BLOOD OF BASS TILLMAN - Now available nationwide!
(Excerpt from Chapter 1)
Bass Tillman hadn’t killed a man in years. Or even thought about it. That was about to change.
He had worked hard to become a respected lawyer in Longmont, Colorado, and leave his wild past behind. Now he was ready to kill again. It was all he could think about as he stared at the freshly dug graves of his son and daughter-in-law.
Behind their last resting place was a silent, split-log farm house and beside it ran a narrow creek favored by overgrown currant bushes, graying willows and aging cottonwoods. Bass stared at the house, then at the ocean of rippling waves of buffalo grass to the west with its faint outline of great mountains. His glazed stare took in the tree-teased ridge in the distance to the east that held carefully planted crops in place.
He saw none of them. A soft, hesitant whisper came from barely moving lips. “’The Lord gave . . . and the Lord . . . hath taken away; blessed be . . . the name of the Lord.’”
Agony ripped at Bass’s soul and jerked him to his knees. Deepening pain tore at the older man’s heart. Grief etched new wrinkles on his wolf-lean face and wetness burned at the corners of dark eyes. How could God let this happen? How could He? Was this God’s revenge for his days as a gun for hire? Was it life’s payment for a time when he didn’t believe in anything except a gun, his own nerve – and the two men who rode at his side? Was it retribution for the lives the three gunfighters had taken years ago?
Only light frost-breath followed his questions in the early spring morning as he laid the shovel on the spring-wet ground beside his knee-length boots and staggered to his feet. Mule-ear straps fluttered with the movement. Hand-made wooden crosses would have to do for now; he would seek proper masonry in town later. Kicking the shovel away to get closer, he stepped toward the cross above his daughter-in-law’s grave and straightened it from a perceived slight tilt to the right.
His need for perfection had not left him even in his stunned sorrow; the graves
themselves were squared off and neatly presented. Even in his young, unbridled days, his proficiency with a gun came more from being accurate than being quick.
“I should’ve been with you.” His voice crackled with the declaration. “Together we would’ve crossed over. Settie would’ve been waiting for us all. Yeah, we would’ve gone down . . . fighting. Together.” He stepped back, his legs not wanting to hold him.
The words rolled out almost gently from the hardened attorney. Like he was talking to a small boy who had lost a pet. Yet he knew the ache within him would never pass. Never heal. Ever. Not even after the murderers paid with their own blood. Not even after he pissed on their dead faces. He was a hard man. Of that, most would agree. But his heart was breaking. Of that, most would be surprised.
Running his tongue across his parched lips, he removed his short-brimmed black hat with the wide silk band. Long, white hair shivered across his shoulders. He wiped his leathery brow with one end of the long silk scarf wrapped twice around his neck and returned the hat to his sweating head.
“Where are You right now, God? I’ve tried hard to believe in You. Yes, I damn well have. You know it, too. So, You hear me wherever You are, understand?” He straightened his slumped shoulders. “By my blessed Settie’s soul, if it’s the last thing I do on this land, I will find the bastards who did this – and I will kill them.”
His lower lip trembled and he bit it to keep the agony from overpowering him. “Jacob, my dear son, and Mary Anne, his beautiful lady, you heard me swear it. So you rest easy now. I’ll settle this for you. I promise.”
Jacob and Mary Anne Tillman smiled at him from memory. Abruptly, their countenances became wretched, bloody bodies, as he found them only two hours ago. He squeezed shut his eyes to hold back the roar of emotion. Some of it escaped and ran down his cheeks. His promise of a revenge quest seemed hollow in the reality of seeing his beloved family no more. Unable to restrain himself any longer, a wail burst from his mouth and tore into the morning air, more like the cry of a badly wounded animal than the sob of a distressed human.
When the sounds would no longer come, he stood shaking.
Most Colorado folks in 1879 thought an older man like Bass Tillman should be sitting on a porch, enjoying his pipe and a good rocking chair. Most likely, they would have thought it, not said it, at least not to his hard face. Too many knew of his reputation as a gunfighter from years before, as well as his intense presentations to juries as an attorney. So far, he had refused to close his law practice in town, especially since his son had accepted the duties of a part-time deputy.
The old attorney took a weak step backward, wobbling; his always-tanned cheeks awash in tears. “Bass, you stupid old man, you should’ve been here.”
Using his own name when talking to himself was a habit that had become more pronounced after his wife’s passing.
“Jacob said he had something important to share with you, Bass. You should’ve guessed it meant trouble.” His mind slipped to yesterday when his son told him that he couldn’t have lunch with Bass and his business partner. Sheriff Babbit needed the young deputy’s help, but that Jacob had something to share when Bass joined him at the farm.
“Did what you wanted to tell me bring this?” he roared into the morning air. “Why didn’t I ask? Why didn’t I ask?”
He hardly looked like the calm man of the gun who faced down three members of the
mysterious Hoodsmen just two years ago – alone – as they tried to leave the Longmont bank after robbing it. Two were killed; the third escaped. The town’s money was saved. Even though the gang itself continued to plunder the region, they gave the town a wide berth from that day on.
Bass Tillman grimaced, fighting for breath that wouldn’t come. He gagged and staggered sideways. New air burst through his anxiety like water through a cracked damn. His entire body shook. Hardly a match for the tales, from newspaper accounts to dime novels, that many knew of Bass Tillman, man of the gun.
His gunfights and the hiring of this ability to cattlemen in need of protection were well known. His two close friends in those glory days, Frank Schafer and Emerson Holt, were nearly as wild and nearly as good with any weapon. Although some had tried to connect them to Jack Slade and his highwaymen out of the Virginia Dale stage station back then, there was no evidence. Only saloon stories. Stories that included his two friends being killed in a Kansas gun battle ten years ago. The details varied with the telling. Even the name of the town where it occurred. The only constant in those tales was that Bass Tillman rode away. Alone. And changed.
“My God, this cannot be,” Bass shouted. “This cannot be. Jacob. Mary Anne. You can’t leave me. You can’t.” He staggered sideways and fell down. Reading glasses spun from his coat pocket.
BLOOD BROTHERS (Coming in 2007)
Excerpt from Chapter 7
It took the farm boy several minutes to climb on top of the medicine peddler’s wagon at the far end of camp. The flat wood roof was surrounded by a trim of gold filigree. Tyrel Bannon laid with his Winchester beside him. Everywhere was quiet and dark. He couldn't tell where the former Ranger John Checker was, or even his friend, Jackson, the savvy black drover. The sleeping captured outlaws were little more than black shapes among the trees. But it made him feel good that Checker and Jackson trusted him with this responsibility. Made him feel like he was truly one of them.
The silence of the night brought rushes of memories and tried to bring back the sense of killing from two days before. He managed to keep the thought away by concentrating on Salome, the medicine wagon dancer. Her face was gone now, hidden in shadow and sleep. Her body was unclear in his memory, but he continued to let her perform her magic on him anyway, replacing her with the ways of the prostitute from Dodge who had introduced him to the ways of the flesh.
It seemed strange; he'd never been so close to a bunch of bad men before. Not like this anyway. When they rounded up the gang with their herd, it was impersonal. Now they were turning into real people. Like Wes Morton. During the afternoon, he heard them talking back and forth, mostly about the things he and his friends cared about. In many ways, they were the same. They talked about women and mentioned Salome. He had strained to hear what they said about her and wanted to tell them that she had smiled at him. He didn't, certain Jackson wouldn't approve.
On the far side of the camp, John Checker slipped unnoticed toward the horse corral. Something in the eyes of the war party leader had warned him. That and knowing Comanches. Business-like and practical, they would return and would go for the horse herd first. So many fine mounts was a worthy prize on any day, especially the two handsome stallions. Their leader, Lightning, would point to the moonless night as a further indication of his power over the black shaman.
Putting his Winchester over his shoulder and chest with a rawhide thong connecting the weapon, Checker climbed an old cottonwood tree just above the horses. Twenty feet off the ground, he chose a level area, created by three thick branches growing close together from the trunk. Sitting cross-legged, he cocked his rifle slowly to keep the sound consistent with the night's music. He didn’t think the Comanches were close yet, but it was smart to be careful. Just in case.
Fatigue pushed at the corners of his mind and body. Sleep had been only fitful rests, always in the saddle, as he had searched for his niece and nephew. He fought to concentrate. When the Comanches came, it would be like the softness of sleep. At least, the night was his ally. He could always see – and track – in the darkness. Stands-in-Thunder said it was because Checker's spirit helper was the wolf. Whatever it was, nighttime withheld no secrets from him. Instead, he always felt he could see more accurately at night than during the day. It was like all the unimportant details and colors faded away from his perception, leaving only whatever he needed to see. His ability to track men at night was legendary among Texas Rangers. Almost as great as his reputation with a gun.
But they wouldn't come until the new day was promising them salvation if they died. The night itself would be long – and filled with memories. He let his tired mind wonder back to Sarah Ann Tremons, daughter of the town doctor. For most of the ride, she had been only a daydream away. Her kiss when he left burned on his lips even now. Could he start over in Dodge? Could he leave behind his reputation and find peace? Would she be interested in a life with him? Would she?
He had promised Johnny that he would rebuild their ranch. Were they just words to calm a boy or was it actually something he longed for? Sonny, too, had offered to stay behind and help. His attachment to Amelia's children was obvious. So were his feelings for her. Would his sister be interested in him – after she recovered? If she recovered, his mind corrected. If she recovered.
Where had Star McCallister gone? He had told Bannon that he wouldn’t be bothering Checker anymore as the rode away. Would Marshal Rand be there when they returned to Dodge or would he have fled from Checker's threat? It was clear the lawman had been involved in the gang's escape. Checker intended to hold him responsible for the death of their two friends helping guard the jail. Did he really want to confront Star McCallister again? What if he caught up with his half-brother and Star wouldn't surrender? What if it came to a gunfight? Hopefully, the outlaw leader would head to St. Louis or Kansas City and stay there. It would be the smart move, Checker thought.
His head nodded against his chest and John Checker was asleep. The night drifted through the plains without disturbing him. He stirred. Not aware initially of where he was. He jerked awake as he remembered he was up in a tree. A glance around the darkened land indicated all was well. A faint blush of rose told of a dawn not far behind.
As his eyes began to review the herd below, the darkness signaled its concern by becoming noticeably quiet. Too quiet. Something had silenced the night creatures and it wasn't the coming daylight. That was an hour away. He studied the horses in the corral, looking for indications of advancing warriors. He didn't have to wait long.
The lead mare's head came upright; her ears straight up, listening. A glance at the nearby trees told him both stallions were alert and agitated. With ears laid back, the bay began pawing the ground and snorting. The dun struggled against the rope and reared twice, flailing its front hooves.
Comanches were sneaking up from that direction, from the south. Three crawling warriors appeared as if manifesting out of the night air. One moment nothing was there and the next, three men were nearing the ropes. They hadn't made a sound. They hadn't disturbed the horses, except for the wariness of the mare and stallions. They wouldn't.
Checker eased his rifle into position.
COMING WINTER 2004!
THIRTEENTH BULLET
Pocket Books from Simon and Schuster
Young Texas Ranger Time Carlow nearly dies from an ambush set by the notorious Silver Mallow gang. He recovers, thanks to his superstitious uncle, “Old Thunder” Kileen, a tough Ranger who raised him. Together, they seek revenge from a town that turned against them – and to settle the score with the mysterious Silver Mallow and his band of outlaws.
Young Texas Ranger Time Carlow and his highly superstitious Ranger uncle, “Old Thunder” Kileen are after the notorious Silver Mallow and his outlaw gang. Silver Mallow’s identity is not known but he is considered half-mad and a vicious killer. Rumors indicate he also loves music. In the ensuing battle, Carlow’s friend is killed and Carlow is severely wounded. Kileen takes his near-death nephew, who he raised after his mother died, to the hideout of a former girlfriend and former outlaw, Angel Balta. Although she hasn’t seen Kileen for years, she greets him warmly and readily cares for Carlow, like the son she lost years before. After healing, Carlow rejects his uncle’s help and rides away alone to settle the score. Armed with some special information from Angel, Kileen follows his nephew and rejoins him in the battle to capture Silver Mallow.
SONS OF THUNDER
Now Available – Leisure Books from Dorchester
The Return of Rule Cordell
“Ya bother me, preacher, like an itch I cain’t git to,” Mason eased his rifle from his saddle and aimed it at Cordell without moving the weapon to his shoulder. “Lion Graham keeps a’tellin’ us that you really is Rule Cordell. Says he knew you in one o’ them Bible places somewhars. What ‘bout that, preacher?”
“Oh hell, Mason,” Lester said. “Who cares? More important, preacher . . . you hit me . . . in the face.” The narrow-faced Regulator studied the stoic minister with renewed suspicion. “I don’t like . . . getting hit . . . in the face.”
“Wal, ya kin call it crazy if’n ya want – but know he’s a’wearin’ a flower an’ sportin’ outlaw-fast hoss flesh. Thar’s only one man I hear tell of that likes wearin’ hisse’f a flower. Rule Cordell.” The blond Regulator cocked the hammer on his rifle. “Just who the hell are you anyway, preacher-man?”
The narrow-faced man’s hand curled around the rifle across his saddle and added, “I think . . . you’d better pull your hands outta . . . your pockets . . . an’ get down.”
“Sure, boys, anything you want.” Cordell leaned back and raised his pockets toward them, as if freeing his hands. Instead, orange blasts erupted from the coat . . .
SPIRIT RIDER
NOW AVAILABLE! -- Paperback, Leisure Books from Dorchester Publishing
Now a successful Denver businessman,Vin Lockhart was raised by the Oglala Sioux and revered as one protected by their ancestors. Suddenly, they want him to return and save an old friend captured by a gang of outlaws. To rescue him, Lockhart must hear the stones sing or die.
Only the chosen can hear the stones sing their wisdom, the most ancient of beings and the wisest. So believe the Oglala Sioux. Now a successful Denver City businessman, Vin Lockhart was raised by the Oglalas and honored as a warrior of great medicine. But he never heard the stones sing, not even when his young bride was murdered by a vicious Crow war party -- or when he goes after them alone and kills them.
His fellow tribesmen believe their ancestors rode beside him in the battle. As he recovers from his near-death wounds, they come to believe he is a spirit himself. It is too much to bear with his grief and he leaves the village forever. On his travels, he meets an eccentric miner who talks with an imaginary friend and who teaches Lockhart the white man? ways. Together they find gold and become rich businessmen.
But his new happy life is interrupted by Oglala messengers sent by his adopted father, Stone-Healer, a shaman of prominence. They come to ask him to return and find his former brother-in-law who has been captured by an outlaw gang. Lockhart greatly resents the presence of the Oglala warriors, reminding him of
a life he has long ago left.
If he returns, he must deal once again with their belief that he is a spirit. He must hear the stones sing and face the likelihood of death . . . again.
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