Chapter One

In a fit of optimism, some enterprising settler twenty-odd years ago had named this patch of land "Shady Grove". The name hadn't stuck longer than the first summer, arid heat scorching the life out of anything green the daft fellow had tried to plant and carrying away his wife and children.

After that, or so the story went, the settler had cursed his homestead with the new name of "Hell".

When gold was found not far West in a puny stream, the name changed yet again to "El Dorado", though that lasted no longer than the rush of miners who picked, panned and mined away most of the precious metal.

When the gold was mostly gone and civilization caught up with the roughneck men who'd blazed through in search of riches, there came bankers, lawyers and doctors, along with their pretty wives and dainty daughters. Amongst themselves, they'd formed a quaint city council, elected a mayor and a nominated a marshal, and rechristened this hole in the ground as "Nazareth”.

Those whose tongues weren't corseted by the niceties observed in polite society still called the former boomtown "Hell".

As for Donnell, he called it home, and had since the day he was born, a silent infant who opened his mouth to wail, but made no sound, not then and not ever afterwards. He'd never spoken a word nor even so much as been able to coax a noise from his throat, though his hearing was top-notch quality.

Donnell chose to speak through music instead. Music was his voice, tickled out through the ivories of the old upright piano he'd paid a considerable sum in gold dust to have shipped from Chicago. Within the safe haven of Treighton's saloon, Donnell had set himself up to have a fine view of Main Street through the mosquito netting tacked to their window frames while he played.

He could arrange Treighton's however he wanted, no questions asked. Owner's rules and that owner would be him.

Music wasn’t his only skill. He was a favored son of Lady Luck, and the cards danced to his tune. Those who thought a mute man was simple and an easy cheat at faro often found themselves losing big.

He’d given up the game after winning Treighton’s, though. No sense in pushing his luck too far.

A man who’d call himself satisfied with his lot in life, Donnell caressed the piano keys, Chopin flowing smooth and sweet as Kentucky bourbon under his mastery of the music. He let the corner of his mouth quirk upward with dry humor. Many were they who'd claimed the son of a whore, muteness aside, would never make anything of his life. They'd been wrong, too.

Did they accept his good fortune with grace? Hell, no. The "proper" folks of Nazareth scorned him still, and always would. Too good for the likes of him and his saloon.

Thank God for sinners, eh?

Continued in First Section