MARCUS GALLOWAY THE MAN FROM BOOT HILL
NO ANGELS FOR OUTLAWS
ONE
Ocean, California
1884
Nobody thought too much about the undertaker until it was too late.
It was a quiet yet important job that didn’t draw attention—and that suited Nick Graves just fine.
The sun beat down upon Nick’s shoulders as he stripped layer after layer from the side of a freshly cut plank of cedar. As slivers of wood curled up over the top of the plane, they were caught by the wind and blown back against his rough, callused knuckles. Like any other carpenter’s hands, they showed the wear that accompanied his trade. The missing fingers and gnarled scars, however, weren’t so typical.
It had taken a bit of effort and plenty of practice on Nick’s part, but he was able to guide the plane along the wood’s surface with perfect accuracy, despite his wounded hands. He moved with slow, easy motions, as if he was rocking a baby to sleep. All the while, a satisfied grin took hold of his face.
It had been some time since he had relaxed and enjoyed his chosen profession. Nick had learned his trade when he was a boy and had been practicing it for several years, but only recently had been able to give himself over to simple physical labor while letting his mind wander among the smaller things. A man couldn’t fully enjoy something like that until his face had collected a few lines around the edges.
Every now and then he let his eyes roam along the rolling hills of a field outside of town where folks were planted after serving their time on this earth. Those hills were as familiar to him as a field of corn was to a farmer. While most people felt nervous walking among the carved headstones and freshly turned piles of soil, Nick sat out there to savor the quiet or admire his handiwork.
The sounds of wood being carved, nails being driven and planks coming together were music to his ears. It had been a while since he was able to chisel designs into stone, but that was mainly because the folks in Ocean leaned more toward wooden crosses or markers with a few engraved sentiments.
That, too, suited Nick just fine.
It had been almost a year since he’d arrived in Ocean, and the locals had taken to him quicker than most. Plenty of other stragglers had found their way there after touring the California coast. Some had stopped before ever reaching the Pacific. Very few of them offered any skills to benefit the town, and the services of a gravedigger were always needed. It also didn’t hurt that Nick was accompanied by a pretty face that was anxious to smile at everyone in Ocean. Catherine did have a way of softening even the coldest of hearts. Nick was most definitely an expert on that subject.
Just thinking about her made the sun feel a bit warmer on Nick’s face. The prospect of paying her a visit sooner than usual made his hands move faster while planing the edges of the planks that would soon fit together to form Eliot Pickler’s casket. Eliot was the first to be brought into Nick’s parlor for some time. The longevity of the Ocean locals was good for the town but bad for Nick’s business. Even so, Nick knew Eliot’s parents were short on funds, so he cut as many corners as he could when arranging the boy’s services. Good thing Catherine’s restaurant was pulling in more of a profit.
Nick sat on a small stool looking out on the wide field where Ocean’s past was buried. His lean frame sat hunched over a stack of boards as his muscular arms kept peeling slivers of timber until each plank was just right. The smell of the freshly cut wood mingled with the scents of grass and dirt, making it easy for Nick to forget there was a proper town less than a mile behind him.
When he closed his eyes, the only things he saw were the backs of his eyelids. When he let out his breath, the only thing he heard was the calm rustle of the wind. The ghosts that had screamed at him for so many years were quiet for now, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think they would ever truly leave him. In fact, he didn’t even think he deserved that kind of peace.
As he continued to work, Nick felt the summer breeze become cooler as the sun dipped a bit lower. The buzz of insects grew louder and a few of the braver ones jumped against Nick’s leg.
Suddenly, the insects stopped.
Nick picked up on the silence and felt every one of his muscles tense. His right leg shifted to make sure his gun was still in its place at his side. It wasn’t.
It had been a while since anyone had taken a shot at him, but those instincts would never fade. Ever since he’d started moving about without his gun, he felt as if he’d left the house without putting on his pants. At times like these, he felt the absence of his modified Schofield even more than he felt the absence of his fingers.
After a few seconds, Nick let out the breath he’d been holding and strained his eyes to see what the insects had sensed that he hadn’t. For all he knew, it could have been a coyote walking somewhere out of his sight or a bird that decided to move at the wrong time.
When he heard the rumble of horses coming his way, Nick set down his tools and started walking toward the bundle he’d brought with him from his workshop. By the sound of those hooves, it wouldn’t be long before he got a look at them. As much as Nick wanted to assume that they were just passing through, he’d seen too much hell to figure everyone he came across was going to be on their best behavior.
The horsemen burst from the trees clustered at the farthest edge of the graveyard. Nick counted four of them and knew they were using a broken-down trail that led from over the Nevada border. The bundle he’d left on the ground was still a few steps away when he saw the lead horseman take notice of him and steer his ride straight toward him.
“Hey,” the lead horseman shouted arrogantly. “We got a question for ya.”
Nick guessed that two of those men weren’t over the age of twenty-two, and all of them had a cockiness that affected everything right down to the way they sat in their saddles. Nick didn’t bother checking if the riders were heeled. He knew all too well that most of that arrogance came from the weight of a firearm on a young man’s hip.
Straightening up to his full height, Nick brushed some of the scraggly hair out of his face. Sweat from a hard day’s work had kept his hair damp, while the last few years of his life had been responsible for numerous strands of gray.
The horsemen shifted in their saddles once they caught the brunt of Nick’s stare. His cold, steely eyes bored through each one in turn before he shifted his gaze to the first rider and asked, “What’s your question?”
Several years older than the other three, the lead rider had more of an experienced air about him. The dark skin of his face was smooth and unmarked by any scars. Sharp, clear eyes glared out at the world from over a hawk-beak nose. His voice had an edge to it, which gave him a good rein over the rest of the men. “Is that Ocean up ahead?”
Nick nodded.
One of the other horsemen grunted under his breath. He was a lanky kid with a sorry excuse for a mustache sprouting at odd angles from his upper lip. He wore his guns out in plain sight and rarely took his hand from the grip of his shiny new Peacemaker. “Some joke. Ain’t no ocean for miles. All we seen is deserts and grass.”
“Some like it that way,” Nick said.
“Take it easy, mister,” the lead horseman said. “All we wanted was to make certain we was headed in the right direction.”
The third rider was taller than the other two and made a constant effort to keep from looking directly at Nick. So far, Nick couldn’t tell whether that was because of fear or some other reason. “I told you this would be Ocean,” the third man said.
“Sure, Georgie,” the lanky rider said. “You also said there was a whorehouse and hot steaks in a place a few
