THE STRANGER
In the summer of 1870, a mysterious Stranger steps into a rundown saloon in Midway, a small town in the middle of Colorado Territory.
He’s tired. He’s hungry. He wants a whiskey. But that is not why he is there. Death has drawn him to this saloon for a reason. He is to confront a deadly assassin. And so begins a dangerous journey where the Stranger follows a path that leads him to one deadly encounter after another. Along the way, he is faced with the injustices of the western frontier. He is determined to right the wrongs inflicted upon innocent people by the forces of evil. He is the equalizer of the old west.
The Stranger carries no gun. He does not need one. He has other weapons that are not of this world. He is a human traveler from another world who has been stranded on this planet. He also has unique abilities that others would not be able to understand.
Death, who is an impartial observer and a collector of souls, is bound by the rules of this world. However, he has discovered that he can use the Stranger to tip the scales in favor of right versus wrong, good versus evil.
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Death at the River
Chapter 1
Early August 1870
Colorado Territory
Rodney Blackstone pulled on the reins and brought his horse to a stop. The aging prospector studied his rocky backtrail. Something was wrong. He was certain he’d seen some dust kicked up behind him just moments earlier.
He lifted the Colt revolver from his holster and checked to make sure the cylinder rotated freely. The gun was a six-shooter, and the top cylinder was usually left empty to prevent an errant misfire while riding. Not today. He thumbed in the sixth .44 caliber shell. Next, he pulled the Winchester rifle from the scabbard and ensured a cartridge was chambered. He’d already checked both weapons earlier, but he was nervous. He laid the rifle across his lap rather than returning it to the scabbard.
Once satisfied he was alone, Rodney turned his horse back to the trail in front of him. Alcoy, a prosperous mining town nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, was still over an hour away.
Rodney wanted to get there before noon. His saddlebag held at least three pounds of gold dust along with one decent sized nugget that would weigh half a pound by itself. Mr. Perkins, the bank owner, would be more than a little surprised when he paid off the note that he’d signed when he bought the claim. The deed was in his pocket.
Twenty minutes later, Rodney arrived at the river crossing, and he brought his horse to a stop yet again. There hadn’t been any rain for nearly two weeks, and the river was down. That was good, but there was still a strong current in the middle where the water was deeper. He had crossed here many times, and his horse would have no problem crossing today.
He turned and studied the trail. He shook his head and told himself he was paranoid. There was no one behind him. Maybe, he thought, the cloud of dust he’d seen had been from one of the wild herds of Mustangs that roamed the area.
Death hovered overhead, but that was something the prospector could not see.
Before his horse stepped into the water, Rodney pulled the hammer back on the rifle. The gun was nearly new, as was his revolver. He’d bought the rifle just a few months earlier from McIntosh Hardware and Supply for twenty-nine dollars, thirty-two including the scabbard. He had paid another twenty-one dollars for the revolver and holster.
The horse splashed into the warm water and began wading across. The Winchester rifle rested across the saddle, and Rodney searched his surroundings for any threats.
The horse reached the bank on the other side and climbed from the river. Rodney checked his backtrail as the horse turned around a couple of times. He couldn’t shake it. He was certain he was being watched.
An eagle high above called out as it searched for a meal. A gentle breeze from the snowcapped mountains to the west brought a scent his horse could smell, and the animal nickered a greeting. Another horse answered.
They were not alone, but Rodney realized it a moment too late. He brought the rifle up to his shoulder and searched for a target in the direction his horse was looking.
He saw a puff of smoke in the distance, and something smashed into his chest. At the same time, his horse reared. He tumbled backward from the saddle, and he heard a splash. The water washed over his body, and with his last gasp, his lungs filled with muddy river water.
Death was not happy, but she descended and collected Rodney’s light, for that is what she does. She collects the souls of those who pass, and she delivers them to their final destination.
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Nearly two hundred yards away, a skinny young cowboy named Josh swore under his breath. That had not gone exactly as planned. His employer wanted the deed to Blackstone’s claim. It may have been in the man’s pocket, and now it was floating down the river.
The deed did not really matter to Josh. What he wanted was the horse and the saddlebag, and fortunately the horse had trotted just a few feet away. Perfect.