Bargain at Bravebank: The Legacy of Lucky Logan, #1

By J. R. Frontera

A deal gone bad…
…and Van Delano is left to die in the desert.

 

But most folk said he'd been cursed with a double-barreled shotgun of mulishness.
So when his first attempt at bargaining for his kidnapped sister's freedom lands him with a dead horse, a bullet in his leg, and miles of desert between him and the nearest town… he's not about to give up.
He'll fight and claw, cheat and steal, even kill, if he has to… he made his sister a promise and he's damn sure gonna keep it.
Doesn't matter if most folk say she's dead.
Doesn't matter if the outlaw queen of the Western Territories is playin' him.
Doesn't matter if his new metal leg makes him a wanted man, hunted by both the superstitious and the greedy.
He's a man out for his own redemption, and the only way to pay that debt is to track down his sister and get her free… no matter the cost.

For fans of The Coilhunter series, Make Me No Grave and the Red Dead Redemption games... saddle up for this gritty, gun-blazin', gadget-laden re-imagining of the Old West and grab your copy today!

NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART! This series contains adult themes, situations, and language. Additionally, the scifi elements are a semi-slow build, appearing in a "lost civilization is rediscovered" kind of way.

"...such cruel, manipulative characters in an unforgiving world beautifully juxtaposed with kindness and generosity. I love it." -- Roger Clark, Arthur Morgan in Red Dead Redemption II

(Look for the audiobook, narrated by Roger Clark, available wherever audiobooks are sold!)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordwraith Books LLC
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781946921079

Book preview

I

You’ve come quite far enough, young man.

The voice, clear and hard as steel and undoubtedly feminine, echoed against the bare rock of the cliff face that loomed ahead on the red dirt path.

I gave a sharp pull on the reins, bringin’ my dusty sorrel mount to a halt, stiffenin’ in the saddle.

It was her. It had to be her. I drew in a slow, deep breath as my heart quickened. For Chrissakes, Van, settle down. This is what you’ve been waitin’ for. Don’t lose yer nerve now. I swallowed hard in a suddenly dry mouth and tightened my hold on the reins. I ain’t gone far enough till I find Ethelyn, I called out in reply, keeping the brim of my hat low as I took in the path ahead, squintin’ fer a sign of movin’ shadows, ears pricked for sounds of shiftin’ gravel or the cock of a hammer.

Nothin’. Not a shadow out of place, no sound ‘cept the soft breeze whisperin’ against the smooth rock face, the far-away shriek of a hawk circlin’ for prey.

For a heartbeat I worried my information had been wrong.

I worried Holt had been right.

I worried I’d come all the way out here fer nothin’.

But then a slim figure dressed all in black stepped out from behind the pale, carved rock ahead, abruptly enough to make my horse throw up his head and snort in alarm. I sat steady in the saddle as he shifted uneasily beneath me, never takin’ my eyes off her.

Nine-Fingered Nan.

She looked different in person than she did on the posters. Older. Taller. More fierce. Like she could drop you dead with just a nod of her head. And accordin’ to some of the stories about her, she could. Long wisps of silver-white hair fell from beneath her black, broad-brimmed hat, floating about her shoulders. She stood straight and proud and seemingly immune to the heat of the noon-day sun beatin’ down upon us, her cold blue eyes borin’ hard into mine. She had a gun belt over her skirts holding a matchin’ set of pistols, a shiny golden buckle that winked in the sun, and a bandoleer across one shoulder.

I tensed. Sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades. My horse gave a nervous whicker.

Nine-Fingered Nan made no move for her guns. Yet.

I was all too aware then of my own pair of irons weighing heavy on my hips. Slowly, gently, I set the reins down over my saddle horn, lettin’ my hands sit loose atop it, ready to draw if I needed to.

She tilted her chin up, lettin’ the sun splash across her wizened, weather-worn features. Her pale eyes narrowed. Yer the brother.

It weren’t a question. So I didn’t answer. Instead I bit off a question of my own, hoarse and rough. Where is she?

Nine-Fingered Nan’s wrinkled lips twitched. It might have been a smile. It might have been a smirk. Not here.

I clenched my teeth together hard, resistin’ the urge to draw. I was in no mood for games. Not after everythin’ I’d done to get this far. "Then where?"

How should I know?

My heart throbbed in my throat, rushin’ in my ears. Somehow I got the words out around the rage. I know you have her, I snarled. Hate to tell ya, but yer man Lloyd Renneker squealed. Had to carve him up real good ‘fore he’d talk, but talk he did. I know you know where she is. Stop wastin’ my time.

Her expression didn’t change at my outburst. Didn’t even waver at the news I’d cut up and bled out one of her crew. Your information is bad, boy. Your sister ain’t here. Never was. Never will be. You’re huntin’ a ghost. Your sister is dead.

The words hit like lead, suckin’ all the breath outta me. The terrified part of me, the guilt-ridden part that dredged up that night over and over again in nightmares, that hated myself for not getting back to Ethelyn sooner, that urged me to drown myself in whiskey or ‘shine or the nearest lake and be done with it, that part of me knew it could be true. But the other part of me, the part that burned for whatever justice I could get, that kept draggin’ me on day after day for year after year, chasin’ rumors and whispers that a girl named Ethelyn Delano was still alive … that part of me refused to believe.

Ethelyn was still alive. Lloyd Renneker had said so. And he’d said she was with Nine-Fingered Nan, about to be sold for an exorbitant sum to a wealthy merchant overseas.

You lie, I rasped. I intended to draw, right then and there, and put a bullet between the eyes of Nine-Fingered Nan.

But the gun blast that roared against the rocks weren’t mine.

My horse dropped to the ground like a stone and I hit the dirt path with a grunt, ears ringin’. Disoriented, I struggled to pull my leg from beneath the dead weight of the sorrel as Nine-Fingered Nan crunched across the gravel-strewn ground in her worn black boots, straight at me, one of her pistols smokin’ in her hand.

Her right hand. The hand with the missin’ trigger finger.

Some people said it’d been my own pa who’d shot off that finger. They said she’d drawn a gun against him, and he’d shot her gun right outta her hand, and taken that finger with it. They said he coulda killed her, but on account of her bein’ a young woman and all, he hadn’t.

They said he’d meant it to be a lesson to her.

They said it had only made her meaner. Angrier. Deadlier.

I weren’t sure if I believed those stories … until now. I gaped wide-eyed at her as she approached, heart poundin’ fit to choke me. Get up already or you’ll be as dead as yer goddamned horse! I tugged my leg free at last and sprang to my feet, reachin’ fast for the pistol at my hip.

It blasted from my hand with a stingin’ spark soon as it cleared leather, sendin’ a sharp lance of pain through my palm, then a third shot exploded pain through my left thigh. I cried out as I hit my knees. Blood splattered into the dirt. My eyes watered and I ground my teeth, gaspin’ at the hazy air in ragged breaths.

My whole left thigh was on fire, pulsin’ angrily around the ounce of lead now buried in it, and my right hand throbbed somethin’ terrible, too.

Nan stopped a few paces in front of me and leveled the barrel of her gun at my forehead.

I considered the pistol still on my left hip. Considered the point-blank range of the one pointed at my head.

Slowly, I lifted my hands.

My stomach turned. Holt had been right. I was a full-blown idiot for comin’ out here. Gone on a death wish. Dead man walkin’. Plenty of men older and wiser and faster and smarter than me had come after Nine-Fingered Nan. And they were all dead.

And Nan was still standin’.

Call me a liar again, she whispered.

I knew better. I couldn’t help Ethelyn if I was dead. I forced myself to look up into those cold, hard eyes, and wondered why I wasn’t dead already.

I just want my sister back, I said, voice gruff with pain. Maybe Nine-Fingered Nan was still human, somewhere down deep in that murderous soul of hers. Maybe she had even had someone else she cared about once. A husband. A child. A sibling of her own. I just want her back. What do you want fer her? Money? You gonna sell her? Name yer price.

One of Nan’s silver-white eyebrows lifted, just slightly.

For a moment a blaze of hope lit through me, dullin’ the pain of the bullet in my leg. Nan did have her. Or at least, Nan knew where Ethelyn was. That hard, expressionless face had cracked, just a bit, just enough to let me glimpse what Nine-Fingered Nan loved the most: cold, hard cash.

The grizzled old gunslingin’ woman took one step closer, sneerin’ down at me. A stupid young fool like yerself could never afford it, that’s fer sure.

I ignored the insult. She was right, anyway. I was a stupid young fool for comin’ here. Or at least, for comin’ here alone and thinkin’ I could get out alive. But then, she hadn’t killed me yet. I took a breath, took a gamble. I’ll owe you, I said evenly.

It was as much a death sentence as lettin’ her put a bullet through my head right then and there, but at least it was a chance for Ethelyn to be free. No one wanted to owe Nine-Fingered Nan ‘less they were impossibly desperate, so I’d heard. Or ‘less they had a death wish.

Well, I was impossibly desperate. And I guess I had a death wish, too.

She eyed me for a long, silent moment, the only sound the distant shriekin’ of that circlin’ hawk. Then she tilted her head to one side, the shadow of her hat brim slidin’ long down her shoulder. The son of the infamous Lucky Logan, willin’ to be ol’ Nan’s little errand boy? Her face split in a terrible grin. Then she laughed, the sound bouncin’ around inside the carved-out cliff face. She laughed and laughed and laughed.

I took it. I stayed quiet. I stayed on my knees with my hands raised, the bullet hole in my leg leakin’ blood into the dirt. I let her have her moment.

Pride would get me nothin’ but dead when it came to Nan. And not dead quick, neither. She’d made that obvious when she’d shot my horse out from under me. So I waited for her to finish laughin’. I’d waited nine years for this chance. I could wait a few minutes more.

When she finally stopped, she wheezed for air and swiped tears from her leathery cheeks with her gun-free hand. Then she took a deep breath and shook her head. You got stones, boy, I’ll give you that. And maybe, maybe if ya had yer pop’s reputation, that’d be a suitable offer. But I don’t know that you’ve proved yerself yet. Least not well enough to rest me assured I’d get my money’s worth outta you.

The desperation—that impossible desperation—surged in my chest. She couldn’t say no. This was my only chance to get Ethelyn back. After all this time, all the nightmares, all the drink, all the murderin’… there was nothin’ else after this. Nothin’ but dead ends and death. Then give me a chance to prove it to you, I said, the words tumblin’ out in a rush. You ain’t killed me yet. Why?

Her gaze sharpened at the question, but I pushed on.

You coulda killed me three times over already. But you didn’t. Why?

Her lips pursed, the blue glare narrowin’ as her pistol arm straightened, bringin’ the barrel and its mortal payload closer to my skull. Testin’ the merit of Lucky Logan’s get, she said quietly. So far I have to say I been sorely disappointed.

I swallowed, but held her stare. Tried to slow my breathin’, which had gone all quick and shallow. Lookin’ down the barrel of a gun had never been a favorite past-time of mine, but doin’ it bleedin’ and at the mercy of Nine-Fingered Nan was far worse than any of my past experiences with such a thing. In all those cases, I’d still been armed, and the other man dead by my gun ‘fore he could get off a shot. I didn’t come here to kill you, I said, just as quietly. It was a half-truth. I’d always planned to kill her if she didn’t give me Ethelyn. But as Holt always liked to say, The best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry, and leave us nothing but grief and pain, for promised joy. I looked down the barrel of Nan’s gun and gulped back the bitter laugh. How perfect was that ridiculous rhyme of his now?

Oh, if only he was here now to see how royally I’d fucked this up. If only he was here now to lend me another gun in this fight.

I came here to get my sister back, is all, I said. No other man—or woman—who’s drawed against me is still livin’.

I saw her understand. Saw it in the softenin’ of her jaw, the slight lowerin’ of her gun. She knew it was true. I might not a’ had the reputation of my infamous pa, no, but I did have one. Or was startin’ to. And if she knew who I was, then she’d know what people said about me.

And out here, that was the third best currency to bargain with. Right after cold, hard cash and cold, hard bullets.

I weren’t as good as my pa. Not yet. But there was no arguin’ I had no qualms about killin’ … not when it needed to be done.

She dropped her pistol abruptly back into its holster. Fine. We’ll see what yer made of before killin’ ya outright. You get back to Bravebank alive and with yer wits intact, you’ll find my man at the poker table in the Stag Saloon.

I almost didn’t hear her. The relief made me dizzy, light-headed. Ethelyn? I asked breathlessly. Where is she?

She’ll be safe enough. Lest you die in the desert. Nine-Fingered Nan gave an amused snort. You make it to Bravebank first, boy, then we’ll discuss terms.

I nodded, vision blurred with tears despite myself. But … you have her? You know where she is?

Nan rested her gnarled hands on the twin pearl grips at her hips. From my vantage point, the stump of her right index finger was clearly visible. It tapped restlessly against the gleamin’ pearl. Ya said I did, she snapped. Didn’t ya?

I nodded again. Renneker had said so, yeah. And he’d been one of hers. One of hers for a long time now. Well, till I’d ended him, anyway. Would he have lied?

Would Nine-Fingered Nan lie now?

Of course she’d lie to you, ya dumb sonuvabitch! I could hear Holt screamin’ the words even now. Of course she’d lie.

But what I’d told her earlier was true. All my searching had led here, to her. This was it. The end of the trail. If Nan didn’t have Ethelyn, then I didn’t know where to look next.

Make it to Bravebank first, then she’ll discuss terms.

She had Ethelyn. She must have.

I kept noddin’ like an idiot. Mostly ‘cause I couldn’t get any more words out.

And mostly to convince myself Nan had to be tellin’ the truth.

Ya got ten minutes to get the hell outta here, boy, Nan growled. ’Fore I change my mind. And with that she turned and walked away, boots crunchin’ on the gravel. She disappeared into the ancient cliff dwellin’, and with a start I saw six others emerge from their hiding places as well and follow her. Four men and two women. Likely her most trusted lieutenants. But they’d never even had to announce themselves. Nan had easily dispatched me all on her own, without even breakin’ a sweat.

I felt a fool, all right, a colossal fool.

But I was a livin’ fool, and that was somethin’.

I’d wanted to leave here with Ethelyn. Instead I was leavin’ with a sore hand, a new hole in my leg and a massive debt to Nan that would probably get me killed. But it seemed the only way forward.

For now.

Holt would be furious. Havin’ a debt to Nan meant I’d be just what she’d said: her little errand boy. Jumpin’ at her beck and call didn’t sound particularly pleasant, but if that’s what it took to get my sister free, that’s what I was gonna do. It’d mess up his plans real good, but, well … ain’t that what his favorite sayin’ was all about?

I closed my eyes and sank slowly down to all fours, suckin’ in a few deep breaths to settle the fear still coursin’ through my limbs. Then I winced and swore; moved my left leg just a bit and cried out at the shock of pain. Fuck, it hurt. Blood soaked my pant leg. I wondered if the bullet had sunk into the bone. Wondered if it was broken. Sure felt like it.

I wondered if I might lose the leg. That’d be a sweet sight all right: Lucky Logan’s hobbled son.

I shook my head and shoved such thoughts away, then used the body of my poor dead horse as leverage to get to my feet. The pain flared, takin’ my breath away. I stood a moment, balanced on my good leg, and waited for it to pass. Breathed through it.

There was surely no way I could put weight on my shot leg. I could tell that much easily enough. So I reached down and pulled my rifle from its scabbard, leanin’ on it heavily like a crutch as I looked off the edge of this rocky rise out across the stretch of river below and then beyond, to the mountainous desert that led toward the town of Bravebank.

And my heart sank as I realized my predicament.

No horse. No supplies. A gimp leg. A wound bleedin’ like a stuck pig. And miles and miles of desert between me and Ethelyn’s freedom.

II

I feared I had made a grave mistake.

But it was too late to turn back now. Too late to tell Nine-Fingered Nan that she and her deal could both go to Hell. Too late to decide I should have put a bullet in her brain the second I first laid eyes on her. Too late to take back my willingness to owe her a debt that would probably get me killed.

I stopped in my trek across the burnin’ hills. My hat brim shoulda shielded my eyes from the sun’s infernal glare, but out here it seemed to hardly help. The unendin’ onslaught of light dazzled my vision. Sweat stung my eyes and made my shirt cling to my skin. The throbbin’ agony in my left leg had finally subsided into a warm ache, but I wasn’t so sure that was a good thing. I’d tied my bandana over the bullet hole; stuck my rifle down inside my boot and tied it to my leg too, to make a crude kinda splint. And I’d cut a length of my saddle girth and cinched it tight around my leg above the wound, but there was a thin trickle of blood still paintin’ a long trail of red in the fabric of my pants.

The heat, the distance, these hills, and havin’ only one good leg was killin’ me, already.

I wouldn’t have to wait to die on an errand for Nan at this rate.

I’d die here. Now. In this damned desert without a soul in sight.

Shadows in the shapes of birds slid over me, soundless, and raced ahead, then circled back again. Vultures. Bastards had been followin’ me since I’d left Nan’s rocky hide-out.

They knew. They always knew.

I lifted my hat from my head briefly to swipe at the sweat on my brow with my forearm. The heat came off the rocks in waves, making everythin’ waver. I wavered where I stood, too. Sometimes it was hard to tell what was caused by the heat and what was caused by exhaustion and blood loss.

I blinked hard and shifted my saddle bags on my shoulder. I’d taken what I could manage to carry off my dead horse, sure, but there was only so much one man could hold. And only so far one man with a bullet in his leg could walk.

If only she hadn’t shot my horse.

I’d liked that horse, damnit. He’d been my best one yet. Cost me twenty-five dollars. Shakin’ my head, I uncapped my one canteen—also rescued off my saddle—and allowed myself a small sip. Not that it would matter.

Wouldn’t matter that my horse was dead. Wouldn’t matter that I was out twenty-five dollars, plus the cost of that perfectly good saddle. Wouldn’t matter that I had half a canteen of water left.

I was makin’ slow progress. Too slow.

The birds would have me soon enough. Or one of those mountain lions, maybe. Long before I reached the outskirts of Bravebank.

Damnit, Van. How could you be so stupid?

I closed my eyes, but it seemed the sun still burned there, straight through my eyelids. Burnin’, always burnin’. Burnin’ away my eyes, my mind, my soul.

I thought of Ethelyn then, and the last time I’d seen her. Nine years ago. In the black of night. Both of us splattered with blood that wasn’t ours. And her eyes … her big green eyes wide in terror, the whites shining in the dark. Her small fingers clutchin’ hard at my arm.

She had begged me not to go. Begged me.

But we couldn’t stay there. So I’d promised I’d be back soon as I could. And I’d gone, anyway. I’d left her there, huddled in some woods a distance out back of our burnin’ house. Alone.

Three days I was away, that’s all. Three days.

When I’d returned … she was gone.

Three days away and I’d lost my sister for nine years.

I drew in a sharp breath of air that tasted of furnace. I swallowed though I had no more spit. And I started hobblin’ forward again. I trudged onward through that red dirt and rock, mostly draggin’ my left foot behind me as I had done for all the last miles.

The sun was steadily droppin’ toward the horizon I aimed for, lightin’ the way toward the town of Bravebank. Pointin’ the way, and blindin’ me, too.

Mockin’ me.

With every step I heard Nan’s voice in my mind: Get to Bravebank alive and with yer wits intact first, boy, then we’ll discuss terms.

My right hand fell to the pistol on my hip. The pistol with the dent of another bullet in its cylinder now. I suppose it was some small mercy she hadn’t taken off my finger, too, in some twisted sense of poetic justice for the finger my pa had taken from her.

But maybe it hadn’t been him who’d shot that finger off of her, after all.

My own fingers, all full five of ‘em, curled around that worn grip, and I winced as sharp pain stabbed into that palm again. Well, no matter. The fingers still worked, and if I had to draw I could still draw.

I used the grip’s familiar feel to bolster my resolve. If I ever saw Nine-Fingered Nan again, I was gonna kill her.

No more talkin’. No more negotiations.

She thought this was a game, fine. I’d play it just long enough to end it. For good. She thought the desert’d kill me? Thought she could dismiss me to go die in the wastes while she sold my sister off, anyway?

Well, I’d show her.

I’d show her just what Van Jensen Delano was made of, all right.