Blood Trail (Byron James Westerns Book 3)

A Reckoning in the North: The Final Stand of Byron James

Byron James and his steadfast ally Karl Jorgenson stumble upon a grand, deserted house on their journey north—only to be captured and confined by armed strangers. With no clear reason for their imprisonment and danger closing in, they must unravel the secrets hidden within the mansion's walls before it’s too late.

Joining forces with Ilene Galvez, a fierce and determined woman, Byron faces a deadly conspiracy that threatens everything he holds dear. Haunted by his past and hunted by Hahmood, a relentless gunman with one mission—kill Byron—he’s forced into a violent, final confrontation where only one will walk away.

Blood Trail is the explosive conclusion to the Byron James Westerns series by Stuart G. Yates—a story of grit, vengeance, and the fight for redemption.

Grab your copy of Blood Trail now and ride with Byron James one last time.

Excerpt from the book

They came across the sprawling house, which stood as if in an oil painting, not real, as every fixture, line and ornament seemed perfect in both proportion and design. James could barely speak as he stopped, gawped and stared. Once, this splendid building had shimmered brilliantly in white marble and stone, the two enormous columns flanking the double doors carved in a classical style. James recognized them as Corinthian because he knew of such things, having once been a teacher. The many windows, a dozen or more, looked out across grounds that must once have been crammed with ornamental shrubs and manicured lawns. Now, the only things that grew were mountains of weeds, smothering the grass, sprouting from between the flagstones that made the forecourt and the chipped, broken steps that led to the entrance. Long ago this would have been an architectural marvel, but not any longer. Now it was a mere shell of its former glory, the marble dull and grey, everything tired and long since abandoned, a throwback to a more prosperous and refined age.

“It reminds me of photographs I have seen of plantation houses,” said Jorgenson distantly.

James caught the faraway look in the man’s eyes and smiled. “You have seen many photographs, Karl?”

“Oh yes, many times. When we first arrived in New York there were photographers there, taking photographs as we came ashore. There was an exhibition. Everything is photographed nowadays.”

“Saw a man once, back in sixty-four, taking photographs. War correspondent, he said he was. Curious little man, huge top hat, black clothes like an undertaker.” He chuckled. “We certainly needed plenty of those back then.”

“Yours was a very terrible war, Byron. I pray it will be the last.”

“Me too,” said James with feeling, “but I’m not so sure it will be the last, Karl. That Prussian War over in Europe a few years back…” He shook his head. “Man’s ability to come up with more and more horrific methods to kill is bewildering. None of it bodes well.” He drew in a deep breath. “Come on, let’s go and take a closer look. We might even be able to find somewhere to sleep. It’ll sure beat another night of lying out under the stars.”

Kicking the horses forward, James grew nervous with each step that brought them nearer to the house. It truly was an enormous building and, this close, the many tangled vines spreading their tendrils across the stonework, leaves black with age, were clear to see. James breathed loudly through his nose. “Why would anyone abandon a place such as this?”

Not waiting for a reply, he dismounted and paused to survey the land on all sides. Mainly, the grounds appeared dejected, no longer looked after, the remains of what must have been a fabulous estate now nothing more than a sad memory. To the east, however, an extensive woodland rolled down the hillside for as far as the eye could see. The trees were thick, regal and impenetrable. “Have you any idea where we are, Karl?”

“I have never been this far north, Byron. Not in this area. Our first stop after New York was Kansas City. Until I met you, of course.”

Nodding, James gestured for Jorgenson to dismount, all the while watching the faraway trees.