Trail To Lost Hope

By L. E. Thissell

The exciting sequel to Los Piños - Blaine Creswell rode a hard lonely trail for ten years, with a reputation that he never wanted and could not escape. He kept to himself, trying to forget the past, trying to avoid the men who sought to make their own reputations by beating him to the draw. That past came rushing back the night he walked into Dender, leading a horse with a dead body draped over the saddle. Before it was over, the only way to put his past to rest was to ride the trail that led to Lost Hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. E. Thissell
• Release date: Feb 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224766154

Book preview

L. E. THISSELL

––––––––

Trail

To

Lost Hope

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

TRAIL TO LOST HOPE

First edition. February 26, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 L. E. Thissell.

ISBN: 979-8224766154

Written by L. E. Thissell.

Also by L. E. Thissell

Tri-Empire

Earth

Prophet

Ride the Wild Wind

WIZARD'S SOUL

Light a Dark Candle

Standalone

Whesra

Los Piños

Trail To Lost Hope

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By L. E. Thissell

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1

Blaine Creswell gazed into a brassy-hot noon sky, his piercing bright-blue eyes permanently narrowed by a lifetime of desert sun. A small bead of sweat rolled down his right cheek, into a dusty faded blue bandanna, tied around his weathered neck.

Blaine shifted his spare frame, to ease the pressure of a small sharp rock jabbing into his back, and rolled onto his left side. Immediately, a bullet clipped through the thin brush above his head with a nasty zip. It sprayed sand as it buried itself into the far bank of the shallow creek bed where he was sprawled.

Blaine quickly rolled further over onto his stomach as the crack of the rifle reached him. He peered through the low brush and saw a light puff of smoke hanging over a large rock, nearly three hundred yards away on a small hill. Blaine studied the distant rock, his eyes narrowing even more.

Nice shootin’, he whispered, even if you are a back-shootin’, bush-whacking S.O.B.

He peered down at his .45-70 Sharps carbine and eased the action open. He slipped the cartridge out and quickly inspected it. Satisfied with its condition, he pushed it back into the breech and closed the action.

Let’s see how much stomach you’ve got for a fight when someone shoots back, Blaine muttered. He glanced up at the rock again, then rolled onto his back. He reached out and grabbed his canteen, next to the saddlebags, and took a long swallow. He put the canteen down, and fished three more cartridges out of the saddlebags next to him, spacing them in the fingers of his left hand.

Another shot whirred through the brush, spatting into the creek bed mere inches past his boots. Blaine twisted onto one knee as the rifle clap sounded. He cocked, aimed and fired with one motion. His heavy bullet sang off of one side of the far rock, shards slicing out from the impact. The distant shooter ducked behind the rock. With the speed and skill of long practice, Blaine reloaded and was aiming when the shooter leaned out to fire again.

Blaine’s bullet found its target a split moment before the other was able to squeeze the trigger. A last shot rang out, the bullet ricocheting wildly off of the rock-strewn hillside between the two. The distant shooter was flung back and around, falling face down onto the ground next to the large rock.

Blaine swiftly reloaded, then froze, his sights steady on the downed figure. He stayed in this position for a long two minutes, quickly scanning in all directions every few seconds for any other danger. Sweat drops trickled unheeded down his face and neck, from under his battered and dusty sweat-stained gray hat.

Blaine finally stood, intently studying the distant still figure, searching for any movement. He waited a few more long moments, then eased the hammer down on his carbine. He released the hammer-thong on his holstered pistol and eased the big .45 out. He quickly inspected it and then slid it back into the holster. He began a slow careful walk up the hill.

As he approached the motionless body, he shifted his Sharps to his left hand, and rested his right hand on his pistol butt. He stopped and listened to the sounds around him. He couldn’t see or hear anything of concern, only the normal insect noises.

The shooter’s rifle lay beside the rock where it had fallen. Blaine leaned over and picked it up, giving it a cursory inspection, most of his attention on the motionless body. The rifle was an older Henry lever-action .44-40, with U.S. Army stamped on the receiver.

Probably war surplus, he murmured. Damn good shootin’, with this gun. He finally turned his attention to the slim body in front of him.

Blaine felt strong remorse, though no guilt. It was not only for having to kill a man, but also for such an obviously young man. He saw his bullet’s bloody exit hole in the back of the blue, green and white plaid shirt, underneath the right shoulder blade.  He knew death had come almost instantaneously. The shirt was tucked into worn jeans.  The boots were heeled over and had a small hole in one sole. There was a battered set of spurs on the boots.

Blaine carefully bent over the out-stretched body and gently turned it over. The lifeless body rolled onto its back and the sightless eyes looked up at Blaine. He gasped and jumped back.

My God, it’s a woman, he said forcefully.  He looked at the white face and slim body for a moment. Oh, no, he groaned. She’s just a girl.

The girl’s face was battered and bruised. Her left eye was swollen almost shut and her upper lip was split on the right, with the tracks of a couple of angry weals splayed out from there. A thin trickle of dried blood creased down to her chin from that tear. Another trickle of blood, still fresh, lined down from the hair above her left temple and down her cheek to her neck.

Blaine settled onto his heels, leaning his carbine against the boulder. He built a cigarette with quick, sure movements. He lit it, took a deep draw and sighed. He looked around at the sun-baked rock, the thin brush and the heat-washed sky. As the shock wore off, he again studied the young woman. Her hair was dark, cut short at the neck. Her hat, dirty brown and low-crowned, had fallen next to her. He could see where his bullet had torn its way in, low on the left side of her chest.

Blaine quickly circled the area searching out sign. He followed the girl’s tracks to where her horse was tied, loosed it and led it back to the body. It was still lathered, though drying, from an obviously hard ride. He tied it to a small juniper nearby, then went down the hill to retrieve his canteen and saddlebags.

At the creek bed he eyed his dead horse, killed by the girl’s first shot, with sadness; Joe had been his mount, sometimes his only friend, for over ten years. He untied his bedroll, then pulled off his bridle, saddle and blankets. He put them under some brush beside the stream bed. He retrieved the spent brass from his two shots, hoisted his bedroll, picked up the canteen and saddlebags and walked back up the hill.

Blaine checked the Henry again, making sure that the chamber was empty, and then slid it into a worn scabbard under the right stirrup flap. He steeled himself, then loaded the dead girl onto her horse, draping her on her stomach over the saddle. Her horse snorted and shivered at the smell of the blood, eyes rolling, but soon stood still under Blaine’s gentle hand and quiet voice. The blood, already clotting and turning black, dribbled down the stirrup leather and dripped to the ground. He tied her securely, then covered her with a blanket out of his bedroll and tied it down.

Blaine started walking, leading the horse. He made his way down the hill and turned onto the trail he had been following before Joe had dropped out from under him.  Though he had never been in this part of the country, over the years he had heard descriptions of the area, in saloons and around campfires, of the trails, towns, landmarks and distances. He knew that he was on the foothills of Lost Hope Mountain, and about twenty miles from Dender, a small town surrounded by ranches and a couple of mines.

Blaine figured he would be sore-footed, tired, and walking in the dark by the time he got there. He built another cigarette, lit it, and began putting the miles behind him.

2

Alan Cherborne stood at the window of his newspaper office, home of The Dender Herald . He watched the last few day-business owners head for their homes, or to the Rusty Nail Saloon across the wide, dusty street from his office.

It was freshly dark, less than an hour having passed since the sun had set. It was still too early for most of the few night people in Dender to be out and about. Alan sighed. He enjoyed this small town and the simple life, but his journalist side pined for at least an occasional significant story.

He had just started to turn back to his desk, and the mundane articles he had yet to write, when he saw a man leading a horse up the street. He noticed the man was carrying a rifle in his left hand. With a sudden shock in his belly, Alan saw that a blanket-covered body was draped over the saddle. Within a few seconds, he had his hat on and was outside, putting on his vest.

Excuse me. Excuse me, sir! Alan was striding swiftly, nearly trotting, to catch up. The man stopped and turned.

Blaine saw a young man, an excited smile on his face, hurrying to meet him. His bowler hat was crooked and his vest was unbuttoned. As he approached, the young man pulled a notepad from one pocket and a pencil from another. Great, Blaine thought, a newspaper man.

Alan saw a tired dusty man, perhaps in his early or mid forties, weary from walking many long hot miles. The face before him was weathered and lined, with a no-nonsense look about it. Before Alan had a chance to speak, Blaine held up a hand.

Where’s the sheriff?

Alan suddenly recognized the wariness, and slight disdain, on Blaine’s face. He stopped, his smile disappearing.

I apologize, he said quickly. You’ve obviously had a rough time. The sheriff is in the saloon, right there. He pointed to the Rusty Nail. The tinkle of the piano player warming up could be heard clearly through the batwing doors.

Thanks. With a nod, Blaine turned toward the saloon.

Wait!  Wait, sir. Alan took a step toward Blaine.

Blaine stopped again, and turned toward Alan, a frown on his face. I won’t talk about this until I see the sheriff.

I understand, replied Alan. I would guess you’re not the type to appreciate a crowd when you talk to him.

Blaine stared at him for a moment. All right, what’ve you got in mind?

Just go up to the jail. He pointed to it, farther along the street. I’ll go in and get him, quietly.

Blaine thought for a moment, then scrubbed his face with his left hand. Fine. I’m too tired to put up with a bunch of gawkers. Thanks. With that, he turned and led the horse away.

Alan watched him go. Even though the stranger was obviously very tired, he still had strength in his stride. That man has steel, he thought. He turned to enter the Rusty Nail, but stopped and watched the plodding man and horse again. There was something familiar about that horse... He shrugged and entered the saloon.

Blaine tied the horse to the rail in front of the sheriff’s office. He sat on a bench by the door and built another cigarette. He sat loosely, grateful to get the weight off of his sore feet, and for the cool night breeze that drifted across his face. He took his hat off and set it on the bench. The breeze chilled his brow, and dried the sheen of sweat.

Only a couple of minutes passed before he saw the newspaper man approaching with a taller, heavier man. Despite his bulk, the larger man moved with a gliding ease, an agile spring to his step. The star on his chest glittered from the light of the half-moon rising above the hills to the east. Blaine stood as the two neared, and put his hat back on his head. He tucked his thumbs into his gun belt, tired but alert.

The sheriff studied Blaine as he and Alan walked closer, then suddenly stopped when he was about ten feet away. He stared at the horse, then gasped, his face turning white. Alan took another step, then stopped and turned when he realized the sheriff had stopped.

Blaine, who had been scrutinizing the sheriff, lifted an eyebrow in surprise at the extreme reaction. Alan put a hand on the stunned sheriff’s arm.

John, are you all right? After a few moments, he shook the sheriff’s arm. John! What’s the matter? Are you all right?

John slowly looked at Alan, his eyes glazed. That’s Eylah’s horse, Alan, he rasped, emotion clogging his voice. Don’t you know it? That’s Eylah’s horse.

Alan stared at the blaze-faced chestnut. Oh no, it is.

Blaine felt as if the earth under his feet had turned to quicksand. He knew, with sudden crystal-sharp clarity, that one wrong word would get either him or the sheriff killed. A very strange event had turned even more odd and surreal.

John shook his head, then stiffened in resolve. His steps were wooden as he ignored Blaine and walked stiff-legged to the blanket-covered body. He hesitated, then sighed and pulled the blanket up from the head. He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked.

His face frowned in confusion, his head cocked to one side, then he quickly looked at Blaine. Who is this, he asked roughly, heat in his voice and eyes. Where’s Eylah?

Blaine tensed and his eyes squinted slightly. He felt a surge of relief, but was careful to not show any emotion. Sheriff, I have no idea about any of this. All I know is that my horse was shot out from under me about twenty miles northwest of here, and I shot someone shootin' at me. I didn’t know it was a girl until it was all over. She’d been beat pretty badly. I don’t know any of you, and this girl could really shoot with that old Henry. I’m lucky to be alive.

John glared at Blaine, suspicion deep on his face. His hand rested on his pistol. Blaine stood still, every muscle relaxed but coiled to spring.

Sheriff, spoke Blaine quietly, I have no desire for trouble. I’m sorry somethin’s wrong, but it ain’t me. He nodded toward the body. Shouldn’t we get her off of there?

Alan let out a loud sigh, unaware until then that he had been holding his breath. He stepped closer and put a hand on John’s arm. John, he’s right. We need to get her down. He turned toward the blanket-draped body. You need to start looking into all of this.

John looked at Alan and opened his mouth to speak, but swiveled his head when a voice from the street interrupted him.

Sheriff, that’s a body! What’s going on? The speaker was Arnie, the local blacksmith. He quickly joined the group. Holy cow, it’s a girl!

John grimaced; the last thing he needed was the town’s worst gossip to show up. Yep, Arnie, it’s a girl.

Well, what happened? Arnie froze, staring at the horse. John, that’s Eylah’s horse. I just put a shoe on him a couple days ago. He stared wide-eyed at