One Coffin Too Many

Wiping sweat from his brow, Sheriff William Buckley watched the wagon with narrowed eyes as it creaked to a stop outside the Half-Rat Saloon. A sour-faced old woman with wiry gray hair descended first, followed by three hulking men who could only be her sons. They moved with a cold menace, sizing up the ramshackle buildings and prospectors who'd wandered over to see the newcomers.

"More squatters aiming to make their fortune," Buckley muttered, resting one hand on the grip of his Schofield revolver. He'd learned over his many years in the lawless boomtowns that judging people too quickly was a mistake. But something about this foursome put his teeth on edge.

The old woman seemed to feel his gaze upon her. She turned towards him, flinty eyes glinting with undisguised disdain. A chilling smile twisted her cracked lips.

"Howdy, Sheriff," she called out in a wavering crone's voice. "We're the Holiday family. Just rolled in from Carolina. My boys and I aim to try our hand at this gold craze."

Buckley gave a curt nod but said nothing. The youngest of the three sons, lean and sullen-faced, was staring at him with open hatred. Buckley didn't so much as blink, returning the glare with stone-faced resolve.

The old woman cackled a phlegmy sound that set Buckley’s skin prickling. "Don't mind Tommy, Sheriff. He's a mite addled from the long journey. We'll just get ourselves settled in and you won't have any trouble from us, I give you my word."

She turned away without waiting for a response. With a flick of her bent wrist, she gestured for the sons to follow as she headed towards the town's overcrowded bordello and casino.

Buckley watched them go, a sinking feeling in his gut. He'd learned to trust his instincts over his decades in the Wild West - and they were screaming that the Holidays were going to be a whole hell of a lot of trouble.

Two weeks later, the first body turned up.

Young Billy Benton was just a ranch hand, sweet on the sheriff's daughter and dreaming of striking it rich to start a family with her. He'd had the terrible luck of choosing to hunt that day near the Holidays' ramshackle cabin on the outskirts of town.

Ol' Granny Holiday, as the townsfolk had taken to calling her, claimed it was just an awful tragedy. Poor Billy must have got jumped by a grizzly or hostile Utes. The only part of him that remained was his hand, grasping the hilt of his hunting knife, half-buried in the mud near their cabin.

Buckley had no choice but to rule it as a tragic casualty of frontier living. But his gut told him it was no animal attack. The bones in Billy's hand looked to have been shattered by brutal force, not gnawed by any creature's jaws. And the Holidays seemed entirely too calm about having a mauled body discovered just yards from their home.