Boone Creek

  Boone Creek

  Law & Order Series

  By

  Graysen Morgen

  Boone Creek © 2017 Graysen Morgen

  Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events of any kind, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition – 2017

  Cover Design: Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Interior Design: Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Editor: Megan Brady - Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Also by Graysen Morgen

  Never Let Go (Never Series: book 1)

  Never Quit (Never Series: book 2)

  Meant to Be

  Coming Home

  Bridesmaid of Honor (Bridal Series: book 1)

  Brides (Bridal Series: book 2)

  Mommies (Bridal Series: book 3)

  Crashing Waves

  Cypress Lake

  Falling Snow

  Fast Pitch

  Fate vs. Destiny

  In Love, at War

  Just Me

  Love, Loss, Revenge

  Natural Instinct

  Secluded Heart

  Submerged

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to my editor, Megan Brady, who isn’t a huge fan of westerns, but liked this one! Muchas gracias!

  Dedication

  For my wife.

  Gracias por creer siempre en mí. te quiero.

  ONE

  State of Texas, 1880

  The 1:35 train to Tucson rolled into the El Paso Station, heading west along the Southern Pacific Railroad line, and lurched slowly to a stop. Several passengers disembarked, including a woman dressed like a frontier gunslinger in dingy, dark brown pants, squared-toed, black boots, and a light-brown vest over a tan-colored laborer’s shirt. She was also wearing a tattered, brown duster and a black, flat-brimmed cattleman’s hat that was so worn, it looked gray. The long blonde hair flaring over her shoulders from under the hat, and soft, hairless, facial skin, were the only things that gave away her female gender.

  The ivory-white, bone grips of the Colt Peacemaker pistol, holstered in the gun belt around her waist, played peek-a-boo with the right flap of her duster as she stepped off the train and walked through the crowd. She had no belongings except the clothes on her back and a few personal items she kept in her pockets.

  She ignored the passersby as she pulled the silver chain attached to the lower button of her vest, sliding the silver, round watch from the lower left pocket. The black hands were positioned at 1:40. Looking back at the ticket window on the side of the El Paso Rail Station, she noticed the schedule. The Southern Pacific R.R. train to Tucson, which she’d just gotten off of, was scheduled to leave again in just over an hour. That was the quickest way to Tombstone, Arizona, the gold rush town everyone was headed to. However, the Santa Fe R.R. line headed north through New Mexico had a train leaving in ten minutes.

  She walked up to the ticket window and retrieved a gold coin called a half eagle, worth $5, from her upper vest pocket, noting that she only had a few coins left. “Santa Fe Line to Albuquerque,” she said, sliding the coin through the opening at the bottom.

  “Train leaves from track two in eight minutes,” the man replied, handing her a small, paper ticket.

  She slipped the paper into the same pocket she’d retrieved the coin from on her vest, and walked away. The town of El Paso was bustling with daily life as she stepped around the front of the station. She caught her reflection in the glass window, and simply stared at the bright green eyes looking back at her. “New life,” she mumbled.

  On the other side of the building, she found a narrow alley running back towards the tracks. She leaned her back against the adobe wall and pushed the flap of her duster back, revealing a long skinning knife, sheathed against her thigh. She removed the knife and took off her hat, setting it on the ground next to her. Then, she gathered her long, blonde locks, tying them in a knot at the base of her neck. She held the knot away from her skin with one hand and with the skinning knife in the other, she began slicing just above the knot, until the makeshift ponytail was freed. What was left of her hair spread to the sides, touching her ears. She re-sheathed the knife and tossed the cutoff hair on the ground when she retrieved her hat. She ran her hand through her hair, surprised at how different she felt, before putting her hat back on.

  The train station bell rang, announcing the next train was leaving in two minutes. She stepped out of the alley and made her way back towards the train, without giving the chopped hair another thought.

  ***

  The Santa Fe Line passed through Albuquerque and kept heading north into Colorado Territory. The woman stayed aboard when it met up with the Topeka Line, heading east towards Dodge City, Kansas, and disembarked once more in a city called Red Rock.

  The temperature was much cooler than it had been when she’d left on the first train in San Antonio, Texas, several days earlier. She pulled the brim of her hat down lower and lit a cigar as she walked out of the station. The city of Red Rock was about the size of El Paso and Albuquerque. Saloons and gambling halls lined the sidewalks just the same. She reached down, running her hand through the dirt that formed the streets, and rubbed it on her face, hoping to create the shadow of growing facial hair.

  “Mister, do you know where I might find a horse?” she asked, disguising her voice low, to a man standing nearby, tying his horse reins to a post in front of a saloon.

  “The livery and stable is over on Old Road.”

  “I was hoping to get one a little quicker and cheaper than that,” she replied.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, taking another look at her.

  “No, and mister, you don’t want to,” she sighed. “I’m just looking for a horse. Simple as that.” She wasn’t used to bartering, not for anything.

  “How much you got?”

  “Two and a half eagles.”

  He shook his head. “That might get you a skimpy horse, but not a saddle. How far are you going?”

  “What’s the nearest town?” she asked, tightening her jaw. She’d had about all she could take. This new life wasn’t working out the way she’d planned.

  “Pinewood is about a day and half ride from here, and Boone Creek is about two days ride. It’s a little bigger though.”

  She untied the skinning knife sheath from her thigh. “Will this cover it?”

  The man took a look at the ivory handled knife and nodded. He barely had the sheath tied to his leg before the woman had mounted the brown mare and rode away.

  TWO

  Boone Creek, Colorado Territory 1880

  The Town of Boone Creek was smaller than Red Rock, with only one saloon, doubling as a gambling hall. However, the town still had over a hundred residents living in and around the town limit, and another hundred working and living at the camp for the nearby silver mine up on Boone Mountain.

  The woman rode into town on her mare, taking in the mix of wood and adobe buildings along Main Street. Thirsty and tired from riding for two days, she tied the horse up in front of the saloon.

  “I’ve had enough of you causing trouble around here, Fred. It’s time for you and your friends to go,” a man yelled.

  The woman turned around, watching the commotion in the street behind her. She noticed the silver badge, pinned to the yelling man’s vest.


  “Enough of me? Well, I’ve had enough of you! Me and my boys own this town! We make our own laws!” the other man shouted, pulling his pistol and firing.

  With a kneejerk reaction, the woman pulled her pistol, firing two quick shots, one at the man who’d shot the lawman, and one at the second man who was sitting atop a horse with his pistol also drawn. Both men fell to the ground, bleeding from the holes in their chests. The lawman lay nearby as town folk tended to him, but by the time the doctor had arrived, he was gone.

  “New life,” the woman murmured, shaking her head as she holstered her gun and walked into the Rustler’s Den Saloon. She’d never had problems finding trouble. It seemed to follow her like a black cloud.

  “What can I get for you?” the bartender asked, pulling a glass down from the shelf.

  “Whiskey,” she replied, placing the last of her loose coins on the bar and hoping it covered it.

  “You new in town?” he asked, sliding the drink over and picking up the coins.

  “Something like that,” she replied. Knowing she’d just given him the last of her money, she needed a job and fast. “You hiring?” she asked.

  “You don’t look like a can-can dancer or saloon girl,” the bar keep replied.

  The woman pinned him with a stare, potentially deciding whether or not to give him a third eye whole.

  A man dressed in an expensive dark suit, with a red, puff tie and wide-brimmed, black hat, sat down next to her. His thick, gray mustache touched the bottom of his jaw on both sides of his mouth.

  “I don’t know if he is, but I am,” he said with a deep voice.

  She set her whiskey glass down, having only taken one sip, and moved her eyes from the bar keep to the man.

  “I’m Horace Montgomery, the mayor of this town. Welcome to Boone Creek. As I said, I happen to be in need of a Town Marshal, and since you so kindly took out the men who killed my former marshal, I’m offering you the job.”

  “I’m not the person you’re looking for, Mayor,” she replied, going back to her whiskey.

  “And why is that?” he asked.

  “For starters, I’m a woman, and I’ve never seen a law-woman in any town I’ve passed through.”

  “First time for everything,” he said. “The way you took those men down without blinking an eye…hell, you could be a snake oil salesman for all I care. We could use someone with your skills around here. It’s about time we cleaned up this town. Besides, you could be looking at prison for what you just did. Why not put those skills to better use?”

  She finished her whiskey and pushed the glass to the other side of the bar.

  “It comes with free room and board at Miss Mable’s and pays $35 a month.”

  The last thing she wanted to do was get a law job, and becoming a town marshal was definitely not on her list, but if this was her penance for the life she’d led until now, then she would do it, and she’d do it to the best of her ability to ensure people like her never hurt anyone else.

  “You have yourself a deal, Mayor Montgomery,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Wonderful.” He grinned. “What’s your name?”

  “Jessie…Jessie Henry.”

  He pulled the dead marshal’s badge from his pocket, wiping the bit of blood on his handkerchief. “Jessie Henry, do you swear to uphold the laws of the Town of Boone Creek and keep order to the best of your ability?”

  “I do,” she replied, looking at the silver badge. It was a star with the words Town Marshal written in the middle, and Boone Creek, Colorado Territory, encircling the star.

  “Do you promise to put the town folk of Boone Creek before yourself, protecting them to the best of your ability?”

  “I do.”

  “I hereby declare you, Jessie Henry, the new Town Marshal of Boone Creek,” he said, pinning the badge to her duster. “Here’s an advance on this month’s salary. You might want to...” he paused, looking at her drab, frontier-man, clothing. “Clean up a bit,” he smiled. “The marshal station houses our jail. It’s at the end of Main Street before the curve, across from Fray’s General Trade Store. Miss Mable’s is behind the saloon here in front of Six Gun Alley. The town’s not very big. Main Street runs along here and turns into Main Street Curve at the end and wraps back to Center Street, which runs through the middle of town, kind of in the shape of a P. Or you can head out of town towards Pinewood Pass, just off the curve before it wraps back. Center Street will take you to the livery and stable, as well as Six Gun and Miss Mable’s. My office is the large building along Main Street Curve, just before the cutoff to Pinewood Pass. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “What about deputies?”

  “You have one. His name is Bert.”

  “Great,” she replied, wondering what she’d gotten herself into.

  ***

  As soon as the mayor left the saloon, Jessie removed the badge and pinned it to her vest, under the duster, and out of sight.

  “Something tells me he just made a deal with the devil,” the bartender mumbled, sliding another glass of whiskey her way. “It’s on the house,” he added.

  “Maybe he did,” she said, swallowing the drink in one long swallow, barely noticing the burning sensation as it made its way down to her belly. She got off the stool and turned back around. “What’s your name?”

  “Elmer,” he said, setting down a glass he was drying with a towel, as he reached over to shake her hand.

  “I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”

  “You’ll always be welcome here, Marshal.”

  Jessie tipped her hat in his direction and walked out the door.

  THREE

  The dusty street had about a dozen residents and business patrons milling about as Jessie walked along, choosing to make her own path down the middle instead of using the sidewalk. Conversations stopped as she passed by. No one knew who she was…yet. They were simply intrigued by the newcomer. Jessie kept the brim of her hat low, more as an intimidation factor than anything else.

  The clothing shop in town, called the Fashionette, was just down the street on the left side. An old, bent, brass bell rang as she pulled the door open. The inside of the small store had various upscale, women’s dress suits on one side, complete with all of the attire that went with them. The other wall had various styles of men’s suits with multiple vest and tie options.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” a man called out as he came out of a doorway leading to a back area. He was dressed in a suit, minus the jacket, with a bright blue vest and matching puff tie. He had on a white apron, covering him from mid chest to just above the knee, with a long measuring tape around his neck which hung down his chest on both sides. He was also wearing round, metal spectacles, which he kept pushing up on his nose. His thinning hair was perfectly combed to one side, and his matching mustache was so thick, it covered both of his lips. “Pardon me, ma’am,” he mumbled, getting a closer look at Jessie. “I’m Ike, the owner of the Fashionette.”

  She’d chopped her hair off, but the baby soft skin of her cheeks, despite years of being in the sun, seemed to give her away every time, unless she covered her face in dirt, which she hadn’t done that morning.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked, looking at her drab attire, from head to toe.

  “I need to clean up a bit,” she said, using the mayor’s words.

  “Sure. Perhaps something more lady-like?” he suggested, turning towards the dress wall.

  “Uh...no. More like that,” she replied, pointing to the men’s suit displayed in the window. “But less formal.”

  Ike pursed his lips and raised a brow. “I’m not sure I’ll have anything ready right now that will fit you. Let’s start with some measurements.”

  Jessie removed her duster, but kept her hat on.

  Ike noticed the badge pinned to her vest. “Why didn’t you say you were the new Town Marshal? I’ll get you fixed right up,” he said, stretching out h
is tape measure.

  Jessie stood with her legs spread and arms out wide as he went to work. He started with her inseam, then her waist, followed by her arm length.

  “Do you wear a corset?” he asked, not exactly sure how to measure her chest.

  “Do I look like I do?” she replied, staring him straight in the eye. If her Peacemaker had been closer, she may have shot him dead.

  He cleared his throat without answering, and measured across her chest. “Okay. Let me go to the back and see what I have.”

  Jessie stood near the wall, watching the street through the window. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had new clothes. She’d usually made do with whatever she could find.

  “You’re about as small as it gets,” Ike said, upon returning to the front room with his arms full of clothing.

  “I’m average-sized and a bit on the tall side,” she retorted.

  “Yes…for a lady. But in men’s clothing, you’re small. Here, try these pants on. This one is close in the waist, but too long in the legs, and this other pair is close in the legs, but big in the waist. The only thing I have right now is black, as that is the most popular. Also, I have a couple of white, high-collared, inset-bib shirts for you to try. The sleeves are too long, but they should work.”

  Jessie took the garments and stepped behind a curtain enclosed area to change. She was used to clothes that didn’t fit properly. She removed her clothing down to her undergarments and pulled on the first pair of trousers. The length was okay, but the waist was a little loose. They still fit enough for her to be able to wear them. The second pair was entirely too big to bother trying. She moved onto the shirts, choosing the one that fit loosely in the chest and shoulders, but had sleeves that were too long. She buttoned the cuffs and folded them back a couple of times, before stepping out from behind the curtain, sporting her new duds.