Everett Brooks and the Midnight Riders - Redux, Part 1
A revised draft of Prologue, Chapter 1, and Chapter 2
Author’s Note: I’ve decided that I want to share some of the progress I’ve made in revising Everett Brooks and the Midnight Riders for publication. While the broad strokes of the story are firmly in place, please understand that this is a working draft, and there are likely to be some grammatical faux pas.
Prologue
He stood over her grave, the bodies of her killers strewn about, blood trickling into his eyes. Their first shot grazed his forehead, then they ambushed her. They took him for dead, but he rose from the dust and made them pay for their negligence, unloading his pair of Colt Army revolvers with vengeful fury. The murderers fled in terror as half their number were gunned down mercilessly.
The end of their outlaw days had been so close, but she died in his arms instead. He buried his pistols with her so part of him would stay with her forever.
He held onto her Remington for the same reason.
Chapter 1
“The good sheriff usually doesn’t let folks walk around the town heeled, but he seems to have made an exception twice over in your case.”
Everett Brooks looked up from his breakfast to see a well-dressed, barrel-chested man standing over him and studying the two Colt Open Top revolvers holstered in his belt.
“Three times over if you count that,” Everett motioned to a rifle leaning against the wall behind where he was sitting.
“A Henry repeater, eh?”
“Vintage 1860.”
“Get that in the War, did you?”
Everett Brooks nodded perfunctorily.
“Fought for the Union?”
Everett’s face darkened slightly, and he shook his head before answering, “On the losing side, matter of fact. I was one of Mosby’s boys.”
“How in God’s name did a militia boy like yourself come by such an elegant firearm?”
“Took it off a dead Yank.”
“Did you also come by that scar during the War?” The stranger pointed at the old wound that slashed its way across Everett Brooks’ forehead.
“No, that happened later. I’m not too inclined to talk about it, truth be told.”
The stranger stuck out a bearish hand, “My apologies, sir. Here I’ve been bombarding you with questions and I’ve yet to introduce myself. The name’s Duncan MacTavish, but most people around here just call me The Scotsman.”
“Most people everywhere call me Everett Brooks.”
“May I join you?” MacTavish gestured at the chair opposite Everett, who gave a cursory nod as the big man settled into his seat. “I must confess I already knew who you were. I’ve seen your face staring out from many a Wanted poster over the years, which is why I’m surprised the sheriff’s allowed a well-known troublemaker such as yourself to wander the town armed to the gills.”
“My troublemaking days are over. These days I hunt bounties. Sheriff’s got no cause to deny me the tools of my trade. Anyways, what’s your excuse for carrying the Peacemaker?” Brooks nodded at the nickel-plated revolver in a cross-draw holster on the Scotsman’s left hip.
“Oh, this? Well, being the richest man in town has its privileges,” MacTavish grinned broadly.
“I can see that,” Brooks grunted as he took a sip of coffee.
“So, what brings you to Heaven’s Hollow?”
“I already told you: hunting bounties.”
“Anyone in particular?”
Everett took another gulp of his coffee, set the cup down, and fixed the Scotsman with a pointed stare, “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. MacTavish?”
For the first time since he had interrupted Everett Brooks’ breakfast, Duncan MacTavish fell silent. Everett could see turmoil playing out behind the man’s eyes as he wrestled with himself over what to discuss with the bounty hunter. Finally, the Scotsman sighed in resignation and leaned forward.
“I own a saloon just down the street. You might’ve seen it: The Scotsman’s Hall? I also own a ranch a few miles outside of town, as well as a majority stake in the gold mine in the hills above Heaven’s Hollow. As I said before, I’m the richest man in this town. That means I’m used to getting what I want. And what I want right now is to hire you.”
“To do what, exactly?”
“You’re a gunslinger. And a killer. A damn good one too, if the stories about you are to be believed. I want to hire you to do what you do best.”
“I’m not a killer-for-hire, Mr. MacTavish. Not anymore.”
“Strictly speaking, I’m not asking you to kill anyone.”
“Then what is it you want from me?”
“There’s a gang of road agents that have been terrorizing this town for a few months now, attacking miners, travelers, and traders. They’re starting to seriously cut into my profits from the gold mine, as well as threatening the prosperity of the rest of the town. I want you to deal with them.”
“Get the sheriff and his deputies to handle it.”
“For all his bluster, our good sheriff is a lazy coward. He wants the glory of the job without any of the responsibility that goes along with it. As far as his deputies go, I think they’re working with the gang.”
“So then hire Pinkertons.”
“I’ll pay you twenty dollars a day!” MacTavish declared earnestly. “That’s more than a Pinkerton makes.”
“But not more than I’ll make if you’d just let me deal with my bounties.”
“I think the Midnight Riders are involved.”
Everett leaned forward intently. “What’d you say?”
MacTavish paused for a moment, judiciously stroking his gray speckled beard, “I know what happened between you and the Midnight Riders. Bloody hell, everyone west of the Mississippi knows about that. I also know you’re hunting them; that they’re the reason you’ve found yourself in our little frontier paradise.”
“You sure do seem to know a lot for a rich son of a bitch.”
Duncan MacTavish let out a burst of good-natured laughter, “You’re not wrong. A man in my position must be well informed. It doesn’t hurt that you’re famous. Now, if you’ll permit me to get to the point: I think these road agents are members of your old gang.”
“You don’t say? What makes you think that?”
“People talk,” the Scotsman waved a mammoth hand dismissively.
“Yeah, especially to a woman what’s showing ‘em a good time. Like one of them doxies at your saloon, maybe?”
“Now who’s the one who seems to know a lot?” Duncan chuckled.
“It ain’t my first day in town. Been here long enough to get the lay of the land, anyhow. And, if I’m bein’ honest, I’ve heard rumors the Riders have been seen in the area. One thing I didn’t expect was to see an old friend of mine ramblin’ about the place.”
Duncan leaned forward conspiratorially. “And who is this erstwhile compatriot of yours? Maybe I know him.”
“You ought to know him. He works for you: Pistol Pete Crosby.”
Duncan MacTavish roared with laughter once again, “My good man, I think I would know it if a gunslinger of such renown as Pete Crosby worked for me.”
“Pistol Pete Crosby,” Brooks corrected. “And he does work for you, except you know him as Rudabaugh Jenkins.”
“Rudabaugh Jenkins is Pistol Pete Crosby?! That shaggy, wild haired mountain man is one of the deadliest gunfighters in the Territory? I had no idea!”
“I expect that’s on purpose. There’s a lot of folks out there what’d like to bury him.”
“How is it that you two are old friends?”
“He’s a Virginia boy, like me. Both rode with Mosby during the War, then we came out west together: Ran a crew for a while. I haven’t seen him in years, so you can imagine my surprise when I spied him.”
There was an abrupt commotion outside, followed by a woman screaming. A solitary gunshot echoing in the tranquil morning air.
“Everett Brooks! I know you’re in there! You get on out here, you yellow bastard! NOW!” The words were bellowed in a rickety cadence. Everett Brooks narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Without saying a word, he got up from the table, walked out of the hotel’s plush dining room, through the elegantly appointed lobby, and out onto the plank sidewalk. Duncan MacTavish followed right behind, a mystified expression on his face.
It was early fall in the Montana Territory, and the first hint of snow lingered on a mild breeze. Everett stood with his arms crossed on the top step of the sidewalk, a haggard-looking cowhand standing just below him in the muddy street. Passersby gave them a wide berth even as they watched the unfolding drama with curiosity.
“Well, if it ain’t the great outlaw hisself,” slurred the clearly intoxicated man. Brooks regarded the disheveled stranger with a bemused stare.
“Tommy Tramer, as I live and breathe. Never thought I’d see the unfortunate day we’d cross paths again.”
“You gonna wish we hadn’t. I hate your yellow guts for what you done to me.”
“Tommy, you were a useless and stupid drunk then, and it looks like you’re still a useless and stupid drunk. Much as I’d like to do otherwise, I’m gonna let you walk away. This time.”
“You know he let me back into the Riders after they done in you and your woman? Whole gang knows you’re here, Everett Brooks, and they’re gonna come for you.”
“Good, you saved me the trouble of having to find them.”
“You’re damn right, cause I’m fixin’ to deliver you myself.” Tommy Tramer tightened his grip on his revolver. Everett Brooks didn’t move, and his arms remained crossed.
“Walk away, Tommy. Don’t be dumb. It ain’t going to end well if you pull on me.”
Tommy was deaf to reason, his face red with drunken fury. He started to raise his gun. Before Duncan could register what happened a thunderous crack rang out. Tommy dropped in the mud, writhing in agony as he clutched a bloody hole in his thigh. Meanwhile, Everett Brooks stood indifferently on the sidewalk, a Colt Open Top revolver smoking in his right hand. He holstered the pistol, stepped into the street, and crouched down next to Tommy.
“You sonofabitch!” his victim howled. “I’m gonna lose my leg!”
“Relax, Tommy. Worst you’ll have is a limp for the rest of your life, which won’t be very long if I ever see your sorry ass again.”
Everett Brooks regained his feet and turned to Duncan. “Let me get my jacket and my rifle, and we’ll go see old Pistol Pete.”
Chapter 2
“You shouldn’t have let him live,” Duncan MacTavish observed as they squelched their way through the muddy thoroughfare, dodging fellow pedestrians and piles of horse droppings. “He’ll bring the Riders down on you for sure now.”
“He was going to do that anyway. You heard him.”
“I heard a drunk man making drunken boasts. He might have been lying.”
“Tommy Tramer is a lot of things, but he’s not known for lying. If he says the Riders know I’m here, then that’s the truth.”
“You seem to know the man much better than I. My impression of him is that he’s nothing more than a raving, imbecilic drunk.”
“Well, your assessment isn’t terribly far off.” A quizzical look crossed Everett Brooks’ face. “I thought you said the sheriff don’t let just anyone walk the town heeled.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Then why in the hell is Tommy Tramer of all people struttin’ around with a Navy six?”
“You know, I have seen him out on the town with the deputies. Boozing in the saloons and such.”
“If he’s in good with the deputies that goes along with your theory about them working with the Riders and them bein’ your road agents.”
As they approached the steps leading up to MacTavish’s saloon, The Scotsman’s Hall, the doors to the establishment swung outward, and an intoxicated miner was deposited unceremoniously into the mud at their feet. Standing in the doorway was a savage figure, clad top to bottom in fringed buffalo leather. His dark hair was streaked with gray and hung down to the small of his back, while a bushy beard that matched in both color and length covered his face. A Schofield revolver with a walnut grip sat holstered on his right hip, a Bowie knife sheathed on his left, and a Winchester Yellow Boy rifle lay across his back. The fury in his blazing eyes, ostensibly at the drunk man he’d just ejected, disappeared as soon as his gaze fell on the duo standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’ll be damned! That really you, Everett Brooks?!” Pistol Pete Crosby, otherwise known to the locals as Rudabaugh Jenkins, exclaimed.
“In the flesh,” Brooks replied nonchalantly. “Still raising hell, I see.”
“Matter of fact, this gentleman right here pays me to keep the hell-raisers out.” Pistol Pete inclined his head deferentially at Duncan MacTavish. He gestured aggressively at the man still laying in a disheveled heap. “This one was gettin’ handsy with the ladies and tryin’ to buffalo his fellow card players.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we,” MacTavish stated gravely. “I’ll trust you not to let this man back inside The Scotsman’s Hall again, Mr. Jenkins…er…Crosby.”
Pete Crosby laughed good naturedly, “I see our friend here has spilled the beans. If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d prefer it if you kept callin’ me by Jenkins. Pistol Pete Crosby’s got a lot of old enemies out there and he wouldn’t want to make it too easy for them to learn his whereabouts.”
“As you say. Shall we go in and get a drink?” Duncan MacTavish led the group into his saloon. The Scotsman’s Hall was bustling with activity as dozens of roughneck patrons sat playing cards, leaned on billiards tables, and caroused with the numerous women clothed in colorful bustiers and frilly petticoats. The trio made their way over to the bar. The barman gave MacTavish a respectful nod and filled three tumbler glasses full of whiskey.
Pete Crosby swiftly downed his portion, motioning for the bartender to refill his glass. “So, Everett, I ain’t seen you in a dog’s age. What you doin’ in Heaven’s Hollow?”
“Got some bounties out this way. And I’d heard tell there might be some Riders around here as well. Ran into Tommy Tramer on my way over here, so those rumors must not be entirely untrue.”
“Good ol’ Tommy,” Pete chuckled. “He never did forgive you. Still bitches about it to this day.”
“So I noticed,” Everett grunted drily.
“Might I inquire as to what happened?” MacTavish interjected.
“Tommy’s drunken stupidity cost us one too many a hefty score, so he had to go. Some of the others weren’t too pleased with me about that, seeing as how they was partial to his company. I expect that’s why they let him back in once I was out.”
“It doesn’t seem too smart to keep a useless cretin like that around,” the Scotsman observed.
“Which is exactly why I kicked his ass to the wind,” Everett casually rejoined. “Anyhow, what do you know about them Riders, Pete?”
“I ain’t seen the big dog, if you know what I mean, but the gang’s skulkin’ around for sure. I see a few of ‘em in town every once in a while.”
“They ever come in here?”
“Anyone wants to have a real good time they come in here.” Pete winked. “You wouldn’t believe the kind o’ girls our friend Mr. MacTavish here has workin’ for him.”
“Mr. MacTavish!” As if on cue, a delighted squeal rose above the commotion of the upscale saloon and interrupted the conversation. Everett Brooks looked up from his drink to see a sensationally beautiful blonde woman weaving through the crowd.
“Caroline, lass!” The Scotsman was equally thrilled to see the beguiling woman.
“It’s been so long since you’ve visited us,” Caroline pouted coquettishly. “Me and the girls were beginning to think you didn’t love us anymore.”
“Nonsense, my dear. I’ve simply been busy dealing with other matters.”
“Are you going to introduce me to your new friend?” Caroline asked as she stared hungrily at the handsome, blue-eyed stranger standing next to her boss.
“Ah, yes! Where are my manners? Caroline, meet Everett Brooks: bounty hunter extraordinaire.”
“Pleased to meet you, mister.” Caroline presented Everett with a graceful hand that was gloved in delicate lace. “You can call me Sweet Caroline.”
Despite his best efforts, Everett couldn’t keep his eyes from Caroline’s heaving bosom. When he finally met her gaze, his cheeks flushed slightly as she flashed a dazzling smile, a knowing twinkle in her eye.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He studiously tipped his hat – a dark gray fedora with a wide brim - in her direction.
“Quite the gentleman, isn’t he?” Caroline giggled as she fingered Everett’s leather vest and button-down shirt with deliberate coyness. “I like him.”
“Sweet Caroline here will cure what ails you and then some,” MacTavish said wolfishly.
“Thanks, but I don’t partake.”
Caroline planted her hands on her shapely hips in a posture of mock defiance. “You got a problem with us trollops, mister?”
“I got no problem with anyone trying to make an honest living the best they know how. But I don’t believe in paying for what should be given freely. Under the right circumstances that is,” Everett opined. “Plus, I just don’t like to share.”
Pistol Pete guffawed, “I seem to remember a certain harlot you sure didn’t mind wastin’ all your money on at that hog ranch in Kansas City.”
“That was before I knew better.”
MacTavish laid a strong, friendly hand on Everett’s shoulder. “You agree to work for me, you can have Sweet Caroline all to yourself, as well as a room here, free of charge. Provided she agrees to that, of course.”
Caroline nodded vigorously, for she was thoroughly intrigued by Everett Brooks. He was just as fascinated with her. Something about Caroline’s lively and sparkling indigo eyes - and the bouncy blonde curls that framed her slightly angular face - tugged at the edges of his memory. Everett was sure he would remember meeting a woman as arrestingly beautiful as Caroline before. However, at that moment his recollections filled his mind with another intoxicating blonde beauty: The one who had been taken from him three years earlier.
Before Caroline could voice her consent to Duncan’s proposal two men wearing deputy badges barged through the doors, their faces twisted in rage. The whole room went deathly quiet as everyone anxiously held their breath to see what would happen next. The deputies strode angrily towards Everett Brooks.
“You! You’re under arrest for attempted murder of a citizen in good standing.”
Everett arched an eyebrow, “Tommy Tramer? A citizen in good standing? Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”
The deputy slammed a fist on the bar top, “Hand over your guns and come with us.”
“Neither one of you’s going to take my guns from me,” Everett stated flatly. All trace of amusement was gone from his voice. Caroline airily sashayed over, interjecting herself between the standoffish trio.
“Now, boys, let’s all play nice. There are things to do in here that’re more fun than starting fights.” She winked coyly at the pair of lawmen. The one closest to Caroline shoved her aside, his sullen and mustachioed face overcome with disdain and loathing.
“Mind your own business, whore! This don’t concern you.”
Everett Brooks kicked the man’s feet out from under him, and he flopped to the ground like an unwieldy sack of potatoes. Everett had one of his Colts drawn in a flash, the barrel aimed at the still standing deputy, who was himself in mid-draw.
“That wasn’t very nice. Apologize to the lady,” he instructed the man sprawled out on the plank floor.
“Hell if I will,” the humiliated lawman argued sourly. Everett’s other revolver cleared leather and was shoved into his thrall’s face. “Fine, fine, damn it all! I apologize. Ain’t worth getting into a shooting match over.”
“That’s better.” Everett relaxed slightly. “Now, I ain’t giving up my guns, and I ain’t turning myself in. Tommy Tramer drew on me in public. He’s lucky I just winged him. I’ve got witnesses that plainly saw I acted in self-defense. You go back to your boss, whether it be the sheriff - or someone else - and tell them if they got a problem, they’re more than welcome to come down here and force the issue.”
“This isn’t over,” the upright deputy threatened ominously as he helped his compatriot to his feet.
“No, it certainly isn’t,” Everett agreed as he holstered his pistols. The racket of gambling and carousing resumed as the vanquished lawmen retreated from the building, and everyone returned to their business satisfied that the commotion was over.
“Always was the chivalrous one, wasn’t ya?” Pete Crosby chuckled. Everett shrugged, while Caroline gazed at him with an eager and unmistakable yearning.
Everett returned his attention back to Duncan MacTavish, “Guess that confirms Tommy Tramer’s standing with the locals. Now, where were we?”
The Scotsman cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly. “We were discussing the terms of your employment.”
“Yes, we were. I’ll take your twenty dollars a day, and the free boarding at this swanky establishment of yours. However, the girl doesn’t need to be involved in our arrangement, sweet as she might be. Also, if I’m going after an outfit of road agents, and if that outfit is indeed the Midnight Riders, I’m going to need some help. I want to enlist my good friend here,” Everett nodded at Pistol Pete. “And I expect you to pay him what you’re paying me.”
“Very well, but that’s almost twice as much as I’m paying him now, I’ll have you know.” MacTavish grumbled.
“That’s because you thought he was just some no-name country yokel. Truth be told, he’s probably worth more than I am.”
“Fine, fine. Caroline will show you to your room,” Duncan MacTavish said as a mirthful look spread across his face. Sweet Caroline reached into her bustier, pulled out a key, and motioned for Everett to follow her with a puckish grin.
“Right this way, sugar.”
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Still love it. Better this time, it seems tighter, more polished, definitely an improvement. Bravo!
I'm still liking this story, Josh, and I started nodding to myself as I read it, thinking: I remember this story. It's still a fun read. It's always great to edit something and see it take shape. I'm waiting for the next bits.