Cruel Curse: Mark of the Bloody Seven

Cruel Curse is a haunting tale about a wrongly accused Civil War Soldier named, Jim McBride.  After tragedy strikes outside Savannah, Georgia, during Sherman's push to the sea he suffers a crisis of conscience.  In fear for his life he escapes west to New Mexico Territory in a desperate attempt to avoid losing his freedom on charges of desertion brought against him by an unprincipled Army Captain named, Leyden Graves. After a bloody confrontation leaves the Captain maimed and mentally deranged, Jim discovers that the time and distance he put between them hasn't discouraged Leyden from trying to fulfill his quest for revenge. Years later the outcast officer catches up to Jim while attempting to steal a gold shipment Jim is assigned to protect, but fails to kill him during the assault.  He does, however, manage to capture the gold, setting off a chain of events that will take both men through a series of life altering encounters.  The story takes place against the backdrop of a volatile New Mexican frontier, eventually leading to a final confrontation only one man can survive.  At stake is the life that Jim longs to live, with the Navajo bride he has come to love after saving her from a life of servitude. If not for the help of her devoted brother all hope would be lost.  It is a story of regret, survival, redemption, and the casting out of demons from the darker place within.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CRUEL CURSEMark of the bloody sevenBy Del HuntsmanAuthorHouseCopyright © 2011 Del HuntsmanAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4520-5302-8 Contents1 THE GULLY...............................12 IN COLD BLOOD...........................83 YELLOW ROCK MINE........................144 LEYDEN GRAVES...........................265 OFFICER NO MORE.........................316 BITTER FATE.............................407 A THANKLESS JOB.........................478 CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN.....................549 AMBUSH..................................6610 SCAR...................................6911 BLACK WOLF.............................8212 REVENGE BEGINS.........................9313 GOLD WAGON.............................9814 TROUBLE AHEAD..........................10615 BUZZARDS...............................11816 NO WAY OUT.............................12417 CRUEL CURSE............................13518 THE TURNING............................14119 AN APPROPRIATE END.....................14920 RATTLESNAKE CANYON.....................15321 THE HIDE OUT...........................16522 DINNER.................................17823 CAPTAIN HUNTER.........................18224 THE OLD MINER..........................19725 CLEANSING FIRE.........................22026 HOME AGAIN.............................23327 ENEMY REMAINS..........................23928 THE BLESSING...........................24329 DEMON CHASER...........................24830 A RIDER APPROACHES.....................26731 THE RIDE NORTH.........................27832 LITTLE WILLOW TREE.....................29333 BLACK HEART............................30134 THE WHORE LINDA........................31835 PAYBACK................................33536 MAD MAN'S RUIN.........................34537 FINAL STAND............................361EPILOGUE..................................371ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS..........................377Chapter OneThe Gully When Jim McBride regained consciousness, he was lying flat on his back at the bottom of a washed-out gully. He managed to open his right eye with a little effort, but squeezed it shut again when the afternoon sun shrank his pupil to a pinpoint. He couldn't open his other eye at all. He rolled onto his elbow to avoid the blinding rays of the sun, and then reached up to feel the left side of his face. He winced in pain as his clumsy fingers pushed against the swollen mass above his cheekbone. His mouth was so dry it made his throat feel raw when he tried to swallow; suddenly, he was overwhelmed by thirst. Confused, he mumbled to himself, "What the hell happened to me?" He tried to open his good eye again; this time slowly, so he could adjust to the sunlight. Sitting up, he lifted his head to get his bearings. For a brief moment he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't sure if it was real or the result of his delirium. Some distance down the gully there stood a small figure in tattered clothes. He tried to focus as waves of heat rising from the sand distorted the image. It looked like—no, suddenly there were two. He began to raise his hand to get their attention and call out for help, but the realization of what he was seeing caused the words to catch in his throat. She was there with the Boy; they were watching him. "It couldn't be, not here," he thought. "I buried you myself," he said out loud. "Damn it, you ain't real." He blinked to clear his head and looked again. Nothing, they were gone. He was tired of the torment; of never knowing when they would come to him. He spoke to himself as if it were to them, "I told you before I didn't mean it, now leave me be." He had grown used to it by now. At first they only came to him occasionally, maybe in a dream. Now it seemed to happen whenever the booze made his mind soft. He thought if he drank more it would dull his recollection, but instead—when the liquor filled his head—the tragic memory took on form. Now he couldn't predict when they would come to him. The thought of the accident with the Boy and what he saw the Woman endure never left him from the day he rode away from that plantation outside of Savannah. For the first year after he fled the Army the liquor did manage to put his mind at ease, until one fateful morning outside El Paso just before the sun came up. He woke up with his face in the dirt behind a saloon after a particularly brutal night of whiskey: another attempt to drink away the guilt. That's the first time he could remember seeing them when he was awake. They were standing together in the twilight hour, side by side, just staring at him with a mournful look. He had to close one eye to focus in his drunken stupor, but sure enough, there they were silhouetted against the side of an adjacent clapboard building. The sun hadn't yet broken the horizon but the pale skin of their faces almost glowed as it captured what light was available. He remembered their eyes, those deep set hollow eyes, looking at him from shadowed sockets. He lay there helpless in his inebriation, but felt no need to flee. He knew he could never run from them, because they were not of this world. They came to him from a place that made it impossible for him to hide. That dark place is in the heart of decent people, a place whose construct is shame, where conscience breathes life into the woeful specters of remorse. They were the result of his own mortification, a haunting he did not deserve to escape. He had come to accept that this was his punishment, a curse he must live with for the rest of his life. Shaking the bitter memory from his head, he looked around and began to take inventory of his current situation. Dirt walls extended about eight feet up on either side of him as he sat there bewildered, in the relentless heat of the day. "This gully must be twenty feet across," he thought. The sun, directly overhead, beat down like the sky was on fire just above his head, "Noon time ... must be about noon." As his senses began to come back to him, he realized he had to get out of the sun or it would eventually cook him alive. There was some shade under a shelf on one side of the gully. His best bet was to make his way over to it and collect himself a little before getting the hell out of there. He tried to move in that direction, but the pain that shot up his leg when he rolled onto his knees almost made him pass out. He let out a gasp as he pushed himself onto his back again, his hands clutching the sand beneath him. Mustering his strength after the last wave of pain subsided he raised himself onto his elbows and looked toward his feet. Taking stock of the situation, he began to notice that things were missing. His boots were gone ... along with his rifle ... his hat ... and jacket. Not only that, but his horse was nowhere in sight. He had been stripped of just about everything and left for dead. From his elbows, he pushed himself up to a seated position with his legs straight out. He held himself there for a couple minutes, trying to figure out what caused that incredible pain. Looking at his bare feet, he thought they looked normal, sun burned—but normal; until he saw the bloodstain on the bottom of his pant leg. Before he could determine where the blood was coming from, a strange shadow passed quickly across the sand in front of him, and then another. Tilting his head back and using his hand to block the sun, he looked up. With his eyelid squinted down to a slit, he stared up into the sky and saw the shadows' source: birds, big ones. They were circling a few hundred feet overhead, tracing patterns around the sun. "Sorry to spoil your meal, boys," he said in a whisper. He noticed more of them circling off to his left about half a mile away. They circled lower and lower, dropping out of the sky toward something on the ground. He looked back down again and moved his hands to his right knee. Gently, he began to pull his pant leg up, a little at a time, until he saw the problem. First, he saw the black and blue around his ankle and as the leg was more exposed, the dried blood, torn skin and what looked like ... bone. This was not good. Somehow his lower leg was snapped in two just above his ankle. Things were a little more complicated now. He still needed to get to that shade on the other side of the gully, but he wasn't going to be walking over to it. His head began to hurt; what started as a dull pain when he woke up had turned into a pounding headache. He knew something was not right as he reached up to feel his head, and sure enough, a couple inches above his left ear, there was a gash and what felt like a shallow grove cut into his skull. "Head shot, well why not?" he said to himself sarcastically. Placing his hands on the ground at each side, he pushed with what strength he had, slowly moving himself toward the shade. His shoulder felt like someone smashed it with a sledge hammer, but he managed to slide himself backwards toward the shady part of the wash, dragging one foot in the sand while pushing with the other. The pain shot up his broken leg each time he moved, not as badly as the first time, but still unbearable. His face tightened with agony as he pulled each breath through clenched teeth, making his way across the bottom of the gully. Finally reaching the shade, he propped himself against the side wall beneath the water carved overhang. The difference in temperature must have been twenty degrees. It was still hot as hell, but he felt immediate relief. Now, if he could just figure out what happened, where he was and how he got so busted up. Looking back at where he woke up in the sand, Jim noticed that up above on the opposite side of the gully part of the ledge was broken away. A pile of dirt lay in a heap at the base of the sandy wall as if it collapsed there recently. He must have broken his leg when he fell into the gully in the middle of the night. What the hell was he doing running around in the desert in the middle of the night? He also noticed something very disturbing. From where he was leaning against the side wall he saw a trail of footsteps. They came right down the middle of the dry wash and went back out the same way. Someone had found him! Whoever it was must be the one who stole his belongings. While considering these things, he felt the dryness in his mouth again and almost choked when he tried to swallow, his throat was raw. He could figure this puzzle out later. Right now he needed water, and fast. The first thing he had to do was make a splint for his leg. There was a pile of flood stacked debris close by, and he did the best he could to collect some branches without putting too much pressure on his leg. He tore his pant leg off below the knee on his good leg and made strips out of the cloth to tie the splint. Choosing the straightest branches he could find, he put them on either side of his lower leg and tied them there as securely as he could. The pain became more bearable as he worked on the leg, but he felt his foot beginning to go numb. If his leg wasn't taken care of as soon as possible, it would start to rot and just might kill him altogether. He was half dead as it was, but the thought of finding the bastard who left him to die gave him all the inspiration he needed to keep the other half alive. Using a sturdy branch for support, he managed to get his good leg under him and stand up. He could see the tracks clearly now: they disappeared up the gully. He needed to find a place where water might be hiding and heading in the direction of the tracks seemed like the best idea. Jim had been living out in the wild long enough to know that these gullies might look dry, but in the right place, on the outside of a bend, he could dig a little and find all the water he needed to replenish his strength. He limped about a quarter mile up the gully, following the tracks, and sure enough, around a bend, he found a damp place to dig. Gently, he let himself down onto his good knee and used his makeshift crutch to dig in the sand. After about fifteen minutes of digging, the end of the branch came up wet. A few moments later, a small pool of water seeped into the hole. A little bit more digging and he had a small bucket's worth of good water. He dipped his fingers into it, and then touched them to his mouth to soften his chapped lips. His tongue was so dehydrated it felt like he had a tiny, dried-out pinecone in his mouth. After the mud settled to the bottom of the hole, Jim cupped his hand, dipping it into the cool water. He brought it up to his lips, sucked a little into his mouth and held it there. After taking a moment to savor what it was like to taste the life sustaining liquid once again, he swished it around a bit; his tongue seemed to swell immediately, as if the moisture were turning it back into flesh. Although he was careful not to swallow too much, he still coughed out what little he took in. Then he tried to take another drink, and this time he was able to keep it down. Soon, he was scooping up the precious water and swallowing it without choking. He felt the life returning to him. His head wasn't pounding as much, but he felt aches and pains all over his body, especially in his leg and shoulder. He still couldn't open his left eye all the way, but it felt good to wash his face, and the coolness of the water would help the swelling go down. He wet his head and neck and took the time to tend to his broken leg. He removed the splint and tore open part of the pant leg just so he could get a good look at the wound. There wasn't much he could do except see how bad it was and clean it up as best he could. He was right when he thought he saw bone; there wasn't a lot protruding from the gash at the front of his shin, but there was enough to know he had a fifty-fifty chance of keeping the leg. And that was only if he was able to get it mended in the next day or two. He also knew the chances of doing that were slim to none. He tore a piece of cloth from his shirt, rinsed it out with some water, and wrapped it around the wound. His left foot was already sore from the short distance he came up the gully. He knew he had to make some kind of covering to keep it from getting torn up completely on the sand and sharp stones as he made his way across the desert. He figured the thick bandage he made from his shirt and the wood splint should be protection enough for his broken leg, but if his other foot got cut up from walking, he couldn't go anywhere at all. He made a cloth moccasin out of the material from his pant leg and secured it with strips he tore from his shirt. Once finished, he was as ready as he'd ever be for what he had to do. For now, the only chance he had was to stay on the trail of the thief who left him for the buzzards. Looking up, he saw that they were still overhead, circling; waiting to see if he'd drop dead. After readjusting the splint on his leg, he followed the tracks into a small side gully and climbed up to a shady area he saw beneath a cluster of pinion pine. Sitting down against a rock, he leaned his head back, closed his eyes and tried to relax for a spell. He needed to rest and come up with a plan before heading off into the desert. Chapter TwoIN COLD BLOOD He didn't know how long it had been since he dozed off—maybe a few minutes, possibly an hour or more—before being shaken from his sleep by a restless dream. Someone he didn't know was yelling and waving a stick that looked like some kind of spindle. His arms were tied to something behind him, and that ugly, mean son of a bitch was swinging a club at his head. It didn't make sense. How did he get there, and why would someone want to beat him to a pulp? Another image flashed across his battered memory: an explosion, some type of wagon blown apart ... horses screaming in fear ... yelling from other men around him ... gun shots and a desperate scramble to take cover. No, it couldn't be just a nightmare, there was too much that seemed real. He was remembering all of it in bits and pieces. He knew something terrible had taken place. He had to figure out what the hell put him in such bad shape. Looking up, he saw the sun was still high in the sky, so he couldn't have dozed off for that long, but he knew he had to keep moving—if he wanted to live. He wasn't hungry; he figured he must have eaten something the day before, but this was nothing new. Sometimes when he was out on the trail he would go days at a time without food, and besides, pain always had a way of killing his appetite. When it came time to eat, he could put away pounds of meat at a sitting, but his immediate need was not food. It was the water that was important, and he almost had his fill of it for now. He figured he didn't have more than a day before his leg would start to go bad and he knew he could only make it a couple miles at a time. His only hope was that wherever the thief's tracks led wasn't too far away, and that when he got there he could figure out a way to surprise whoever robbed him. He had to recover his horse and belongings and get to a doctor as soon as possible. In his head, he knew his chances weren't very good, but when times got tough he made a habit of living on his guts. This was one of those times. He left the shelter of the rocks and went back to get another drink. After quenching his thirst, he decided to take off his shirt so he could soak it in the water before starting down the trail. His shoulder felt stiff as he drew his arm back to remove the shirt, and a jolt of pain shot up the side of his neck. Once he got it off, he was about to dip it in the small pool of water, that's when he noticed the bloody bullet hole. Poking his finger through it, he saw it was up near his left shoulder, just under his collar bone. To look at the wound with the eye that wasn't swollen shut, he had to turn his head as far to the left as he could and look down. Sure enough there it was: a nasty hole in the flesh about the size of a two bit coin, right where he thought it would be. Reaching over the wounded shoulder, he felt a round bloody clot in the skin and an indentation in the muscle. It was wet with blood. (Continues...) Excerpted from CRUEL CURSEby Del Huntsman Copyright © 2011 by Del Huntsman. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

Del Huntsman has resided in the Southwest for a number of years.  He has enjoyed a fascination for the American West since his youth. As an outdoor enthusiast and admirer of the geography of the southwest, he has spent much of his time studying the local folk lore of the region while exploring the rugged beauty of the landscape.   His prose can be quite graphic and even disquieting when describing the lurid potential of human nature.  With the same unflinching honesty he will also bring the reader back from that moral precipice, leading them into a more optimistic prospective.  His transitions cover a wide range of human experience from the brutal injustice of depraved indifference to the lustful excitement of passionate expression.  His daring approach brings the characters to life in a bold and believable way.

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