Howdy folks,
Welcome to the September exclusive newsletter-only preview of my next Sheriff Sol Redding adventure. This is from the final draft of the book which is soon for publication. I just wanted to give you a taste of what’s coming…
The scene: Sol faces off against a local drunk who has stolen his pistol – and a close friend gets caught in the crossfire…
*starts*
Gutierrez held up Sol’s silver Smith & Wesson and spun it around his finger. He giggled. “You’re under arrest, policia.” He hiccupped and fumbled the Schofield. The .45 boomed when it hit the floorboards, and a bullet thwapped into the blood-red wallpaper beside Sol’s head. Gutierrez bent down to pick the revolver up and almost toppled over.
This crockhead is going to beef himself before I can find out what he knows. Sol pulled his Colt Walker from behind him and thumbed the hammer back. “Don’t make me do it.”
Gutierrez squinted up at Sol. His hand closed around the Schofield’s grip. He sneered and raised the pistol. “Go to infierno.”
Sol shrugged and pulled the trigger. His Walker fired, emitting a deafening boom and a cloud of powder smoke that stung his eyes. However, Gutierrez stood unharmed. The sheriff froze in disbelief. How did I miss? He pulled the trigger again, and the revolver clicked but did not fire. Wisps of smoke drifted up from the muzzle. A quick glance showed the chamber had blown wide open.
“Aww, hell,” Sol cursed. He leaped back and ducked down behind an overturned table. The ruined revolver smoked in his hand, and Gutierrez cackled and danced on the spot, waving his revolver in the air and squeezing off a shot into the ceiling.
The sheriff risked a peek over the top of the table, and Gutierrez’s face lit up with a lop-sided smile. He raised his Schofield, the pistol’s barrel looming out of the shadows, its black eye staring Sol into submission. “Adios, sheriff.”
“You waited too long, hombre.” A woman’s voice suddenly ramped up the tension. Sol whirled to face the new intruder. Who—? Alma stood in the doorway, revolver in hand, Gutierrez in her sights. The Ute glared as her finger tightened on the trigger.
Sol waved from behind the table. “Alma, hang fire. We need him alive.”
She glanced at him, distracted. “Why in blazes do we want that?”
“’Cuz I’m the sheriff,” Gutierrez slurred, and fired several times in Sol’s direction. The stolen revolver roared in the close confines of the gambling parlor, leaving the sheriff half deafened. The room filled with gun smoke, and a bottle exploded near his head and showered him with glass.
Alma cried out and flew back through the doorway amid a hail of bullets.
NO. Sol felt as if someone had ripped out his heart. The smoke cleared, but the Ute didn’t reappear. Her shapeless hat lay upside down in the doorway.
Sol’s blood ran cold.
Alma.
What did you think? Like it? Hate it? Let me know at nick@nickbrumbywesterns.com
