whom are directly to blame for the existence of this book. Wild came about, for those not in the know, as the result of a Facebook post I made one night during my deployment to Qatar. I was ready to write something new, and offered readers the choice between a western/detective/horror story and something else. Western/detective/horror won by a decent margin. I really wish I could remember what the other idea was. Special thanks to everyone who came to see me during my 2010 book signings, and to the twenty-six lucky bastards that picked themselves up a copy of the limited-edition hardcover of this bad boy right here. Apologies to anyone I may have forgotten to mention; if you think that’s bad, imagine how the stories I’ve forgotten to write feel!
Until next time,
—L .
Augusta, Georgia
November 3rd, 2010
Part One
1886, El Paso, Texas
The knocking woke Matthias up; loud and impatient-sounding, it was. He kicked back his rough linen sheet and rolled over and out. Boy must have been standing out there for a minute, he thought as he reached for the door handle. Good to see he’s worked a bit of the shyness out after a week of running my wash water and coffee in the mornings.
“Sorry about the wait,” Matthias muttered as he opened the door. He squinted against the harsh El Paso sunrise. Instead of the baker’s boy, he lit upon a brightly-polished brass star, which bounced the light right into his eyes. It was pinned to the shirt of a tall and lanky man with freshly shaven cheeks and chin and a fierce, bristling mustache. Sheriff’s deputy, according to the engraving. Matthias took a step back into the healing dim of his small room.
“I really need to negotiate a discount on this place,” he said, motioning the deputy to join him. “Damned inhospitable of the man, keeping the western-facing rooms to himself. You’re not here with my hot water and coffee, are you?”
“No, can’t say that I am,” the deputy said, holding out his empty hands and sitting down in the rough-hewn chair beside Matthias’ bed. “Sorry about that, too. This would go over easier after a cup or two.”
“We’ll just have to go with the next best thing, then.” Matthias reached under a pile of clothes on the floor and dug up a half-full glass bottle. He tipped back a gulp of amber-colored liquid, coughed, and held the bottle out. The deputy waved it off.
“Too early, Mister Jacoby. I’m Deputy Kearney, by the way. Call me Kurt.” The deputy held out his hand.
“Seems like you already know me,” Matthias said, shaking Kearney’s hand. “Call me Matt.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Matt. It’s why I’m here, actually.”
Matt reached for his shirt and pulled two thick cigarettes and matches from the breast pocket. “Smoke?”
“Now that I will accept,” Kearney said, taking one of the cigarettes. Matt struck a match against his thumbnail, lit the deputy’s cigarette and then his own.
“So what do you think you know about me?”
“I know you solved the Holcomb train robbery after the local law gave the whole thing up,” Kearney said, “and you caught the fellas that robbed that bank in Chicago. No one really seems to know much else.”
“No one really needs to, either. I do a little bit of investigating because it’s exciting; fun. What wouldn’t be fun is someone trying to dig up something on me. Get my meaning?”
“I reckon I do,” Kearney replied. While he puffed on his cigarette, another knock came at the door. The deputy gestured toward it, and Matt nodded. Kearney reached behind him and opened the door. The baker’s boy stood there with a towel and washcloth and a large pan of hot water in which sat a tin carafe. Matt took the things from the boy, set them on the floor, dug a few coins out of his jeans and handed them over.
“Deputy, I know you didn’t just come over for a smoke and a chat, but could I meet you downstairs in about fifteen minutes?”
“Certainly,” Kearney said, and
Until next time,
—L .
Augusta, Georgia
November 3rd, 2010
Part One
1886, El Paso, Texas
The knocking woke Matthias up; loud and impatient-sounding, it was. He kicked back his rough linen sheet and rolled over and out. Boy must have been standing out there for a minute, he thought as he reached for the door handle. Good to see he’s worked a bit of the shyness out after a week of running my wash water and coffee in the mornings.
“Sorry about the wait,” Matthias muttered as he opened the door. He squinted against the harsh El Paso sunrise. Instead of the baker’s boy, he lit upon a brightly-polished brass star, which bounced the light right into his eyes. It was pinned to the shirt of a tall and lanky man with freshly shaven cheeks and chin and a fierce, bristling mustache. Sheriff’s deputy, according to the engraving. Matthias took a step back into the healing dim of his small room.
“I really need to negotiate a discount on this place,” he said, motioning the deputy to join him. “Damned inhospitable of the man, keeping the western-facing rooms to himself. You’re not here with my hot water and coffee, are you?”
“No, can’t say that I am,” the deputy said, holding out his empty hands and sitting down in the rough-hewn chair beside Matthias’ bed. “Sorry about that, too. This would go over easier after a cup or two.”
“We’ll just have to go with the next best thing, then.” Matthias reached under a pile of clothes on the floor and dug up a half-full glass bottle. He tipped back a gulp of amber-colored liquid, coughed, and held the bottle out. The deputy waved it off.
“Too early, Mister Jacoby. I’m Deputy Kearney, by the way. Call me Kurt.” The deputy held out his hand.
“Seems like you already know me,” Matthias said, shaking Kearney’s hand. “Call me Matt.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Matt. It’s why I’m here, actually.”
Matt reached for his shirt and pulled two thick cigarettes and matches from the breast pocket. “Smoke?”
“Now that I will accept,” Kearney said, taking one of the cigarettes. Matt struck a match against his thumbnail, lit the deputy’s cigarette and then his own.
“So what do you think you know about me?”
“I know you solved the Holcomb train robbery after the local law gave the whole thing up,” Kearney said, “and you caught the fellas that robbed that bank in Chicago. No one really seems to know much else.”
“No one really needs to, either. I do a little bit of investigating because it’s exciting; fun. What wouldn’t be fun is someone trying to dig up something on me. Get my meaning?”
“I reckon I do,” Kearney replied. While he puffed on his cigarette, another knock came at the door. The deputy gestured toward it, and Matt nodded. Kearney reached behind him and opened the door. The baker’s boy stood there with a towel and washcloth and a large pan of hot water in which sat a tin carafe. Matt took the things from the boy, set them on the floor, dug a few coins out of his jeans and handed them over.
“Deputy, I know you didn’t just come over for a smoke and a chat, but could I meet you downstairs in about fifteen minutes?”
“Certainly,” Kearney said, and
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