Now Available: The Killing of Lars Fulton: A Junction City Western

An ambush leaves an innocent man dead and the sheriff behind bars, branded a murderer!

Now, the sheriff's only hope is a half-breed deputy, and he's being hunted.

IN AN EXCITING NEW JUNCTION CITY WESTERN FROM AUTHOR S. D. PARKER, Sheriff Walt Eason finds himself accused of murder, and only Deputy Diego Lange can save him.

Rustlers have stolen heads of cattle from all the biggest ranches in Junction City, Texas, including Bartholomew Conway, the nemesis of Sheriff Eason and his deputies. But when the lawmen open fire on a suspected owlhoot, the dead man is not a thief, but one of Conway's own ranch hands.

Now, Junction City's richest citizen has all the ammunition he needs to get rid of Eason...at the end of a hangman's noose. Eason's fate falls to his junior deputy, Diego Lange, a half-breed with few friends in town. Lange has only hours to uncover the truth about Lars Fulton and the strange thing discovered in the corpse's pocket or Junction City will have a new sheriff, one who doesn't look too kindly on Diego Lange.

If you like action-packed tales in the tradition of Robert Vaughn, Paul L. Thompson, or Frank Leslie, you'll enjoy THE KILLING OF LARS FULTON, the first novel-length tale in the Saga of Junction City.

Available at Amazon.


Excerpt:

“I’m not sure I can do it,” Deputy Diego Lange whispered. He crouched on a small rock outcropping overlooking the land outside of Junction City. The air was warm, even an hour toward midnight. The new moon cast no glow on the land below. Overhead, the stars sparkled in the night, the constellations mingling among themselves. The heat of the day was giving up its last fingers and succumbing to the cool night air. The smell of sage and hot rock still tickled Diego’s nose and those of his companions.

Sheriff Walt Eason grinned in the night. “It ain’t no big thing.”

“It’s no big thing for you, Sheriff,” Diego whispered back. “You do it all the time. Hell, you’ve already started doing it seeing as how the election’s coming up. I ain’t,” he searched for the right word, “as accomplished as you.”

Off to Diego’s right, he heard a soft snort from Jack Moore. “If I was standing up for my brother, I’d be so drunk by the wedding it didn’t matter what I said.” Moore was the senior deputy among Eason’s rank of three. Typically, he didn’t let anyone forget that he was second only to the sheriff. Even tonight, as the three of them hunkered down to catch some cattle rustlers, he made sure to get the catbird seat on the outcropping. He claimed he had eyes like an eagle’s and could see clearly in the night. Diego knew that Eason tolerated Moore and acquiesced. But Diego was still irritated that Moore decided to stick his nose into business that was his.

Eason inhaled deeply and let out the air slowly. “When it comes down to it, all you have to do is speak from the heart. It’s your brother’s wedding. He asked you to stand up for him. Sure, that usually means you gotta give a toast of some sort. Everyone will be looking at you, making you feel puny as an ant. Put all that stuff away. Just remember, this is your brother. Other than your parents, you know him best. All you have to do is…” He stopped and held up a hand. “Quiet.”

“I heard him, too,” Moore said.

All three men laid flat on the rock their eyes overlooking the grazing area. The dark husks of cattle gently stomping their feet could not dampen the sound of footfalls on the dirt.

Someone was coming.

Down a ways, just to the other side of the cattle, they all spied the distinctive silhouette of a man. He wore no spurs so the only sound he made was the gentle clomp of his boots. He wore a hat so the lawman couldn’t make out his face. But they all saw what he was doing: making his way toward the cattle.

In a low voice, Eason whispered, “Remember we have to catch him in the act. Before that, he’s just a man out on the midnight walk.”

Diego understood. He began to breathe more shallowly, his mind telling him even his breath would give away their position. Moore, on the other hand, fidgeted in his position.

“Don’t move,” Eason commanded.

The shadowy figure made his way along the perimeter of the group of cattle. Curiously, he reached out a hand and touched the romp of each cow.

Diego frowned. “What is he doing?”

Eason shushed him. “Wait and see.”

The man continued to walk around the perimeter. If he kept going that way, he would get perilously close to where the lawmen had stashed their horses. If he found the horses, all bets were off.

That seemed to be the thinking of Deputy Moore as well. “He’s gonna find the horses,” he hissed.

“Let him,” Eason said. “It means we have the element of surprise.”

“Why don’t we surprise them right now,” Moore said. He moved. Small pebbles dislodged and tumbled down the outcropping.

The shadowed man heard and turned toward the sound. He drew his gun and aimed, the barrel swiveling back and forth, not sure from where the sound came..

The lawmen already had their guns in hand. Under earlier orders from Eason, they held their fire. Besides, even with starlight, they couldn’t get a direct bead on the shadowed man’s location. But when the man opened fire at them, the blossom of flame from his muzzle would give them all the pinpoint direction.

A lead slug pinged near Diego’s face. He reacted without thinking. He pulled the trigger of his gun. Moore did the same. Eason held back. Gouts of fire poured out from the barrels of their revolvers. The shadowed figure fell in a clump.

“Dammit!” Eason said. “I said hold fire until he did something.” He sighed, sending plumes of dust in the air. He holstered his weapon and got to his feet. “Come on.”

Diego felt chastened by his mistake. He had reacted without thinking. Typically that was a good trait for a lawman to possess. But he was still learning. Sheriff Eason, to his mind, was the best teacher in the world. Now Diego had disappointed him.

Eason, Diego, and Moore trundled down the outcropping and approached the shadowed figure. Not knowing if they had killed him or not, they approached from three different angles. The two deputies still held their guns.  Eason approached unarmed.

The downed man law sprawled on the ground. His gun hand was empty. Eason kicked the pistol out of reach just in case. The dark patch under the man was likley blood. The more Diego looked at the patch, the larger the patch got. It was blood alright, seeping out of the wounded man and being soaked up by the dry ground.

Eason reached into a pocket and flicked a lucifer match to life with his thumbnail. He crouched down and brought the light closer to the dead man’s face.

“Oh no.”

Available at Amazon.

Now Available: A Father's Justice: A Junction City Western

A man shouldn't outlive his son. Neither should his killer.

IN A SEARING NEW WESTERN FROM AUTHOR S. D. PARKER, you will discover all a father will endure to see justice done right by his murdered son.

Luke Russell was a cowpuncher, making an honest way in the world at one of the biggest ranches outside of Junction City. But he got himself in trouble over a girl, and he paid the ultimate price.

Now, a stranger's in town, asking after Pete Davidson, the man who put a bullet in Luke Russell's gut. This stranger is old, and folks realize it's Luke father, come to kill Davidson. The gunslinger is young and vibrant, just like Luke Russell was. The old man doesn't stand a chance.

Or does he?

The answer comes in a brand-new western written in the style of Robert Vaughn, Louis L'Amour, and Chet Cunningham.

Excerpt

Available at Amazon.

A Father's Justice: Excerpt

Excerpt from A Father’s Justice: A Junction City Western

Description

Now Available at Amazon.

Chapter 1

If there was one thing bartender Hector Alonzo knew, it was trouble. And when he got a look at the man standing outside the Lampasas Saloon, Hector’s gut clenched into a tight, little knot. He finished pouring a mug of beer for the two ranch hands leaning on the bar and sidled over to where the two parts of the bar formed the crux of the L and waited. His thick fingers casually caressed the smooth oak of his shotgun’s stock, the gun within easy reach of the proprietor but out of view from all the patrons.

The stranger was tall and rangy. He looked like he spent his days astride a horse. The brim of his brown, sweat-stained hat was pulled low, obscuring all but the hard jaw, which was unshaven. The stranger’s lips were drawn into a thin line, almost like a grimace. His clothes had seen better days as well. Sweat stained his armpits, chest, and collar. His pants had patches mending the frayed fabric. His boots were well worn. A pistol, a Colt by the look of the worn handle, was slung low on his right leg, held in place by a leather thong around his thigh.

Hector recognized the type. He stood behind the bar, polishing glasses and cleaning up from the lunch crowd. The ranch hands were the only customers remaining. From the back came the sounds of pots being scrubbed and readied for the evening. The late afternoon sun slanted into the saloon from dusty windows, giving the interior a muted glow.

The stranger paused just inside the batwing doors. He turned his head long and slow, taking in the saloon. His scan paused a moment to inspect the poker tables, empty and waiting for the evening’s patrons. His eyes followed the stairs up to the second floor with the rooms that featured Hector’s other business offerings. The stranger’s mouth twitched. Finally, his eyes met Hector’s. Even though this was his place, Hector inwardly shrank a little under the steady gaze.

As the stranger entered the Lampasas Saloon, a gust of wind followed him, bringing with it the scent of horse manure, dust, and grime. He wore no spurs. The only sound he made was the soft clomping of worn heels.

“I’m lookin’ for Pete Davidson.” The stranger’s voice was old, aged with smoke, and hardened by time out on the range.

Hector knew Davidson. Everyone in town did. Hector only wondered what fresh hell Davidson had cooked up to get another man to come looking for him.

To the stranger, Hector said, “He ain’t here.”

“I can see that.”

Slowly, the stranger walked to the bar. Outside, passersby went about the business of Junction City. The courthouse lawn was free of people on this Saturday afternoon. The Gilmour children walked with their mother across the street, a rangy dog followed them. The clip-clop of hooves and a squeaky wagon wheel pierced the stillness of a late summer’s afternoon.

The stranger reached the bar and leaned on it. “Can I get a beer, please?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He laid it on the wood pockmarked with knife marks and carvings.
Hector retrieved a fresh glass and filled it. He slid the coin into his hands and stepped back, putting his butt against the far wall. “Why’re you looking for Pete?”

The stranger removed his hat and set it on the bar. His matted hair was predominantly gray. What color remained was brown.

“That’s between me and him.” He downed half the brew in a single gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar.

Hector had the impression the stranger had forgotten all about him. It wasn’t until Hector fidgeted that the stranger again took notice of him.

“You ever know you have to do something but don’t know if you’ve got it in you?” the stranger asked.

Hector was used to men talking to him, giving up their secrets. But that was from men he knew. “I reckon.”

The stranger shook his head. “Bet you have more than one cuss saying something like this?”

Hector nodded. He spoke when he realized the stranger wasn’t looking at him. “Yes.”

The stranger took another swallow. He drew his attention to the bar top and the gouges in it. Knife cuts and initials coated most of the surface. Some men carved their entire names. The stranger traced his hands over one name, his fingers caressing each letter of the name. His beer forgotten, he studied each of the names carved into the wood.

Hector said, “A few boys carved their names into the wood. I used to get after them, made them fix up what they did. But as you can see”—he indicated a place nearer him—“the fix looks worse’n the carvin’. Pretty soon, I kinda liked having the names in the wood. Became kinda like a rite of passage. New man in town ain’t accepted into town lessen’ he puts his name on my bar.”

The stranger wasn’t listening. He went up one side of the bar then returned to his spot. He moved his beer glass and started reading the names and initials on the other side of the bar.

His fingers stopped on a name. A little gasp of recognition escaped his lips.

Hector moved to see the name that had stopped the stranger. “Luke.” Hector’s blood froze in his veins. He remembered the man who belonged to that name. He remembered how he died.

Realization dawned on Hector. “You kin to Luke?”

The stranger didn’t answer. “You knew him?”

“A little.” Hector shrugged. “He was new in town, got shown the ropes by the other cow punchers up on the Alistair ranch. He was a little wet behind the ears, but he learned fast.”

The stranger kept staring at the name. “How did he die?”

Hector hesitated. “Look, mister, I don’t…”

“How did he die?” the stranger repeated, this time in a forceful voice.


For the rest of the story, A Father's Justice is available at Amazon.

A Father's Justice: Description

A man shouldn't outlive his son. Neither should his killer.

IN A SEARING NEW WESTERN FROM AUTHOR S. D. PARKER, you will discover all a father will endure to see justice done right by his murdered son.

Luke Russell was a cowpuncher, making an honest way in the world at one of the biggest ranches outside of Junction City. But he got himself in trouble over a girl, and he paid the ultimate price.

Now, a stranger's in town, asking after Pete Davidson, the man who put a bullet in Luke Russell's gut. This stranger is old, and folks realize it's Luke father, come to kill Davidson. The gunslinger is young and vibrant, just like Luke Russell was. The old man doesn't stand a chance.

Or does he?

The answer comes in a brand-new western written in the style of Robert Vaughn, Louis L'Amour, and Chet Cunningham.

Excerpt

Now Available at Amazon.

The Agony of Love: A Triple Action Western - An Excerpt

What would you do if your wife cheated on you with a dandy of a gambler?

John Hardwick answered that question for himself. Now, he’s about to act on it.

John Hardwick loves his wife like a Shakespeare sonnet: full, complete, and without equal. Unfortunately, John now finds himself in the crucible of infidelity. He knows the other man’s name: Alton Raines, a professional gambler.

John is a good man, not prone to violence, but the images in his mind’s eye—of his wife in Raines’s bed—puts murder in his heart and a gun in his hand.

Available exclusively at Amazon.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

John Hardwick loved his wife Mary like a Shakespeare sonnet: full and complete and without equal. He would memorize the Bard’s sonnets as well as the poems of Byron, Blake, and Browning and recite them to her over dinner or in front of the fire in their little home. Their life was hard—he a farmer, she a farmer’s wife—but he loved it more and more each day. Even when the hardships of farm life took their toll on him physically, he still loved his beautiful Mary. When the farm life robbed her of her ability to bear children, he still loved her.

But even the surest of love could be tested in the crucible of infidelity. John Hardwick found himself in that crucible now as he stared across the saloon at Alton Raines, his head full of things that normally never entered his mind. Images of violence, hatred, and murder boiled his blood. He wondered how loud the shot would be if he stuck his pistol up against Raines’s body and pulled the trigger.

Still, he had to gather his courage. It had taken him over an hour of waiting, drinking, and watching to figure out which patron of the Oak Tree Saloon was Alton Raines . He had asked a couple of men if they knew the. They did, and had easily pointed him out.

Raines turned out to be the dandy sitting at the poker table. His dark hair, slicked back and coiffed perfectly. The mustache neatly trimmed. His suit, gray and adorned with a shimmery purple vest. The black tie formed a perfect knot over a pressed white shirt. Occasionally Raines would check the time on his shiny gold pocket watch. He presented himself in a suave manner, smiling at everyone in the room. Ladies would drape themselves across his shoulders.

All in all, the sight made John Hardwick’s stomach turn. It also brought a tear to his eye. He wasn’t much to look at. He knew that. Long days of sun and wind and hard work had aged him. He looked ten years older than his age of thirty. His eyes had developed permanent crow’s feet. His hands looked like an old man’s. And his shoulders sagged a bit, even when he wasn’t carrying heavy equipment or hay bales.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar and felt an utter dislike for what he saw. Also in the reflection was Raines. It appeared that the two of them were side-by-side. Any doubt as to the idea of what he was about to do vanished in an instant.

John turned and sauntered over to the poker table. There was an empty seat now since a skinny blonde man stormed off in a huff after losing all his money. “Mind if I sit in?”

The remaining men seated at the table stared up at him. Raines sat opposite the empty chair. On the left was a burly red-headed brute of a man. When he held the cards, they looked like playthings in his oversized fists. To the right was a man he knew: Christopher Allen, the owner of the local tannery. The smell of the chemicals on his clothes wafted up and tickled John’s nose.

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Allen said. “Paul?”

The red-headed man downed the last of his beer. He wiped his mouth with the collar of his shirt and shook his head no. He raised the empty mug and signaled for another.

“Alton?”

All eyes turned to Raines. The dandy took his time answering. John felt like he was a prize hog being inspected for quality.

“Can you pay?”

John Hardwick nodded. “Yes, I can.”

Raines gestured to the empty chair. “Then by all means, have a seat.”

John pulled the chair out and sat. It was a good thing, too, since his legs had begun to shake. The closer he got to going through with what he needed to do, the more nervous he became. The hard leather of his holster thunked on the wooden chair and he had to adjust his posture to accommodate.

A barmaid brought Paul’s mug of beer and set it in front of him. He leered lecherously at her exposed cleavage. He mumbled something John found inappropriate and he felt it his duty to save her.

“Ma’am,” John said, “might I have a beer as well?” He turned to Allen. “You want one?”

“Whiskey’s fine with me.”

John faced Raines. “How about you, Alton?”

“It’s Mr. Raines. I’m fine.” His voice was a smooth baritone, the kind of voice that belonged in a choir or behind a pulpit, and not in this den of sin.

The barmaid left and Raines began to shuffle the cards. “How much you in for?”

John reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a wad of cash. Allen’s eyes widened in surprise. “Tarnation, John. That’s a lot of money. Where in the world did ya get it all?”

Where indeed? John had discovered the love letter written by another man tucked discretely into a book of poems he had given his wife on their fourth anniversary. The letter was full of affectionate sentiments that made John cry. At first, he felt the emotional punch in his gut. Then lost his lunch. Mary Hardwick had been out of the house for the afternoon so she was spared John’s immediate wrath. In the afternoon hours of that day, as he toiled under the broiling sun, he thought about what to do. What to say.

In the end, he said and did nothing. He planned. He intended to take his husbandly revenge out on the man who signed his name “Alton Raines.”

Available exclusively at Amazon.

The Naked Con: A Triple Action Western - An Excerpt

What do you do when you see a naked man cowering behind a rock?

You’ll get the answer in an exciting new western from author S. D. Parker, inspired by the TV show Maverick and the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

It’s not every day that the passengers of a stagecoach in the Old West see a naked man hiding behind a rock. But the motley group of people on a stage bound for Uvalde, Texas, stop and question Finnegan McCall, naked as the day of his birth. He says he is the new manager at the bank in town and a thief stole all his clothes.

But if Finnegan McCall is telling the truth, then who is the stranger at the bank claiming he is the new bank manager?

And why is this stranger asking the assistant manager to open the safe?

This exciting new Western from S. D. Parker will have you who is whom and what it all means.

Available exclusively at Amazon.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Stagecoach driver Henry Price yanked the reigns of the horse team when he realized the man standing next to the road was stark naked. The man had hid himself behind a large rock and Price almost missed seeing him, but the paleness of the man’s body shone like a beacon in the midday sun.

Price called for a halt. The horses obeyed. The passengers in the stage began to grumble. Dust motes caught in the stage’s tailwind curled around everything.

There was a moment when Price thought about going for his weapon. The shotgun was shucked inside a leather holster on the ledge in front of him within easy reach if outlaws tried to hold up the stage. But this man was as naked as Adam. Both hands were visible. The man’s bare backend proved he wore no gun. Price relaxed.

“Tarnation, mister. Where are your clothes?”

That got the attention of the folks inside the stage. Winston Dennigan, the cattle baron, traveling back to Stonewall, Texas, peered out the window. Jim Stanley, a haberdasher, called up a question to Price. Lilly Bowman, stocky, blonde, and without a husband, opened the door and stepped out. “I want to see this.” She wobbled on legs too long in the stage and looked up at Price. “Where’s the naked man?”

Price pointed to the rock they had passed.

Lilly turned and tried to spy the man who had stopped the stage. She patted her sweaty face with a cloth. “I don’t see him.”

“I’m here,” a voice behind the rock said. “I’m just trying to spare whatever dignity I still have.”

“Why’re you out here in the nude?” Lilly said. She moved closer to the rock and chose a side. She waited for the man to begin speaking.

“I was taking a bath in the river,” the man began, “and I…hey!”

The naked man scurried around the rock to avoid the prying eyes of Lilly who had snuck to the back to catch a glimpse of naked man-flesh. He avoided her eyes but exposed himself to everyone else. He held a small branch of leaves over his privates but his pale rump glared in the sunlight.

“Where’d you go?” Lilly said from behind the rock. “Come back here. I ain’t seen a naked man in a long, long time.”

Dennigan leaned over to Stanley. “I don’t believe she’s ever seen a man as God made him. You?”

Stanley just shook his head.

“Ma’am,” the nude stranger said, “I beg of you. Have some decency.” One hand held the branch. The other, with fingers splayed, covered his butt. He backed away and leaned up against the rock. “I need help.”

“I can help,” Lilly said. She had come around the rock and stood next to the man. She leaned on an elbow and gave the stranger a long look up and down.

“Mister,” Price said. Ostensibly he was in charge, since he was the stage driver. His passengers were his responsibility, and the Pine Cove Stage Company prided itself on an excellent record of avoiding any hold-ups or Indian attacks. No record existed on meeting naked people in the wild. “How’d you come to be in your unique predicament?”

The man, tall, clean shaven, with tousled brown hair, bowed at the neck. “Thank you, sir.” He warily eyed Lilly out of the corner of his eye. He adjusted the angle of the branch to better hide himself.

“My name is Finnegan McCall.” He didn’t have a trace of an Irish accent. “I was traveling by horse to Uvalde. I was road dusty and weary so I thought it a good idea to clean myself up before I arrived in town. First impressions and all. I hitched up my horse, a beautiful gray beast I call Molly, and went down to the river. Which one is this?”

“The Frio,” Price said.

“Ah, yes, the Frio. Explains why it’s so cold. I wanted to get good and clean and, with no one coming around here, I thought it a good idea to, um, make all parts available for cleaning by bathing in the nude.”

Lilly whistled softly. She continued to mop her brow.

Stanley said, “Didn’ja figure someone might come along?”

McCall bowed again. “Quite right, sir. But no, I thought I’d have more than enough time to bath and redress before anyone saw me. I even had my undergarments in case someone did stumble upon me.”

“So what happened?” Dennigan asked. He lit a cigarette.

McCall gave a sheepish grin and a shrug. “The water felt so good, so refreshing that I kept swimming. I swam across the river and back. It so invigorated me that I did it three more times. It’s not far to the other side, maybe about fifty feet. By the time I done that, I felt great. I got out of the water, went to the branch that held my undergarments. They were nowhere to be found.”

He paused in his story. His hair, soft and billowy without any pomade in it, wafted in the fair breeze. He switched the branch to his other hand. Lilly craned her neck to get a better look.

“What business do you have in Uvalde?” Price asked.

McCall snapped his fingers. “My apologies gentlemen. And lady. I am the new bank manager at the Farmer’s Mercantile Bank. The home office down in San Antonio sent me up here to replace”—he thought a moment, trying to remember the name—“Elmer Curtis, I believe.”

Stanley looked to Dennigan. “How long’s it been since Elmer passed?”

“A week.” To McCall, Dennigan said, “I’m guessing your credentials are in your saddle bag.”

“Undoubtedly, assuming the bandit didn’t throw them away. I would be much obliged if I could get a ride into town and see if we can’t solve this little conundrum.”

“There’s another conundrum you haven’t accounted for,” Price said. “You’re nude.”

McCall cleared his throat and craned his neck to see where Lilly was. Somehow, she had inched herself closer to him. “Of course.” He took in the features of each man. Stanley was short, probably at least four inches under McCall’s six-foot frame. Dennigan was about the same height and build. 

“Do you have any extra clothes I might wear into town?”

Dennigan shook no. “I woke up this morning in my own bed and I’ll be sleeping in it tonight. Didn’t need to carry extra clothes.”

Price still sat atop the stage. McCall couldn’t gauge his stature. “How about you?”

The driver slightly chuckled. “I’m in the same boat as Mr. Dennigan.”

From McCall’s left, Lilly edged closer another inch or two. “I’m returning from a week down in San Antonio to visit my sister.” She used her head to indicate the bag on top of the coach. “I’ve got something you could wear.”

McCall gulped. She was a tall woman, nearly as tall as he. “Please tell me you packed something other than dresses.”

The grin on her face widened, looking like a cat after eating a chicken. She merely shook her head.

The men started to laugh. Price stood and unfastened Lilly’s travel bag. “It beats arriving in the suit God gave you at birth.”

Lilly trotted over and retrieved her bag. She opened it, rummaged around, and pulled out a long dress. It was red and white striped. It more closely resembled a table cloth than a dress. She walked back over to McCall and extended her arm with the dress.

He reached for it but she pulled it back. “Since this is an exchange, I’d like a little something in return.”

McCall dreaded the answer. “Madam, I am hardly in a position to offer anything.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Not entirely true.”

“Once I get into town and hopefully recover my clothes and belongings, I will gladly pay you.”

“I don’t want money.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“A kiss.”

No one spoke for a moment. The silence was broken by Stanley spitting on the ground. “That’s a fair trade, mister. Hurry it up so we can get back home.”

McCall nodded. “But later. Only after I am fully restored in my own clothes.”

“Deal.” She held out the dress again.

McCall snatched it with his free hand. He edged along the rock, making sure his backside wasn’t exposed. “And you stay here,” he told her, “while I change.”

He vanished behind the rock. He dropped the branch and held out the dress to verify the front. He shimmied into the garment, straightened out the sleeves, and looked at himself. Thankfully, the dress extended to the ground. He sighed.

Walking around the rock, the three men guffawed heavily when they caught sight of him. He shrugged, resigned to his fate. Lilly caught his hand and escorted him to the stage. “You can sit next to me.”

McCall followed, gingerly walking on bare tiptoes. He tried to climb the steps into the stage but couldn’t manage.

“You’ll have to hike up the dress,” Dennigan said. That brought fresh peals of laughter from the men.

McCall stepped back and turned to Lilly. “Madam, if you please, show me how it’s done.”

Lilly stepped forward, grabbed handfuls of cloth and pulled up nearly to her knees. She stepped inside and sat. She patted the place next to her.

McCall, awkward movements and all, mimicked her actions. He climbed aboard the stage and joined her on the seat. She was uncomfortably close.

The other passengers returned to the stage and Price whistled to the team to start up again.

Available exclusively at Amazon.

Western Words

I live and write in 2016, the 21st Century, and there isn’t any real way to know how folks talked in the Old West. The only way to discover what words people used in conversation is to read then-contemporary documents and glean what I can and put it in my stories.

There is, however, another way: western novels and stories. From the earliest days, authors sometimes had the opportunity to interview real old west cowboys. Or these future authors—I’m thinking of Edgar Rice Burroughs or Lester Dent—they actually grew up around some of these cowboys. No matter how the early 20th Century authors got their data, they put what they learned or knew into their stories.

Over the years and decades of western writing, a vocabulary of how writers described things emerged. A more or less common way to make these cowboy heroes, villains, and lovely ladies speak also emerged. Ever since the first western I read, I quickly realized that western writers simply had their own unique vocabulary.

So I started reading westerns with a pencil in hand.

Every time I came across some new term, I’d circle the word. Every new-to-me western I read, I repeated this practice. It’s second nature to me now. Even the Longarm novel I picked up in Austin last weekend—Longarm and the Bank Robber’s Daughter—has multiple new words for me. Even when I read stories on my Kindle, I highlight words and phrases and collect them when I'm done.

Now, I have an ever-growing “database” of words I can use to sprinkle into my Triple Action Western stories and give them more authenticity and help the reader—and me—become immersed into the world of the Old West.

Now Available: The Tale of the Naked Man

It’s not every day that the passengers of a stagecoach in the Old West see a naked man hiding behind a rock. But the motley group of people on a stage bound for Uvalde, Texas, stop and question Finnegan McCall, naked as the day of his birth. He claims to be the new manager at the bank in town and a thief stole all his clothes.

But if Finnegan McCall is telling the truth, then who is the stranger at the bank claiming he is the new bank manager? And why is this stranger asking the assistant manager to open the safe?

Available exclusively at Amazon.

$0.99

Now Available: The Agony of Love: A Triple Action Western

John Hardwick loves his wife like a Shakespeare sonnet: full, complete, and without equal. Unfortunately, John now finds himself in the crucible of infidelity. He knows the other man’s name: Alton Raines, a professional gambler. John is a good man, not prone to violence, but the images in his mind’s eye—of his wife in Raines’s bed—puts murder in his heart and a gun in his hand.

Available exclusively at Amazon.

Expanding the Portfolio: Triple Action Western

Today at DoSomeDamage.com, I talk about the introduction of the new Triple Action Western series of short stories and novellas launched this week at Quadrant Fiction Studio: http://www.dosomedamage.com/2015/09/expanding-portfolio.html