by James Peters
Cold Cosmos
Book One: Last Night on Earth
James Peters
Copyright © 2019
James Peters and Black Swan Productions
Cover Artwork “Cold Cosmos”
by Ali Hyder, Mario, Arisha
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental
All rights reserved.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
This book is dedicated to the dreamers, the people who yearn for excitement and have a sense of wonder, and root for the hero to save the day.
The vision I have for Cold Cosmos is to create a series of epic stories, where one man brings a sense of humanity to a galaxy lacking in forces for good. Sure, he’ll stumble along the way and have massive setbacks, make friends and enemies along the way, and do things that will test his character. He’ll change, for better and for worse, and by telling this tale in first person format, I want the reader to feel connected to my character, as if they are hearing the story directly from him while sharing a whiskey.
My goal is to entertain you with action, humor, drama and all the elements that make for great space opera style science fiction.
I hope you enjoy this story and wish you all the best!
James Peters
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the people who have helped me create this vision.
My wife, Lorinda, for supporting my writing career and believing in me. My editor and friend Julius Wolfe, for forcing me to improve my prose and keeping me on task. I’d also like to thank the friends who provide beta reading feedback, and anyone kind enough to leave a review.
Additionally, would be remiss if I didn’t mention my cover artist, Ali Hyder. I can send him a very poorly drawn stick-figure outline of a cover idea and some random inspirational images, and he, along with Mario and Arisha can created an amazing cover. Seriously, take a moment to appreciate the artistry of that cover!
Chapter One
An Unusual Encounter
September 3, 1895, about 20 miles from Goodpasture, Colorado
Itipped my hat down to block the blinding glow of the sun’s last orange rays of the day. The smell of blue spruce filled the air as their long shadows grew to cut across the trail I rode. It’ll be getting cold soon. I doubt it will frost, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility.
As I continued and night fell, my body ached for a meal, a drink, and a bed to sleep in. My quarter horse Leroy pulled hard to his right to take a large bite from a flowering weed at the side of the trail. I pulled his reins back and stroked his buckskin colored neck, just below his rough, sable mane. He snorted and shook his head in protest as he chewed.
“Get up, Leroy!” I kicked my spurs into his ribs. His pace increased to a canter; his long tail swished faster than necessary, just fast enough for the tip to snap against my leg. Even through my thick britches, it stung like a bumblebee. “I’ll get you fresh grass and water as soon as we get there.”
Leroy slowed to a trot, and his tail flipped harder this time. Hard enough to leave a mark.
“And an apple. I promise I’ll get you an apple.”
Leroy neighed twice, louder than usual.
“Two apples? Do you want to be fat? I’m doubtin’ the lady horses find that fetching, Leroy. Or maybe you’d be more interested in a hog?”
Leroy stopped, planting his feet wide apart, refusing to move.
What did I do to get a sensitive horse? Other guys have horses who will run straight into a gunfight; mine gets his feelings hurt when I call him fat.
“I take it back, Leroy. You’re as svelte as a starving cougar. Why, if I were a girl horse, I’d be courtin’ you from dawn ‘til dusk and then some. Now hurry up. If the rancher’s directions were true, the Rusty Anvil should be just a couple hours ahead. There we’ll find your apples and me a drink.”
Leroy had a stubbornness similar to a mule, but he’d never let me down, and when necessary, there were few horses around that could out sprint him. Motivated by the promise of apples, he carried me at a fast pace.
I rode in silence as the skies darkened, but the path was still manageable thanks to a full moon. A shooting star raced across the horizon, burning bright yellow against the black backdrop. What are you and how far have you traveled? Does your journey end here, or will you continue, perhaps forever? I suppose there are some things men will never know.
My mind wandered for at least an hour, thinking about things I should’ve done differently and daydreaming about what I’d like to do someday. A woman’s scream jolted me back to reality, causing me to gasp and shudder. My eyes scanned left and right for any threat, and then down to see Leroy’s nervous prancing. “What is it, Leroy?”
The sound of another scream pierced the air. Definitely a woman’s voice, and it sounded like she was in pain, or at the least, in danger.
“Let’s go, Leroy!” I kicked him in the ribs and pulled the reins toward where the sound had come from. Leroy hesitated, but my command was firm enough he knew I wouldn’t argue about it. He ran at a fast clip into the woods.
Movement in the brush ahead caught my attention. Out of instinct, my hand went to one of my Colt 45s holstered on my hip. Then I heard what sounded like an angry bear’s roar. If that’s a bear, my pistol will just make him grumpy. I pulled Leroy’s reins and reached back to unstrap my Navy M1885 rifle. I worked the bolt to ready a round when all hell broke loose.
A beast, the size of a large bear, sprung from the shadows. Why didn’t I say a bear appeared, you may wonder? Because I wasn’t certain what this thing was. Its fur was dark brown, longer on the head than anywhere else, and scraggly over the rest of its body. It stood on its back legs and released a snarl from an odd, flattened snout beneath eyes that glowed yellow in the dim moonlight. Long, razor-sharp claws sliced through the air toward me, or more precisely, toward Leroy.
Leroy reared up to defend himself with his front hooves, striking at the beast, and in the process, threw me to the ground. I hit the ground hard enough to be blinded by a flash of light I’m certain only existed in my eyes. I could only process the sickening sound of the attack while flesh was ripped from Leroy’s body. He struggled in vain to fight off this beast. When my vision returned, the horse’s blood pooled on the ground, and his eyes were filled with panic. I had to put him out of his misery.
My rifle was on the ground a few feet behind me. I didn’t try to stand to run. I scurried on all fours toward the weapon, spun about, and pointed it at Leroy’s head. With a pull of a trigger, I ended his suffering.
The creature recoiled from the sound of the shot, and then it turned toward me. As it charged me upright on its hind legs, I worked my rifle’s bolt to ready another round. I didn’t have time to line up a kill shot, but I fired anyway. My round struck it just above its right front leg.
A horrible wail of pain mixed with anger filled the air as this thing’s yellow eyes seemed to cut into my soul. I wondered if there were something more there behind them than
just an animal’s mind. I scooted backward, trying to get some distance between me and it.
It now seemed to recognize the threat my Navy M1885 could deliver. It bellowed a deafening roar before it bounded off into the woods with unnatural speed. I sighed in relief for a moment before realizing I was still miles from the inn and a good distance off the trail. If I stay with Leroy, the scent of the kill will lure wolves, cougars, or perhaps that thing back. I’ve got to get to the Rusty Anvil.
I unhooked and wrestled my tack from Leroy and slung it over my shoulder. Weighted down with everything I could carry, I took one last look at my horse. “Sorry this happened, Leroy. I had no idea what we’d find, and I was just trying to help. If there’s a woman out here, she’s either dead or long gone by now.” I retrieved the Bible from my vest pocket, thumbed through it, past the telegram I’d been using to mark my place on page ten. I guess I assumed I’d find some prayer to say, so I flipped it open about two-thirds through to page 688. I read aloud the first passage to catch my eye from the book of Micah, verse 5:10:
“And it shall come to pass in that day, saith the Lord, that I will cut off thy horses out of the midst of thee, and I will destroy thy chariots.”
“Rest in peace, Leroy.” I adjusted my packs and began my walk back toward the trail, aware of every rustling leaf and sound in the distance. The image of the beast’s face etched on my mind the entire time, and I made it a point to move without making a sound.
It was well past midnight when I smelled wood smoke on the air. I crested another hill to find the Rusty Anvil in the distance. Lamplights glowed in the windows while the sound of horses stirring in the barn at my approach welcomed me. As I got closer, I grew to understand how the Rusty Anvil got its name. To the left side of the building stood what remained of an old blacksmith’s shack, complete with rusting tools, left as if it had been abandoned after its last use.
I opened the door to find the barkeep sleeping in a wooden chair, his feet propped up on one of the tables, his snores rumbling out from under the Stetson covering his face. He startled when the door slammed behind me and raised his hat up to show a gray, scraggly beard, wide nose and dark eyes.
“What’ya need?”
“What have you got?” I dropped my tack and gear near the counter.
“Drink, food, room, or a girl. It’s late, so the ladies may be a bit tired.”
I waved my hand as if saying “no.” “I’ll leave them to get their beauty rest. What’s the dinner?”
“I can heat up some stew from earlier. Deer meat and vegetables.”
“Sounds great. I’ll start with that and a shot of whiskey.”
The barkeep squinted at me, sizing me up. “You got money to pay?”
“I do.” I retrieved several coins from my pouch and flashed them at the barkeep.
“Have a seat. I’m Dan Holloway. I run this place.”
“Idiom Lee. Good to meet you.”
Dan walked to the fireplace and placed a large iron pot over the coals and added several pieces of wood to the pile, pushing them in place with a blackened poker. He returned to pick up a shot glass from behind the bar, holding it up toward an oil-burning chandelier, frowned, and wiped the glass out with a bar towel. He repeated the gesture before grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the bar-back and poured me a drink.
“Thanks,” I said, drinking the shot. It wasn’t bad, only a little watered down.
“I’m betting you need feed for your horse. You’ll find it in the barn,” Dan said.
“I no longer have a horse.”
“What, did you walk here?”
“Just the last piece. My horse is dead. Killed by a bear or something.”
Dan stared deep into my eyes; his face seemed to pale. “Did you get a good look at it?”
“Pretty good.”
“Then it seems you should know if it was a bear or something else.”
“One might think so.” I was getting rather warm inside the building, so I took off my duster and laid it over the back of a chair.
Dan poured himself a shot of whiskey and tossed it back before continuing. “You ain’t the first person to talk of a bear or something around here.” He pulled a ladle and bowl from behind the bar, walked to the fireplace, and doled out some stew. He placed it in front of me and handed me a spoon from behind the bar.
The warm stew had sat unstirred long enough to taste burnt, but I was hungry, so I shoveled it into my mouth like it was delicious.
“You want more?”
“Please,” I said.
Dan refilled my bowl and placed it before me. “Mind telling me more about this thing what killed your horse?”
I told him the story in as much detail as I could. The entire time he sat there, listening wide-eyed, never questioning a point I made. When I finished, he poured me another shot of whiskey.
“Idiom, I think you ran into the same thing that killed one of Mr. Krenshaw’s men and some of his cattle. He’s offering quite a reward to bring that thing in dead.”
I raised an eyebrow. “How much is quite a reward?”
“One hundred dollars if a man brings it in by himself.”
“Nice, but I’m not about to go after that thing. At least not alone.”
Dan leaned back in his chair, nodding. “He’s also been trying to put together a posse. Twenty-five dollars per man to go out for five days. The pay’s good, but you’d need your own horse.”
“Which is a problem,” I said.
“I know where you could buy a decent horse for seventy-five dollars.”
I sighed. “Buying a horse for seventy-five dollars to make twenty-five doesn’t seem like a great deal, does it?”
“Think of it as getting a horse for fifty dollars and some work. Without a horse, you’re stuck here, son.”
“That’s true. Any idea where I can make a little extra coin? I don’t have quite that much at the moment.”
“Krenshaw finds himself in sudden need of a ranch-hand. He might be offering work.”
“I was thinking something a little less manual in the labor area. Anybody play poker around here?”
Dan’s eyes lit up. “So, you’re a gambler?”
“Actually, I’m an attorney. But unless I can find a client with deep pockets soon, then I’ll fall back on being a gambler.”
Dan’s face paled. “It’s best not to tell anybody what you do fer a livin’ around here.”
“I’ll act like a typical businessman.”
“I can put the word out that there’s a businessman with coin wanting to play poker. I bet we can get a table together by tomorrow evening.”
“Sounds great, Dan. I should get some rest. You have a small room for rent?”
“Top of the stairs, first door to the right.”
I’d played enough poker to know the only way to win fair and square would be to cheat better than the next guy. Luckily for me, just a few years earlier I’d defended a vaudeville magician facing an assault charge, and while he didn’t have a lot of money to pay me, he’d taught me a trick to win at poker. I had a special pocket sewn into my shirt-cuff that happened to fit a playing card. He taught me how to palm an Ace and store it there for later use with a flex of my wrist and a push from a finger. I developed a habit of practicing the act without thinking about it, and I’d gotten really good at it.
A gentleman never carries a weapon to a card game. I’d need to leave my trusty Colt .45s behind and instead slipped a two shot Remington .41 Derringer into a special holster in one boot, and my Bowie knife in a sheath inside the other. If things got ugly, waving either of those weapons can make the toughest man back up a few feet and spend a moment thinking about his own mortality.
I washed and shaved my face clean, wanting these men to see me as a soft target. I walked down the stairs, Two men already sat at the card table. One man I recognized was Dan Holloway, wearing what I figured was his best suit. Across from him, a thin man with weathered skin and calloused hands rubbed his k
nuckles as if they ached.
The table had been positioned just under the brass oil-lamp chandelier, of which three of the four lantern bases were brightly polished to a mirror-like finish. Only the lamp over Dan’s head remained covered with dark soot. From his seat, Dan could glance upward and likely see the cards of the other three players.
So that’s his game. I’ll need to hold my cards close to my chest.
“Here’s the businessman I was telling you about, Neil,” Dan said as I approached the table.
“Idiom Lee.” I reached out to shake the man’s hand. His grip was firm and his hands felt cold.
“Neil Breihan. At your service. If not today, perhaps tomorrow.”
I gave Neil a questioning look.
“It’s undertaker humor, Idiom,” Dan said. “Neil builds caskets and runs the funeral parlor.”
I nodded. “Nothing personal, but let’s hope your business doesn’t get too good, Neil.” I found a seat between the two men, at an empty chair facing the bar. I was just about to ask if anyone else would be joining us when the door flung open and a man entered, wearing a dark hat decorated with silver and turquoise, and boots that cost more than a good cow. He stopped and pulled out the finest pocket watch I’d ever seen from a dark vest buttoned so tightly I wondered how he could breathe. Before his second foot crossed the threshold, one of the ladies had already grabbed his arm.
“Douglas Krenshaw, I’ve been waiting for you,” the madame purred, running her hand down his arm.
“Not now, Sheila.” He brushed her away with a motion as if she had soiled his five-dollar suit. He glanced absently at the time before turning his attention to our table. “I do hope tonight’s game is more entertaining than the last one.”
Dan Holloway stood, nodding at our latest guest. “Mister Krenshaw, let me introduce you to our guest, Idiom Lee.”
