Author: Tom Darby

The bar was dim, lit by the fading neon sign that buzzed in the window. Gus leaned on the bar, his gnarled hands tracing the rim of a glass that held no more than a quarter inch of whiskey.

The bartender, a stocky man with a face like a weathered boot, was wiping down the counter and glancing at the clock. “Closing up in ten, Gus,” the bartender grumbled. “You want another?”

Gus chuckled softly, a sound more like gravel sliding off a hill. “Another? Naw, Jim. I’d be nursing it till morning, and you’d have my hide for making you stay late.”

“Fair enough,” Jim muttered, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

Gus tipped his hat to the barkeep and slid off the stool with a stiffness that spoke of too many hard tumbles. He shuffled out the door. The cool night air hit his face as he stepped outside, the stars above winking down like they knew all his secrets.

He walked down the empty street, his boots scuffing against the boardwalk. The wind carried a faint scent of sagebrush and dust, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled—a sound that had once thrilled him but now only reminded him how far from the saddle he’d fallen.

“Gus?” a voice called out behind him.

He turned to see a young man leaning against a lamppost–a lopsided grin on his face. He wore a clean white button-up shirt and jeans that hadn’t seen a day’s work. His boots were polished, his hat near perfection.

“Donny,” Gus said, nodding in greeting. “What are you doing out this late? Ain’t you got a girl to be wooing or a dance to be at?”

“Just got back into town,” Donny said, pushing off the lamppost and stepping beside Gus. “Figured I’d find you where I usually do.”

Gus chuckled again. “You found me all right. Though I ain’t much of a sight these days. Just an old man trying to outdrink his regrets.”

Donny glanced at him, his grin fading. “You talk like your story’s all told. But I remember the stories you used to tell us boys when we’d sit around the fire. You were something, Gus. Rodeo champ, wrangler, the best damn bronc buster this side of the Rockies.”

Gus stopped walking and looked up at the stars, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his old coat. “That was a lifetime ago, Donny. These days, I’m just trying to figure out where a man goes when he’s too old for the saddle and too young for the grave.”

“You’re not as old as you think,” Donny said, his voice softer now. “And you’ve got more left in you than you give yourself credit for.”

Gus shook his head. “You’re kind to say so, but the truth is, the world’s moved on. Cowboys like me? We’re relics, reminders of a time that’s gone and ain’t coming back.”

They walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their boots. When they reached the edge of town, Gus stopped and turned to Donny.

“Thanks for walking with me, son. You take care now, you hear?”

“You too, Gus,” Donny said, hesitating before adding, “You ever need a place to go, you know where to find me.”

Gus tipped his hat. “Appreciate it.”

As Donny walked back into town, Gus stood there, staring at the open desert beyond the last streetlamp’s glow. The wind whispered through the cheat grass, and for a moment, he felt the pull of the wild again, the call of open spaces and endless horizons.

He took a deep breath, straightened his hat, and walked toward the hills.

It was a dreary Tuesday afternoon—so unremarkable that even the weather seemed too disinterested to participate. The sun barely peeked through the clouds, as if it too had pressing business elsewhere.

Inside Joe’s Discount Grocery, a beacon of mediocrity and freezer-burned ambition, Earl Thistlebottom was plotting the world’s least inspired criminal escapade.

The enterprising fellow, with pockets as empty as his ambitions, had his eye on a prize–Hot Pockets. And not just any Hot Pockets, mind you—he wanted the pepperoni ones.

“The filet mignon of microwavable cuisine,” Earl thought.

With all the stealth of a raccoon rooting through a trash can, Earl slid a couple of Hot Pockets into his jacket pockets. He thought himself quite clever, though the crinkling of plastic and the suspicious bulge in his coat might have tipped off anyone with functional eyes or ears.

Alas, the store clerk—a wiry, underpaid philosopher named Jim—was not one to let such petty larceny slide.

“Hey, buddy,” Jim called out, in a tone that suggested he was more annoyed than concerned, “You gonna pay for those, or are you auditioning for a prison talent show?”

Now, Earl was not one to think on his feet, as thinking was a task he reserved for special occasions. So, when cornered, he did what any self-respecting fool might do: he bluffed.

He jammed a hand into his pocket, where the suspicious outline of a poorly concealed Hot Pocket resembled, at least in the dim light of Earl’s imagination, a firearm.

“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll—I’ll…” Earl stammered, trying to sound menacing but managing only to sound like he was mid-sneeze. “I’ll shoot!”

Jim, unimpressed and mildly curious, took a step back. “Sure thing, Wyatt Earp. Enjoy your gourmet feast.”

Triumphant in his victory over law and order, Earl strutted out of the store like a peacock who’d stolen a bag of breadcrumbs. Unfortunately for Earl, the police department had little else to do that day, and soon, a squad car caught up with him as he sauntered down Main Street, humming what he believed to be the theme song from Cops.

“Stop right there!” an officer shouted through the loudspeaker, his voice crackling with authority. Earl froze, though not out of fear—it took him a moment to realize they were addressing him.

“What’s the problem, officers?” Earl asked, feigning innocence so poorly that even a toddler could have outperformed him.

“Get on the ground!” the officer barked, suggesting he wasn’t in the mood for debate.

“I will not!” Earl declared, puffing out his chest in a show of defiance that would have been more impressive if his coat wasn’t leaking condensation from the pilfered Hot Pockets.

The officers, understandably concerned that Earl might be armed, decided to employ the great equalizer of law enforcement–the Taser. One quick zap later, Earl crumpled to the ground like a poorly built Jenga tower, twitching and mumbling.

As the officers handcuffed Earl, one of them noticed a peculiar aroma wafting through the air.

“Do you smell that?” the officer asked his partner.

“Yeah,” the partner replied, leaning in for a closer sniff. “Smells…delicious?”

They opened Earl’s jacket to reveal the Hot Pockets, now perfectly cooked to golden-brown perfection thanks to the 50,000 volts of electricity Earl had just received.

“Well, I’ll be,” said the first officer. “Guess we solved the mystery of why they call them Hot Pockets.”

As Earl sat in the squad car, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of pride. Sure, he was going to jail, but at least he’d proven one thing–you don’t need a microwave to enjoy a warm meal—just a little ingenuity and a poorly timed encounter with law enforcement.

Lawsuit Ranger Saddles Up for Another Round

Nevada’s Attorney General, Aaron Ford, has again dusted off his lawsuit boots and joined the latest cavalry charge against Donald Trump. For the third time since the former president set foot in the White House, Ford has galloped into battle, waving his legal saber at the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE)—which, by the sound of it, could sound like a joke to the unwashed.

The ruckus began when Tesla overlord and intergalactic mischief-maker Elon Musk allegedly got his hands on the U.S. Treasury’s payment system. That’s the same system responsible for shuffling around $5 trillion a year and keeping Social Security checks flowing—an operation so delicate and precise that one can only imagine it runs on the finest government technology money could buy–in 1997.

According to reports, DOGE staffers and Musk gained access to this treasure trove of bank accounts and personal information, and the ever-vigilant guardian of Nevada’s good name, Ford, jumped into the fray faster than a lobbyist spotting an open bar.

Ford and his fellow lawsuit enthusiasts from at least 11 other states declared this an “unlawful, unprecedented, and unacceptable” breach. Strong words, indeed. Of course, those words could apply to any government operation, from the DMV to the fine art of Congress passing a budget.

Their joint statement wagged its legal finger, proclaiming that DOGE “has no authority” to root through America’s bank accounts and that Trump can’t just hand out private financial information like it’s a White House souvenir pen. Naturally, Ford is also continuing his busy schedule of lawsuits, recently challenging Trump’s executive order on newborn citizenship and his attempt to freeze federal grants.

If he keeps it up, the man might have to start billing the state by the hour.

In the end, whether Ford and his lawsuit posse can rein in the wild stallion of Treasury access remains to be seen. But one thing’s for sure—when there’s a lawsuit, you can count on Aaron Ford to be first in line, pen in hand, and righteous indignation at the ready.

Three Years Later, WCSO Still Stonewalling on Murder of Anna Marie Scott

RENO, Nev.—The first thing to know is that the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office (WCSO) wants your help. Yes, you—the good people of Northern Nevada—are being called upon to solve a murder. But expect zero information from the authorities because, three years later, they refuse to tell you a goddamn thing.

What we know: On a frigid January morning in 2022, the scorched husk of a vehicle sat smoldering on the I-580 overpass, somewhere between the neon sins of Reno and the bureaucratic tedium of Carson City. Inside the trunk, firefighters found what remained of 23-year-old Anna Marie Scott, a Paiute mother of two. Bullet wound. Homicide.

And then? Silence.

The WCSO clamped its jaws shut like a rabid dog. Not one press conference, never a timeline or public details on Scott’s final days or how long her body roasted in the trunk before someone bothered to look. Hell, they didn’t even confirm the car was hers—not even after Scott’s tribe came forward with that fact in July 2024.

For days, family and friends cried her name into the social media void while WCSO sat on their hands. It took four days—four days—before they even admitted Scott was dead. It took a month before they confirmed what everyone already knew: It was murder.

And what has the WCSO offered since? Nothing. Just the same tired refrain, “It’s an active investigation.”

Things have gone stranger. While Scott’s name languished in police purgatory, 18-year-old Naomi Irion was abducted in a Walmart parking lot just a few miles away. A case that, mind you, received wall-to-wall press coverage, multiple press conferences, and an aggressive search. Within weeks–Churchill County Sheriff deputies found her remains and her alleged killer captured.

Meanwhile, Scott’s case barely made the news.

Why? Is it because she was Indigenous? A young mother? A woman whose life—like so many others—could be swept under the blood-soaked rug of Nevada’s missing and murdered?

Senator Catherine Cortez Masto thought so. She brought Scott’s name to Congress in 2022 as yet another example of America’s ongoing genocide against Native women.

The American Indian Movement (AIM) held a prayer circle outside WCSO’s administration building, demanding action. And how did a sheriff’s deputy respond?

“What murders?”

I shit you not.

Let’s talk about the only public lead WCSO ever acknowledged–Jacori Shaw.

Shaw was 23. Same age as Scott. A Black man from Reno who, according to police, might have known something about her case. Not a suspect, just someone who “might have information.”

We’ll never know what that information was because, just one month after Scott’s murder, Shaw died in a shooting by police.

Here’s how it went down: Sparks PD claimed Shaw raised a gun at them, so an officer shot him dead. But body cam footage never showed a weapon.

A dozen cops combed the scene. No gun.

Later, some officers admitted they never saw the weapon. The only person who did was the officer who pulled the trigger.

And just like that, the only lead in Scott’s murder vanished.

Since then, WCSO has done jack shit to bring Scott’s killers to justice. They refuse to say if her case is “cold,” though records show they haven’t updated their cold case list since 2009.

Maybe in another decade, Scott’s name will finally find the light. For now, all we have is an ever-growing reward—$5,000 for any information on who killed her.

But tell me this: how is anyone supposed to help when WCSO won’t even tell us what we’re looking for? What kind of car should we remember? What movements should we recall? What missing pieces could we fill in when they refuse to give us the shape of the puzzle?

Anna Marie Scott burned in the trunk of a car on a Nevada highway, and three years later, the only thing colder than her case is the silence surrounding it.

CARSON CITY, Nev.—Joe Lombardo sits in the governor’s chair in Nevada. The trouble is, you wouldn’t know it unless you checked the stationery. He’s there, alright—hollow-eyed, pen in hand, signing vetoes like a bored substitute teacher crossing out wrong answers on a multiple-choice test.

But governing? That’s a different matter entirely.

See, Lombardo’s got a problem–a gnawing existential dilemma unsolvable with a veto stamp and a tough-guy scowl. The problem is that he is hopelessly, irretrievably out of step with the current political moment.

A Republican governor in a state with a Democratic Legislature is one thing, but a Republican governor not knowing what to do about it. That’s a tragicomic farce.

Once upon a time, men like Lombardo ran things with an iron fist—sheriff, lawman, the guy who told you to shut up and do so, but now boxed in, rendered politically impotent, a cautionary tale of a man who won an election but lost the plot. The GOP wants action, blood, scorched-earth politics. Instead, they got a governor whose signature move is a defeated shrug.

He is the perfect inverse of Donald Trump. If Trump is the patron saint of belligerent executive power—”I’ll do whatever I want, and no one can stop me”—then Lombardo is the ghostly echo: “I can’t do anything, and no one can make me.”

His great triumph? Not becoming entirely irrelevant by a razor-thin margin—a single vote in each chamber prevented a Democratic supermajority from turning him into a figurehead. But let’s not pretend he emerged victorious from some great battle.

It wasn’t a war fought in the trenches. It was a bureaucratic coin flip, saving Lombardo’s career from immediate irrelevance.

And so, he sits, a governor with no signature achievement, no grand legislative wins, no defining purpose beyond not being a Democrat. His veto messages read like someone composing a breakup text while half-asleep—rambling, noncommittal, and entirely unconvincing.

If vetoing bills is the height of his ambition, the least he could do is put some flair into it. It is politics, damn it, not a county clerk’s office.

Oh, but he has tried to do things. Badly. Catastrophically. Do we all remember the school choice debacle? The “Opportunity Scholarships” grift, where a shadowy out-of-state nonprofit pocketed the cash, leaving students in the lurch? That was Lombardo’s moment to shine, his big play to demonstrate leadership—and instead, it collapsed, like a Vegas casino demo job.

Now, desperate to prove he’s doing something, he turns to the budget screw-up. Perhaps a minor arithmetic disaster, but revealing in its sheer carelessness. They balance the damn budget. That’s the job. It ain’t optional. Screwing that up is like a firefighter forgetting how to use a hose.

Now we enter Scene Two of Act One of this plodding, uninspired administration. The Trump campaign looms like an incoming hurricane, and Lombardo will find himself needing to navigate Medicaid battles, school funding nightmares, and a political machine that expects him to deliver something.

He’ll be on the ballot this fall, asking Nevada’s voters for another four years of–whatever this is. And the only real question left is: What is the point?

There’s a smell in the air, the stench of cheap lies and expensive cover-ups, the kind of bureaucratic rot that festers in the sun-blasted halls of power where men in medals and pressed uniforms wash their hands of another casualty. Another soldier chewed up and spit out, left to rot in a desert of indifference.

And here we are, still pissed off.

Allison Bailey. Sergeant First Class. Seventeen years of service. Dead at 33. A casualty not of war but of the war machine itself—the kind that promises loyalty and brotherhood until you become an inconvenience.

The facts are bleak, but the pattern is familiar: A woman in uniform reports a sexual assault. The system turns on her. They call her a liar. They call her difficult. They dig through her past, poke at her mistakes, and paint her as the problem.

They strip her of dignity, rank, and resources, and when she drinks herself to death in a spiral of untreated trauma, they sigh and say, “What a tragedy,” while sweeping the debris under the rug.

And then there’s Major General Ondra Berry, retired in October 2024, former commander of the Nevada National Guard, once a Reno cop with allegations of hot tub escapades with underage girls floating in his past like a dead fish in a stagnant pond. The media sidesteps it, of course.

The same way they sidestep the Nevada National Guard’s well-oiled retaliation machine. In the same way, they sidestep the number of women like Bailey who, after coming forward, find themselves buried under the weight of accusations, investigations, and career-ending bullshit.

Bailey said she was drugged and raped by a subordinate in 2020. The Guard’s response? Assign her to evaluate the same bastard. She asked for a transfer. Instead, they turned the microscope on her, digging up every possible complaint, every whisper of insubordination, every note of perceived misconduct.

They assembled an army of “witnesses” against her—fifteen soldiers suddenly coming forward to say she was a bully, drank too much, and had “inappropriate” relationships. The Guard’s internal investigation labeled her “an extremely intelligent manipulator of persons.” And what a neat little trick that is—when a man gets accused of sexual assault, he’s misunderstood. But when a woman fights back, she’s a manipulator.

Bailey’s discharge happened in January 2023. No medical retirement. No benefits, no safety net, no insurance. Just a notice in the mail and a one-way ticket to oblivion. She had been broken down, branded as a disgrace, and left to fend for herself.

Two months later, she was dead.

Her two sons found her on the floor in pain, refusing medical attention because she had no insurance. She died on March 4, 2023, just another statistic in the long, gruesome ledger of military sexual trauma and systemic neglect.

And now, as her mother files a wrongful death lawsuit, the Nevada National Guard stands by their decision, hiding behind bureaucratic jargon and the hollow rhetoric of “tough situations” and “tragic circumstances.” Captain Emerson Marcus, their spokesman, recites the usual lines—Bailey had “a year to rehabilitate her career.” The accusations were credible. Due process followed. She didn’t testify. She didn’t defend herself.

But let’s call it what it is. It wasn’t justice. It was a crucifixion.

They knew what they were doing. When the National Guard Bureau found in September 2021 that Bailey’s sexual assault happened in the line of duty, the Nevada National Guard ignored it. They focused instead on their report—the one written by Major Michelle Tucay, a woman conveniently friendly with Bailey’s accused rapist—declaring that Bailey was a menace, a manipulator, a drunk. They dragged her name through the dirt, docked her pay, demoted her, and shoved her toward the exit.

She appealed. Nobody listened.

And so the cycle repeats. The Nevada National Guard will defend its decision, wrap itself in the flag, and insist that Bailey was an anomaly—just another soldier who “couldn’t handle it.” They’ll deny, deflect, and distract. Meanwhile, the ranks will close in around the next woman who dares to report an assault, whispering the same threats, making the same promises, ensuring that the next Allison Bailey learns her lesson: Speak up, and we will destroy you.

The lawsuit won’t bring Bailey back. But maybe, just maybe, it will rip the mask off the machine long enough for people to see the truth because this isn’t just a ‘tough situation’–it’s a goddamn disgrace.

RENO, Nev.—Here we go again, another spin on the flaming Tilt-A-Whirl of Nevada’s so-called justice system, where murder trials drag on longer than a bad acid trip. The ghost of Sierra Ceccarelli has been waiting eight long years for some reckoning, but the man accused of putting a bullet in her—one Paul Eikelberger—won’t stand still long enough for the law to finish its business.

It started back in 2018, when Eikelberger was first thrown in the clink, only to be let loose almost immediately thanks to some backroom legal entanglements involving his family and the Washoe County District Attorney Chris Hicks. Conflicts of interest, they called it—one of those bureaucratic black holes where justice and politics become indistinguishable.

Four years later, the law came knocking again. This time, 2022, and with a renewed sense of purpose. Trial dates got set, then scrapped. Then they were set again—like a goddamn carousel of judicial nonsense. Finally, Judge Kathleen Drakulich had enough. She looked the beast in the eye and declared, “No more continuances.”

March 31st—set in stone. Or maybe not.

Because now, like a well-timed punchline in a joke that nobody finds funny, Eikelberger’s lawyer, Kathryn Hickman, has tossed a new wrench into the machine. She claims she won’t be available for the trial and insists that swapping her out for another public defender would violate her client’s right to a fair trial. Eikelberger, in true desperado fashion, argues that if she can’t be there, the whole thing should get delayed again—indefinitely, if possible.

And so, the case wobbles on the edge of another godforsaken delay, now waiting for the Nevada Supreme Court to weigh in. Will they? Won’t they? Who the hell can say?

What is clear is that Ceccarelli’s family, after nearly a decade of waiting, might have to keep waiting. Justice in Nevada is a slow, lumbering beast, prone to naps and distractions, and there’s no telling when—or if—it will finally wake up and sink its teeth into this mess.

FERNLEY, NV—Dawn cracked as a cheap beer can over the bleak expanse of Lyon County, and by mid-morning, the long arm of the law had wrapped its bony fingers around one Johnny Lee Lawson, a 69-year-old relic of Fernley’s underbelly.

The charge? A full-throttle violation of Nevada’s strict sex offender registration laws—a bureaucratic noose that doesn’t loosen its grip once it’s around your neck.

The Lyon County Sheriff’s Office Sex Offender Task Force—an outfit fueled by equal parts civic duty and the insatiable bloodlust of small-town justice—had been eyeballing Lawson like a vulture over a sunbaked carcass. Their February 6 investigation nailed him as a Tier 3 sex offender who had, in some way, slipped through the cracks of his registration obligations.

Lawson, perhaps sensing the hammer coming down, didn’t make a run for it. Maybe he thought he could charm his way out of it, or he was too damn old and tired to care. Either way, the deputies slapped the cuffs on him and shuffled him off to the Lyon County Jail, where he now cools his heels under a felony charge.

The Sheriff’s Office, ever eager to keep the public informed–or, at the very least, entertained–reminded residents to report any shadowy figures skirting their registry obligations. If you’ve got a lead on some unsavory bastard giving the system the slip, drop a line to the Lyon County Sheriff’s Office Sex Offender Task Force at SOTF@lyon-county.org.

And just like that, another small-town saga winds its way through the wheels of justice—slow, relentless, and indifferent to the wreckage it leaves behind.

Somewhere in the bureaucratic underbelly of Lyon County, a new beast has emerged, slouching toward the public with an unsettling grin—“Live Better Lyon.”

It’s not just another half-hearted government initiative thrown together by well-meaning paper pushers. No, this is a full-throttle assault on the county’s rampant chaos, a desperate attempt to steer the ship away from the jagged rocks of oblivion.

Lyon County Human Services, the mad architects behind this endeavor, want you to believe that help is within reach—that there are resources to keep you from sliding off the edge. Traffic safety, senior services, mental health support—it’s all here, wrapped in the warm embrace of taxpayer-funded goodwill.

A noble cause, sure, but will it be enough? Can posters, window clings, and yard signs plastered across the county’s weary landscape convince the beleaguered masses that salvation is just a website away?

Fueled by public health funding from the almighty Senate Bill 118 of the 2023 Nevada Legislature, this operation claims to address the unique needs of a community that has seen its fair share of broken dreams and bad decisions. The real question is whether Lyon County’s citizens will take the bait or if this campaign will fade into the rearview mirror like so many well-intentioned crusades before it.

For those brave enough to believe, the gateway to a “better life” lies at LiveBetterLyon.org. But remember—hope is a dangerous thing.

Wagon trains rolling westward had their share of trouble—raids from the Paiute and Shoshone, broken axles, sudden storms that turned the plains into treacherous swamps, sickness creeping through the camp like a silent killer. But the group of settlers Caleb Macready was scouting for faced a problem of a different sort.

It had nothing to do with the land or the sky. It was a man, and he was lying to them.

Caleb had been guiding people west for years. He knew the trails, the mountains, the deserts, and the rivers like the back of his hand.

He’d seen men make it to California, and he’d seen them turn back, broken and worn, cursing the land they’d tried to tame. He’d promised himself long ago not to let anyone under his watch wander off course. So when he first heard the whispers about the southern route, he knew something wasn’t right.

It had started with Eli Ransom, a man with a face as sharp as a cactus thorn and eyes glittering like they held secrets better left untold. He had arrived a few days earlier, traveling alone with nothing but his black mare and a saddlebag that looked too full for a man with so little. He’d come to the camp under the guise of a friendly traveler, offering advice and tales of the roads ahead.

“You’ve got a long way to go, Macready,” he’d said to Caleb one morning as they both stood watching the wagons settle in for the night. “And if you’re smart, you’ll take the southern route. It’ll save you time and effort, I guarantee it.”

Caleb had studied the man closely. There was something about Ransom that didn’t sit right. He wasn’t a local, and his story about traveling the southern routes didn’t add up. Caleb’s instincts told him to trust the land, not the words of a stranger.

“Save us time?” Caleb had raised an eyebrow. “You must be mistaken, Ransom. The southern route leads straight into the desert, and I’d sooner ride a rattler’s back than take my people through that hellhole.”

Ransom had smiled, slow and smooth, like a snake about to strike. “It’s not as bad as you think. I’ve traveled it myself, and it’s a good road. You can’t let a little dust and heat scare you off. There’s a good stretch of land halfway through, where the water’s deep and the grass is high. I’ll show you the way, if you’re willing to listen.”

Caleb had only shaken his head, but Ransom’s words had already started to take root in the minds of the settlers. They’d gathered around him like moths to a flame.

Annabelle Vickers, her husband Thomas, and several others became enchanted by the stranger’s charm and the gleam of his black mare. They were tired of the long journey, worn thin by the endless miles, and Ransom’s promises of a path easier were like the siren’s song to their weary souls.

“Caleb, I think we should go with him,” Annabelle had said, her voice soft but firm. “He knows a shortcut, and we could use a break. The southern route sounds good.”

“Annabelle, you’re talkin’ like a fool,” Caleb had replied, his voice sharp. “You’re letting that smooth talker fill your head with lies. I’ve seen men go down that path, and I’ve seen what it does to ’em. It’s a death sentence. If you follow him, you’ll be gambling with your life.”

But she was already looking past him, her eyes fixed on Ransom and his horse like she couldn’t hear the warning in Caleb’s words. “You don’t understand,” she’d said, her face set. “We can’t keep going this way. We need a new direction, Caleb. I think Eli’s offering us just that.”

Caleb had clenched his fists, watching the settlers gather their things, the murmurs growing louder with each passing minute. Even Thomas Vickers, usually a man of quiet resolve, was nodding along to Ransom’s words. He’d seen people follow the man like lambs to the slaughter. It made his blood boil.

“Don’t you see what he’s doing?” Caleb muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “He’s leading you straight into the desert, into those alkali flats. You’ll never survive it.”

He turned to Ransom, his voice low but firm. “I’ve traveled these lands longer than you’ve been alive, and I know where those trails lead. You’ve got a slick tongue, but that’s not enough to fool me. I’m not letting you take these people to their deaths.”

Ransom didn’t flinch. He just smiled, that same unnerving smile. “You’ve got a lot of pride, Macready. But pride won’t keep you alive out here.”
Caleb stood his ground, his hand resting on the butt of his rifle. “You’re not foolin’ me. If you think you’re going to lead these folks off track, you’re wrong. They’ll follow you into the desert, and they won’t even know they’ve been had until it’s too late.”

Annabelle stepped forward, her face set in a determined expression. “We’re going, Caleb. You can either lead us or you can stay behind. But we’re following Eli.”

Caleb watched as the group turned away from him and moved to join Ransom. His stomach churned, a knot tightening in his gut.

He could see how the stranger’s promises had them. But he wouldn’t let them wander off into that hellish landscape without a fight. He mounted his horse and rode hard, catching up with the group as they moved down the southern trail.

“You’ll regret this,” Caleb shouted to them, his voice raw with frustration. “I’ll never stop following you. I’ll bring you back before it’s too late.”

But Ransom just turned in the saddle, his smile wide and knowing. “You’re welcome to try, Macready. But you’ll see, this is the best way. You’ll all thank me when we’re on the other side.”

Caleb knew better. He’d seen the kind of men who led people to ruin.

Ransom was one of them. And as the wagons rolled on, Caleb rode behind them, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He wasn’t going to stop until he saw the truth. He couldn’t.

Because he had a feeling that the southern route wasn’t just a detour but a trap, but by the time they figured that out, it would be too late.

The southern trail was worse than Caleb Macready had feared. Days turned to weeks as the settlers trudged into the arid expanse.

The trail grew harsher, the heat more unforgiving. Water was scarce, and when they did find it, it was brackish and foul. The promised lush land that Eli Ransom had spoken of never appeared, and Caleb’s warnings began to haunt the remaining settlers.

The wheels of the wagons groaned like dying animals as the sand clogged their axles. Horses collapsed in the relentless heat, and the settlers grew gaunt and hollow-eyed.

Caleb had kept his distance, watching as Ransom’s true colors began to show. He saw the stranger’s charm sour into cruelty, his smooth words turning to sharp orders.

Caleb confronted him one night as the settlers huddled around a meager campfire. “We’re done here, Ransom,” Caleb said, his voice as firm as the iron barrel of the rifle in his hands. “You’ve led these people to the brink, and I’m taking them back to the Humboldt Trail.”

Ransom laughed, his voice a cold, bitter thing that cut through the silence of the desert night. “Back? There’s no going back, Macready. You think you can lead them out of here alive? They’ll never make it. They’re better off trusting me.”

“You mean trusting you to finish the job?” Caleb shot back. “I’ve seen your kind before. You never meant to get these people west. You’re steering them straight into their graves.”

Ransom’s smile was gone, his hand dropping casually to the pistol at his hip. “Careful, Macready. You’re talkin’ dangerous.”

“So are you,” Caleb said, stepping closer, his voice low. “And I’ll bet you didn’t come out here alone. How many men you got waiting for us, Ransom? Five? Ten? Or just enough to pick us clean once the wagons are stuck?”

Ransom’s expression flickered for a moment, but it was enough. Caleb’s gut had been right. It wasn’t about the southern route. It was about greed.

The attack came at dawn.

The first shouts woke Caleb from a restless sleep. He rolled from his bedroll, rifle in hand, as gunfire erupted from the edge of the camp.

Shadows moved through the pale morning light, men dressed in crude attempts at Indian war paint whooping and hollering as they fired on the wagons.

“To the wagons!” Caleb shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Circle the wagons!”

The settlers scrambled, fear and desperation driving them as they tried to defend themselves. Caleb’s rifle cracked as he dropped one of the raiders, then another.

He caught a glimpse of Ransom in the distance, barking orders as his so-called “Indians” wreaked havoc on the camp.

When the fighting was over, bodies littered the ground. The settlers had managed to kill or drive off most of the raiders at a terrible cost.

Nearly half of the wagon train was gone—men, women, and children alike.
Caleb found Ransom on the camp’s edge, saddling his black mare as if he could ride away from the carnage.

“Ransom!” Caleb’s voice was a thunderclap, and the outlaw froze.

He turned slowly, his hand hovering near his pistol. “You don’t want to do this, Macready,” he said, his voice slick with false calm. “It’s not my fault they didn’t make it. That’s the way of the trail. Some live, some die. You know that.”

“You’re right,” Caleb said, his rifle trained on Ransom’s chest. “But this ain’t the trail’s fault. This is yours. You brought this on them. And now it’s your turn to pay.”

Ransom went for his gun, but Caleb was faster. His shot cracked through the air, and Ransom staggered, clutching his chest. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide with shock as blood darkened his shirt.

“You… you’re no better than me,” Ransom rasped, his voice fading as he collapsed.

Caleb stood over him, his rifle still in his hands. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But at least I’ll die with a clean conscience.”

With Ransom dead and the raiders scattered, Caleb took charge of the remaining wagon train. He led them back to the Humboldt Trail, the journey slow and grueling as they struggled to survive on what little they had left. Not all of them made it, but those who did were indebted to Caleb’s determination.

When they reached the green valleys of California, Caleb didn’t stay. The land held no promise for him, not after what he’d seen and done.

He turned his horse eastward, back toward the frontier, where men like Eli Ransom were still out there, waiting to prey on the weak. And Caleb Macready had no intention of letting them.