The Broken Bow, page 1
A TRUSTY DAWSON, DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL WESTERN
LARRY D. SWEAZY
THE BROKEN BOW
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Author’s Note
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2022 by Larry D. Sweazy
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4679-9
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4680-5 (eBook)
To Liz and Chris
Acknowledgments
Life goes on while a writer is writing any novel. The period during which this particular novel was written was especially challenging. We were deep in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic and my wife, Rose, encountered some serious health issues, as well, making writing a little more difficult than usual. We are lucky to have great friends and family, Amber Reynolds, Matthew Clemens, Greg and Marybeth Maack, and Liz and Chris Hatton, along with many others, who helped us, checked on us, and dropped care packages at the door during our darkest times. We really couldn’t have made it through that struggle without any of you, and we are eternally grateful for your love and continued support.
Rose continues to recover, and like with every book before this one, she has read, offered the use of her favorite red pen, and her forthright opinion. There were times when I thought that part of our life was over. I’m so glad it’s not. She is my rock, and I love her more than I can say.
Thanks, too, to my longtime agent, Cherry Weiner, who was there for us along with our friends and family, and for me for my career every step of the way. Also, thanks to my editor, Gary Goldstein, and all of the staff at Kensington who have participated and helped put the Trusty Dawson books out onto the shelves. And finally, thank you, dear reader, who has ridden along with me on this latest adventure. I especially appreciate the emails I receive from readers who want to know more about Trusty and my westerns. It means a lot to hear from you. Especially on those dark days.
This one is a little more special because of all of you.
Chapter 1
Bismarck, Dakota Territory, December 1888
Trusty Dawson cinched the saddle as tight as he could without causing his durable strawberry roan gelding that he called Horse to object. He wanted to be ready to ride after seeing Marshal Delaney in his office. He’d had enough of the rickety and windblown capital city. Too many people to be concerned with, even this far north. Any happiness in this new place would be found alone on the trail. He hadn’t come to terms with his new assignment any more than he’d adjusted to the frigid weather. The Dakota Territory looked and felt like hell had frozen over to him, and his skin and his mind didn’t take well to the cold—or being sent somewhere to be kept out of sight. If that was the real reason he’d been sent to Bismarck in the first place.
Once Trusty was finished with the chore of preparing Horse, he remained inches from his ride, head down with the rim of his faded blue Cavalry Stetson campaign hat resting on the saddle. He was listening to the two men in the next stall talk amongst themselves. The pair had got his attention and made him want to know more about them. Caution and suspicion came easy to Trusty these days.
At first glance, the men seemed harmless enough, sewing machine salesmen making their way across the prairie, selling the marvel of the Singer Manufacturing Company to women in need of more time that the modern invention would afford them. It was the taller man of the two that especially bothered Trusty. There was a darkness about the man’s choice of dirty gray clothes and his sidearms—a Colt .45 on each hip—that seemed out of place for a salesman. This man’s hardened eyes suggested that he was more of a hired gunslinger, a protector, than a man who hocked wares for a living; his eyes were as black as the steel and cast-iron sewing machines that sat in crates loaded on a wagon outside the livery. The shorter of the two men was tending a lone horse, a swayback black draft mare, with white stockings above her hooves, that Trusty supposed was set to lead them on their sales route.
“We’ve hit a vein of luck with this weather, Miles, but I fear it’s not going to hold. I think we should head south instead of west.” Miles was the one that Trusty was concerned about, dark and unamused by the shorter man’s expression of fear. Names always helped—if they could be relied on to be true. The man speaking was short and thin in a fit way, not a hungry, sickly way. He was outfitted in natty clothes fresh off of a tailor’s needle, a crisp blue linen shirt, clean white collar, and a brown tweed vest. He wore a thick suede overcoat with a rabbit fur collar, clean of any lint or dirt and open, not buttoned down for extreme temperatures. A struggling farmer would see the short man coming from a mile off and know he was a huckster of some kind, though at the moment, the sewing machines appeared to be a legitimate concern, not snake oil or other flights of fancy. A Singer could change the life of any woman who could afford and learn how to operate the mechanical contraption.
Miles shook his head, objected to the change in plans with a grunt, then said, “West is the route we agreed on, Mr. Carmichael, and that’s the route we take. I got my reasons to go west, and you’ve got your prospects along the way. I say we go now like was planned.”
Carmichael held fast, planted his feet firmly on the straw-strewn floor, acting as if he were the one in charge. “Do you know where you are?”
Trusty peered over the saddle as he began to fuss with his bedroll, a thick buffalo blanket, tightening it down again, giving himself a reason to stay inside the stall and listen. Horse snorted and kicked his rear leg hard enough to toss a bit of straw into the air. The roan had a restless streak in him that Trusty recognized and appreciated, but he wasn’t going to be called off the two men by the beast. Both of the salesmen knew he was there but weren’t paying any attention to him that he could tell.
Carmichael and Miles stood opposite each other, both of them looking like mules refusing to budge. The short man made the first move. “It was my friends and colleagues, Holland Freeman and Earl Lancaster who set out on a fine winter day much like this one that brung us here in the first place. They journeyed away from Bismarck enjoying a rare, warm January day with coats unbuttoned, immune to any icy touch, or so they thought, as they made their calls on one soddie to the next. Them and a whole lot of other folks who’d lived on this land for the ages thought they’d been allowed to breathe safely from the wrath of winter who should have knowed better. A whoosh of wind hurried straight down from the north with the force of a white four-footed monster, bringing with it a blizzard that no one was prepared for or had seen the likes of before. Them two fellas, the finest Singer salesmen as was ever seen in this territory, plum froze to death, just like more than two hundred other people, a lot of them children, lost in the blizzard, seekin’ their way home with nary a coat or scarf around their necks. Just because the sky is clear right now don’t mean it can’t change on the turn of a bird’s wing. This is the Dakota Territory. You can’t trust what you see with your own eyes. I ain’t ready to freeze to death, Miles, and I doubt you are neither. South is a safer bet for livin’ another day. I’m certain of it.”
Miles stiffened, looked down on Carmichael since he towered over him a good five inches, and shook his head again. “Don’t matter if we go south or west. A wind like what you say shows up, ain’t nobody gonna out run it. We go west, you hear?” It was then that Miles tore his attention away from Carmichael and made eye contact with Trusty. “You got a problem, stranger?” His voice was hard, and his jaw set forward as he took in the man he saw, assured now that he was being listened to.
“Not at all,” Trusty said. “Just finishin’ up with my horse and I’ll be on my way. Your friend there is right, though. From what I’ve seen around here it’s best not to trust the sky overhead. I heard tell of that Children’s Blizzard that befell so many families back in January. Winter up this way seems to have an appetite for fools and the unattended.”
“You callin’ me a fool?”
“I’m not callin’ you anything. Just makin’ a statement is all.”
“If I want to know what you think, I’ll ask you.”
Trusty forced a smile, patted Horse, and walked to the front of the stall the two men stood in and stopped, blocking any exit from it. Like Miles, he was outfitted to ward off trouble if it came his way. One holster was armed with a Colt .45 with carved ivory grips and a six-inch barrel. His belt was fully complemented with cartridges, and a Bowie knife hung opposite the pistol in a worn black leather sheath. A single gun was enough for him. If it wasn’t, then his Winchester ’73 was loaded and waiting to be called into action in the scabbard on Horse’s right side. “Suit yourself, friend, but I’d heed your partner’s warning. Blizzards are as common here as rattlesnakes in Texas.”
Miles judged Trusty head to toe like he was an opponent of some kind. He let his gaze stop on the badge that was securely pinned on Trusty’s chest. “Never been to Texas so I wouldn’t know. Like I said, you need to mind your own business, Deputy. Ain’t nothin’ that concerns you here. We’re honest, hardworkin’ men, lookin’ for our next sale is all.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Now, now, Miles,” Carmichael said, it ain’t prudent to be rude to a Deputy U.S. Marshal. He didn’t mean no disrespect, Marshal, we’re just startin’ out as a team. We’ve got a lot to learn about each other’s ways.”
Miles sneered at Carmichael, and for a second Trusty thought the tall man was going to smack his partner in the mouth, but that didn’t happen. Miles unclenched his fist and smiled, offering the first bit of charisma since the conversation began.
“You gentlemen have a fine day, and be careful out there,” Trusty said, holding Miles’s stare, before he set one boot in front of the other and headed for the open door of the livery. “I hope you have good luck on your trip.” He didn’t wait for a response, just kept on walking until he was outside the wind-blasted gray barn, glad to be free of the tension, the smell of horse shit, and the uncertainty that men wearing guns on their hips always brought him. It was then, just beyond the door, that Trusty glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Miles’s gaze following him outside. Trusty nodded, then headed toward Delaney’s office, allowing his hand to dangle as close to his Colt as it needed to be. It was better to be prepared than to be dead.
* * *
Marshal Michael Delaney remained sitting behind his simple oak desk when Trusty walked into the office. Delaney wore a perfectly trimmed horseshoe mustache, white as Dakota snow and thick as a drift alongside a barn. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and was hunched over a stack of papers, mumbling to himself as he ran his long, narrow finger down an open ledger. “I’ve been expecting you, Sam. Sit down.” Delaney didn’t look up, didn’t dare lose his place among the numbers. The order was firm enough launched as it was by his deep, gravelly voice, to be taken seriously.
Trusty appreciated the fact that Delaney called him by his given name, Sam. Most people called him Trusty whether he liked it or not. He did what he was told and took a seat in a solid chair that fronted the desk. The finish was starting to wear off the seat and arms of the chair, reflecting its time spent in Delaney’s presence and maybe the Marshal before him. A curtainless window arched up behind the Marshal’s desk with bright, golden light, penetrating the office making the room more hospitable than it would have been any other time of the day; the color tones were usually marked by cold, gray uninspired shadows. This wasn’t Trusty’s first visit to the Marshal’s office, and it wouldn’t be the last, but there was an institutional smell to the place and a sense of confinement that didn’t appeal to any of his senses. He was always quick to leave after any necessary business had been conducted.
“I’m assuming you’ve already cashed out?” Delaney said, looking up as he settled back into his red leather chair.
“Yes, sir. I plan on stopping at the bank on my way out of town.”
“In a hurry to leave Bismarck?”
“No more than usual. I had enough of city life as a boy.”
“Saint Louis, if I recall.”
“That’d be correct, sir. My father still owns a blacksmith shop there.”
“Explains your build and demeanor a bit, doesn’t it?”
Trusty didn’t show the flinch on the outside that he felt on the inside. He’d given up the hammer and the anvil, and all of the work that came along with forging iron into something useful a long time ago, but the early days of his life, muscles to some extent, broad shoulders, and workingman hands gave away the experience and the forced occupation of his boyhood. He tried not to think too much about the past, those days when fire and smoke seemed to be his only kin. His father was a cold and distant man with a taste for whiskey and rage, especially after Trusty’s mother had died when he was eight years old and left the two of them to survive each other’s presence. At least there had been some comfort and predictability to be found in the iron and fire.
“I suppose so,” Trusty said, with a glance to the toes of his well-worn boots.
“You get back to Saint Louis often? I’m partial to that city, myself. It’s always buzzing with excitement. People coming and going every day.”
“I try to avoid going home if I can. Especially now.”
Delaney nodded; he understood Trusty’s meaning without being explained to. “There’s still no word on Marberry’s location, if you were wondering. He’s disappeared.”
“I’ve been given to understand that Marberry isn’t my problem or my assignment.”
“You understand correctly.” The Marshal drew in a deep breath and leaned forward. His attention to business had changed from numbers to Trusty. “It makes no difference why he has offered a bounty for your life, the fact is he has, and we will find him and hold him to account, while you continue on with your duties here. I will ask you again if you want to ride with another marshal to help look over your shoulder?”
“I prefer to ride alone.”
“I figured that’s what you would say. Have it your way, then, Dawson. I have a warrant I want you to collect on. I think you’re the right man for the job. It will be your sole focus until the paper is served.”
“Just one warrant, sir?”
“There’ll be plenty of mileage to compensate you for the lack of multiple assignments.”
“It’s not that, sir. I’m not concerned about the money.”
“What then?”
“Coming back to town so soon after I leave.”
“This won’t be an easy card to pocket if that’s what you’re thinking. You’ll head south, then back north again if what I’ve been told proves to be true. I think you’ll have a challenge with this one. The ride will be long, especially this time of the year. The weather will be as much a test to you as your collar. You won’t be returning to Bismarck anytime soon.”
“Okay, that suits me. What do you have?” Trusty hoped the warrant would take him farther south than the confines of Delaney’s jurisdiction reached. He wanted to look for Theodore Marberry, the man who had put a bounty on his head. If that wasn’t enough of a reason, Trusty needed to see the child who was in Marberry’s care, at least at the last sighting of her. A baby girl, born to Marberry’s daughter, Jessica, a woman Trusty had loved since he was a boy, and who, if it was to be believed, he was the father of. He had to find out. He had to know for sure if the baby was his blood, but he was trapped by the badge, the bounty, and the duty he’d swore to uphold. Being a Deputy U.S. Marshal was all he’d had until the moment he’d encountered the news, still unproven, that he had a daughter out in the world somewhere.
