Читать книгу: «The Ballad Of Emma O'toole»
In the cold, dark silence of the room Emma could hear the slow cadence of Logan’s breathing. She lay still, teeth chattering.
“It’s warmer over here.”
Logan’s voice was like dark honey flowing over warm buttered flapjacks.
“I don’t trust you.”
“Now, that stings, Mrs Devereaux. Have I been anything less than a perfect gentleman?”
“Will you stop that ‘Mrs Devereaux’ talk? I know why you married me, and you know why I married you. Let’s just call this what it is and try not to get on each other’s nerves.”
“Suits me,” he said with a yawn. “But it’s still warmer on my side of the bed.” He shifted to clear a place for her. “Come here. I won’t bite you.”
The bed was awfully cold. Still shivering, Emma edged closer, until he reached out and pulled her gently into the curve of his body.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “We’re as innocent as two lambs. Now, go to sleep, Emma.”
But something was different, and she knew at once what it was. A man could say anything with his mouth. But one part of his body would always tell the truth.
AUTHOR NOTE
This is a ‘Book of My Heart’. In the years that passed between its beginning and its publication the story never left me, and I never gave up on it. Seeing it in print at last, and being able to share it with you, is a very personal joy.
Park City, Utah, is an hour’s drive from where I live. Cradled by the beautiful Wasatch Mountains, its history is as spectacular as its setting. My own pioneer great-great-grandfather directed the first settlement of the high valley—then known as Parley’s Park. Its progression from farming community to silver mining boom town, from crumbling backwater to world-class ski resort and home of the Sundance Film Festival, is a true American saga.
THE BALLAD OF EMMA O’TOOLE is set amid the silver boom of the 1880s that brought wealth-seekers from all over the world. Young Emma O’Toole is determined to make a better life for herself, but her beauty is offset by every possible strike against her. She’s orphaned, impoverished, and pregnant by a nineteen-year-old boy as poor as she is. Fate and tragedy intervene to thrust her into the reluctant arms of gambler Logan Devereaux, a cynical man with a dangerous past. Can such an unlikely pair find happiness together? I hope you’ll be cheering them on, as I was, all the way to the end of their story.
I offer you this book with a piece of my heart. Enjoy.
About the Author
ELIZABETH LANE has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at www.elizabethlaneauthor.com
Previous novels from this author:
In Mills & Boon® Historical Romance:
ANGELS IN THE SNOW(part of Stay for Christmas anthology)
HER DEAREST ENEMY
THE STRANGER
ON THE WINGS OF LOVE
HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE
THE BORROWED BRIDE
THE HAND-ME-DOWN BRIDE(part of Weddings Under a Western Sky anthology)
THE HOMECOMING(part of Cowboy Christmas anthology)
THE HORSEMAN’S BRIDE
THE LAWMAN’S VOW
And in Mills & Boon ® Desire ™ :
IN HIS BROTHER’S PLACE
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Ballad of Emma O’Toole
Elizabeth Lane
MILLS & BOON
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For Barbara, the little red car, the bad back, the handsome chiropractor, and the birth of this story.
Prologue
Park City, Utah Territory, April 1886
“Emma, wake up! Billy John’s been shot!”
The pounding on the lean-to at the back of the boardinghouse jarred Emma O’Toole awake. She jerked upright in the darkness, her heart slamming.
“Open the door!” She recognized the voice now. It was Eddie McCoy, one of the miners who bunked upstairs and took his meals in the dining room where she worked. But what was that he was saying about Billy John? Fear for her sweetheart had her scrambling off her thin straw mattress. She lifted the latch with shaking fingers. A blast of wind swept into the tiny space, almost ripping the door from her hand.
“You got to come now. He’s hit bad, askin’ for you.”
Emma was already jamming her bare feet into boots and reaching for a shawl to fling over her flannel nightgown. This had to be some kind of awful mistake. How could anything bad happen to Billy John Carter, the only boy who’d ever loved her?
“Where is he?” she managed to ask.
“Crystal Queen Saloon. Some slick gambler done it. Bastard claimed Billy John was cheatin’ at cards. Hurry!”
She followed Eddie, bracing into the wind as she stumbled through ruts where the lumbering ore wagons had passed. From the sprawl of Chinese huts in the gulch below, the rising odors of cabbage, soy vinegar and incense mingled in a sour stench that touched off ripples of nausea in her stomach.
Just that morning, she’d told Billy John she was with child. Kissing her, he’d promised to marry her the next day and make a home for her and their baby. Pretty words, but she’d seen the flash of desperation in his pale eyes. Supporting a wife and child would take money. And apart from the small pouch of silver he’d scratched out of his mountainside claim, Billy John scarcely had a cent to his name.
That would explain the card game. But when it came to gambling, Billy John was no better than a lamb asking to be fleeced. What an innocent! When she found him, she was going to give him such a piece of her mind…
Emma stumbled to her knees as cold reality struck home. The father of her unborn child could be dying. By now, he could even be dead.
The miner helped her stand. Looking ahead, she saw that they’d reached the upper end of Main Street. Even at this late hour, the saloons were teeming. With the discovery of silver in the hills above Park City, gamblers and shysters had come flocking like buzzards to a dead mule. Night and day they plied their sleazy trade, robbing honest men of their hard-earned treasure. And now one of them had shot her darling Billy John.
The Crystal Queen—a dingy gambling den, far less grand than its name—was in the second block. People swarmed around the door, craning their necks to see inside. Someone spotted Emma. A shout went up. “It’s his girl, Emma O’Toole! Let her through!”
She stumbled forward as the crowd gave way. In the smoky lamplight, she could make out something—no, someone—sprawled on the floor beneath a rumpled blanket. Long, thin legs. Worn, mud-caked boots. It could only be Billy John.
He lay white and still beneath the blanket, a rolled leather coat supporting his head. She hesitated, suddenly afraid. What if she’d come too late?
“He’s alive.” The low voice, a stranger’s, spoke from somewhere beyond her vision. “He waited for you. Go to him.”
Billy John’s eyelids fluttered open. His gray lips moved, shaping her name. She pressed his cold, limp hands to her cheeks.
“You dear, crazy fool!” she murmured. “What did you think you were doing trying to gamble together a fortune? Don’t you know we could have managed somehow, as long as we had each other?”
“Too late…” He coughed weakly. “You can have my share of the claim. You and the baby. These folks here will witness to it.”
“No! It’s not supposed to be this way! We had our whole lives ahead of us, and now—” Choked with sobs, her voice trailed off.
“Promise me somethin’, Em.” His fingers gripped her hand, their sudden strength hurting her.
“Anything,” she whispered, half-blinded by tears.
“The gambler…the bastard who shot me…see that the no-account pays for what he done.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll see to it somehow. Oh, Billy John, don’t die! You can’t—”
“Promise me!” His eyes were smoldering. “Swear it on your mother’s grave.” He’d started coughing again.
“I swear it…on my mother’s grave!” Emma battled the urge to throw back her head and scream her anguish into the smoke-filled room.
“Em…” The coughing had left him even weaker. She could feel him going slack against her. “Em, I’m so cold…”
“No!” She flung her arms around him, binding him to her. But she couldn’t hold his spirit. Even as she pressed him close, she felt it quiver and rise, leaving his young body lifeless in her embrace. Her head dropped to his chest, ears straining for the sound of his heart. But he was gone.
Slowly Emma became aware that the room was full of people. She felt their curious eyes on her, watching her like spectators at a show, and she knew that she had few friends in this place. There was no one she could lean on for support. Somehow she would have to get to her feet and walk out the door all on her own. But first she had a promise to keep.
Slowly she sat up. Her eyes found the marshal, a big, ruddy man she’d often seen in town.
“Are you all right, girl?” the marshal asked her.
Emma shook her head. Lifting the edge of the blanket, she tugged it over Billy John’s face to protect him from staring eyes. Then she turned on the crowd in sudden ferocity.
“Who did this?” she demanded. “Where’s the man who shot him?”
“Here.” The voice was the one she’d heard earlier, telling her that Billy John was still alive. It came from directly behind her, its tone soft but harsh, like velvet-cloaked flint.
Slowly she turned, forcing her gaze to travel upward, over the expensive calfskin boots and along the length of lean, muscular legs encased in fawn-colored merino trousers. Her eyes skimmed the masculine bulge at their apex, then darted to the polished belt and fine woolen vest. the clothes alone were probably worth enough to feed a poor family for a season. But the details of the gambler’s costume evaporated as Emma looked up to meet a pair of eyes as black as the infernal pit. His face was dark, rugged and, except for a faint, slanting scar across his left cheek, so handsome that he might have acquired that mark in exchange for his soul.
He stood coatless, his cravat askew and his white shirt speckled with blood. His eyes were laced with red, his black hair mussed and tumbled. He looked, Emma thought, as if he were standing on the brink of hell, about to be shoved into the flames.
“I shot your young man.” His voice was drained of emotion. “My name is Logan Devereaux. The last thing I wanted was to kill the boy. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” She flung the words at him. “Billy John was only nineteen years old! He never harmed a soul in his life! We were going to be married tomorrow. That’s the only reason he was here at all, to get money for us. Now he’s dead—and you’re sorry! You can go to hell and burn there, Mr. Devereaux!”
She stumbled to her feet, ready to fling herself on the stranger and do as much damage as possible before the crowd could drag her off, but the emptiness in his eyes stopped her like a wall. It was as if he was indifferent to any punishment she might inflict on him—as if she could set out to kill him, and he wouldn’t care.
She would have to find another way to hurt him.
She drew back into herself, gathering her strength. Then, abruptly, she wheeled toward the marshal. “Take this man away! Lock him up in your stoutest cell and, no matter what he tells you, don’t let him out!”
The marshal raised a shaggy eyebrow; then, with a shrug that implied he’d had the same idea all along, he unfastened the handcuffs from his belt and clicked them around the indifferent wrists of Logan Devereaux.
Only when he’d finished did Emma turn back to face the man who’d murdered Billy John. His bloodshot eyes met hers, mirroring Emma’s own helpless rage. His mouth twitched as he swallowed, then spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“You must believe me, Emma O’Toole. I never meant to—”
“No,” she snapped, determined that his words would not move her. “I don’t have to believe a single word you say. It was a foul and brutal thing you did, Mr. Devereaux. Whatever it takes, so help me, I won’t rest until I get my revenge!”
Chapter One
A frigid rain had moved in behind the wind, its patter a dirge in the darkness. Water drizzled off the eaves of the Crystal Queen where Emma huddled in the doorway, watching the undertaker’s cart haul Billy John away.
The saloon had shut down on the marshal’s orders, but the owner had grudgingly let Emma remain with the body. She’d kept her vigil until the very last.
By now it was well after midnight. Main Street was all but deserted. Raindrops froze in the wagon ruts, forming an icy glaze. Emma shivered, her arms wrapping her body as if to protect the child she carried. Despite the cold, she was reluctant to leave the saloon behind. The Crystal Queen was the last place she had seen Billy John alive. She couldn’t stay here, she reminded herself. She needed to get back to the boardinghouse.
Jerking her woolen shawl tight around her, she plunged into the downpour. Vi Clawson, her employer, prided herself in running a respectable place. When Vi learned about the baby, Emma was certain to lose her job. Then where would she go? She couldn’t think clearly enough to make a plan. Not when all of her thoughts kept returning to the tragedy that was just a few hours old.
A moan quivered in her throat as she relived the horror of Billy John’s death. She remembered his colorless lips, the strings of hair plastered against his white forehead. She remembered the light fading from his sweet blue eyes, the tension easing from his hands…
She willed the image away. She’d promised Billy John that Logan Devereaux would pay for his crime. Only when that was done would she feel any peace.
Like fire through a lens, she focused her fury on the handsome gambler. She imagined him drawing his pistol, taking time to aim at a vital spot. She pictured the coldness in those black eyes as he pulled the trigger, the glitter of triumph as Billy John crumpled to the floor.
The emotion that seethed inside her was as close to pure hatred as anything Emma had ever known.
Logan Devereaux was in jail tonight, where he belonged. His trial would be held within the next few days. She would be there when the judge found him guilty and sentenced him to death. She would be there to watch him hang.
And then, what in heaven’s name would she do?
The rain was falling harder than ever. As Emma stumbled along the slippery boardwalk, wet hair streaming in her face, a shadowy figure stepped from the lee of a doorway. She heard the sound of footsteps behind her. Then, like magic, an umbrella materialized above her head to shield her from the downpour.
“Allow me to see you home, Miss O’Toole.” The speaker had fallen into step beside her. Through the rain-streaked darkness, a short, stocky man with reddish hair and thick, square glasses took shape in Emma’s vision. “Hector Armitage of the Park Record. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
Emma shuddered, clutching the rain-soaked shawl to her body. “What do you think? Would you be all right?”
“Of course not. I think you’ve been through a very rough time, you poor girl. Here.” Balancing the umbrella, he shrugged out of his thick tweed jacket and draped it around her shivering shoulders. Emma huddled into the dry warmth, not caring, for the moment, that the fellow clearly wanted something in exchange for his kindness. She was cold and alone, and she needed someone—anyone—to be with her.
“I understand the young man who died was your sweetheart.”
“We were planning to be married. I’d never known Billy John to set foot in a gambling house before.” Emma’s anger exploded in a burst of anguish. “Oh, why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? If only he’d stayed away from that murdering gambler—”
“I assume you’re talking about Mr. Devereaux.”
“Logan Devereaux killed Billy John in cold blood, and I’ve vowed to see him punished for it!” Emma was walking fast now, her splashing boots punctuating her words. Let the newspaperman ask his questions. This was something she wanted the whole town to know.
“Are you sure about that? I understand your young man was cheating, and that after he was caught, he drew a gun.”
The revelation rocked Emma for an instant. Where on earth would he have gotten a gun? As far as she knew, Billy John had never fired one in his life. Then she remembered the rusted Colt .45 she’d seen in Billy John’s shack. There was no way that weapon could’ve been made to fire a bullet. “If he did have a gun, it would have been empty,” she declared. “Billy John wouldn’t have harmed a soul! And he wouldn’t have cheated, either!”
“Don’t be so sure. I talked with more than one witness who said your Billy John was indeed cheating. I was told—”
“No! I won’t hear it.” Emma wheeled to face him. “Billy John Carter is dead. I won’t stand for your speaking ill of him. Here!” She yanked the warm tweed jacket off her shoulders and flung it in his face. “Thank you for your offer of company, Mr. Armitage, but I prefer the rain!”
She thought he would turn back. Instead he kept pace with her angry strides, his umbrella still balanced above her head.
“My apologies, Miss O’Toole. I certainly didn’t mean to question your young man’s character. I only wondered if you were aware of what some people are saying.”
“Whatever they’re saying, the truth will come out in the trial. And I’ll be there to hear every word.”
“Don’t you have any family to support you?” Armitage asked in a sympathetic voice.
“My father died when I was twelve, my mother when I was sixteen. Since then the closest thing I’ve had to family was Billy John, and now—” Emotion choked back her words.
“I was told your mother worked in one of those houses on Silver Creek Road. Is that true?”
The nerve of the man! Emma’s temper began to seethe. “My mother was a decent, respectable woman, not a whore. The only work she did on Silver Creek Road was cooking and cleaning and scrubbing laundry to keep a roof over our heads. And she made me promise I’d never make my living up those stairs. I’ve kept that promise. I make an honest living, and someday I’m going to amount to something. Just you wait and see.”
They’d come to the top of Main Street, where the road cut around the hillside, skirting the gulch where the Chinese lived. The odors of joss sticks and human waste wafted upward, assailing Emma’s stomach.
“Just one more question, Miss O’Toole.” Hector Armitage’s voice cut through the droning rain. “Is it true that you’re expecting a child?”
Emma froze as if she’d just been knifed. Billy John had mentioned the baby where everyone in the Crystal Queen could hear. But that didn’t give a stranger the right to ask such an intimate question. Until now, she’d tolerated the reporter’s prying. But this time he’d gone too far.
“Did you hear me, Miss O’Toole? Is it true that—”
“I heard you, Mr. Armitage!” She whirled on him, indignation bursting like mortar fire in her head. “What kind of rotten, low-down, bloodsucking leech would ask a lady such a question?” Seizing the umbrella, she swung it at him like a club. “Get out of here, you little muckraker! Leave me alone!”
“Really, Miss O’Toole—” Armitage took one step backward, then another. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Balderdash!” Emma glanced a blow off his shoulder. “You planned this. You were waiting for me to walk home, and you knew just how to play me.”
Armitage staggered. Losing his balance, he pitched backward, slid down the muddy slope and crashed into a duck pen. As shrieks and Chinese curses joined the melee of squawking birds, Emma hurled the battered umbrella after him and fled. Her heart hammered her ribs as she plunged up the steep road.
Through the rain she could make out the weathered brown blur of the boardinghouse. With the last of her strength she mounted the steps and crept around to the lean-to where she sank onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. A sob escaped her constricted throat. She gulped it back. It wouldn’t do to break down. She had responsibilities and a promise to keep.
Once more Emma forced her mind to conjure up Logan Devereaux. She saw his face, the jet-black eyes, the golden skin, the bitter little quirk at the corner of his mouth as he confessed what he’d done. He’d claimed he was sorry. But the gambler’s emotionless gaze had made lies of his words. For all his show of regret, the man’s heart was surely as cold as a rattlesnake’s.
She could feel her anger welling again, its fire warming her chilled body. She would use that anger, she vowed. She would use its heat to fuel her, to keep her going despite her suffering, her loneliness and her humiliation.
Tomorrow, after her chores were done, she would go to the jail and confront the murdering villain again. She wanted to see how he looked after a night spent behind bars, contemplating his fate.
She wanted to see him in pain.
“Brung you some readin’, Devereaux.” Deputy Chase MacPherson’s mouth slid into a lopsided grin as he tossed the folded newspaper through the bars.
Logan let the paper land on the bunk, then ambled across the cell to pick it up. There was no hurry. Even before he opened the Record to the front page, he knew what he would see.
But he hadn’t anticipated how bad it would be.
Logan’s jaw tensed as he read down the page to the clumsily rendered drawing of Emma O’Toole. The reporter Hector Armitage had played up the dramatics of the story, ignoring most of the facts. The innocent youth, the black-hearted gambler, the bereft, pregnant sweetheart—hell, it was pure melodrama! Why hadn’t the slimy bastard mentioned that young Carter had been caught cheating or that he’d drawn a pistol and threatened to use it? Why hadn’t Armitage interviewed the men who’d seen the gun and heard those threats?
As Logan’s memory blundered once more through the nightmare of events, he saw himself bent over the dying youth, pillowing the boy’s head with his own jacket. He remembered the reporter’s freckled face thrusting into his vision, heard the annoying prattle of the man identifying himself and then pelting Logan with questions.
He’d sworn at Armitage and shoved him so hard that the little man had fallen against a spittoon and knocked it over. Only now did Logan realize what a dangerous enemy he’d made. With this story, it was clear that Hector Armitage was intent on turning the whole town against him.
“You got a visitor, gamblin’ man.” As the deputy sidled into view again, Logan’s heart convulsed with hope. It could be the lawyer he’d been demanding since dawn, or—
“Right purty thing she is, too,” the deputy added with a suggestive wink.
Logan sagged onto the bunk, his spirits blackening. He only knew one she in this miserable town, and it was a good bet she hadn’t come here to bring him chicken and dumplings. In fact, He couldn’t figure out why Emma O’Toole would come at all unless it was to vent more anger on him. He was sorry for her loss, but it was hard to feel much sympathy when her story in the newspaper was, without a doubt, turning the town against him. The young lady had him right where she wanted him, and the way things were going, she’d probably get her wish to see him hang.
Feigning indifference, Logan opened the newspaper to page two and pretended to read. He could hear the light tread of footsteps approaching his cell, but even as they stopped, he didn’t look up. Emma O’Toole had sworn to see him punished. He would show her how blasted little he cared.
“Mr. Devereaux.” Her voice quivered with defiance. Logan didn’t move.
“Hey, gambler, you got a lady friend here!” The deputy seized a bar of the door and shook it until the lock rattled. “If’n you don’t want her, I’ll be happy to—”
“All right.” Logan’s rapier glare cut him short. “I’ll speak with Miss O’Toole, but not with you hanging over her shoulder, MacPherson. Get out of here.”
“But the marshal said for me to—”
“Go on now, Mr. MacPherson.” Emma O’Toole’s voice was diamond-cool, diamondhard. “Your prisoner can hardly do me any harm when he’s locked behind bars.”
Do me any harm!
Logan bit back a curse. The woman was speaking as if he were some kind of wild animal who might leap out and have his way with her. Was that the next story she’d share with that little worm of a reporter?
But what did it matter? She was here. And this, he realized, was his chance to make sure that she finally heard him out. Emma O’Toole was not getting away until he’d told her the whole miserable story.
Logan stared down at the open newspaper, biding his time as the deputy’s footsteps faded away. In the stillness that remained, he could feel Emma O’Toole’s presence. He could feel her gaze like fire on his skin and hear her shallow, agitated breathing. Even without looking at her, Logan could sense how much she hated him.
He let the seconds tick past, stalling as he would in a card game, forcing her to wait. He was in charge now, and he wanted her to know it. Otherwise she might not listen.
And making her listen could make the difference between life and death.
Only when he sensed she was nearing the end of her patience did Logan untangle his feet, rise from the bunk and look directly at her. Even then, with so long to prepare for it, the sight of Emma O’Toole stopped his breath for an instant.
She was standing rigidly outside the cell, wearing an ugly, starched gray frock that had clearly been made for someone else. Her dark honey hair was pulled tightly back from her face, accentuating her bloodshot, blue-green eyes. She looked pale and drawn and haggard, but for all that, Logan couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Last night in the dimly lit saloon, his vision had caught little more than the flash of her anger. But now he knew that that exquisitely powerful face, with its tragic beauty, would haunt him to the end of his days.
Her lips parted as their eyes met. The awareness dawned on him that he’d slept in his clothes, that his heavy black whiskers needed a shave, and that the chamber pot under his bunk hadn’t been emptied since last night. He looked like a derelict and probably smelled worse, but there was little he could do about that now. The only important thing was that she hear what he had to say, and that she believe him. If there was a spark of understanding in her, and if he could touch it—
But this was no time to lower his guard, Logan reminded himself. The woman wanted him dead. She had said so to his face, and again in that cursed news article. The fact that she was young and vulnerable didn’t make her any less his enemy.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak. “I’m glad you came, Miss O’Toole. You and I need to get some facts straight.”
“Save your facts for the trial, Mr. Devereaux.” Emma’s attempt to sound haughty ended in a nervous quaver as the prisoner tensed. He looked like a caged wolf, she thought, wild and dark and dangerous. She’d come to watch him suffer, to fuel her own anger with his despair. But Logan Devereaux appeared neither cowed nor remorseful. His rage burned as hot as her own, leaping like black fire in his eyes.
“It seems the trial’s already begun,” he muttered, snatching up the newspaper from his bunk and crumpling it against the bars. “Have you read this? Have you seen what that lying little weasel of a reporter wrote about last night?”
Emma’s heart sank. Hector Armitage had wasted no time getting his story to press. As she took in the headline, part of her rejoiced in what seemed to be an open, public condemnation of what the gambler had done. But another part reeled with dismay. The article could expose all her secrets, leaving her open to the most vicious kind of scandal.
Devereaux was glowering at her, waiting for a reply. “No,” she declared. “I didn’t see the paper this morning. I came here straight from the boardinghouse.”
“Read it!” His fist shoved the crumpled paper through the bars. “Read this drivel. Then tell me how much of it you put into his head.”
“I didn’t put anything in his head!”
“Just read it.” His voice was a snarl. Emma pulled the paper flat, hands trembling, blurring the print. His searing black eyes fixed on her face as she read.
Young Man Murdered By Gambler—Sweetheart Vows Justice
A nineteen-year-old miner lost his life last night in a dispute over a game of fivecard draw. Billy John Carter, lately of Tennessee, had never set foot in a saloon before, but he needed money to marry his sweetheart and give their unborn babe a name. His only hope was the gaming tables and, to his ill fortune, he chose the Crystal Queen.
Today would have been Billy John Carter’s wedding day. Instead he lies cold and dead, most foully gunned down by Mr. Logan Devereaux, an itinerant gambler, who used a .22 Derringer to shoot young Carter in the chest at point-blank range when the young man accused him of cheating. Mr. Devereaux was arrested and taken to the Park City jail, where he awaits trial on the vile charge of murder.
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