Pritchard isn’t sure why Cottonmouth Quincy wants him dead—but he’s about to find out that the ghosts of boot hill won’t stay buried . . .

COTTONMOUTH

THE GUNS OF SAMUEL PRITCHARD by Sean Lynch

Coming soon, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

Chapter 1

Sarpy County, Nebraska,
five miles east of Papillion, March 1874

The reverend reined his wagon to a halt. Four men on horseback were blocking the road ahead. All were wearing town suits and bowlers, and he’d never seen any of them before. They were also wearing revolvers in shoulder holsters that were plainly visible under their open riding jackets.

“Top of the mornin’ to you, Reverend Hoskins,” the oldest of the riders said. He tipped his hat.

“Do I know you gentleman?” Reverend Hoskins said.

“No,” the man said. “But we know you. You’re Charles Hoskins, the pastor of the Baptist church in town. We know your family, too. Sitting next to you is your wife, Mary, your daughter, Maura, and your wee little son, Charles Junior.”

“How, exactly, do you know all this?” Hoskins asked.

“Why,” the man said, “you’re famous, Reverend. Your sermons are all the rage. They’re right popular with the railroad laborers in these parts. Especially the ones where you call for all the workers to band together, hold out for more money, and strike iffen they don’t get what they want from Brody’s railroad company. Those sermons are real barn burners, so I’m told.”

“Now I know who you are,” Hoskins said, making no effort to hide his contempt. “You’re Quincy Agency men, aren’t you? Cottonmouth Quincy sent you to intimidate me into silence and to stamp down the poor, abused souls being worked like slaves by John Brody.”

“It’s true,” the man confirmed, “we’re employed by the Quincy Detective Agency. And as a matter of fact, we did come here to persuade you to temper your sermons to a tone more sympathetic to Mr. Brody’s interests. By the way, Mr. Quincy certainly wouldn’t appreciate being called ‘Cottonmouth’ by the likes of you.”

“I didn’t give him that name,” Hoskins retorted. “Quincy earned it himself by slithering around like a serpent, hiding like a thief, peering into keyholes like a rat, and doing John Brody’s bidding.”

“You surely have a right hostile notion of Mr. Quincy’s character,” the man said, “for a man of God. I thought all you preachers were supposed to be the forgivin’ type?”

“Quincy doesn’t need my forgiveness,” Hoskins said. “If he wants to save his soul, he needs to repent his wicked ways and stop helping Brody wage war on his poor workers.”

“I’ll be sure and tell him you said that,” the man said. The men with him chuckled.