Unlucky Read online

  A Western Epic

  Published by

  www.splickety.com

  Unlucky

  A Western Epic

  Published by

  Splickety Publishing Group, Inc.

  www.splickety.com

  Print ISBN: 978-1-942462-41-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-942462-42-2

  Copyright © 2020 by Ben Wolf, Inc. All rights reserved.

  www.benwolf.com

  Cover design by Olivia Pro Design

  Available in print and ebook format on amazon.com.

  Contact Ben Wolf directly at [email protected] for signed copies and to schedule author appearances and speaking events.

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of the author, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. For longer quotations or commercial concerns, please contact the author via email at [email protected].

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author's imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only. Any similarities to individuals living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Contents

  Tribute

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 1 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 2 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 3 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 4 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 5 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 6 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 7 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 8 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 9 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 10 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 11 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 12 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 13 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 14 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 15 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 16 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 17 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 18 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 19 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 20 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 21 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 22 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 23 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 24 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 25 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 26 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 27 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 28 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 29 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 30 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 31 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 32 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 33 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 34 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 35 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 36 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 37 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 38 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 39 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 40 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 41 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 42 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 43 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 44 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 45 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 46 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 47 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 48 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 49 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 50 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 51 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 52 ♦ ♣

  ♠ ♥ Epilogue ♦ ♣

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Grandpa Gary and Judy,

  who gave me a most excellent set of

  Time Life Encyclopedias about the Old West.

  Those volumes, many of which I read cover-to-cover,

  provided the historical setting for this book

  and sparked this project to life in my imagination.

  Every society reaches a point of desperation. In that moment, when everything is at stake, one of two things happens: either they fail and are overcome…

  …or a warrior arises and saves them.

  This warrior is a phenomenon, a master of extraordinary proportions, a god among men. Sometimes the people love him, and sometimes they hate him.

  But no matter what they think, he rises to the occasion and saves the day despite impossible odds and every conceivable disadvantage.

  Though his body may die and his soul may drift into the great beyond, his name lives on forever… in legend.

  Unlucky is one such legend.

  “I will take revenge; I will pay them back.

  In due time their feet will slip.

  Their day of disaster will arrive,

  and their destiny will overtake them.”

  Deuteronomy 32:35, NLT

  ♠ ♥ Chapter 1 ♦ ♣

  Arizona Territory, 1848

  Blood oozed from a bullet hole in Tommy Roebuck’s chest and saturated the Arizona dust. His single-action revolver, a relic from the War of 1812, rested in his limp right hand, its muzzle digging into the dirt.

  All six cartridges remained in its cylinder.

  Dalton Phillips moseyed down Main Street and holstered his silver-plated Colt, still hot from the solitary round he’d fired. Its twin sister rested in the holster on Dalton’s left side.

  He stopped at Tommy’s husk. The fool shouldn’t have challenged him.

  Dalton scanned the town. People gawked at him from storefronts and porches. Ladies gasped and yanked their children closer. Shopkeepers and proprietors pretended to mind their own business but still chanced occasional glances at him. Grizzled trailblazers—men born to face the worst of nature’s fury—watched him with subtle terror in their eyes.

  Dalton took it all in with a grin. He’d inspired deep, terrible fear with only a single shot.

  Same as the last three times.

  He bent down and pulled a thick wad of banknotes from the pockets of Tommy’s trousers and a fist-sized leather satchel stuffed with gold nuggets from Tommy’s belt.

  A steel flask poked out the bottom of his coat. Dalton grabbed it, too, and the last few gulps of whiskey burned his throat.

  “Hands up, Dalton,” said a rough voice behind him.

  Dalton tossed the flask onto a patch of dirt caked with Tommy’s blood. He smirked. “Well, Marshal. Good afternoon.”

  He turned and faced the stern, middle-aged man pointing a lazy revolver at him. His black pinstriped trousers matched his vest, and he wore a brass star on his chest.

  Marshal John Garmer.

  “Here to take me in?” Dalton asked. “Again?”

  “You know the law, kid.” Marshal Garmer’s pistol quivered.

  “And you know it was self-defense.”

  “Don’t matter. Gotta take you in anyway, least ‘til the judge can see you.” Marshal Garmer’s drawl ran like smooth honey over warm cornbread, a sharp contrast to Dalton’s polished New England diction.

  A drop of sweat rolled down the side of Marshal Garmer’s face, and Dalton smirked again. If Dalton reached for his gun, there’d be two bodies laying in the street, neither of them his. The idea tickled him, but Marshal Garmer didn’t deserve to die.

  Marshal Garmer swallowed hard and exhaled a long breath, his gun still fixed on Dalton.

  Old lawman sure has guts. Dalton shrugged and raised his hands.

  With shaky steps, Marshal Garmer closed in. He collecte
d Dalton’s guns with his left hand and pressed the barrel of his own revolver in between Dalton’s shoulder blades. “Move.”

  Dalton knew the way by now. Tommy marked his fourth duel since he’d arrived in Spider’s Rock two months ago. An average of one every other week—more action than he’d expected. His uncle’s letters hadn’t exaggerated after all.

  At that rate, maybe Marshal Garmer should just keep a cell open for him.

  Reverend William McCarroll stormed into Marshal Garmer’s office. His brow scrunched as far down as Dalton had ever seen it, but somehow his expression complemented his dark, pastoral garb.

  “Afternoon, Marshal,” Reverend McCarroll said.

  “Don’t got time for this right now, Rev.” Marshal Garmer waved his hand and reclined behind his cluttered desk, reading all two pages of The Spider’s Web, the town’s local newspaper. He tapped it with his finger, not even bothering to look up. “Reports of a group of outlaws headin’ our way from Mexico. I’m in the midst of preparin’ our response in case they show up in town.”

  Reverend McCarroll looked him up and down. “I can confidently say I’ve never felt safer.”

  “Your tax dollars at work, Reverend.” Marshal Garmer sucked at his teeth. “Well, not yours specifically, bein’ a minister, and all that.”

  Dalton scoffed, but neither of them paid him any mind.

  “I need you to release that boy into my custody.”

  With a sigh, Marshal Garmer finally met Reverend McCarroll’s gaze. “Didn’t do much good the last three times I done it.”

  “I’m his only kin for 2,000 miles.”

  “I know you’re his uncle, but this is the fourth man he’s killed—” Marshal Garmer sat upright and set the newspaper down. “—over a card game.”

  “John, I’m asking you as a friend.”

  Dalton had to admire his uncle’s persistence—and his influence. Reverend McCarroll could spur more souls to action than anyone else in Spider’s Rock, save for maybe one.

  “That’s what you said the last three times.” Marshal Garmer added, “Bill.”

  Dalton smirked.

  Reverend McCarroll’s austere expression lingered. Maybe this time Marshal Garmer would finally stand his ground.

  But he didn’t.

  “Alright, Reverend.” He sighed. “But I’m trackin’ these ‘favors,’ you hear?”

  “‘The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous sheweth mercy, and giveth.’” Reverend McCarroll gave the marshal a nod.

  “I’m countin’ on it,” Marshal Garmer said. “An’ he better show up for the judge this time, too.”

  “I’ll see to it personally, Marshal.”

  Marshal Garmer stood and fumbled with his keys. He caught sight of the smug expression on Dalton’s face. “Keep smilin’, Dalton. One day, your uncle might not be around to save your neck. We’ll see if you smile then.”

  “The day he’s not around, I’ll definitely have something to smile about.”

  Marshal Garmer just shook his head and unlocked the cell.

  “Thank you, Marshal,” Reverend McCarroll said, eyeing Dalton, who walked to his uncle’s side and stood there. A silent moment passed, then his uncle smacked the back of Dalton’s head.

  “Uh—thank you,” Dalton added. His uncle turned to leave, but Dalton stopped. “Oh, Marshal?”

  “Hm?”

  “My Colts, please.”

  Marshal Garmer met Reverend McCarroll’s gaze again. With a long sigh, Marshal Garmer unlocked one of his desk drawers and pulled out Dalton’s black leather belt, holsters, bullets, and the Colt sisters. He handed the bundle to Dalton, who strapped it all on.

  “Thank you, Marshal.” Dalton gave him a big grin. At the door, he added, “You can keep Tommy’s money. I can always get more.”

  The walk from Marshal Garmer’s office to the parsonage wasn’t far, but Dalton’s uncle would still get a lecture in. Around them, townspeople milled about, back to their usual routines as if Tommy Roebuck had never even existed.

  “Awful nice of the marshal to give me my guns back, don’t you agree?” Dalton tried to get the jump on the conversation. “Be a shame if I had to walk around unarmed in a town as high-strung as—”

  Reverend McCarroll turned in the middle of the street and grabbed Dalton by his shirt with both hands. Dalton got a good look at his bushy eyebrows, stern blue eyes, and stubbly chin.

  “Now you listen,” Reverend McCarroll said, his voice fierce and focused. “You murdered a man today, the fourth in two months. This cannot continue.”

  Dalton scoffed. “It was a duel. He started it. I can’t believe I have to explain this to you. Now let me go.”

  Reverend McCarroll’s grip endured. “You’re becoming the town pariah, the type of person decent people despise.”

  “Maybe I’m not trying to attract ‘decent’ people.” Even as he said it, Dalton noticed some of the townspeople around them staring. He jerked free of his uncle’s grasp and brushed out his shirt.

  “You’re a reflection of me.” Reverend McCarroll pointed an accusatory finger at him. “These escapades tarnish my reputation.”

  “I don’t care about your reputation.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware of that. You’re too selfish to care about anyone but yourself. If you had any common sense, you’d realize that in the two months you’ve been here, you’ve only succeeded in turning the town against you.”

  Dalton rolled his eyes and continued walking toward the church. He nodded and smiled at a pretty, young brunette in a purple dress who couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of him.

  “Your actions always have consequences.” Reverend McCarroll’s voice chased Dalton’s footsteps. “Everything you do comes back on you one way or another. Listen—you’ve got more education and smarts than most of the people in this town, but you act like you’re one of the dumbest.”

  Dalton stopped, turned back, and glared at him.

  “Go ahead, get mad at me, but you know I’m right. You’re behaving like a common brigand. An ingrate.” Reverend McCarroll approached him. “If you don’t stop this rampage, you’re gonna get killed.”

  “No.” Dalton scoffed again. “I won’t get clipped. I’m too fast for any—”

  SLAP.

  Dalton recoiled from his uncle’s firm backhand, stunned and stinging.

  Had his uncle really just slapped him, had he? Dalton glanced at the brunette in the purple dress. Their eyes met, and she turned away, flustered and embarrassed for him.

  Then he saw her look over her shoulder at him.

  Reverend McCarroll stood there, stoic, his hands tense and at his sides.

  Dalton loved his uncle, but he’d gone too far this time. He couldn’t let this stand. He reached for his guns.

  But Reverend McCarroll grabbed Dalton’s wrists faster than a rattlesnake strike and pinned Dalton’s hands to his sides. No reaching the Colt sisters now.

  Dalton clenched his teeth. The brunette was still watching, and this whole fiasco had just gone from bad to worse. He growled, “Let go of me.”

  His uncle’s grip only tightened. “Go ahead. Shoot me, if you can. I know where I’m goin’ when I die. But if you gun down an old, unarmed preacher in the street and think you’ll dodge the noose, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  After a protracted exchange of cold stares, Reverend McCarroll finally let Dalton loose. He stood firm, his iron stare stalwart as ever.

  Dalton wanted to turn him to stone with his eyes. Instead, his fingers brushed against the engraved ivory grips on his Colts.

  A small part of Dalton wanted to admit that his uncle might be right, but his pride wouldn’t allow it. After all, he was just an old, worn-out preacher. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand.

  The brunette was gone. Where, Dalton didn’t know. Didn’t matter now.

  Dalton adjusted his black hat and closed what little distance remained between Reverend McCarroll and him.

&nbs
p; Compared to most other men, Dalton was tall, but his uncle matched him eye-to-eye. Reverend McCarroll had broader shoulders, the result of some hard labor in a past life that Dalton knew almost nothing about. His cold blue eyes raged, stark against his worn, tanned face.

  Out of everyone he’d ever met, Dalton only feared his uncle.

  But perhaps “feared” wasn’t the right word—“respected” or “revered” fit better. His uncle exuded an unnerving aura that made Dalton uncomfortable.

  What’s more, Reverend McCarroll was probably the only person in town unafraid of Dalton. It made sense—he shepherded a town of wolves. With nothing to lose, why should Reverend McCarroll fear one of them more than any other, let alone his own kin?

  “How’d you do that?” Dalton had to ask. “How’d you get so fast?”

  Reverend McCarroll eyed him. “I wasn’t always a reverend, you know.”

  Dalton shook his head. “Old buzzard.”