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REVIEWS for the Maggie O'Bannen series

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Click on any of the links to read a review of that title at Western Fiction Review.

NB: These reviews relate to the original release of these titles and the blog owner has given permission for them to be used for their rerelease. Book 3 has a different ending to the original but doesn't affect the review.

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Black Horse Westerns by Terry James

A selection of Black Horse Westerns by Terry James.

Available in hardback, paperback and e-book from Amazon and other good book sellers.

Reviews include

The Badman's Daughter - 5* One good read

Ghosts of Bluewater Creek - 5* A superb western

Long Shadows - 5* A great page turner, 4* A strong sense of justice

Ebooks or Paper Books?

I'm a big fan of ebooks. I like the weight of a Kindle in my hand, the fact that I can alter the font size to suit the way my eyes are feeling, adding bookmarks when I find something I like, and that as soon as I open the device it's on the page where I left off. My other favourite thing about ebooks is that they are instantly available to download so no having to place an order then wait days by the letterbox for delivery. They're also cheap to buy, generally.

L'ultimo Pistolero Franco Nero

The Gunfighter | A Short Film by Eric Kissack (narrated by Nick Offerman)

A Maggie O'Bannen Western Book 3: Nowhere To Run by Joe Slade

Available at Amazon

‘What if I don’t want to play?’

‘Then your friends die one by one until you do.’

After surviving a series of traumatic events, Maggie O’Bannen is at last starting to heal and the scars of the past are fading. Not to mention that things with her close friend Doc John Simpkins could be about to get interesting. However, the depiction of her exploits in a series of dime novels mean her reputation reaches far and wide and when a couple of down on their luck gunmen believe what they read, they hatch a plan to make Maggie their quarry in a deadly hunt.

A bungled bank robbery, a kidnapping and the arrival of an old friend bearing bad news are only the beginning as Maggie is drawn into a fight for her life. Armed with a short temper, outlaw Frank O’Bannen’s Schofield and the resolve to use both, she refuses to let anyone stand in her way.

Outnumbered and outgunned, she might be. What her enemies don’t realize, is that her biggest weakness is also her greatest strength and when there’s nowhere to run, they’ll be the ones looking for a place to hide.

One

     Brownsville, Montana Territory

The split doors of the Lucky Spur saloon creaked lazily in the afternoon breeze. Inside, the hollow-eyed barkeep ran a hand through his oiled black hair then leaned on his elbows to squint out into the dust-swirled street. Mel Sprinter, the local newspaperman, carried his warm beer to a table near the door. The saloon’s only other customers glanced at the sweating, ink-stained newsman, immediately dismissing him.

‘I’m bored with this pissant town,’ Lee Andrews said, flicking his cigarette butt towards the spittoon at the end of the bar. It fell short, immediately scorching the dry boards where it landed.

His saddle partner, Red McGraw, had been fondling his Colt .45. Now he spun the cylinder, attuning his ear to enjoy the sound before sliding it into the holster at his hip. ‘What do you suggest? We ain’t even got enough money to buy back the nags we rode in on.’

Andrews grunted sulkily and pulled a fresh smoke from his shirt pocket. ‘And no chance of making any in this shithole.’

A chair scraped over dry boards as the newsman turned towards them. He wiped a handkerchief across his damp brow and smiled affably. ‘I hear the Talbot place is hiring.’

Andrews’ bright blue gaze skewered him. ‘Do we look like cowhands to you, boy?’

Sprinter made a reasonable living from words but now he was at a loss. Since arriving in town a few weeks earlier, the two southerners had earned a reputation as men not to be trifled with. The baby-faced one, Lee Andrews, had shot a man over a hand of cards. His partner, named for his fiery red hair, was more of a brawler and had already spent a couple of days in jail for disturbing the peace. As McGraw dropped his boots from the table to the floor, Sprinter shrugged and turned his attention back to the dime novel he had been reading.

Andrews laughed and winked as he cuffed McGraw on the arm. ‘I asked you a question, fat man.’

Sprinter froze. Between his pudgy hands, the pages of the dime novel rustled.

‘Well?’ Andrews prodded.

McGraw’s scarred hand shot forward.

Sprinter moved with surprising speed but when he threw himself clear, the chair tangled around his legs to thwart his escape. He raised his arms. Cowering like a frightened child. Waiting. Expecting the worst.

McGraw chuckled and snatched up the dime novel. ‘Easy there, big feller. I only want to see what you’re reading.’

Andrews held up his hand in the imitation of a gun. ‘Bang,’ he whispered, pretending to fire off a shot.

Sprinter flinched.

‘Leave him be, Lee,’ McGraw said, flicking through the pages.

Andrews mouthed boo at the quaking man then leaned in close to see what was holding his partner’s attention. ‘What does it say, Red?’ he asked, never having learned to read.

‘It’s another one of them stories about that woman, Maggie O’Bannen.’

‘Ain’t she the one that killed that son of a bitch Bull Braddock?’

McGraw chuckled. ‘Yeah, if you can believe what you read. Personally, I think it’s all horse shit, made up by some feller that never even set foot west of the Mississippi.’ He turned his gaze on Sprinter who lumbered to his feet, breathing hard. ‘What do you think newspaperman? Do you reckon it’s true?’

Sprinter dabbed the sodden handkerchief against his face. ‘I…I…I erm…’

‘Sit down and finish your beer,’ McGraw said with surprising cordiality. ‘In fact, let’s all have another. Carter, another round,’ he shouted to the barkeep, indicating the three of them. ‘This feller’s paying.’

The barkeep didn’t question it and Sprinter didn’t argue as he dropped into his seat and drained his first glass.

‘So what do you reckon, Mr Newspaperman?’ Andrews asked. ‘Do you reckon there’s a she-devil out there?’

Sprinter sucked in a long breath and cleared his throat. ‘Well, while these stories tend to be sensationalised, I think there’s a grain of truth in this one.’

‘Says here, she’s a force to be reckoned with,’ McGraw said. ‘According to this, she’s killed at least six men and one woman.’

‘I heard it was four men,’ Sprinter offered before he could stop himself. ‘But she had help,’ he added.

McGraw traced his finger over a line of text. ‘A doctor, a gunslinger and a green kid according to this.’

‘So, she ain’t all that tough then,’ Andrews opined. ‘If she is real, I’d brace her.’

‘You’d kill a woman?’ Sprinter asked.

‘If she wants to act like a man, why not? Maybe then they’d write a story about me.’ He grinned. ‘Hell, I’d be famous, like Billy the Kid.’

Sprinter frowned but had the sense not to comment.

McGraw placed the dime novel down and picked up the beer the barkeep had just placed. As he stared at the novel’s cover, he had a faraway look in his eyes.

‘I know that look. You’re planning something,’ Andrews said, his excitement building with each word. ‘What? Tell me.’

‘I was just thinking, I bet you’re not the only one who’d like to kill the bitch.’

‘So?’ Andrews urged.

‘I think there’s money to be made if we play it right.’

‘How so?’ Sprinter asked, his newsman’s curiosity getting the better of him.

McGraw ignored him and turned towards Andrews, leaning in and lowering his voice. ‘Do you remember back before the war, when we were kids, how old Finn Barlow used to organise those hunts?’

‘You mean when he used to set one of his slaves free, give ’em a head start then let his friends chase ’em until one of them killed the bastard?’

McGraw nodded. He missed the old days, when slaves and women knew their places. Back then, his daddy had been chief overseer on Barlow’s cotton plantation, a man to be respected and feared. McGraw remembered his daddy had made a lot of money out of those weekends.

‘What does that have to do with me killing Maggie O’Bannen?’ Andrews asked.

‘Don’t you see? It’d be just like the old days, only she’d be the quarry and we’d be the ones organising the hunt. Anyone wanting a piece of the action would have to come through us. We charge a fee to enter, offer a prize for the man that takes her down. Meanwhile, we control the betting, which is where we make our money.’ He shrugged, leaving Andrews to fill in the gaps.

With his keenly tuned ear picking up every sordid detail, Sprinter recoiled from the suggestion.

‘Do you reckon you could organise something like that?’ Andrews asked. ‘What about the law?’

Red sneered. ‘We know a lot of people and the marshal only comes to town twice a week. This place is perfect. Who’d stop us?’

‘But I said I wanted to kill her,’ Andrews whined.

McGraw grinned. ‘You’re pretty slick with a gun. Are you afraid of a little bit of competition?’

‘I ain’t afraid.’ Andrews puffed out his chest. ‘Hell, after it’s over, I’ll probably be more famous than Billy the Kid. There’s only one problem; we don’t have the O’Bannen woman.’

McGraw smiled wryly and turned to Sprinter. ‘It doesn’t say where she was headed when she left the last place. Have you heard anything about that?’

‘N-nothing. Like you say, it’s probably all horse shit anyway.’ Sprinter pushed away from the table and stood up, eager to leave. ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have some copy I need to edit.’

The split doors banged a couple of times after he barged through them and hurried past the window.

‘What the hell lit his fuse?’ Andrews asked no-one in particular.

The barkeep chuckled and poured another three beers. ‘He’s probably heading out to the Talbot place.’

The two gunslingers ignored the remark and huddled together to formulate a plan.

‘First we need to find out where Maggie O’Bannen is. She shouldn’t be hard to track down but if she is then we send out a few wires inviting interested parties to the hunt and offering a bounty to the man who brings her in alive.’

‘So, we’re busted before we even start.’ Andrews flung himself back in his chair and flicked his cigarette at the spittoon. Again, he missed. ‘Shit! You said that there novel doesn’t say where she went, and we ain’t got enough money between us for another beer let alone a dozen wires. It’s a stupid idea.’

McGraw scowled but let the slight go unpunished.

‘Maybe I can help you gentlemen,’ the barkeep offered, setting down two glasses and taking a sup from a third.

McGraw looked him over then picked up the free drink. ‘We’re listening.’

‘Well, I said, Sprinter was probably headed out to the Talbot place.’

He waited for a reaction. When all he got were blank looks, he picked up the dime novel and flicked through until he found what he was looking for. He turned it towards the gunmen and pointed to a single page. Still no reaction from either man.

‘It says doctor, gunslinger, kid.’

‘So?’

‘What if I told you two of them characters are out at the Talbot place right now?’

‘Noooo,’ McGraw said disbelievingly.

‘Straight up. That newspaperman wasn’t saying much now but he’s a mine of information when you get him liquored up.’

‘Are you trying to tell us…what are you trying to tell us?’ McGraw asked.

The barkeep chuckled. ‘What I’m saying is, you cut me in on the action and I’ll stand you the money you need to send those wires and say, another five hundred to cover the bounty if she doesn’t make it here on her own.’

A Maggie O'Bannen Western Book 2: Wanted: Dead by Joe Slade

Available at Amazon

‘Frank O’Bannen wanted five thousand dollars to let you go. I offered him ten thousand to kill you.’

Kidnapped at sixteen, Maggie O’Bannen returns home after seven years to be reunited with her father. No longer the idealistic girl she was, her return is meant to help put her demons to rest. Instead, it sets in motion a series of events that will put her on a collision course with trouble, and this time, Maggie has no qualms about speeding towards it.

Discovering who was behind her abduction is just the beginning. Murder with no apparent motive and no suspect soon brings her under the scrutiny of the local sheriff. With the body count rising, Maggie fights for her life against a foe who will stop at nothing to win.

As events escalate, Maggie will need to rely on her friends more than ever before if she is to survive. But at what cost?

One

‘Hey, darlin’, why don’t you come over here and keep me company?’

Maggie stiffened but chose to ignore the drunk sitting two tables behind her. Dressed in dark pants and blue shirt, with a shapeless short leather coat worn over the top, she didn’t resemble any man’s darling. That he was just looking to cause trouble was obvious. He and his two friends had entered the Bony Steer saloon ten minutes earlier and after breaking up a friendly game of Blackjack had been skimming cards at a spittoon ever since.

‘Did you hear me?’ he bellowed.

‘Leave the lady alone, Brady,’ the barkeep shouted across. A young, clean-cut man with short-cropped hair and a tight smile, his peppermint breath wafted in Maggie’s face as he leaned across the bar to whisper to her. ‘I said you could stay while it was quiet. Now, it’s time to leave.’

She nodded. 

‘Lady?’ The curly haired man in the cheap black suit got up from his seat and wandered towards her. ‘I thought only whores drank in saloons.’

Maggie kept her head down, focussing on the whiskey in her glass. She didn’t know how many she’d had but she knew she should have left when the trio first arrived. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Someone else certainly didn’t think so as a chair scraped back and the split doors banged farewell to the sound of fading footsteps.

‘So, which one are you, darlin’?’ Brady asked, moving in close beside her.

Maggie finished her drink and picked up the half empty bottle. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘Why?’ He grabbed her by the arm, spinning her around so that her spine jarred against the bar. ‘We were just getting—Je-sus!’

The leer left his drunken face and he staggered back as if he had been slapped. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t the disfigured visage that stared back at him. He held up his hands, as though warding off a physical attack. Maggie noticed that his small finger was missing at the knuckle on his right hand. The third digit was missing its tip.

His face twisted in a sneer. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ There was no concern in the question, only disgust. ‘Did a steer trample on your face?’

Maggie covered her cheek with her hand. The whiskey had started to dull her senses, had helped her forget the scars for a while, but the man’s cruel jibes cut as deeply as the pistol whipping that had put them there.

‘That’s enough,’ the barkeep warned. ‘She doesn’t want any trouble and neither do I.’

 ‘What trouble could she be?’ Brady looked around the room at the empty tables then over at his two friends. ‘It looks like she already frightened all your customers away.’

The two men who had come in with him were equally drunk as he was and their forced laughter sounded too loud in the quiet room.

‘I’m telling you, Brady, you need to leave her alone and sit back down,’ the barkeep warned.

‘She ain’t answered my question.’ Brady stepped back, his two friends getting up and spreading out around Maggie. ‘And I really want to know how a woman can be that ugly with only one head.’

Maggie had been about to make a run for it but out of the corner of her eye she saw the barkeep reaching under the counter. Brady saw it too and grabbed clumsily for his sidearm. Maggie kicked out, planting her heel firmly in his groin area. Brady staggered. The gun went off before it cleared leather, the bullet kicking up splinters as it went in to the floor.

To her right, the redhead of the trio already had his .45 out but it was down at his side and when he brought it up, Maggie swung the bottle. It hit him in the face and smashed, opening up a bloody gash in his cheek and spraying whiskey in his eyes. He went down like a man pole-axed.

‘You blinded me,’ he screamed.

 ‘Don’t worry, Floyd, I’m going to kill the bitch.’

The third man made a grab for her but she knocked his hand aside and threw her weight behind a punch that connected with his jaw and sent him reeling along the bar. 

By now, Brady was on his feet again. He staggered towards her, gun flailing in his hand, the devil shining in his eyes. She stepped towards him, grabbed his arm, deflecting the shot upwards, and spun him around with as much force as she could muster. He slammed in to the man who had tried to grab her and while they fought to untangle themselves she pulled the Schofield from its holster at her waist and knocked back the hammer.

‘Keep coming,’ she said, aiming at Brady’s belly, ‘and I’ll spray your guts all over this place.’

Brady sneered but whatever he had intended to say or do, he stopped cold when the split doors creaked open and the twin barrels of a shotgun preceded a wiry old man in a black duster coat. 

‘She probably would, too,’ the newcomer said. ‘Drop your weapons and put your hands up where I can see them. That includes you, ma’am.’

Maggie recognised the marshal’s distinctive southern drawl. She didn’t take her eyes off Brady but she knew the lawman would be backed by at least one deputy. She waited for Brady to comply then carefully placed the Schofield on the bar and fanned her hands to the side.

‘Arrest her, Marshal,’ Brady growled. ‘The bitch went crazy, damn near killed us all.’

The lawman stepped aside to let his deputy pass. ‘Is that so, Brady? Three big men like you got your asses whooped by a woman. That’s the story you want everyone to hear?’

Brady’s jaw dropped as the absurdity of the situation dawned on him.

‘What about you?’ the marshal asked Maggie. ‘What’s your version of events?’

She bent over and vomited, spraying Brady’s boots as the best part of half a bottle of whiskey cleared her system.

‘She was protecting herself, Marshal,’ the barkeep said, handing her a washrag. ‘If anyone should be pressing charges, it should be her. He said he was going to kill her before she threatened him.’

The marshal stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘It seems to me both stories have some merit.’ He nodded to his deputy who had collected all the guns and was waiting for further instructions. ‘I’m arresting all of you until I decide what to do about it.’

~*~

‘I’m sorry I had to drag you out of bed at this time, Doc,’

Marshal Bart Owens shoved open the door of the Flitwick law office and Doc followed him inside. The interior stood in semi-darkness with only the glow from the pot-bellied stove in the corner shedding a vague light around the large square room. Two desks sat left and right behind a wooden railing that separated the law from the public. At 5 o’clock in the morning, Owens’ deputy was at home in bed. It looked like the marshal had been taking care of paperwork.

Without a word, the elderly lawman hung his hat on a peg beside the door and lit a lamp. He had said all he had to say on the way over from the hotel and, going through the gate in the railing, he headed straight for the cellblock at the back of the building. The big iron key made an ominous grinding sound as it turned in the heavy lock, the marshal grunting when he swung the thick door open.

Once inside, he stopped alongside the first set of bars, hung the lamp from a peg on the wall and took a set of keys from a loop on his belt. ‘In all my years being a lawman, this is the first time I’ve ever locked up a woman.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry it had to be her.’

Doc’s expression was one of disappointment as he peered at Maggie O’Bannen sprawled face down on the low cot. He could see that beneath an old grey blanket that hung mostly on the floor, she was dressed in her favoured dark pants and a blue shirt. A red bandanna was wrapped around her hand. She only had on one boot. The other was wedged between the bars that separated her from the men snoring in the next cell.

‘I’ll stay here, if it’s all the same to you,’ Owens said, taking a step back. He rubbed his jaw. ‘She’s got quite the right hook.’

Doc heaved a sigh and stepped inside, grimacing at the stench of vomit. He kicked aside the bucket placed near Maggie’s head and nudged her shoulder, like a man poking a bear.

‘Wake up, Maggie. It’s time to go.’

She started flailing her arms before she opened her eyes. It took a few seconds for her to adjust to her surroundings and push herself up to a kneeling position. She held on to the wall for support but still managed to sway. She looked as though she might be sick again as she focussed on his face.

‘Doc? What are you doing here?’ she asked, her voice thick and groggy with sleep.

He turned his head away against the rank odour of stale whiskey and vomit that assailed his senses.

‘Bailing you out,’ he said catching his breath again.

She pushed back a mass of unruly blonde hair, straightened her eye patch and massaged her temple. ‘Am I in trouble?’

Marshal Owens cleared his throat. ‘I think you should take her back to the hotel before it gets fully light. I’ve kept things as quiet as I can but if folks see her looking like that…’

‘What about them?’ Doc asked, nodding towards the men in the next cell. Two of them appeared to be sleeping. The third, a dark, curly haired feller with piercing green eyes stared contemptuously at him. ‘Do you need me to take a look at them?’

‘No. Luckily, it was mostly their pride that got hurt.’ He stepped aside to let Doc and Maggie pass. ‘Just get her out of here.’

Doc nodded. ‘I appreciate this.’

‘I know you do but I’m not so sure about her.’

Doc picked up the errant boot and pushed Maggie out through the office. At the door, he waited for her to put it on, too angry to help her as she struggled to balance and locate her foot at the same time.

Owens waved him back towards the desk. ‘Did you say you were leaving town today?’ he asked in a low voice.

Doc looked his old friend in the eye. ‘Sounds like more of a request than a question.’

‘I don’t mean any offence, Doc. It’s just…well, she caused quite a fuss. Nobody’s pressing any charges but…word’s getting around about Braddock and…well, she’s attracting an unwanted element. Have you seen this?’

Owens opened a drawer and pulled out a ten-cent dime novel. Printed in black and white was a picture of a pretty girl in her Sunday best holding a giant of a man at gunpoint. The title read “Legend Of Maggie O’Bannen”.

Owens looked decidedly uncomfortable when he handed it over. ‘This came in today,’ he said. ‘It’s trash written by some local hack looking to make a few dollars out of a sensational story but these things are damn popular. Who knows how far it could travel?’

He waited while Doc scanned a few pages. Whoever had written it obviously hadn’t seen the need to include the truth. Whilst the events of Braddock’s demise were fundamentally correct, the story painted him as a hapless outlaw pitted against a gun-toting, knife-wielding man-hater. Its only saving grace was its completely inaccurate description of Maggie being a “beauty in satin and lace”.

‘I know it’s trash,’ Owens said again, ‘but I’m thinking about her. She’s got a short fuse and this is a quiet town, for the most part. I’m sorry about what happened to her but…’ He shrugged. ‘You understand my position, don’t you?’

Doc understood perfectly. The grey-haired old lawman with the rheumy eyes was due to retire in a couple of months. He wanted an easy life until then. All Owens saw when he looked at Maggie O’Bannen was trouble with a capital T. With the dime novel in his hand and Maggie muttering apologies in the background, Doc couldn’t blame him for being concerned, although it still irked him.

‘The train pulls out at noon,’ he said, shoving the publication in his pocket. ‘We won’t trouble you again after that.’

‘Doc, that’s not what I meant. You know you’re always welcome—’

Doc wasn’t listening. He didn’t blame Bart. The lawman was just doing his job. The town paid him to keep the peace and that included dealing with anyone who threatened that.

 Doc almost dragged Maggie back to the hotel. The look he gave the night clerk, when he glanced up from the book he was reading, stalled the questions on his slack mouth.

‘Easy, Doc, I think I’m going to be sick,’ Maggie groaned as he hustled her up the stairs and along the narrow hallway leading to her room.

‘Don’t be,’ he warned, reaching in to her pocket and pulling out a key on a small wooden fob.

He shunted her inside and shut the door behind them, moving to open the window while Maggie hung her head over the washbowl and heaved. He gathered her hair, holding it back while she spat bile. When she was finished, he handed her the washrag and went to look out of the window where a light breeze helped to calm his ire.

‘I’m sorry, Doc,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and hanging her head in her hands.

‘What happened, Maggie?’

‘I needed a drink.’

Doc shook his head. Since they had left Shaw’s Creek Crossing two weeks earlier, she had been doing a lot of that.

‘I went in to the Bony Steer because it looked quiet, and it was until Brady walked in.’

Doc held up his hand for her to stop. He knew the rest, probably better than she did. He continued to stare out of the window, knowing if he looked at her he wouldn’t be able to say what he needed to.

‘It’s got to stop, Maggie, before you do something we all regret. You could have killed those three men. They could have killed you.’

‘It wasn’t my fault. He grabbed me and…you know I don’t like to be manhandled. I thought—’

He cut her off. ‘I’m talking about the drinking, Maggie. It’s not helping you.’

She sighed. ‘It does for a little while.’

‘Well you need to find another way to deal with things.’ He went to her and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘You can come to me.’

She placed her fingers over his and squeezed. ‘I know.’

He tilted her chin, forcing her to look at him. ‘Then promise me that the next time you need a drink you’ll come to me instead. Whatever it takes to get you past the demons that are haunting you, Maggie, I’ll help you.’

She chewed her lip. ‘All right, Doc…I promise.’

He didn’t like the slight hesitation but he knew her well enough to know it was all he could hope for.

‘Now get a couple of hours sleep, get yourself cleaned up and join us for breakfast downstairs. The train for Flamstead Junction pulls out at noon and it’s time we were on it.’

‘Not today, Doc. I’m not feeling well.’

He didn’t doubt it. She looked almost grey in the pale dawn light. But he also knew that wasn’t the main reason she wanted to delay. It had more to do with why she had been drinking these past few weeks. Although it had been her decision to return to her hometown, she was dreading it.

‘Today, Maggie.  No more excuses.’

She nodded unconvincingly. ‘Are you going to tell Rick what happened?’

‘He doesn’t need to know.’

Rick was another worry but Doc refused to dwell on it as he left Maggie and went back to his own room next door. The sun was coming up fast and he didn’t bother to undress before he threw himself onto the crumpled bed. Why bother? He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

A Maggie O'Bannen Western Book 1: Days of Evil by Joe Slade

Available now at Amazon

A new kind of hero in the Old West.

Kidnapped at the age of sixteen, Maggie has survived the fickle temper of notorious outlaw Mad Dog Frank O’Bannen for seven years. Now he is dead and she is about to find out that there are worse ways to live and die than as the wife of a wanted man.

Frank had prepared her as best he could for what would follow but when she leaves her prison in the hills, she has the blood of three men on her hands and knows the feel of hot lead. Soon her hard-won freedom is in doubt and she finds herself pursued by Frank’s old partner, a man with a vicious reputation and more than one score to settle.

Free at last, Maggie has Frank’s gun, her keen wits and new friends to help her, but will they be enough to save her from the brutality of a maniac bent on revenge?

One

‘I hope you rot in hell.’

Maggie O’Bannen threw the buckled spade down on the grave. Water had run inside her oversized slicker and now that her exertions were over, she hugged herself for warmth. It had taken her all night and half the morning to dig the man-sized hole and drag the body in to it. Sometime after dawn it had started to rain, the cold unrelenting downpour freezing her to the bone until she was numb in mind and body.

Several times her feet had slipped beneath her, almost toppling her in on top of the corpse. Undeterred, she had picked herself up, cursing and shovelling until the job was done. Now, she fell to her knees and clasped her torn and blistered hands before her, breathing hard as the tumult of emotion that had driven her to dig hour after hour sought another outlet. Tears welled in her eyes, mixing with the rain as it continued its relentless assault, but she refused to cry. She didn’t know if she had loved him, just that her heart ached with loss.

‘All your planning didn’t prepare me for this,’ she mumbled.

She shook herself and shifted her thoughts to what she would carve on the small cross lying on the ground nearby. Still undecided, she reached beneath the slicker and lifted her thin skirt to reach for the knife sheathed and tied against her thigh. She stopped short of pulling it out when across the yard a door opened.

 She looked towards the cabin, feeling herself stiffen as she eyed Walt McLean. Of all the O’Bannen gang members, he was the one she feared the most. Short, swarthy and dressed only in long johns and a pair of boots, with his belt gun slung over one shoulder, his dark gaze met hers as he scratched and stretched before pulling out his pecker to take a pee.

‘You done?’ he shouted, adjusting his stance as the flow splattered between his feet. ‘Me and the boys are hungry.’

Her jaw crackled as she clenched her teeth against the contempt she felt for the man who, even before Frank’s body was cold, had claimed top seat at the table. His arrogance hadn’t surprised her. This past long year, as Frank grew weaker, his body succumbing to the ravages of consumption, Walt McLean had made no secret of his impatience for the outlaw leader to move on and meet his Maker.

‘I gave you ’til morning to bury that old bastard and it’s getting light now. Get your ass in here and make us some breakfast, you hear me?’

Her stomach heaved and her heart pounded as she accepted that the time for action was upon her. Burying Frank had bought her a few hours to steel herself for what was to come but done little to quell the doubts that had manifested in her nightmares these past weeks. She slid the knife back into its sheath and clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking.

Breathing deeply, she reminded herself that Frank had prepared her for this day. She was ready. She had to be. Again, she gripped the knife, drawing it slowly from its hiding place. She wouldn’t fail.

‘I hear you,’ she called back, her tone sounding oddly flat.

Turning her head aside, she pressed a kiss to her fingertips then brushed them lightly over the grave as she shoved to her feet. Frank O’Bannen had been a hard man, twenty-five years older than she, an outlaw and one of the worst. He had robbed without conscience and killed without mercy, taking whatever he wanted. She herself was proof of that, but it didn’t change the fact that she would miss him. 

Walt stood in the doorway watching her like a hungry wolf as she walked towards the cabin she had called home for over seven years. Built from rough logs with a sod roof and shuttered glassless windows, it wasn’t much but it had a small porch and the floor had been boarded over. Inside, she could hear the rest of the outlaw quartet moving around, stamping into their boots as they crawled from their blankets. Their presence irked her even more than usual.

As she approached, Walt rubbed his groin and leered. ‘I hope you ain’t tired after all that digging.’

His meaning was clear enough as he massaged his manhood, but he was a man wont to enjoy the sound of his own voice.

‘I’m the boss now, and you belong to me. As soon as you’ve fed me and the boys, you and me are going to get intimately acquainted.’

She was too weary to hide the sneer of disgust that the thought of his touch had on her.

His hand shot out, his broken fingernails digging into her skin as he grabbed her by the throat. The knife fell from her grasp, landing with a dull thud as he slammed her against the wall. Despite being the same height and build, he lifted her almost clear of the floor so that she danced on tiptoes.

‘You might want to be a mite nicer to me.’ He thrust his free hand up inside the slicker, tearing at her shirt until his grasping fingers found her cold breast. ‘I can make your life a living hell, or send you to hell, it makes no never mind to me.’ 

To prove his point, he squeezed and scratched the soft flesh, plucking at the nipple with sharp nails, all the while watching her reaction. It acted like a match to a fuse and she exploded in a frenzied struggle that only seemed to excite him more as his grip tightened around her throat and she started to choke.

Stay calm, Maggie. You know what to do.

Frank’s voice sounded close, as though he was whispering in her ear. Used to following his orders, she stopped struggling and went limp.

By some miracle, Walt’s grip loosened enough for her to suck air into her lungs, restoring clarity to her oxygen-starved brain. She hadn’t expected his attack to come so soon, but it made no difference. She lifted her knee and aimed for his groin. It was a feeble attempt that failed to inflict any damage but it unnerved him.

‘Bitch!’ He lashed out with the back of his hand, his knuckles jarring against her teeth. ‘You just signed your own death warrant.’

Time was running out. She fell to her knees, scrabbling to find the knife with one hand while she tried to fend Walt off with the other. Just as her fingers closed around the blade, Walt grabbed her by the hair and yanked hard. The knife fell away, slicing her fingertips.

She cried out in pain and frustration.

‘Ain’t nobody coming to save you,’ Walt said, slamming her down.

Her head jarred against the edge of the porch and for a few seconds she teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. The weight of his body on top of her brought her back to full awareness in an instant. She turned her head away, as he tried to kiss her, and raked her nails across his face.

He grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms behind her head. ‘Do that again and I’ll cut your fingers off, do you hear me?’

She didn’t doubt that he would follow through on his threat but by now she was beyond reason. Trapped beneath him there was little she could do as his weight squeezed the air from her lungs and denied her muscles the energy to fight. When he lowered his head again she spat in his face, turning away quickly as she anticipated his reprisal.

Just then, she saw movement: someone standing in the doorway.

Tall.

Blonde.

It was Rick Talbot, the newest and youngest member of the gang.

‘Help me!’ she implored as Walt straddled her and started to grope for the hem of her skirt.

Talbot didn’t move. His expression was one of indecision as his gaze flitted between Maggie and his new boss.

‘Get back inside,’ Walt ordered. ‘This ain’t no peep show.’

Maggie had thought Rick Talbot was attractive when he first arrived. In his early twenties with wavy blonde hair, broad shoulders and a smile that would break a thousand hearts, he had seemed different from the others. He spoke gentler and prayed before he ate. He extended her courtesy none of the others did. At night as she had lain awake beside Frank, listening to his laboured breathing and knowing his end was near, she had imagined what it would be like to be Rick Talbot’s woman.

‘Please help me,’ she sobbed, as Walt lifted her skirt.

Talbot’s Adam’s apple bobbed uncertainly. ‘Y-you shouldn’t be treating her that way.’

‘You want to do something about it, boy?’ Walt challenged.

Maggie saw Talbot’s hand move towards his waist, but he was unarmed. The fading bruises around his eyes and nose from a beating a week earlier had already proved he was no match for Walt in a fistfight. She saw clearly the defeat in his eyes before he turned away.

The door closing behind him sounded like a death knell.

Walt laughed. ‘Guess you thought he’d be the one between your legs after Mad Dog died. Well, it might still happen. Maybe he’ll take a turn later when the others are finished with you. Although once Bull gets here, I doubt there’ll be much of you left to go around.’

Bull Braddock. Frank’s partner in the old days. He hadn’t told her much about him, just that he was a natural killer and Walt’s uncle.

She fought harder, punching, scratching and biting, but she was no match for Walt’s strength. His hand moved between her thighs, parting her unwilling flesh and making way for him to slide between her legs.

Use the knife, Maggie.

Frank’s voice filled her head, the sound of reason. As Walt fumbled with his hardness, her hand searched for the weapon.

‘Promise me you won’t stop fighting,’ Walt said.

Her hand brushed the knife with its narrow five-inch blade, double-edged and razor sharp. Frank had taken it off a Kentucky gambler who had unwisely pulled it from his boot while Frank was relieving him of two thousand dollars. The man’s blood had still been evident on the blade when Frank had given it to her. Now, as her hand clamped around the smooth rosewood handle, she knew that like the gambler she only had one chance.

Summoning the last of her strength, she lifted the blade and plunged it into Walt’s back.