Gunsmoke in Silver City (Preview)

Rowdy looked at the homestead, the only home he had ever known. His father had built the three-room adobe house three months after he staked the homestead. Now, smoke poured out of the windows. Fire licked from under the door.

Rowdy figured the fire had already consumed the bodies of his ma and pa. He’d set their bed on fire first. They had looked almost peaceful in death. However, their journey to the end had taken two painful, ugly weeks. Both of their faces showed the ravages of the pox that had ended their lives.

With a deep sigh, Rowdy turned from the smoke-bellowing adobe house and headed for the corral with a lean-to at the far end. Jenny, the big spotted mule, stared at him as he walked past her and along the mesquite-pole fence to the lean-to. The two plow mules shied away, maybe thinking he would hitch them to the plow. He grabbed the saddle and horse blanket, turned back, and walked to where Jenny waited.

“Yup, you’re getting out of the corral, but you ain’t coming back,” Rowdy said, dropping the saddle and tossing the blanket over the mule’s back. The mule, whose dam had been an Appaloosa, was Rowdy’s pride and joy.

The livery owner and mule skinner in Silver City, Wade Douglas, had given Rowdy’s father, Randy Killjoy, the foal after its dam had died giving birth. Rowdy had cared for the foal from the moment his father returned from Silver City with it on the Jennyboard. Jenny had drunk almost all the milk their short-horned milk cow produced, forcing Rowdy’s father to trade his gold watch for a second milk cow so the family had milk for themselves. Now three years old, Jenny had the speed of an Appaloosa and the endurance of a mule. And, standing at seventeen hands, she had the size of a draft horse but with the body of a racehorse.

Jenny nudged Rowdy’s arm.

“I’m hurrying,” Rowdy, who had paused to glance back at the burning homestead, said. Talking to the mule helped clear his mind of the sorrow of his parents’ death. 

He had already turned the chickens loose, along with the two milk cows and the hogs. 

Rowdy was dressed in his Sunday clothes. He wore his father’s double-holstered gun belt with Paterson Colts, a gift from his father, who had served as a Texas Ranger. His father had been shot in both shoulders during a gun battle with a gang of Mexicans, and the injuries had left him with limited use of both arms. He had been mustered out of the Rangers and moved to Arizona to homestead. On his eighth birthday, he’d given Rowdy the gun belt and pistols. Since that day, Rowdy had practiced drawing and firing the pistols daily.

However, even wearing the double-holstered gun belt packing two Paterson Colts, and even at six feet, Rowdy still looked like the young towheaded boy he was. He had just turned eighteen last month.

With Jenny saddled, Rowdy put his left foot in the stirrup and felt the hole in the bottom of his boot as he stepped up and swung his right leg over the saddle.

One day maybe I can afford a new pair, he thought as he reined Jenny to the gate and rode through without closing it behind the mule. The acrid scent of smoke hung heavy in the air as Rowdy headed down the lane toward the wagon trail to Silver City.

“I’ll get a job in Silver City, Jenny. I got to. We ain’t got a penny to our name,” Rowdy said.

He had spent all the family savings and what he could make off selling vegetables from the root cellar to help his parents the past two weeks. He’d used much of the money to fetch Doc Miller in Silver City three times, and spent the rest on medicine that Doc Miller recommended. Nothing had helped in the end, not Doc Miller or the medication.

Feeling the urge for speed, Rowdy clicked his tongue and pressed his heels into Jenny’s sides. The tall, long-legged mule broke into a sprint that would have shamed most Quarterhorses. Rowdy let her run until lather covered her neck before he pulled back on the reins, and Jenny immediately slowed to a walk.

“Feel better now?” Rowdy asked.

He would feel better if he had something in his belly besides a couple of glasses of buttermilk. He hoped he could find a job fast in Silver City and make enough money to buy some bread and a can of beans. He had finished off the cans of beans two days ago and hadn’t had the money to buy more.

The ten miles to Silver City passed quickly. Before Rowdy knew it, he spotted a white church steeple rising from the mesquites and jumping cholla cactus in the desert. He thought of Reverend Barns and how the preacher had refused to come to the homestead and bless his dying parents. It had seemed very unchristian of the preacher.

Rowdy passed the mule skinner’s corral as he entered town. He glanced at the mules milling inside the corral and hoped old man Watkins would board Jenny until he found a job. If not, he would have to sleep in the desert and let Jenny graze at night.

As he approached the Silver City Bank, Rowdy spotted Joe Fuller, the owner of Fuller Feed and Seed Story, entering. He’d hoped Mister Fuller would hire him to work in the store and had planned to stop at the feed store first. However, seeing Mister Fuller walk into the bank, Rowdy reined Jenny to the hitch rail and dismounted. He looped the reins over the rail and walked up the steps to the porch.

He paused to brush the dust off his shirt and pants before opening the door. He had never visited the bank since Pa kept their money under his mattress. The scene inside stopped Rowdy in his tracks.

Six red velvet-covered straight-back chairs lined the left side of the wall. The men and women occupying them would be considered well-dressed, even in church. They appeared to be waiting for someone in the line at the teller’s cage. All the men wore suits or fancy shirts with bolo ties. The women’s dresses had ruffles and lace.

Spotting Mister Fuller standing at the tail end of the line waiting to see the teller, Rowdy walked across the room. Mister Fuller faced the counter and didn’t see him approaching. Rowdy started to call out the store owner’s name when the bank door suddenly burst open. Rowdy turned at the sound, as did most of the folks in the bank.

“Reach for the sky! This is a stickup, folks! We’re here to take your deposits!” shouted one of the men rushing through the door, the tallest one. Bandanas covered their lower faces.

“Oh God!” one of the women sitting in the velvet-covered chairs cried out.

“No, I ain’t God or even a preacher, but I’m going to take up a collection,” the tall bandit said.

A man in a dark suit that Rowdy had noticed at the far end of the counter reached under his suit coat.

The tall bandit also spotted the man’s sudden movement. He leveled his pistol and fired as the man pulled a snub-nosed Colt revolver from his shoulder holster. The compact pistol fell from the man’s hand, making a loud thump when it struck the floor. The wounded man grabbed his chest, fell back against the counter, and slipped into a sitting position.

“Anyone else want to play hero?” the tall man shouted. “I’ve got five more bullets if you do.”

No one spoke.

“Billy, take the bag to the teller!” the man shouted at the man holding a green carpetbag and waved his pistol toward the counter.

A rage fueled by his experiences over the past two weeks swept over Rowdy. Suddenly, his hands held his pair of Paterson Colts. As he had done a thousand times, he cocked and fired the guns as though shooting bottles off fence posts. All three of the bank robbers stumbled back and fell. 

Rowdy turned to face the man at the counter with the burlap bag. The bandit tried to level his pistol at Rowdy but wasn’t quick enough. Rowdy pulled both triggers, and two holes appeared in the bandit’s forehead. He sank back against the counter and slid down to sit on the floor before falling sideways.

Rowdy twirled his pistols back into his holsters.

“Rowdy Killjoy! Is that you?” Joe Muller shouted as he approached Rowdy.

“Hi, Mister Muller,” Rowdy said. “Am I in trouble for shooting them?”

“Heck, no, son, you are a hero!” Mister Muller said, grabbing Rowdy’s hand and shaking it.

“What happened?” a short, wiry man shouted as he rushed into the bank with a drawn pistol.

“They tried to rob the bank, Sheriff Cobb. This kid, Rowdy Killjoy, shot all four of them. But not before they shot Charley Watkin, the guard.”

Sheriff Rusty Cobb walked to the outlaw clutching the carpetbag and rolled him over. “Shot through the heart.” He removed the bandana from the man’s face. “Heck, it’s Billy Taylor, the youngest member of the Taylor gang.” He quickly moved to each of the other three dead outlaws, turned them face-up, and unmasked them. “Kid, you killed all four of the Taylor gang!” Sheriff Cobb declared, shaking his head. “I ain’t never seen someone so handy with a pair of pistols.”

“I practice a lot, Sheriff,” Rowdy said, glancing at the floor.

“How old are you, Kid?” Sheriff Cobb asked as he looked at Rowdy.

“Eighteen, Sheriff,” Rowdy said, not meeting the lawman’s eyes.

“Where are your parents? Did they come into town with you?” Joe Muller asked.

Rowdy shook his head. “They died of the pox last night. I burned the homestead and rode to town. I saw you enter the bank and came in to ask you for a job in the feedstore.”

“Well, I’m glad you followed me in, Rowdy, but I don’t need any help at the store. My nephew is helping me,” Joe said.

“Kid, if it’s a job you need, I’ll hire you as my deputy,” Sheriff Cobb said. “You are mighty young, but I’ve never seen someone shoot center like you.”

“A job! As a deputy sheriff?” Rowdy said.

“Yup, I got a deputy, Rudy Jones, but he ain’t no account. He’s only good for sweeping the floor and tending to prisoners when I arrest someone. He’s as slow as molasses in January when it comes to drawing his pistol,” Sheriff Cobb said.

“Sheriff,” Joe said, “ain’t the kid a little young for a deputy?”

“If he’s old enough to shoot dead four bank robbers, he’s old enough for me to pin a badge on him, I reckon,” Sheriff Cobb said in a firm voice.

Joe raised his hands. “Well, I can’t argue with that. Ah, ain’t there a bounty on each of the Taylor gang?”

“Sure is,” Sheriff Cobb said. “Kid, you just made four hundred dollars in bounty money. That’s a good start for a deputy sheriff of Silver City.”

Chapter One

Rowdy belted on his gun belt, walked to the dresser mirror, and stared at his reflection. He wore new clothes from head to foot—a tan felt cattleman’s hat, a tan shirt, and new dungarees. The gun belt and the two single-action Army Colts in the holster were new. His tan boots were new also. All the purchases were made possible by the reward money he had earned when he killed the four bank robbers last week. But he felt the proudest of the tin star, a deputy sheriff’s badge pinned to the front of his tan shirt.

With the reward money, he had rented a room over the Silver Mine Saloon instead of a room in the boarding house run by a no-nonsense old maid, with strict rules of her tenant’s coming and goings. The saloon gave him the freedom he had never enjoyed living with his parents, while the boarding house would have just extended the kind of control his parents had exercised over him.

Rowdy’s hands moved almost too quick to follow as he drew both Colts.

“Bang!” he said, still staring at his reflection. “You are dead!”

He twirled the pistols back into his holster, smiled at himself in the mirror, and turned toward the door. When he opened it, he heard the lively piano music and the buzz of conversation from the saloon. Near dusk, the folks seemed to start flocking to the saloon. Some to drink, others to play poker, and others to share time with the saloon girls.

Rowdy’s mother had always warned him to steer clear of soiled doves, or he might catch the French disease. Rowdy didn’t know what the disease was, but from the tone of his mother’s voice when she said the word, he figured it was something worse than death.

He walked over to the rail and looked down at the saloon. Men sat at tables drinking whiskey or beer, mostly whiskey. The saloon girls walked among the tables, stopping to pat a man on the back or put her arms around him while laughing.

They’re trying to get the men to drink more or maybe visit one of the rooms upstairs, Rowdy thought. The loud noises from the saloon he heard through the wall had made sleeping difficult. Keeping a pillow over his head helped.

He pushed off from the rail and walked down the landing to the stairs. He didn’t want to be late for his first night as a deputy sheriff. No one noticed him until he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Rowdy, I see you’re wearing your badge. Does that mean tonight is your first night working?” Frank Wiggers, the bear-like bartender and owner of the Silver Mine Saloon, asked.

“Yup, my first night. Sheriff Cobb is taking me with him as he makes his rounds.” 

“You want a shot of whiskey? It’s on the house,” Frank said, holding a bottle of Old Overholt.

“Frank,” the man sitting alone at the poker table near the bar said, “the kid is still wet behind the ears. He’s too young for whiskey. Give him a sarsaparilla on me!” The man wore a white suit and a gambler’s hat, and he shuffled a deck of cards.

“He killed four Taylor brothers attempting to rob the Silver City Bank last week. I think he’s old enough to drink whiskey, Tom,” Frank said.

“Four of the Taylor brothers,” the gambler said, nodding at Rowdy. “You do know there are six of them, don’t you? There’s two half-brothers.” Tom looked up from the deck of cards to stare at Rowdy.

“I never heard of ’em before Sheriff Cobb told me their names,” Rowdy admitted.

“Well, son, if I were you, I’d head for the hills. The Taylor brothers are a tight bunch. The two surviving brothers are going to want revenge. I reckon they won’t waste much time looking you up,” Tom warned.

“I ain’t scared, Mister. I can handle myself,” Rowdy said. “Ah… you seem to know a lot about the Taylor Gang.”

“Just relaying the stories I hear in the saloons I visit. The gang has been active in Arizona for years. The four younger sons took over after their father got killed during a bank robbery a few years back, or so the stories say. They say the oldest sibling is a gunslinger. The second oldest is a mystery. No one knows what he does.”

“Thanks for the information, but I can handle a pistol. A gunslinger don’t worry me none,” Rowdy said.

“Yup, I reckon we’ll see about that if you meet up with Trent Taylor the scarred-face gunslinger,” Tom said. “They say he’s a devil with a pistol.”

“Trent Taylor. I’ll keep that name in mind, Mister.” Rowdy nodded at the bartender, “Frank, put my sarsaparilla on the gambler’s tab. I’ll drink it later tonight.”

“I’ll do that, Rowdy,” Frank said, chuckling as he looked at Tom.

The gambler shrugged and looked down at the deck of cards.

“Hi, Rowdy,” one of the saloon girls said. She moved toward him, leading with her breasts, but Rowdy turned to the side like a bullfighter avoiding the horns of a bull. He nodded and kept walking toward the door.

“Hey, kid, where did you get the badge?” a drunken prospector called out when Rowdy walked past his table.

Rowdy ignored him, reached the batwing doors, and pushed through. The smoke cloud from a quirly he walked into almost made him cough.

 “Do you want the makings, kid?” the gray-bearded man in a battered hat and old chaps asked, holding out a tobacco pouch.

“No, sir. I don’t smoke,” Rowdy said, walking past the old cowboy and down the steps to the street.

“Good for you, kid. Don’t take up the habit,” the cowboy called after him.

Wish folks would stop calling me kid, Rowdy thought. I’m six feet tall, taller than most men. I guess it’s my blond hair and baby face. He had Jenny stabled in the livery stable, but he figured he didn’t need her tonight since he would make the rounds with Sheriff Cobb on foot.

As Rowdy approached the jailhouse, he spotted two horses tied to the hitch rail. He figured Sheriff Cobb and Deputy Jones were in the sheriff’s office. He had met Deputy Jones, and his opinion seemed to match Sheriff Cobb’s about the man’s ability to carry out his duties. Deputy Jones looked like he carried at least forty-five extra pounds on his short frame. 

Rowdy paused to take in a deep breath before opening the door. Sheriff Cobb sat at his desk, looking through wanted posters. Deputy Jones sat in a straight-backed chair leaning against the left wall, reading a dime novel. Both men looked at the door as it opened.

Rowdy removed his felt hat before stepping into the room. “Howdy,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

“Howdy, Rowdy,” Sheriff Cobb said. Deputy Jones only nodded before turning his attention back to the book. “You ready for your first night’s work?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, Sheriff,” Rowdy said, stopping halfway to the desk.

“Rudy, take Rowdy with you and make the rounds in town,” Sheriff Cobb said, looking over at his deputy.

“I thought you were going to make the rounds with him,” Deputy Jones said, tilting forward until the front legs of the straight chair touched the floor.

“I was, but then I saw you reading that dime novel and thought the town should pay you to do something other than loaf around the office.”

Deputy Jones looked sullen but stood without comment and walked across the room. He stopped before opening the door and glanced at Rowdy. “Are you coming, kid?”

“Sure, Rudy…”

“It’s Deputy Jones,” he snapped.

Sheriff Cobb snickered.

Rowdy noticed Deputy Jones’s face turn red as the chubby man opened the door and stalked out of the room. As he reached the door, Rowdy glanced at Sheriff Cobb.

Sheriff Cobb shrugged.

“I don’t understand why Sheriff Cobb hired you. You’re too young to wear a badge, and he already has me,” Deputy Jones said when Rowdy walked onto the porch.

“Where to first?” Rowdy asked, ignoring the comment.

Deputy Jones stared at Rowdy for a long moment, as though he expected an argument. Finally, he pointed toward the saloon. “I always start with the saloon. If there’s going to be any trouble, it usually starts there,” the deputy said, stepping off the porch. “That’s my horse,” he added, pointing to a big Jennyskin gelding. “He’s part thoroughbred. There ain’t a better horse in Silver City. What kind of horse do you ride, kid?”

“I ride a mule. Her dam was an Appaloosa—”

“You ride a mule? Kid, you aren’t on the farm any longer. We don’t ride mules in Silver City!” Deputy Jones said.

“I do,” Rowdy replied. “Jenny is better than any horse I’ve seen yet.”

Deputy Jones stopped and turned to face Rowdy. “Are you saying your mule is better than my horse?” 

Rowdy shrugged. “I ain’t seen your horse run. But I figure Jenny is faster and has more stamina. I guess we’d have to race them to see for sure.”

“I ain’t racing against no plow mule,” Deputy Jones said sneeringly.

“Then we’ll never know which is the fastest, I reckon,” Rowdy said and started walking again.

Deputy Jones had almost to run to catch up with him as Rowdy took long strides.

Neither spoke as they approached the Silver Mine Saloon. 

Rowdy heard the lively piano music and smiled. The only piano music he had ever heard before moving into the saloon was in church, and the sound varied greatly. It was almost as though it came from different instruments.

Rowdy started to climb the steps to the saloon’s porch, but Deputy Jones stepped in front of him. “I’ll go in first.”

Rowdy held back and let the chubby deputy climb the steps first. A man smoking a quirly nodded at Deputy Jones as he walked onto the porch. 

“Deputy Jones, I see you’ve got a new sidekick. The kid that killed the four Taylor brothers at the bank,” the man said. He took one final puff off the quirly and tossed it into the street.

“Yup, I’m showing the kid the ropes,” Deputy Jones said. “Come on, kid, let’s go inside.”

Rowdy gritted his teeth to keep from saying anything as he followed Deputy Jones to the batwing doors. The smell of perfume, sweat, tobacco, and beer assaulted his nose as he entered the smoky room. 

Deputy Jones headed in the direction of the bar. Rowdy followed him. Several men greeted the deputy, and he returned their greetings. He didn’t introduce Rowdy to any of them.

“Oh, I see the boy deputy is back,” Tom, the gambler, said as they walked past the table where he played poker with three other men.

Deputy Jones chuckled. “Yup, Sheriff Cobb robbed the cradle to hire him.”

Rowdy bit his lip to keep from responding.

“Beer or whiskey?” Frank asked Deputy Jones with arched eyebrows.

“Beer. I don’t want Sheriff Cobb smelling whiskey on my breath. He don’t mind me having a glass of beer, but he frowns on drinking whiskey when I’m on duty,” Deputy Jones said.

Frank nodded, filling a glass from a barrel of beer sitting on the bar, and slid it across to Deputy Jones. He nodded at Rowdy. “You want that sarsaparilla that Tom owes you?”

“Yup,” Rowdy said.

Frank reached under the counter and brought out a bottle of sarsaparilla.

Rowdy picked up the bottle, turned toward the poker players, and held it up so that Tom could see it before he took a sip.

“Why don’t you drink beer or whiskey like a man?” Deputy Jones asked.

“I don’t like the taste,” Rowdy said. “And I’ve seen my father drunk and stumblin’ around the house often enough to know I don’t want to get in that condition. It slows a man down. If I had been drinking when I entered the bank, I would have been the one dead and not the four Taylor brothers.”

Deputy Jones shook his head but didn’t say anything.

Rowdy finished his sarsaparilla about the same time Deputy Jones finished his beer.

“Come on, let’s go,” Deputy Jones said.

“You didn’t pay for your beer,” Rowdy pointed out.

Frank must have overheard him because he smiled.

“I’m a deputy. I drink free.”

“Why?” Rowdy asked.

“I told you. Because I’m a deputy,” Deputy Jones said and pushed off from the bar.

Rowdy turned to look at the gambler and collided with someone. He glanced around and found himself pressed against a young blond-haired girl who didn’t look much older than him.

“You almost made me spill the beers,” the girl said. “Look where you’re going. Wearing a badge don’t give you the right to charge through the place.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Rowdy said as the girl hurried to a nearby table and placed the beers before the two miners.

“Are you coming?” Deputy Jones said, turning and looking at Rowdy. “Stop flirting with Molly!”

“I wasn’t flirting,” Rowdy said, following Deputy Jones through the batwing doors.

“It wouldn’t do you any good. Molly is Frank’s daughter. You even look at his daughter sideways, he’ll pull his shotgun from under the bar and blow you a new hole,” Deputy Jones said as they walked off the porch.

“What do we do now?” Rowdy asked.

“We walk along this side of the street, testing the doors of the stores to make sure they’re locked. Then, when we reach the end of town, we return on the opposite side doing the same thing. Fun, isn’t it,” Deputy Jones said.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be fun. It’s work,” Rowdy said.

They both fell silent. Deputy Jones nodded at the door of the haberdashery, indicating that Rowdy should test it. From then on, Deputy Jones stood in the street while Rowdy walked onto the porch of each store and tried the doors.

On the way back, as they neared the jailhouse, Deputy Jones took over testing the doors. Rowdy figured the deputy had resumed his work in case Sheriff Cobb might be watching.

They were across the street from the saloon when Rowdy stopped to wait for Deputy Jones as he walked over to test the door of the saddle shop. “Do you ever find a door unlocked?” he asked as Deputy Jones approached.

“Yeah, when someone has forced it open and is inside robbing the place or has already robbed it,” the deputy said. “Why do you think we’re testing to see if the doors are locked, kid?” Deputy Jones pushed Rowdy just as the crack of a pistol echoed from the alley across the street.

Deputy Jones grabbed his chest and fell face down in the street.

Rowdy, who had drawn his pistol at the sound of the gunshot, fired into the alley beside the saloon, where he had seen a muzzle flash. He heard footsteps running down the alley and started to give chase when Deputy Jones let out a moan. He paused, torn between chasing the bushwhacker and helping the deputy.

Thinking that the bushwhacker would easily evade him in the dark since he probably knew the town while Rowdy didn’t, he knelt beside Deputy Jones.

“How bad is it?” he asked as he heard men rushing out of the saloon, shouting at each other.

Deputy Jones didn’t respond. Rowdy shook him but still didn’t get any response.

“What happened?” a man smelling of whiskey and tobacco asked.

Rowdy looked up. A crowd was forming behind the man. “Someone shot him from the alley beside the saloon,” he said.

“What is going on? Who fired the pistol?” Sheriff Cobb said, pushing his way to the front of the crowd. 

Rowdy looked up. “Someone shot Deputy Jones from the alley beside the saloon, Sheriff. I think Deputy Jones is dead.” He stood and moved aside as Sheriff Cobb knelt beside the deputy and touched two fingers to the man’s neck. 

The sheriff shook his head. “He’s dead.” Sheriff Cobb stood. He glanced around at the men standing nearby. “Did anyone see anything?”

“We were all inside the saloon,” someone said.

“How about you, Rowdy?” Sheriff Cobb said. “Did you see the man that shot Rudy?”

“I just saw a muzzle flash. I fired at the alley. I guess I didn’t hit the shooter because I heard him running. I was going to run after him, but Deputy Jones moaned, and I decided to stay and help him,” Rowdy said. “Sheriff, who would want to kill Deputy Jones?”

Sheriff Cobb didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed at a bearded man in a torn shirt and dirty dungarees. “Hank, go fetch the undertaker,” he said and flipped the man a nickel.

“Sure thing, Sheriff Cobb,” the man said and smiled as he clutched the nickel in his fist.

“Okay, everyone, get back to your business,” Sheriff Cobb shouted.

As the crowd dispersed, Rowdy noticed the gambler staring at him. The man nodded at Rowdy before turning and walking across the street to the saloon.

“Gunsmoke in Silver City” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

In the blistering Arizona sun, Rowdy Killjoy escapes his parents’ pox-ridden demise, setting a fiery path to Silver City with his mule. Haunted by memories of his family, Rowdy arrives in town seeking solace but is instead thrust into chaos when a bank heist unfolds. His quick draw turns the tide, landing him the role of deputy sheriff, but the Taylor brothers’ thirst for revenge escalates the danger…

Can Rowdy outgun the merciless outlaws and protect the town he’s come to call home?

As the outlaws regroup, Rowdy’s newfound badge becomes a target. Silver City transforms into a battleground, echoing with gunfire and the thundering hooves of pursuit. When the ruthless Taylor brothers snatch the woman Rowdy has come to care for, the chase propels him south into Mexico’s treacherous terrain. A relentless pursuit ensues, forcing Rowdy to confront not only the gang but the shadows of his past.

Will he emerge unscathed from the dangerous mission?

Rowdy’s journey becomes a high-stakes gambit, where survival demands lightning-quick reflexes and courage. Rowdy’s journey for redemption soon becomes a breathless race against time, and the destiny of Silver City teeters on the edge. Will Rowdy take down the dangerous gang, or will the unforgiving frontier swallow him whole?

“Gunsmoke in Silver City” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 55,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!

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