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    Gunfire Echoes
    Gunfire Echoes
    Gunfire Echoes
    Ebook250 pages4 hours

    Gunfire Echoes

    By Geonn Cannon

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    About this ebook

    Before there were comic book superheroes, there were dime-novel cowboys.

    Rose Skinner is looking for a new life, and the Oklahoma Land Run of 1889 offers her the opportunity to make one. She hopes to leave the pain of her old life behind when she rides into Paradise as their newest and only female bartender. But some secrets refuse to stay buried. When her new home is threatened by a thief, Rose is forced to fall back on the skills of a life she hoped she would never again be forced to remember.

    Donning a mask and the moniker "Black Jack," Rose does what it necessary to protect her new friends and her new life. But introducing someone like Black Jack may do more harm than good. A more powerful enemy arrives to take out the masked shooter, and Rose's plans may put all of her friends in the crosshairs.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSupposed Crimes, LLC
    Release dateFeb 28, 2012
    ISBN9781938108006
    Gunfire Echoes
    Author

    Geonn Cannon

    Geonn Cannon was born in a barn and raised to know better than that. He was born and raised in Oklahoma where he’s been enslaved by a series of cats, dogs, two birds and one unexpected turtle. He’s spent his entire life creating stories but only became serious about it when he realized it was a talent that could impress girls. Learning to write well was easier than learning to juggle, so a career was underway. His high school years were spent writing stories among a small group of friends and reading whatever books he could get his hands on.Geonn was inspired to create the fictional Squire’s Isle after a 2004 trip to San Juan Island in Washington State. His first novel set on the island, On the Air, was written almost as a side project to another story he wanted to tell. Reception to the story was so strong that the original story was put on the back burner to deal with the world created in On the Air. His second novel set in the same universe, Gemini, was also very well received and went on to win the Golden Crown Literary Society Award for Best Novel, Dramatic/General Fiction. Geonn was the first male author to receive the honor.While some of his novels haven’t focused as heavily on Squire’s Isle, the vast majority of Geonn’s works take place in the same universe and have connections back to the island and its cast of characters (the exception being the Riley Parra series). In addition to writing more novels based on the inhabitants of Squire’s Isle, Geonn hopes to one day move to the real-life equivalent to inspire further stories.Geonn is currently working on a tie-in novel to the television series Stargate SG-1, and a script for a webseries version of Riley Parra.

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    • 1/5
      Lazily written with no real solidified plot. Moreover, the character lacks, well, character, and scenes were dull.

    Book preview

    Gunfire Echoes - Geonn Cannon

    Gunfire Echoes

    Geonn Cannon

    Smashwords Edition

    Supposed Crimes LLC

    This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

    Copyright 2012 Geonn Cannon

    All Rights Reserved

    ISBN: 978-1-938108-00-6

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    # #

    Prologue

    April 21, 1889. Purcell, Oklahoma.

    Rose Skinner slipped the rucksack off her shoulders and let it hit to the ground with an explosion of loose earth. She rubbed her neck where the strap had been riding for god-knew how many miles and felt the muscles finally begin to relax. The pack at her feet contained her every worldly belonging; clothing and tools and one single pair of nice shoes crammed into an infinitely tiny space.

    She rubbed her horse's thick mahogany neck and whispered, You did good, Ezekiel. Real good. He nickered in reply and twisted his head to look at her, deep brown eyes asking her to make with the treat. She chuckled and fished a green apple from her pocket. What the hell. You earned it. She held the apple out and he greedily snatched it from her fingers.

    She smiled and ran her hand over his mane. Ezekiel was not a small horse, and she could barely see over his saddle as she stood next to him. Her auburn curls were bound in a bun beneath her wide-brimmed gray hat. Her clothes were caked with Texan dirt underneath a new dusting of red Oklahoma dirt. Her hands were calloused, her lips were chapped and her eyes were red from lack of sleep as much as the dust that had assaulted her during her entire ride. Her back and legs ached, but she was here.

    As Ezekiel munched his apple, Rose let her eyes wander to the other side of the river. Deep, flat darkness stared back at her. She tried to see where the sky met the horizon and failed. The land stretched out to either side of her, unrelenting and mysterious. Untouched. It looked as if no one had ever set foot on its soil and it dared any comers to try and be the first. 

    It was Oklahoma Territory, her future home, the place she would finally break away from everything in her past life.

    When she first heard of the Land Run, hours before she packed up her things and headed north, she formed romantic ideas of what it would be like; mighty steeds would be lined up at the starting line, proud cowboys would sit high in their saddle waiting for the starter's pistol. She pictured herself standing among proud men and women with stars in their eyes.

    But as soon as she entered the town of Purcell, she knew that she had been foolish. The first thing she saw was a fight between two settlers, dirty men in threadbare clothes who were blinded by tears as they swung at one another. Rose had no clue what the fight was about, or why the men were crying, but moments later the incident was wiped from her mind when she saw a US Marshal carrying a man back over the starting line by the scruff of his neck. Sooner, someone snarled. The man had tried crossing early and had been caught.

    The men - and it was mostly men, with a few women - gathered at the river were everything but dime-novel heroes with dreamy eyes. They sagged, exhausted, in their saddles or, more often, lay in crumpled piles on the ground. They reeked of alcohol and seemed ready to use their guns on a mosquito if it struck their fancy. It was madness, insanity given validation. But she would only have to deal with it for fifteen or sixteen more hours. At noon, the starter's pistol would sound and they would all be off.

    As twilight faded into true night, several people in the makeshift camp began to play instruments. Guitars, a banjo, a harmonica. No one made any attempt at harmony; they were all just trying to find something familiar in the wilderness.

    A few of the hopefuls making the run in the morning were bunched along the embankment of the Canadian River. Behind them, the ramshackle town of Purcell continued with business as usual. The town was newborn, established and populated before the Territory had opened up. And, as with any small town, troublemakers were quick to make themselves known. Fights occasionally broke out in one barroom or another, and a couple of hucksters set up card games in the street to lure runners out of what little cash they actually still had.

    The majority of Purcell residents, though, were camped out just like the runners were. They were on the hill, already picking out the best spots from which to watch the Land Run in the morning. Rose looked up at the campfires and lantern lights that dotted the hillside and felt her lips pull into a smile. She was going to be a part of history in the morning.

    Not content with standing still, Rose picked up her rucksack and slung it over one shoulder. Ezekiel was tied to a hitching post with a half dozen other horses, all of which were being watched over by a pair of US Marshals. She ran her hand along her horse's back before stepping away into the crowd. She moved toward the river in the hopes she would find someone willing to share their fire. The din of small talk was almost a small roar, everyone telling a story about how they'd come to be in this tiny town on the edge of a vast unclaimed prairie.

    A few yards from where she'd left Ezekiel, a card game was underway. Four silhouettes flanked a crate, a lamp on the ground casting a pale golden glow over the players. Rose, always interested in playing a hand or two, came up behind one of the players. She was surprised to see that one of the card-players was a woman. She was lean, dark-haired and pale, her muscular arms flexing as she flicked cards out to the other players.

    The dealer wore no shirt under her vest and every time she leaned forward to deal to the man across from her, the material strained to stay buttoned. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head and a few stray curls fell down around her face. A cigar was clenched between her teeth and she had to speak around it to spell out the rules to her opponents. She needn't have bothered, since every last one of them was focused on the low neck of her vest. Their eyes were on her prize rather than on their money. Judging by the stack of chips in front of her, distraction had been the dealer's plan all along.

    Ante up, gentlemen, the dealer said around her cigar. Her voice was tinged with some sort of accent; Rose couldn't tell if it was Australian or British. The dealer breathed out a white plume of smoke and squinted up at Rose. She gestured at the table with her stogie. You want to play?

    I don't know how, Rose lied. She really didn't want to admit she would fall prey to the dealer's trick just as easily as the men.

    The dealer waved dismissively with her cigar and turned her focus back to her victims. Neither do these fellas. You decide to give it a chance, come on back.

    Rose left the dealer behind and continued to wander aimlessly through the crowds. Some people chattered endlessly, unconcerned with whether anyone was actually listening to them. Others sat by themselves, chins against chest, hands tucked under their armpits as if they were trying to disappear completely. Rose knew they probably thought they had some kind of inside information about something that lay inside the territory and didn't want to risk losing their future homestead due to loose lips. Oklahoma Territory was big, but it was not infinite.

    Rose knew that all too well. As hard as it would be to find a place, the real challenge would be holding on to it surrounded by less-than-honorable fellow runners.

    Near the banks of the river, the crowd seemed to disperse a bit. Families were crowded into small dugouts on the sandy shore, while still others already turned in for the night in makeshift sleep palettes. Rose offered a smile to everyone she passed, but few even acknowledge her presence. Everyone here was a potential enemy, someone you may have to fight in order to keep land you'd chosen for yourself.

    Following a rutted path through the sand, she paused beside a tree and looked up at the stars. The night was clear, hardly a star in the sky, and for a moment she forgot about the push of humanity that enveloped her on all sides. She was about to walk on when the quiet strumming of a banjo drifted across the noise and confusion. Unlike the other people plucking at strings, this player seemed to be making an effort to play a real song. Not just making noise to pass the time, but making music. Rose followed the sound like a Hamelin child behind the pied piper and soon found herself at a small, green tent.

    At first sight, Rose thought the musician was a man. She wore britches with suspenders, a starched blue shirt under a black vest and had her short hair hidden under a bowler cap. Rose only realized her mistake when the woman began to sing. Her voice was soft, melodic, hypnotizing. She sat cross-legged on the ground, bent over the instrument as she plucked the strings.

    The song didn't seem to have any structure, the words didn't rhyme and sometimes faded into a quiet hum, but Rose was enthralled all the same. When the strumming stopped, the player stood and turned around to return the instrument to its case. She jumped when she realized she had an audience. Sky-blue eyes blinked behind round eyeglasses, the rims seemingly aflame with reflected campfire light.

    I didn't mean to startle you, Rose said.

    Hi, the musician said.

    Rose could see the woman was embarrassed about being overheard. She didn't want to compound the problem so she started to walk away. I'm sorry. I just heard you playing and... well... I'm sorry I startled you. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and headed toward the main drag of town.

    It's all right, the banjo-player said.

    Rose paused and looked at the woman again. They both smiled and Rose finally raised her hand in farewell. Sorry again. For intruding. I'll see you around. Rose turned from the woman and started walking. She kicked herself for being such a coward and wished she hadn't even stopped.

     She was so busy chiding herself and trying to make a graceful exit that she didn't bother to look over her shoulder and see the woman was watching her go.

    #

    April 22, 1889. 11:22 am.

    Do you have the time?

    Twenty-two past eleven, Rose replied. She had her grandfather's gold pocket watch cradled in her palm rather than her pocket because she knew, before long, someone else would ask. The latest man to ask pulled back and checked his own watch with a nod. All across the encampment, the same question was being repeated over and over again. From the Marshal's positions to the very edge of the town, no one was willing to trust their own watches.

    Astrological noon is when the sun is straight overhead, right?

    Will the race start straight up at noon or just whenever the sun was straight up over us?

    What if the marshal's watch stops?

    Rose saddled Ezekiel and smoothed her hand over his flank. She whispered quietly to him as she guided him away from camp and moving to a position to start the race. Ready to run, baby? Gonna get us a nice, prime piece of land, ain't we? She smiled as the horse nickered and stomped his foot on the hard ground. Yep, we sure are.

    She released the reins with one hand and adjusted the shoulder strap of her rucksack. It was threatening to pull her backward, but a quick tug settled the weight more evenly across her shoulders. The pack contained her secret weapon, rescued from a dust bin behind a clothing store in Houston. It wouldn't actually help her in the run, but with any luck it would help her keep any land that she happened to claim.

    She joined the line-up, settling in next to a wagon. The man seated high in the carriage seat nodded to her and she lifted her hand in a shy wave. Couldn't afford to be too friendly.

    She hunched her shoulders forward and scanned her surroundings. Dozens of Purcell residents had set up camp on rooftops to watch the spectacle. The ones who had been camping on the hillside the previous evening were now awake and cheering. They were the people who had already found a home in Purcell, those who were merely witnesses to the whole debacle.

    The Purcell spectators were joined by the families, loved ones and friends of people in the race. Rose considered waving to them, but figured she would never be spotted amid the sea of the hopeful.

    Those on foot pushed past covered wagons and mounted horses to lay their feet directly on the line. The US Marshals kept a watchful eye, spaced so that they could be seen from any point along the starting line. She'd heard of other, less guarded, entry points where sooners and moonlighters were getting in ahead of time, but she wanted nothing to do with that thievery. She'd have her land legally or not at all.

    She joined the throng at the line and looked again at the watch cradled in her hand. The minute hand ticked very slowly towards noon, the sun glinting off the glass face. Her heart froze when the minute hand appeared to freeze for a handful of seconds before ticking over.

    She bit her bottom lip, looked around and finally leaned close to the man next to her. Pardon me. Do you have the time?

    The next half hour passed excruciatingly slow. Rose held the reins of her horse tightly, tightening and loosening her fists, keeping an eye on the other racers. Once or twice, a US Marshall left his post to move deeper into the territory and returned with a sooner. The would-be sooners were taken back across the line and, against a few protests from those who were observing the rules, were allowed to race with everyone else.

    After an eternity, excited whispers of Two minutes to noon began to circulate. The Marshals constantly checked their watches. Finally, a marshal named Adair lifted an arm over his head. Rose bent down and smoothed her hand over Ezekiel's neck. She ticked in his ear and tightly gripped his mane with one hand. Ezekiel bobbed his head up and down and she smiled.

    The starter's pistol went off with a loud SNAP! and a roar went up. The racers surged forward like a mighty breeze, the thunderous beating of their horse's hooves echoing across the land. They stormed and splashed across the South Canadian River, most likely tossing every single drop of water in the river up into the air and letting it fall over them in a cooling rainstorm.

    Rose immediately realized that not everyone had been eyeing the far horizon. Several people dropped from their horses as soon as they were over the line and began to hammer their claims into the hard ground as the rest of the racers surged around them. Rose laughed, giddy at the thought; so many people racing forward when it was just as easy to stop right here! She bellowed a congratulations to one of the men as she rode past him, glancing back to see how many others were stopping just over the line.

    Instead of the joyful sight of people claiming homesteads, her eyes were drawn to a far more horrific scene. A man's horse had apparently gotten mired in quicksand along the starting point on the opposite bank of the river. It stumbled and tossed its rider into the water. The panicky horse was, at the moment she turned, reared back and kicking with its front legs. It twisted its head from side to side and screamed loud enough to be heard above all the chaos.

    Rose slowed Ezekiel, torn between helping the man and continuing to find her own claim. She was still debating when the solution appeared in the form of the blonde musician. The lithe blonde dropped from her own horse, stumbled slightly in the loose sand and headed fearlessly into the water. She bent down to help the man up as she wrapped the horse's reins around her free hand.

    Rose was awe-struck by the display of courage and selflessness. The horse was quickly calmed and the musician led it and the rider back to the shore. Even at this distance, Rose could see the man's head was bleeding and he was dragging his left leg behind him.

    The musician put the injured man down on the bank and immediately began tending to his wounds. Rose couldn't fathom what she was seeing. They hadn't been riding together, so it stood to reason they didn't know one another. So why in the world would the blonde woman be willing to sacrifice everything - her dreams, her land, her future - just to help a stranger?

    Although intrigued, Rose knew her own chance at land was slipping further away with each second she watched and questioned. She tugged on the reins and spurred Ezekiel forward with renewed energy. Whatever the musician's motivations, her morals would likely cost her a homestead. Rose would not give up something like a home so easily.

    #

    Forty-five minutes later, Rose dismounted and dropped to one knee. She'd spotted this section from nearly a mile away, a bell-shaped area of open land, dotted with white and purple flowers. The trees rose up like a wall on the west and south borders with a culvert cutting along the northern edge. The open sky formed a ceiling over it all. Everything seemed to be just waiting to enclose a home.

    So many people in the run were looking for farmland, still others for enough land to separate into plots and start a town. All Rose wanted was a home with a pretty backyard. This was going to be more than enough for her.

    She felt like she hadn't breathed since spotting the land, positive someone would manifest out of the shadows to take it from her. She knelt down and pounded a stake in rhythm with the beating of her heart. The claim read, This tract of land claimed by Rose Skinner at 12:44, April 22, 1889. She stood and brushed the dirt off her britches. She took a moment to admire the sign, finally looking down at a claim of her own, and then got moving. She slipped the pack from her shoulders and dropped it in front of the wooden stake.

    A pale white hand flopped from the top of the bag and landed in the dusty ground.

    She worked the mouth of the pack wider and took the hand as if to shake it. Instead, she tugged the mannequin free, birthing him from the canvas pack like a reluctant calf. As soon as she'd seen him sticking out of a trash dumpster behind the department store, her plan had appeared fully formed in her mind.

    Her heart pounded as she set up the mannequin. She made sure he wasn't bent or broken or oddly contorted in any way before placing him upright on a stump. She paused and turned in a slow circle to make sure there were no witnesses to

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