Rampage at Redd Ranch or The Satanic Samaritans

By Daniel Bautz

Have you ever questioned the thin line between justice and vengeance?

 

In the spirit of old West dime novels, Rampage at Redd Ranch ignites the Wild West in a high-stakes showdown that pits brother against brother.

 

At Redd Ranch, an enigmatic force stirs, challenging life and death itself. Follow the indomitable Sheriff Flynn as he assembles a fearless posse seeking justice when battling the deadly Samaritans. With a line between good and evil blurred by vengeance, Flynn's pursuit unfolds in a riveting tale that might just cost him everything.

 

Join Sheriff Flynn in this gripping prequel adventure in Rampage at Redd Ranch where brotherhood is tested and justice knows no bounds.

 

Are you ready for a Wild West showdown that transcends justice and vengeance? 

Don't miss this exhilarating ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Bautz
• Release date: Sep 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223462729

Book preview

Chapter One - Sheriff Flynn Draws the Line

Don’t mess with a man’s livestock. That’s messing with his life and your own.

The speaker was a tall, raw-boned, muscular black man in his late forties. The sheriff of Sikeston wasn’t one to waste words or be trifled with. He rode against Lincoln’s men in the war, clawed his way to freedom, and fought his way to becoming a respected lawman in this wild frontier town.

His imposing frame was covered in the typical ware of the western highwayman. Denim pants under leather riding chaps, brown leather boots spurred with bronze, a dark brown ten-gallon hat, a red handkerchief tied around his neck, and a blue cotton shirt with a bronze star hanging over his left breast. A leather holster held his pistol against his left outer thigh. His thick mustache covered his top lip, but my guess is it seldom hid a smile.

Observing him from a distance, he was not one you would hope to have a quarrel with. In fact, keeping your space seemed a wisdom for most.

The scene was at the Redd Ranch. A nice swatch of farmland a few miles from town. Our sheriff stood where the wagon trail leading to the house and barn met the dirt road. It was his duty, but it was clear Sheriff Flynn would rather be elsewhere.

Proof, Sheriff, The pale, tall, slender man in the black planter’s hat said. Accusations are cheap. Do you have any proof?

The man was not the rightful owner of the land, at least not in the estimation of our sheriff. But he was the man that came out to meet us. The sheriff rested his left hand on the handle of his pistol, his thumb tapping at the hammer. I didn’t come out here to speak with you. This ain’t your land. This is Redd Ranch.

It is my home. It is mine. You already had this discussion with Ambrose. And I don’t think it bears repeating.

Get Ambrose out here. Now. Sheriff Flynn’s thumb tapped the hammer of his pistol faster and faster. His amber eyes narrowed to slits. You could hear him suck at his teeth. Like a coiled rattler, he was ready to strike at the narrow man in the black hat.

He doesn’t want to speak with you, and you have no legal recourse. The man stepped toward the Sikeston sheriff.

No legal recourse? I am the law, you smug varmint. Sheriff Flynn stepped toward the man squatting at Redd Ranch.

You don’t, and you have even less than you think. So, unless you have a warrant or some proof of the livestock rustling you accused us of, leave. The man smiled. His dark eyes sparkled in the bright midday sun. The man turned his back to the sheriff.

Sometimes, a man needs to do what he must. The sheriff grabbed the arm of the tall man. The man twisted and struck the sheriff in his chest, knocking him back a few feet.

That was it. The pistol flashed from the holster, and the hammer clicked into an open position. The