“No!” Reverend Hoskins said. “Let my daughter go.” He crawled to the wagon on his belly and extended his right hand under the front wheel.

The leader gestured to release the girl. Maura Hoskins scrambled to her feet and ran sobbing into her mother’s arms. Then the leader nodded a final time, and his man in the wagon cracked the whip.

The wagon lurched forward. Reverend Hoskins cried out in agony as his hand was crushed. His wife sank weeping to her knees, bringing her children with her.

The leader halted the wagon. He walked over to where the reverend lay cradling his mangled hand.

“Are you gonna continue to rile up workers against Mr. Brody and his railroad?”

“N-no,” Reverend Hoskins sputtered.

“That’s good,” the man said. “Because Mr. Quincy gave specific orders about what we’re to do if we catch wind of you givin’ any more sermons incitin’ unrest against the Brody Railroad Company. We’ll be back, and what happened today will seem like a church social. We’ll burn your church down, Reverend, with you and every one of your flock in it. Then we’ll end your wife and daughter in their own beds and shoot your son dead on your doorstep. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Hoskins said.

The Quincy men holstered their revolvers and remounted their horses. “Don’t you make us come back,” the man admonished, “you hear?”

“I won’t,” Hoskins said weakly. “You’ll have no more trouble from me.”

“I reckoned as much,” the man said. He shouted, “Cottonmouth Quincy sends his regards,” over his shoulder as he and his three companions rode off.

Chapter 2

Atherton, Missouri, April 1874

“I thought I’d find you here,” Ditch Clemson said as he entered the marshal’s office. His lifelong friend, Marshal Samuel Pritchard, was seated inside at his desk. He was assembling the components of a chair he’d crafted himself.

Ditch put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “It’s almost noon,” he said, “and the train from Saint Louis is due to arrive any minute.”

“So?” Pritchard said without looking up.

“So?” Ditch mimicked, making no effort to conceal the exasperation in his voice. “You know that European feller, Count Strobl, is gonna be on the train.”

“So?” Pritchard repeated.

“All the newspapers are writin’ about how Strobl got himself kicked out of his own country on account of dueling. He’s reputed to be exiled royalty and one of the deadliest shots east of the Mississippi.”

“Why should I care?” Pritchard asked.

“You should care,” Ditch said, “because he’s been bragging to every reporter who’ll listen that he’s gunning for you.”

“Keep your shirt on,” Pritchard said, looking up from the partially assembled chair. “Why would this Strobl fella be on the prod for me? I don’t know him from General Lee.”