Colin Webster. Blood and Silver. Bloomington: Xlibris Publishing, ISBN 978-1-47712-689-9. 2012. Casebound Hardcover.
Overview:
Thorn Carlson is a bounty hunter at the end of his rope, and perhaps his life. He drifts into the wrong town injured and broke, with a target on his back a mile wide. But this isn't just any old west town, where if the gamblers and cowpokes don't kill you, the liquor will. This town has a secret, and Thorn must uncover it if he is to make it out alive!
Book Teaser:
CHAPTER ONE
I looked over the sights of my rifle at the man was about to kill. I
hesitated, just for a moment. I won't tell you I felt any kind of pity for him.
I didn't have that kind of emotional investment in anything anymore, and
hadn't for a long time. Most likely, I never would again. He just didn't
look like the type, that's all. He stood tall and erect, unshaven but with
a strong, open sort of face and clear, intelligent eyes. The paper in my
breast pocket said he was the one responsible for the fact that a woman
and her three children were dead, but I had my doubts. He didn't look
like the sort of man to do such a thing, but you never could tell with a
body, and if I were to let misgivings get in the way of doing my job, well,
I wouldn't be eating much.
Rick Crange was the name on the paper, and he'd manage to escape
the county jail down south, mere hours before becoming the guest of honor
at a gallows affair. He'd protested his innocence all the way through the
trial, but he'd been covered in the victims' blood when they found him,
and that was enough for the court. Still, he'd already been found guilty,
and like I said, it didn't make much difference to me anyway. The paper
I had in my hand promised a reward of a thousand dollais, dead or alive.
Since the result was to be the same., I decided the former option would
save me time and trouble.
I took a deep breath and let it out again, watching the sights settle back
down onto his torso. I'd guessed the range at no more than two hundred
and fifty yards,which with this rifle, lying down behind a log, was an easy
shot. I'd had plenty of time to prepare and could take my time choosing
when to fire.
I'd gotten into position that night, gone without my fire while he'd
cooked and ate his supper over a big one, either not wiring or not having
---------------------------
[8]
the sense to figure someone might just be chasin' after him. I loaded a
long .45-70 cartridge into the Sharps and settled down for a long night,
watching and waiting. I'd already taken the leather strap, which I'd hung
from the barrel, and tied it snugly to my left upper arm, allowing me to
hold the rifle steady as a rock even if I had to make a standing shot at that
distance.
I was amazed at his nonchalance when he rose up without even
looking around, rebuilt his fire, and started making coffee. He'd probably
long since figured he'd given the good folks of Idaho Tertitory the slip,
and indeed he had. I'd rode his trail for the last week, but I'd hung back,
thinking the easy way he'd been riding was surely an attempt to set me up
foran ambush. But the whole time I'd been studying his trail, I noticed he
didn't veer off once to double back or even give much of an effort to hiding
his trakcs. It was almost too easy, and that's what had me worried.
After a week of this, I'd finally figured he really just wasn't given to
carefulness and probably lacked the skills to do much at all to obscure
his passing. His last job had been as some kind of hotel tmnager, but out
west that didn't mean much. Folks out here held all kinds of jobs during
their lifetimes, and this one could well have been riding the cow trails for
years before deciding to settle down to a quiet town life.
Many men would have looked down on what I was about to do,
backshootin' a critter like this, but that didn't bother me none. In fact, my
methods already tended to eatn me the disdain of more than a few lawmen
I'd dealt with. I looked at it as a business. Giving some reprobate a fair
chance or an even draw was a sure way to go out of business first. In short,
the much-vaunted code of honor dime novelists attributed to western men
didn't apply to me one bit.
I didn't shoot because he was moving around the little camp, making
cofiee and a side ofbacon. It smelled pretty good, and I resolved to
take the shot before he ate all of it. I'd been mighty low on funds when I'd
started after him, and I'd run low on chow. I waited for him to set down on
the fallen log he was using for a bench and took aim again. I had a good
shot at his side, and I lined it up to send a four-hundred-grain chunk of
hot lead through both lungs and hopefully, the heart. One good shot will
put down a buffalo,so as long as my aim was true, I didn't plan on having
to take another.
Just an my finger tightened on the trigger, I let up again. Damn it all,
his horse walked right behind him. The heavy bullet would surely pass
through my man and hit the animal if I shot now. And he was already
leading the sizzling meat onto a tin plate, licking his lips with relish. If I
didn't shoot him soon, I'd be out of my chance for a hot breakfast. The horse
stayed where he was, cropping grass.
Click here to order this book available at Xlibris Bookstore, or contact:
Xlibris Corporation
www.xlibris.co.nz
0800-443-678
orders@xlibris.co.nz
Writing A Book?
