Chapter 1 - Three Hundred RidersCole Harper heard the riders before he saw them.
At first the sound was only a distant vibration beneath the hooves of his exhausted brown gelding.
Then the Arizona desert began to thunder.
Cole twisted in the saddle.
Dust rolled over the ridge behind him like a storm front.
Riders appeared through it.
Ten.
Fifty.
A hundred.
Then so many that counting became meaningless.
Nearly three hundred horsemen flooded over the ridge.
Cole’s stomach dropped.
“What in God’s name…”
A rifle cracked.
The bullet tore through the brim of his hat.
Cole ducked instinctively.
Another round kicked dirt beside his horse.
“Go!”
He drove his heels into the gelding.
The animal surged forward.
Cole had been running for nearly two hours.
He did not know exactly why.
Three hours earlier he had found a dying courier beside a dry creek bed twenty miles east of Mercy Ridge. The man’s horse was gone. His shirt was torn. No visible blood soaked the ground, but his breathing had been shallow and broken.
The stranger had grabbed Cole’s coat.
“Town.”
“What?”
“Take… the bag…”
Cole saw the leather saddlebag.
“Who did this?”
The man’s fingers tightened.
“Don’t trust the badge.”
Then he died.
Cole had strapped the bag beside his saddle.
That was when the riders appeared.
Now they were gaining.
Cole leaned low over his horse’s neck.
Another bullet ripped through his coat sleeve.
He felt the heat of it without the pain of a wound.
He pulled his lever-action rifle from the saddle scabbard, twisted backward and fired once.
Not at a man.
At the ground in front of the lead riders.
Dust exploded.
Several horses swerved.
The pursuit slowed for barely two seconds.
At its front rode a broad-shouldered man in a dark coat.
Forties.
Hard face.
Black horse.
Even through dust and distance, Cole could feel the authority around him.
The man raised one arm.
“DON’T LET HIM REACH THE TOWN!”
Cole’s confusion sharpened.
Town.
Why did reaching Mercy Ridge matter?
He looked toward the saddlebag.
Whatever they wanted was inside.
“I’m not giving it back!”
His horse plunged into a narrow rock pass.
Bullets struck stone.
Fragments stung Cole’s cheek.
He emerged on the opposite side as the sun dipped lower.
The gelding stumbled.
Cole caught himself.
“Easy, boy.”
The riders were closer.
Too close.
Cole opened the saddlebag while still moving.
Inside lay a silver pocket watch.
A folded sheet of paper.
Something wrapped in cloth.
He pulled the paper free.
A rifle shot shattered a cactus six feet ahead.
The dark-coated leader shouted:
“You fool! You don’t even know what you stole!”
Cole unfolded the paper.
His breath stopped.
It was a wanted poster.
His face stared back at him.
The drawing was crude but unmistakable.
COLE HARPER
WANTED ALIVE
Below it:
$2,000 REWARD
Cole flipped it over.
Someone had written:
DELIVER HIM ALIVE BEFORE SUNDOWN.
“What the hell…”
He shoved the poster into his coat.
The town appeared beyond the next ridge.
Mercy Ridge.
Smoke from chimneys.
Church steeple.
Water tower.
Safety.
Maybe.
Cole pulled away the cloth from the last object in the bag.
A child’s photograph.
A little girl, perhaps seven.
Dark hair.
Serious eyes.
Behind her stood a weathered barn.
Cole stared at the photograph.
Something about the barn disturbed him.
Then he found the second paper.
Another wanted poster.
This one showed the man leading the riders.
The dark coat.
The hard eyes.
The same face.
SILAS ROURKE
WANTED FOR THE RED MESA MASSACRE
TWELVE COUNTS OF MURDER
Cole looked backward.
The leader was less than two hundred yards behind him.
Silas Rourke.
A murderer.
A massacre.
Three hundred riders obeying him.
Rourke saw the paper in Cole’s hand.
His face changed.
“COLE!”
Cole’s skin went cold.
The man knew his name.
Rourke shouted over the pounding hooves.
“If you read that, you’re already dead!”
Cole turned toward town.
Mercy Ridge sat below him, glowing beneath the last red light of sunset.
He should have felt relief.
Instead the dying courier’s final words returned.
Don’t trust the badge.
Then Cole noticed riders moving near the town entrance.
Men with rifles.
Waiting.
Not reacting to the approaching army.
Waiting specifically for him.
Cole’s horse reached the downhill trail.
Rourke’s voice followed.
“DON’T RIDE INTO THAT TOWN!”
Cole looked down at the wanted poster bearing his own face.
Then at the one naming Silas Rourke a mass murderer.
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He had less than a minute to decide which wanted man was lying.
And one of them was himself.
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