Sleeping Dragons: Inspired by True Events

By Zachary Butler

In the land of Karnez, Cattle is King. And when it comes to tycoons and kings, the Bucklands are chief among them. The Alders of Helania may wear the crown<

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karnes County Colorado LTD
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578327792

Book preview

Dedication

T

his book is dedicated to any and all members of the Butler family; those who came before us and those who will come after us once we are gone. Except that one little group, and they know why.

Such is Life

"Too much society, style, aristocracy and pride—ruination to many people.

A haughty feeling before a calamity or downfall in life is most ensured fact…

It will happen to the best of people and families."

W.G. Butler - Dec. 9, 1891

William

L

etting out a high-pitched shriek, William’s horse reared and nearly toppled over as it came back down on its front two legs.

Its hooves thundered against the hard caliché as it danced sideways; its ears flattened backward. It snorted with fury and kicked up chalky, white dust. William barely held himself in the saddle as the horse struggled to regain its bearings.

The chicka-chicka-chicka of the rattlesnake’s tail continued to agitate the horse after the sudden movement of the strike and narrow miss.

Completely camouflaged, the snake coiled in one of the few tufts of knee-high grass that grew on the well-worn roadway. William could feel his horse quivering beneath the saddle, a low groaning sound bubbling from its mouth.

Got-Damn! William spat, his heart thundering in his chest. As his horse calmed, so did William’s pulse and rapid breath. With the rattler fifty feet behind them, the gelding resumed a relaxed pace.

Well at least you didn’t fall off your horse and break your neck, his brother Wash Buckland quipped, riding up alongside him. That rattler scared the piss out of that gelding, though. Looked like he was gonna topple for sure. Say, that would be an embarrassing way to go, wouldn’t it? After fighting in two wars, leading in one, bringing murderers and horse thieves to justice—only to go out on account of a spooked horse and a dang rattlesnake?

Like his brother, William spoke with a slight drawl. Obviously, he said, but here I sit, so I reckon the point is moot.

This summer’s not nearly as bad as the last one, Wash said in absentminded conversation, his own clothes soaked with sweat.

Heat like this is what Bucklands were bred for, William replied. No self-respecting Karnezan would admit to it being too hot, no matter how blistering the heat.

The two wicked suns beat down without mercy upon William’s neck like the heel of the devil’s boot. Every summer, the heat caught folks by surprise all over again, but he wasn’t one to bellyache.

Summers in Karnez were always unbearably hot, but through the generations, it had produced a hardy people who merely grumbled about it, as if inconvenienced.

Though William was well into his silvered years, he was still fit to fight and lead—as far as he was concerned. Hints of blackened-brown remained in his well-combed hair and beard, the color shared by all Bucklands. A lifetime of intense sun had left his skin copper-colored and leathered.

He wore a faint, charcoal-gray felt hat with a tall crown and flat brim—the style popular with cattlemen who had grown up in the saddle under the devil suns of Tierra. Both suns burned white, trailing each other throughout the day.

William’s gelding jogged the beaten road leisurely now, and distant pools of shimmering water on the road disappeared into nothing as they drew closer, cruel mirages of the unforgiving heat. The meager mesquite trees flanking the road did little to provide relief in the form of shade, nor did the periodic patches of thorny blackbrush.

Wash kept pace with his older brother, sometimes riding in silence, and sometimes, to William’s great annoyance, soliloquizing for what seemed like hours about various topics of no great importance. He had a meandering way of speaking—common to many in Karnez—that could drag a conversation out for ages.

William respected succinctness, and Wash was not a concise conversationalist.

Everything here wants to bite you, sting you, or poke you—even the plants, Wash said, gritting his teeth and then spitting out some dust that had settled on his tongue. His left hand gripped the reins, his right resting easy on the pommel.

Damn cactus is creeping into the road again, William said, pointing to new formations that had sprouted up at the edges of the roadway.

His hired men did their best to keep the prickly pear cactus—named for the purple fruits it bore, and large flat pads covered in long needles and tiny barbs—from encroaching into the caliché road, but it was so pervasive that it was a never-ending battle.

It was the purpose of the trip to Helania, though, that boiled William’s blood—not the two sweltering fireballs in the sky.

Word had reached him the evening before that his oldest boy, Newton, had been ceremoniously deposited behind bars by the sheriff, Edgar Leerson.

I don’t know which one I’m more angry with, William said, shifting in his saddle. Newt’s fully aware that the Alders will seize upon any pretext to insult our family, but at the same time, it’s ridiculous to jail someone for something so silly and trivial.

Leerson was tasked and paid to keep the peace in Karnez. Most folks understood what that really meant—he was bought and paid for by the Alders, carrying out their wishes under the guise of the law.

To the great frustration of William, these wishes often involved slighting the Bucklands whenever possible.

Adding insult to injury was their favorite means of sating that pettiness, and the four-hour ride allowed plenty of time for the salt to fester in the wound.

Yessir, they are spiteful sons of biscuits, that’s for sure, Wash replied, their horses now adjusting to a more comfortable pace.

They mistake my commitment to order for my head being turned downward—it’s going to wind up, and they will discover that they have woke the wrong passenger, William simmered.

Wash waved his hand to no one in particular. Leerson might wear the badge, but everyone knows we’re the real law around here. We’re the ones tracking cattle thieves and robbers across the countryside, while he can’t be bothered to leave Helania unless he’s got a reason to harass a person or deliver a notice of tax delinquency.

There was often confusion among people unfamiliar to the region regarding the capital of Karnez. It was not, as one might suspect, Karnez City, but rather Helania.

They were only twenty-one miles apart—though on opposite sides of the lake. Together, the two towns comprised more than half the population of Karnez County, though Helania was significantly larger.

Helania was the first settlement founded when the ancestors of the Bridges arrived on the shores, along what the Orejóné had called the Ox-Cart Road. For the last forty years, Helania had been controlled by a single family—the Alders.

Karnez City was established more than a decade later, and as more immigrants arrived from across the ocean, settlements spread across the seemingly boundless territory—with the permission of the Orejóné, of course.

They were only too happy to see the Komanchero-filled lands domesticated under the flag of Orejón. Then the great ocean rift struck, cutting off passage from the east.

Karnez County, in itself, held nearly half a million acres and fourteen thousand residents, while the entire nation comprised some thirty million acres and almost sixty thousand people spread across it.

The Orejóné were foolish to think they could maintain control over such a vast stretch of country, William said.

Say what you want about the Orejóné, but they make some good food, Wash said, his stomach rumbling. I could sure go for some fajitas right about now, but I guess biscuits and ham will have to do.

He reached down into his saddlebag and retrieved a small bundle wrapped in waxed butcher paper.

Despite the sprawling grasslands, scrubby mesquite forests, and blackbrush thickets, the land was not as empty as it felt when riding across it. Small towns were littered throughout the many counties of Karnez—towns like Tía Maria, Daileyville, Florézon, Talls City, Kayville, Pote, and a dozen others.

There were even a few small cities that had grown larger than both Karnez City and Helania, such as the port city of Corpus Deus, or the booming town of Lorena along the Río Barrow.

With one sea eighty-seven miles to the west of Helania and the other sixty-two miles to the southeast of Karnez City, the cities were on the only two land masses bottlenecking the north of the massive continent of Tejasso to the south, hence the nickname Brother Bridges.

The further south one went into the Karnez territory, however, the wider the bridge got—until one reached the Río Barrow, where the Bridges stretched three hundred miles wide.

The Río Barrow served as the recognized border between Karnez and the Orejón kingdom, although it often ran dry during the summer. Its headwaters flowed out from the mountains to the west of Orejón, fueled by snowmelt and rainfall, running all the way to the eastern coast. South of the river, the continent rapidly opened into an enormous landmass.

It’s sparse now, but when they finally bring the railroad through, you’re gonna see big cities start springing all up and down the Bridges, just you wait and see, Wash said.

William gave a low grunt. Yes. And with Helania at the epicenter. I’m sure the very humble Alders will handle that gracefully.

The Alders valued status, and William’s father, like William himself, valued pragmatism. The Bucklands needed to drive their cattle up the route to the north along the Western Bridge, and they needed peace to do it; they did not need prestige and peacock feathers.

William’s father Burnell had been a deaf mute, but his silence allowed him to observe the world and its people indiscreetly. He was an excellent study of the human condition.

He was so busy studying the rest of the world, however, that he failed to study the human condition under his own roof—right up until his murder.

Something so trivial as a ceremonial crown was not worth the bloodshed and division required to fight over it. Could the Bucklands have simply taken it for themselves? Most likely, but at what cost?

This country’s big enough for everyone, and the Alders want to worry about whose name is on the sign, Wash said, shaking his head.

The power they cling to is an illusion, and they know it, William said. And they think that if they don’t keep beating people over the head about it, their whole house of cards will come crashing down.

The rivalry between the Alders and the Bucklands ran deep and long—half a century at least—despite the fact that many a hatchet had been buried between them through the generations. Unfortunately, most often what those hatchets were buried in were skulls.

The Bucklands were not innocents in the matter, however, and William knew that well. The Alders may be spiteful bastards, but the Bucklands invented vendetta, and it was not a simple task keeping so many sons from taking their own eye for an eye.

It’s grandmother’s fault, her and her damned Gómanez fire blood, William said. It requires constant self-discipline and restraint to not retaliate against their arrogance and sleights…

Their grandfather, John Landon Buckland, had left on an extended excursion through the Fire Mountains, and when he returned a year later, he had a teenage wife and infant son in company.

I’m sure she must have certainly been beautiful in her youth, as I’ve never seen a Gómanez girl who wasn’t—which one of us would have done differently? Wash said, reasoning with his brother. The Bucklands and the Marcoviches are both extraordinarily hot-blooded peoples, so what else could be expected from their fruit?

Ain’t you tired of trekking through bog every time it rains? Wash asked, looking down at the sloppy white mud they traversed, which clung to their horses’ hooves.

It had rained sporadically the previous night, and the white caliché roadway was still slick and soggy from the saturation in many places.

When caliché was dry, the mostly clay substance was hard as stone, and dustier than a blind man’s book collection. When it was wet, however, it became a white bog—sloppy, gooey, and thick, sticking to anything and everything that touched it.

Their mounts’ hooves sunk deep and created a slight wet noise of suction every time they lifted, like the ground itself was trying to slurp them down into it. Even a sure-footed horse could slide and slip on it.

Well, if you get tired of playing cards and chasing after whores half your age, you let me know and I’ll get you a wheelbarrow and a big pile of gravel so you can pave it from one end to the other, William replied.

Say, there’s a thought—we could get out of the cattle business and take to paving the roads from north to south.

When they lay this continental railroad, that too will all be moot. You’ll get on a train in Helania and step off a few hours later in Orejón.

The boys will have a fine time then—out for a night of señoritas and tequila, and back before sunup!

The humidity resulted in a constant stream of perspiration from every pore. The brims of their hats were drenched with sweat and only somewhat helped to prevent it from running down and into their eyes.

William haphazardly slapped at a mosquito that was incessantly trying to land on his neck and face.

I have said so a thousand times—a man on liquor is a man deranged. My own sons and brothers included, he said.

Wash rolled his eyes. Yes, William, I too am one of the deranged, demented deviants you admonish. I know it must fray your very soul to be plagued by my company.

Don’t be melodramatic, Wash. Your company is no plague, but you’d make a lot more of yourself if you showed some self-restraint and avoided the whiskey, William chided. Think if our brother Robert had never gone down that road.

Make a lot more of myself? William, as much as it pains me to say it, I have reached my summit. No matter what I do, I will always be one of Colonel William Green Buckland’s slightly younger brothers.

Wash continued. What do you expect me to do, compete for the position of top ranch hand? No, the high-point of my glory was during the war, and it’s been downhill ever since.

William looked uncomfortable with the topic. You’re not going to hang yourself or anything, are you? Life being so terrible and all?

Wash laughed. Good God, no. My life may not be glorious, but it can sure be fun from time to time! A glass of whiskey, a game of cards, and a whore to sit in my lap and listen to me tell stories—no, William, I am content with my life just as it is. I am who I am, and you are who you are.

I was meant to be a rancher and trail driver. Robert was the oldest of us. This was meant to fall to him, and I spent my youth accepting that fact. And then… you know.

Wash nodded in agreement. "Yes, I know—but I think, in a way, Robert became who he was so that you could become who Karnez needed you to be; God rest his soul. Life comes at us fast, whether we like it or not."

The enormous lake dividing Helania and Karnez City was only a mile across, but it ran a south-by-southwest to north-by-northeast footprint stretching more than seventy miles.

Shallow swamps through the middle made travel by boat impossible save for the lightest canoes.

The lake wound straight into an enclave of the Fire Mountains, an extensive mountain range spanning five hundred and forty miles from east to west and two hundred and twenty miles to the north.

As with most veterans of the Komanchero Wars, the topic came up often on long travels. It was habitual and borderline compulsive.

William shuddered. The skinned faces were the worst, though. Some things stick with you, gnawing at your soul, despite how many years pass…

We couldn’t save ‘em all, no matter how badly we wanted. But yesterday is gone, and it’s best to leave the ghosts in their graves, Wash replied.

William led many of the defenses and retaliatory battles against the Komanchero, on both the Eastern and Western Bridges, and even down into the plains. Once they reached the Llano Vacio badlands, though, the Karnezans would always fall behind.

The Komanchero Wars went on for years, and William’s oldest son had gone from childhood to soldier with nary a transition, fighting at some of the last battles alongside his father and uncles.

My God, the Komanchero—ten thousand strong. The greatest swarm the world has ever seen, reduced to less than a few hundred, William said, trying to shake away the memories.

Juan Coyote and his chocolate-colored Galiceno meandered out of the brush and took position a few feet behind William.

Juan matched William in speed and in conversation—or rather, the lack thereof. He was a man of few words, something William could appreciate.

Juan was not tall, standing at five feet eight inches, but he was intimidating nonetheless. His eyes, while alert and observing, radiated a cold, calculating mind, a coldness that the suns could not melt no matter how ferociously they battered the land.

His arms were visibly strong, and his skin was tough from the suns, the color of battle-tested bronze. Juan was not considered handsome—in fact, most people who saw him described him as quite ugly, his gruff face resembling a lion’s.

He kept his hair cut extremely short, maybe a quarter inch on top, tapering shorter and shorter until it was finally shaved smooth about two-thirds down his head—a style quite popular among the Orejóné.

Wash nodded toward Juan and spoke aloud—to William and to no one at the same time.

You couldn’t save ‘em all, but you saved ol’ Juan here, and it made all the difference to him, he said.

Several years before the start of the Wars, Juan’s parents had been killed when a raiding party attacked their small village, twenty miles south of the Buckland homestead.

Just thirteen years old, William and his unit found him surviving in the chaparral, deep in the blackbrush and granjeno, subsisting off birds and rabbits he caught.

He lived with the Bucklands for four years, and William treated him like an adopted son, twice the age of his boy Newt—six when Juan first arrived.

When Juan was seventeen, he shot and killed a man in San Orejón, and served five years in an Orejóné prison. When he returned to the Bucklands, he was hardened, with scars all over his face and torso, and had lost his appetite for trivial small talk.

The Orejóné man was the most loyal and trusted in William’s employ, and he played many roles. The most frequent, however, was that of hired -gun and bodyguard.

Not that William needed anyone to protect him.

When not with his employer, Juan Coyote was often seen in the company of William’s other primary hired gun, Epitacio Garza—another Karnez-born Orejóné.

The trio rode along on the caliché highway, among the mesquite and stagnant pond mosquitoes, the air so thick you could almost drink it.

They would likely make camp and pick up the last few miles in the morning. It would do no good arriving in Helania in the middle of the night, as Sheriff Leerson would most certainly not agree to ride into town and attend to their business at such a late hour.

Nor did William have any interest in staying in the hotels in the town. Decades trailing cattle and fighting Komanchero had given him a preference for sleeping under the stars whenever he was away from home.

They required little in the way of camp—the nights were warm, and blankets were not needed for comfort, though they were still important. The dew often set in so heavy in the early morning hours that one could easily think it had rained on them while they slept. In the dead of summer, one might still sweat without mercy even in darkest night.

Juan had disappeared from behind them and reappeared in front again without Wash ever noticing he was gone.

I tell you what, Juan, they nicknamed you right, that’s for sure. I’ve seen actual coyotes make more noise than you, Wash quipped wryly.

It was true—many a pesky bandit had found themselves set on and slain without ever knowing that danger was upon them.

Often on the road, William would suddenly find himself traveling alone, only to soon encounter another traveler coming from the opposite direction. When the traveler had passed, Juan and his horse would rejoin him as silently as they had left.

William always declined large traveling parties in favor of solely himself and Juan. The nature of the trip, however, had prompted him to bring his brother along this time.

I’ve told these boys more times than I can count never to cut off for Helania without me, but they are so damned pig-headed! William griped.

Pig-headed is another way of saying stubborn, Wash said, pointing his finger at his brother. And while you may not like to acknowledge it, you, William, are one of the most stubborn men alive, so I wonder where they get it from?

I am not stubborn, William glared back at Wash.

The hell you aren’t! The only reason it never comes up is because most folks know better than to try and change the Colonel’s mind. Hard truth.

That’s not being stubborn, that’s being a commander! William said, giving a dismissive wave.

Wash held his hands up in sarcasm, signaling surrender. I’m not gonna argue with you—don’t shoot!

These blowhards have a hankering for a day of reckoning, and by God, it will soon befall them, William spat. He shifted in the saddle, trying to stretch his leg muscles, which had begun to ache from the slow, bouncing pace they had been maintaining.

We should have brought more men along, Juan replied. We could finish it all right there in the streets and leave with Newt in trail.

"My family agreed to adhere to an order here in the Bridges, and right or wrong, I’m not gonna break that order lightly. We may have loyal militiamen and former Rangers in the East, but Helania commands the Karnezan army. It’s likely that many would defect in such a scenario, but the Knights of the Golden Circle will rally to the Alders’ call, and it’d be touch and go which of us bled out first.

And I promise you, the Orejóné wouldn’t be far behind looking to seize their former territory while the victor licked his wounds. As satisfying as it would be to snap their chicken necks, it doesn’t justify throwing thousands of people’s lives into chaos.

The Knights of the Golden Circle were a cloak-and-dagger society with long-running contempt regarding the abolition of Gómanez and Kalo enslavement. They formed as a corrupted militant offshoot of the ancient Masonic order whose path both William and his brothers had walked—a path which regarded all men as free and equal, and strove to take good men and make them better.

The Golden Circle drew from wealthy landowners, lowly merchants, oil roustabouts, cowboys, and sodbusters alike—and they stretched all the way into the Orejón kingdom in the south. William knew that they would leap at the opportunity to overthrow the new light of freedom and return to dark times.

Fair enough, Juan said. But the day comes you want to cut their throats and be done with it, you give a whistle.

It’s fortunate then that I do not absentmindedly whistle.

Juan gave a coy smile, pursed his lips, and gave a sweet songbird’s chirp.

Never fear, my friend. Patience is a virtue. One day soon, opportunity will present itself, and we’ll take that vengeance for their abuses. After all, revenge is a dish best served cold, William said. And one should always take care to beware the sleeping dragon.

Sykes

T

hree jacks was not an excellent hand, but it wasn’t terrible either. It certainly wasn’t worth folding over right out of the gate.

Sykes eyed his cards, then peeked at the five other men sitting around the table.

The air was thick with cigar smoke, and a rowdy, collective chatter filled the large wooden room. Round tables were spread across the plank floor, and sunlight filtered in through a myriad of windows, giving life to the swirling haze of smoke.

His brother Emmett was to his right, and right again was their hired -man, Hugh McDaniel.

Emmett was tall and slim, six foot one, with long arms and lean, muscled shoulders. He was a hundred and sixty pounds, agile when he needed to be. Like all Bucklands, he had brown hair so dark it almost looked black, and hazel eyes with streaks of gold radiating throughout like little lightning bolts of sun, just like his brothers and sister.

Undeniably the most handsome of his siblings, people were often disarmed by his charms and smiles until it was too late.

His face was slender, with cheekbones sitting high, and the stubble of two or three days.

Emmett betrayed a subtle smile, and his eyes twitched as he gazed down at the cards in his hand, rubbing the back of his middle finger rhythmically against the stubble on his cheek. He waved a single finger to the girl ferrying drinks around the room, signaling another whiskey.

The rough looking, red-headed man to the right of Hugh—a local tough guy named Benjamin Murphy—leaned forward and tossed two green poker chips onto the table.

Raise, Murphy said.

Hugh groaned, flopping his cards face down. Nope, not for me. Fold.

Murphy gave a smug chuckle, looking past Hugh to Emmett. How ‘bout you, pretty boy?

Emmett gulped, he and tugged at his shirt collar dramatically. He craned his head to Sykes, his eyebrows raised, teeth clinched.

I don’t know, baby brother, Mister Murphy is getting a little rich for my tastes. Should I fold out of caution? Or should I see it through, no matter the cost?

Sykes was in fact his baby brother, but only by three years, and at seventeen, he showed as much heart as any of the older boys. He was also an inch taller than Emmett, and just under two hundred pounds, making him significantly more of a heavyweight. He carried it well, though, and nobody would mistake him for being unattractively overweight.

His face was rounder than his brothers’, and generally kinder and more cheerful in appearance. His hair, though also dark, had sandy streaks through it, as did his beard, which he styled after his father’s.

Emmett winced. No, I suppose it’s true what they say—in for a nickel, in for a dime. Call. He rolled his head back to Murphy and gave him a chilly stare and a hollow grin, then slapped two matching chips onto the table in front of him.

He was right—it was getting pricey. Though they had brought heavy pockets to the town of Florézon, several days and nights of drinking, whoring, and cards had left their pockets growing significantly lighter and lighter.

Not about to look afraid, however, Sykes gave his cards a final glance, then flicked his own chips into the middle of the table.

The two men to the left of Sykes had already folded, so it was now down to the three.

Murphy was determined to assert himself over the infamous Emmett Buckland. Sykes, too. He would probably see it as bragging rights to snatch the cattleman’s sons’ money.

Raise, he said, another three chips going to the growing pile.

Emmett’s eyes flicked over to Sykes and mouthed a silent word to him. Wow. He looked back to Murphy.

For his youth, Sykes showed a lot more patience than his older brothers Emmett and Newt.

There was no one he admired more than his father, and Colonel William Green Buckland expected obedience of the men who served under him, so Sykes delivered on those expectations with near compulsion, abstaining from beer and liquor.

That didn’t stop him from having a good time, though.

The saloon girl came by, setting a fresh glass of whiskey in front of Emmett. He took it and tossed it back, taking it all down in a single gulp. With a sharp bang, he slammed it on the table.

He smiled. Say, Benjamin, how’s your mama and them?

Sykes sat forward. Emmett, don’t.

Emmett jerked his head to his brother. You don’t tell me what to do.

Sykes pointed his finger at him. It’s been less than a month since that posse showed up looking to clap you in irons for killing that Orejóné boy over in Tía Maria.

Hey— Emmett said, pointing right back at his brother. Ain’t no proof I did such a thing. That’s why they had to turn me loose.

They turned you loose because Pa bribed the sheriff, ya big dummy. And if you didn’t shoot him, who did?

Emmett shrugged. Couldn’t tell ya. Maybe someone who didn’t like the idea of an Orejóné dating a Karnez girl like he was. How would I know?

You’re describing yourself, Sykes said, leaning back. Please, don’t.

Why the fuck are you asking about my mother? Murphy said, his face growing red to match his hair.

Emmett shrugged, nonchalantly tossing four chips out onto the table. I just wanted to know how your mama was since me and the boys shared her bed the other night. She looked damn near exhausted when we left. Raise. He wagged his finger at the saloon girl again.

The fuck did you just say? Murphy said, knocking his chair backward as he exploded out of the seat.

Emmett didn’t move. He just looked up at the seething Murphy and gave another hollow smile. You knocked your chair over. Sit back down, it’s my little brother’s bet.

You think I’m scared of you, rich boy?

Sykes leaned forward, looking at the raging man. You should be—I know I am.

Emmett shot his brother a sly look out of the corner of his eye, trying not to smile.

Murphy took a step forward.

The white dog laying at Emmett’s feet suddenly sat upright, staring at Murphy. It pulled its lips back in a snarl, letting out a low, rumbling growl.

I don’t think Jookel likes you, Emmett said, looking down at his dog. His eyes flicked back to Murphy. I don’t like you either. Now collect your chair and sit down.

Jookel was Emmett’s prized hog-hunting dog, from a line originally bred in the dog-fighting pits of the south. Their savagery in fighting each other translated even better into hunting two-hundred-pound feral boars.

Jookel himself was only about sixty pounds, by no means as big as some of the eighty- and ninety-pound monsters of the breed, but he was fearless.

Once he gripped onto a hog’s face, he didn’t let go until Emmett had brought it down with his hunting knife, an eight-inch hilted dagger. It was a style commonly referred to by the boys who partook in the sport as a pig-sticker.

Wherever Emmett went, Jookel followed next to him like a shadow, and it could always be assumed that he was somewhere nearby if Emmett was around.

Murphy’s face was now so red that it looked like his brains might boil right out of his head.

"Shun mandy kushter, you’re deeking for more toog than you kom," Sykes whispered to his brother.

Hear me good. You’re looking for more trouble than you want.

The Bucklands had their own way of talking, passed down for generations and understood only by them and their cousins, such as the Lees and the Coopers. Even their close friends and ranch hands didn’t understand it, and the thought of teaching it to anybody outside their family was taboo.

Emmett laughed at his brother. Nonsense. It’s exactly the amount I want.

Murphy moved to step around Hugh, striding toward Emmett.

Jookel was on his feet, and his snarling was loud enough that the tables near them stopped their talking and turned to watch.

Yeah, that’s what I thought. All that talk about you is horse shit. You hide behind this mutt instead of settling up like a man, Murphy said, spitting as he spoke.

Sykes watched his brother slowly rise to his feet. He pulled a small loop of rope from his belt and tied it around the dog’s neck.

Giving it a light tug, Emmett led the dog to the doorway of the saloon and secured it to a post with a quick-release knot. He gave Jookel a rub on the head and turned back, returning to the table.

Emmett gave a sarcastic curtsy, his arms out to his sides in a mocking gesture.

Murphy stood there with his mouth open for a moment, then charged at Emmett.

Emmett sidestepped the man, catching him between the eye and the ear with a powerful left hook. His knuckles colliding with Murphy’s skull resembled the sound of someone hitting a foul ball on a baseball field.

Benjamin Murphy’s momentum carried him forward another two steps, and he promptly dove to the floor, face-planting into the wooden planks and laying still.

Emmett smirked and looked around the room, eager to see how many people had been watching. Practically the entire establishment.

Hugh leaped out of his chair and approached Murphy on the floor. He held out two fingers to the side of the fallen man’s neck, looking up at Emmett and Sykes.

He’s still alive.

Sykes breathed a sigh of relief.

Emmett’s shoulders and arms were powerful. A life of ranching and working cattle had seen to that. He could springload his punches to the point that they were sometimes fatal if he wasn’t careful. He would just collide his stony knuckles so hard into their craniums that their brains would just give up on life.

Though Sykes was much heavier than his brother, he couldn’t seem to throw a punch like Emmett could. Most people couldn’t.

He looked to his brother. Well then, boys, I suggest we get on while the going’s good, Sykes said.

Emmett turned to the table, eagerly collecting the chips. He grinned at the folks around him, glued to their seats with mouths hanging wide open.

You all saw it—that was self-defense, and this prize money is forfeit. It was a fair fight, and I’ll do the same to any man who says otherwise. He gave a wink to the saloon girl. I think I better have that last whiskey before we hit the road.

Newton

"C

ome on now, it’s fucking hot in here! Newt half hollered, half moaned. I’m a man, not an animal—let me out of this damned cage!" He rattled the rusty door of the cast-iron flat-bar cage sitting right outside the sheriff’s window, in plain sight of all the passing town folk.

His nose and mouth were crusted with dried blood, and he knew that he likely made quite the spectacle. He had awoken to the jabs of a blunt oak stick and the laughs of children before they scampered away giggling when he jumped up and opened his eyes. That had been his wake-up call every morning in this God-forsaken cage.

But you are an animal, though! All of you Buckland boys are animals! Sheriff Leerson quipped out the window as he examined the large, unfolded newspaper in his lap.

When my father comes for me—

He’ll bend the knee and pay the silver, because he knows the way things work. Leerson’s words burned so hot in Newt’s skull that he no longer felt the oppressive heat that was slowly cooking his brains.

The cage was not as tall as Newt by about two inches, who stood at six foot two, and it forced him to either stand with his head crooked, or squat down on his haunches.

There wasn’t enough room to lie out, so Newt had slept the morning away sitting on his rump, near hugging his knees. There was just enough room to frustrate a man trying to stretch his legs as he slept, small enough to keep the knees bent no matter how he turned.

You pompous jass-honk! You have the nerve to speak about us like such? They weren’t spitting on us when we were defending the Bridges from the damned Komanchero raids. I was out there, taking scalps, week after week, month after month, until we finally beat them back—while the Alders cowered in their home!

Newt had been just sixteen when he had joined his father’s side in the Komanchero Wars in the fall of 874, and fought bloody for another three years till they came to a close.

Even after the end, he had woken up for months in his bed in the dead of night, strangling imaginary Komanchero warriors. He dreamed of having his scalp peeled away from his skull, and he saw the faces of Komanchero he had scalped.

The savagery of Komanchero victory—regularly finding squadrons of Karnezans dead, scalped in a field—had prompted the Karnezans to celebrate their own victories over the Komanchero in kind.

To beat a savage, you have to be a savage! they had declared.

And to prove himself a man in front of his platoon, Newt had taken the knife and skinned a man while his fellow soldiers cheered him on. It wouldn’t be the last time, either.

Even after the nightmares had slowed, it was years after that before he could look at a horizon and not think he saw a raiding party coming over it from the corner of his eye.

He would trade anything he owned to forget the things he had seen and done, so the demons in his head would stop screaming.

I’d gladly scalp this son of a bitch though…

Newt spat as near as he could at the window.

Go on, keep poking the tiger in the cage, he said. It’s real easy to poke that tiger when you see that lock on that gate, but one of these days, you’re gonna come back and that lock ain’t gon’ be there. Let’s see if you poke the tiger then!

Just doing my job, son, although I’ll admit it’s a particular pleasure in this case. Sheriff Leerson didn’t look up from his newspaper. Everybody knows you ain’t been right in the head since the war—you’re a menace to society.

Yes, there had been a few occasions where Newt’s mind had snapped after his return to civilian life, grievously injuring some folks in the process—but nobody had been killed, and it had been quite some time since the last incident.

The floor of the sheriff’s office loomed above the ground on a stilt foundation, so the bottom of the window came just about even with Newt’s neck, forcing him to look up at Leerson, while Leerson looked down on Newt.

You want a menace? I’ll show you a menace, Newt said.

Leerson stood from his desk chair and walked away from the window. A moment passed, and he returned. A flash of dull silver was all Newt saw before he found himself soaked. Newt glared up at Sheriff Leerson and his empty tin bucket.

Here Newt, you sounded a little heated,