Keeper of the Books (Keeper of the Books, Book 1) (8 page)

“You promised to let me go,” Amos said. “You said you would let me go.”

Levi held out his arms. “Do you see the Cole brothers anywhere? That was the deal.”

Fresh tears welled up in Amos’ eyes. “Please,” he said, “I don’t want to hang. You’ve got the book we stole. All is right.”

“No, Amos, all is not right.” Levi reached for his revolving pistol and pulled back on the hammer as he pointed it at Amos’ chest toward his heart.
 

Amos shut his eyes tightly to brace himself.
 

“Now wait just a minute!” Marston’s voice sounded out from behind. “What do you think yer doin’?”

“Because of you,” Levi said softly, “an innocent bank teller is dead. You are a thief and a killer.”

“I didn’t kill him!”

“You were an accomplice,” Levi answered. “You would be hanged by any court. Believe me, by serving you justice, I present you mercy.”

Amos was sobbing now. “Please…”

Levi took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

Amos’ body fell limp as blood trickled out of his chest and onto the ground.
 

Levi turned quickly and set off another shot that sent a bullet though Marston’s wrist. The sheriff screamed in pain and dropped the gun with which he intended to shoot Levi.
 

It was instinct. He didn’t hear Marston go for his gun so much as he sensed it. He took several short steps forward.
 

“Yer gonna hang if you kill me,” Marston said.
 

“I doubt too many people will put up a fuss,” Levi answered. He cocked the pistol. “Sheriff Marston, you have abused your power as a lawman. Instead of keeping the peace, you destroy it. You promote lawlessness by your evil ways. You force women into prostitution, and drive fear into their husbands. You bully their children. You are not worthy to wear your badge. Do you deny it?”

Marston spat at Levi’s feet.
 

“Silence will be taken as a confession,” Levi said. “Do you deny your crimes?”

“What gives you the right to carry out justice?” Marston cried out, clutching his bloody wrist.

Levi could almost feel the heat of anger coming from him. Or was that the heat of the fire from the cabin?
 

“My line of work, Sheriff Marston, is all about justice.” He pointed the gun at Marston’s chest. He always aimed for the heart. “For your crimes, I sentence you to death.”

“Yer no judge,” Marston said. He grimaced as pain throbbed through his arm. “You ain’t got the right.”

“When there is no one else to do it, I don’t need a right.”
 

“You’ll hang fer this.”

“We’ll see.” With that, Levi pulled the trigger, and became the only living man in Northrup Valley.

He pulled the book from behind his belt and studied the binding as he walked away from the bodies of Amos and Marston. If disappearing was what he had to do in order to get to the Cole brothers, then that was what he was going to do. He’d been tracking them for a long time. He knew he couldn’t just stop.
 

There was no figuring what sort of mystic power this book carried within its pages. But one things was for sure, it was magical. Though he’d never believed in such things before, he was open-minded. Under the bright moon, Levi Thompson opened the book.
 

He was shocked at first to see the words move along the page as though an invisible author wrote without pause. As he read the words, he could feel himself being drawn to the book. This was it! This is what happened to the others. Levi knew he was about to be somewhere else—that he would be able to find the Cole brothers and their accomplices. He would bring them all to justice one way or another. Then, his mission would be complete.
 

The words on the page didn’t make a lot of sense to him, but he didn’t care. As the book pulled him into the world of Galamore, Levi smiled. Nathaniel Cole thought he had escaped.
 

He was dead wrong.
 

Autumn, 898 A.O.M.

Joe didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t remember much. He had dreamed about a book and a firefight. It had been a dream hadn’t it? There was no book. There was no bounty hunter. Joe was back at the university, right? Today he would take his final examinations. He was ill-prepared, but he would survive it. His mother was still dead, but he had his whole life ahead of him. His reclusive father was somewhere in the wilderness searching for gold. His outlaw brother was somewhere out West, living a life of shame and villainy. Joe would have no part of it. He was going to become a lawyer. He might even be a prosecutor and put people like Nate behind bars forever.
 

When Joe opened his eyes, a different story lay before him. There was smoke in the air from a fire burning nearby. It wasn’t a controlled fire either. Pockets of flames were everywhere, surrounding him. When he sat up from the ground, he was shocked by what he saw.
 

Bodies, dead bodies, scattered all about the field before him. He sat in the mud and noticed five or six dead men next to him. The one closest to him had his eyes open. There was a long gash from his neck all the way up to his ear. Dark, dried blood stuck to the grass next to him.
 

When Joe finally brought himself to his feet, all he could see was more carnage. The fire seemed to be the result of some massive artillery, judging by the holes in the ground beneath the flames.
 

Joe felt sick. A great battle had happened where He now stood. And not that long ago either. By the looks of it, most of these men hadn’t been dead for more than a couple of hours.
 

He reached down for his pistol and was glad to know it was still with him. He drew it, feeling a slight shake in his limbs, partly from the cold air that penetrated his thin shirt, and partly from fear of the unknown. In a battle, there was usually a winning side. That meant they wouldn’t be too far away. He just hoped the winners were friendly. He rubbed his fingers through his black hair. The jingle of his rowels made him wince and he bent down to take the spurs off his boots. When he was finished, he tossed them to the ground and moved at a steady pace.

He had been in the cabin. He had seen Tyler Montgomery disappear. Then, when the bounty hunter came closer, Joe opened the book. And now he was here. But where was here? Montgomery said something about the book being an entire world—a place called Galamore. Is that where he was? Is this where Stew and Ralph ended up? Would Nate have seen Joe open the book and then go through the pages himself? Would he have risked it? For all Joe knew, he was alone in this new world.

Joe continued to walk forward. The bodies on the ground unnerved him. He had seen dead men before, but nothing like this. Some were dismembered. Others lay in a pool of sticky blood. The most disconcerting of these were the soldiers whose eyes were still wide open. It made them seem alive even though they sat rigid. It was as if they wanted to cry out for help but the chains of death held them back. He had to keep his eyes fixed ahead of him, though he couldn’t see very far because of the smoke. The thick air was musty and he had to bring a hand to his face to try and suppress the smell of death.

As he already figured, there seemed to be two sides to this battle, mostly indicated by the dress of the people on the ground. One side wore thick uniforms mostly made of wool that had been dyed a dark red. There were some pistols and rifles. Some of the more decorated soldiers had carried swords. These, Joe figured, must have been the officers.
 

The other side seemed less put together. They didn’t wear uniforms. Some wore little more than rags. Their weapons were old and rusty. Sometimes Joe would see a body clutching to a sharp stick that had probably been used as a spear—useless against the guns and swords of the uniformed soldiers.
 

Joe’s heart nearly stopped when he heard movement ahead of him. All he could sense was dread even though it could mean rescue. By the looks of things, however, he doubted rescue was at hand. He reached for his pistol, ready to fire at anyone who looked like a possible threat. He only carried twenty-five cartridges on his belt and six in the pistol itself. He knew he could make every bullet count, but in a place like this, thirty-one bullets might not be enough.

His heart beat faster as the sound came closer. He finally determined that the sound was hooves on the ground. A lot of them. He feared that these might be the victors of the battle, maybe scouring the field for supplies or for survivors who needed to be killed. The smoke in the air was a good and bad thing, Joe decided. Good because those who might wish him harm couldn’t see him. Bad because he couldn’t see those who might wish him harm.
 

On the ground there was a large, white stallion dead on its side. Its rider was nowhere in sight. Only a brief moment of contemplation passed through Joe’s mind before he got on his hands and knees and crawled toward the dead animal. He rested his body against the beast’s belly between its legs, popping up every couple of seconds to try and get a glimpse of the oncoming group of riders. He was a sure shooter, but it wouldn’t matter if there were more than six of them. He would take some with him, but he would be dead in seconds.

As far as Joe could see it, he had three options: he could take the riders by surprise and maximize their casualties before they finally took him down; he could try and be diplomatic, hoping that they wouldn’t see him as a threat, possibly letting him go; he could lie against the horse’s stiff body and pretend he was dead, taking a chance that they wouldn’t notice him and just ride on past. Problem was, Joe didn’t wear any uniform like the one side. His clothes resembled the less organized soldiers. He wouldn’t be able to pass as a military soldier, and the other side probably wouldn’t recognize him.
 

The first option was out of the question. There were definitely more than six riders coming toward him. If he shot first, it would mean certain death. The second option seemed just as bad to Joe. Whoever was riding toward him would be on a high, ready to kill the enemy. If they didn’t recognize him, why would they keep him alive? The third option seemed best.
 

He set his head in the cold grass next to the horse and closed his eyes. His heart beat so fast it was difficult for him to slow his breathing. He knew when they got on top of him he’d have to hold his breath and keep still as long as he could. There was a chance they would ride on past.
 

When the sound of hooves came closer, Joe held his pistol close to his chest. He rested on his belly, hoping that his shallow breaths wouldn’t show. With the frigid wind and cold ground, it was hard to keep from shivering, but he knew he had to if he was going to survive the encounter.

The riders were just about on top of him, and to his dismay, the hooves slowed from a charging gallop to a slow trot. Joe dared to open one of his eyes, but all he could see was the dead horse in front of him. He quickly shut it again when voices called out above him.

“Got another one,” a man said.
 

“He’s dead,” another man came back.
 

“Ah, you never know,” the man said. “Boss said to bring back the ones that are alive. This one looks a little pink.”

Joe cursed himself. He should have planted his face in the dirt. The blood in his cheeks didn’t resemble the pale bleakness of death like the others on the ground.
 

“I know what the boss said,” the other man huffed.
 

Joe heard the man dismount and drop to the ground. The moment the man turned him over, he would know Joe was alive. There would be no getting around it. The footsteps came closer to him. His heart was pounding in his ears and his lungs felt like they might burst if he held his breath any longer.
 

“Hey,” the man said. “You alive?” The man kicked at Joe’s foot gently. A pause. “He ain’t alive.”

“Just roll him over,” the other man said.
 

Joe silently cursed. This was it. He was about to die. He saw no other way out of it. His thumb reached for the hammer on the pistol. At this point he didn’t care much about whether they saw him move. The man reached down and started to roll Joe over onto his back, but Joe didn’t waste any time. He immediately reached his left arm up and grabbed the surprised man by the collar and shoved him to the ground. In a flash, Joe was straddling the man, one hand gripping his clothes, the other holding a gun to his head.
 

“No!” the man yelled out. And he wasn’t the only man yelling. Joe heard shouts from all around him and when he looked up, he could see that he was surrounded by men on horses. These were the men who weren’t wearing uniforms. They all looked about like Joe, maybe a little rougher. He counted at least twenty—all of them fresh from battle and ready for a fight.
 

Joe kept his pistol pressed against the forehead of the man on the ground. “Ya’ll back away or I’ll kill him. All of you!”

The other man who had been leading the group raised a hand in the air to steady his men. Joe’s eyes darted from person to person, watching for any sudden movement.

“If you kill my friend here,” the man on the horse said, “you will die. Otherwise, we are meant to keep you alive.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

“Well, you’re obviously not a Renegade, but you don’t look military either.” The man studied Joe for a minute. “What are you, a scavenger? Were you looking for weapons to horde?”

Joe knew the truth wouldn’t make any sense to these people. He was in their world now, long gone from Texas. Joe wagered that these men had never even heard of Texas. The thought of him falling into a book and ending up on this battlefield wouldn’t make any sense to them. Not that it made much sense to Joe either.
 

“Doesn’t look like you even need weapons,” the man said, nodding at Joe’s pistol. “You’re either an agent of the president or a mercenary. I know all the faces of the Renegades and you ain’t one of them. The Warlord won’t like that.” He prodded his horse to move a step forward.