Literary Historical Fiction / LGBT Friendly
Date Published: 07-16-2025
West–life’s simple enough: lawmen bring bad guys to justice, and hellfire’s a
sinner’s fate. At least it seems that way, until he falls in love with the
notorious outlaw, Henry Midnight…
Thomas Anderson of Literary Titan calls The Ballad of Midnight and McRae
“wildly entertaining” and recommends it “to lovers of literary fiction, fans
of Cormac McCarthy or Marilynne Robinson, and anyone who believes that stories
still have the power to save.”
Poet Malcolm Guite writes, “In the story of Midnight and McRae we are enabled
to hear the long conversation between Pagan and Christian, and within
Christianity between protestant and catholic. and on a personal level between
father and son, between lover and beloved, and deep within ourselves, the
conversation between the person we are pretending to be and the person we
really are. And all these vital conversations are enfolded in and arise from a
compelling story set on the frontiers, the badlands, and the formative days of
America itself, the place where so many of these conversations need to take
place.”
tenderness, blending lyrical prose with grit and grace.”
—Thomas Anderson, Editor-in-Chief of Literary Titan
EXCERPT
Chapter One
Into the Desert
M
y father was one of the last great lawmen of the Wild West.
His name was Caleb McRae. He was born in 1876, a fair-haired child with eyes the clear cold blue of a mountain lake. The son of a Broad Street banker, he grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut on a sprawling estate, yet cared nothing for money or the shiny things it can buy.
Justice was his only passion.
He thrilled to read of Revelation’s hundred-pound hailstones raining down on sinners and devoured dime novels that told tales of the Texas Rangers. In his imagination it was he who collared John Wesley Hardin, the murderous outlaw, and Sam Bass, robber of coaches and trains.
As a young boy he learned to ride. He bought a six shooter when he turned thirteen and taught himself to blast tin cans off fence posts at fifty paces. He chopped cords of wood to build the muscles in his arms, and by fifteen was broad-shouldered and an inch over six feet tall. At seventeen he left his family’s Presbyterian church and became a Baptist, blithely ignoring his father’s stern warnings not to evangelize on the streets of downtown Greenwich.
One secret tormented him: he had no desire for girls and found his gaze lin- gering on other boys. Might he, of all people, be a pansy, a fairy, an affront to the Living God? No, impossible, the Lord must be testing his righteousness. All right, then; Caleb would not let Him down. And so, in a solitary ceremony late one midsummer’s eve, he knelt before a cross he’d fashioned from old railroad ties and vowed to renounce his sinful thoughts and wayward dreams.
4 THE BALLAD OF MIDNIGHT AND MCRAE
In his eighteenth year he set out for the Lone Star State, delighted that his parents had cut him off without a dime. How much easier it would be to enter the Kingdom of Heaven!
He made his way to Austin, convinced the Rangers to let him sign on, and two years later was sent to the brawling boomtown of El Paso. The railroad had brought prosperity, and with it came gunfighters, gamblers, con artists, and thieves. Few lawmen lasted long.
For my father, it was perfect.
I keep a newspaper clipping on my writing desk, a black-and-white photograph that appeared in the El Paso Herald in December of 1898. Though its ostensible subject is a certain Mayor Magoffin, my father’s hulking image dominates the frame. He’s the only clean-shaven man in the picture, and his hair, while not long, is a leonine mass of what must have been golden curls. There’s a broad-brimmed Stetson in his left hand and a Winchester rifle in his right. He’s wearing an oilskin duster and has an air of regal authority that belies his twenty-two years.
Caleb McRae was fierce and fair and never backed down, and in a few short years led the taming of El Paso. By the turn of the century, his life had become routine. He put away garden-variety bad guys, became the youngest Elder of the First Baptist Church, and prayed for the chance to do something great for the glory of God.
In the spring of 1900, rumors spread of an outlaw who’d been plundering the Arizona and New Mexico Territories, rustling horses and cattle on both sides of the Rio Grande. His name was Henry Midnight, and his legend grew with each passing month. He was lean and lithe and wore his raven hair long like the Indians. He dressed in black and rode a pitch-dark Arabian stallion, the two mere phantoms of the night, invisible to lawmen’s eyes. Rumor had it he’d killed a man in Arizona and escaped from jail only hours before he was to be hanged; he’d become a jewel thief, snatching an emerald necklace from the night table of the mayor’s wife while she and her husband blissfully snored. The Tejanos, who’d gotten the short end since the Anglos came to El Paso, sung his praises. And if the
INTO THE DESERT 5
Jesuits were especially generous in their provisions for the poor, it was thanks to the Midnight bandito donating the proceeds from his latest haul.
These stories, however fantastic, intrigued my father, the last most of all. What if the man were not entirely in thrall to Satan, what if there were hope for his soul? Caleb McRae of the Texas Rangers made two vows: he’d deliver Henry Midnight to justice and bring him to the Lord.
My father pinned a map of the El Paso Valley on his kitchen wall, marked the date and location of each of Midnight’s crimes, and by the summer of ’01 a pattern began to emerge. He devised a theory to predict where the rustler would strike next and for weeks led stakeouts, all to no avail. And then, on a moonless August night, as he peered out from a hill overlooking the back section of the Double-Bar Ranch, three figures on horseback appeared.
The capture would have been fast and smooth if his men had followed the plan he’d so carefully devised, but one of his deputies broke from cover too soon and their advantage was lost.
Midnight and his men fled, each in a different direction. My father had no doubt which was Henry, for the rumor that he rode a black Arabian proved to be true. The outlaw had a good half mile on him and was heading southeast, into the Chihuahuan desert. What had happened to the others my father had no idea; the chase had come down to just the two of them.
Hours went by, and a hint of dawn appeared on the eastern horizon. Where was Midnight leading him, and how long would this go on?
No matter.
He had his Winchester and his Colt 45, some hard biscuits and dried beef and a gallon canteen. Boaz, his Appaloosa, could keep up with anything on four legs. If he had to chase Midnight to the gates of hell, Caleb McRae would get his man.
He spurred his beast on.
About the Author
where he writes historical fiction. His debut novel, Hearts Set Free, was an
award-winning Amazon best-seller. When he’s not writing or playing with his
son, he’s usually at the piano playing Chopin and Brahms for his wife.
