Blackjack county chain

**Prologue **

The desert stretched for miles in every direction, flat and quiet. Mel Barnabus sat chained alongside four beaten and bruised fellow prisoners, awaiting their one-way trip to Yuma Prison—if the chain boss, Clayton “Bull” Maddox, didn’t kill them first. Mel wasn’t about to die out here, chained to a bunch of murderers and rapists.

He sat up, looking through the dark at the dying fire, where his only friend in the world, Lorenzo Morales, sat as quiet as ever, staring into the flames.

“You ready?” Mel asked, his voice low enough not to wake the others.

Lorenzo didn’t look at him. “Ready for what? To die of heatstroke tomorrow? Or maybe to let Maddox beat the hell outta us for talking?”

Mel smirked. “See, that’s the spirit. Always looking on the bright side.”

“Go to hell, Mel,” Lorenzo muttered.

“Already there, partner.”

Bull Maddox’s snores rumbled out of his tent, louder than the coyotes yipping somewhere in the distance. Mel shifted on the ground, wincing as the shackle bit into his ankle. His eyes flicked toward the tent, where the chain boss sprawled like a drunken bear, his massive frame visible through the canvas. Maddox had passed out hours ago, whiskey bottle still clutched in one meaty hand.

“You know,” Mel whispered, leaning closer to Lorenzo, “I was thinking tonight might be a good night to quit this job. What do you think?”

Lorenzo finally looked at him, one dark eyebrow arching. “What job? Getting worked to death in chains? Or getting beaten slowly to death day by day?”

“Both,” Mel said, flashing that crooked grin of his.

Lorenzo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You got a plan, or are you just talkin’?”

Mel held up the keyring he’d stolen earlier, the metal glinting faintly in the firelight.

Lorenzo blinked, his voice suddenly sharp with excitement. “When the hell did you get that?”

“Maddox dropped it when he was busy beating that poor bastard over there.” Mel nodded toward one of the other prisoners, snoring through swollen lips, his face bruised purple from Maddox’s fists.

Lorenzo shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“Insane or just optimistic?” Mel asked.

“I’m going with insane.”

“Fine by me,” Mel said, unlocking the shackle from his ankle and tossing the keys to Lorenzo. “Now let’s get out of here before Maddox wakes up and decides to use us as his morning entertainment.”

Lorenzo caught the keys, but his eyes stayed on the tent. “What about him?”

Mel’s grin faded. “Him? What do you mean, him? You wanna go tell him goodbye?”

Lorenzo unlocked his ankle before standing slowly and testing the weight of the thick chain that bound them.

“Something like that.”

Mel grinned back at his friend in understanding. They both crept toward the tent, chains in hand.

“Big bastard even sleeps like he’s angry,” Mel muttered under his breath.

“Focus,” Lorenzo whispered.

They stepped inside, the heavy chain gripped tightly between them. Maddox snorted in his sleep, shifting slightly, but didn’t wake. Mel raised the chain high, his hands tightening on the iron links.

But before he could bring it down, Maddox’s eyes snapped open.

The big man’s gaze locked on Mel, his lips curling into a snarl. “You sons of bitches—”

“Adiós, amigo,” Mel said, his voice calm, almost friendly.

The chain came down with a sickening crack, smashing into Maddox’s face. Blood sprayed across the canvas walls, and the big man roared, his massive arms flailing as he tried to sit up. Lorenzo didn’t hesitate. He swung the chain again, the iron weight connecting with Maddox’s temple, splitting the skin wide open, exposing brain and shattered bone. The big man let out a final death groan before collapsing.

Lorenzo gave Mel a surprised look. “He died hard, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mel said, breathing heavily. “And we did a damn good job of it. Ruthless son of a bitch had it coming.”

Lorenzo didn’t reply, looking out the tent flap before tossing the chains aside.

“You ready?” Mel asked, stepping toward the open desert.

Lorenzo nodded, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. “That’s gonna be a hell of a walk.”

They slipped into the night, the campfire behind them casting long shadows over the bloody mess they’d left. The desert stretched ahead, endless and unforgiving.

That mornings blazing sun showed no mercy.

Two days passed in a blur of heat and hunger, the relentless desert carving into Mel and Lorenzo as they trudged forward. Each step sank into the sand, the weight of their escape dragging behind them like the chains they’d left behind. The nights offered little relief, the cold biting through their sweat-drenched clothes. But still, they walked.

The first day was all adrenaline and desperation. Mel led the way, his eyes scanning the horizon for something—anything—that wasn’t endless dunes and scattered scrub. Lorenzo followed in silence, his gaze heavy, the stolen keys from their escape clinking faintly in his pocket. Neither spoke of Maddox or the bloody wreckage of the camp. Words seemed useless out here, swallowed by the vastness of the desert.

By mid-morning, the sun blazed high, turning the sand into a blistering sea of fire. They took turns sipping from the single canteen Lorenzo had managed to snag during their escape, rationing it like misers guarding their last coins. Mel cracked jokes now and then, his voice hoarse but still carrying that edge of bravado.

“Think the vultures are takin’ bets on which one of us drops first?” he asked, squinting at the distant, circling dots in the sky.

Lorenzo didn’t answer, just tipped the canteen to his lips and took a careful sip before handing it back.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Mel continued, his voice dry as the sand under their boots. “No point bettin’ when it’s obviously gonna be you.”

Lorenzo shot him a look but said nothing.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the desert shifted. Shadows stretched long and thin, and the air cooled just enough to make the ache in their legs bearable. They found shelter beneath a rocky overhang, the jagged stones offering a sliver of protection from the biting wind. Mel flopped onto the ground with a groan, his head resting on his folded arms.

“You ever miss it?” he asked after a while, his voice softer than usual.

Lorenzo sat nearby, his knees drawn up, staring out at the vast emptiness. “Miss what?”

“Anything,” Mel replied. “Havin’ a place to call home. A bed that doesn’t try to kill you.”

Lorenzo was silent for a long moment. Finally, he shrugged. “Not much to miss.”

Mel let out a low chuckle. “Figures. You’re about as sentimental as a rattlesnake.”

The second day was worse.

The sun rose cruel and unrelenting, a white-hot furnace leeching the life out of everything it touched. The canteen was almost empty, the last few drops precious and carefully rationed. Their pace slowed as the heat dragged on them, turning each step into a battle. The desert stretched endless and featureless, broken only by the occasional scraggly bush or weathered rock.

Mel began to stumble first, his swagger dimming as the sun pressed down on him. His face, usually alight with mischief, was pale and slick with sweat. Still, he grinned whenever Lorenzo looked his way.

“Don’t worry about me, partner,” he rasped. “I’ve been through worse.”

Lorenzo shook his head but didn’t reply.

By mid-afternoon, the horizon seemed to ripple with heat, mirages dancing in the distance. At one point, Mel stopped, squinting at what looked like a pool of water shimmering ahead.

“Think that’s real?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Lorenzo didn’t stop. “No.”

Mel stared for a moment longer before trudging after him, his boots dragging through the sand.

By nightfall, they were barely standing. The cold returned with a vengeance, but it was nothing compared to the ache in their bodies. They collapsed beneath the open sky, too exhausted to seek shelter. Lorenzo handed Mel the canteen without a word, watching as he drained the last few drops.

“That’s it,” Mel said, tipping the canteen upside down to prove it was empty. “We’re officially out.”

He let out a weak laugh.

They lay in silence for a while, the stars above glittering cold and indifferent. Mel finally broke the quiet.

“You think they’ll follow us?”

“Nah,” Lorenzo muttered, his voice thoughtful. “Two dead men. No point.”

Mel smirked faintly. “Not dead yet, amigo.”

The sun was rising when they reached the edge of a valley.

❧

Chapter 1

Dose amigos

“Goddamn these black-and-white uniforms,” Lorenzo muttered, tugging at the coarse fabric. “Feels like I’m wearin’ horsehair.”

“Shit, Lorenzo,” Mel drawled, his crooked grin returning. “Somebody’s gonna get tired of your complainin’. One night, when you’re sleepin’, they’re gonna cut off your gonads and make ’em into a little Mexican coin purse.”

“You know what your problem is, Mel?” Lorenzo shot back, his voice dry. “You talk too much.”

“Well, maybe you don’t talk enough,” Mel countered, grinning wider. “See? That’s why I gotta talk for both of us.”

“Mel, it’s hot as hell,” Lorenzo muttered. “I need a shot of tequila… and maybe a good whore to quench my thirst when we hit the next town.”

Mel glanced sideways, smirking. “Yeah, they’ll love us—’cept for the fact we look like a couple of damned zebras escaped from the circus.”

Lorenzo grinned, but Mel cut him off before he could speak again. “Y’know what, maybe just leave the talkin’ to me. You ain’t too wrong, though. Even I could use a drink and… other comforts.”

Lorenzo’s grin faltered as he squinted ahead. “Mel?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s some riders comin’.”

Mel straightened up, his face hardening. “Shit. Alright. You keep your trap shut and let me handle this.”

The riders closed in—two rough-looking men on sturdy horses. The smaller one spoke first, his voice sharp and mocking.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

“Looks like they’re fresh off a chain gang,” the larger one added with a sneer.

The smaller man chuckled. “Yep. Sure does. What’s your names?”

Mel stepped forward with an easy smile. “Name’s Jack Parkins. This here’s my Mexican cohort, Arturo. He’s got a last name, but hell if I can pronounce it!” He let out a forced laugh.

Lorenzo opened his mouth. “Yeah, what he sa—”

Mel shot him a cutting look that snapped Lorenzo’s jaw shut. Mel turned back to the riders, flashing that same grin.

“Anyway,” he continued, “this looks bad, I know. But it’s all a big misunderstanding. See, we got stuck up by a couple of thieves—took our clothes, took our horses, and left us in these stinkin’ prison rags. Wouldn’t’ve been decent to wander around naked, so here we are.”

The larger rider leaned forward, chewing on a wad of tobacco. “That so?”

“Yes, sir,” Mel said earnestly.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Funny, though. We heard about a white man by the name of Mel Barnabus—somewhat of a bad character—escaped from a chain gang with a Mexican not two days ago.”

Mel’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes flickered with tension. “Well, now, that is funny, ’cause those thieves we mentioned? They fit that same description.” He clapped Lorenzo’s shoulder. “Ain’t that right, Arturo?”

Lorenzo nodded quickly. “Yeah. What he said.”

The big man’s expression darkened. “The story also says this Mel fella’s got a bird tattoo on his right forearm.”

Mel approached the smaller man’s horse, rolling up his sleeve as he walked. “Easy enough to clear up. Look here—I ain’t got no tattoo.” He held out his arm.

The smaller man leaned in to inspect it, and in one lightning-fast motion, Mel grabbed him, yanked him out of the saddle, and wrested the six-gun from his holster. The smaller man hit the dirt with a grunt, and Mel leveled the gun at the larger rider before he could react.

Lorenzo stepped forward, looming over the man writhing in the dirt. “Now see,” Mel drawled, “I don’t much respect bounty hunters. And I’m real sorry for lyin’ to you both. But I’m gonna need your clothes, your guns, and your mounts.”

The big man spat a curse. Go to hell!

Mel’s expression hardened. Without hesitation, he shifted the gun and shot the smaller man in the foot. The bullet tore through the boot, and the man screamed, clutching his bloodied toe.

The larger man’s resolve crumbled. He threw his weapons to the ground. “Alright, alright! Take ’em!”

Moments later, the two bounty hunters stood stripped and bare naked with there shriveled peckers in the wind holding the prison uniforms .

Mel and Lorenzo mounted the stolen horses, armed and smiling.

“Well,” Mel said, tipping his hat to the humiliated pair, “y’all have a good day now.”

The two fugitives rode off, the bounty hunters shrinking in the distance behind them.

“Good lord that big bastard musta ate like a clysdale my britches keep slipping off my rear.” Said Mel with genuine dismay.

Both men taking long pulls off their newly acquired canteens of water.

Mel, the older of the two at 35, moved with the confidence of someone who always had a plan—though whether it was a good one was anyone’s guess. He had the kind of lean, athletic frame that suggested he could outrun, outfight, or outthink most of the trouble he stumbled into. His brown hair, usually hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, was a mess, and his sharp blue eyes gleamed with mischief as he glanced around the empty expanse of the desert. There was a slyness about him, a crooked grin that hinted at trouble—but the kind of trouble you might follow just to see where it led.

“I’m tellin’ you, Lorenzo,” Mel said, wiping sweat from his brow, “we’re gonna hit that next town, get some decent clothes, maybe a drink, and maybe nobody’ll even remember we were wearin’ those damn stripes.”

Behind him, Lorenzo rode with an unhurried gait, his wavy black hair already damp from the heat. At 34, he was solidly built, with broad shoulders and a natural strength, but it was his demeanor that stood out. He carried himself with a sense of quiet confidence, as though the world’s troubles were more of a challenge than something to be weighed down by. His dark eyes held a playful glint, though there was a steady resolve beneath them, the kind that hinted he could get serious when it counted.

“Mel,” Lorenzo said witch a playful tone, “you ever think we should stop and appreciate this fine stretch of desert we’ve been blessed with? Really take it in before we ride off into some fresh disaster?”

Mel shot him a Quick Look not catching the joke, one eyebrow raised. “You mean stop here? In the middle of nowhere? With the buzzards and the heat?”

“Why not?” Lorenzo spread his arms wide, as if embracing the emptiness around them. “You gotta admit, there’s a certain beauty to it. Besides, we’re free. More or less.”

“Less,” Mel muttered. “We’re two escaped convicts in stripes not but 10 minutes ago. Not exactly free men.”

Lorenzo smirked. “Ah, but we’re moving, Mel. Moving beats sitting in a cell, don’t it?”

Mel shook his head, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You always this optimistic?” Mel asked.

“Depends,” Lorenzo said. “Am I wrong?”

Mel laughed quietly, despite himself. “Most of the time. But not today.”

Lorenzo tipped an imaginary hat. “That’s progress. Maybe you’re rubbin’ off on me after all.”

Their banter fell into a comfortable silence as they rode on. Lorenzo glanced up at the blazing sun, then to the horizon, his eyes narrowing.

Mel Barnabus came into the world in the gutter, born in 1861 in the back room of a brothel in Nashville, Tennessee. His mother, Esther, was one of the working girls, a woman who had little to her name except her beauty, her pride, and an unshakable love for the boy she bore. Mel never knew his father. Esther didn’t speak of him, and Mel learned early not to ask. In a world of fleeting men and whispered lies, Esther made sure Mel understood one thing: he was hers, and that was all that mattered.

Life in Neena’s brothel was rough, but it was a kind of family. The women took turns looking after Mel while Esther worked. They doted on him in their way, teaching him their wisdom and shielding him from the uglier aspects of their lives. Neena, the brothel’s sharp-eyed matron, treated Mel like a stray pup she’d adopted, warning off any man foolish enough to raise a hand against the boy.

Esther made sure her son was raised with dignity, despite their circumstances. She taught him manners, how to speak with charm, and the importance of holding his head high no matter how low the world tried to drag him. “People might judge you, Mel,” she’d say, stroking his hair as he drifted off to sleep. “But that don’t mean you gotta live down to their expectations.”

Those were the best years of Mel’s life. He was surrounded by warmth and laughter, a strange and imperfect happiness in the shadow of hardship. But nothing good lasts forever.

When Mel was eleven, cholera swept through the slums of Nashville. Esther fell ill, and though the women of the brothel did their best to nurse her, the sickness took her within days. Mel stayed by her side until the very end, holding her hand as the light faded from her eyes. He buried her in a pauper’s grave, his heart shattered, his world upended.

With Esther gone, Neena tried to take care of him, but the brothel was no longer a place he could call home. The laughter that once filled its halls had turned to whispers of pity. Unable to bear it, Mel ran.

The streets of Nashville became his home. He survived on wits and guile, quickly learning the art of the con. By thirteen, he was a small-time grifter, charming his way into pockets and out of trouble with a silver tongue and a cocky grin. But the law was always one step behind, and eventually, they caught him with a stolen coin purse. The judge didn’t care about his age or his circumstances—he sent Mel to Gray’s Home for Boys, a bleak and brutal orphanage that promised to “set wayward boys straight.”

Gray’s was a place of iron discipline and unrelenting cruelty. The wardens beat the boys for the smallest infractions, and the older children preyed on the younger ones. Mel’s charm got him through some of it, but even he couldn’t smile his way out of a whipping.

Lorenzo Morallis was born in 1862 in New Mexico, the son of a Mexican housemaid and a wealthy landowner’s son. His mother, María, was young, beautiful, and hardworking, but her love for Lorenzo’s father was a curse. When she became pregnant, her lover chose the family fortune over her, abandoning her to the harsh realities of life as an unwed mother.

María didn’t crumble. She gave birth to Lorenzo and raised him on her own, finding work wherever she could. They traveled with a wagon train for a time, María earning their keep by cooking and cleaning for a family named the Neils. Lorenzo grew up on the move, learning early that life offered no guarantees and no kindness to those who couldn’t fight for it.

Eventually, they settled in Nashville, where María took a job as a maid for the Neils. She worked tirelessly to provide for Lorenzo, and despite her exhaustion, she always made time for him. She taught him to read, to pray, and to stand tall even when the world tried to knock him down.

But Nashville was not kind to a boy like Lorenzo—a child of mixed blood in a town that saw him as neither white nor Mexican. He was ridiculed, spat on, and beaten by other children who called him a thief and a half-breed. When he was nine, one of those beatings went too far. A drunken man accused him of stealing and left him bloody in the street. Desperate and terrified, Lorenzo grabbed the man’s pistol and shot him dead.

The act haunted Lorenzo, but it also hardened him. He fled the scene, but the memory of that man’s lifeless body stayed with him, a reminder of the line he’d crossed and the world that had forced him to do it.

Not long after, María succumbed to tuberculosis. Her death left Lorenzo utterly alone, a boy adrift in a world that had no place for him. He survived by stealing food and sleeping wherever he could until he was caught by the law. The judge didn’t care about his story; he sent Lorenzo to Gray’s Home for Boys.

Gray’s was a crucible, a place where boys were beaten into submission or forged into something harder, something unbreakable. It was there that Mel and Lorenzo crossed paths. At first, they were wary of each other—Mel with his quick wit and glib tongue, Lorenzo with his quiet intensity and simmering anger. But they recognized something in each other: a shared pain, a mutual defiance.

Together, they survived the beatings and cruelty, their bond growing stronger with every shared whisper in the dark, every plan to escape. Mel brought the charm and the schemes; Lorenzo brought the muscle and the steadfast loyalty.

At sixteen and fifteen, they made their move, slipping away under the cover of night and leaving Gray’s behind. From then on, they were a team, roaming from town to town, surviving through cons, theft, and the occasional coach robbery. Mel was the planner, the talker, the gambler who could charm his way into any room. Lorenzo was the enforcer, his quiet strength and sharp instincts making him the perfect partner in crime.

The two were by the gods honest truth all they had in the world.

❧

Chapter 2

Dead Horse & Dead wives

The sun dipped low as Mel and Lorenzo rode into Dead Horse, a lawless bustling mining town on the outskirts of Blackjack County, where the streets were lined with saloons, brothels, and gambling dens. The air buzzed with shouts, laughter, and the occasional gunshot. Dust kicked up around their boots as they dismounted and tied their horses outside a lively saloon called The Crooked Spur.

Mel dug through the saddle bag on his stolen horse until a wad of bills touched his finger tips.

“We’re in luck my friend”Mel said putting the bills in his oversized pants pocket and adjusting his stalker hat before turning to Lorenzo, a grin playing on his face. “looks like we’ve made it to paradise. Whiskey, cards, and… other comforts. What’s your pleasure?”

Lorenzo stretched his arms over his head, his wiry black hair falling into his eyes. “Oh, I’ve been thinkin’ about it since we hit the trail. I need a drink, sure, but what I really need is a fine woman to take my mind off all this walkin.”

Mel laughed, clapping him on the back. “Fair enough. Let’s see what this place has to offer.”

They stepped through the swinging saloon doors, the raucous noise of the room washing over them. The smell of spilled whiskey, sweat, and cheap cigars filled the air. Mel’s sharp blue eyes scanned the crowd—miners, gamblers, and working girls filled the tables, and the clink of poker chips was music to his ears.

“Not bad,” Mel muttered.

“Not bad at all,” Lorenzo agreed, his gaze already drifting toward a curvy brunette in the corner.

As they headed toward the bar, a burly man with a greasy apron stepped in their path. He looked Lorenzo up and down, his lip curling. “Hey. No Mexicans allowed in here.”

Lorenzo’s smile faltered, his hand twitching toward his hip where his holster usually sat. “You wanna say that again, amigo?”

Before things could escalate, Mel stepped in, his grin wide and disarming. “Whoa, whoa, now. Let’s not get all riled up. He ain’t even Mexican.”

The bartender’s brow furrowed. “The hell is he, then?”

Mel put a hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder, his grin turning conspiratorial. “Guatemalan,” he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The bartender squinted. “A… what?”

“Guatemalan,” Mel repeated, leaning in slightly, his tone dropping like he was sharing a secret. “From Guatemala. It’s a whole different place. Practically exotic, you might say. Hell, having him in here probably makes your establishment look more… cosmopolitan.”

The bartender frowned, clearly unsure of what to make of this. “Cosmo-what?”

Mel leaned an elbow on the bar, still smiling. “Means fancy. Classy. Like you’re runnin’ a place for worldly men who’ve seen it all.” He nodded toward the poker tables. “Tell you what, my friend here and I’ve got some coin to spend. He’s gonna find himself a lady, I’m gonna find a table, and your till’s gonna get a little heavier tonight. How’s that sound?”

The bartender scratched his chin, glancing between the two of them. Lorenzo gave him a tight smile, clearly biting back a comment.

Finally, the man grunted. “Fine. But he causes any trouble, it’s on you.”

“Trouble?” Mel said, laughing as he patted the man on the shoulder. “This guy? He’s as sweet as pie. You won’t even know he’s here.”

The bartender grumbled something under his breath and stepped aside.

Lorenzo exhaled, his grin returning as he nudged Mel. “Guatemalan, huh? That’s a new one.”

Mel winked. “You’re welcome.”

They split off—Mel heading to a poker table, and Lorenzo making his way toward the brunette with a bounce in his step. It wasn’t paradise, but Dead Horse would do for the night.

Mean while a few miles away the sheriff of Blackjack county sat at his cluttered desk in his office on the edge of the sleepy town Bar-dell,a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cigar smoldering in the other. Sheriff Elroy Griggs was a man who wore the badge, but there was no mistaking the blackness of his heart. He wasn’t the kind of lawman who kept peace in a town—he was the kind who ruled it like a king, handing out justice to the highest bidder and pain to anyone who crossed him.

Griggs was in his early fifties, his face leathery from years in the sun and his mustache yellowed from too much tobacco. He wore his badge like a brand, but everyone in the county knew it was the sheriff himself who had more blood on his hands than any outlaw.

The young deputy, barely more than a boy, stood nervously in the corner, hat in hand, staring at his boots. Griggs took a long pull from his bottle and sneered.

“Speak up, boy,” Griggs growled. “You’re standing there like a damn statue. What are you tryin’ to say?”

The deputy swallowed hard. “They… they killed him, Sheriff. They killed Clayton Maddox. Word is, they used chain to do it.”

Griggs slammed the bottle down on the desk, spilling whiskey across a stack of papers. His eyes burned with anger as he leaned forward.

“Say that again,” he barked.

The deputy winced but repeated himself. “Mel Barnabus and that Mexican—uh, —killed Bull Maddox while he was sleepin’.

Griggs leaned back in his chair anger spreading across his face “Well, ain’t that a goddamn shame,” he said. “Big ol’ Clayton ‘Bull’ Maddox, done in by two scrawny runaways. Damn it all!

Bull Maddox had been the meanest bastard in the county, handpicked by Griggs to run the chain gang until the convicts were taken to Yuma with an iron fist.

Maddox took pleasure in breaking men, both their bodies and their spirits. Prisoners whispered about the nights when Maddox would drag someone from their bedroll and beat them senseless, sometimes just to prove a point. To him, the chain wasn’t just a tool of punishment—it was a weapon of humiliation.

But Mel and Lorenzo had seen through Maddox from the start. They’d bided their time, enduring the insults and the beatings, waiting for their moment.

“You should’ve seen him,” the deputy said hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper. “The other prisoners said they waited ‘til Maddox was snorin’. Mel took the chain weight and… and smashed his skull in. Word is they didn’t stop ‘til his head was gone.”

The deputy shifted uncomfortably. “ But Sheriff, the men say Maddox was worse than the prisoners he kept. They say he—”

“I don’t give a shit what they say,” Griggs snapped, cutting him off. “Maddox worked for me, and those two sons of bitches made me look weak. Nobody crosses me. You hear me, boy?”

The deputy nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

Griggs stood, looming over the young man. “You tell every bounty hunter in the territory—dead or alive, I want Mel Barnabus and his little friend brought to me. I don’t care if they’re dragged in on a rope or carried in a pine box. Just get it done.”

The deputy nodded and hurried out of the office, leaving Griggs alone with his whiskey and cigar. The sheriff stared at the smoky haze swirling in the dim light, his mind turning over the events.

Mel and Lorenzo might’ve taken out Maddox, but to Griggs, As far as he was concerned, there was no place in the territory they could run that his shadow wouldn’t reach.

He grinned to himself, his teeth stained and yellow.

“They think they’re free,” he muttered. “But they don’t know what’s comin’.”

The room was dark except for the dim glow of the lantern on his desk, “Get out of here boy he yelled at the deputy with a wave of his hand. When the boy left he poured another glass of whiskey, staring at the bottle like it held the answers to all his problems. The silence of the room pressed down on him, and for a moment, he let his thoughts wander back to that night—the night that changed everything.

“Damn fool woman,” he muttered under his breath, the words heavy with bitterness. His fingers drummed against the desk, his mind replaying the scene for the hundredth time.

He’d known for weeks that something wasn’t right. Annabelle had been too quiet, too soft, too… content. He’d dismissed it at first, thinking maybe she’d finally come to terms with being his wife. But then he saw them.

“I should’ve known,” he growled, gripping the glass tighter. “That slick son of a bitch Mel Barnabus. Thought he could waltz into my town, into my house, and take what’s mine?”

Griggs slammed the glass down, whiskey sloshing over the rim. He could still see it so clearly: Mel slipping out the back door of his house, his boots light on the porch as Annabelle followed him. The way she kissed him—soft and slow, like she actually loved him. Like that two-bit drifter was worth anything more than the dirt under her feet.

“And her,” he muttered, his voice thick with venom. “Standing there like some lovesick girl. My wife. Kissing that bastard on my porch like I wouldn’t find out.”

Griggs ran a hand through his graying hair, his jaw tight. He’d waited until Mel was gone, standing in the shadows until the door closed behind him. Then he’d gone inside, calm as anything. She’d turned to look at him, her face pale when she saw the look in his eyes.

“She knew,” he whispered to himself. “She knew she’d crossed the line.”

He could still hear her stammering excuses, her soft voice trembling as she tried to explain. Tried to apologize. But all he could see was that kiss.

“Stupid girl,” he muttered, the words bitter and sharp. “Thought I’d forgive her? Thought I’d let her make a fool outta me?”

Griggs shook his head, his hand clenching into a fist. He hadn’t forgiven her. He’d called her every name he could think of, every vile thing that came to mind. And then, when her tears started and her voice cracked as she begged for mercy, he’d put his hands around her throat and squeezed until there was nothing left.

“She brought it on herself,” he said under his breath, almost convincing himself. “What was I supposed to do? Let her shame me? Let her run off with that piece of trash?”

But killing her wasn’t enough. No, he couldn’t let anyone think she’d betrayed him. He couldn’t let anyone know what really happened. That’s when he’d come up with the story.

“Mel Barnabus,” he said, spitting the name like poison. “And that greaser buddy of his. Broke into my house to rob me and killed her in cold blood, then ran like the cowards they are.”

Griggs leaned back in his chair, the ghost of a cruel smile playing on his lips. “And they bought it. Hell, the judge didn’t even blink. Sent ’em both to Yuma before they had time to say a word.”

But now they were out. Mel and Lorenzo were free, and the thought of them walking around, breathing the same air as him, made his blood boil.

“They think they’re safe,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “They think they can run from me. But they don’t know what’s coming. They don’t know who they’re dealing with.”

Griggs picked up the photograph of Annabelle and stared at her face one last time before tossing it into the drawer and slamming it shut.

“They’re dead men,” he muttered, reaching for his revolver. “And when I catch up to them, I’ll make sure they know it.”

❧

Chapter 3

New start, new enemies

Mel and Lorenzo had settled into Dead Horse using some of Mels poker winnings from the night prior to get them selves new clothes and some well needed nourishment. The two men had made them selves comfortable at the crooked spur where Mel an avid gambler rarely left his seat at the holdem table.

“Full house,” Mel said, tossing his cards onto the table with a cocky smirk. He leaned back in his chair, puffing on his half-burned cigar. “Lady Luck sure is fond of me tonight, gentlemen.”

The groans around the table were interrupted by a low, menacing growl. “Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it.”

Mel’s eyes flicked up to the burly man across the table—a brute with a wild, unkempt beard and fists like anvils.

“Oh?” Mel said, raising an eyebrow. “And what exactly’s your theory, friend?”

The man stood slowly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I think you’re a goddamn cheat.”

Mel’s grin faltered but didn’t disappear. “That’s a mighty big accusation for a man who just got outplayed.”

The brute didn’t hesitate. In one swift motion, he drew his big navy Colt, pointing it straight at Mel’s chest.

Gasps rippled through the saloon as chairs scraped back and the room froze. Mel, however, stayed seated, puffing lazily on his cigar like nothing was amiss.

“You got somethin’ smart to say now, card shark?” the man barked, his finger hovering on the trigger.

Mel exhaled a thin stream of smoke, his smirk widening. making a finger gun he pointed it at the big man and said “Yeah. Just wonderin’ if you’re really dumb enough to pull that trigger.”

The man’s lip curled, his finger twitching.

Before he could say a word, the cold click of a revolver’s hammer echoed inches from his ear. The brute froze, his eyes widening slightly.

“Don’t move,” Lorenzo said, his voice low and steady. He’d come up behind the man, his Colt pressed firmly against the back of his head. His boots were dusty from the road, and his dark eyes were hard as iron.

The brute gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his brow. “You back off, or—”

“Or what?” Lorenzo interrupted. His tone was calm, but his words cut like a blade. “You shoot him, I shoot you. And I wont miss.”

The saloon was dead silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Mel finally leaned forward, stubbing out his cigar on the table.

“You heard the man,” Mel said casually. “I wouldn’t test his patience if I were you.”

The brute hesitated, his hand shaking as he slowly lowered the Colt. Lorenzo didn’t move, his gun still pressed against the man’s skull.

“Put that smoke wagon on the table,” Lorenzo said quietly, stepping back but keeping his gun ready.

Mel picked up the Colt from the table and inspected it lazily. “Nice piece,” he said, tossing it back onto the table with a clatter. “But you might want to reconsider how you use it in the future.”

The brute glared at him, then at Lorenzo, before storming out of the saloon without a word. The swinging doors slammed behind him.

Lorenzo holstered his gun, his expression still grim as he turned to Mel. “You’ve got a real talent for stirring up trouble, you know that?”

Mel shrugged, picking up the deck and shuffling it. “What can I say? It follows me around.”

“That man’s not just gonna forget this,” Lorenzo said firmly.

Mel chuckled, dealing himself a hand. “He can stew on it. If he comes back, we’ll deal with him. Just like we always do.”

“You know who that was don’t ya” said a cowpuncher seated across from Mel at the poker table.

“A sore looser it seems” Mel replied

“That might be said the dusty saddle tramp, but that was Curly Harden and he runs with the Shilo brothers, a bad bunch of men if I was you two I would grow eyes in the back of my head.”

“Well friend”Mel said with a smile “I appreciate the advice but if I was you I would be more worried about them cards your holding in your hand.”

Lorenzo didn’t give it much thought, cause he knew Mel was hard headed as a mountain goat and stubborn as a mule.

Lorenzo sighed, his jaw tight. He glanced up at the brunette he had met there first night in town watching from the stairs then back to Mel.

“Well,” Mel said, tapping ash onto the floor, “how was she?”

“She’s great,” Lorenzo replied flatly.

Mel chuckled, glancing toward the brunette leaning against the staircase banister. She was still watching Lorenzo with a dreamy expression, her eyes following his every move.

“Great, huh?” Mel said, smirking. “She sure seems to like you. Can’t get her eyes off ya.”

Lorenzo shrugged, pouring himself a drink from the bottle on the table. “She’s a whore.”

Mel raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, his tone softening. “Whores need love too, you dumb Mexican half-breed.”

Lorenzo shot him a sharp look, but before he could respond, Mel’s grin faded. He stared at his glass, swirling the whiskey inside. His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Hell… maybe even more than most.”

Lorenzo frowned, setting his glass down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mel took another drag from his cigar, letting the smoke linger before exhaling. He looked up at Lorenzo, his blue eyes clouded with something that wasn’t there a moment ago. “You ever think about her?”

“Who?” Lorenzo asked cautiously.

“Annabelle,” Mel said, his voice heavy.

Lorenzo stiffened, glancing around the saloon to make sure no one was listening. “Mel, now’s not the time—”

“I didn’t know,” Mel interrupted, his voice laced with regret. “I didn’t know she was his wife. I didn’t know she was married at all. She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. She was just… kind.” He took a long sip of his whiskey. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

Lorenzo leaned forward, his tone low and firm. “No, she didn’t. But that bastard Griggs killed her, not you. He needed someone to blame, and he picked us. You can’t keep carryin’ that like it’s your fault.”

Mel laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Doesn’t change the fact that she’s dead. And if I hadn’t been in her life…” He trailed off, rubbing a hand over his face.

Mel’s smirk returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He raised his glass. “To good Women”

Lorenzo clinked his glass against Mel’s, his gaze steady

The two drank in silence for a moment before Mel leaned back, his cocky grin finally breaking through the somber mood. “Anyway, you’re right. I don’t know a damn thing about love. That brunette up there, though? She sure had some practice in it.

Lorenzo chuckled, shaking his head.

Mel puffed on his cigar, his smirk widening. “Anyways like I said whores need love too, you dumb Guatemalan.”

Lorenzo rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re hopeless.”

“Maybe,” Mel said, shuffling the deck of cards on the table. “But at least you got good company.”

The Crooked Spur had quieted down after the earlier chaos, though the scent of spilled whiskey and cheap cigars still lingered thick in the air. Most of the patrons had gone back to their games, their drinks, or the soft company of the saloon’s working girls. Lorenzo Morales, however, sat alone at a corner table, nursing a half-full glass of bourbon. His dark eyes scanned the room, quiet but alert, as if he were waiting for the next storm to roll in.

Across the saloon, Lilly leaned against the bar, watching him. She had been watching him ever since the earlier commotion. The way he had stepped in without hesitation, disarming the big man like it was nothing, had caught her attention. But there was more to it than that. She knew him—or at least, she thought she did. Their first time together had been transactional, a simple exchange of coin for comfort. Yet, it had lingered in her mind far longer than it should have.

After a moment, she made up her mind. Smoothing her skirts, she approached him, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor.

“You always this quick to save troublemakers?” she asked, sliding into the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation.

Lorenzo glanced up at her, his face unreadable at first. Then a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Only the ones I’m stuck with.”

Lilly chuckled, leaning her elbows on the table. “Well, your friend certainly knows how to stir things up. I take it you’re the one who keeps him alive?”

Lorenzo shrugged, taking a slow sip from his glass. “He’s got a knack for gettin’ out of tight spots. He doesn’t need me… not most of the time.”

“Still,” Lilly said, her tone softening, “you didn’t hesitate. Not many men would’ve stepped in like that. Most would’ve let things play out.”

“Most men are smarter than me,” Lorenzo said dryly, though his faint smile betrayed his humor.

Lilly tilted her head, studying him. His face was sharp, rugged, his dark eyes deep and steady. He didn’t talk much, but every word felt deliberate, like he was always weighing what needed to be said and what didn’t.

She glanced down at the table, her fingers tracing the edge of the wood. “You know,” she said quietly, “most men I’ve been with don’t stick in my mind. But you… I’ve been thinkin’ about you.”

Lorenzo’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze searching hers. “Why?”

The question was so simple, so direct, that it caught her off guard. She looked away for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Because you didn’t treat me like the others. Like a means to an end.”

He held her gaze, his dark eyes steady. “What do you think I treated you like?”

Lilly hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Like a person.”

Lorenzo’s fingers tightened slightly around his glass. He didn’t say anything at first, his eyes drifting toward the crowded saloon when Finally, he said, “You deserved that much.”

Her heart ached at his words. She wasn’t used to kindness, not in her line of work, and certainly not from men like him—quiet, dangerous, and guarded. But there was something in Lorenzo that she couldn’t quite shake, a sense of decency buried beneath all the dust and scars.

“You’re a hard man to figure out,” she said softly.

“I’m not that complicated,” Lorenzo replied, though his tone suggested otherwise.

“Aren’t you?” she pressed, leaning in slightly. “Most men talk just to hear themselves. But you… you’re like a locked door. Makes a girl wonder what’s behind it.”

Lorenzo smirked faintly, though there was a trace of something sad in his expression. “Sometimes locked doors are best left alone.”

“And sometimes,” Lilly said, her voice barely above a whisper, “they just need the right person to open them.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the noise of the saloon fading into the background. For the first time in years, Lorenzo felt something stir inside him—something warm, fragile, and dangerous. He looked down at his glass, his fingers tracing the rim.

“I ain’t good for you, you know that right.”

He said with a half smile

“I don’t care,” she replied, her voice steady. “Maybe I’m not good for you either. Doesn’t mean we can’t have something… even if it’s just for a little while.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t answer right away, but when he looked at her again, there was something softer in his eyes.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Lilly smiled back, her fingers brushing against his on the table. “So are you.”

Mel still sitting at a poker table looked in his friends direction and laughed to himself.

❧

Chapter 4

The mule and the Marshall

A couple days had passed comfortably for Mel and Lorenzo, Mel drinking and boozing and Lorenzo spending more and more time with Lilly the young beautiful whore, he hated to admit to him self but he was starting to genuinely care for her.

As the sun dipped low and bathed the bustling mining town of Dead Horse in a copper glow, Marshal Woodrow J. Lloyd approached on the back of his scrappy, gray mule. His entrance was unassuming; the mule kicked up dust as he clopped down the main street, its rider casually humming a tune that was almost drowned out by the evening noise of saloons, gambling dens, and brothels coming alive.

Lloyd reined the mule to a stop in front of The Crooked Spur saloon, scratching his chin thoughtfully. The crooked badge pinned to his vest glinted faintly, but his worn, mismatched attire didn’t exactly scream “lawman.” With a resigned sigh, he swung his lanky frame off the mule and hitched it to the rail, patting its neck affectionately.

“Now don’t you get into any trouble, Betsy,” Lloyd muttered. “I’m already in enough of it for the both of us.”

He tipped his hat, pushed open the swinging saloon doors, and stepped inside.

The atmosphere in The Crooked Spur shifted. Conversation dwindled to uneasy murmurs as eyes darted to the man with the star on his chest. The gamblers, miners, and working girls sized him up quickly. This wasn’t a hard-nosed lawman here to crack down on sin—he looked more like a half-broke rancher who’d stumbled into town by mistake.

Lloyd stopped just inside the doorway, scanning the room with a friendly, disarming grin. He tipped his hat to no one in particular.

“Evenin’, folks,” he said, his drawl carrying a gentle, almost apologetic tone. “Don’t mind me. Just lookin’ for a bit of whiskey and maybe a scrap of information.”

Mel and Lorenzo, seated at their usual corner table, exchanged a glance. Mel’s smirk widened as he leaned back in his chair, puffing lazily on a cigar. Lorenzo, as ever, looked unimpressed, his dark eyes fixed on the stranger.

“This oughta be good,” Mel murmured.

The marshal made his way to the bar, his movements loose and unhurried. He ordered a whiskey, took a sip, and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Hits the spot,” he muttered, glancing around the room. “Now, I don’t mean to interrupt any fine evenin’ plans, but I’ve got a bit of business I could use some help with.”

He turned to the nearest group of men, his smile broad and open. “I’m lookin’ for a gang that calls themselves the Shilo Gang. Heard they might’ve passed through this way. Anyone seen ’em?”

The response was immediate—a chorus of scoffs, chuckles, and muttered curses.

“Shilo Gang?” a burly miner said, shaking his head. “You’ve got more guts than brains, Marshal, if you’re thinkin’ about takin’ them on.”

Lloyd chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I won’t argue with you there. Guts I got plenty of—brains, not so much. But duty’s duty, and somebody’s gotta keep these parts civilized.”

Mel raised an eyebrow at that, his smirk deepening. He leaned over to Lorenzo. “Think he’s serious?”

Lorenzo didn’t reply.

The bartender leaned across the bar, lowering his voice as if sharing a grave secret. “You got a death wish, Marshal? The Shilo Gang ain’t just killers—they’re worse. And they have been around here, you’d best turn right around and head back to wherever you came from.”

Woodrow’s expression turned solemn, but his tone stayed light. “Well, I’d reckon that’s true, friend. Trouble is, I don’t scare so easy.”

He tipped his glass, draining the last of his whiskey before glancing around the room. His eyes landed on Mel and Lorenzo’s table, where the two men were watching him with concealed amusement.

“Well now,” Lloyd said, stepping away from the bar. “Looks like we’ve got a pair of gents who ain’t laughin’ at me yet. Mind if I join you?”

Mel gestured to the empty chair with a flourish. “Be our guest, Marshal.”

Lloyd sat, tipping his hat. “Much obliged. Name’s Woodrow J. Lloyd, U.S. Marshal. And you fine gentlemen would be…?”

“Jack Parkins,” Mel said smoothly, extending a hand. “And this here’s my partner, Arturo.”

Lorenzo nodded once, his face unreadable.

“Jack and Arturo,” Lloyd repeated, his tone cheerful. “Pleasure to meet you both. You fellas wouldn’t happen to know anything about the Shilo Gang, would you?”

“We’ve heard a little,” Mel replied, his grin as easy as ever. “But we’d be happy to hear more about ’em. Sounds like a nasty bunch.”

“Oh, they’re nasty, alright,” Lloyd said, his expression darkening. “Murderers, thieves, and worse. Been chasin’ ’em for months now, but truth be told, I ain’t got much of a plan for takin’ ’em down. Not by myself, anyway.”

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, his voice low and even. “Then why bother?”

Lloyd shrugged, his grin returning. “Because somebody’s gotta try.”

Mel leaned back, studying the marshal with renewed interest. “You’re either brave or crazy, Marshal. Probably both.”

“Most likely,” Lloyd said with a laugh.

The saloon doors swung open with a thunderous crash, loud enough to silence every voice inside The Crooked Spur. The evening’s laughter and clinking glasses froze as four men strode inside, their boots pounding the wooden floor with deliberate weight.

At their head was Silas Shilo, a wiry, snake-eyed man with a cruel scar running down his cheek and a confidence that oozed danger. His dusty hat sat low over his brow, and his thin lips curled into a sneer as he looked around the room. Behind him, three equally rough-looking men followed, their hands never straying far from the grips of their holstered revolvers. Among them was the man Curly Harden that pointed his pistol to Mel’s chest three nights prior.

The room tensed as the gang fanned out near the bar, their presence oppressive and hostile.

Mel Barnabus sat in the corner, leaning back in his chair with his usual easy grin, while Lorenzo Morales sat across from him, arms folded, his dark eyes sharp and watchful. Neither man flinched as the gang entered.

Silas let the silence stretch a moment before his voice cut through the air, smooth and laced with menace.

“Listen up, folks,” he drawled. “Me and my boys here are lookin’ for a couple o’ fellas. Names won’t mean much to ya, but they might look familiar.”

He took a step closer to the center of the room, his boots creaking against the floorboards.

“Goes by Mel Barnabus and Lorenzo Morales,” he continued, his scarred face twisting into a mocking smile. “Couple of escaped convicts. Five thousand dollars for one, three for the other. Dead or alive.”

Mel’s grin didn’t waver, but his fingers lightly tapped the table, the only sign of tension. Lorenzo’s expression hardened, though he stayed perfectly still.

The saloon patrons glanced around uneasily, whispering to one another, but no one moved. As far as the town of Dead Horse knew, the only new arrivals were two drifters named Jack Parkins and Arturo—a white man and his quiet “Guatemalan” partner.

The gang’s eyes swept over the room, pausing briefly on Mel and Lorenzo before moving on. Silas smirked, seemingly satisfied with the lack of response.

“Y’all must not’ve seen ’em,” he said mockingly, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Pity. Reckon we’ll have to keep lookin’.”

Still at the table with Mel and Lorenzo Marshal Woodrow J. Lloyd stiffened. He recognized Silas Shilo and his men immediately. He stood, clearing his throat nervously but mustering his courage as he stepped into the open.

“You’re done looking,” Lloyd said, his voice steady but firm. “Silas Shilo, you and your boys are under arrest.”

The gang turned as one, Silas’s grin widening into a laugh that echoed off the saloon’s wooden walls.

“And who the hell are you supposed to be?” Silas said, eyeing the marshal’s crooked badge and slightly frayed coat.

“Marshal Woodrow J. Lloyd,” the lawman replied, straightening his posture. “And I suggest you put your weapons on the floor, nice and slow.”

One of Silas’s men snorted. Another burst into outright laughter. Silas leaned against the bar, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

“You serious, Marshal?” spitting the words like a taunt.”you’re gonna take us in? Just you?” Silas said as his posse laughed.

“Badge says I got the authority,” Lloyd shot back, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. “And if you don’t cooperate, I’ll make damn sure you regret it.”

Silas chuckled darkly, glancing back at his men. “You believe this guy? Talkin’ like he’s got a shot.”

The gang moved as one, hands drifting to their holsters.

Before Silas could say another word, a low, calm voice rang out from the corner.

“I wouldn’t,” Mel said, rising to his feet.

All eyes turned toward him. Mel’s easy grin was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. Lorenzo stood as well, his movements slow and deliberate, his hand resting just above his own revolver.

“Who the hell are you two?” Silas sneered, his eyes narrowing.

Mel shrugged, stepping closer. “Just a couple of concerned citizens,” he said, his voice smooth but sharp as a blade. “Seems to me the marshal’s got a right to do his job without a pack of mutts growlin’ in his face.”

The tension in the room crackled like gunpowder. Silas’s hand twitched toward his gun.

“Don’t,” Lorenzo warned, his tone low and deadly.

Silas hesitated for a moment, but his pride got the better of him. He sneered and went for his weapon.

The room exploded into action.

Mel’s revolver cleared its holster faster than the blink of an eye, the crack of the first shot ringing out as his bullet struck Curly square in the chest, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Lorenzo moved just as swiftly, his gun barking twice in rapid succession. One bullet slammed into the man on Silas’s right, dropping him instantly. The other took down the third man as he reached for his own weapon, the force of the shot sending him crashing into a table.

Silas froze looking around him, his gun halfway drawn, staring at the carnage around him.

The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the saloon, the silence broken only by the creak of floorboards and the heavy breathing of the stunned patrons.

Mel and Lorenzo turned their guns on Silas, their eyes cold and unrelenting.

“Drop it,” Mel ordered, his voice a deadly whisper.

Silas hesitated, but before he could decide, he bolted—diving toward the open doors and the safety of the street.

As he scrambled outside, he ducked behind Lloyd’s mule, his breath ragged.

But the mule wasn’t having it. With a furious bray, it lashed out with its hind legs, catching Silas square in the face with a sickening crack. He crumpled to the ground, lifeless, the impact having shattered his skull.

Mel , Lorenzo and the marshal ran out the swinging doors to the street to pursue, when they stopped and saw it.

“Did… did Betsy just—?”

“She sure did, Marshal,” Mel said with a sly grin. “Hell of a lawman you’ve got there.”

Lorenzo stepped forward, his movements calm and deliberate. He reached down, grabbed the bounty poster sticking out of Silas’s pocket, and crumpled it into his coat before anyone could see it.

Mel clapped Lloyd on the shoulder. “Looks like Silas Shilo aint your problem anymore.”

The marshal nodded, still dazed. “Yeah… yeah, guess not.”

The three men stood just outside The Crooked Spur, the evening desert wind stirring the dust around their boots. The streets of Dead Horse were unusually quiet, the usual rowdy sounds of drunken laughter and shouted bets muted. Only a few lanterns flickered in windows, their faint light casting long shadows across the ground.

Behind them, two townsfolk dragged the bodies of Silas Shilo’s men toward the undertaker’s shop, grumbling under their breath. Betsy, Marshal Lloyd’s mule stood lazily.

“Well,” Mel said, breaking the silence, “that went smoother than I expected.”

“Smoother?” Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes glinting in the low light. “We just shot three men dead in the middle of town. That’s your idea of smooth?”

Mel smirked, adjusting his hat. “They shot first.”

“And the mule,” Lorenzo added, nodding toward Betsy. “The mule finished it.”

Lloyd glanced at his mule and shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Betsy’s got a better sense of justice than half the lawmen I’ve met. And that’s sayin’ something.”

“Speaking of justice,” Mel said, turning toward the saloon doors, “we’d better figure out what happens next. Something tells me this isn’t the end of it.”

The three men stepped back into the saloon, the door creaking on its hinges. Inside, the room was quieter than it had been all night. Most of the patrons had scattered after the gunfight, though a few souls lingered at the bar, casting wary glances at the newcomers.

Mel, Lorenzo, and Lloyd made their way to a corner table, where an empty bottle of whiskey sat waiting like an old friend. Mel poured three glasses from a fresh bottle, sliding one to each man.

Lloyd took his glass but didn’t drink, his fingers drumming absently against the table. “I didn’t expect to find the Shilo Gang here,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’ve been chasing their trail for months now. Always a day or two behind.”

Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “How’d you end up in this mess, Marshal? Doesn’t seem like the kind of job a man volunteers for.”

Lloyd chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “No, it doesn’t. But I’m not exactly a typical marshal.”

Mel grinned. “You don’t say.”

Lloyd ignored the jab, his gaze distant as he stared at the glass in his hand. “I’ve been after Amos Shilo and his no good brother my mule done in for me for a long time. Amos is the kind of man who leaves nothing but ash and blood wherever he goes. I heard he’d been spotted in this territory a few months back, so I figured I’d take a chance and follow the rumors.”

“And you ended up in Dead Horse,” Mel said, raising an eyebrow. “Hell of a journey to land in a place like this.”

Lloyd nodded, “Not much of a journey, really. Just a lot of empty trails and bad whiskey. The only reason I stayed is because I heard about a gang of outlaws hiding out near here. Thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally catch up to Amos.”

Mel tilted his glass toward him. “Well, looks like you found part of what you were looking for.

Lloyd’s smile faded, his fingers tightening around the glass. “It’s not just about findin him,” he said quietly.

Lorenzo frowned, sitting up straighter. “What do you mean?”

Lloyd hesitated, his jaw tightening as he stared at the table. “Amos and Silas didn’t just rob banks and kill men. They… they took things from people. Things you can’t get back.”

Mel’s smirk faded, and Lorenzo leaned in closer, his dark eyes narrowing. “What things?”

Lloyd looked up, meeting Lorenzo’s gaze. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “My wife.”

The table fell silent, the weight of the word hanging in the air. Mel leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes sharp but cautious. Lorenzo said nothing, waiting for the marshal to continue.

“It was a couple of years ago,” Lloyd said, his voice steady but hollow. “I had retired from being a marshal and started a small farm, just outside a town called Stillwater. Me and my Nora… we weren’t rich, but we were happy. She had this way of makin’ everything feel simple, y’know? Like no matter how bad the world got, as long as she was there, it didn’t matter.”

Lorenzo nodded slowly, his expression softening.

“One night, I was out,” Lloyd continued. “Gone into town for supplies. When I got back…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “The barn was burning. He paused before continuing. And Nora…”

Mel leaned forward slightly.

Lloyd’s hands shook as he set the glass down. “They tied her up,” he said, his voice trembling with rage. “Beat her while they laughed and Amos—” His jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might break. “Amos took his time on her, Made it a game.”

Mel’s face darkened, his grin completely gone now. Lorenzo stared at Lloyd, his fists clenched against the table.

“When they were done,” Lloyd said, his voice breaking, “they left her there naked and bound. Told her thank you for your hospitality.

Lorenzo’s voice was cold when he finally spoke. “What happened to her?”

“She tried to hold on,” Lloyd said, his eyes glistening. “Tried to pretend it didn’t break her. But it did. She… she couldn’t live with it. Took her own life a few weeks later.”

The silence at the table was suffocating. Mel exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. Lorenzo stared down at the table, his expression unreadable.

“And now you’re here,” Mel said finally. “For…revenge?”

Lloyd met his gaze, his voice steady again. Those Men need to pay for what they’ve done.”

Mel nodded slowly, pouring another glass. “Well, Marshal, Something tells me Amos is gonna come lookin’ for us when he hears about his brother.”

“And he won’t come alone,” Lloyd said grimly.

“He won’t come alone.”

❧

Chapter 5

Diablo se encuentra con el Diablo

Amos Shilo stared at the canyon below, the wind whipping at his coat as the gang behind him waited nervously. He was silent, as he often was, but his silence was more terrifying than any threat. It was the kind of silence that made a man wonder if he was already dead.

“Boss?” Charlie approached cautiously, hat in hand.” Silas, paul, curly and Jim uh they all got killt going after some bounty.

Amos didn’t turn. “Who?”

“Couple of fellas,” Charlie stammered. “Gave the names Jack Parkins and Arturo. Is what the town folk is sayin.

Amos turned slowly, his ugly face catching the moonlight, his eyes colder than the night. “They killed Silas.”

Charlie nodded. “Yes, sir.

Amos stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that made Charlie’s blood run cold.

“We’re going to Bar-Dell!” Amos barked spit flying from between his clenched teeth.

“I need to talk to an old friend about these men with a bounty on their heads” he growled

“And then what boss?” Charlie asked hesitantly.

Amos’ smiled. “And then we burn Dead Horse to the ground.”

Sheriff Elroy Griggs sat at his dining table, a single oil lamp casting flickering shadows across the room. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards as the desert wind shifted outside. His chair groaned as he leaned back, one hand nursing a glass of whiskey while the other drummed idly on the scarred wood of the table.

The sheriff’s house was as unremarkable as the man himself: plain, dusty, and disheveled. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table, along with a revolver, its polished grip catching the lamplight. Above the mantle hung Griggs’ badge, gleaming in its polished perfection—a stark contrast to the man’s rumpled shirt and weary face.

He sighed heavily, tilting his chair back on two legs and staring at the ceiling. The day had dragged on as usual—drunks brawling, petty disputes over land, nothing new. Bar-dell had been quiet lately and it left him restless.

Three slow, deliberate knocks shattered the silence.

Griggs froze, his chair slamming back onto all four legs. His hand went instinctively to the revolver on the table as his eyes darted toward the door. The knocks came again—precisely spaced, calm, and oddly menacing.

“Who the hell’s there?” he barked, his voice louder than he intended.

Silence.

Griggs tightened his grip on the revolver, his pulse quickening. “I said, who’s there?” he shouted again, but no answer came.

His jaw clenched as he rose from the table. The lamp flickered as he made his way to the door, the revolver steady in his hand. He hesitated, glancing through the crack between the curtains. He could see nothing but shadows under the faint moonlight.

Griggs unlocked the door and yanked it open, his gun raised.

Amos Shilo stood on the porch, his broad frame filling the doorway. His long coat hung heavy with dust, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his scarred face. His cold eyes gleamed as he looked Griggs up and down, and the corners of his mouth twitched into a slow, sarcastic smile.

“Hello, Sheriff,” Amos said, his tone dripping with mockery.

Griggs blinked, his throat suddenly dry. “Amos,” he managed, forcing his voice to steady. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Amos stepped inside, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. The door creaked as he shut it behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet house. Griggs took an involuntary step back, gripping the revolver tighter.

“You always welcome guests with a gun in your hand?” Amos asked, his voice casual but laced with menace. He gestured to the revolver with a flick of his chin.

Griggs hesitated, then lowered the gun slightly but didn’t put it down. “This ain’t a social visit, is it?”

Amos chuckled darkly, the sound low and humorless. “Not exactly.”

He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on the badge above the mantle. Then he turned back to Griggs, his expression hardening. “My brother’s dead,” he said, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. “And I hear the men who killed him are holed up in Dead Horse.”

Griggs stiffened, his mind racing. He didn’t like where this was going. “Silas, huh?” he said cautiously. “Who did it”?

Amos took a step closer, his towering frame looming over the sheriff. “I want names, Sheriff,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp as a knife. “Two men. A slick-talking son of a bitch and a Mexican who’s too good with a gun.”

Griggs felt the sweat starting to bead on his forehead. He forced a nervous chuckle, “Barnabus” he said under his breath.

Who? Said Amos threw gritted teeth

Griggs’s fingers twitched on the revolver, but he didn’t raise it. He turned and walked back to the table, setting the gun down next to his glass of whiskey. “Alright,” he muttered, opening a drawer and pulling out a wanted poster. He slapped it onto the table and stepped back.

“Mel Barnabus and Lorenzo Morales,” Griggs said. “Escaped convicts. And there in Dead Horse huh?”

Amos stepped closer, picking up the poster and studying the faces printed on it. His face twisted into a humorless smile. “Barnabus and Morales,” he repeated softly, the names rolling off his tongue like poison. He looked back at Griggs, his smile widening. “The same two men you framed for your whore wife’s murder?”

Griggs stiffened, his face darkening. “Watch your mouth, Amos.”

Amos stood like a snake coiling to strike. “You used the law to bury your sins, and now those sins are sitting in Dead Horse, making you look weak.”

Griggs glared at him, his breathing heavy. After a long, tense silence, he exhaled sharply and sank back into his chair. “So what do you want?”

Amos’s smile faded, his tone turning deadly. “Deputize me and my men. We’ll ride into Dead Horse as lawmen. That badge of yours will keep the town from asking too many questions while we take care of business.”

Griggs hesitated, his fingers drumming on the edge of the table.

“Yes…yes!” Finally, he reached in his desk drawer pulling out a tin star. He slid it across the table with a sneer.

Amos picked up the star, holding it up to the lamplight.

“Amos” Griggs said bring Mel Barabus to me he’s mine.

Amos grinned as he turned toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “We ride at dawn, Sheriff,”

Griggs watched him leave, the door creaking shut behind him. The sheriff let out a shaky breath, grabbing the whiskey bottle and pouring another glass. He downed it in one gulp, slamming the empty glass onto the table.

Amos stepped into the cool night air, the tin star glinting in his hand. His gang was waiting by their horses, their faces half-hidden under wide-brimmed hats.

“Looks like we’re deputies now,” Amos said, his voice dripping with mockery.

The gang erupted into laughter as they mounted their horses. Amos tucked the wanted poster into his coat and swung onto his saddle, his eyes gleaming with cold determination.

“Dead Horse won’t know what hit it,” he growled, spurring his horse forward. The gang followed, their laughter fading into the night as they rode west.

❧

Chapter 6

Sun up show down

The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a single oil lamp on the bedside table. The scent of sweat, perfume, and smoke lingered in the air. Lorenzo sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots, the leather creaking softly as he worked them into place. Lilly lay sprawled across the bed behind him, the thin sheet tangled around her legs. She watched him with quiet amusement, her dark hair spilling across the pillow like ink.

“You always leave so fast,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “A girl might think you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

Lorenzo paused, his back still to her. “You know better than that.”

“Do I?” she replied, propping herself up on one elbow. The sheet slipped down her shoulder, but she didn’t bother to pull it back up. “You’re always in a hurry to disappear, like staying too long might make you… feel something.”

He didn’t turn around. Instead, he reached for his hat, turning it in his hands. “Lilly, you and I both know this isn’t a place for feelings.”

“Maybe not,” she said, her tone softening. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

Lorenzo sighed, setting the hat on his knee. “Feelings get people killed. You don’t want any part of the life I’m dragging behind me.”

She sat up fully now, the sheet pooling in her lap. “You think I don’t know what kind of life you’ve got? You think I don’t see it every time you walk in here?” Her voice wasn’t angry—it was steady, matter-of-fact. “You carry it around like it’s chained to your ankle. But maybe I don’t care, Lorenzo. Maybe I know what it’s like to live with ghosts.”

He finally turned to face her, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Lilly, I’ve done things. Things I can’t take back. You don’t want me bringing that to your door.”

She tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And what if I do? What if I’m not afraid of you or your ghosts?”

For a moment, he just looked at her, his jaw tight. “You should be,” he said quietly. “You don’t know what happens to people who get close to me.”

“Then tell me,” she pressed. “Tell me what you’ve done, Lorenzo. Because I’m still here.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers tightening around the brim of his hat. “My father was white,” he said finally, his voice low and bitter. “My mother… she wasn’t. That was her crime. Loving a man who didn’t have the guts to stand by her. He left, and she died young, working herself to the bone just to keep us alive. You know what they called me, Lilly? A half-breed. A mongrel. They didn’t care if I starved. They didn’t care if I lived or died. So I learned real fast how to take care of myself.”

Lilly didn’t interrupt, her eyes softening as she listened.

“I was a kid the first time I killed a man,” he continued, his voice tightening. “He was a drunk, cornered me in an alley and thought he’d teach me a lesson about knowing my place. I didn’t mean to do it, but… it didn’t matter. The world decided what I was that night, and I’ve been running from it ever since.”

He looked at her then, his expression hard but not unkind. “I’ve lied, stolen, killed—because that’s what the world expects from someone like me. And the only way I’ve survived is by never staying in one place too long, never letting anyone get close.”

Lilly stared at him for a long moment before she finally spoke. “And yet, here you are.”

He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be.”

“But you are,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. She leaned forward, her hand brushing his arm. “And I don’t care about the things you’ve done. I care about the man sitting in front of me right now.”

Lorenzo’s throat tightened, and he looked away, his hat trembling slightly in his hands. “You deserve better than this, Lilly. Better than me.”

“Maybe,” she said with a faint smile. “But I don’t want better. I want you.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable. For a moment, Lorenzo didn’t move. Then, slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his. His fingers were calloused, rough against her smooth skin, but his grip was steady.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled softly, leaning her forehead against his. “Then don’t. Just be here now.”

For the first time in a long time, Lorenzo let himself breathe. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her touch chase away the cold that had settled in his chest long ago. But deep down, he knew the truth—this wasn’t a life they could have. The world wasn’t kind to men like him or women like her.

Without a word he stood and walked out of the room , leaving Lilly with a lingering sense of longing she wished she didn’t feel.

The morning sun cast a harsh light over Dead Horse, the dust swirling lazily in the warm breeze. Lorenzo Morales stood at the edge of town, his arms crossed and his jaw set. He hadn’t told Mel or Lilly where he was going; he just needed some time alone to clear his head.

That was when he heard the sound of hooves—heavy, deliberate, and far too many to be good news. He turned, eyes narrowing as a bustle of riders rode around the corner into view.

“Shit,” Lorenzo muttered under his breath, his hand instinctively going to his hip. His fingers found nothing but empty air—he’d left his gun back at Lilly’s.

The riders slowed as they approached, Amos dismounting with the kind of practiced ease. He adjusted his coat, the tin star pinned to his chest catching the light.

“Well, well,” Amos said, his voice slow and lazy. “Lorenzo Morales right? Out here all by your lonesome?”

Lorenzo’s eyes flicked to the other riders, noting the rifles slung across their backs, the way their hands hovered near their holsters. “Amose right?” he asked, his voice steady.

“Now, that’s a funny question Lorenzo” Amos said, his grin widening “Where is Mel Barnabus?

“You’re wasting your time,” Lorenzo said. “Mel’s long gone.”

“Is that so?” Amos said, feigning surprise. “Well, here’s the thing: I don’t think he is. In fact, I think you and him are real close. Like brothers.”

Lorenzo didn’t answer. His stance shifted slightly, his muscles tensing as Amos took another step forward.

“You see,” Amos continued, “men like Barnabus? They’re predictable. Cocky. Always thinkin’ they’re too smart to get caught. But they’ve always got a weak spot. And right now, that weak spot is you.”

Lorenzo smirked, though his fists clenched at his sides. “You really think I’m gonna lead you to him?”

“Oh, no,” Amos said, shaking his head. “I don’t need you to lead me anywhere. I just need you to make a lot of noise. Enough noise to bring him to me.”

“Go to hell.”

Amos laughed, a low, humorless sound. “Now, Morales, let’s not make this difficult. He turned to his men with a nod. “Grab him.”

Two of the riders dismounted, closing in fast. Lorenzo didn’t wait—he swung at the first man, his fist connecting with the rider’s jaw. The second man tackled him from behind, slamming him into the dirt. He struggled, kicking and twisting, but they overpowered him quickly.

“Still got some fight in you, huh?” Amos said, crouching down as his men tied Lorenzo’s wrists with rough leather straps. “Good. I like it when they struggle.”

“You won’t like how it ends,” Lorenzo spat.

Amos leaned in, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Oh, I think I will.”

The people of Dead Horse were stirring, their day starting like any other. But the peace was shattered when Amos and his men rode into the main street, dragging Lorenzo behind them. The townsfolk froze, peeking out from windows and doorways as the gang came to a halt at the center of town.

Amos dismounted first, hauling Lorenzo off the horse and shoving him toward the hitching post. “Tie him up,” he barked. His men worked quickly, binding Lorenzo’s wrists to the post and tearing his shirt from his back.

“Get your hands off me!” Lorenzo snapped, struggling against the bindings.

“Now, now,” Amos said, uncoiling a long black whip. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Lorenzo glared at him. “You think this is gonna bring Mel out? You don’t know him.”

Amos chuckled, stepping closer. “Oh, I know him. Men like Barnabus always come running when their little family’s in trouble. And you? You’re gonna scream for him.”

“I don’t scream.”

Amos smirked. “You will.”

The first crack of the whip split the air, drawing gasps from the gathering crowd. Lorenzo flinched as the leather tore across his back, but he didn’t make a sound. Blood welled up along the fresh welt, dripping onto the dirt.

“Where’s your hero now, Morales?” Amos taunted, pacing behind him. “Hiding like a rat, I bet. But don’t worry. We’ve got all day.”

Another strike. Then another. Lorenzo’s knees buckled, but he forced himself to stand tall, his jaw clenched tight.

Amos shook his head, mock disappointment in his voice. “Still nothing? I’m almost impressed.”

“Leave him alone!” a voice screamed. Lilly burst from the crowd, her face pale with fury. She ran toward Lorenzo, her skirts kicking up dust. “You’re killing him!”

Amos turned, his grin widening. “Well, look at you. A whore with a heart.”

“Stop it!” she shouted, tears streaming. “Please, just stop!”

Amos tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. No.”

Lilly lunged for him, but one of his men grabbed her arm, dragging her back. “You don’t want to do that, sweetheart,” Amos warned. “But I’ll tell you what—you can help. Go fetch Barnabus for me. Tell him his friend’s in trouble.”

Lilly’s eyes darted to Lorenzo, who shook his head. “Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t you dare.”

Amos raised the whip again. “You’d better hurry,” he said to Lilly. “Because I’m just gettin’ started.”

She didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and ran toward The Crooked Spur, her heart pounding. She shoved through the saloon doors, nearly stumbling as she barreled inside.

“Mel!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “Mel, they’ve got him! You have to—”

Before she could finish, Mel appeared at the top of the stairs, his face grim. His holster was already strapped on, his revolver gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Where?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

“In the street,” Lilly said, choking back a sob. “They’re—he’s—”

Mel didn’t wait. He brushed past her, his boots heavy against the wood. By the time he stepped outside, the street had gone silent.

Amos stood with the whip in hand, the tip dripping blood. Lorenzo hung limply from the post, his back a mess of red welts, but his dark eyes burned with defiance.

“Well, well,” Amos said, turning toward Mel. Griggs was right here he is. The big hero.”

“See here Barnabus our mutual friend Sherrie Griggs deputized me and my boys, so when we gun you down it’ll all be um… a community service.”

Mel’s hand hovered near his gun. “Let him go.”

“And what if I don’t?” Amos asked, grinning. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Mel’s smirk was sharp, dangerous. “Guess you’ll find out.”

The tension snapped like a drawn wire as Amos’s grin widened. His hand dropped toward his revolver.

For the first time, Amos Shilo’s smirk vanished. His scarred face twisted, rage boiling beneath the surface. He took a step closer to Mel, the whip falling forgotten to the dirt. His men shifted uneasily, the tension thick enough to choke on.

“You killed my kid brother,” Amos said, his voice low and venomous. His lips curled back, his teeth bared like an animal about to strike. “You’re gonna die for it, Barnabus. Slowly. Screaming.”

Mel’s eyes narrowed, his hand resting lightly on the grip of his revolver. “Your brother had it coming, Amos. Just like you do.”

Amos’s face darkened further, his jagged teeth seeming to catch the light from under his hat. He looked less like a man and more like the devil himself, his eyes blazing with hatred. He didn’t laugh, didn’t sneer—there was nothing but raw fury now.

“Draw,” Amos growled, his voice cold as death. “Or I’ll kill him right here in front of you.”

He jerked his head toward Lorenzo, who sagged against the hitching post, blood streaming down his back, Lorenzo coughed, spitting blood into the dirt.

“Don’t do it, Mel,” Lorenzo rasped.

But Mel didn’t move. His gaze stayed locked on Amos, his fingers tightening just slightly on his revolver. “You don’t scare me, Shilo,” he said, his voice calm.

The two men stood frozen, the street silent except for the faint creak of leather and the soft wind stirring the dust. Amos’s men fanned out behind him, their hands hovering near their holsters. The townsfolk held their breath, too afraid to move.

Amos’s eyes flicked to his men, then back to Mel. “Alright, boys,” he said, his voice steady but laced with menace. “Kill him.”

The first shot came from Mel’s revolver, the crack echoing like thunder. One of Amos’s men crumpled instantly, a red stain blooming across his chest as he hit the dirt.

Then the street exploded into chaos.

Amos drew his gun, firing wildly as Mel dove for cover behind a water trough. Bullets tore through the air, splintering wood and shattering windows. Townsfolk screamed, scattering like rats as the gang unleashed a barrage of gunfire.

Mel popped up from behind the trough, his revolver barking twice. Another man fell, clutching his stomach as he toppled backward. Lorenzo, still tied to the post, strained against his bindings, his muscles trembling with effort.

Amos stalked forward, firing with precision. A bullet whizzed past Mel’s head, close enough to singe the brim of his hat. Mel returned fire, forcing Amos to duck behind a wagon.

“Come on, Barnabus!” Amos roared, his voice thick with fury. “Let’s finish this!”

Mel didn’t answer. He darted from cover, his boots pounding against the dirt as he fired. Another man fell, clutching his throat as blood poured between his fingers.

Mel reloaded his revolver as one of Amos’s men swung his rifle toward Lorenzo, a cruel grin on his face. “Reckon I’ll finish the Mexican off, then—”

The crack of Mel’s revolver cut him off mid-sentence, the bullet punching through his chest and sending him sprawling.

“don’t touch him,” Mel snarled, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun.

Amos stepped out from behind the wagon, his gun leveled at Mel. The two men faced each other in the middle of the street, their boots planted in the dirt, their faces set like stone.

“You’re good, Barnabus,” Amos said, his voice low and deadly. “But you’re not fast enough.”

Mel smirked that genuine crooked smile though his breathing was ragged and blood trickled from a cut on his temple. “Guess we’ll find out.”

They moved at the same time.

Amos’s gun roared, the bullet catching Mel in the shoulder and spinning him around. Mel fired back, the shot grazing Amos’s side but not stopping him. Amos advanced, his steps slow and deliberate as Mel staggered, blood soaking through his shirt.

Another shot came from Amos, this one tearing into Mel’s arm. The revolver slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground. He dropped to his knees, clutching his bleeding arm as Amos loomed over him.

“This is it, Barnabus,” Amos said, his voice cold and triumphant. “You had your fun. Now you’re gonna die.

Amos cocked his gun, aiming it squarely at Mel’s head.

Suddenly a voice yelled out into the street.

“Amos Shilo!”

The voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Amos froze, his eyes narrowing as he turned toward the source.

Marshal Woodrow J. Lloyd stood at the edge of the street, his battered coat flapping in the wind and his crooked badge glinting in the sunlight. His revolver was drawn, the barrel steady as it pointed at Amos.

“And who the hell are you?” Amos growled, his voice dripping with disdain.

The marshal stepped forward, his boots crunching against the dirt. “My name is Woodrow J. Lloyd,” he said, his voice steady and unshakable. “And you killed my wife, you son of a bitch.”

His gun roared, the bullet punching cleanly through Amos’s forehead. The gang leader’s body jerked, his gun firing wildly into the air before he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

The rest of the gang reacted instantly, firing on the marshal. Lloyd took down two more men before a bullet slammed into his chest, knocking him to the ground.

Amos dead and the remaining outlaws focused on Lloyd, Lorenzo finally managed to free one of his hands. He grabbed the revolver dropped by a fallen man and fired, taking out the last of the gang.

Mel crawled to Lloyd’s side, blood staining the dirt beneath him. Lorenzo stumbled over, his back a mess of torn flesh but his steps steady.

❧

Chapter 7

A reckoning

Black powder smoke and dead bodies filled the street as it was suddenly quiet.

Both Mel and Lorenzo dropped over the Marshall placing their hands over the man’s bloodied chest.

Realizing there was no stopping the bleeding Mel spoke.

“You did it, Marshal,” Mel said, his voice hoarse. “You did it.”

Lloyd smiled faintly, his breathing shallow. Then Mel and Lorenzo watched the marshals eyes as the light faded from them.

Mel Barnabus sat slumped in the dirt of Dead Horse, his shirt soaked with blood, his body wracked with pain. Around him, the town was deathly silent. Lorenzo knelt nearby, his back a raw and bleeding mess, but he was alive. Marshal Woodrow J. Lloyd lay between them.

Mel nodded, his own throat tightening. “You go to your Nora Marshal. You earned it.”

Woodrow J. Lloyd, lawman, avenger, and husband. His battered badge glinted in the bright sunlight.

“God damn Griggs started all of this” Mel spat.

“And I’m gonna put a bullet in that fat sack if it’s the last thing I do.”

Lorenzo reached out, his voice weak but insistent. “Mel… stay. We need a doctor. Both of us. This… this can wait.”

Mel pushed himself to his feet, his face pale and drawn but set like stone. His blue eyes burned with something cold, something final.

“No,” Mel said, his voice low but resolute. “This can’t wait.”

Lilly appeared at Lorenzo’s side, tears streaking her face. “Mel, please,” she said. “You’re hurt. You’ll bleed out before you make it anywhere.”

Mel turned to her, his expression softening just slightly. “You take care of him, Lilly. He’s got more sense than me.”

Lorenzo tried to rise, but the pain in his back forced him back down. “Don’t do this alone,” he rasped. “Griggs… he ain’t worth it.”

Mel paused, his gaze drifting to Lloyd’s still body. His fists clenched, and when he turned back to Lorenzo, his voice was calm but cold. “Maybe he ain’t, maybe we ain’t worth nothin either but the Marshall and… he couldn’t say her name there worth killing him for.”

Without another word, Mel walked to the horse Amos had ridden into town on, blood dripping from his fingertips as he climbed into the saddle. He swayed for a moment but gripped the reins tight, his resolve keeping him upright.

He rode out of Dead Horse, the horizon painted in streaks of red and gold. Behind him, the town held its breath, knowing this was the ride of a man who had nothing to lose.

The journey to Bar-Dell was a blur of pain and fury. Mel’s wounds screamed with every bounce of the horse’s gait, blood seeping through his shirt and coating his side. The desert wind stung his face, and the cold of the night seeped into his bones, but he didn’t stop.

The sheriff’s name beat in his head like a war drum. The man who’d framed him and Lorenzo, who’d lied, who’d sent them to the hell of the chain gang, all to cover up his own sins. Griggs had pulled the strings that set all of this in motion. And now, Mel was going to cut those strings for good.

By the time Bar-Dell’s crooked sign came into view, the moon was high, its pale light bathing the sleepy town in silver. Most of the buildings were dark, save for the sheriff’s office, where a single oil lamp flickered in the window.

Mel dismounted, his legs shaking as he stumbled toward the door. He didn’t bother tying the horse—it wouldn’t be needed. He stepped onto the creaking porch, his boots heavy against the wood. His hand rested on the revolver at his hip, blood staining the grip.

With one hard kick, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a crack. Sheriff Elroy Griggs sat behind his desk, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other. He jolted upright, his chair scraping back as he reached for his gun.

“Don’t,” Mel said, his voice like a whip crack. The revolver in his hand was already raised, aimed squarely at Griggs’s chest.

Griggs froze, his hand hovering above the gun belt. His eyes narrowed as he took in Mel’s bloodied form. “Barnabus,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate. “You look like hell.”

Mel stepped inside, his boots dragging through the dirt that coated the floor. “You should see the other guy,” he said, his voice flat.

Griggs chuckled, though the sound was strained. “You come all this way just to die in my office? You look half-dead already.”

Mel didn’t smile. His grip on the revolver tightened. “Not before I send you to hell.”

Griggs’s smirk faltered. He straightened, his hand dropping slowly to his side. “Now, Mel,” he said, his voice slipping into the oily charm he used on the townsfolk. “Let’s not be hasty. I know you’re angry—hell, I’d be too—but we can talk this out.”

“Talk?” Mel’s voice rose, his anger breaking through. “You want to talk after everything you’ve done? You framed me, Griggs. You sent me and Lorenzo to that godforsaken chain gang so you could cover up your wife’s murder. And now you want to talk?”

Griggs’s eyes flicked toward the door, calculating his chances. “I did what I had to do,” he said, his voice hardening. “Annabelle betrayed me. She made me a fool. You think I was gonna let her get away with that?”

Mel’s gun didn’t waver. “She didn’t deserve to die.

Griggs snarled, his hand inching toward his gun. “This is my town, Barnabus. You think you can walk in here and—”

The roar of Mel’s revolver cut him off. The first shot hit Griggs in the shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him into the desk. He grabbed at the wound, his eyes wide with shock and fury.

Mel stepped closer, his boots crunching over broken glass. “You don’t deserve a quick death, Griggs,” he said, his voice low. “But I’m too tired to give you the one you’ve earned.”

Griggs lunged for his gun, but Mel fired again, the bullet catching him in the chest. The sheriff collapsed to the floor, his blood pooling beneath him as his breaths came in short, ragged gasps.

Mel stood over him, his face shadowed in the flickering light. “This is for Annabelle,” he said softly. And leveling the gun at Griggs head he squeezed the trigger turning what was once the fat man’s head into a canoe.

Mel holstered his gun, his shoulders slumping as the adrenaline drained from his body. He staggered to the desk, collapsing into the chair as his wounds screamed in protest. For a long moment, he sat there, staring at the lifeless body of Elroy Griggs.

Then the young deputy came rushing in half dressed.

Chapter 8

Blackjack County Chain

The young deputy stood frozen in the doorway, his wide eyes darting between Mel Barnabus and the body of Sheriff Elroy Griggs, now sprawled in a pool of his own blood. The revolver in Mel’s hand smoked faintly, its barrel still warm from delivering the final shot.

“You—you killed him!” the deputy stammered, his voice breaking like a boy caught in a man’s job.

Mel didn’t rise from the sheriff’s chair. He didn’t lift the gun. He just stared at the boy and gave a slow, tired smile. Not his usual crooked grin, but something softer, heavier. Like he already knew how this was going to end.

“You want to put me in irons?” Mel said, his voice low but steady. “Go on, then. I won’t stop you.”

The deputy hesitated, his hand trembling as it hovered near his own holster. “Why? You—you ain’t even gonna try to run?”

Mel leaned back in the chair, wincing as the movement pulled at the fresh wound in his side. “Run? No, son. I’ve been running for too damn long. Figured it’s time to let someone else do the runnin.”

The deputy blinked, his confusion clear. “You… you’re just givin’ up?”

Mel gestured lazily at Griggs’s lifeless form. “Ain’t much left to fight for, is there?”

The young man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, with a shaky breath, he stepped into the room and pulled the shackles from his belt. “Alright, then,” he said, his voice firmer now. “You’re under arrest, Barnabus. For the murder of Sheriff Elroy Griggs.”

Mel held out his hands, his wrists limp as the deputy clicked the irons shut around them. “Murder, huh? Funny thing, that. Some folks might call it justice.”

The deputy didn’t answer. He just hauled Mel to his feet, keeping one hand on the shackles as he led him out of the office. The cool night air hit Mel’s face as they stepped onto the porch, the town of Bar-Dell deathly quiet. A few lights flickered in windows, shadows shifting as curious eyes watched from behind curtains.

“You’re gonna hang for this, y’know,” the deputy said quietly as they walked toward the waiting wagon. “Griggs had friends in high places.”

Mel chuckled softly, though the sound was hollow. “Boy, if you think I’m scared of the noose at this point, you ain’t been payin’ attention.”

The wagon creaked as the deputy loaded Mel inside, the chains clinking with every movement. The door slammed shut behind him, sealing him in the dark.

The young deputy said “the doc will be over shortly no funny stuff Barnabus.”

For the first time in years, Mel Barnabus felt something close to peace. No more running. No more fighting. Just… an ending.

**Epilogue**

*3weeks later*

The chain gang moved slowly under the merciless sun, the prisoners trudging in a line across the rocky ground. The sound of pickaxes striking stone echoed through the canyon, mingling with the occasional barked order from the guards. Mel stood at the back of the line, his shoulders stooped under the weight of the chain dragging behind him. The scars on his wrists burned where the irons rubbed raw, but he didn’t flinch.

“Barnabus!” one of the guards barked, his voice sharp as a whip. “Quit draggin’ your feet!”

Mel didn’t answer. He just adjusted his grip on the pickaxe and struck the rock again. Sparks flew, but the stone refused to break.

Night fell and The chain gang camp was still, the snoring of guards blending with the faint crackle of the dying fire. Mel lay in the dirt contemplating his life while he starred at the stars above. The gallows stood like a shadow on the edge of camp, waiting for dawn. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Then he heard it—a soft, deliberate shuffle just beyond the firelight. Mel opened his eyes, narrowing them against the darkness. His body tensed. Was it a coyote? Or one of the guards?

No. It was quieter than either. He blinked as two familiar figures emerged from the shadows. Lorenzo, moving like the quiet desert wind, and behind him, Lilly, clutching something shiny in her hand.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Mel whispered, barely audible over the sound of the fire.

Lorenzo crouched beside him, his face unreadable. “Stay quiet.”

Lilly knelt down, producing a key from her pocket. Mel glanced at it, his smirk faint. “That the real deal, or did you swipe it off a Christmas cracker?”

Lilly glared at him, working the key into the lock. “You want to test it, or you want to walk out of here?”

“Fair enough,” Mel muttered.

The key turned with a quiet click, and the shackle fell away. Mel rubbed his wrists, flexing his fingers. “Well, that’s a relief. I was startin’ to think my neck might get stretched in the morning.”

“You’d make a terrible corpse,” Lorenzo said flatly, pulling Mel to his feet.

Mel winced, his body stiff and aching. “Not for lack of trying.”

They moved quickly but quietly, staying in the shadows as they passed the snoring guards. One of them, seated by the fire with a rifle resting on his lap, snorted and stirred, muttering something incoherent. Lilly froze, her eyes locked on the guard.

Mel leaned close to her, his voice barely a breath. “What’s he dreaming about, you think? Beer? Biscuits?”

“Shut up,” Lorenzo hissed, his hand hovering near the pistol tucked into his belt.

The guard scratched his chest, let out a loud snore, and slumped further into his chair.

“Biscuits,” Mel decided with a grin.

They made it to the horses, tethered just beyond the firelight. Lilly quickly untied one, her fingers trembling slightly as the reins slipped through her hands. Lorenzo grabbed the other.

Mel climbed onto his mount, groaning softly as his body protested. “Next time you break me out of a death sentence, remind me to stretch first.”

“Next time, I’ll let you hang,” Lorenzo shot back, though his voice held the faintest edge of humor.

Lilly mounted her horse, glancing back toward the camp. “We need to move. Now.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Mel said, adjusting his grip on the reins. “Not a fan of the ambiance of this place.”

They rode out into the night, the desert swallowing them whole. The wind whipped at their faces, carrying the distant sound of the fire crackling behind them. Mel glanced back once, his eyes lingering on the faint silhouette of the gallows. “Not this time ole scratch… not this time.” He turned his horse and clicked his heals.

By the time the first streaks of dawn touched the horizon, they had put miles between themselves and the camp. Mel slowed his horse, pulling it to a stop atop a low ridge. The desert stretched before them, endless and bathed in pale gold.

Lorenzo rode up beside him, his face unreadable. “What now?”

Mel took a moment to catch his breath, running a hand over his face. Then, slowly, that familiar crooked grin spread across his lips. “Now? We find a town. Get a drink and I think I want a new hat.”

Lilly pulled her horse up alongside them, raising an eyebrow. “You almost died, and you’re thinking about hats?”

“Priorities, sweetheart,” Mel said with a wink. “Can’t have the undertaker putting me in a box with bad fashion.”

Lorenzo shook his head, but his lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe,” Mel replied, his grin widening. “But I’m free. Thanks to you two.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the rising sun painting their faces. Then Mel adjusted his eyes onto the sprawling landscape.

“Let’s ride,” he said.

The three of them turned their horses toward the open desert and rode on, leaving the gallows—and their chains—far behind.