Dead Revenge: The Mystery of Devil Station

By Marco Muzzi

Desperate to save his wife. Alone against a murderous outlaw and his cult of followers. Can one man bring justice, or will he die trying?

The Man in the White Mask, a violent outlaw, and his cult of followers toil in the shadows of 1860's California. Whispers swirl about their plot to rebuild the Confederate cause while they hide at the mysterious "Devil Station," a ghost town in the desert. They remain at large, peddling violent fear, with no one brave enough to challenge them or the corrupt lawmen they keep.

When the masked tyrant steals a man's wife and leaves him for dead, this man—"the stranger"—takes it upon himself to bring justice by any means necessary.

Do the stranger and his rag-tag group of companions—a disheartened sheriff, vengeful freedman, and cunning young woman—have what it takes? Or are they too late?

Fans of Elmore Leonard's Hombre, 3:10 to Yuma, Joe Kidd, and Ian Flemming's James Bond series will love this thriller-mystery.
Readers are saying…

★★★★★ Heart Racing. From the first chapter, I was hooked. [Dead Revenge] is filled with action. As I read, I found myself intrigued by the mysterious stranger. I couldn't wait to find out what happened next and if he would find his wife again.

★★★★★ I couldn't get through it fast enough. This story is a real page-turner and will keep you going until the end.

★★★★★ A strong storyline, good character goals and conflicts, and some really evocative prose and insights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wallace & Moody
• Release date: Jan 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798364527059

Book preview

Part 1: Lost Souls

1: The Stranger

I’ve gotta warn ‘em, an old man wheezed, stumbling from the shadows of a darkened alley.

The night that greeted him was bleak and cold and lit by the stern stare of a midnight moon.

Distraught and pale, he rambled down the road—his hurried steps marked with the limp of a body long abandoned by youth. The scrapping of his boot heels against smooth cobblestone road cried out against the shut mouths and darkened eyes of every shabby, wood-planked building lining the street. When the echo of his steps returned to him, the old man would cringe and curse and fist his hands, thinking himself followed. He began looking over his shoulder in stride. Once. Twice. Again. Each time his eyes—blue and worn and wide—would slash across the road, begging the night to be still.

He went on like this, silently snarling at the sleeping town of Wellington County, until a grandfather clock chimed from within a house to his left. Gasping, he threw his hands into his navy topcoat and down to the pocket of his grey vest. From it, he produced a silver pocket watch. He pushed it from his shadow and into the moonlight, where it shone proudly before he flicked off the front cover to reveal the white face and black numerals within. He read the time, frowned with a huff, and shoved the watch away. 

The old man swung himself around a pinewood wagon parked outside a general store. He sidestepped a stray staghound charging him from the porch of a modest tannery. Then, he made an abrupt left into a wide town square parted in the middle with the foreboding silhouette of a rickety gallows. Past the tool of death he slunk—his stare wider and more suspicious, his steps more careful and slow.

Across the square, McPhee’s Saloon beckoned with a yellowish glow that pulsed around its batwing doors like the candle in a lantern. As the old man neared the short, green building, a chorus of piano keys and boisterous voices called to him. Tethered to a hitching post along the saloon’s front porch he found a row of bored horses swinging their tails. To their right, a pair of cattlemen shared a smoke and traded pensive glances at the moon. At their heels, the outline of a drunk snored against the bottom step of the porch. From a few paces out the old man smelled the ale and sweat and stale perfume seeping from McPhee’s into the square. His steps began to slow; his courage, fade.

When the light from the saloon crawled up his chest and over his face, the old man stopped. He stood at the edge of the shadow of light with his arms heavy at his sides, catching his breath. Between gasps he listened, his stare drifting slowly over his pointed shoulder. He found himself waiting for the night to breathe; for the shadows to flinch; for his time to run out.

But when excited shouts exploded from inside the saloon, the old man snapped his attention back to the batwing doors and the task at hand. He swallowed hard, stepped onto the porch, through the doors, and into the saloon’s dank air—oblivious to the shadowed figure approaching from the opposite side of the square. 

Squinting against the flickering glow of the crooked chandeliers, the old man waded through the bustling game tables, gruff patrons, and clouds of cigarette smoke to McPhee’s cherrywood bar. He took the first vacant stool, coming to rest beside a plump miner with dirty hands and droplets of whiskey staining his beard.

The old man glared behind the bar and found the back of the barkeep. With fretful eyes he watched the petite, blond man produce a whiskey bottle from a low shelf before springing upward to snatch an empty glass off a higher one. The barkeep popped the bottle’s cork with a thumb, filled the glass with a long, tall pour, then—with a flourish—he placed the drink neatly in front of a lumpy rancher in a tattered shirt.

The old man raised his hand.

The barkeep smiled at the rancher and leaned across the bar, chatting casually while taking his money.

The old man rapped the bar with his knuckles and rumbled his throat.

The barkeep prattled on.

The old man rapped again, harder.

With a pained look and exaggerated shrug, the barkeep swung around. He swipped another glass from the higher shelf and polished it aggressively with the white cloth over his shoulder. Then, he slapped it down in front of the old man. What?

The old man leaned forward until his mouth was an inch from the barkeep’s open, cream-colored collar. He whispered quickly: Someone’s comin’ for him.

The barkeep chewed the old man’s words while confusion dashed across his eyes. He busied himself filling the glass.

The old man looked around anxiously.

Not sure whatch’ya mean, old-timer. the barkeep said crisply and without looking up. He slid the glass across the bar.

Yes, you are. the old man said, harsh and hoarse. He pushed the drink aside. I know about you. I know about this place.

The barkeep leaned towards the old man, shoulders sharp and eyes wicked. No. You don’t. He smiled insincerely and turned away.

Lunging across the bar, the old man grabbed the barkeep’s wrist just below the small, black tattoo of an arrow.

The two men screamed at one another with their eyes.

The saloon minded its business.

The air grew brittle.

"I know you run this place for him—for that man in the white mask." The old man said, louder than he should have.

The barkeep stiffened. He threw away the old man’s hand. "You don’t know the secrets I keep. And, you’re best to mind your business, sir."

Listen, the old man insisted, "I know you run this place for him. I know it. And so, I know we’re on the same side—ya’ gather? Brothers in arms, so to say. So, listen, someone’s comin’ for him, for all those boys—our boys—and I know you can get the message through in time. You can keep the cause alive. You can save ‘em."

The barkeep bristled, squeezing his cloth and muttering, I didn’t choose to work with him…. He sized the old man without a word, tracing the shadows hanging from the lines on his face, then the pristine seams of his topcoat, and finally the bare, liver-spotted skin of his wrists.

The old man followed the barkeep’s eyes and shook his head. I ain’t that involved….

I can’t trust you, then. rasped the barkeep. He straightened and made to turn, but the old man all but shouted: Listen, please! I know about the banker. The one in Nickel City. The one who meets with him.

The barkeep froze. He looked the old man over again—wide-eyed and full of questions.

And, the old man went on, leaning forward, I know about Devil Station.

The barkeep furrowed his brow and hastily motioned for the old man to lower his voice. He again put his elbows on the bar and leaned towards his patron. What do you think you know?

The old man smiled as if the story was scraping past his lips. I know that that masked man and his gang have been runnin’ round long ‘nough. That this time they done one thing too much. He lowered his voice to a rattling whisper. I know that the mine owner they killed—over in Panamint—his brother’s bent on revenge. He’s hired himself a gang, got himself a plan.

How? How can you know?

I heard ‘em! Just now, they were talkin’ at the hotel on the edge of town. The old man sat back. In short order, he straightened his sleeves, slicked back his pale hair, and fixed the taut ivory collar squeezing his neck. I’m just-I’m just passin’ through, on my own business. Big meetin’ in California, about the railroad. I was comin’ out my room to eat, and I overheard their voices slippin’ through an open door. I crept just close ‘nough to see ‘em. They said they’re goin’ to Nickel City. I gather they’ve got a plan for robbing the bank—

Suddenly the batwing doors rattled off the inside walls.

Both men flinched, then turned to look while the saloon went about its business.

At first, the doorway stood vacant and dark. Slowly, the figure of a young man emerged from the night.

Rage bled from his eyes. His face was long, cruel. Deep, dark lines struck out from the corners of his flat stare. Against the candlelight, he stood not like a man, but a shadow—clinging to the darkness as if scorned by the light.

That him? The barkeep asked out the side of his mouth. Is he one of those men you saw?

No. Croaked the old man. That’s just some stranger.

We don’t get many of those here, said the barkeep as he watched the stranger stride toward the bar. The stranger threw himself onto a stool a few places down from the old man and leaned the frayed elbows of his black, sand-dusted jacket onto the bar top. There was a brisk sigh. He pushed a broad, weathered hand through the wavy brown locks dangling beside his olive face. When his hand fell onto the bar, a gold band glistened from around his ring finger. At that, the stranger’s glare saddened. It became vacant, longing. Yet the longer he stared at that ring, the more he let the hands of rage pull at his face. With a final scowl, he discarded his hand to his lap and faced the saloon teeming at his back.

The barkeep turned to the old man. I don’t know if you’re lyin’ or telling the truth. He reached below the bar without looking.

The old man opened his hands and shrugged. I’m telling you, he pleaded, those boys are gonna die!

The barkeep raised a finger to the old man, then moved to the stranger, placing an empty glass before him.

The stranger did not move. With his back to the bar, he watched the gamblers play their cards, tell their stories, and drink their ale.

Whiskey was pulled off the shelf. The barkeep poured it briskly into the glass.

The stranger’s gaze wandered to the prostitutes who fanned themselves in frilled, colorful dresses atop whichever laps would have them. He looked from one painted face to the next until he spotted a harlot standing alone. She hung tall and thin and shrouded in shadow against the banister of the staircase in the furthest, darkest corner of the saloon. She wore a pink, black-frilled number and a bored look. She tensed when the stranger met her gaze, as if she had not been well and truly seen in some time. But she came to smile, slowly. Eagerly. And then she drifted to him.

The stranger watched her thick locks of red flutter in her wake. He saw the light frolic against the pale canvas of her skin. And then, he shivered as she slid a long, gloved hand up his thigh.

He scooped her frigid palm in his. The stranger pushed it toward her face until his ring brushed her crooked nose.

She soured, fluttering her fan before fading back into the shadows and up the stairs toward the darkness of the shoddy mezzanine.

The stranger watched her go, then walked his stare along the green walls from one faded, gold-framed picture to the next.

He found the jerking head of a jovial pianist across the saloon. The bearded musician sat tucked behind a half wall that hid his upright piano from the front door. He swayed to his melancholy music. His arms tensed with each exaggerated keystroke. Rising and falling to his tune were the sharp corners of his narrow mouth. Ecstasy flashed beneath his closed eyes.

A few steps from the instrument, a young farmer danced with a much older lady of the night. He held her close, one hand on the back laces of her red dress, the other nestled into the wisps of gray resting on her shoulders. She flushed and smiled with an open mouth, her hands nesting in his dirt-stained shirt.

The stranger watched them swirl—their lips drawing nearer, their eyes closing, mouths kissing—before turning red and facing the bar.

The barkeep pushed the now-filled glass forward.

The stranger squeezed it, then threw it down his throat as if dousing a thought burning behind his eyes.

Without warning, the batwing doors barked against the wall once again, and through their mouth strode five white men.

Their faces were damp and bare. Each wore black from head to foot and carried matching leather saddles over their shoulders with silver pistols at their waists. They scowled arrogantly and brought with them a gust of frigid dread that swept hard and fast through the saloon.

Immediately McPhee’s was quiet, save the groaning of the closing doors.

The tallest of the five men, with a flat leather face and broad shoulders, waved his companions toward a far table and lumbered to an empty stool beside the stranger. He sat with a grunt. Double whiskey, James, he drawled at the barkeep through a wad of tobacco tucked in his lip. He pulled the gloves from his hands one finger at a time and slapped them on the counter. Leaning back, he groaned and pet the paunch that pushed through the struggling bottom button of his shirt.

All yours, Jim, James said without pleasure, arriving with Jim’s drink.

Neither man nodded to the other.

Jim reached for his glass before erupting in a manic, blood-curdling scream.

The stranger had snatched Jim by the forearm and twisted him across the top of the bar.

In an instant, the stranger threw his free hand around Jim’s neck and forced him sideways.

Where is he?! the stranger howled deep and hoarse into Jim’s ear, pressing his nails into the man’s flesh and leaning closer to his face. WHERE?

Jim’s companions clamoured from their table and drew their guns.

The stranger squeezed harder, drool oozing from the corners of his slanted mouth. He forced Jim further into the bar and pointed to the tattoo of a small, slender arrow on Jim’s wrist. Where is he?

Jim choked, but defiance clung to his reddening, bulging stare.

When one of the other men in black stepped forward and nuzzled the tip of his revolver into the stranger’s neck, most of the women and a few of the male patrons screamed, covering their eyes. James looked away, cringing at the floorboards. He closed his eyes and braced for the familiar screaming mess that comes with a man being shot in the neck.

But it never came.

Instead, James heard the muffled cough of the revolver, a spiteful curse from the stranger, and four shocked gasps from the thugs in black.

Blinking his eyes open, James watched the stranger release Jim’s throat, strip the gun from his bewildered assailant, and ram the butt of it straight into that man’s nose.

The other men in black opened fire as Jim collapsed. But the stranger had already leaped behind the bar, pistol in hand. He grabbed James by the waist and pulled him to the floor, pressing into him as broken glass and shards of wood rained from above. When Jim, red-faced and furious, picked himself up and threw his gun-wielding hand over the counter, James screeched while the stranger sprang up and shot Jim in the shoulder. James then looked on between his hands as the stranger hurdled the bar, grabbed Jim by the collar, and rushed his gun against the man’s temple.

The shooting stopped.

Quiet fell.

Behind the bar, James heaved. In time he brushed the shards of glass from his shoulders and found the courage to peer over the top of the bar.

Across the room, those patrons who hadn’t escaped during the gunfire gathered near the piano, clutching each other and shivering like leaves in the wind. Around them sat overturned tables, broken chairs, and spilled drinks. Along the bar there was only the corpse of the old man, with its arms flailed across piles of shattered glass and a bullet hole through its skull.

Its blood dripped against James’ shirt.

The floorboards screeched.

James looked right and saw the stranger press his pistol hard against Jim’s head.

At his feet, the man in black with the broken nose moaned into his spilled blood.

Where? the stranger repeated flatly into Jim’s ear.

I can’t! Jim sputtered. He’ll k-kill me…

It’s either him or me. The stranger put his gun to Jim’s thigh and fired.

Jim erupted in curses and shakes while his flesh and blood splattered across the floor. Nickel City—Nickel City! he gasped between gritted teeth, flailing at his new, hemorrhaging wound. Go ask the—

Just then, a death note was etched into Jim’s forehead by the bullet of one of his companions.

The stranger blinked his surprise through the blood splashed across his face. He dropped Jim’s lifeless body and fired on the nearest man in black.

As the thug’s body soared backward into the piano, the stranger grabbed the next one by the lapel and pistol-whipped him in the mouth. Through the flying teeth and spit, he threw his fist at the third, crashing into the bones of the man’s eye.

Before the two thugs could collect themselves, the stranger leveled his own weapon and squeezed the trigger twice. He watched them collapse in sequence, their hats rolling off into the shadows, their breath fading into the screams and shouts and galloping steps of the patrons rushing from the saloon.

While his victims drew their last breaths, the stranger faced the man in black sitting on the floor and holding his broken nose. The man’s face was young and ashen and bleeding. Fear showed in his eyes.

The stranger crouched. He placed the tip of his gun to the thug’s quivering, bloodied chin. Then he whispered, Where is the man in the white mask?

2: The Freedman

Don’t go, Rebecca.

The whispered words spilled from his lips.

Rebecca stood with her back to him, taut and proud as if he were to paint her. Her small hands were clasped at the narrow waist of her elegant, rose-colored dress. The frilled edges of her white silk gloves bristled in the passing breeze. She studied them for a long, quiet moment. Then she drank a slow breath and angled her pointed chin forward.

He watched her gaze settle upon the cotton field sprawling toward the horizon before them. Each white fluff bobbed and swayed against the hot, thick breath of the Lord as if waving to her atop the small hill on which they stood. The plants were blessed with a golden halo cast from a lazy, mid-day sun. And that same light glimmered in a tear rolling down her pronounced, alabaster cheek.

His hand twitched for it. But he refrained.

Rebecca pushed her eyes toward the dirt road to their left. The aging path—two narrow grooves of worn earth separated by a strip of scraggly grass—split the cotton field, reached between a row of flowering willow trees, and pushed directly toward a sprawling estate home sitting triumphantly at the plantation’s center.

I must, Rebecca murmured, voice hollow. John, you know I must marry him. I must marry that man in the white mask.

From a few steps behind, John watched the wind play at the seams of Rebecca’s dress, passing over the slight curves that had once held residence beneath his lips. He saw her gaze narrow on the road. Her hands become fists at her side.

She breathed into the high, frilled collar of her dress. I must, she muttered, casting a sideways glance that lingered on him for a moment.

Don’t lie, John said, grim. A stronger gust of wind whistled past the willow behind them. The crackling of branches filled the anxious, looming silence. The cool shadows of each limb danced across his body. He basked in their touch as if they were the tips of her fingers once more tracing the rivers and valleys of his flesh—until the distant rumble of carriage wheels cut through his thoughts.

You said once that you chose me. John wiped his face with a rough palm. You chose us.

The stiff fabric of her dress rustled as she straightened.

Did you mean it? He puckered as if the words were sour. His hazel eyes fixed on the back of her head. He watched the sun slide between several strands of golden hair that had escaped her white-brimmed hat. He lusted to run his hands through those shoulder-length locks. To feel their softness against his chest. To once more brush them from her eyes.

No, she said. The word separated his flesh, snuck through his ribs, and stabbed into the meat of his heart. Before he could exhale, she faced him and stabbed again. You’re a freedman, a former slave. I’m the daughter of a planter—a businessman. We were children playing make-believe, John.

John’s dark skin burned. His tongue twitched under the weight of a thousand unsaid words screaming at the back of his throat. Pressure built in his wrists and ankles. But, as he glared at her in rigid silence, he saw the lie hiding in her tear-filled eyes.

You are not cattle to be traded, Rebecca.

Her palm raced across his cheek.

How dare you, she said. This is my duty. And so it is my choice.

He urged his feet forward, but they resisted. He tried to reach for her, but something gripped each wrist like heavy rope.

Rebecca— he began, but he was cut off by the arrival of a black carriage at her back. The immaculately groomed horse at the lead