Jonathan Smyth Cowboy Sleuth: The Case of the Prescott Tunnels

By Frank F Fiore

In his pursuit of Jack-the-Ripper in America, the fourth book in the Jonatan Smyth series unfolds with the shocking murder of a saloon girl, sending shockwaves through the community. Upon hearing the news, our courageous protagonists, Smyth and Abbott, embark on a quest to

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Hollow Man Series, LLC
• Release date: May 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869361646

Frank F Fiore

FRANKFIORE, a bestselling author of non-fiction books, has also penned four 5-star rated stirring thrillers and action/adventures. His works include CYBERKILL, a techno-thriller; IGIN, an historical fiction novel following an American teenage boy coming of age against the backdrop of WWII Japan, and The Chronicles of Jeremy Nash, a series of novels centered on conspiracy theories, unsolved mysteries, urban myths, and other themes in the style of the National Treasure movies.  He currently lives in Prescott Arizona, writing Westerns with his fetching wife Lynne, and their dogs Chisum - a big Newfoundland, Westin - a champion winning bearded collie and Duffy-a little Scottie. Visit his website: www.frankfiore.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

This is much better, chirped Abbott. He pointed around the sparse railroad coach they were sitting in. Though not as sophisticated as the passenger cars in England, it is far better than riding in one of those dusty animal drawn conveyances, he observed.

Smyth nodded, And will get us faster to Prescott before the trail gets cold on that brutal prostitute killing. He relit his short brass smoking pipe. This is the best lead on the Ripper since coming to America, he said between puffs.

Just us and a few passengers, Abbott observed, counting a mother and her infant and an old codger sitting near them. Then he wondered aloud as the train twisted and turned down the line. I wonder why they call this the ‘peavine?

This rail line ‘ya ridin’ is the Santa Fe-Prescott-Phoenix railroad, a graspy voice sitting across from them piped up.

Abbott turned to see the old codger, a crusty miner, dressed in dirty overalls, boots covered in dry mud and donning a face full of dirty beard. ‘Peavine’ is its nickname. It’s called that because of the twists and turns the rail line makes through the trail. The old codger pointed his finger to punctate what he said. It resembles a pea vine."

Abbott replied. Um. Thank you."

The miles passed with only the clickety-clack of the rails beneath the mental wheels of the railcar and the passing view displayed hills of dry grass spotted with green brush and scrub pine, when there was a sudden jerk forward of the car, then the screeching sound of wheels coming to a sudden halt. The passengers in the car lurched forward and were followed by tossed luggage and other belongings from the overhead bins onto the floor - and people.

What the…? Smyth said.

Dang it! shouted the old miner, wrestling a heavy bag of gear off his shoulders. Smyth and Abbott fared no better. Their suitcases were strewn around their laps and feet.

Abbott stuck his head out the car window. I can’t see anything. Wonder why we stopped?

And so abruptly, Smyth said. I’m going up front and find out what the problem is.

Smyth walked to the front of the car and almost to the exit when a big brut of man, dressed in a dirty brown shirt, chaps and boots, stepped in and blocked Smyth’s way. He held a shotgun across his chest and barked. Sit down! Then to the other passengers, "Everyone! Stay in your