Excerpt of Wolf Creek Book 3

MURDER IN DOGLEG CITY

PROLOGUE

  

Laird Jenkins had been in so many saloons, gambling dens, and houses of ill repute across the West that he couldn't even begin to remember all of them. Sometimes it seemed to him that he had spent his entire life breathing in the distinctive yet dubious perfume blended from tobacco smoke, stale beer, whiskey, piss, unwashed human flesh, bay rum, and cheap lilac water.

One thing he knew: the dens of iniquity here in Dogleg City, the less savory area of the settlement known as Wolf Creek, weren't any different from the ones he had visited elsewhere, with one or two exceptions.

The place he was in at the moment, Asa's Saloon, was one of those exceptions. It was owned by a black man, something you didn't see every day. Many of the clientele were black as well, but not all—there were a handful of Mexicans and a few white men who looked down on their luck. Not the sort of place Laird would normally choose to drink in, but he wasn’t really there to drink. He was there to do a little business with Asa Pepper. That business wasn't concluded yet, but Laird thought he had made a good start on it.

Without saying good night to anyone – there wasn't anyone in here that he would want to strike up a social conversation with, as Asa’s customers tended to be the dregs of the town – Laird left the saloon. He paused on the boardwalk just outside to take a deep breath of the night air and clear some of the saloon fumes from his lungs. He was about to head toward the Imperial Hotel, ready to turn in for the night, when an overpowering urge struck him. He turned the other way, toward the nearby alley, and started fumbling with the buttons of his fly.

Damn, he told himself, he wasn't old enough to be plagued like this. He ought to have a few years left, at least, before he started having to hurry these things or else he'd piss his britches.

The darkness of the alley folded around him. He got himself set, ready to relieve his bladder. And then, wouldn't you know it, the blasted thing went balky on him and refused to do anything.

With that to worry him, he almost didn't hear the faint noise of someone moving behind him. Laird didn't particularly like the idea of being disturbed at his personal business like this, and he knew as well that robbers often lurked in alleys near saloons, lying in wait for unwary drunks. His hand moved slightly toward the butt of the Colt on his hip.

But maybe it was nothing. A cat or a rat. Or maybe Asa Pepper had followed him from the saloon, deciding that he wanted to hear more of what Laird had to say about how they could both make some money.

“Mister Pepper?” Laird said without looking behind him. “Is that—”

The muzzle flash split the darkness. A blink of orange flame, there and then gone, and as it lit up the alley something smashed into Laird's back, a hammer-blow almost perfectly centered between his shoulder blades. It drove him forward off his feet. His face smashed into the hard-packed dirt of the alley floor. A fierce pain expanded through him, followed by an even more terrifying numbness. In that brief moment while Laird's muscles still worked, he managed to roll onto his back. Dying in an alley behind a saloon was bad enough. Dying with his face in the dirt and shit and trash of that alley was worse.

Laird tried and failed to draw air into his lungs. Everything was slipping away from him, and he wished he could breathe in that heady saloon fragrance once again, just one more time, just . . .

Sample: Wolf Creek: Bloody Trail

Sample from chapter two, by Clay More which is a pen-name for Keith Souter.  Keith was born in St Andrews, Scotland. He studied Medicine at Dundee University and then practiced as a family doctor in the city of Wakefield, England for thirty years. While he was at medical school he started to write children’s stories for a family magazine, but after qualifying as a doctor the exigencies of the job were such that the focus of his writing was on medicine. He has also been a health columnist for almost thirty years and haswritten about a dozen medical and health books. In addition he writes non-fiction books including Schoolboy Science Remembered; The Pocket Guide to Dice and Dice Games; The Little Book of Genius; The Little Book of Golf; Medical Meddlers, Mediums and Magicians – the Victorian Age of Credulity and The Classic Guide to King Arthur. Using the pen-name of Clay More he writes traditional westerns with the Black Horse Westerns imprint of Hale of London: Raw Deal at Pasco Springs; Nemesis for the Judge; Double-Dealing at Dirtville; A Rope for Scudder and Stampede at Rattlesnake Pass. He also writes Scottish-based crime novels as Keith Moray for Hale: The Gathering Murders; Deathly Wind; Murder Solstice and Flotsam and Jestsam. In 2006 he won a Fish Prize for his short historical story "A Villain’s Tale" and writing as Keith Souter started a series of historical mysteries set around Sandal Castle, the ruined medieval castle that he lived within arrowshot of: The Pardoner’s Crime and The Fool’s Folly. Hen. The summer of 2012 the first in his series of Victorian children’s adventures begins with The Curse of the Body Snatchers by G-Press. his website is www.keithsouter.co.uk and his blog is http://west-uist-chronicle.blogspot.co.uk  He is a member of the Society of Authors, The Crime Writers’ Association, Medical Journalists’ Association, International Thriller Writers, Western Writers of America and Western Fictioneers.

. . .

Jim Danby took a final glance at his watch then stowed it inside his vest. He ran the back of his hand against the three days’ growth of stubble on his cheek and stretched himself in the saddle. He was a lean, rangy man of about thirty with a ready, toothy smile and cruel eyes. A product of the War, he and his men had ridden with Quantrill and reveled in the Lawrence Raid. Since then, under his leadership, the Danby gang had become one of the most successful and feared gangs in the West. They had parlayed their wartime skills into bank-robbing. And in Danby’s eyes, they were the best, because he was the best. Planning and ruthless execution were his tenets.

“Any moment now,” he said to Wes Hammond, his lieutenant and comrade of almost ten years.

Wes Hammond nodded dispassionately. Unlike Danby, he was not given to smiling, unless he was doing what he was best at—hurting people. He was about the same age and build as his boss, although with his longer hair, petulant lips and clean-shaven face he looked somewhat younger. He nodded and pulled his hat firmly down on his head.

Danby put a hand on the pommel of his saddle and turned round to face the twenty mounted men. They had gathered out of sight of the town in the trees that fringed the boulders on the other side of Wolf Creek. “Okay boys, we go in as planned, as soon as we hear the first two shots. We cross the ford and hit the town. I’ll take the first column down the main street. Wes will lead the other down the first left, then along Lincoln Street. You all know the layout.”

Wes turned in his saddle. He drew out his beloved .42 Le Mat cap and ball black powder revolver. Not made for fast drawing, it was virtually a one-man artillery piece. With nine shots in its cylinder for shooting from the regular barrel, it also had an 18-gauge shotgun barrel beneath for its tenth shot. He hefted it in his hand and raised it. It had been a popular piece among various elements of the Confederacy. It took time to load—but as a killing piece, he was proud of it. And on a raid such as this, once he had discharged every round, he had his Navy Colts to fall back on.

“We are all armed to the teeth. This will go as smooth as silk. We’re going to divide up into threes and fours. Each group will take one of the sections of the two main streets. Bates and Milton will already have cut the town in two and contained the law, so one man from each group will cover all the alleys and side streets in his section. If anyone so much as pops their head into an alley, discourage them. If they won’t stay discouraged—kill them.”

Danby grinned. Although Wes had needed to be shown who was the master in their early days, he liked to think that he had inculcated and refined a streak of ruthlessness in him. “Ketch and Jackson, you two know what you have to do?”

A stocky young rider at the back grinned. “Sure we know, boss. We shoot every damned horse we see.”

To read more of this entertaining western, you will have to buy the book and now is the time because Wolf Creek Book 2: Kiowa Vengeance is coming soon.