 |
| Honest westerns. Full of dishonest characters. |
Readers are giving Old Haunts great ratings. After two months, the new Steve Dancy Tale has nearly a hundred Amazon ratings for a score of 4.5 and a Goodreads ratings of 4.7.
Here is an excerpt.
What happened next
surprised me. The marshal cold-cocked him from behind with his pistol. The
supposed Cutler offspring crumbled like a scarecrow cut from his supporting
stick. He had been knocked out twice in as many hours. I bet this confrontation
wasn’t how he had envisioned it in his imagination.
The marshal gave
me a sideways glance. “What’s your beef with this man?”
“None. He seems to
think he has a beef with me, but I never saw him before he accosted me on the
train. I told him he was mistaken and asked him to return to his seat. This was
the first I saw of him since.”
The marshal shook
his head, “Well, I guess I gotta sort this out. I’ll hold him for a day or so. Damn,
this morning started out nice and quiet.”
Sharp asked. “Ya
need help with ‘em, marshal?”
“Ah do,” the
marshal replied.
“Give ‘em a hand,
Steve,” Sharp ordered.
“Jeff, I thought
you were offering.”
“Me? Hell, it was
you he wanted to kill. ’Sides, I’ll get our bags and have them sent over to the
hotel. Meet ya at the marshal’s office.” He threw this last over his shoulder
as he sauntered down the platform toward the baggage car.
I laughed and
grabbed my assailant’s legs while the marshal lifted from the armpits.
“What’s your name?”
the marshal asked as we stutter-stepped down the platform steps.
“Steve Dancy.”
“Staying?”
“The General
Palmer … unless you can suggest better accommodations.”
“None better
except Mrs. Prescott’s, but she full up. You say you never saw this man
before?”
“Never. He claims I
killed his father in a street fight in Nevada, but I live in California.”
“You the writer?”
“I am,” I was suddenly
wary. My novels didn’t sell that well. “How did you know?”
“Not that common
of a name. Read all your books. Good yarns. Unrealistic, but that’s to be
expected.” He walked a couple more steps before adding, “Several of your
stories take place in Nevada.”
This man was
smarter than he appeared. “Yes, I lived in Nevada one summer. Many, many years
ago.”
“Happen to kill
anyone?”
I smiled. “Marshal,
my books are all in fun.”
The marshal nodded
toward the man we were carrying. “This man looked serious.” The marshal remained
quiet for a few steps. “Many, many years ago there was a gunman named Dancy. Like
I said, uncommon name hereabouts. That be you?”
There was no question that this marshal was
savvy enough to get the complete story out of the Cutler offspring. I decided
to quit concealing my past.
“I am that Dancy …
and twenty years ago I did kill the man he claims to be his father. Cutler had
raped a woman and was trying to kill my friend. I approached him with my gun
holstered. Things got out of hand and we both pulled. I was not charged … nor have
I ever been charged for any crime. I didn’t deserve my reputation as a
gunfighter, but stories grew. Get exaggerated. I do it myself in my books.”
When the marshal didn’t say anything, I added, “Brian Cutler was a bad man.
Worse, he did his criminal deeds for hire.”
“I see,” he
finally said. “Nothing I can do about it anyway.” He smiled at me. “However, some
of your exploits were in Colorado.”
An uncomfortable observation.
“Passed through Denver many times and lived in Durango for a while. Used to own
a house here. I gave it to Maggie McAllen as a wedding present.”
“That’s quite a
wedding present. You must be nicely fixed.”
“I am,” I answered
without elaboration.
“Hmmm,” was all he
said.
We arrived at the
marshal’s office and plopped our burden onto a narrow cot in a big empty cell.
There was a cot against each wall, so this must have been a communal holding
pen.
After locking the
cell, the marshal asked, “Know Maggie’s pa?”
“Joseph?” He
nodded. “On our way to visit him and Maggie’s family. We ride out tomorrow.” I
paused. “I assume you know him?”
“You might say. He’s
the one who got me started on your books. Also told me some yarns not in your
books.”
“Joseph’s not
talkative.”
“You sure got that
right, but he can get downright chatty in the right circumstances.”
“What might those
be? I’ve never seen that man chatty.”
“Late at night
around a campfire with family and good sipping whiskey.”
That stopped me. “Are
you related to Joseph McAllen?”
He hung the cell
key on a peg behind his desk. “My uncle.”
