Chapter 1
Time: December 1867
Location: Jefferson, Texas
Trapper Hawkins rode into the settlement of Jefferson, Texas, at dusk, just as he had the day before. Late sunshine flickered off Big Cypress Bayou like diamonds on new-formed ice.
The wind was cold, promising rain that might change to snow by midnight. The temperature didn’t matter. He’d been cold to the bone so long he wasn’t sure he was alive. Now and then he thought if someone cut out his heart, he’d still function.
Memories drifted in his mind like sand on the wind. He’d been seventeen when he’d signed up to fight for his state, Tennessee, in a war he didn’t understand between states. But his three big brothers were excited to go, and Trapper didn’t want to be left home on the farm with his father.
The old man blamed Trapper for his mother’s death. His father never looked at his youngest and left Trapper’s raising to his older sons. One of his first memories was being locked out of the cabin for forgetting to do something. He’d been four and the night was cold. He lay on the ground without cover and pretended he didn’t feel the cold. Pretending became his first defense.
Trapper grinned to himself. His bad luck might have started at birth, but he chose to remember his childhood as easy, not the hard reality it had been. Maybe that was how he made it through the war. Maybe that was why playing the part of a gambler at night fitted him well. No one knew him, so he could be whoever he wanted to be.
As he moved down the main street of Jefferson, Trapper saw two soldiers walking toward him. The war had been over for two years, yet he still came to full alert when he saw Yankee blue.
He leaned forward, patting Midnight’s neck so the soldiers couldn’t see his face. “Easy now, boy,” he whispered as he had a thousand times during the war. The horse seemed to understand to remain still and not make a sound.
Trapper never wore a uniform in the war. He’d first been assigned as a dispatcher. He rode from camp to camp delivering messages. He was tall and lean at seventeen. Young enough, or maybe dumb enough, to think it fun to tease danger. He’d cross the lines, play the part of a farmer when he was questioned, and set traps so that anyone following him would be sorry.
Often the traps caught game, and as the war lingered on, the fresh meat was much needed. That was when the men began to call him Trapper. By the end of the war, he barely remembered his given name or the life he’d once had.
“Hello, mister,” one of the soldiers yelled, drawing Trapper’s attention. “Mind telling us why you’re out so late? Shouldn’t you be home having dinner?”
Trapper had no idea if this town had a curfew. When the soldiers came in after the war, they set all kinds of rules. Jailed people for pretty much any reason. Most of the Yankees were just doing their job, but a few, who came south to make a fortune, liked to cause trouble.
Trapper kept his hat low. Few could identify him from the war, but if someone did, he was a dead man. He’d been a spy many times. He’d traveled through northern states, picking up information. Men who crossed the lines were sometimes called gray shadows. They were the only Southerners not pardoned.
“I ain’t got no wife.” Trapper made a Southern accent drip from every word. “I’m heading to the saloon for my dinner. Heard it’s only two bits.”
One soldier moved closer. “Did you serve in the war?”
“I did.” Trapper straightened. “I was one of the cooks for General Lee. They call me Trapper ’cause I can trap a rat, roast it with onions and greens, and you’ll think you’re eating at your mother’s table.”
Both men laughed. “My mother never cooked rat,” one answered.
The other soldier waved him off.
Neither one questioned Trapper’s lie. He’d figured out the more elaborate the lie, the easier it was believed.
As he neared the saloon, he smiled. Maybe, if his luck held a few hours, he’d make enough money to buy a ticket on the westbound stage. Following the sun was his only goal.
When he’d gone home two years ago, he’d learned his brothers were dead, the farm had been sold for taxes, and his pa had disappeared. That night he’d slept in the trees near town and realized there was no home to go back to or memories to keep.
Trapper grew up during the war. All he’d learned was to fight, and he’d had enough of that for a lifetime. The only skill he’d developed was passing unnoticed through towns and open country. He could shoot and track any animal or man. He could live off the land, but he didn’t know how to live with people.
Ever since the South surrendered, he’d watched people, never getting too close to anyone. You make friends, they get to know your secrets, and then they’re not secrets anymore. In his case, one secret could end his life.
Saloons seemed to be the easiest place to find a cheap meal and disappear among strangers. He’d learned to play poker well during the war and followed three rules from the first day he walked into a saloon: One: Never step away from a table broke. Two: Never cheat. Three: Never sleep with one of the soiled doves who leaned on his shoulders from time to time.
They were the only women he met. A respectable woman wouldn’t talk to a drifter or a gambler. Which left him with no midnight life, even though he left the tables with money in his pocket.
As the months rolled by, he kept moving west until he finally crossed into Texas. Here, there was less of a stain on the earth from war. The people might be poor, but they were still dreaming, not like most he’d seen. Yankees and Rebels even talked over a drink now and then. Texas had more to worry about than scratching at old wounds. The state was still untamed, with most saloons little more than tents with dirt floors. If the storms and the rivers didn’t kill you, outlaws and Apaches would.
Folks said half the men who survived the war were broken, but it seemed the ones in Texas were also downright crazy.
Trapper thought there must be good people in the world—settlers, farmers, traders—but the men he saw at the gaming tables often had dead eyes. They’d given up on life even though they still walked the earth. Others had become hunters looking for their next prey, be it animal or man. But here, in the Lone Star State, he’d found dreamers. And dreamers will always take a chance on the turn of the cards.