Djara- Book One Read online

  It was a period in time known as the westward expansion, a time when people from all over the country moved west in search of silver and gold. The population influx created a shift, and the untouched frontier became inhabited by corrupt men consumed with greed and spurred by desperation. In mining towns overtaken by outlaws, the primary capital was crime. The law of the land was there was no law in the land.

  Orphaned as a child, rescued by magical Indians, and raised by a grizzly-bearded mountain man, Djara grew up to be the deadliest woman west of the Mississippi. With a steely determination as immovable as the white-capped Rockies, the gun-slinging bounty hunter fears only one person: a raven-haired beauty named Eden McAllister. When the trail of the ruthless Kody Lawless leads Djara back to Silverton, neither her resolve nor her Colt revolver is a match for a love as wild as the West.

  This novelette of approximately 15,000 words is the first book of the DJARA series.

  DJARA

  Book 1

  Kat Evans

  Copyright © 2017 Kat Evans

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of Kat Evans.

  This is a work of fiction and does not reflect actual events. For information, contact the author at [email protected].

  Cover design by Andy Williams

  Cover photo by Richard Laschon/Shutterstock

  Kindle Edition

  ASIN: B0784FXJRF

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Available Now

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tiger Alley, New Mexico Territory 1877

  There was no word for shortcut in the Navajo language. Always start at the beginning is what Eagle Eye had once told her years ago, and to that very day, Djara still followed the hunter’s advice. Crisscrossing the trails hadn’t been her ideal way to spend summer, but she knew diligence always paid.

  A bounty hunter by trade and gunslinger by necessity, Djara was the most feared woman in the West. Stories of her deadly aim and cunning ability to locate even the slyest of outlaws traveled all throughout the territory.

  Yet despite her notoriety, Djara wasn’t smug. She didn’t consider herself to be self-made—not at all. A lot of good men had contributed to her success. Men like Eagle Eye and Batshit Bill. Without them she would have probably turned out like most women on the frontier: either a whore, or saddled to a man and a parcel full of young’uns. Honest to Jehova, Djara didn’t know which depiction would be worse. Either one would seem like a death sentence, and luckily she’d managed to dodge that bullet.

  With her line of work, Djara had roamed everywhere from Butte to Mexico City. She’d been over the mountain and back again, so to speak. She’d seen just about everything there was to see, and the provisional saloon looked the same as a dozen others she’d entered. Noisy and crowded, the haze of tobacco smoke clouded the air and a layer of trail dust covered the scuffed plank floor. An oiled Springfield rifle hung on the high wall behind the bar, just within reach of the tall, barrel-chested bartender. He glanced in Djara’s direction and went back to wiping down the counter, his expression never wavering.

  Bearded men in dusty, faded clothes sat visiting, drinking whiskey, and eating peanuts. They came from all walks of life…cowboys, drifters, greenhorns…Their weathered cheeks and the bridges of their noses were tan, their demeanors relaxed. In a few more months when the full force of winter was upon them, their faces would wear a very different look. Their mutual appearances would be gaunt, tense, and exhausted.

  Indifferent to the curious stares, Djara sidestepped her way from the main entrance toward the back of the room. A woman wearing pants wasn’t that uncommon this far west, but they’d probably never seen a woman with Djara’s confidence waltz into a room full of men. Since Tiger Alley wasn’t as volatile as some of the southwestern towns overtaken by outlaws, she didn’t anticipate trouble.

  Taking continuous inventory of her surrounding, Djara momentarily paused and inclined her head. At the back table, the Faro dealer wore a crisp white shirt and black vest. He stood dealing cards to the man seated, alone, at the round table. Immediately, she recognized Fletch Erwin, just the man she was looking for. A professional gambler, Fletch was easy to identify. His clothes were of a finer quality and his handlebar mustache was neatly twisted at the ends. Tall and thin, it was obvious why his close acquaintances nicknamed him Stretch.

  The dealer sized her up the moment she approached. His eyes momentarily dropped to the set of pistolas she wore holstered to her narrow waist. “Five dollar limit. You in?” he asked.

  Djara took her seat. Then she reached inside her pocket, removed a wad of cash, and laid it on the table. Sliding her money toward the dealer, she said, “I’m in.”

  Fletch looked up from counting his winnings. “Well, well, well.” With a twinkle in his eye, he remarked loudly, “If it isn’t the lovely yet deadly Djara.” He tipped his hat.

  “Fletch.” The hint of a smile ghosted her lips as she reached for the multicolored chips and slid them to her. Refined and handsome, Fletch Erwin possessed an infectious personality. It was almost impossible not to like him. “Anyone ever told you that out here, you stick out like a sore tit on boar hog?” She counted her chips, placed her bet, and put her mark on top.

  “Maybe once or twice. However, my spirit is too restricted by the constraints of city dwelling.” He placed several bets on the spread, as well as a copper.

  Djara cocked her brow. “More like there’s less competition with all these greenhorns ripe for your taking.”

  “There is that too.” He winked slyly. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself since the last time I saw you. What brings you to the outskirts of civilization?” He twisted the ends of his mustache as they watched the dealer flip over the winning and losing cards, two at a time. “Dare I say it’s not to be dealt a hand by the best damn poker dealer this side of the mountain, one Mr. Rex Callahan?” he joshed the dealer as he collected his winnings.

  Having neither won nor lost, Djara left her bet on the table. “I’m looking for a man who would’ve passed through here last year, just before that Indian massacre on Atala Creek.”

  Fletch’s expression changed. He rocked back in his chair and glanced at the poker dealer. “What do you say you take a break, Rex? Go relax yo’ arm for a spell. I’m feeling lucky tonight.” When the dealer was out of earshot, he looked straight at Djara. “What makes you think I’d know this person? I don’t exactly rub elbows with the societal outcasts you track.”

  “Your city swagger doesn’t fool me, Fletch. I know you make it your business to know everyone who steps foot in this town. This man I’m looking for goes by the name Kody Lawless. Did he ride this way?”

  “Indeed. He had his gang with him.”

  “How many?”

  “About six men, maybe seven.”

  “Where were they headed?”

  “North, but where exactly I do not know.” He lifted a short glass to his lips and took a sip of amber colored liquid. He set the glass down and continued, “They didn’t stay here long and kept mostly to themselves. I can tell you this: they weren’t your average gang of young cowboys, full of piss and vinegar, looking to make a ruckus. I wasn’t sad to see them go.”

  Djara chewed the inside of her lip. She’d known Kody didn’t ride alone, but she wasn’t exactly expecting a full-fledged posse. Although her reason for stopping at T
iger Alley had been to narrow down a direction, at least now she knew what she was up against when she finally managed to cross his path. “Appreciate the information, Fletch.”

  “Do you know Johnny the Black?”

  Shaking her head, Djara answered, “Not personally.” Johnny the Black was a drifter who pledged allegiance to no gang. Most everyone in those parts knew of the black cowboy, yet few actually knew him and no one knew his story. Rumor was he’d been a runaway slave who’d killed his owner and fled West. His past was part of his mystery, and the local speculation added to the mystique of the tattooed cowboy who dressed all in black.

  Fletch rubbed his smooth chin. “The Black roams more than any man I know. If he doesn’t know Kody’s whereabouts firsthand, he’ll point you in the right direction—as long as you don’t piss him off,” he warned.

  Her hazel eyes flashed. “I can be charming—when I want to be.”

  “When you find him, tell him Stretch sent you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Djara smelled the smoke from the campfire before she ever saw its glow. Her nostrils flared slightly as she breathed the piquant odor that clung to the night air. Sharply honed instincts prickled the back of her neck. She was close, she felt it.

  “Whoa, boy.” She slowed her horse to a stop and dismounted. Wrapping the slack of the leather reins around her calloused hand, she led her horse away from the beaten path of the Oregon Trail.

  Once they’d walked far enough into the woods to prevent someone spotting them from the trail, she looped Tom Hickory’s reins on the low branch of a nearby spruce tree. Smack dab in the middle of the frontier, it was more’n a day’s ride to the nearest town. With that in mind, she side-eyed the reality of being separated from her horse. Not only were there renegade Indians and gangs of thieving outlaws to contend with, a mountain lion or bear could spook an otherwise loyal horse into a gallop, leaving her stranded until she tracked him down miles away…which could take days on foot.

  But despite the dangers of leaving her horse behind, the marble Appaloosa would make too much noise to travel undetected through the forest. Nope, there was no getting around it. She had no choice but to go it alone, so she reached for her canteen and tossed it in the bushes nearby. If she got back and Tom Hickory was gone, at least she wouldn’t be without water. Although some might consider Djara a pessimist, she didn’t give a damn what others thought. Pessimist or not, she was cautious. She’d been raised to prepare for contingencies, and the only difference between her and the men in the unmarked graves that littered the trail was preparation.

  Traveling deeper into the forest, she held her buckskin covered forearms in front of her face to prevent being scratched by limbs. With each step, her irritation grew. She hadn’t seen a sign of Johnny the Black since sundown yesterday. She’d been on his trail since just outside of Echo City, and her patience had long worn thin.

  The tracks she saw two days ago indicated he’d separated from the two men with whom he’d been traveling. Since she had no way of knowing if they had plans for a rendezvous later on down the trail, tonight was her night if she wanted to catch him alone. With the stealth of an Indian warrior, she crept. Placing her hand on the top of her hat, she ducked under a low-hanging limb. As she walked, she balanced her weight toward the toe of her boot, so that her boot heel wouldn’t crunch the twigs and leaves padding the ground.

  Blue flames flickered through the tree trunks. Djara’s eyes narrowed. She stalked closer to the campsite in the clearing up ahead and pushed the branches back for a better view.

  It was him.

  With his back to her, Johnny the Black was stretched out on his sleeping bag. The campfire beside him blazed, the reflection of its flames bouncing off his shiny head. A sawed off shotgun and his hat lay next to him.

  Djara made her move. The seductive figures of two Indian maidens danced in the smoke, but when they saw her approach, they dashed beneath the logs. Immediately, Johnny the Black dove across his sleeping bag for his gun. He was a quick draw, but not as quick as her. Too late, he was staring up the barrel of her revolver. “Don’t even blink.”

  “Djara,” he breathed.

  That a man of Johnny’s status had even heard of her was as surreal as stumbling onto a campsite of Indian magic. Before her eyes, the fear drained out of him. Apprehension was still there, so was curiosity, but not the frantic glaze to his eyes of a man who feared for his life. “Don’t test me,” she warned.

  “Not planning on it.” Johnny remained still. “But you aren’t here to kill me, so you might as well lower that gun. No reason in tiring out your arms for nothing.”

  Djara kicked his shotgun and sent it skidding a good twenty feet away. “What makes you so certain of that?” she challenged.

  “’Cause I’ve never done anything to warrant a bounty on my head, I reckon. At least nothing you wouldn’t have done if you were me.” His honest eyes held her stare. “I have a spare cup. Do you want coffee while you tell me who, or what, you’re looking for? Then I’ll decide whether I want to part with the information you obviously think I hold.”

  Djara knew she wasn’t in any danger from a man of the Nation, so she holstered her gun. “Yeah, I’ll take a cup if it’s hot.” She remained standing as he picked up his hat and placed it on his head. Then he rose and walked over to the campfire. She watched as he wrapped a cloth around the kettle and removed it from the makeshift spit. The flames of the fire blazed orange, and if Djara hadn’t seen similar apparitions before, she would have thought she’d imagined them. The trouble she’d had tracking him started to make sense. “Why’d you leave the Nation?” she asked.

  Johnny the Black walked back over to where she stood. “Exiled. You?” He poured the dark liquid into a cup and passed it to her.

  Her fingers closed around the warm tin cup. An uncommon punishment, exile was used only in the rarest of circumstances. His offense wasn’t her business, so she didn’t ask. She cleared her throat and explained, “The council decided that since I wasn’t a war captive, I should be allowed to rejoin my own people. I was raised by an old mountain man called Batshit Bill.”

  “Ol’ Batshit Bill, eh?” Johnny echoed with a reminiscent grin. “Been a spell since I saw him.”

  “You knew Bill?”

  “Everybody in these parts knew that old-timer.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I would hope so.” The low timbre in his chuckle was unexpectedly soothing. “He was as old as dirt when I knew him, and that was probably more’n fifteen years ago.”

  It had been eleven years since Bill had left her, and there wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t think about him. She’d grown to be as fond of that old man as she’d been of her own father, and in many ways her memories of him were clearer. She would have grieved for him terribly, had it not been for Eden. Like a spring buck in its first rut, Djara had been so wrapped up in that damn girl that she hadn’t been able to think of much else.

  She blinked, refocusing her attention back to the present. “I’m looking for Kody Lawless.”

  “What makes you think I know him?”

  With tattoos covering his face and his eyes shielded by the brim of his black hat, Johnny the Black was hard to read. “Fletch Erwin sent me your way.”

  Johnny didn’t answer right away, likely studying her for any signs of deception. After several long moments, he asked, “Mind if I ask what he did?” Phrased as a question, Djara interpreted it for what it was: an instruction.

  “He led a massacre over on Jones Creek,” she said. Slowly, she sipped the hot coffee. The acerbic flavor of the chicory root lingered in her mouth. “Killed over fifty of the village elders, women and children while the men were at a council meeting.”

  With a snort, Johnny shook his head in disgust. “Likely a staged council meeting.”

  “What makes you say that?” she wondered aloud.

  “Because that’s the government for you. Doing what it does best. Killing innocent peo
ple and padding the pockets of outlaws.” He sat down cross legged on his sleeping bag and propped his arms comfortably on his knees. “To answer your question, I haven’t seen Kody in a while. I rode with him a time or two when he was affiliated with Dawson’s gang. These days he stays farther north.”

  “Why is that, do you know?”

  “He’s gotten greedy. He and his gang went from robbing wagons to stage coaches. Now his sights are set on trains.”

  When Djara heard the new information, she cocked her brow. “Which train?”

  “I wouldn’t know because I turned the job down. I’m a drifter, not an outlaw. I work when I need to, but I’m not trying to get rich by taking what I didn’t earn.”

  With the advent of the railroad moving farther west and the success of bandits like Jesse James, a train heist wouldn’t be a far fetch for a man like Kody Lawless. “What can you tell me about how I can find him?”

  Johnny the Black inclined his head and looked straight at her. The flicker of campfire cast shadows on his cheek. “I can tell you that you won’t get to him. Sometimes as many as ten armed men ride with him. You won’t catch him alone, and you won’t get through them either. Not by yourself, least ways. Like Kody, most of his men lack morals. They shoot first and never get around to the question-asking part,” he warned.

  “Where’s their hideout?”

  “An old Catholic mission. I’ve only been there once. It’s set up like a fort to withstand an Indian attack with cannons, sharp shooter rifles, and crates of dynamite.”

  “Is that so?” Skeptical, Djara looked down the length of her nose at him and cocked her head to the side. “Fortifying a church into a fort took some smarts and a lot of planning. That seems out of character for a man who set up his last gang for an ambush.”