Dark Trail Rising: Four Tales of the Old West Read online

  The Keepers of Camelot

  Western Fictioneers Peacemaker Finalist Best Western Short Fiction

  Under attack by Apache Indians, Arthur and the other stagecoach occupants are forced to take shelter at the stage station where he discovers Ginny, living as the wife of the station proprietor. Could she be his Guinevere?

  As the Apaches attack once more, Arthur recognizes their leader as none other than Lancelot du Lac. Arthur knows that Guinevere has recognized him, as well. They’ve each lived a thousand lives since the last fateful day they spent together, when Lance rescued Ginny and fought with Arthur. But has their dream of Camelot faded completely?

  One of the occupants of the stagecoach, a young boy, touches the forgotten vision within Arthur, centuries after Camelot’s loss. The prophecy says Arthur will return when the world needs him most—but why are Lance and Ginny here? Can the steadfast belief of one homeless boy rekindle the glorious hope of the greatest legend of all time?

  The Kindness of Strangers

  Jericho Dean wants revenge and is willing to do anything – even die – to get it. He's trailing a band of Comancheros who massacre and pillage without conscience or hesitation. Outnumbered, but determined, Jericho makes camp for what may be the last time as he nears his quarry.

  An unusual old cowboy who gives his name as Freeman Hart comes out of nowhere to join Dean. He's searching for Tidwell's Comancheros too. But Jericho knows there's something not quite right about the situation. Will Hart help or hinder his quest for vengeance?

  Shot for a Dog

  "It had been an accident—a trick of the relentless, shimmering heat—that had made Luke pull the trigger. At least, that had been the story he told, and the tale he stuck to in his own mind, until he had almost come to believe the fabrication himself."

  This tense psychological thriller by acclaimed author Cheryl Pierson begins with envy and makes its way to madness, as a young farm boy on the American frontier finds his life unraveling due to a moment of rage...

  HIDDEN TRAILS

  Levi Connor has never run from anything in his life, and he doesn’t intend to start now. After killing the two bandits who’d followed him into Indian Territory, he finds himself wounded and riding through a blinding February snowstorm. With no purpose ahead of him and no past to guide him, he discovers a reason to exist—the beautiful mixed-blood girl who takes him in and heals him.

  Valentine Reneau lives in fear that her father will find her someday in the heart of Indian Territory and force her to return to Mississippi to take her mother’s place—in every way. She knows her time has run out when a stranger shows up on her land with two hired guns—and the devil in his plans.

  With some unlikely help, Valentine must try to escape the slave’s fate that her mother left behind so many years before. Will Levi kill for a woman he barely knows? The chips are down, the guns blaze, and everything finally comes clear along these HIDDEN TRAILS…but who’ll be left alive?

  DARK TRAIL RISING

  Four Tales of the Old West

  Cheryl Pierson

  Dark Trail Rising by Cheryl Pierson

  Copyright© 2015 Cheryl Pierson

  The Keepers of Camelot Copyright © 2013 Cheryl Pierson

  The Kindness of Strangers Copyright © 2013 Cheryl Pierson

  Shot For A Dog Copyright © 2013 Cheryl Pierson

  Hidden Trails Copyright© 2015 Cheryl Pierson

  Cover Design Livia Reasoner

  Prairie Rose Publications

  www.prairierosepublications.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Table of Contents

  The KEEPERS of CAMELOT

  The KINDNESS of STRANGERS

  SHOT for a DOG

  HIDDEN TRAILS

  The KEEPERS of CAMELOT

  Chapter 1

  Arthur Pender sat back in the plush cushion of the stagecoach, bracing himself against the side as the driver hit a rough spot. He shifted his gaze to the space where the window curtain moved with the jolting of the coach.

  Desolate country. Flat and barren. Hot as hell in the summer, and cold as a woman's heart in the winters. Unforgiving, too.

  There was no choice, though. He'd be here for as long as it took…as always.

  The older woman who sat next to him pulled her voluminous skirt closer to her body. He wasn't sure if it was an attempt to be polite and keep to her allotted space, or if she truly didn't want her clothing to come into contact with him. Though he enjoyed the finer comforts as well as the next man, it had been three days since he'd bathed due to lack of facilities. He was not at his best.

  His lips quirked in a caustic grin. In his life before, she'd have been curtsying to him from across a polished marble floor until he bade her rise. But that had been a very long time ago.

  The hairs at the back of his neck prickled. He raised his gaze slowly to meet the level gray stare of the man who sat across from him. A prosperous businessman in this time, most likely, dressed in his best for the trip. The fitted cut of his suit spoke of money. All those years—centuries—before, a man's station in life was easily determined by the quality of the armor he wore—even to the density of his chain mail.

  But this was a different time. A different world…though some things would never change.

  Arthur nodded at his fellow passenger. The man gave him a stiff-necked bob of the head. This was going to be a long, long journey.

  One thing remained constant through the centuries, spanning all the lives he had lived thus far: The idea of the Round Table, of equality and good triumphing over evil, never left him. Was it too much to ask to see it happen successfully just once? Would it be too much to hope for this time around?

  He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The beginning of a headache threatened. The woman who shared his seat gathered her skirts even closer, as if she tried to protect herself from some invisible menace.

  The fourth passenger was a young boy. The youngster sat glum and silent, until Arthur reached into his own front breast pocket and pulled out a worn book. When Arthur opened it and began to try to read in the jolting, swaying contraption, the boy's face transformed.

  He leaned forward. "Arthurian Tales and Legends! Oh, I know them all by heart!"

  Arthur closed the book, handing it across the aisle to him, careful not to touch the elderly woman beside him. The boy's eyes widened as he took the tattered volume with a reverent hand. Arthur pasted a smile on his face, covering the surprised pang of sentimentality he felt at the boy's awe.

  "Do you know these stories, sir?"

  Arthur smiled. "Yes. Like you, I think I've memorized every last one of them."

  "Oh, sir, I love them that much, too! The Knights of the Round Table—well, the very idea of the Round Table itself! King Arthur was a genius to think of it."

  Arthur gave a short laugh. "I wouldn't say that, my lad. No, no genius…else, he'd have been able to see what would follow."

  "Beggin' your pardon, sir," the boy replied, incensed, "but he'd have had to have been able to read minds to know that. And," he added in a practical tone, "he trusted Lancelot, and Mordred."

  Arthur shook his head slowly. "So, you believe he was too quick to trust, do you?"

  The boy shrugged. "If you can't trust your best friend and your son, then who?"
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br />   "Your wife." Arthur's voice was hollow, and the boy's uncle shot him an odd glance. "But, of course, he couldn't trust her, either, as it turned out."

  "No." The youngster was quiet for a moment. "But, he should have been able to trust them all."

  "Good lesson in life, I suppose. Be careful whom you give your allegiance to—make sure your faith in them is well-founded."

  The boy held his hand out. "My name's Jeremy Davis."

  "I'm…Arthur. Arthur Pender."

  Jeremy smiled. "Were you named for King Arthur?"

  Arthur nodded. "Yes."

  "And you're from Britain—"

  "Jeremy, don't be rude," his uncle corrected sourly.

  "Oh, no, please—I don't mind, Mr. Davis—" Arthur said the name questioningly, unsure if they shared the same last name. The man nodded and stiffly put out a hand.

  "Yes. I'm Jeremy's uncle, Evan. He's my youngest brother's boy." A crimson flush started to creep up his neck.

  "Starting fresh in the west?" Arthur meant it as a conversational gambit, but the moment the question left his lips, the other man's spine became more rigid than before, and the pink stain rushed into his cheeks.

  "Our other brother and his wife have agreed to take Jeremy now that his parents are deceased."

  From the look on Jeremy's features, Arthur decided that he must not be too excited at the prospect of living with his aunt and uncle.

  "After I see him safely to their ranch, I will be returning to Virginia to my own affairs," Davis answered in a dismissive tone.

  "They say he'll come again," Jeremy murmured, turning his attention back to the ragged cover of the book he held. Evan Davis picked at an imaginary speck of lint on his coat, then looked away, ignoring his nephew.

  Arthur nodded, "Aye. I suspect that part's true enough. One day, he will return."

  "When the world needs him." The boy's voice rang with conviction.

  "When doesn't it?" Arthur muttered.

  Jeremy raised his somber gray eyes to him. Arthur deliberately softened his expression. "The world is always in need, it seems," he said gently.

  "You said, 'that part's true enough', earlier. Don't you believe?"

  "Jeremy, enough," Davis scolded. "Stop bothering people with these ridiculous ideas of yours. Camelot was a fantastical tale made up for gullible children such as yourself. Nothing more."

  Anger shot through Arthur. By now, he should be accustomed to the boorish louts of the world, even when they clothed themselves in the finery of the day. But even if his assumption had been true, why embarrass the boy? And of course, it wasn't true.

  "How do you know, Mr. Davis?"

  Davis turned to him, surprised.

  Arthur could barely conceal his contempt beneath the thin veil of civility. "How do you know it is just 'a fantastical tale', hmm?"

  Davis gave a self-conscious bark of laughter, his gaze flitting to the woman beside Arthur, as if to beg her indulgence for the entire display—as if his nephew was responsible. She regarded him disdainfully until the smile drifted away from his full lips, and he brought his gaze to bear once again on Arthur.

  "Look, don't encourage him, will you? He shouldn't believe in folk tales. He's going to need his wits about him for his work on the ranch. He shouldn't be dreaming about Camelot and such."

  "So…you only think about that which you know to be real, Mr. Davis? That which you've seen with your own eyes? You have no faith for anything, then? Well, have you seen Jesus Christ in the flesh, or do you 'believe', sir?"

  Davis shrank back against the cushioned confines of the seat as Arthur's voice rose loud and strident, reverberating through the coach. Arthur yanked his hat off in exasperation.

  Davis nodded. "Y-Yes. I—I believe. Of course I believe! But you know that isn't the same thing as these—these myths!"

  Arthur sighed, forcing himself to relax back into the seat. His head pounded, the earlier throbbing having blown into full proportion now.

  "And one more thing," the woman beside him said, uttering the first words she'd spoken since they'd left Fort Sill. "It takes more than hard work to make it in this country, Mr. Davis. If you try to divest the boy of his dreams, might as well turn around and head back to Virginia now. Dreams are all that keep you going, out here."

  After a moment, Jeremy held the book out to Arthur.

  "Read it, if you like, son. My head's aching." Still unable to wipe the disgust for the man from his expression, Arthur glanced at Evan Davis. "My apologies."

  Davis inclined his head briefly in acknowledgement. He looked at Jeremy, who had gleefully opened the book as if it were a treasure chest and begun to read, but he didn't make him give the book back.

  Chapter 2

  Arthur awoke less than an hour later to a sound he knew well—the gurgle of a man drawing his dying breath through his own blood filling his lungs.

  He sat up straight, the ungodly noise encompassing his consciousness abruptly. The sound had been too real to be a dream.

  Evan Davis lay on the floor of the swaying coach in a pool of blood, a brightly-banded arrow shaft protruding from his throat. His eyes bulged, and he clawed at the base of the wood, where it entered his flesh.

  Jeremy knelt beside his uncle, tears of helplessness and fear running down his freckled cheeks. He was utterly silent, as was Mrs. Franklin, who had moved to the opposite side of the coach to occupy the seat that the Davises had vacated. She laid on the seat sideways, her legs in a sitting position, her body bent at the waist.

  "Get down!" she hissed, as Arthur's eyes met hers briefly. Then, she opened her reticule and pulled out the small derringer from within. Davis drew his last breath and lay still.

  Arthur pushed Jeremy down lower, flat onto the floor with him, where they sprawled atop Davis' corpse.

  Arthur could feel Jeremy's ragged breathing beneath the hand he'd placed on the boy's back. Above them, the stagecoach driver's curses and shouts filtered through the sounds of the war cries. The Indians were surrounding them, but by Arthur's reckoning, they had to be nearing the next stage station.

  Arthur drew his revolver and raised himself from Jeremy's form. As Arthur reached for Mrs. Franklin with his other hand, she threw off his touch, her eyes flashing.

  "You'll need help, sir. And like it or not, I'm all there is. I will not cower on the floor, hiding from these savages."

  "Madam, your bravery is commendable, but as a gentleman—"

  "Gentlemen sometimes don't last long, Mr. Pender, in this rough land." She tore her gaze quickly from his, aiming the derringer and squeezing off a deadly shot as a painted face appeared in the nearby window. The Indian disappeared with a startled cry of pain and surprise.

  "Ha!" she cried triumphantly.

  In spite of their dire situation, Arthur couldn't help smiling. The door handle jiggled and flew open, revealing two of the savages who gleefully started to jump from their ponies into the moving conveyance.

  Arthur brought the pistol to bear and coolly squeezed off two shots. Of all the inventions of this time, the weaponry intrigued him most. What he might have accomplished in the past if he'd had a six-shot revolver!

  The Indians disappeared as the coach raced wildly toward its destination, the door hanging ajar. Arthur lunged toward the door, but it flew out of his grasp. He shoved the lifeless body of Evan Davis aside, heard Jeremy's gasp of dismay as his hand smeared through the bloody puddle on the floor where his uncle had died. The boy braced his hands against the edge of the wall to hold himself in place on the floor. He made a grab for the book of legends just as it slid for the open door, lunging for it at the last possible moment.

  From outside the coach, the jubilant shout of the driver sounded, and the horses began to slow. The stage station rolled into view through the open doorway.

  "Thank God!" Mrs. Franklin gasped.

  In the next instant, the driver, Joe Danforth, brought the team to a full, skidding halt and then jumped to the ground. He flung the door fully open
assessing the situation with a quick glance. "Get inside, quick as you can. They'll be back."

  Joe reached in to take Mrs. Franklin's hand as she clambered through the door.

  "Up, lad," Arthur urged, and Jeremy seemed to come to himself, scrambling through the opening, the book clutched tightly in his bloody fist.

  Arthur jumped to the ground and took a step, then stopped. He turned and reached inside the stagecoach to pull Davis' Colt free of his holster. They'd have need of every gun available, he thought grimly, wondering if young Jeremy had ever before fired a pistol.

  He started for the door at a lope, noticing two other men standing warily, guns drawn.

  "Get on in here!" one of them yelled gruffly.

  In another time, men wouldn't have dared speak to him thusly. He had, after all, been a king. But, for whatever reason, he enjoyed this time in what had become America's western frontier.

  He crossed the threshold of the stage station and entered chaos. Tension filled the air as preparations for war were carried out, a familiar reminder of days past. All around him, Arthur felt the mingled fear, anticipation and anxiety so thick it was another presence in the room.

  Two women sat on a settee across the room ripping sheets into long strips. Mrs. Franklin stood beside the settee speaking to one of the women, a honey-haired beauty who seemed to have quite a lot of experience at tearing bandage strips. When she raised her eyes to the older woman, Arthur understood.

  Chapter 3

  Guinevere…Ginny…

  In all these years, when he'd found himself transformed once more in a time that wasn't his, living a life that didn't belong to him, he'd never thought to lay eyes on Ginny again. The legend that he seemed to have no control over had brought him back at least a score of times since that fateful day when he'd been spirited away to Avalon after the battle with Lancelot's forces. But he'd never thought the legend would extend to his queen! Protective anger filled him. She should not have to endure these machinations. Theirs had been an arranged marriage…in the beginning. She'd had no say in it. Still…she'd made the most of it, hadn't she? One part of him protested, while the other part of him said she deserved everything she got.