The Long Haul (Byron James Westerns Book 2)

A New Town. A New Start. A Trail of Blood.

Byron James arrives in Heritage hoping for peace, but violence finds him once again. After a night at a local guesthouse turns deadly, James is pulled into a manhunt—only to discover the victim was a Pinkerton agent with secrets about his past.

Pressed into service by a relentless sheriff, James rides out with a posse into unforgiving country. But the trail grows darker with every mile, as assassins close in and old enemies resurface. Someone wants James dead—and they’ve come prepared.

Fast-paced and unflinching, The Long Haul is the second installment in Stuart G. Yates’s Byron James Westerns, a series where survival is never guaranteed, and the truth always carries a price.

Grab your copy of The Long Haul and ride into a frontier where peace is a luxury—and danger is never far behind.

Excerpt from the book

There was a small bridge spanning the stream and he paused, leaned over the saddle and gazed into the crystal-clear water. Fast running, the stream shone with a silver luster and as he looked, he noted the tiny fish darting in and out between clumps of stone, made smooth by the constant action of the water.

“You can drink it if you have a need.”

James started, automatically reaching for his gun. The old man, who up until then had sat as still as a stone himself, rose to his full height, hands lifted straight up. “Easy, mister. I’m only telling you what is. Didn’t mean to scare you none.”

Eying the old man, checking for any weapon, James relaxed when he did not see any. He allowed his hand to drop from his gun belt. “Apologies. I’ve been on the trail for quite some time so I’m kind of jumpy. Sorry.”

Shrugging, the old man stepped clear of the undergrowth in which he sat. “Well, none of that is my business, young fella. We don’t get many visitors to the old town nowadays. There was a silver mine, but that is all petered out. Small gold mine too. All gone. The railroad passed us by as they probably knew there wouldn’t be much to stay here for. So, you’re welcome whoever you might be and wherever you have come from.” He lifted his fishing pole, drawing in the line to examine the bait, which was little more than a blood-red thread. He clicked his tongue and reached down, produced a wriggling worm from a small earthen dish, and proceeded to attach it to the hook on the end of the line.

James watched him, engrossed. “I can’t see many big fish,” he said as the old man plopped the baited line into the water.

“Oh, they is there.” He chuckled and settled himself amongst the undergrowth once more. “It’s a case of knowing where to look and having the patience to wait.”

Smiling, James looked towards the small town lying squat, dark and quiet in the distance. He could make out a church, a derelict water tower, several outbuildings, none of it out of the ordinary. The stream ran down to the outskirts before it lapped around, embracing the town in a sad trickle. Again, he was amazed at how clear and clean the water was. “What’s the name of this town?”

“Heritage. Don’t ask me why it got that name. Some say because of its history but I don’t know if that’s true. I’ve lived here some fifteen years or more. Moved here just after the War’s end, when the mood was bright and hopes high. That’s all changed now, of course. The world rarely gives you what you’re looking for.”

James allowed his eyes to roam over the distant town once more. “Is there a place I can stay the night?”

“There’s Grensham’s. Used to be a real fancy place when the silver was to be had. Then there is old Ma Kubrick’s. She does bed and breakfast. It’s clean and homely. She might do you an evening meal if you asked real kindly.” He chuckled. “Could be she’ll buy some of my fish and that’ll be what you have for supper. Can I ask where you’re heading?”