“Well, what do I do with the acid if it gets there before you do?” Scroggins argued.
“Then you ride that shit out to George immediately. They’ll understand why I went back.”
“I don’t think you should go, Billy. It’s not smart. Those officers could still be—”
“I left Tunstall layin’ out in the desert all night. I’m not leavin’ Brewer to have who knows what done to him or let those sons of bitches have his possessions. I’ll be there. If not, you tell George I’ll be right behind ya. Okay?”
“But I—”
“Go! Now!” I said, reaching for my gun.
“Okay, okay...I’m going...”
With that, Scroggins rode off toward Lincoln.
I turned Colonel on a dime, and we hauled ass back to Blazer’s Mill, hoping I was in time to save Dick from dying for real.
March, 1949
Tremendously exhausted, I parked my car, and turned off the engine. Rubbing my eyes, I reached for my hat in the passenger seat and paused. My skin tingled all over and I knew: the call they made wasn’t just to the hotel. They’d contacted someone else and either that person was my welcoming party or they’d sent him. I could feel his presence, but it wasn’t strong.
Looking up at the sky, I smiled, remembering that the moon had set at seven-thirty-five tonight and wouldn’t rise again until about seven tomorrow morning. That was why the feeling was low level. He couldn’t shift.
“Aw, poor baby,” I said with zero sympathy and a heavy dose of sarcasm.
It didn’t mean he couldn’t be a danger, it just meant I only had to deal with a man, or men, and not the kind covered in fur with a plethora of sharp teeth and stinky breath. Well, they still could have bad breath, but I liked to give them the benefit of the doubt.
Pulling my weapons out of the glove compartment, I slide them into their holsters, including the one in my boot. Pulling my pant leg down, I grabbed my hat, and exited the car.
Whistling the song, “Turkey in the Straw,” I placed my black hat on my head, shut the door, and lazily strolled to the trunk. I used that time to reach out with my senses and quickly pinpointed the location of the child of Scáthach who was sent to watch me. He’d staked himself out at the main entrance of the hotel, just standing there smoking a cigarette.
It didn’t appear he had a friend, but there could be more inside. Keeping that in mind, I unlocked the trunk, snagging my weapons bag, and slung it over my left shoulder. Grabbed hold of my suitcase and shut the trunk. Moving my suitcase to my left hand, I freed up my right to draw my weapon, and I made my way to the door, whistling the whole way.
I flipped the latch to free up my pistol and hooked my thumb on my jeans to justify my hand being close to my weapon. “Good evenin’,” I said to the man with dark hair and matching, well-trimmed beard. “Nice night, isn’t it? Let me guess, they don’t let ya smoke in this here hotel, huh?”
His hooded eyes slowly moved toward me. “No idea. I just like smokin’ outside. The desk is closed, stranger. So if you’re lookin’ to check in—”
I glanced through the glass on the doors to see no attendant. In fact, I saw no one at all, telling me they were merely curious and had only sent him. “Oh, they know I’m comin’ in late. Cops even called to let them know they held me up.”
Now I had his full attention. He stepped a hair closer to me and inhaled deeply through his nose, likely trying to see if I was a werewolf. The golden flecks of his eyes glowed as he used his heightened senses but I pretended not to notice that aspect.
“Can I help you?” I said, stepping back from him slightly.
He shook his head and stepped back. “No, sir. You have a nice night. Looks like the desk man has come back for ya.”
I glanced inside and saw he was correct. I touched the brim of my hat. “Why, thank you. You have a nice night, sir.” I turned my back to him and entered the hotel.
He grunted in what appeared to be confusion and I smiled. He likely smelled the magic on me, could tell I wasn’t fully human, but had no idea what I was. Not surprising. These parts hadn’t seen a Spirit Warrior since I left in 1880.
This meant that their top tracking dog, because they’d have sent their best, was confused but had enough information to go back with. He’d report his observations, and that information would either keep me safe or put a bullseye on me.
I was betting on the latter, because this is me we’re talking about after all. That meant I was stepping from the frying pan into the fryer. The question now was, had the burner been set to low or high?
Either way, trouble wouldn’t likely arrive until tomorrow after the moon rose. In order to handle that appropriately, I needed to go get a full night’s rest, so I checked in. As I headed up the stairs, I got this foreboding feeling that the burner was likely set to high, or inching toward it with each moment I was in town. That meant they were up to something they shouldn’t be, and I was going to have the honor of fixing that.
The next part of the adventure was about to begin and to be honest, I was itching to get to it.
THE END
To Be Continued in The Torment of Richard Brewer
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my support system: my parents, my best friends, my writing group, my wonderful editor, and those who live in Lincoln, NM. If it wasn’t for the people in Lincoln, taking me in and helping me learn about Billy, this book never would have happened.
I’d like to lift a glass to all the people of Lincoln for sharing their knowledge, hospitality, and affection for Billy the Kid with me. Specifically, we should toast to, Drew & Elise Gomber, Marilyn Burchett, Jens Klingshirn, Bev & Bill Strauser, Tiffanie Owen, Beau Lucas, Annmarie LaMay, Kenneth Walter, John Schultz, Victoria Kubica, Marilyn & Murray Arrowsmith, Marla & Brandon Caughron, Sumi Ayame, Mitchell Harper, Nina & Brett McInnes, Rick Garcia, Tim & Ashley Roberts, and last but never least…Katherine, Troy, Willa, & Prue Nelson—your family is my heart.
I’d also like to thank Frederick Nolan. Most of my preferred research came from his books. If he’d not done so much leg work years ago, I’d not have had such a rich group of books to pull history from. So, a huge thank you to him and the other writers on my list of books listed at the back of this novel.
About the Author
Tamsin Silver is a Fantasy author currently based out of Albuquerque, NM. Her Urban Fantasy works include the Windfire saga, Mark of the Necromancer, novellas based on her Skye of the Damned web series (which can be seen free online), and the Moon Over Manhattan series (Falstaff Books, fall/winter 2020).
She is also a writer for Faith Hunter’s Rogue Mage Anthologies with Lore Seekers Press, the We Are Not This anthology for Falstaff Books, and the Storming Area 51 anthology with Bayonet Books.
Tamsin graduated from Winthrop University in SC with a BA in Theatre and Secondary Education, along with a minor in Creative Writing and Shakespeare. She's taught middle school and high school drama in the Carolinas and run two successful theatre companies (one in NYC), where she holds awards in directing for both.
You can learn more about Tamsin by visiting www.tamsinsilver.com and www.skyeofthedamned.com.
Afterword
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this story are products of both actual history and the author's imagination. Though most of the history in this story is based on fact, the author would ask the reader to remember that this is historical fantasy, so if something is different on the page than in the history books, it is likely done in the service of the fantastical story.
The author did her best to keep the historical facts as exact as possible. However, seeing as there are varying recollections of the events that took place during the Lincoln County War of 1878, often she had to choose which she felt worked best for the story, and move on.
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Copyright © 2020 by Tamsin L. Silver
Cover Design by Melissa McArthur
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Curse of Billy the Kid: Untold Legends Volume One Page 32
