Welcome to the American West of 1857. Molested as a young boy, Billy Fox kills the cousin who harmed him and sets out to find the great mentor of his youth, a Comanche medicine man named Black Eagle. But moving through the New Mexico mountains into the Great Plains is a perilous path littered with bandits, thieves, and the posse giving him chase. Hoping to blend in and find safety in numbers, Billy joins another party traveling east. The McSwain family is this eastbound clan, and as a new member, Billy begins to question his longing for Black Eagle. Grace McSwain, a beautiful and resourceful young lady, is the chief reason why.
Can she break his perceived destiny to live with the Comanche? The ferocious tribe may not accept him and instead could capture, torture, and hang his scalp from a lance like a spoil of war. Will Billy Fox stay true to his quest to reunite with Black Eagle? Or will he take the chance for the true love of a woman?
Billy Fox threw the butcher knife down and dusted his hands. Wretched blood-stained metal, though useful when he needed it. He sat on the rocky soil chewing his knuckles, exhausted and hungry like the forlorn fugitive that he was. But the law hadn’t found him yet, the posse from Santa Fe. He knew damn well they were after him, and if they caught up, he’d be taken home to hang.
He was cold and alone in the mountains, staring at his right hand, at the dried blood on his fingertips. Strange how the blood stuck to him, still clung there as if seeking entry into his own living body. Earth craved life after all, and the man he killed—his first cousin—was as deranged as they come. He was gone now, but his blood remained, hardened onto Billy’s hands, stuck in the creases of his fingernails, a reminder to the day when Billy took his life.
Billy spat on his hands, rubbing off the rust-colored residue. ‘I grabbed that knife and I stabbed him. Dug it in, sliced it down, watched the blood pool by my boots.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I never killed no one before Phin and it’s a hard thing to shake. Phin had it coming, no doubt, but the posse don’t know that. So if they find me, they best go away quickly, or dig in for the fight of their lives.'
Other men were nearby, he sensed that. Hunting him as if he were game, on horseback no less, but at least without hounds. He escaped to the mountains east of Sante Fe, very familiar territory, figuring the posse would ride south to the Sandia Mountains. That’s where his mother and sister lived, down near Albuquerque. Most folks would be driven toward their kin, but not Billy. There was no reason to stay any longer and he’d set his mind on the Plains.
Nightfall had arrived and he camped high up toward the peak. He had a spot for resting among the pinyon pine. A bit rocky and well-hidden. The wind blew through the trees, almost like the forest was breathing. The month was May, and even so, at these heights, the night could bring a dusting of snow. The last thing he wanted was to spend another night in a cold camp. He spoke to his horse, ‘Whiskey would warm me. Firewater would get it done. Wouldn’t have no need for a real fire then, least for one night. What say you, Ivy?’
The horse said nothing, not a snort, not a whinny, black eyes looking off in the night.
Billy longed for a friendly companion, but survival was the more pressing need. A few matches remained in his tinderbox and he didn’t want to burn them with the law around. Yesterday he heard horses afoot, clopping over flat stones, picking their way along rocky trails. They’d been out of sight, but somewhere in the valley below. He wondered if that was to his advantage, considering his skills. If it was Jake Cuthbert in control, Billy liked his chances. If Marshall Pete led the men, that could prove tougher.
Either way, he could feel the conflict coming like the onset of cold weather. Three, four, or five against one was no fair fight, and he knew in his bones death might soon arrive. He shut his eyes, laid back, tried to shake his head free of all thoughts. But like a river in a rainy season, they kept flowing.
He thought, if I had a gut full of whiskey, we could jump right into the escalation and find out who lives and who dies. But I ain’t got the booze. Hell, maybe we all die and the only lives spared are the horses we rode into the mountains. That’s a fugitive’s fate if I ever heard one. But I ain’t come here to die.
He rubbed hard across his stubbled face, the hairs crunched from the cold. Annabelle Parker wanted him dead, wanted justice brought upon him strong and swift. She was a good person, and he couldn’t blame her, but she didn’t know the whole story. Nobody did except Billy and Phin.
The memories would make any man drive a knife into Phin’s throat, slice it down across the heart and guts, spill them over the desert sand. Billy felt he did Annabelle a favor by killing Phin. Billy loved her, she knew it, but she loved Phin. What if she had married Phin only to find out the bastard was an evil, crazed animal? He couldn’t think about it anymore. His blood would turn to fire, and he’d do a stupid thing and get killed.
Alright, shut up, Billy. Don’t think no more. It angers me so deep I’ll waste the rest of my bullets shooting at anything that moves. I do that and I’m a dead man. Annabelle said find someone else who’ll marry me. Dream on that instead. I wonder if Black Eagle has a daughter.