Blood Legacy (A Tony Masero Western)

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  Boston attorney Zack Endeavor was set for life. He had a beautiful heiress as his fiancé and a blossoming law practice in the city. Everything held promise for him in the affluent times known as ‘the Gilded Age’.

  But all that changed when a mysterious armed visitor came calling with reminders of his time in the hellhole of Libby Prison. They were harsh experiences that Zack would rather forget, but his caller urged him to take a trip back down the dark road of those memories.

  Forced to leave the genteel comforts of Boston, he is compelled to take the dangerous journey across country to the harsher environs of the Texas frontier. It’s a risky expedition and even the help of a tough gunman and his two partners wouldn’t keep the dangers at bay. Every step of his journey Zack faces murderous menace from an unseen enemy. It is an enemy so secret and powerful that it threatens to overthrow the pillars of government and strike at the very heart of the country’s democracy.

  Zack must rediscover old skills and resurrect the hardest repressed part of his soul if he is to survive and save the woman he loves.

  BLOOD LEGACY

  By Tony Masero

  First published by Hand Painted Books under the title Blood Legacy from Rat Hell

  Copyright © 2015 by Tony Masero

  Cover Copyright © 2015 by Tony Masero

  First Kindle Edition: December 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Visit Tony here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  ‘Millionaires are a product of natural selection’

  Yale Professor William Graham Sumner 1840 - 1910

  ‘Godliness is in league with riches’

  William Lawrence 1850 - 1941

  7th Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Boston - 1876

  Although the war was long over, Zachary Endeavor could not yet get it out of his mind.

  He brooded on it as he sat behind his desk and felt the despair of such memories beginning to rear their head again and he attempted to wrench his mind away from such dire thoughts before they destroyed the sense of wellbeing encouraged by his recent success in court.

  It was there always, like a dark eleven-year-old shadow, kept in an attic room where no one may go save himself. It was true, there were none, except maybe those that had been there and could communicate the despair it originated.

  It had frosted his dark hair gray at the temples and put a look of more years on him than he cared for but at least that worked for him in his profession, it gave him a distinguished look that many of his clients seemed to admire.

  Out amongst normal society he knew he could tell the tale, replay the action in the same way as it was safely illustrated in broadsheets and books, with bugles bravely blowing and battle flags never allowed to fall. He felt bad about the lies but how could one allow those fanciful journalistic embroideries to be dismembered before the admiring glances of non-combatants that had never experienced the reality? Those that had not known the companionship, the brotherly communion amongst men to whom violent death was a close and constant partner. He sensed he would never be able to demonstrate the actuality in a few brief words and was unable to speak aloud the things he had seen before an audience of attentive listeners, people of fine sensibilities that had not experienced the clawing hold of a shattered man’s hand and then wept openly at his passing. Perhaps a wounded and dying stranger whom, in only a few terrible minutes became a friend as if known from childhood. It was an impossibility to explain even to his loved ones. In fact, especially to his loved ones.

  Perversely, in an almost defiant manner, there were the few reminders he kept in his office on a library shelf lest, in the unlikely event, he should forget.

  His saber sheathed in its now dull, metal scabbard, the leather belt strap, growing green with its coat of mold, a problem he should really address. His old cavalry hat, sweat-stained and worn around the brim, its braided brass hat band and the crossed-saber badge with the number fourteen above, all now green with verdigris. And a section of torn battle flag, not from his war, it is true, but from that of his grandfather’s who had fought in the Revolutionary conflict, being one of the Minutemen who battled at North Bridge to keep this city of Boston safe.

  He sat alone in his office, his gaze roving away from the mementos to stare vaguely out of the window over the rooftops of the city beyond. It was a fine office as befitted his position as an attorney of standing. The windows were tall and elegant, their delicately sectioned panels of good glass looking out across the city with a fine view down to the harbor where fleets of steam and sailing vessels plied and were often a source of distraction, such as on this day.

  Leather bound legal tomes lined the walls and the bespoke furniture was of polished dark mahogany. These fittings, sharing space with the worthy volumes created an impressively sedate atmosphere of studious learning. Combined with the rich odor of beeswax from the woodwork the room had a calm monastic aura akin to that of a church, with the law as its high altar. It was a well lit room, thanks to the high windows and with the addition of an English wool carpet, a gift of his fiancé, Isabel, in all it was a comfortable place in which Zack enjoyed to spend his working day.

  He had attended Harvard College before the war and subsequently spent time at the new Boston University Law School where he had received his LL.B after which, within a year he had been accepted to the Suffolk County Bar. Since then he had maintained a steady climb in the courts, handling cases both difficult and simple with an adroit intelligence until he was presently accepted as one of the finest young upcoming attorneys in the city. At forty-six years of age and with his prospective, but now sadly, late father-in-law’s financial help he had been able to finally start up his own firm.

  ~*~

  There was a gentle knock on the door, a careful call for attention that distracted Zack’s musings and he recognized that it was the tentative approach his loyal clerk Williams would make.

  “There is an envoy here to see you, sir,” said Williams, in his normal low, if rather obsequious tone.

  “An envoy! That sounds ominous. And who is this messenger?”

  “A Mister Caleb Smith, sir. He says it is a matter of grave importance but will say no more on the matter save to your good self.”

  “Really?” Zack raised his eyebrows, his interest piqued. Anything would do to divert him now. Not only from his gloomy thoughts but he was also winding down after a long and seemingly interminable defense of a difficult murder case in East Boston.

  The brutal murder had been in the news for weeks and involved the particularly unpleasant killing of a young, and rather pretty woman. The matter had captured the public attention and brought a great deal of u
nworthy pretrial condemnation of his client. Despite the apparent overwhelming guilt of the accused Zack had managed to prove without doubt that the three gold rings the accused exchanged for liquor in a bar in Salem had not in fact belonged to the murdered woman but were left to his client by a recently deceased aunt in far off Europe. So now, apart from a languid attempt to write a rather long and boring law review on the subject of privacy, his docket was empty.

  “Please, bring him in,” he told Williams.

  Mister Smith was a well-dressed man, although he was soberly clothed entirely in black and the color did little to enliven his pale and cautious countenance. A small individual and slender, his facial features tightly drawn and the skin close to the bone underneath giving him an almost skull-like appearance. He entered a few paces and stood a moment, quite self-contained whilst he looked around the room. He took his time until he had circumnavigated the office completely and his eyes rotated to finally fix on Zack, who had risen from his desk.

  “Mister Smith,” said Zack, holding out a welcoming hand. “Pray come in. Will you take a seat? I am Zachary Endeavor.”

  Smith’s eyes were deep set and so dark in color that they appeared to be as black as the long drape jacket he wore. They bored into Zack with an intensity that left him feeling slightly uncomfortable as if the inspection of his room had included him with an equally critical hawkishness. As his caller undid the top button and allowed his jacket to fall open before taking the offered chair, the strap that became visible across the man’s vest indicated that he was armed and bore a holstered weapon under his armpit.

  Zack pursed his lip at sight of the firearm and tilted his head curiously as his visitor seated himself.

  “Thank you for your time, Mister Endeavor.” The voice was low; almost a whisper as if often used to speaking in confidence but even so there was a firm undertow of resolve that came through.

  “How can I help, Mister Smith?”

  “We are, I trust, in complete privacy here?” his visitor asked, carefully pulling at his trouser leg and slowly crossing one leg over the other to reveal a highly polished elastic-sided ankle boot.

  Zack nodded affirmation, “Of course, unless you wish my secretary to take notes?”

  Mister Smith shook his head. “Indeed no. Nothing of what I will say must be repeated elsewhere and none must know of our meeting.”

  “I see, may I ask the nature of this matter? I see you are armed sir, and ask for complete secrecy. Should I be concerned?”

  The gaunt face creased into a tight smile. “No, sir. No indeed,” he patted the bulge under his jacket. “A necessary item, I fear. I am a representative of our government and bear arms in defense of our liberties and that is all, I assure you.”

  “Very well, Mister Smith. Then to your business?”

  “First. May I ask, Mister Endeavor, if you are a loyal subject of our country and that you have no affiliations with any secret societies or are involved in any subversive activities against these United States?”

  “Save membership of the bar and a reserved dinner seat at the Union Club in Boston, I have none.”

  “You are engaged to be married I believe, to mistress Isabel Eleanor Columbine, the daughter of the late General Leeward Columbine, is that not so?”

  “I am indeed,” said Zack, becoming a little irritated by the personal questions. “May I ask if you have some means of identification as to this government agency you speak of?”

  The same brief smile followed the question. “You think I intrude. I apologize, Mister Endeavor, but my queries are intended not to cause offense merely to ascertain you are, as we believe you to be, an upright citizen loyal to the Union. My credentials, I fear, must remain anonymous. Our agency is secret and answers directly to the President, to whom we owe all allegiance.”

  The Secret Service. So that was whom this shady creature represented.

  “Then you should know, Mister Smith. That I have served my country as well as I may in the past and continue to do so to the best of my abilities.”

  “We are aware of your past record as an officer with the cavalry during the late war. Most able and without blemish.”

  “So, if I pass muster, why are you here?”

  “You will remember perhaps, a colleague from those days, Brigadier Colonel James Van Olen?”

  A young face flashed into Zack’s mind at mention of the name. A lock of hair falling across a brow smudged by dirt, pale and frightened in the candle light as trickles of falling earth ran down in rivulets around it.

  “Of course,” he said. “We have lost touch many years since but I remember James well enough.”

  “It is about Mister Van Olen that I am come to see you.”

  “I see. Is James in some kind of legal trouble?”

  “Not quite, sir.”

  “Then what may I ask?”

  Smith drew a deep breath; he turned his head sharply to one side and looked out of the window. “A good view,” he observed.

  Zack could see that under his apparent outward show of confidence the man was playing for time and wondering how to approach him, how to best, he supposed, to handle what was to be said.

  “Always difficult,” Smith murmured vaguely. “With old comrades.”

  “It is better, I always find, Mister Smith,” Zack supplied calmly, in a professional attempt to ease the man. “If one starts at the beginning.”

  “So true,” said Smith, turning back to face him in an abrupt and businesslike fashion. “Perhaps then you will recall the time after you were taken prisoner at Port Hudson. It might be that once that is in your mind we might progress.”

  Zack’s heart sunk as he approached that darkened attic door and then as if the floodgates had been opened and been given permission to fill his mind again, the repressed and bloody memories flooded in.

  Chapter Two

  Libby Prison - 1863

  Major McCann looked over the top of his wire-rim spectacles and glanced at the young Union captain who was trying to read a well-used three-day-old Richmond Examiner by the weak light from a barred and dirty window.

  “Best not stand there, Captain,” said the major.

  “Sir?” asked the officer, looking up from his newspaper.

  “Johnny Reb is prone to use our heads for target practice if we give him the opportunity,” he took the pipe from between his lips and pointed the stem at a bullet hole in the glass of the next window along.

  “Really?” said the captain, in a tone of disbelief.

  “Indeed, sir,” McCann went on. “A certain Captain Forsythe of the 10th Ohio received a ball in the brain not many weeks past doing as you do now. As clean a shot through the glass as you’ll ever see. Killed the poor fellow instantly.”

  “You don’t say!” exclaimed the captain, moving away quickly from the window. “I’m obliged for the advice, Major.”

  “Think nothing of it.” The major returned his pipe between his teeth and sucked noisily on the empty bowl. “Wouldn’t have a twist of tobacco about you, would you?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry I don’t.” The captain folded the tattered broadsheet and crossed over to where the major sat leaning his back against the wall. “I’m Zachary Endeavor, late of the 14th New York Cavalry,” he said, introducing himself as the major looked him over.

  Zack, at thirty-five, was a tall man of slender, wiry form with dark hair and sideburns that reached fashionably low on his jaw. His shoulders were broad for his build and his features those of a not unhandsome face. Blue-eyed with heavy eyebrows and tanned skin evident above the neck of his uniform, whilst a somewhat sober expression implied a nature of determined character. He wore a stained and dusty brass-buttoned tunic and cavalry pants.

  McCann took the offered hand, “McCann, 2nd Ohio. Pleased to meet you.”

  The hollow-cheeked major looked to Zack as if he might be a few years too old for active service although he had obviously been a robust man before his imprisonment. He bore a friend
ly, lined face with a full head of white hair and a beard to match. He appeared somewhat scholarly to Zack with his gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose but the pale gray eyes behind them sparkled with astuteness.

  “Just arrived?” the major asked.

  “Yes, sir. We were taken at Port Hudson, two weeks back.”

  “You’re not alone then?”

  “I am now, my sergeant and surviving troop has been sent up the river to Belle Island, apparently that’s where they keep the other ranks.”

  “Yes,” said McCann, knocking out his pipe in the palm of his hand as if the memory of such an action brought with it a flavor of the missing leaf. “Rather unpleasant up there, I fear. The poor creatures are starved near to death and sleep out in the open in all weathers; it is a dire situation for them. We are much better off here, if you can believe it.”

  Zack looked around the bare boards of the room devoid of any furniture and divided at the end by partition as a separator from the other two rooms that made up the rest of the level. The peeling walls were stained dark with damp and although mopped daily the plank floor had seen better days. Men were scattered around the room, some still sleeping whilst others whiled away the time by playing a hand of whist with home made cards, others sat idly drawing or writing letters.

  “This is as good as it gets then?” asked Zack.

  “Oh, there’s better,” joked McCann. “Wait until you see our evening repast.”

  “Nothing to write home about, I suppose.”

  “Thin soup and dry bread. Not quite your Delmonico’s. But, here, come sit beside me, Captain Endeavor. Let’s get acquainted.”

  Zack slid his lean body down the length of wall to rest his back beside the Major. “Thank you, sir. Most accommodating of you.”

  “To think this place was once planned as a tobacco factory,” McCann took a deep breath, trying to catch some hint of the elusive weed.

  “I thought it was a ship’s chandlers and grocers, at least that’s what the sign said as we came up here.”