by Matt Braun
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Tenbow by Matt Braun

At the foot of the Wind River Mountains and just east of the continental divide was Tenbow Valley, eighty miles of rich, watered graze on the way to Oregon territory. From Cheyenne, Jack Stillman has come to Tenbow to solve a string of murders. Each victim was a landowner in the valley, and each killing was carried out with a deadly, long range rifle. Taking on the guise of a gambler, Stillman is quick to line up his suspects and start prying open their secrets. But while greed is the likeliest reason for the murders, the killer keeps striking—even when Stillman has his eye on the suspects. Suddenly, in a land of wild honeysuckle, snowy mountain peaks, and the spirits of native warriors, the veteran lawman realizes he's made a fatal mistake and missed a motive as old as time itself…Now it may be too late because an expert at murder has Stillman in the crosshairs of his gun…

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781429902021
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Publication date: 04/01/2007
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 288
Sales rank: 1,110,394
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

MATT BRAUN is a fourth-generation Westerner, steeped in the tradition and lore of the frontier era. His books reflect a heritage rich with the truths of that bygone time. Raised among the Cherokee and Osage tribes, Braun learned their traditions and culture, and their philosophy became the foundation of his own beliefs. Like his ancestors, he has spent most of his life wandering the mountains and plains of the West. His heritage and his contribution to Western literature resulted in his appointment by the Governor of Oklahoma as a Territorial Marshal.

Braun is the author of more than four dozen novels and four nonfiction works, including BLACK FOX, which was made into a CBS miniseries. Western Writers of America awarded Braun the prestigious Spur Award for his novel THE KINCAIDS and the 2004 Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement in Western Literature.

Matt Braun was the author of more than four dozen novels, and won the Golden Spur Award from the Western Writers of America for The Kincaids. He described himself as a "true westerner"; born in Oklahoma, he was the descendant of a long line of ranchers. He wrote with a passion for historical accuracy and detail that earned him a reputation as the most authentic portrayer of the American West. Braun passed away in 2016.

Read an Excerpt


By Matt Braun

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 1991 Matt Braun
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0202-1


The hunter held his horse to a slow walk. There was no reason for speed, and he was concerned that undue noise might spook his quarry. His stalk had been cautious and hidden, nothing to betray his presence. He felt assured of a kill.

Sunlight filtered through a thick stand of aspen, covering the mountainside in dappled shadow. He reined to a halt near the crest and stepped down from the saddle. With some care he tied his horse to a tree, looping the reins into a snug knot. Gunfire startled even the best of horses, and he'd learned long ago not to risk being left afoot. The mountains were rough traveling on shank's mare.

From his saddlebags he removed a parfleche of tanned leather. Inside were strips of hardened jerky, made from elk meat. A week past, under a hot June sun, he had cured the meat until it was dark and brittle. After taking a wrinkled strip from the parfleche, he returned the leather pouch to his saddlebags. He broke off a hunk with strong teeth, allowing saliva to soften the jerky, and stood chewing without haste. He still had time to spare, and the thought of a kill always summoned his hunger. He savored the gamy taste, partial to sun-cured elk.

Afterward, he licked his fingers and wiped them dry on his buckskin shirt. He was a large man, with shaggy black hair and a thick beard flecked with gray. He wore a battered hat and trousers stuffed into moccasin boots favored by the northern tribes. Strapped around his waist was a gun belt with a holstered Colt .44 and a honed skinning knife. The buckskin shirt was stained with grease and sweat, and crisscrossed over his shoulders was a wide belt filled with rifle cartridges. He looked like a man of the wild, fully able to survive off the land.

Hunger satisfied, he was ready now for the hunt. He pulled a Sharps .50-90 from the saddle scabbard and checked to make sure the hammer was down. Then he walked uphill, leaving the horse standing hip-shot in the sunlight. From years of habit, he moved quietly through the aspens, avoiding the telltale snap of twigs and branches underfoot. At the crest, he paused, scouting ahead, still in no hurry. He scanned the terrain beyond the forward slope.

Some distance to the west, the Wind River range jutted skyward. A vast stretch in the Rocky Mountain chain, the peaks angled northwestward through Wyoming Territory. Eastward, between the taller summits and the mountainous woodlands bordered by the Wind River, lay Tenbow Valley. To the direct front, north from where the hunter paused, there was a high country meadowland. A stream snaked across the grassy swale and disappeared through a canyon bounded by steep hills. Three cows and a spring-born calf stood grazing near a bend in the stream.

The hunter moved forward. Halfway down the slope, the heavy stand of aspens splayed outward in a V-shaped formation. He again paused, scanning the wings of the open V in the timber. The natural clearing, which spread wider as it dropped off downhill, provided a broad field of fire. To the trained eye, the range from the notch in the aspens to the cows appeared to be slightly more than four hundred yards. Good shooting distance.

After a moment, the hunter walked to the edge of the treeline. He selected a shady spot beneath the canopy of an aspen and sat down. At the base of the tree, the ground was relatively flat, and he shifted his rump until he found a comfortable position. With his knees bent, he dug his heels into the earth and braced his hindquarters against the trunk of the tree. Hefting the rifle, he raised the leaf sight at the rear and set the crossbar for the proper range. He then propped his elbows on his knees, snugged the butt of the rifle into his shoulder, and sighted on the cows. Hold a tad high and it looked to be a perfect downhill shot.

Grunting to himself, he lowered the rifle, levered the trigger guard, and opened the breech. He slipped a massive shell from the cartridge belt, inserted it into the breech, and jacked the lever upward. The big Sharps was designed to hurl a slug nearly a half inch in diameter, punched onward by a formidable load of powder. The heavy octagonal barrel made it a weighty piece, but it was deadly accurate up to ranges of six hundred yards. The wallop of the broad-nosed fifty slug was guaranteed to down man or beast. One shot, one kill.

A lazy white butterfly floated past on a gentle updraft. The hunter watched it idly, reminded that he hadn't yet checked the wind. He pulled a tuft of dry grass from the ground and tossed it overhead. The grass drifted a hair to the left and settled slowly at his feet. He made a mental note to hold a hair to the right when he sighted, and allow for the slight shift in windage. That, along with a smidgen high, would make it a clean, dead-center shot. One he'd made a hundred times or more during his years in the mountains. Today, like all those other times, would be a simple exercise of skill. Pick a spot and touch off a tack-driver.

The hunter's every instinct was suddenly alerted. A horseman on a chestnut gelding emerged from the mouth of the canyon. Gazing down from the mountainside, the hunter studied man and mount, satisfied that he'd selected the right spot. From the old days to the present, he had spent nearly thirty years in the Wind Rivers and the Tetons. He knew every ridge and valley as though mapped in his head, and he had outguessed bear and elk and deer beyond count. Today he'd outguessed a man.

The horseman's name was Bud Ledbetter. He owned a small outfit headquartered on the Middle Fork of the Popo Agie River. He had a wife and three kids, and five cowhands who hired on during roundup and the trailing season. His was a hardscrabble operation, with a herd seldom topping a thousand head, strictly hand-to-mouth from one season to the next. He owed the banker in Tenbow everything but his soul, certainly more than his stock and his land were worth. One bad winter would put him out of the cow business.

The hunter knew all these things and more about Bud Ledbetter. For the past week he had scouted Ledbetter's operation, observing the daily routine from a distance. He knew the rancher arose before dawn and went to bed an hour or so after supper. He knew that shortly after sunrise Ledbetter and the hands would ride out for the day's work. Of greater importance, he knew the rancher believed in one man for one job. Watchful, he'd noted that Ledbetter seldom teamed the hands while gathering strays. The men were each assigned a section of the canyons and meadows where cows had scattered during the winter. And Ledbetter set the example, working as hard as his men. He always took a section for himself.

Ever cautious, the hunter had trailed Ledbetter for a week. Like the rancher, he believed that work well done was work that left no loose ends. No one had seen him, and no one suspected he was tracking Bud Ledbetter. For all practical purposes, he was an invisible presence, stalking unwary game. Which was what separated a hunter from the hunted. Deliberate and unhurried, watchful and patient, avoiding all risks. The outcome was what mattered, a tidy end to the job. Done right, his quarry never heard the shot.

Early that morning, while the stars were still out, he'd left his camp deep in the mountains. By dawn he was secreted in a grove of trees overlooking the ranch compound. As sunrise lighted the land, he observed Ledbetter gather the men outside the corral and tick off their assignments for the day. Then, as they rode out in different directions, he had trailed the rancher at a safe distance. Within the hour he'd known where Ledbetter was headed, a mountain meadow at the end of a forested canyon. From there it was a simple matter to circle around on the high ground, shortcut the ride. Ten minutes later he was positioned and waiting, hidden beneath the aspens.

Watchful now, he admired the way Ledbetter approached the cows. The mama cow and her calf made a spirited run for the west end of the meadow. But Ledbetter swung wide, spurring his gelding, and hazed them back along the creek. Some moments later the three cows and the calf were again bunched together. Like any good cattleman, Ledbetter never ran the fat off his cows. He pushed them instead at a fast walk, toward the mouth of the canyon. Once they were moving he reined to a halt, took out the makings, and rolled himself a cigarette. He dug a match from his shirt pocket.

The hunter shouldered his rifle. He eared back the hammer and squinted over the sights, holding high and a hair right. He took a deep breath, then exhaled, and gently squeezed the trigger. The Sharps boomed just as Ledbetter struck the match on his thumbnail. An instant later the big fifty slug whacked him in the chest, exploded his heart, and exited on a downward angle with a spray of blood. The chestnut gelding skittered sideways and Ledbetter toppled headfirst out of the saddle. He hit the ground having never heard the shot. Arms and legs akimbo, he lay facedown, unmoving.

Echoing off the mountains, the reverberation of the gunshot was like rolling thunder. The gelding and the cows, spooked by the rumbling sound, pounded across the meadow and vanished into the canyon. A long moment passed while the hunter sat staring at the rancher's body. Finally satisfied that the hunt was ended, he rose to his feet. After ejecting the spent shell, he turned and walked off through the aspens.

On the back slope of the mountain, the hunter jammed the Sharps into its scabbard. He unhitched his horse from the tree and stepped into the saddle. As he rode off, the thought occurred that it might be days before the body was found. By then, what had happened here today would be a part of his past. For he would have begun another hunt.

And then another, until the job was done.


The morning ritual never varied. Stillman always awoke fully alert, prepared to get on with the day's business. He might have dreamt, but dreams were part of sleep, seldom remembered. His thoughts centered instead on the here and now.

Bright sunlight streamed through the windows. He rolled out of bed and padded barefoot to the washstand. He poured water from a pitcher into the basin and scrubbed his face with both hands. Still dripping, he dipped a shaving brush in the tepid water, sloshed it around in a soap mug, and lathered his face. After stropping his razor, he shaved with quick, steady strokes. Then, switching to a small pair of scissors, he trimmed his brushy mustache.

The face in the mirror scarcely held his attention. So long as he was reasonably well groomed, he rarely gave any thought to his looks one way or another. What he was born with was what he had, and he'd always been one to make do. The nose was a bit off-center, broken a couple of times, and there was a ridged scar over one eyebrow. But those were vestiges of the trade, all part of his work. He prided himself that those were the only signs. On occasion he reminded himself that he'd been shot at, but never shot.

Finished shaving, he moved to a standing wardrobe with double mirrors. The compartment on the right side was filled with assorted suits, some conservative and some flashy, none of which seemed in character for the man who called himself Jack Stillman. He opened the door on the left side and selected whipcord trousers, a linsey shirt, and a corduroy jacket. High-topped cowman's boots completed the outfit, and after dressing, he moved back to the bed. Hanging on the bedpost was a holstered Colt .45 with a lustrous blue finish and dulled ivory grips. He strapped it around his waist with practiced ease.

On the way out the door he took a flat-crowned Stetson from a hat tree. In the hall he turned and walked toward the stairwell. For the past eight years he had maintained quarters at the Cattlemen's House, one of the better hotels in Cheyenne. He preferred the hotel to a boardinghouse, where resident busybodies allowed a man no privacy. Here he could come and go as he pleased, with no one the wiser. A man in his trade disliked snoopers and gadflies, people with an inordinate interest in another fellow's business. The less known about his work, the better.

Downstairs, he swapped greetings with the desk clerk and crossed the lobby. Cattle season was in full swing and cowmen from around the territory were clustered in the lobby, talking and laughing. Some of them nodded to him, and others grew quiet, avoiding his gaze. Those who looked away were ranchers with large spreads, members of the International Cattlemen's Association. For all practical purposes, they controlled politics in Wyoming Territory and were a law unto themselves. He refused to work for men who set their own standards of justice, and they resented his attitude. He returned the favor.

Inside the dining room, he took a seat at a window table. The hour was late, going on eight o'clock, and most of the tables were empty. Cattlemen were early risers, and during the season he made it a point to come downstairs after the breakfast rush. That way he managed a leisurely meal without the room turning silent and men darting hidden glances in his direction. For all their hostility, the large ranchers nonetheless respected him and were careful never to give offense. He'd killed too many men for them to behave otherwise. The problem, though unspoken, was that he wouldn't kill for hire.

"Good morning to you, Jack."

Stillman looked up as a waitress approached the table. Her name was Molly Adair and she was a saucy lass with the blush of an Irish rose in her cheeks. Her red hair and blue eyes only served to accentuate the ripe curves of her figure. She enjoyed a running flirtation with the hotel's resident manhunter.

"Morning, Molly," Stillman replied. "You're looking mighty fine today."

"Listen to him!" she said, rolling her china blue eyes. "You'd turn a girl's head with your fancy talk."

"Maybe you're the girl."

"Am I, indeed?" She laughed, posing with one hand on her hip. "You've yet to show me it's so."

"Guess I'm just slow," Stillman said, smiling. "Wouldn't want to rush into anything."

"God love us," she said with mock indignation. "You're not slow, you're deaf!"

"C'mon, Molly, when you talk, I'm all ears."

She knew it wasn't true. Talk around town was that he kept regular company with a young widow. Yet a girl could always hope, and the thought of him in her bed made her skin tingle. She laughed, shook her head.

"Well, enough of that," she said. "What'll it be today — the owlhoot special?"

"Not today," Stillman said, matching her smile. "How about buckwheat cakes and ham?"

"And a pot of coffee?"

"Molly, you're a born mind reader."

She turned away, wig-wagging her hips as she walked toward the kitchen. Stillman's gaze shifted from her admirable rump to the window. He stared out at the street, hearing again her reference to the "owlhoot special." She'd spoken in jest, but there was truth in humor. His reputation as a manhunter was a matter of record. Outlaws, men on the owlhoot, were his stock in trade.

The Union Pacific had selected Cheyenne as its western headquarters in 1867. At the time, Jack Stillman had been serving as a special agent with the railroad. His work as a railroad detective, and several shoot-outs with train robbers, brought him a modicum of fame. A year later he was appointed deputy U.S. marshal, and his reputation as a manhunter began in earnest. On one occasion, operating in disguise, he had entered Hole-in-the-Wall, the outlaw sanctuary, and emerged to tell the tale. No other lawman had ever duplicated the feat.

In 1870, he had traded his federal badge for a lucrative job with the Overland Stage. For six years, working as the company's chief detective, he had pursued stage robbers throughout the western territories. According to the newspapers, since his arrival in Wyoming, he had killed upward of eleven outlaws. The true number was never known, for he'd refused all comment on the matter. Finally, at the urging of several prominent businessmen, he had established his own detective agency. Over the past two years he'd operated as an undercover investigator, adopting a different disguise for each job. His client list included banks, mining companies, several railroads, and an occasional assignment for the stage line. A recent article in the Police Gazette, dated June 1878, had dubbed him the most feared manhunter on the Western frontier.

Stillman found himself uncomfortable with the notoriety. Staring out the window, sipping a final cup of coffee, he reflected on the vagaries of his profession. Articles in newspapers and various periodicals had brought him prominence and a growing list of clients. But those same articles were read by thieves and robbers, which kept him uppermost in their minds. Even worse, an old tintype photo taken when he had been a deputy marshal regularly accompanied stories in the newspapers. To him, the photo was much on the order of a wanted poster. He could easily imagine it tacked on the walls of outlaw dens across the territory.


Excerpted from Tenbow by Matt Braun. Copyright © 1991 Matt Braun. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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