Chance be Quick: A Chance Colt Literary Mystery

Chance be Quick

A Chance Colt Literary Mystery

Tom Hawks

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

Copyright © 2018

ISBN 13: 978-1-62183-469-4

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or copyright owner.

Chance Colt

I have known death in life. Unfortunately, it has been an intimate friend of mine many times over. When someone close to me dies, I seem to have four phases (sometimes five) that I work my way through as part of my grieving process. I’m sure they are very similar if not identical to every other human being’s grieving process. They always seem to occur in this particular order.

1. I take care of the unpleasant business at hand in a quiet, calm and cool manner and way.

2. Once the business side of death is done, I move into a silent and deep depression.

3. Then the anger stage comes.

4. Finally, comes peace and acceptance.

5. And, depending on the chance and circumstance surrounding this death of a family member or fallen comrade, sometimes (I hate to admit it, but I am only an imperfect man) my last stage becomes avenging that person’s death swiftly and permanently in honor of the deceased. Sometimes, I feel that this is my life’s true duty and calling. Only God will be my judge.

~ Chance Colt

Dedication

This book is dedicated in loving respect to my mom, Jean D. Hawks, the one person in this world who made me who and what I am today. Without you, I am nothing and cease to exist. You have given me the gift of life. Your heart and soul and blood and quiet inner-strength will forever run through my veins.

and

In loving and respectful memory of my best friend, my greatest mentor and my biggest supporter, my dad, Thomas J. Hawks, Sr. 1935-2015

You will always remain at my side and we will continue to walk this sacred journey together into eternity fighting the never-ending battle of good versus evil in this world.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank the professional staff at Brighton Publishing for their tireless efforts and invaluable input during the production of my work.

To my acquisitions editor, Don McGuire, I give you my sincere thanks. Your continual encouragement, support and the pursuit of perfection in my work, has over the years made me the writer I am today. You are one of the true, real and genuine great and gallant men left in this world. In a world full of fakes, you're the real deal.

Publishers Note

Sadly, Chance be Quick is the final installment in the Chance Colt Literary Mystery Series, as Tom Hawks died in November 2017 at his own hand after an extended period of depression. He will be forever missed by his readers and those who knew him as the man he was.

Chapter One

Chance swiftly picked up his dead dog in his arms with a silent rage seething inside of his aching and tired head and heart. William Shakespeare’s limp body was already cold and starting to stiffen with the oncoming effects of rigor mortis. Chance quietly carried his deceased dog, his mind suddenly muddled in a deep, dense, and dark fog as he slowly walked down the sand-and-gravel, mile-long driveway of the Sanctuary Ranch. Chance didn’t hesitate in his thinking. He knew precisely where he was going. He was headed to the round training corral in front of his red barn. His four-legged hero and lifelong comrade would receive a first-class, honorable military burial underneath the shade of the gnarled branches of the lone one-hundred-year-old mesquite tree that stood as a silent sentinel and constant guardian over the land, the animals, and the people that called the Sanctuary Ranch their home.

As Chance flipped open the gate to the corral with his right-footed cowboy boot, he gently laid down Shakespeare’s dead body in the soft sand underneath the mesquite tree. The morning sun was beginning to rise on another cool, clear, and dry Southeastern Arizona winter day in the small ranching community of Sonoita, Arizona, in Santa Cruz County where Chance Colt had been the duly elected sheriff for the last quarter of a century.

Chance hesitated for a moment to look down at his dead four-legged friend, as he knelt beside him on both of his knees to pray silently to God to accept his best friend’s gentle soul into the kingdom of heaven where he so righteously belonged. The black Labrador retriever had spent a lifetime devoting his time to protecting Chance and his family, as well as serving and protecting the county’s citizenry, and upholding the law of this great land as good and as loyally as any two-legged deputy could do. To Chance, the local townspeople, and cattle and horse ranchers of Santa Cruz County, Deputy William Shakespeare had spent his lifetime serving and protecting each and every good citizen in these parts. William Shakespeare was the face and mascot of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Department, and he had made the ultimate sacrifice by giving his life in the line of duty until his final breath had been exhaled from his black and beautiful body. William Shakespeare had died doing what he loved best, serving and protecting, and he left this world the way he came into it—with a sweet and wide smile on his friendly face.

Chance spent a few short moments praying and petting his deceased dog’s soft, fluffy fur. He spoke to him in such a soft whisper that only Shakespeare and God himself could hear his voice. Chance then slowly rose from his knees back to his feet and slowly walked into the barn to fetch a shovel and a horse blanket as he wiped tears of deep and utter sorrow from his wind-burned cheeks.

As he secured these needed items from the old red barn, he whispered a soft but sad good morning to his horses, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, who were awake and patiently waiting in their stalls for their morning meal. A look of all-knowing despair could be seen on their faces too, as if the horses instinctively knew that they had just lost a comrade and brother-in-arms when they too had heard the single gunshot ring out in the serene silence and sadness of the early morning dawn of a brand-new day.

Chance picked out one of the newest and nicest red horse blankets for his four-legged friend to be gently wrapped in and found a thick and sturdy spade shovel that was the perfect tool for digging a proper and honorable grave for his fury friend.

As Chance walked out of the barn, he hesitantly looked up and over his left shoulder to see if there were any lights on inside the old log cabin homestead. No light was visible inside the ranch either upstairs or downstairs, so he assumed Alexis had slept through the sound of the single deadly gunshot that prematurely stole the life of the loyal and trusted William Shakespeare. Chance was glad of that, as he needed to do the solemn and sad work of burying his dead dog all alone. He had dug his share of graves in his life for other fallen comrades, and he always preferred to perform the terrible task silently and alone. It was his way, and it was his own private time to honor his friend and say his good-byes, for now. Chance knew with a rock-solid certainty that he and William Shakespeare would meet up again someday and come together in the kingdom of heaven to fulfill their true and honorable destinies as lawman and courageous and mighty canine sidekick in battling good over evil into eternity and beyond.

When Chance had gotten back outside and into the circular training pen in the now bright light of another sunny day, he gently laid the spade shovel face down in the dirt and sand, and unfolded the thick, red horse blanket. He spread the horse blanket out wide on the ground and humbly, with all the dignity and respect he could muster, lifted the dead Deputy William Shakespeare into his arms once again and then gently placed him in the center of the ceremonial burial blanket. He slowly and respectfully rolled and folded his devoted dog into the blanket neatly and tightly. Chance stopped to pet his friend one last time and whispered a few final words of love and respect into his left ear. Chance stared briefly into the once beautiful, brown, gleaming eyes of his beloved Lab and noticed that his eyes were now those of the dead: glazed over, small, dark, and sunken back into the eye sockets of his comrade’s lifeless head. The eyes of the dead always got to Chance, and he gently brushed his hand across Shakespeare’s and closed them with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

"Rest in peace, my faithful and forever friend. Do not despair, as I promise you with all my heart and soul that your death will be righteously and ruthlessly avenged. William Shakespeare will not have died in vain. Violence is golden, and vengeance will taste oh so sweet."

Chance then began slowly and somberly completing the dark, depressing business of grave digging and giving his best friend a proper and respectful burial under the branches of the stately, old mesquite tree that had seen its fair share of death over the many years of its century-old life span on this Earth. The majestic mesquite watched with reverence and respect. Chance knew that the mesquite tree was another representation of a living and breathing life-form and gift from God, just like all other living things that God had created on his sometimes magical and sometimes unbearably cruel planet Earth.

What had initially come from sweet and soft Mother Earth will now return once again to her. What God had originally created will be returned to Him once more in the forever-spinning circle of life, Chance thought to himself. Rest in peace, my faithful and trusted companion. We will soon meet back up and be together once more for the rest of eternity in God’s heaven, he stated aloud with confidence and certainty. I look forward very much to that day’s arrival. I cannot wait and will be extremely proud and honored to join you in death, just as we have shared our good times together in life. Chance then clicked his boot heels together sharply, stood straight as an Indian arrow at attention, and respectfully and proudly saluted the freshly dug grave of one Deputy William Shakespeare—a braver and more trustworthy animal there never would be found on God’s green Earth. He then turned his heels on a dime and briskly walked back to his barn to find and cut a couple of two by four pieces of wood to make a cross for his four-legged friend’s gravesite that would honor his fallen comrade respectfully and forever.

In short order, Chance had cut and nailed the wooden cross together and covered it in a fresh coat of virgin white paint. When the white paint had enough time to significantly dry, he painted the name William Shakespeare in bold, black letters, along with the words, Rest in Peace, My Forever Friend. Once the simple cross was completed for his buddy Shake and Bake, Chance ambled silently back out to the round training corral and pounded the cross and grave marker deeply into the soft earth and sand at the head of Shakespeare’s freshly dug grave under his favorite mesquite tree.

Chance then took a few steps backward and sat cross-legged on the ground with his head in his hands. He stared in stoic silence at the grave. He was tired, sad, sweaty, and spent. He sat there for who knows how long, silently replaying over and over again this morning’s shooting and senseless killing of his dog in his mind, and making mental notes to himself about the late-model, dark-blue Ford F-150 4 x 4 truck that was driven by the shooter. For the life of him, Chance couldn’t figure out why someone would intentionally shoot an innocent dog on his own property who was minding his own business at 0600 hours in the morning in the small hamlet of Sonoita, Arizona. In this town, everybody knew everybody. As the county sheriff in the mostly rural area, Chance was also very familiar with practically every car or truck that each citizen drove. He had never seen that particular dark-blue Ford F-150 before, but the truck had been far away and sped off too quickly for him to get a good look at it. He couldn’t even say for sure how many occupants were in the truck. It had all happened so fast that the events were just a blur to him. He hadn’t even been able tell if the truck had an Arizona license plate. He sat in silence with his mind reeling with thoughts of why? Not to mention thoughts of revenge.

Who would want to intentionally shoot and kill the fun-loving and good-natured William Shakespeare? What did Shake and Bake ever do to anyone to deserve this kind of treatment? He was just a big, friendly, lovable dog for God’s sake. Who would want to murder him in cold blood?

Suddenly, a familiar voice from Chance’s past spoke up to offer his opinion.

Maybe it isn’t really your dog that they are mad at, Chance? Maybe it’s someone trying to get even with you?

Chance’s inner thoughts had been abruptly interrupted by the voice of his old spirit guide, the long-dead Sheriff George White.

Did you make any recent enemies?

You know as well as I do, Sheriff White, that in our job, we make new enemies on practically a daily basis. Everyone hates the police, exclaimed Sheriff Colt. But what kind of a sick-minded person would take their anger out on killing an innocent dog?

Anyone who is mentally unstable and mentally ill, answered Sheriff White.

Practically everyone we come into contact with has some sort of mental illness or irrational emotions and behavior, Sheriff. You know that. That’s why we’re considered the human garbage disposals.

Well, then I guess you got yerself some more disposin’ to do, ’cause the son of a bitch who killed Shakespeare has to be certifiably nuts to do what he did. So what are you plannin’ on doin’ now, Chance?

Well, for starters, I’m gonna find the cold-blooded murdering son of a bitch who killed my dog and seek swift and relentless revenge, yelled Chance.

That’s the spirit, Sheriff. You hunt this man or woman down like the dirty devil that they are and you exterminate them with extreme prejudice, answered Sheriff White. An eye for an eye and—

A tooth for a tooth. Man, I’m gettin’ tired of hearin’ that damn saying, Sheriff White.

You and me both, Sheriff. You and me both! Unfortunately, that’s the life we chose to live and the duty we were assigned to carry out. Like we always say, somebody’s got to take out society’s garbage, so it might as well be us, right? We’re two of a kind, me and you, ain’t we Chance?

Yeah, we’re both a couple of one-eyed jacks all right. And life’s a bitch, Sheriff White.

And then you die, Sheriff Colt, just like I did. Well, hopefully, for your sake, not just like I did.

Hey, it sounds like a great plan to me, Sheriff White. Sheriff Chance Colt smiled to himself as he continued staring hard at William Shakespeare’s freshly dug grave with a heart full of sadness and a mind bent on delivering relentless retribution. I’ve had enough of this life to last me a lifetime. I’ve seen enough, heard enough, tasted enough, and experienced enough of this life. I’m ready to go any time the good Lord wants to take me. It don’t matter anymore to me. My rodeoin’ days are over, as far as I’m concerned. It’s as good a time as any to saddle up and ride on down the road to my next life, if you ask me. You can let me up now, God. I’ve had my fill and had enough. Let’s saddle up and ride on. Happy trails to me, said a world-weary and bone-tired Sheriff Chance Colt.

"Meanwhile, I hate to break up this uplifting conversation, Sheriff White, but