1879 Nebraska
A quiet walk in the woods always helped Shepard 'The Devil' Devereaux unwind and decompress. So the fact that he was dragging a corpse behind him on this particular chilly afternoon through a forest of towering ash and maple trees proved irrelevant.
He was in a relatively good mood.
Anyone would be, knowing once he delivered Stanley Hastings to the US Marshal's office in Lincoln, Nebraska and collected the substantial reward, he'd have earned himself a whopping ten-thousand dollars collecting bounties over the past two years.
He'd never possessed such a staggering amount of money in the entirety of his twenty-three years of living. The carefully rolled bills, secured by a worn piece of twine, burned a hole in his inner coat pocket and accounted for eight-thousand-twenty-one dollars of that sum.
Every thud of the money roll against the holstered revolver slung at his right hip, its welcome weight, far more considerable than he ever imagined it would be, brought a satisfied grin to his grime-covered, bewhiskered face.
With this amount of money, an entire world of possibility opened up before him. Freedom, such as he hadn't known, was finally within his grasp. Finally, he could take William, his younger brother by seven years, away from Uncle Atticus and buy a piece of land to raise horses—like they'd dreamed of doing before Ma and Pa died in a freak wagon accident when Shepard was seventeen.
Their world had taken a royal plunge down the old necessary that terrible day, made all the worse when Uncle Atticus proclaimed—as though his word were law carved in stone by the hand of the Almighty—William and Shepard would henceforth be living with him.
Shepard never particularly cared for the bulbous-nosed man before then. He was like a sweaty, mean-spirited beanstalk, tall and gangly with stooped shoulders—as though his spine bowed under the weight of his exceedingly large nose.
He'd said as much to his parents when he'd been twelve years old, and while Pa had chuckled and claimed it an 'apt description,' he'd quickly explained Atticus suffered from what the doctor at the time called 'brittle bones.'
Over the next few years, Shepard tolerated his uncle out of pity for his pathetic plight and necessity since he worked for him at the mercantile and was civil because his parents expected it, but that all changed with his uncle's decree.
Atticus's two-bedroom home shared the entire east-facing wall of the Devereaux General Mercantile—his pride and joy, which smelled of beans, mud, and Atticus's fetid bear fat hair pomade. It was connected by a single door that opened into the expansive stock room in the back of the building.
He made it plain from the start that they were expected to live with him and earn their room and board by continuing to work for him without their meager wages from before.
The first two weeks in their new living arrangement passed without issue, but by the third, Shepard and Brittle Bones daily came to blows over his verbal and physical mistreatment of William.
After a heated row in front of three shocked female customers resulted in Atticus's large nose getting broken, Shepard was rudely awakened in the middle of the night, told to get dressed, and kicked out of his uncle's home.
"If you ever dare show your face here again, you're a dead man—family or not."
Atticus delivered his threat with a revolver aimed square at Shepard's chest, and with such unadulterated loathing, Shepard knew his uncle meant every word.
"I'm not leaving without my brother," Shepard squared his shoulders and leveled a heated glare as he curled his hands into tight fists at his sides.
Atticus's thin lips curled back in a snarl, revealing severely crooked teeth. "The boy stays with me. I'm the only one betwixt us capable of providing for him."
He pressed his left hand flat to his narrow chest and adopted a look of concern that fell short of reaching his eyes as he continued, "Why if I allowed him to depart, I'd most assuredly be sending you both to an early grave. So, you see, boy, I'm doing you a favor."
"You can't do this," Shepard growled through clenched teeth, taking a threatening step toward his uncle, "you've no right."
"Get on out of here," Atticus cocked the gun and waved him toward the road with his pointy chin, "before I put a hole in your chest."
Shepard stared down the barrel, knowing two choices stood in front of him.
He could fight and more than likely get shot and killed for his attempt at heroic efforts, or he could leave and devise a plan to save his brother. While the first option was the one every nerve in his body screamed for him to take, he was rational enough to acknowledge dying wouldn't help William.
Hatred toward his uncle burned deep, but Shepard clenched his jaw and reluctantly conceded Brittle Bones held the upper hand for now.
"I'LL RETURN FOR YOU, WILLIAM," he shouted so loud his throat ached. Then, lowering his voice, he held his uncle's gaze, "On that, you have my word."
Atticus cursed and took a menacing step forward, but Shepard spun on his heel and ran, half expecting a bullet to find a new home lodged in his back and drop him dead at any minute.
However, it never did, and now six years had passed since that awful night, more than half of which he'd spent as a cowhand scraping by on meager earnings, going from one brand to another in search of better pay.
Almost two years ago, after finishing a disappointing cattle drive, he realized if his circumstances didn't change soon, he'd never be able to keep his word and rescue William.
His future took a fortuitous turn at that precise moment, for he'd no sooner come to this sad realization when Sheriff Samuels shouted for any able-bodied men to join his posse in pursuit of Josiah Scrimshaw, a prisoner who'd escaped the hangman's noose.
Shepard jumped at the chance for adventure and a change of pace. But, unfortunately, only five other men joined along, each of them eager to lay claim to the sizable reward promised to whoever succeeded in capturing or killing the outlaw.
But his skill with a firearm was second-to-none—the Sheriff said as much before handing him the five-hundred-dollar reward and commending him on making their posse a quick and successful venture.
Shepard knew he'd found his calling as a bounty hunter and the ticket to how he'd be capable of not only rescuing his little brother but being able to set the two of them up for the rest of their lives if he was smart about it.
Bubbles, Shepard's bay Appaloosa mare, nickered in greeting, intruding on his thoughts and forcing him back to the present. He studied her for a moment to ensure all was well and grunted in approval. She was a fine-looking specimen of horseflesh.
Reverse leopard snowflakes blanketed both muscular haunches, scattering up along her dark chestnut body to her neck; some spots were so perfectly round the name 'bubbles' had sprung to mind at first sight of her and stuck.
Shepard's brow wrinkled with mild irritation and concern when Bouncy, his shaggy brown mule, was not where he should have been. Scanning the area, he grunted at finding the scatterbrained animal nosing about for spring grass on the crest of a hill a short ways in the distance. Shepard let out a sharp whistle and released his hold on the corpse, intending to follow his mule.
But he'd taken only a handful of steps when Bouncy trotted—a term he used lightly in the case of this particular beast—toward him with lumbering gusto.
Shaking his head as he bit back a grin, Shepard took Bouncy by the bridle and gave him an affectionate scratch by his ears. "You're a jackass, you know that?"
Bouncy brayed and tossed his head as though in jubilant agreement.
Shepard heaved a sigh and chuckled as he led the mule over to Bubbles and Stanley's waiting body. Ten minutes later, after securing the corpse in place atop Bouncy, he mounted Bubbles and maneuvered both animals toward Lincoln.
By the time he rode into town, the sun was setting, and a strange discordant melody created by multiple pianos playing different tunes at the same time danced upon the air. Oil lanterns flickered from windows, spilling their warm light upon the wooden boardwalk neatly encasing the buildings lining either side of the wide dirt road.
Shepard ignored the curious looks from townspeople milling about and continued down the street until he reached the US Marshals office.
A tall, stocky gentleman hiding behind a bushy blonde handlebar mustache any walrus would be jealous of stood with boot encased feet braced wide. His metal star declaring him a Marshal winked from its perch upon his left lapel.
Planting his meaty fists on his hips and pushing his coat aside, his left forefinger softly caressed the mother-of-pearl grip of his holstered revolver as he watched Shepard dismount.
"Evening, mister..." he said in a deep, formidable voice. "The name's Marshal Blevins, and this is my town. Who might you be?"
"Shepard Devereaux."
Marshal Blevins's thick eyebrows shot up beneath the brim of his derby hat, his eyes widened, and his mustache trembled.
"What have we here?" He cleared his throat, settled his left hand more firmly atop his revolver, and nodded to Shepard with his chin. "I'll warn you now, mister, if you're aiming to cause a ruckus, you best turn yourself around and save me a bullet."
"I don't mean any trouble," Shepard dropped the reins, raised his left hand in a non-threatening manner, and slowly reached into his inner coat pocket with his right. "I'm here on a matter of business," he cautiously continued with a backward nod of his head toward the corpse draped over Bouncy. "This is the outlaw, Stanley Hastings. I have a warrant from circuit Judge Theotis Curlew of Omaha, declaring he's wanted dead or alive for a reward of two-thousand dollars."
Producing the folded piece of paper, Shepard held it out, taking care to be as non-threatening as possible while the Marshal silently approached him with narrowed eyes and plucked the warrant out of Shepard's hand.
Marshal Blevins spent a minute perusing the contents, glanced at Stanley's corpse to verify his identity, and then squinted up at Shepard. "Follow me inside. I'll see what we can do to get your business sorted, then you best be on your way."
Shepard ground his teeth but managed to hold his tongue instead of giving his flare of irritation free rein. He'd seen the look currently lighting Blevins's eyes many times in countless other faces over the past two years.
He'd gained a reputation and resulting nickname of 'The Devil,' which he hated, after collecting a bounty on Donovan Beckstead—a ruthless outlaw that had robbed three stagecoaches in a month and left none of his seventeen victims alive.
All things considered, he proved to be a relatively easy outlaw to put down once Shepard tracked him to a small town in southern Wyoming territory.
Early on in his career, one near-fatal attempt had taught Shepard that bringing in a wanted man dead was far safer for him than attempting to bring an outlaw in alive.
However, Donovan's family made it known they held strong objection to Shepard putting a bullet in Donovan's cold-blooded heart. He'd collected the bounty and learned he himself was a wanted man with a substantial reward on his head a few weeks later.
Fortunately, Donovan's murderous reputation was well-known to the judge trying Shepard's case, who then acquitted him of the charges, but the damage had been done. Life as a bounty hunter had been cold before; after his short stint as a wanted man, it became damn frigid.
Pushing his irritation away, Shepard bit back a weary sigh then followed Blevins inside the two-story wooden structure. Several hostile stares from the deputies sitting behind desks settled upon him with every step he took until Blevins finally ushered him into a back office.
He plunked down into a spindly looking, cracked leather chair behind the large oak desk, motioned for Shepard to take one of the empty seats across from him, and began rifling through two drawers until he had several sheets of paper spread out in front of him on the scarred desktop.
"Alrighty, let's get down to it, shall we? The sooner we have this finished, the sooner you can vacate Lincoln, and we'll both be happy."
Shepard pasted on a civil expression to mask his annoyance and settled in to finish the worst parts of his occupation—the last thing he needed was to offend or antagonize Blevins and make the process more hellish than usual.
Once the paperwork was completed and signed, Blevins left the room then returned a few moments later with a fat envelope.
He handed it to Shepard without a word, dipped his chin in a curt nod, and ushered him outside. Shepard opened the envelope while walking and quickly counted the bills, expecting to be short-changed.
A few Marshals and deputies he'd had the misfortune of dealing with months back took it upon themselves to appropriate a sum of the reward as a 'fee' before handing over the remainder.
Stuffing the envelope of money into his inner coat pocket, Shepard stepped out onto the boardwalk, and Blevins slammed the door sharply behind him, letting him know in no uncertain terms how unwelcome his presence had been.
Bouncy stood relieved of his burden, staring back at Shepard with a dopey look on his face as he tipped his head back and let out an earsplitting, joyful bray. Bubbles nickered in greeting and snorted as she stomped her hoof.
"Ready, girl?" Shepard murmured, casting a glance up and down the street as he untethered both animals. Then, after mounting, he took a deep breath, slowly let it out as he set his gaze on the western horizon, and nudged Bubbles into motion. "Let's go get William."
Two uneventful weeks later, Shepard rode into San Luis, Colorado, with steely resolve infusing his limbs. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushed in his ears, and a heavy weight settled low in his gut. He almost couldn't believe the day he'd dreamed of for so long was at hand.
He observed the wooden buildings dotted along the main road with a dispassionate eye. Everything, even down to the patches of grass littered about, seemed grayer than he remembered.
Perhaps it was the pale morning light at fault or the early spring season. His family had only lived here for five years before his parent's death, but memories of the little town had been far kinder than reality was proving to be.
He'd planned his arrival as best he could, wanting to approach Atticus's home well in advance of him opening the Mercantile for the day. Several newer-looking wooden buildings greeted him as he turned onto the main road, one with a freshly painted sign proclaiming the Sheriff's office, another a telegram, and a post office.
The Devereaux General Mercantile sat two buildings further down, directly across from the public square—the only sizeable grassy plot within the whole of San Luis that Shepard remembered town dances being held at—currently occupied by a gallows.
Three hooded men hung from individual ropes on the raised platform. Shepard grunted but gave them no more than an uninterested glance, long enough to note the discoloration of their tied hands declared them to have been there for a day at least, before turning his attention to the mercantile.
He reined Bubbles to a halt and slowly dismounted, watching the front windows for any movement within. A lamp flared to life, casting Atticus's bent shadow against the dingy curtains.
Deep-seated anger swelled to life, as strong as the day Shepard had been cast out, and the emotion bolstered him as he tethered his animals to the mercantile hitching rail before marching up and rapping his knuckles against the weathered wood door.
"GO AWAY," Atticus called out in his rough, grumpy voice, "We don't open for another hour."
Brittle excitement, the harbinger to mayhem if ever there was one, tingled along Shepard's nerves. He knocked again, harder, and didn't let up until the door was ripped open.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" Atticus barked; his craggy, whiskered face—complete with a monstrous and horrendously crooked nose—appeared more weathered and haggard than Shepard remembered.
Messy grey hair stood out at different angles in desperate need of a comb. Rheumy brown eyes stared at him in annoyance without a flicker of recognition.
"I've come for William," Shepard stated, his throat tight with restrained emotion.
He wanted nothing more than punch him; his fingers itched to do so, but a sense of unease whispered across his skin when a haunted look settled on Atticus's face and stopped him cold. "Where is he?"
Atticus moved to shut the door without answering, but Shepard shoved his left foot against it and braced it open with his arm.
"Where. Is. William?" He ground out through clenched teeth, fighting against a terrible sense of foreboding settling low in his gut.
Atticus's gaze darted to something beyond Shepard's right shoulder as he hoarsely replied, "Gone." His prominent Adam's apple bobbed with a convulsive swallow. He attempted to close the door with a hard push but failed.
Shepard bit back a growl and scowled. He settled his hand on the butt of his revolver as he took a threatening step over the threshold. "What do you mean, gone?"
Leveling a heated glare at Shepard, Atticus's brows slowly rose to his hairline. His eyes flew wide with fear and realization of who stood across from him; color rapidly drained from his face, leaving him deathly pale.
"WILLIAM?" Shepard hollered with panic heavy in his voice.
He barged past his withered uncle into the front room and shouted again, his eyes darting to the empty hallway.
"Get OUT, get out, GET. OUT," Atticus yelled, sounding as though he would fall in an epileptic fit, but Shepard marched on undaunted.
He searched every room, then crossed to the connecting door and proceeded into the mercantile, calling out his brother's name.
When he found no trace of him anywhere, nothing to suggest William even lived there, he spun on his heel and stormed over to Atticus as he withdrew his revolver. "What have you done with him? Where is my brother?"