For You Oldtimers
Book nine, The Devil's Due (or Buell II for you who've read the first few) was completed today at 3:00 MDT, 90,557 words, 345 pages. Now the work begins.
And it looks like I may have a publisher for book six.
Clouder..
And it looks like I may have a publisher for book six.
Clouder..
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Book nine, The Devil's Due (or Buell II for you who've read the first few) was completed today at 3:00 MDT, 90,557 words, 345 pages. Now the work begins.
And it looks like I may have a publisher for book six.
Clouder..0 -
What's it aboot? 0 -
quote:Originally posted by Zulu7
What's it aboot?
it's aboot oot in a boot...0 -
ahhh Buell has returned 0 -
Clouder -
Didn't know anything about you being an author.
Could you please email me some info ??
ThunderboltRanch@msn.com
Thank you,
Doug0 -
I'll be looking for it at Walmart. 0 -
Good work Clouder. Proud of ya', and for ya' buddy![;)] 0 -
What.....no tease? [:D][:D] 0 -
yea clouder...more info, small tease, complete title list... something 0 -
Congrats! 0 -
Clouder, can these be found at Barnes & Noble ?
and also Congrats!0 -
When you get it published, I want to buy a signed copy... 0 -
Autographed copies for anyone with at least, oh let's say, 330 posts?[8D] 0 -
Paladin Press?
cause that would be sweet.0 -
quote:Originally posted by pickenup
What.....no tease? [:D][:D]
Here ya go Pick---Opening scene.
If he gets back up I'm going to have to kill him. The certainty of the thought, the finality of it, made Buell Mace lose focus for an instant and he regained it by concentrating on the long barrel of the Remington 44. It held steady, aimed at a man who sat on his haunches, shoulders slumped forward, open hands pressed in the dirt.
It was not something Buell wanted to do; as a matter of fact, all he wanted was just to walk away, leave the dim confines of the barn, and maybe swing past Luger's for a whiskey. Anything but another shooting-there'd been way too many already.
Bright rays of winter sunlight pierced cracks in the walls of the stable and sliced through the fine dust that hung in the frigid air. Breathing took conscious effort in the cold, yet surprisingly he felt a bead of sweat start to creep down his spine. Maybe, just maybe, he'll see he's beat and stay down. The hope, a wish really, was denied when the man took a shuddering breath of air and his splayed fingers slowly curled into massive fists.
The downed man raised his head, right eye glistening through a narrow slit; the brow swollen and seeping blood from the welt raised only a minute or so before with the barrel of Buell's gun. His left eye grew wide as the concussive effects of the pistol-whipping faded, and then a look of resolution built as his gaze settled on the muzzle of the revolver.
The tiny hairs at the base of Buell's neck bristled. "Don't get up, Gus," he said loudly, silently prayed he wouldn't, and took a step back.
A chilling shriek was his answer, and the single step rearward his salvation. Contorted features and grasping fingers disappeared in a cloud of smoke and sparks, and the man pitched face-first into the dirt, blood splattering Buell's boots. "Gawddammit, Gus, I told ya not to." A horse slammed back and forth in a stall for a few seconds, and then stood snorting, taking quick looks over its shoulder. Buell knelt down, glanced at the top of the man's head and immediately stood back up again.
The man-door at the front of the stable opened and Simon's head appeared. "Buell?"
"Get outta here, Simon. Go get Doc Princher."
"He dead?"
"Git!"
"You can go back home, but the folks ya knew ain't there no more," an old-timer had once told Buell. It had bothered him at the time, and he'd spent quite a few dark hours pondering it. His best friend, Simon Steele, and he had left Carlisle, Nebraska in 1869, Nebraska a state for less than two years. They'd wound up working at a roadhouse outside of Fort Laramie, in Wyoming Territory; Simon kept the books and he kept order. Simon liked to call it a restaurant, but he knew better. Hell, they were both only nineteen, but, in spite of their age, damned if they hadn't managed to bluff their way through. There, thoughts of home brought only the misery of knowing they'd been forced to leave, so the memories were pushed back. They faded even more when they went their separate ways five years later; Simon to some godforsaken valley in the middle of nowhere; Buell to the gold fields around Idaho City and two years of hard lessons. Fate had eventually brought them together again, and seven years after they'd left Carlisle, they'd come back and the old-timer proved right.
The door opened again and Doc Princher huffed through, pulling it shut. He scowled as he made his way to the sprawled figure. Kneeling, he put his bag on the floor, bent over the man's head for a moment, and shook his own. With a deep sigh, he slipped the two clasps on top of the bag, opened it, and took out a stethoscope. Then, with another glance at the dead man's head, he threw the instrument back into the bag. "Schitt! What's the use? I don't need to tell you, Sheriff-you've seen mor'n your share of these lately." He then grunted to his feet.
"He didn't give me any choice, Doc."
"There's always a choice, Sheriff Mace."
"But-"
"I was against it when the council hired you." The doctor glanced down at the prone form. "This just confirms my fears-again." He clapped the bag shut with an angry snap and picked it up.
"I suppose the street is full?" Buell ventured.
"Course it is. You're a circus, Sheriff, and folks love a good show." He sniffed. "It stinks in here."
Buell followed him to the door and Princher opened it to a tight cluster of townspeople. Simon was front and center, and his furrowed brow irritated Buell: an expression of sadness? For whom? Or was it regret? If so, for what?
"Don't you people have places to be-jobs?" the doctor bawled. "Get the hell out of the way." He swung his bag and the crowd split like a dropped watermelon. Buell followed him through the gap.
"Couldn't you have just avoided him?" Simon called out.
Buell stopped halfway across the street, and turned to face him. "NO! He didn't give me a choice." The crowd at the barn had turned as one to watch.
"That's not what I--he said he was leaving, Buell. It was none of your business."
"What?" A tingling sensation flashed across his scalp. "Say that again, Simon. I wanna make sure I heard ya right."
Simon blinked against the angling sun and his Adam's apple bounced the knot on his necktie as he approached. "He was leaving of his own accord. We had an agreement."
"That was not your place, grocery-boy. I'm the law here until your lip-lickin', side-steppin' friends say I ain't."
Simon recoiled like he'd been slapped. "Well, they may do just that. You're too quick, Buell, you always have been."
"Quick or gut-shot. I've seen gut-shot, Simon. It ain't for me."
Simon glanced at the onlookers. "I'm not going to stand here in the street and argue this."
"Then get the hell outta here-it was you stopped me, remember?" Buell left him there, his supplicant hands held out, and the tight knot of people at the barn door started to shove and pull to be the first inside; no tickets required for the last act.
He'd been there before; smiling at the devil while everyone else hid and watched. Why was it he couldn't let others fend for themselves? Gus Swartz was a crook-thief, liar, bully, and what else? Was he a back-shooter? And Simon? If he had made a deal, had he also told Gus to come see him one last time? The thought made him sick and he cursed his doubts. Not Simon.
Clouder..0 -
Come on whiteclouder, don't stop now, can we have a little more...
Heck with that, can we have alot more[:p]0 -
THANKS [:D][:D] 0 -
Wow, Clouder, I like.....when/where does it go on sale? [:)] 0
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