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first.”   The sheriff sat down on the cracked linoleum tile.   “Did Mitchell hurt you?”
    “No.”
    “He didn’t touch you anywhere private or make you touch him?”
    “No, we just sat on the bed and watched about spiders and stuff.”
    “You mean on the TV?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What’s that?”   The sheriff pointed to the notebook sitting on a pillow under the faucet.
    “Mitchell said to give this to the people who came to get me.”
    Wade walked into the bathroom, stood behind the sheriff as he lifted the spiral-bound notebook and opened the red cover to a page of handwriting in black ink.
    “What is it?” Wade asked.
    “It’s to his wife.”
    “What’s it say?”
    The sheriff closed the notebook.   “I believe that’s some of her business.”   He stood, faced his deputy, snow melting off his Stetson.   “Get this boy wrapped up in some blankets and bring him down to his dad.   I gotta go call Lisa Griggs.”
    “Will do.”
    “And Wade?”
    “Yeah?”
    “You throw a blanket over Mr. Griggs before you bring Joel out.   Don’t want so much as a strand of hair visible.   Shield the boy’s eyes if you have to, maybe even turn the lights out when you carry him through the room.”  
    The deputy shook his head.   “What the hell was wrong with this man?”
    “You    got kids yet, Wade?”
    “You know I don’t.”
    “Well, just a heads up—if you ever do, this is how much they make you love them.”

An introduction to “On the Good, Red Road”
     
    This story takes place in the universe of my third book, ABANDON, and is a companion piece to that novel. It works fine as a standalone, but will be a richer experience for those who have read ABANDON, as this one explores how Oatha Wallace came to the mining town in the autumn of 1893, delving into the doomed journey from Silverton to Abandon, which turned this pacifist into a murderous outlaw.

on the good, red road
     
    October 1893
    San Juan Mountains
    Southwest Colorado
     
    If Durango was on the road to hell, Silverton had already gotten there and staked a claim—enough whorehouses, dancehalls, and gambling halls to service a city ten times the size.
    Oatha settled on one of the less rowdy saloons for his nightcap, pushing through the throng of revelers to get in line behind a man at a barstool nursing three brimming shots, the surface of the whiskies trembling from the vibration of bootstomps on floorboards.   Hands grazed his shoulders and he turned to see a toothless, blond whore in nothing but stockings and a corset grinning at him.
    “Bet you could use a trim,” she said.
    “Not tonight.”  
    She went on through the crowd, availing her services, and through the smoky lowlight, Oatha caught shards of his grimy reflection in the constellation of liquor bottles behind the bar.
    He’d been waiting ten minutes for the barkeep to notice him, when a voice lifted above the din, “You gotta yell out you wanna drink in this shithole!”
    Oatha glanced back, saw a pale, smoothshaven man of thirty or so waving him over, his face half-obscured by dirty, chin-length yellow hair.   At the table sat three men, and the one who’d called out to him motioned to an uncorked bottle of whiskey upon which the trio had already inflicted substantial damage.
    “Happy to share.”
    Oatha relinquished his place in line and threaded his way through the crowd to the table, where they’d already pushed out the last remaining chair.   Oatha sat, extended his hand across a filthy set of playing cards and a pot of tiny pokes, a few crumpled dollars, a double eagle, and a voucher for fifteen minutes with a whore called Grizzly Sow.
    “ Oatha Wallace.”
    “Nathan Curtice .   This is Marion McClurg and Daniel Smith.”  
    “Boys.”
    McClurg , a larded beast of a man, reached forward and pulled the pot toward his corner of the table while Dan eyed Oatha .
    “Play cards?” Nathan asked.
    “Not often.”
    Nathan poured a whiskey, pushed the