The Man Beneath the Purple Sky
By sundown, Mercy Creek had already decided what kind of man Cole Walker was.
The town had seen him ride in alone beneath a bruised purple sky, dust hanging behind his horse like smoke, his weathered tan cowboy hat pulled low over pale eyes. He wore a faded blue denim shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, a dark worn leather vest, old blue jeans, and a brown leather belt that had seen more gunfights than most men saw birthdays.
He was lean, broad through the shoulders, and quiet in the way of men who had learned that words were cheap on the frontier.
He did not look like a hero.
He looked like a man who had survived enough trouble to recognize it before it arrived.
Mercy Creek was a town built on suspicion.
It sat between two stretches of dry country where the grass grew yellow and the wind carried dust from one end of the valley to the other. There was a blacksmith, a general store, a church with a crooked bell tower, a saloon called the Silver Spur, and a sheriff's office that had seen better years.
People in Mercy Creek knew everyone's business.
They knew who owed money.
They knew who drank too much.
They knew whose daughter had been seen talking to which ranch hand after sunset.
And they knew a stranger.
Cole Walker tied his horse outside the Silver Spur just before dark.
Nobody greeted him.
A few men stopped talking when he entered.
Cole noticed.
He always noticed.
He walked to the bar and placed two silver dollars on the counter.
"Coffee."
The bartender looked at the coins, then at Cole.
"We don't serve coffee after sundown."
Cole raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
"Because that's how we do things."
Cole glanced toward the window.
Outside, the last light was disappearing behind the hills.
"Then I'll drink whiskey."
The bartender smiled.
"That's how we do things."
Cole took the glass and turned toward the room.
A man in a gray coat sat alone at a table in the corner. He watched Cole without pretending otherwise.
Cole recognized the type.
A man who wanted everyone to know he was dangerous.
Usually those were the men who had never been truly tested.
Cole drank his whiskey.
Then he left.
He had no reason to stay in Mercy Creek.
He was only passing through.
At least, that was what he believed.
He rode east toward an abandoned water tower outside town, planning to camp there until morning.
He never made it that far.
The trouble arrived that very night.
Cole had stopped his horse near the old tower when he heard a horse scream.
He turned in the saddle.
Three riders were cutting across the moonlit flats.
Behind them, tied to a wagon, were three women.
The wagon bounced violently over the dry ground.
The dark-haired woman had managed to free one hand. She grabbed a fallen branch and struck an outlaw across the wrist.
The blonde kicked another man in the knee.
The auburn-haired woman pulled the wagon's loose rope around a bandit's ankle and yanked with both hands.
Cole stared for a moment.
Then he almost smiled.
"Well," he muttered. "They don't seem to need much help."
One outlaw raised his pistol.
Cole drew first.
The gunshot cracked across the valley.
The outlaw's pistol flew from his hand.
Cole spurred his horse forward.
"Stay behind me!" he shouted.
The dark-haired woman looked at him.
"We've been behind men all day!"
She ducked as another shot tore through the wagon's wooden side.
"It hasn't helped!"
Cole glanced at her.
"Fair point."
He moved again.
The first outlaw charged him with a knife.
Cole stepped from the saddle, caught the man's wrist, and drove him into the dirt.
The second man fired.
Cole rolled behind the wagon wheel.
The dark-haired woman grabbed a stone and threw it.
It struck the outlaw directly in the forehead.
He staggered.
Cole finished the job with one punch.
The third man looked around, realized his companions were down, and ran.
Cole raised his pistol.
The dark-haired woman grabbed his arm.
"Don't."
Cole looked at her.
"He'll come back."
"Maybe."
She released his sleeve.
"But if you kill everyone who runs away, you'll never know why they were chasing us."
Cole lowered his gun.
The outlaw disappeared into the darkness.
Silence settled over the valley.
Three outlaws were unconscious.
Two had fled.
The women stood beside the wrecked wagon beneath a cold white moon.
The dark-haired woman was tall, perhaps twenty-seven, with sharp green eyes and black hair pulled loosely behind her neck.
The blonde was younger, maybe twenty-four, with a tear in her dress and blood on her cheek.
The auburn-haired woman looked older than the other two. She carried herself with the calm of someone accustomed to making decisions when everyone else panicked.
Cole looked at them.
"Are you hurt?"
The blonde shook her head.
The auburn-haired woman said, "Not badly."
The dark-haired woman crossed her arms.
"Who are you?"
"Cole Walker."
"That's not what I asked."
Cole almost smiled again.
"You asked who I am."
"No. I asked who you are."
The auburn-haired woman stepped forward.
"My name is Evelyn Harper."
She pointed to the blonde.
"That's Clara."
Then to the dark-haired woman.
"And that's Nora Bell."
Cole nodded.