Mean Pete--Head Honcho of Mean Pete Publishing

Sunday, November 27, 2016

New Lou Prophet, Louisa Bonaventure Novel Sneak Peek!


I'm about 40,000 words into my next Lou Prophet novel, which means I'm around 10k words from the end. In this one, Lou and the Vengeance Queen split up to follow a gang of kill-crazy cutthroats who have also split up as they journey through the Spanish Mountains, heading toward Mexico. While Prophet shares the trail with one of the killers, Jack Flood and his daughter Nancy, as well as a wet-behind-the-ears cavalry lieutenant, Louisa finds herself on foot and without a gun, having become the killers' prey...

Louisa drew a deep, calming breath, and thought it through. Since there was no way up the wall, she had to get around it. Walking in either direction, east or west, she eventually had to come to an end of the ridge or an easier way up the wall. That route might lay a hundred yards or a hundred miles away, but she had little choice but to look for it.
Arbitrarily deciding to head east, she started walking.
She’d walked maybe ten feet when she stopped and swung to face the river, which she could see glimpses of through the trees. Above the river and the whooshing of the wind in the branches, she could hear hoof thuds again, and men’s voices.
Not finding her tracks up canyon, they’d returned.
Now they’d easily find her sign where she’d entered then left the river, and they’d be on top of her in five minutes.
Louisa looked around, trying to quell the hammering of her heart against her ribs. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere that her tracks wouldn’t lead the killers right to her.
She swung to the wall. It looked as sheer as before, but she found a jagged, vertical seam. Not knowing any other way, she leaped up the wall, grabbed holds where her hands and feet found them, and started climbing.
Behind her rose the pounding of galloping horses.
Louisa released one hold, reached for another, moving her hands and her feet slowly but deliberately and as quickly as she could, amazed that each limb seemed to find something—a small cleft, a crack, or a knob of jutting stone—as though of its own accord.
Soon she was twenty feet, then thirty feet up the wall.
Something smacked the rock wall two feet to her left. It was followed by a Winchester’s belch.
Louisa’s ears rang from the screech of the hot lead off the rock way too close.
She paused, trembling, fingers and toes aching where they clung with all their might to their holds. She looked straight down the wall. The three riders sat at the base of it, staring up at her without expression, their eyes dark beneath their hat brims. Even their horses were lifting their heads, looking at Louisa clinging desperately to the ridge wall.
Apache Wade cocked the carbine in his hand with menacing casualness and slowly raised it to his shoulder.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

New Sheriff Ben Stillman Novella Now Available!




I just finished a 75,000-word novel about Sheriff Ben Stillman, but I just couldn't let him go. So I hammered out a 20k-word novella about him in about two weeks. The story just grabbed ahold of me and wrote itself. I'm not sure where it came from, but here it is...

A High-Powered, Brand-New, Action-Packed Western Novella Featuring Sheriff Ben Stillman...

Ben Stillman is on his way back to his hometown of Clantick after chasing illegal whiskey peddlers. He’s eager to be back in his warm home with his wife and young child. But when he runs into a saloon owner who’s been robbed, his best whore killed, the sheriff of Hill County finds himself on the trail of two young thieving killers, with a hard winter storm bearing down.

The saloon owner himself, John Stock, rides along with Stillman. Stock isn’t much help. He’s a loudmouthed drunk, and he ends up getting his horse shot out from under him.

Still, he and Stillman plod deep into the Missouri Breaks, on the trail of the two whore-killing thieves. Their trail leads them to Perdition Bend—a notorious outlaw hideout. There, surrounded by wooly-eyed outlaws with itchy trigger fingers, Stillman feels like the lone jackrabbit at a rattlesnake convention...

What’s even worse than the menace he’s surrounded by is the fact that the two young thieving killers are not who he was led to believe they were. And that nothing in this stormy hellhole is as it seems. Nothing, that is, except the nasty sting of hot lead and the coppery stench of blood!

From the book:

She gave Stillman an anxious look. “What’re you gonna--?”
The young woman’s question was clipped by a rifle crack muffled by the storm. The storm didn’t muffle the burning punch to Stillman’s right arm, however. It had popped through the waxed paper covering the window left of the door. The force of the slug lifted the sheriff a foot off the floor and hammered him straight back to the scarred wooden puncheons, which he hit with a thundering boom and a hard grunt.
His hat tumbled away.
Iris screamed.
Outside, a man shouted.
Stillman lay staring in momentary shock at the ceiling, gritting his teeth against the pain in his upper right arm. The front door exploded inward, and there was a deafening cacophony of gunfire. 
Check out RATTLESNAKE CONVENTION at Amazon

Saturday, October 8, 2016

New Bear Haskell Book Chapter One!


The third Bear Haskell book will be up on Amazon on Monday. Here's the first chapter...

Chapter 1

 There was a slithering sound, like that which a snake makes crawling through sand...
Jamie Lockhart opened his eyes to see a shadow grow before him in the nearly impenetrable darkness of Hell Hole, as the dungeon was called at the Colorado Territorial Penitentiary in Trinidad.
The shadow stopped near where Lockhart slumped. A vertical white line appeared. As it did, a fetid smell, like that of something dead, assaulted Lockhart’s nose. Hell Hole characteristically smelled like something dead—namely the numberless dead men who had died in Hell Hole’s bowels, as Lockhart figured he himself was bound to do. But this smell was ripe enough to rival even those.
“Lockhart.”
The voice was raspy and deep, like the roll of a distant drum. It was then that Lockhart realized that this new death smell was not a death smell at all but the smell of a man’s breath. He recognized the voice.
“Mic?” Short for McGeehy. Oscar McGeehy. One of three of Hell Hole’s “hounds”, which was what the dungeon’s guards were called.
The Three Hounds at the Gates of Hell.
Each fit the description, too, for they were large, animal-like men with heavy fists and shoulders and flat, dead eyes. Brutal men. Heartless and violent beyond words. They’d leave a dead man in the Hole for days, until he’d swollen up and stunk like an overfilled privy in the hot desert sun, and then they’d come down and haul him out, laughing and cajoling the prisoners who’d had to live with the stench.
“Me, all right,” McGeehy said in his thick Irish accent. “Mic.”
“Christ, Mic,” Lockhart said, shaking off the bonds of a shallow but welcome sleep. “What the hell did you eat for supper? You’re breath would choke a dog off a gut wagon.”
There was a dark flicker of movement, a rustling sound. Mic’s huge fist slammed against Lockhart’s right cheek. It was a sledgehammer blow, slamming Lockhart’s head against the solid stone wall with a resolute smacking sound. Crimson flowers opened behind Lockhart’s squeezed-shut lids. For a few seconds, he felt as though every tooth in his mouth had been jarred loose by the vicious wallop.
Lockhart shook his head, fighting off the grabbing hands of unconsciousness.
“No-no,” Mic said, blowing more of his foul air at Lockhart’s face. “You ain’t gonna pass out on me, Jamie boy. You got places to go. Men to see. Things to do.”
There was a clinking sound as McGeehy plunged a tin cup into the water bucket beside Lockhart. The cup flashed in a flicker of ambient light as McGeehy hurled the water at Lockhart’s face.
Lockhart yelped against the water’s sudden assault, instantly chilling him, sucking his breath from his lungs. He got some of the water down his windpipe, and he choked on it, making strangling sounds in the Hole’s stony silence.
“You fucker, Mic!” Lockhart wheezed. “Oh, you fucker!”
Mic chuckled.
As Lockhart continued to shed the bonds of semi-sleep, he heard the rattle of keys and the jingle of a chain. The slight tug on his left ankle told him that McGeehy was unlocking the stout padlock that held a log chain fast to the shackle that gripped Lockhart’s ankle as tight as a clenched fist. The other end of the chain was attached to a stout iron eye embedded in the stone wall somewhere to Lockhart’s left.
A voice said in the darkness to Lockhart’s right, quietly echoing off the stone walls, “What in the hell you doin’ over there, Mic? You turnin’ Lockhart loose, are you? What time is it? Must be the middle of the night.”
Hans Gunderson was the only other prisoner currently confined in the dungeon. Like Lockhart, he’d been asleep, slumped against the wall, before the guard had shown up.
Mic stopped what he’d been doing. In the darkness, Lockhart saw the big Irishman straighten, turn, and stride over toward Gunderson.
“What you doin’, Mic?” Gunderson said, both suspicion and wariness threading his voice. “Pullin’ Jamie out of the dungeon in the middle of the night...?”
Mic’s footsteps had stopped several feet to Lockhart’s right. The guard’s bulky shadow seemed to hover in the air over there. Lockhart heard the clink of a chain as Gunderson moved his leg, shifting his position against the wall.
“Shoulda stayed asleep, bucko.”
“No, Mic—no!”
There was a muffled yelp. Then a scuffling sound, a strangling sound. Gunderson’s chain clinked as it flopped along the floor. Finally, there was the grinding, cracking sound of Gunderson’s neck breaking. A final grunt.
Silence.
A thud and final clink as Gunderson dropped to the cold stone floor.
Lockhart laughed. “How you gonna explain that, Mic?” He laughed again in delight of the trouble the guard would get into when the warden got wind of a prisoner suffering a broken neck under McGeehy’s watch.
“I ain’t.” McGeehy knelt beside Lockhart once more, poked his key in the padlock. There was the sudden ease of tension as the chain fell away, clinked to the floor. McGeehy’s fetid breath again pushed against Lockhart’s face. “You see, bucko,” he said, “it’s your lucky night. We’re getting’ outta here. Me an’ you—see?”
“Me an’ you?”
“Sure.” McGeehy smiled. “Ain’t that sweet?”
“I don’t know,” Lockhart said, trying to hide his surprise. “You ain’t proposin’—are ya, Mic?”
McGeehy grunted as he slammed another haymaker against Lockhart’s cheek, rattling the prisoner’s brains again.
“Goddamn, you’re a brutal bastard!” Lockhart complained when he’d regained full consciousness once more. His ears rang from the blow.
“Now, you gonna keep makin’ smart?” McGeehy said. “Or you wanna get outta here?”
“How you gonna do that, Mic?” No prisoner had successfully escaped Trinidad Pen in the past seven years. Only three had been fool enough to try in that time, and they’d been shredded with bullets hurled from the guard towers before they’d even made it to the outside wall.
“You just keep your gums from flappin’, an’ follow ole Mic, and I’ll show you. Okay? You understand what I’m sayin’, boyo?”
“Sure, sure, Mic,” Lockhart said. “Whatever you say, Mic.”
He was more than skeptical. Why would McGeehy help him escape? Must be some trick. Lockhart was sure of it. But what did he have to lose?
He’d been in the dungeon for the past six days. Six days after a ten-day stint a little over a month ago for gouging out another prisoner’s eye and shoving it down his throat. He moved only as far as the chain would allow, eating only bread and water, hoping a rat would drown in his water bucket during the night so he could fortify himself with meat.
Dungeon dwellers who couldn’t bring themselves to eat rat meat usually died in the dungeon.
McGeehy removed the shackle around Lockhart’s right ankle. The prisoner cursed and gritted his teeth as the blood flowed freely into the pinched flesh. He could feel it burning like diamondback venom in his foot.
“Come on,” Mic said and moved off into the darkness, in the direction of the ladder. His heavy, cork-soled boots clomped on the stones.
“Hold on, Mic!” Lockhart rasped. “My foot ain’t had any blood in it for six days!”
“Stop pussy-footin’ it or I’ll leave you down here!”
Lockhart hurried after the big guard, limping, wincing as his bare feet ground pebbles and sharp bits of flaked stone, food scraps, and rat droppings. He could see maybe one or two feet in front of him. He almost ran into the wall up which the rope ladder climbed, and would have if he hadn’t heard the creaking of the hemp as McGeehy climbed it, grunting quietly as his bulky, inky figured grew against the hole above, which was a four-by-four-foot square of weak amber light.
Lockhart watched the big man gain the hole, the prisoner’s heart thudding, hoping that this wasn’t one of the sadistic guard’s jokes. As soon as McGeehy was out of the hole and kneeling beside it, beckoning, Lockhart leaped at the rope ladder.
His right foot ached horribly as he climbed, the ladder buffeting around him. Several times his hands or his feet slipped from the raking hemp, and he nearly fell back to the dungeon floor.
His heart turned cold at the thought.
He’d given up on the idea of being released from the dungeon anytime soon, after he’d beaten a fellow prisoner senseless in the prison rock quarry—over what, he couldn’t even remember. In prison society, any slight was reason enough. If you didn’t respond to taunts or threats, those taunts or threats would just keep coming and grow in venom, and you might end up with more and more men against you. In prison society, only the strong survived. They survived by proving every minute of every hour of every day that they were stronger, more savage than the men around them, and not to be trifled with.
More often than not, it cost them time in Hell’s Hole but it was better than the alternative. No, Lockhart had given up on the idea of being let out of Hell’s Hole soon, maybe not for another week or so. But now that that carrot had been placed before him, he found himself chasing it like the most desperate of hungry ponies.
When Lockhart was near the top of the hole, McGeehy reached down, grabbed his arm, and painfully jerked him up out of the hole. Lockhart rested there by the hole on his knees, breathing hard, grinding his teeth at the pain in his right foot, looking around.
They were in the Hell’s Hole entrance corridor lit by two guttering lanterns bracketed to the sandstone walls.
There was a small wood stove and an ancient, overstuffed parlor chair positioned in front of the stove, a seat for whatever guard was posted at the Hole at any given time. A small table stacked with old, brittle, water-stained newspapers and magazines stood beside the chair.
Beyond rose a flight of stone stairs, lit by two more guttering lamps, to a heavy iron door with a barred window. Lockhart studied the door. It was partway open. Odd. Lockhart had spent enough time in the Hole to know that that door was always locked.
What was even odder was that one of the other two guards lay slumped at the bottom of the stairs. That was Bingo Dwyre, a lout from the streets of New York City. He lay with his head cocked back against the corridor’s right wall, his neck bent at an odd angle, blood trickling down from one corner of his mustached mouth. His leather-billed, dark-blue hat lay overturned on the floor near his head.
“Your work, Mic?” Lockhart asked.
“Whose do you think?”
Lockhart curled his upper lip. “You do that for me?”
“Just for you, Jamie me boy. Just for you!”
“You must think I’m mighty special.”
Mic placed a big hand on Lockhart’s left shoulder, grinning down at him, the guard’s long eyes slanted devilishly beneath heavy, rust-red brows. His scraggly mustache of the same color rose with his lips. “Ten thousand dollars worth of special, me boy. Come on!”
“Ten thousand dollars?”
Mic ran up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
Lockhart stared after him, incredulous, then, not wanting to be left behind, he pushed himself to his feet and ran as fast as he could up the steps behind the big guard. He followed Mic through the door, down the long, stone hall, barred windows on each side letting in the cool night air that brought to Lockhart’s nose the smell wood smoke and the perfume of the Colorado desert and the pines of the southern Rockies.
It was intoxicating. Lockhart drew a deep breath as he ran, forgetting about the misery in his foot and ankle.
The corridor seemed to trail off into infinity. To each side were heavy barred doors marking the way to various cellblocks. McGeehy’s large figure was a jostling shape ahead of Lockhart. Sometimes the big guard faded into the darkness altogether and only his running footsteps told Lockhart he was still ahead of him.
They pushed through two more doors, both unlocked. Beyond the last door lay another dead guard—the impossibly fat George Stinson. McGeehy had unlocked the doors beyond Hell’s Hole. And he’d killed two guards. At least, two guards. There might be more.
Lockhart didn’t worry about it. All he could think about now was keeping up to the big guard lest he should get left behind and returned to that stinking pit. A part of his mind still believed in the possibility that this was all a cruel joke being perpetrated by McGeehy for sport—you couldn’t put it past ole Mic—but all that Jamie Lockhart could think about was making it to the outside—to the vast, broad, open night filled with the perfume of the Colorado desert, and freedom...
Finally, they came to a last door. It, too, was open. Another guard lay dead just inside. As he stepped over the dead guard and pushed the door open just enough that he could poke his head out for a look around the consumptives’ exercise yard, McGeehy glanced back at Lockhart now breathlessly catching up to him.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do, boyo.” The guard was also breathing hard, filling the air around them with his fetid breath. “We’re gonna run across the yard here and climb the first wall. Keep to the right, near that tower right there—understand?”
Lockhart brushed his fist across his running nose and said, “Near the tower?” But there was a guard armed with a rifle in each tower.
“Don’t worry about the tower. Just vault the first wall and get into the shadow of that tower as quick as you can. Follow me. I’ll show you where a rope is hanging down the inside of the outside wall. We’re gonna climb it, pull it up, and drop it over the outside wall, and scurry down. Got it, boyo?”
“I got it, Mic—I got it!” Lockhart’s blood was singing in his ears, his heart racing at the prospect of freedom.
McGeehy looked around once more, carefully, and then he bolted forward, crouching low at the waist. Lockhart followed him, barely keeping up, as Lockhart gained the inside wall, near the tower that stood just beyond it, on the inside corner of the outside wall.
Lockhart hurled his big body over the six-foot-high wall, and Lockhart managed to scramble up the wall, as well. Clumsy from pain and weakness, from being chained up for six days and nourished by only bread, water, and the occasional rat, he tumbled down the other side to land with a grunt in the dirt.
Shhhh!” McGeehy admonished, crouching over Lockhart. “You tryin’ to wake the bloody dead, ya bloody fool? For the love of all the Saints in Christ’s heaven!”
Lockhart scrambled to one knee and looked at the brick guard tower facing him on his right, in the northeast corner of the outside wall. He could see only darkness there beneath the tower’s peaked roof, but there had to be a guard in there, armed with a Sharps rifle. The guard had to have heard Lockhart and McGeehy running, and Lockhart’s fall.
Why hadn’t they been perforated by bullets?
Because the guard in the tower had thrown in with McGeehy, Lockhart told himself, and smiled as he ran behind the big guard toward the outside wall. The rope was there—hanging down the inside of the wall, right where McGeehy had said it would be.
An elaborate plan. One that had been sketched out well in advance. McGeehy had been paid ten thousand dollars to squirrel Jamie Lockhart out of Trinidad Pen.
Why?
Never mind. He’d likely find out soon.
They climbed the rope. It was easy. Lockhart had no trouble. Freedom beckoned. His foot felt fine. He could feel his hands bleeding from the hemp’s rough rake, but there was no pain. All that his brain registered of that climb was the perfume of the desert in his lungs, and the hammering, aching prospect of freedom after wasting away for the past ten years in the pen.
McGeehy dropped to the ground at the base of the outside wall. The light of a sickle moon shone in his eyes when he looked up at Lockhart dropping down behind him. Lockhart released the rope, hit the dirt, and rolled.
“What now, Mic?” he whispered in the darkness, the open night enshrouding him, nearly taking the breath from his lungs. There was the moon, rising over those spindly trees by the river’s cut. My god, the moon!
It appeared close enough to reach out and grab in his fist...
“We cross the river, boyo,” McGeehy said. “We cross the river. Don’t worry—it’s dry. There’s a break on the other side, near a big cottonwood. If all’s gone accordin’ to plan, two horses will be waiting for us there. Their saddlebags will have a change of clothes in ‘em for both of us. Come on, boyo—we’re almost home!”
“Hold on, Mic.”
“What is it?” McGeehy glanced behind him.
Lockhart had found a fist-sized stone. He lunged forward with savage grunt and rammed the rock against the dead center of McGeehy’s forehead.
The guard dropped like ten tons of hard freight.
When he was down and groaning, blinking, trying to shake off the assault, Lockhart beat his skull to a bloody pulp, trying to stifle his own laughter.
“There you go, Mic,” he said, wheezing. “That’s for everything.”
He dropped the rock and removed the man’s socks and boots. He donned the socks and boots. They were too big for him, but Lockhart didn’t care. He grabbed the guard’s revolver from his holster, blew the dead man a kiss, and ran for the dry riverbed and freedom.

And revenge.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

My Pal and Comic Book Writer and Novelist Mike Baron

I hardly write about anyone but myself on this blog. Not only because I'm a narcissist, but because I'm busy as hell--writing, writing, writing. And running my  young Australian shepherd over hill and dale. I'm devoting this post to my pal Mike Baron, a long-time comic book writer who has broken into prose novels of late. Mike's prose work has been slow to catch on, and I hope this blog will help turn that around, because if you've never read Mike Baron, and you like imaginative, mind-blowing, hard-to-categorize fiction, you need to. Mike is a true original. I've loved everything Mike has written including the graphic novel THE ARCHITECT.




Here is a short essay I posted on Facebook some weeks ago.

My pal Mike Baron, creator of the NEXUS and BADGER comic book series, one of the first independent comic book writers back in the 80's, author of the current and mind-blowing BANSHEES, which I just read and has caused me to go on medication. In a good way. Mike and his writing are both unique. Some would say in a good way. Don't ask his wife. If not for Mike, I never would have become interested in comics enough to chase my own gig writing six issues of BAT LASH for DC Comics--penning an origin story for that classic series started in the 60' by Sergio Arogones, who I got to work with on my own series, as well as with the famous and now-deceased John Severin from MAD and HEAVY METAL fame. I owe all of that to Mike, who put me in touch with DC. Mike's a legend in his own time. I mean that literally and not one bit facetiously. He is a true Mid-western original and he deserves a much larger audience today for both his older comic books and his current novels. We used to have great comic book and writerly gatherings in his house in Fort Collins, back when we were (relatively) young and unwashed and full of vim and horse manure. Fun times. Many great, young talents around that table, a couple who went along to the big-time in no small part due to Mike's influence and his getting them early jobs and for which they, like myself, owe him a great deal. Mike always grilled cheap chicken on his little grill, on the floor of his garage, and boiled packaged rice with black beans. That was our staple. With a salad of wilted lettuce and Newman's own vinaigrette salad dressing with a marked down label on it. I wish I was there now, this Friday night, with his dogs leaping around like rabid wolves and esoteric power pop blasting on his boom box, the perfume of Colorado incense mingling with the smell of charcoal and lighter fluid.

Anyway, here are a few of Mike's incredible, mind-blowing books--a combination of fantasy, noir, and comic book action--and I hope you'll take a look and give him a shot.




Notorious for their satanic lyrics, drunken excess and rumors of blood sacrifice, the Banshees shocked the world with their only album Beat the Manshees. Death stalked their concerts--lightning, stabbings, overdoses. The world heaved a sigh of relief when the Banshees all died in a plane crash. Or did they? Forty years later, with no fanfare, they appear in a seedy Prague nightclub. Ian St. James, son of original Banshees drummer Oaian St. James, can't believe his eyes. Ian's attempts to get backstage nearly kill him. In Crowd sends hot young reporter Connie Cosgrove to cover the Banshees along with that old burn-out Ian. Ian falls hard for the stunning Connie who regards him with a mixture of disgust and amusement. As if! The Banshees phenomenon goes viral--are they real or is it all a brilliant publicity stunt? Every time Banshees play someone dies. Is it bad luck or part of some diabolical plan? As Connie and Ian dig into the Banshees' past they find disturbing links to black magic, the Russian mob and an ancient Druidic sect. Death only adds to their mystique as the Banshees steamroll across North America toward a triumphant appearance at LA's Pacific Auditorium. Ian finally grasps the real reason they've returned--to tear a rift between our world and a monstrous evil-- a rift created by an infernal machine built into Pacific Stadium and powered by human flesh.








Check out all of my Mike's work on AMAZON


Sunday, September 4, 2016

New Ben Stillman Novel Now Available!


Sheriff Ben Stillman finds himself in the unenviable position of having to arrest a young man for murder on suspicious evidence.

But the cards are stacked against the young firebrand who calls himself Johnny Nevada. One, Johnny has gotten Judge Hoagland’s daughter pregnant, shaming and enraging Hoagland himself. Two, Johnny warned Dave Bliss he was going to kill him because Bliss ordered Johnny to stay away from Bliss’s daughter, Sarah, whom the young Casanova was also sparking. Johnny made the warning public and two weeks later Bliss was dead.

Now Stillman has Johnny locked up in his jail at the courthouse. The judge wants to try the boy pronto and won’t recuse himself though under the circumstances Stillman knows he should.

The young man’s luck is about to get even worse when unknown men ambush Stillman and try to kill the kid in the courthouse cellblock. Knowing that Johnny Nevada will hang at the very least, or get filled full of lead before he can hang at the very worst, Stillman sees no option but to bust the kid out of his own jail.

With the help of a beautiful and mysterious young woman, Stillman hides Johnny away in a cabin in the Rattlesnake Hills. Now maybe Stillman can get to the bottom of the mystery of who killed Dave Bliss before the hideout is discovered by the enraged judge’s vigilante posse...or the legendary Snake Woman, who supposedly haunts the hills, comes stalking.

Meanwhile, a bank robbery in Clantick interrupts the wedding of Doctor Clyde Evans and Katherine Kemmett, giving the roguish doctor just enough time to reconsider his affection for not only bachelorhood but the pretty young waitress, Evelyn Vincent.

As we've come to expect from Peter Brandvold, king of the fast-action, sexy, hard-hitting western novel, it's all here -- love and death, bullets and blood . . .