grace, mister.

The stranger just stared at her as if pitying her lack of intellect.

If you are done, said Maria stiffly, I’d appreciate you leaving.

Yes, ma’am, I surely will. Thank you for your hospitality.

He moved off the porch, waved once and started whistling the hymn, Bringing In The Sheaves. She watched him amble past the barn and felt relieved. The dark stranger was not right, and she was alone.

Now where were those kids?

She shouted their names as she walked toward the barn. They were going to get a lickin’ now. When she called their names, Maria expected them to come. Sweat dripped from her forehead. She wasn’t to be ignored.

Romeo nickered softly as she passed him, his long tail swishing a horsefly. Maria didn’t even look up at the big horse, she pulled the door open and stepped into the cooler, shaded interior of the barn. The transition from the bright sun to shade took a minute for her eyes to adjust. Then, they widened.

Horror filled her.

Not ten feet away Sylvia…and Juan. They were hanging with their heads drooped in death and eyes bulging. Blood was everywhere. They were slaughtered like one would slaughter hogs or cattle.

Maria stiffened in horror at the sight. She was paralyzed into inaction by what she saw. Mother of God, she whispered in shock. Then, she remember the strangers voice. It was a pleasure knowin’ them.

He was a murderer and not just a murderer but a monster.

Without warning, something came across her throat.

A wire garret cut into her. She immediately fought for breath, kicking and struggling. She was strong but not strong enough. There was no way to get away. Whoever had her had to be tremendously strong, inhumanly strong for her whole body was lifted several inches off the ground as the wire painfully cut into her neck severing arteries. She couldn’t even catch her breath. All she felt was a choking sensation. Blood shot from her throat in powerful spurts.

Maria Garcia’s last thought, as the sticky blood covered her clothes, was of Jose and how he would have to carry on alone. Alone with no… Her last vision was of her children heads hanging down with their eyes gone blank in their once beautiful faces.

Twenty minutes later the stranger with the long black coat emerged from the barn. He opened the corral gate, put a bridle on Romeo, jumped on the horse’s wide back and rode him bareback into the late day sunset. Smoke was lazily curling from all the openings in the loft of the barn and house as he whistled, Bringing in the Sheaves.

It wasn’t until he topped the far horizon that he pulled up and looked back. The barn was now engulfed in flames like a large torch in the night. Its beacon brought a crazed smile across the man’s face. Then, he whispered one word. Redemption.

CHAPTER 2

(one year later)

On a jagged precipice overlooking a rocky hillside, George Dark reined in his evil-eyed dun and surveyed the town below. Heritage, Wyoming was spread out before him like a lazy dog on a hot afternoon. He regarded the clusters of buildings lining the town’s two wide streets with grim thoughtfulness.

Somewhere in that cluster of wood framed structures below, a demented killer lived in security and comfort. The loathsome bastard was probably sleeping soundly now that he was back in his cozy lair. Whoever he was, he’d more than likely blend in with all the locals who met and interacted with him. He’d appear civically respectable and certainly above reproach as a vile killer.

Some said the Devil was a charming fellow if you met him along the road and spent the evening with him. In Heritage, no one would probably suspect this killer of being a brutal monster. No one would know he’d slaughtered a dozen small children and their mothers. It was Dark’s job to find him and extract him like a malignant tumor.

He watched the hubbub on the streets. Heritage appeared prosperous and busy. Dark could tell from the number of people crowding the downtown that all was definitely well with the town’s businesses. Establishments, including a general store, dress shop, haberdashery, cafe, barber shop and saloon, were all crowded.

On the east side of town, the Union Pacific’s tracks cut a path from north to south paralleling the winding Green River. The main line had two sidings snaking into a maze of stock pens where a series of loading ramps stood ready for use. This railhead was a major focal point of the area’s cattle industry, which was the underpinning of the town’s booming economy. At the end of summer, the stock pens would be full of cattle awaiting shipment to Chicago and the big slaughter houses there. The town would be a beehive of activity, a place where deals were made and money was exchanged.

A nearby depot and freight house were just south of the cattle pens and two more sidings were laid next to the wide wooden platform. Piles of crates and boxes of all shapes were stacked high, and a group of men were unloading more goods from a boxcar to a buckboard parked nearby.

Adjacent to the UP’s depot was a stable with a dozen horses standing in its corral. Next door to this was the blacksmith’s shop. Dark could see the smoke from the forge and hear the ringing of a hammer coming from inside. Just below him, on the west side of town, squatting among the low hills near a grove of trees was the school and church. Boot hill was located in back of the church, and even though the town was only ten years old, there were already two dozen graves showing. This, too, was a sign of a growing town.

Two waterways merged in Heritage. One was the Green River, the main tributary, and the other was a ten-foot wide, feeder creek flowing into it. No one had bothered to give the creek a name, but it was just as important to the town as the Green River. This creek always seemed to have water, which was a precious commodity in southern Wyoming this time of year. The creek was fed from an endless supply of snow run-off coming down from the Sweetwater Mountains west of town.

Dark scratched the stubble on his jaw. It wasn’t going to be easy finding the killer down there. Every man in town would have to be considered a suspect. That made it tough. He uncorked his canteen and drew two long swallows of tepid water. It was blistering hot, and the dun was restless for the water he smelled below. George ran the water around his mouth before he spat it to the ground.

Today, he and the horse would drink and eat like kings. The stable would have water and grain for the dun, and the saloon would have whiskey for him. They would both be rewarded for the endless hours endured on the dusty trail, chasing the killer.

George Dark was a hunter of men, a bounty killer. Anyone seeing him would note his tall frame and wide shoulders. George Dark was experienced and as tough as a nickel steak. No one would mistake him for a farmer or a clerk. He moved like a panther and, most importantly, killed without hesitation. His intense eyes missed nothing from under the black, flat crown of his hat. The faded, blue shirt, worn cowhide vest and dust covered jeans spoke of the hard trails he followed.

On his hip he wore a Colt .45 and inside a weather-worn scabbard on the saddle was a .50 caliber Sharps. His bedroll contained a 12-gauge, sawed-off shotgun and a .30-30 Winchester. He was an expert shot with all these weapons and a fair hand with a knife. George Dark was not a gunfighter in the traditional sense but in a gunfight, any opponent better kill him with his first shot. Dark was rock steady and very accurate.

Sweat stung the eyes of his worn, leather face. It wasn’t a particularly handsome face but more a mass of sharp, hard angles. Two weeks of beard stubble on his jaws didn’t do anything to soften it.

Down in the town, the murderer he sought was holed up. Hours of studying maps and thinking obsessively about the sick animal he was tracking down had led him here. Not one victim of the murderer’s two-year, continuing rampage had been killed within a hundred miles of Heritage. On the map, the vortex was glaring. To Dark, that meant the killer left his comfortable home to forage on the innocent in other areas of the country. With the number of dead mounting, Heritage stood out like a sore thumb to anyone who bothered to check.

No one did, except Dark.

Nothing horrendous happened here. No women or children had been slaughtered. There was no other safe place like it on the map. To George Dark’s hard working, analytical mind, the obvious dictated that this had to be the bastard’s den.

Dark had lost the trail of the killer he sought in a short but violent downpour a week ago. Before that, the sick son of a bitch had killed a woman in Greely, Utah. The chase had been intense but fruitless after the downpour. While sitting under a rock overhang by a fire the evening of the rain, he had studied a map and considered his options. All the sites of the killings were clearly marked. There was no discernable pattern either chronologically or directionally, but there was a clear, radiant spread in a circular pattern around Heritage-the eye of the storm.

Women and children were always the victims. The killer liked to strip them, hang them up and butcher them. Dark could still picture the faces of the many children he’d seen. The memories of them made him physically sick. Those faces would haunt him for the rest of his life. Why the killer chose children and their mothers was anyone’s guess. Maybe an unhappy childhood, who cared. The madness of the crimes was overwhelming. Perhaps, the killer just plain and simply enjoyed it.

Heritage as a base of operation made sense. The killer could be anywhere within a hundred miles very quickly, especially with the new rail connections or a good horse. On top of everything else, as long as he didn’t break any of the town’s laws, he’d never be suspected.

George touched the dun’s side urging him forward. With his long, sturdy legs, the dun was a fast horse, tough and resilient. It was as though he and the horse were part of a team, horse and rider, chasing down criminals.

Dark hoped that no one in Heritage recognized him. All he needed was trouble, especially from younger cowhands trying to make or enhance a reputation. Bounty hunters, in general, made folks nervous. Honest people didn’t want to believe bad men were all around them. Consequently, George Dark was never welcome anywhere in polite society, no matter where he went.

Years before, George met an old lady down in Tombstone Territory who had rented a room to Billy the Kid on several separate occasions. She didn’t have a clue who the young man was. In fact, she thought of him as a nice, quiet, young gentleman.

At the edge of town, he let the dun wearily plod up the main street. Because of the afternoon heat, he nor the dun were in any hurry, the livery stable was on the other end of town. This pace also gave George Dark a chance to scrutinize the town and its people.

Heritage was hot and dusty in mid-July. The constant wind, the fragrant stock pens, plus the drought combined to leave a layer of pungent dust everywhere.

Given a chance, this was the kind of place a trail-weary bounty hunter might settle down. Retirement was coming to his mind like a persistent visitor more and more these days. George was getting old. His bones ached from years of outdoor living. Twenty-five years before, he had been married to a beautiful Missouri girl, but she and his infant daughter had died of cholera. After he buried them in the hard red clay of eastern Kansas, he’d drifted westward. All he could now remember of his wife Claire was her blond hair and her gentle manners.

In the past twenty years, he had punched cows, hunted buffalo, scouted for the Army and been, for a short time, a sheriff. It was while tossing drunks into a Fort Worth, Texas jail for twenty dollars a month, he’d met two bounty hunters, the Jordan brothers, Ike and Jake. They were hard cases with very few illusions, but they seemed to have more money than he had for doing essentially the same work. When he asked them about hunting men, they’d both just smiled knowingly and told him to stick to drunks. That’s when he decided to give man-hunting a try.

His first bounty had been for a bank robber named Howard Sams who was wanted in Colorado for a string of holdups. He had been rumored to be hiding in Ramblin, Montana where he kept his nose clean and couldn’t be touched. In that town, Sams was king. He was rich, generous with his ill-gotten money and extremely well liked.

Traveling north, it had taken two weeks on the trail to get to Ramblin. When George caught up with Sams, he was playin’ cards in a local saloon. He was a small man but very tough looking. His speed with a gun was well known. Seven men had been buried in boot hill as a testament to his skill. George had checked his gun before entering the saloon and had made a mental decision to take his time. He’d never been a man who sought trouble, but he hadn’t ridden seven hundred miles to have a drink either.

His first task was to separate Sams from his friends. The card game went on for hours and broke up after midnight with Sams grabbing a rather large pot and calling it quits. The other men groaned and the bank robber, in his usual style, laughed in a good-natured manner at their losses.

George watched quietly from a corner table with a beer. Sams never even glanced at him. He made sure not to make any eye contact. When Sams started folding his money, George knew it was time to go. He left the saloon and ducked into the shadows across the street to watch as Sams stepped out of the saloon. The bank robber scrutinized the street in both directions, a smart move, then walked off to the right. Dark silently followed the smaller man as he walked toward the hotel. Once the sound of the piano and voices faded, the town seemed dark and deserted.

George quickly stepped up beside Sams. Got a light, partner?

Sams was immediately suspicious. He snapped around to reply but was met by George’s pistol as it was whipped across his temple. Sams went down hard, out like a light. George checked his pulse to make sure he was alive. He was.

Quickly, he gathered the two horses he’d brought and threw the outlaw over the spare. George put fifty, on-the-run miles between himself and Ramblin before slowing down. He didn’t want any of Sams’ friends from town catching him, or he’d be swinging in a tree by the neck.

Two days later, he collected a thousand dollars reward for Howard Sams, and he knew he had found his life’s work. All he had to be was a bit crueler than the criminals he apprehended. Although not cold-hearted by nature, he soon traded any hesitation to kill for the taste of easy money. The ruthless behavior of shoot first and talk later gained him an unwanted but sometimes useful reputation. Most men George hunted down came back draped over a saddle. On the trail, dead men might smell but they didn’t give a hunter much trouble.

People in Wyoming and Colorado just shook their heads at the line of dead men he brought in. Ironically, the colorful old men who hung out around the saloons started referring to George Dark as The Reaper and the name stuck.

Everything about him spoke of death. His unsmiling, gaunt, angular face was devoid of pity or humor. It was said that he never hesitated to pull his gun, aim quickly and shoot first. When his gun cleared leather, someone always died. It gave the onlooker warning of doom and despair. His well used guns always sealed the bargain when challenged by the bad men.

George made note of Pearl’s Saloon on the way to the stable. He needed a drink and a meal wouldn’t be a bad idea either. He squinted his eyes against the stifling heat and dust and let the horse amble on its own. Finally, he turned the dun in front of the stable and dismounted. The two-story, wood frame structure and the corrals looked as dilapidated as George felt.

He led the dun into the shade of the barn and stripped the saddle. An ancient hostler was tipped back on a wooden bench chewing the stem of a clay pipe. He was a thin, gnarled old man with bib overalls, a silvery, tobacco-stained beard and shrewd blue eyes. He made no greetings, it was too hot.

After George made sure the dun had feed and water, he walked out the door, regarding the town while he scratched his beard. He spoke without turning his head. Haven’t seen you in a long time, Marvin.

That was then; now is now. I like this place.

George chuckled. "My