Revenge at Snake Bend (The Texas Riders Western #1) (A Western Frontier Fiction): The Texas Riders, #1

By Joseph Powell

He thought the war was over… it was just getting started.

Confederate war hero Clayton Wallace earned a taste for justice on the battlefield.

But… his taste for revenge was learned as a boy in Snake Bend, Texas.

His pregnant sister was murdered in front of him by August Graves, her evil, abusive husband who's gone unpunished all these years.

Clay is about to change that.

Fighting for justice is never easy though.

Especially…

1- Now that August is mayor and

2- His brother, Lloyd, is sheriff.

They rule Snake Bend with an iron fist and show mercy to no one.

But it's not just Clay who the bloodthirsty mayor wants dead, it's the entire Apache population. August and Lloyd will kill anyone who gets in their way, women and children included.

The Indians have been waiting for a hero to lead them to victory, and Clay is it.

Clay has spent his life waiting for revenge, and he won't leave Texas without it.

A new battle is coming, and Clay is ready.

But when the bullets start flying, will he make it out alive, or will justice die with him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Powell
• Release date: Feb 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393562641

Joseph Powell

Joseph Powell is the author of Last Stand at Rock Springs.  He is a classic western writer and his stories always happened at the real place with a fictional eye. He lives in Kansas City with his wife and two children.

Book preview

prologue

* * *

1858,

Snake Bend, Texas

Clayton Wallace looked up at Bessie’s sorrel snout as she brayed and jerked her head to the side, knocking the brush out of his hand and into the dirt.

What’s wrong? he asked, keeping his voice soft as he stroked her muzzle and tried to calm her. See a snake or something? He scanned the ground around her feet.

His brother-in-law’s voice rose up behind him, giving Clay his answer. What’re you doing? August Graves’ voice croaked like a bull frog’s.

Clay felt August’s dark eyes on his back, and his shoulders tensed. He kicked himself for not feeling those eyes sooner. Even at fourteen, he should have sensed someone standing behind him. Should’ve heard him come up.

His father and brothers teased him all too often about losing himself in the horses. Maybe they were right. A man ought to be aware of his surroundings, always. Even a young man.

Bessie brayed again, louder this time, and dug her feet into the dirt as she took two steps back. Her eyes showed fear, all too similar to his sister’s eyes over the last three weeks.

I asked you a question, August said.

Clay turned around. August’s black hair whipped around in the light breeze that also sent a tiny spiral of dirt flying up at his boots. His 1842 Colt Paterson lay against his hip, always within easy reach. That revolver was August’s pride and joy, the first repeating firearm with a revolving cylinder and multiple chambers aligned with a single, stationary barrel. According to August, it didn’t matter how many newer guns came out, this was the only gun that mattered.

August arched an eyebrow, waiting for Clay’s answer.

I was just brushing Bessie, Clay said.

We’ve got ranch hands to do that for us. Men who know what they’re doing.

Clay rolled his shoulders back. I know what I’m doing. Brushing horses is easy; even a girl could do it. He’d actually thought August would be happy that Clay was making himself useful during his visit. He should have known better.

Go inside and help Sara with dinner.

She told me I could stay out here a while longer yet.

Did she? August tapped his fingers against the butt of his Paterson. A threat that even a child could not mistake.

August’s face tightened. He was only twenty-five, but with the late afternoon sun beating down on him like it was and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, Clay could see the old, angry man he would become. What had Sara been thinking when she married him?

I’ll go in, Clay said and picked up the brush, giving Bessie’s muzzle one last stroke before he headed for the house. The whole time he felt August’s eyes on him.

Sara was in the kitchen when he came in, her light blond hair pulled back from her face and twisted into some sort of knot. She looked up, surprised. I thought I’d have to drag you in by your teeth. There’s daylight left yet; what are you doing in here?

August told me to come in and help you.

She frowned. There was a splotch of flour on her cheek, almost enough to cover the large purple bruise that peeked out from under it. She’d told him she got it walking into a door in the middle the night. He’d acted like he believed her because he knew that was what she wanted, but deep down, he knew better. And he hated August for it.

She set down the wooden spoon she’d been using to stir whatever was in the pot and lay her hand gently on her rounded belly. Two more months and his oldest sister would be a mother. And he’d get to be an uncle. He was excited by the idea. Finally, he’d have someone younger than him to boss around. His baby sister Mollie didn’t count. She was a girl.

Here, Sara said, handing him the spoon. Why don’t you stir that?

Where’s Tucker? I bet he’d like to play some fetch. I’d rather do that than stir a pot.

Tucker’s playing outside. He’s fine on his own. She held the spoon out to him. Stir.

He did as instructed, watching the careful way she laid out the dough for the biscuits that were to go with dinner. She had a large knife at her side that she dipped into the flour every so often, using it to cut the dough into equal length pieces.

I heard from Ma and Pa today, she said after a little while.

Is everyone okay? he asked, holding his spoon in the air.

Keep going. You can stir and talk at the same time, she said, nudging him along.

Are they? he asked.

She hesitated. They’re getting better. Bert’s almost recovered. She says the yellow fever left him two days ago and hasn’t returned. You two must share healthy bones. They say twins have a special bond like that.

Bert’s strong. That’s all.

Sara nodded. She’s gonna wait another week then send him here if the others aren’t any better.

August’s not gonna like that.

She tensed. He’ll go along with it. After all, Bert’s my kin. He knows that.

Clay shook his head and resumed stirring the pot. Don’t matter with that man. He ain’t gonna like it.

A small grunt escaped her lips, and both her hands flew to her stomach.

You okay? Clay asked. When she didn’t respond right away, he got nervous. Sara?

She looked over at him and smiled. Give me your hand.

He hesitated then gave it to her. She placed it on her belly.

Feel that? she asked him. He nodded. That’s your nephew, kicking up a storm.

Clay’s lips parted at the feel of something alive in her body. It was a strange sensation, but it was also sort of wonderful. He met her eyes, the same blue as his own, and smiled back at her.

August’s gonna make a wonderful daddy, she said and went back to rolling out the dough.

Clay’s face fell. You know that’s not true.

She looked at him, her eyes wide. How can you say such a thing?

Because it’s the truth. He licked his lips and said the thing that had been on his mind ever since his arrival. When I go home, come with me. She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her. You know Ma and Pa will let you. Come with me.

Her bottom lip trembled. She was twenty, but at this moment, she looked all of twelve.

A growl from the open door caught them both off guard. They turned and saw August standing with a dead chicken in his hand. He was glaring at Clay like a crazed dog. He could almost see the foam at August’s mouth.

What did I just hear you say? August said, dropping the chicken and taking a step forward. His voice was quiet, which was far more unsettling than if he’d been yelling. "Did you just tell my wife to leave me?"

Sara panicked. It was a joke. You know how Clay is. Always full of—

August leaped forward and knocked her aside, the sudden force of the movement sending her face into a cupboard door. She let out a wail as August grabbed Clay by the shirt and lifted him off the floor.

"Don’t you dare tell my wife to leave me," August said, his Colt Paterson in his hand before Clay had even seen him unholster it.

Clay’s heart raced. He hated that he was scared, but he wouldn’t let that stop him. She was my sister before she was your wife, and she’s better off at home with her family.

Clay felt the butt of August’s gun as it pounded into his jaw. White spots swirled around his eyes as he stumbled backward. August grabbed hold of him again, and this time hit him even harder. Clay’s head was spinning. He fell to the ground, lucky he was still conscious.

He heard his sister’s voice cry out. Don’t hurt him.

Clay blinked enough that it cleared his vision, and he saw his sister race forward as August went to hit him again. Sara jumped on August’s back, her large belly making her stick out slightly like she was some sort of hump.

August growled and knocked her to the floor in one swift movement. Instead of hitting Clay, he hit her. She screamed and held her hands up to protect herself, but that did little to stop the pain August was inflicting with both gun and fists.

August, she cried, the baby.

His fist paused in the air, but just for a moment, then he hit her again. Clay heard her nose break, and when she tried to inhale, it sounded like she was breathing through water.

Leave her alone, Clay screamed, forcing himself to his feet and punching August’s back as hard as he could. But it wasn’t hard enough.

August turned around just long enough to knock one of Clay’s teeth loose and send him back to the floor. Sara was trying to stand, but her legs were wobbly.

This is my house, my wife, my rules. No one’s going anywhere unless I tell them to, August said. He was finally yelling.

Sara kicked his knee in with the heel of her boot, and August dropped with a grunt. His gun went flying across the room, and his face turned red.

That’s it, she cried. "This is the last time you hurt me. Clay and I are leaving tonight. Now. The next time you want to hit something, go hit a tree. And I hope you break your hand on it."

She struggled to her feet and stepped around August, who was writhing on the floor, clutching his knee to his chest. She held her soft white hand, smeared with blood, out to Clay.

Get up, she said.

Clay took her hand, and she pulled. He managed to get his feet under him, but Sara’s grip suddenly loosened, and he fell back to the floor. He looked up and saw her eyes had gone wide. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, and her hands were shaking.

Sara? he said, scrambling back to his feet. Then he saw it. The knife.

August had gotten back on his feet and grabbed the knife Sara had been using to prepare dinner. He’d plunged it deep into her back. All Clay could see now was the hilt coming out of her.

"No!" Clay cried and ran at August, trying to push him away from her. August grabbed hold of Clay’s neck and squeezed. He couldn’t breathe. Everything around him started to go dark.

Sara let out a loud gasp. No. Clay. It was the last word she ever said.

August dropped Clay and pulled the knife from Sara’s back. This time, he plunged it right into her stomach. Clay watched through the thick gray fog as his sister’s eyes grew bright and then dim as the life ran out of her.

When August was done, he turned back to Clay. You’re too young to understand this, but some things are worth fighting for. Your property is one of them. If someone tries to take it from you, you’ve got no choice but to attack.

He knelt down, hovering over Clay, digging one knee into the center of his chest so Clay had to struggle to breathe again.

In a thick whisper, Clay said, I’ll kill you. I swear it.

August smiled and silently slid the point of the knife over Clay’s left cheek. Blood seeped out and fell in a warm river toward his ear.

Tucker suddenly barked viciously at them from the still-open door. August turned his head as Tucker ran at him, knocking him off Clay.

Clay heard Tucker’s bark for the next quarter of a mile as he ran. He kept running and did not stop until his heart forced him to. He breathed deeply and lay on his back, thinking about how one day, he would keep his promise to August. He would watch him die, and he would smile.

* * *

chapter  0 1 ✪

* * *

1867, Near Cedar Summit,

Texas

The sun was hot and red in the afternoon sky as Bert and Clay rode west. Texas was wide and tall, and it had taken them weeks since leaving Georgia to come as far as they had. Cedar Summit wasn’t far now. Little more than a day’s journey and they’d be home.

You thinking about her? Bert asked. He spit his tobacco to the left, almost hitting Annabelle’s foot.

Clay shot him a look.

Sorry, Bert said.

Don’t tell me. Tell her.

Bert laughed. You serious?

Clay nodded. Bert cracked a smile and leaned over so far that Clay’s 1866 Winchester Saddle Ring Carbine almost smacked him in the face. Its twenty-inch round barrel and a full-length magazine were always sticking out at odd angles, even with when he had it secured with the mounting loop and ring.

Annabelle, sweetheart, Bert said, and Clay’s horse whinnied. Clay stifled a laugh. I’m as sorry as they come. He broke into a cackle and slapped his knee. Clay couldn’t help but laugh with him.

Annabelle looked at Bert, her pinto spots running all the way up her nose, and flared her nostrils at him.

I don’t think Annabelle accepts your apology, Clay said.

Lucky for me I’ve got my own sweet Petunia, and she don’t give a good darn how much tobacco I chew or where I spit it.

They crested a small hill and the dry Texas landscape lay flat as far as they could see. If it had been summer instead of fall, they might’ve had to stop early before the heat ate them up, but they still had hours of riding time left before either of them would dare mention stopping. Not when they were so close.

You never did answer my question, Bert said as their horses carried them closer toward home.

What question was that? Clay wasn’t going to make this easy on Bert. His twin brother knew darn well he didn’t like talking about Sara, unless it was about how he was going to make her husband pay for what he’d done.

You thinking about her? Bert repeated.

No.

Bert lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

Clay sighed. Just then, I was thinking about the ache in my shoulder from that bullet that Union soldier shot right through me.

Bert squinted against the light and pulled the slightly curled brim of his hat farther down. His dusty brown hair, the exact shade of Clay’s own, lay flat under it. There was no breeze, and the dry air was making his skin crack.

Liar, Bert said.

Clay sighed. I’m not lying. I’m always thinking about my shoulder a little. And Sara a little. I got a whole lotta littles to think about regularly.

Does that include August Graves?

Clay’s hands tightened on Annabelle’s reins. August ain’t little so much as he is a mouse. And he’s gonna get what he deserves. He and that brother of his. He shot Bert a look. You tell Perry or Rex what we’re up to?

Of course not, Bert said. Cross my heart and hope to sneeze.

Darn it, Bert.

What?

You told them.

I did not.

You never cross your heart and hope to sneeze unless you’re lying.

Bert shrugged, and Clay cursed under his breath. Annabelle whinnied her disapproval.

They’re our brothers, Bert said. I think avenging Sara’s death was the whole reason they survived that yellow fever that nearly wiped us all out. They want to get August and Lloyd for what they did just as much as you do.

Clay’s jaw tightened. The scar running up his cheek burned. I doubt that very much.

Bert’s voice was quiet. Then you haven’t been paying attention the last few years.

Clay threw him a look. He’d watched his parents seek justice for Sara’s murder in the days and weeks after her death, and watched August’s brother, Lloyd, the sheriff of Snake Bend, cover up the crime and save August from a hanging.

Clay had helped bury Sara’s body, and he’d watched justice go unrewarded until his parents had both died from a broken heart, even if the doctors had wanted to call it cholera. In all that time, his brothers and sister had been right at his side.

Maybe you’re right, Clay said.

Darn right I’m right, Bert said. Being a hero doesn’t make you any smarter I guess. That’s what you got me for.

Clay’s face reddened. I’m not a hero. I just did my job as a soldier. He dug his fingers into the trio of creases on the crown of his hat, holding it in place as a gust of wind rushed past them.

I think there’s a general and several hundred soldiers out there who’d beg to differ with you. Bert chuckled. My brother, the youngest Brigadier General in history. I betcha Uriah Pennypacker was a little pink in the face over that one.

Uriah Pennypacker is a brave man, even if he was a Union soldier.

"I didn’t say he wasn’t brave. I just said you beat him out for the title. He’s only the second youngest Brigadier General in U.S. history now. Bert paused and looked at Clay. Think if you and I switched places anyone would notice? I wouldn’t mind borrowing a little of your fame."

Clay smiled. "The only one who could ever tell us apart all the time was Sara."

Right you are.

They rode in silence until the sun started down from its high noon position. So, where do Percy and Rex fit into our plans? Clay asked. We’ve spent how many years planning for you and me to take out August and Lloyd Graves. Now we’ve gotta account for two extra heads.

Three, Bert said, and Clay looked over at him.

Three?

Bert nodded. His face turned pink. Mollie.

Clay looked at him and stopped Annabelle. "Have you lost your mind? You told Mollie what we intend to do?"

She’s got a way of drawing things out of me.

She’s three years younger than us. You don’t have to tell her anything.

Mollie’s tough.

Clay groaned. "No. I’ll be darned if I watch my only living sister get anywhere near August Graves. What the heck were you thinking?"

I was thinking that your plan is fueled by vengeance, and that can be dangerous. Mollie might temper that a bit.

Clay groaned and started Anabelle back up. Bert quickened Petunia’s pace to keep up with him.

I’d hoped spending these last couple years making sure those Reconstruction workers didn’t mess up the South any more than it already was would take your mind off August Graves and give you a chance to cool your head, but your head’s just as hot as ever.

My head’s not hot. Right is right, and justice getting trampled all over the last nine years ain’t right.

Percy and Rex just want to help. It won’t change our plans. Clay shot his brother a look and Bert shrugged. Well, not much, anyway. I’ll still put the bullet into Lloyd, and you can still make sure August suffers.

No. I don’t want the others involved. It’s too dangerous. It’s gotta be you and me, or else it’s just gotta be me.

Bert stiffened on his horse. Well then, I guess we’re stuck with each other.

Ain’t no one I’d rather be stuck with, said Clay.

The corner of Bert’s lips curled up in a grin. When we get home to Cedar Summit, leave the talking to me. I’ll make sure Rex and Percy know just enough about our plans to wet their gullets, but not so much as they can follow us to Snake Bend and risk their lives.

And Mollie? Clay asked.

Bert pressed his lips together then chuckled. I’ll let you handle Mollie. When she starts yelling, I don’t want to be anywhere near her.

A woman’s scream cut through the air, stopping any further discussion.

Where’d it come from? Bert asked, looking around.

South of us. Not far.

They rode fast. The scream came again, more terrified than the last. Aaaahhh— It came to an abrupt halt that bothered Clay more than the scream itself. He prayed the woman who’d made it wasn’t dead.

Slow it down, Bert said, softening his voice as they approached the place her cries had come from. Clay almost didn’t hear him he was so lost in his own thoughts. "Clay. Slow it down. If someone’s got her, they’ll hear you coming a mile away."

Clay coaxed Anabelle to a slow trot. Bert and his horse jogged along beside them. Voices rose up ahead of them. He slipped his Colt Army Model 1860 from his holster and steadied it in the air. He’d been given this gun at sixteen, the first week he and Bert had joined up in the Confederate army together, and it had served him better than any other gun he’d owned since. Even his Winchester SRC.

He thought it was the frame size that worked the magic. His Colt Army had been relieved to allow him to use a rebated cylinder, meaning his gun could be chambered in .44 caliber instead of .36 like the Navy revolver it was modeled after. And the creeping loading lever gave it all a nice kick when he shot it.

Behind those trees, Bert whispered and slid down from Petunia’s back.

Clay slid to the ground with him.

The tall Texas elms were thick on this patch of land, not a forest, just one of the many random spots where trees in Texas had decided to thrive. On the other side was a spot of land as thin on trees as it was on snow and rainbows.

Clay carefully pushed the branches aside as he and Bert crept up to the low-hanging branches and looked past them. It’s an Indian woman, Bert whispered, but Clay could see for himself.

She had jet black hair and light brown skin and looked absolutely terrified. Four white men stood around her; the largest one had a knife to her throat. The others stood by watching eagerly. There was a skinny fella with a birthmark the size of Texas under his right eye, a fella with a mustache thick as mud, and a scruffy-looking man who’d never seen the good side of a razor.

The fella with the knife ran his slimy tongue over her cheek as she fought back another scream, knowing if she did it would be the last one she ever made. Clay wasn’t about to let that happen. He aimed his Colt 1860 at the man’s head and readied the trigger.

* * *

chapter  0 2 ✪

* * *

Bert pushed Clay’s Colt to the side, and the man’s head fell out of frame. If you miss, she’s dead.

I don’t miss, Clay said.

Tell that to the Union soldier who sank one into you after you tried to sink one into him first.

Clay hesitated.