Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Storm by Laura Hollingsworth. All graphics by me.
Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.
Storm had a pervasive, unpleasant sensation of deja vu. He was acutely aware of the weight of the worn blue army coat he wore. It pulled him back to another time, back to when he was someone else and his life was not as complicated.
He glanced over at Many Stars, sitting beside him in the darkness of the rough homesteader's cabin, and for a moment, felt as if he'd dreamed the last few years working for Mr. Lynch. The last time he had taken a blue coat off, he had hoped to not have to put one back on again
Scarcliff had provided Anders Ferguson's family with horses and guards to escort them back to Fort Bridger. Ferguson himself, however, had insisted on staying back with the soldiers to protect his home. Storm wished he'd just gone on with them. The man had a wife and children, and Storm knew how bad situations like this one could get. He wanted Ferguson out of harm's way. The sight of feminine eyelet curtains at the windows and the carved cradle near the fireplace sent a sharp pang of worry through him.
"Do you think they're coming?" he muttered in Absaroka.
The old scout beside him grunted, giving a barely-perceptible nod. "Don't you?"
Scarcliff and a couple of soldiers were shifting in the silent darkness around them. Storm could see the moonlight through the windows glinting on their polished buttons and their guns. The still air was heavy, and seemed to Storm to crackle with the promise of lighting and thunder. "Yes." He let his breath out slowly. The waiting was driving him crazy. "I'm ready to walk the perimeter again. I can't sit here."
Many Stars got up. "Let's go." He shook his head. "Something makes my heart bad. Something...other."
Outside, the cool air felt good on Storm's face, but the oppressive tension was still there. It made his skin prickle with dread. He looked around, seeing nothing. "Other?"
"Something has happened somewhere," he said faintly, seemingly to himself, as he gazed into the dark sky. "Something bad." The Ghost Road stretched across the black bowl of night, white and pink and purple clouds and twinkling spangles, shining unusually bright in the moonlight. He pulled his eyes away and turned his attention to the shadows around them.
Some of us may travel that road tonight. Storm felt the familiar quickening of his heart, the frisson over his skin. All of us might.
The sweet, biting scent of burning tobacco teased the edge of his senses and he froze. Scarcliff had forbidden smoking while they were on the property, not wanting to send any indication that the farm had a detachment of soldiers guarding it. If the Ferguson place was attacked tonight, he knew Captain Scarcliff wasn't going to be content with just running them off. He wanted either prisoners or corpses to show for it. Right now, it was too quiet. Too still. Someone other than us is here...
Many Stars paused, listening as the darkness pooled in the deep crevices of his face. He gave Storm a significant look, jerking his head towards the cabin and beckoning Storm to follow.
Scarcliff had posted himself just outside the back door of the cabin. He had almost looked relieved when they told him that someone was approaching the homestead. The waiting is driving him crazy, too.
"Thank you, Many Stars," Scarcliff said as he drew himself up, his back rigid. "Peltier. Have either of you gotten a report from Wounded or Bad Medicine?"
Many Stars' face was an unreadable mask. "No, sir. We..."
Storm jerked his head around as the sudden scent of rancid lard and saltpeter assailed his nostrils. He heard shouting, and could see flickering orange light reflected in the trees on the other side of the cabin. They're on us. They're going to try to fire the place. "Many Stars..."
The old man had pulled his pistol and turned to lope back towards the cabin. "Don't get shot," he grunted.
The sound of gunshots peppered the night, interspersed with surprised swearing and the sounds of running feet. How many of them are there? Storm made a mental tally of the men they had positioned around the homestead and found himself wishing they'd brought more. Or, he thought ruefully, that Collin's detachment would show up. Scarcliff and two enlisted inside, about four patrolling outside, Ferguson, Many Stars, and me. If nothing else, we're likely to have better firepower...
He rounded the corner of the house and saw a pair of soldiers tussling with someone, while a third smothered the burning torch that had fallen to the ground near the cabin wall. A bullet ricocheted and he instinctively ducked his head, nearly plowing into the man running along the wall towards him from the other side.
Storm barely had time to register that the man was barechested and covered in warpaint before he was tackled to the ground. He gasped, fighting to dislodge his howling attacker from atop him. Ache flared in his chest, and pain from the the burn across his shoulder took his breath. He rolled, struggling to get traction with his legs, trying to get a look at the man. Shoshone...snake...marde, is that Red Horn? He hauled his pistol around and fired, and the man catching Storm's wrist and sending the bullet skipping and whining across the rough wall of the stone cabin. He slammed Storm's hand into the side of the house and Storm gasped, agony shooting up his arm from his crushed knuckles. He doggedly kept his grip on the pistol, and the Shoshone drove his hand into the wall again, this time sending his weapon skittering away into the shadows.
"Crow whore!" the man spat, jerking a hunting knife from his boot and shoved his other hard roughly into Storm's hair near the scalp. He whipped the knife towards Storm's face, aiming for his hairline, and Storm twisted and kicked out with his legs, desperately trying to free himself from the immobilizing grip of the screaming Snake bent on scalping him.
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