A Gunman’s Last Word (Preview)

Prologue

Solomon Cain struck a match and held it close to the cow’s side. It was a Rafter K brand, alright.

He lifted the match to his mouth and lighted his cigar. In the dim, moonless night he’d scouted the herd carefully before approaching. There was no lookout posted, so he wasn’t worried about being seen.

Inhaling a lungful of smoke, he looked out over the dark forms of the herd. All three hundred cattle appeared to be here. He wouldn’t bother counting them. Mr. Kittery would get as many as he brought back. If there were a few animals missing when they arrived at Kittery’s ranch, what did that matter to him?

Exhaling a cloud of tobacco fumes, he turned and looked toward the woods where the rustlers’ camp was.

Three to one.

Sol grunted in amusement. He always used to hire a man when there were more than two.  But he hadn’t cared about the odds for a long time now.

A stab of bitterness punctured his amusement. I must have a death wish or something.

Shrugging, he rolled the cigar in his lips and began walking toward the forest.

A few minutes later he squatted behind a tree and stared at a campfire fifty feet away. Two men were sitting on the ground next to it. The third—a fat, burly fellow—was stirring a pot suspended over the blaze on a tripod.

The seated men each wore a sidearm but the cook’s holster was empty.

“Supper’s ready, gents,” the big man announced, hitting his wooden ladle against the rim of the pot.

Sol bided his time, feeling relieved that they hadn’t posted a lookout.

After twenty years as a hired gun, he neither liked nor disliked shooting people. He’d simply grown used to it as part of his job. Whether the men he shot lived or died, it didn’t bother him.

But he really didn’t like to use a knife. The blade was so up close and personal—so visceral.

If a man had been posted on lookout, he would’ve had to deal with him first. Usually he’d creep up and knock a sentry out with a pistol-chop to the back of the head. The guy would drop to the ground with a grunt, if anything.

But sometimes—if his target had good ears or if Sol accidentally made a sound to alert him—the man would put up a fight. Then it became necessary to shut him up quickly and quietly.

That meant using a knife.

He found it awful, stabbing a man; gruesome, messy work to be avoided whenever possible. Fortunately, these rustlers had moved the cattle far enough away after stealing them that they didn’t think a lookout was necessary.

Sol drew his pistol and crept slowly toward the fire.

All three were standing now. One held out a plate as the cook ladled food onto it. The other man stood next to them with his dish at the ready.

Perfect. Standing close together, distracted by dinner, all of them have something in their hands.

He lifted his pistol and called out, “Stay where you are, boys. I’m taking you in for stealing Kittery’s cattle.”

The one with the full plate dropped it and went for his gun. Sol shot him through the heart. The cook whirled around as the other one squeezed off a shot. It caught Sol just below the collar bone, next to the shoulder. He swore bitterly and returned fire, hitting the shooter in the leg.

By now, the cook had picked up a pistol. He fired and missed. Sol shot him in the chest and the big man dropped heavily to the ground.

The outlaw with the leg wound was rolling around in the dirt, clutching at his knee and howling in pain.

“Cut out that damned caterwauling or I’ll put you out of your misery with a bullet!” Sol growled as he walked toward the fire.

“You got me in the knee,” the man groaned.

As he got closer, Sol recognized him. “Mac Gallagher! If I’d known it was you, I would’ve shot you through the heart instead.”

“Damn it, I wish you would’ve,” he replied hoarsely.

Sol knelt beside him. There was blood streaming from the wound. “Looks like you might bleed out and die anyway, Mac. Think you could climb up on your horse first? It’d save me from having to throw your body over the saddle.”

“I need a tourniquet to stop the blood.”

“Forgot mine at home,” Sol replied coldly, getting to his feet. “And I’m not in any mood to help you.” He glanced at his shoulder. “You winged me, Mac.” The bullet had missed the bone and seemed to be only a flesh wound. Still, it hurt something awful.

Gallagher stared at him angrily, swore, and began taking off his shirt. He ripped off a sleeve at the shoulder and wrapped it around his thigh, pulling it tight then tying it off to stop the bleeding.

“There you go,” Sol said sarcastically. “Good job! You might live after all.”     

A few years ago, when he was working as a railroad detective, Sol had arrested Gallagher for petty theft. At forty-three, the outlaw was a couple years older than him, paunchy and slovenly, with a round face. His thick black moustache was sprinkled with gray below a pair of blue, close-set eyes.

Sol checked him for any concealed weapons, tied Gallagher’s hands behind him then gathered up the pistols around the site. After that he went over to the supper pot and peeked inside. “Beef and beans. Thanks for saving me some.”

The rustler scowled. “You’re even more of a smartass than last time, Cain.”

“You remember me, huh?” He picked up a plate, wiping the dirt off with his sleeve then filling it with food.

“Can I get some of that, too?”

“Sure, help yourself,” Sol replied, taking a seat.

“You know damn well I can’t. Why the hell are you so nasty, Cain?”

He stuffed a spoonful of beef and beans into his mouth. “You ever been married?”

“No.”

“Don’t do it, Mac. You’ll end up like me.”

“I’ll remember that—nobody in their right mind would wanna end up like you.” Gallagher shifted position and cried out in pain. “Shoot! I need a doctor for my knee.”

“Tomorrow.”

The outlaw stared at him indignantly. “If I lose my leg you’ll pay for it, Cain. I swear it!”

Sol threw him an uncaring glance. “Sure, but you’ll have to get in line. I’ve got a long list of enemies.” He put the plate down and walked over to Gallagher. A look of fear appeared on his face. “Don’t worry, I may be bitter son of a gun but I’m no murderer. I just want to borrow a piece of your shirt.”

Picking it up, he tore off the remaining sleeve, threw the shirt back on the ground then folded the sleeve into a square. Unbuttoning his own shirt at the top, he slipped the dressing under it to cover the wound. It probably wouldn’t help much, but it always felt good to dress a gunshot wound, no matter how minor it was.   

Then Sol searched the bodies and saddled the dead men’s horses, leading them over to a nearby tree. He figured it was better to load them now than in the morning when rigor mortis had set in to the corpses. Besides, his shoulder would be stiff and even more awkward then.

He’d have enough trouble getting Gallagher’s fat bottom into the saddle tomorrow with his knee cap being shot to pieces and the man caterwauling like a stuck pig.

Sol had developed a novel technique for moving dead bodies onto horses over the years. It was much easier than loading them by hand, and he’d begun to appreciate this more and more as he aged.

Positioning his horse directly underneath a thick horizontal branch of the tree, he grabbed the rope hanging from his saddle. Walking over to the cook’s body he slipped a loop under the arms. After pulling the noose taut, he walked back to the tree and threw the remaining coil over the branch.

Climbing into the saddle again, he tied the rope to his pommel and began walking the horse slowly away from the fire. The cook’s body slid along the ground toward the tree then hoisted into the air when it reached the trunk.

When he was satisfied that the corpse was high enough, Sol stopped the horse and gave the animal a command to remain where it was.

“What the blazes you doin’ over there, Cain?” Gallagher called.

“I’m surprised a criminal genius like you hasn’t figured it out yet, Mac.”

Next, Sol took one of the rustler’s horses and tethered it to the tree, positioning the animal so the saddle was directly below the body.

This was always the tricky part: lowering a corpse onto a horse without the animal spooking. Some horses didn’t take well to a dead man being draped over their back and Sol couldn’t blame them. They’d sometimes shy away, even buck wildly in defiance of the gruesome task.

Back in the saddle again, he slowly eased the tension on the line, lowering the corpse. One leg dropped between the tree and the horse, the other slipped over the saddle onto the opposite side, causing the torso to rest on the leather.

But as Sol let out more slack on the rope, the body leaned grotesquely to the side and began to slide toward the ground.

“Damn!” he spit, backing his horse away and tightening the line. The corpse bumped against the tree trunk then slowly slithered upward again.

“You sure you know what you’re doin’?” Gallagher taunted.

“Just like Mama told me: if at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.”

“Oh, you’re a mama’s boy, huh?”

“Be quiet or I’ll shoot you in the other knee.”

The outlaw fell silent.

The second attempt at loading the cook’s body was successful. After tying it to the saddle, the whole process was repeated with the other dead outlaw. Then Sol tethered the horses where they’d have some good graze.

“Sorry about this,” he apologized to the animals, “but I’m shot in the shoulder and figured I’d load you up tonight instead of in the morning.”

Walking back to the fire, he put a couple sticks on the blaze, grabbed one of the rustlers’ bedrolls, and threw it at Gallagher. “There you go, Mac—see how nice I can be?” The outlaw scowled and murmured something under his breath.

Sol rolled out his own blankets and climbed in gingerly, trying not to aggravate the gunshot wound. Laying on his back and staring up at the stars, he felt exhausted from the day’s labor.

I’m getting too old for this stuff. Maybe it’s time to take that nest egg I’ve been saving up and get into some other line of work.

He glanced over at Gallagher. The pudgy face was pale and he appeared to be asleep.

I’m tired of chasing these two-bit thieves and cattle rustlers across the country. Think I’ll buy my own spread—and if anybody steals my cattle, I’ll send someone else after them.

He smiled at the idea. Yeah, that’s it: I’m packing it in. I mean it this time.

Gallagher moaned in his sleep then coughed.

“You’re my last collar, Mac. I’m going to become a Montana cattle rancher.”   

Chapter One

Fannie Densmore giggled with delight as scrawny Johnny Flatt whirled her around the dance floor.

The eighteen-year-old cowhand had been earnestly trying to win her hand for over a year. Despite her repeatedly telling him that he wasn’t her type, Johnny was nothing if not persistent—and he was a good dancer.

Every barn dance he would ask her for a turn on the puncheon floor. Fannie didn’t have the heart to turn him down. Besides, she liked to kick up her heels with a good dancer.

As the jig ended and the band broke into a waltz, she braced herself for the inevitable question.

It usually didn’t take long. As soon as Johnny got that serious look in his large, brown eyes she knew it was coming.

“Will you marry me, Fannie?”

She sighed. “Why do you have to ask me that every time we dance?”

“Because you won’t let me court you proper, that’s why; elsewise I’d ask you then.”

“The answer’s still no, and it’ll always be no, Johnny. I’ve told you before: we’re just not right for each other.”

“Then tell me what is right, Fannie, and I’ll be it!” His serious look changed to desperation. “I’m still young. I can change.”

She thought his naivety was sweet and gave him a smile. “Romance doesn’t work that way, silly! Someday we’ll both meet the person who’s right for us. Till then…you be you, Johnny Flatt, and I’ll be me. Okay?”

“You’re the right one for me, Fannie. I swear you are.”

She opened her mouth to reply but just then the waltz ended and they joined in applauding the band. “Thank you for the dance, Johnny,” she said politely, turning away.

“I was wonderin’ if—”

“I’m going to the ladies’ room now.”

“Maybe after that we can have a cup of…” She heard his voice trail off as she walked from the dance floor. Then a disappointed “Shoot!” came from the rejected cowhand.

Alone in the ladies’ room, Fannie gazed at herself in the mirror. She primped her long strawberry-blonde hair, pinned up with a few strands pulled loose to frame her fair and freckled face.

Just when would the right man come along for her, anyway? She was twenty-four-years-old now and people were starting to say she’s a spinster. Or, so she’d heard.

She pouted at the mirror.

Let them talk! I’m not going to be rushed into marriage, no matter how old I get. Spinster or not, I’m going to wait for the right man.

The door opened and her friend, Alicia Campbell, walked in. She had a worried look on her face, and Fannie could guess why. Alicia was engaged to be married in three weeks and her fiancé was overdue several days from a hunting trip.

“Hi Alicia,” she said, feeling concerned for the girl. “How are you doing?”

“Not so well…I’m gettin’ worried about Allan. Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing yet. Maybe the hunting’s so good he’s holding out for that trophy elk he always talks about?” Fannie smiled, trying to cheer her up.

She knew that it was unlike Allan to be late for anything, however. The truth was she felt worried about him, too.

She had been clerking in her cousin Allan Densmore’s mercantile store for several years and got to know the man’s habits well. He was always on time and utterly meticulous about his commitments.

“You know what some of the men in town are saying about his not getting back yet?” Alicia said with a stung expression.

Fannie groaned inwardly. Yes, I’ve got to listen to them joking about it in the store.

“Don’t let their stupid jokes bother you,” Fannie replied, trying to steer the conversation in a better direction. “How are the wedding preparations coming along?”

Alicia ignored her and pressed on. “They’re saying Allan is running away from our marriage. Can you believe it? I heard a group of men laugh and say that Allan is probably pretending he got killed in a hunting accident!”

“That’s terrible, Alicia. I’m so sorry you had to hear that.”

“It was disgusting. I gave them a look and just kept right on walking.”

“Good for you. I wish I could walk out of the store when they start in with those rude jokes, but I’m stuck there. So, I just pretend I don’t hear them.”

Alicia’s voice broke with emotion. “You don’t think it’s true, do you Fannie? What they’re saying, I mean, about Allan running away?”

“No! It is so not true.” She put her hands on Alicia’s shoulders. “Don’t you believe it for a second! I’ve known Allan since I was a little girl, and he would never, ever, do that.”

The two women embraced. “Thank you for saying that, Fannie, it means a lot.”

“Like I said, he’s probably just holding out for a giant elk so he can hang its head on the wall and boast about it for the rest of his life. You know how men are!”

“You’re right,” she replied with a sniffle.

They left the ladies’ room and joined some friends at their table for a cup of coffee. Fannie was glad to see Alicia’s look of worry had evaporated. It seemed like she was starting to enjoy herself.

Her own worries about Allan kept nagging at her, however. What had really happened to him out there? Was he in some kind of trouble? She wished he hadn’t gone on such a long hunting trip alone.

I’m going to talk to Sheriff Lahey and see if he can find Allan.

***

“Would it be possible to send out a search party for Allan, Sheriff?” Fannie asked on Monday morning in the lawman’s office. “It’s not like him to be late for anything, and he’s getting married in three weeks.”

Kevin Lahey leaned back in his chair with a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I understand your concern, Miss Densmore, but Allan’s only three days overdue. If I sent a search party after every man who’s running late, I wouldn’t have time to do anything else around here.” He chuckled softly, as if he thought she was just being a silly, hysterical woman who should know better.

“I fail to see the humor in this situation, Sheriff. Allan could be in real trouble!”

“No offense intended, ma’am.” He fell silent for a moment. “If you’re set on getting somebody to go look for him, you might ask Mr. Abel if he would help.”

“That new rancher?”

“Yes, ma’am. He was a hired gun for years, you know—went by the name of Solomon Cain. One of the best man-hunters in the territories, folks say.”

“Do you know him, Sheriff?”

“Not personally but I saw him testify in a court case once, years ago. He must’ve changed his name sometime before he started out in this new venture as a cattle rancher.”

“Why would he change his name, though?”

“Cain—I mean, Mr. Abel—was a hired gun for round about twenty years, Fannie. A man makes enemies in that line of work just doing his job. It happens to us lawmen, too. Some of the folks we deal with end up holding a grudge against us because we bring ‘em to justice.”

Her eyes went wide in surprise. She had never heard of such a thing. It seemed perverse: a person forming a grudge against a lawman for doing his job?

“If your cousin is in trouble, Solomon Abel can find him and help. That is, if he’s willin’ to take on the job.”

Fannie knew that she needed to ask him. “Thank you, Sheriff Lahey. I’ll go see Mr. Abel. It’s our only option at this point, I believe.”

“Good luck to you. I hope it works out.”

She stood up from her chair and they shook hands.

Chapter Two

Sol paused at the top of the ladder with a hammer in his hand. He took a deep breath of the spring air and gazed out over his Montana rangeland: the wild grasses were greening up now and he could see the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

He felt like this parcel of land was the right one from the first moment he’d laid eyes on it a month ago. There was still a bit of snow cover on the ground then but it didn’t matter. He knew that beneath the snow lay rich, nourishing grasses that would fatten his cattle for market.

Now, as he stood there enjoying the sight of the grasses springing up in the April sunshine, he felt like his choice was confirmed.

In June he planned to buy a few hundred head of cattle and drive them to this range. The land was watered by a couple of streams and there were sections of forest to shelter the stock during inclement weather.

I don’t think there’s a finer place to make a start in the ranching business, he thought with satisfaction.

“Hey Boss, we taking a break?” Leduc called up to him from the floor of the unfinished building.

“Not yet. Why?”

“You been standing up der staring for a while now. I thought maybe it was break time?”

Sol grunted in amusement. He liked Gaston Leduc, the tough, dependable ranch hand with a wry sense of humor. “We’ll stop for lunch in a bit, mon ami.”

At thirty years old, Leduc was ten years his junior. A short, squat man descended from early French-Canadian fur trappers in the area, he’d worked cattle ranches for years and knew a lot about the business. Sol felt lucky to have him on the payroll.

Standing next to Leduc and looking up at the boss with a grin was Johnny Flatt, a young hard-working hand with a couple years’ experience under his belt punching cows. Tall, whip thin and strong, Johnny’s good humor rivaled that of Leduc.

“What’re you grinning at, Johnny?” Sol said. “Let’s get back to work.”

Sol appreciated the attitude of both men. Their affability leavened the bitterness he still felt after the divorce from Lucille ten years ago—a bitterness that had seeped into his work as a hired gun, he realized now.

After leaving that world of violence behind, he was enjoying his new start as a rancher, working with his hands as a laborer and building this small bunkhouse, the first structure on the property.       

To put more distance between himself and his former profession, Sol had also decided to change his surname from Cain to Abel.

It was no mere wordplay based on the names of the infamous brothers of the Bible—though the idea had given him a chuckle when he’d thought of it. Knowing the penchant for revenge by some criminals, he’d wanted to avoid trouble from the cornucopia of thieves, murderers, and rustlers he’d captured over the decades.

The families of dead outlaws also sometimes developed a hatred for the men who’d killed their relatives, and they sought to carry out acts of revenge. He didn’t need some brother or uncle lying in wait to shoot him out of the saddle. So, Cain had become Abel to make it harder for them to find him.

So far as Sol knew, no one in the area was aware of his past. It was the custom of the West not to pry unnecessarily into the background of people, and he was glad of that. It would help him keep a low profile.

Leduc handed up a wooden roof-truss, while on the other side of the building-frame Johnny waited atop a second ladder.

As they hammered the truss in place, Sol heard the sound of hoof beats. Glancing up, he saw a blonde woman riding sidesaddle toward them. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

Johnny glanced at the rider. “That ain’t company, that’s my girl Fannie.”

“Thought you said she won’t let you court her?”

A slow smile crept onto his face. “Well now, maybe she’s finally come to her senses and changed her mind.” He threw her an excited wave. “Howdy, Fannie!”

Oh, the optimism of youth, Sol thought in amusement.

She waved back then drew up beside the building. “Hi, Johnny. How are you?”

“Better now that you’re here, darlin’. Did you ride all the way out here just to tell me you love me?”

She smiled, and it was a beautiful smile, Sol thought.

“You know better than that, Johnny,” Fannie said, shaking her head at him.         

“Oooh help me, Boss!” he moaned, leaning backward with a grimace and clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “I been hit right through the heart. Better send for the doctor.”

Fannie giggled and turned her gaze to Sol. “Are you Mr. Abel—Johnny’s boss?”

He nodded. “Solomon Abel. Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I hope so, Mr. Abel. My name is Fannie Densmore and I’m wondering if I may speak with you for a moment about a business matter?”

“Of course.” He descended the ladder, wondering what manner of business the pretty young woman might have with him.

***

Fannie stepped down from her horse and shook Sol’s hand. She saw that he was six feet tall or more, a mature man who was powerfully built. And despite his bushy brown beard—she didn’t like the look of a full beard—he seemed handsome in his own rugged way.

After asking the men to take their lunch break, he turned his intelligent brown eyes upon her—eyes that also carried a burden of world-weariness within them. She wondered why.

With a wave of the hand, Solomon invited her to have a seat on the steps of the building.

“You wouldn’t steal my girl, would you, Boss?” Johnny teased as he walked by.

“I am not your girl, Johnny Flatt. You know that,” she said quickly.

“Hey, you can’t blame a fellah for tryin’, can ya?” He threw her a winsome look as he and Leduc walked away.

“It’s a lovely spot that you have here for your ranch, Mr. Abel,” Fannie said as they sat down.

He nodded and gazed out toward the mountains. “I like it very much. Looking forward to buying my stock next month and setting them loose on all this fine graze.”

“Is this your first foray into ranching?”

“Yes,” he replied, letting the word hang in the air like a warning not to enquire any further.

Fannie wondered how he would respond to her question about Allan, and decided to get straight to the point. “Mr. Abel, my cousin Allan Densmore is six days overdue from a hunting trip in the mountains. He’s to be married in a couple weeks and my family is concerned that he might be in trouble.”

“What concern is that of mine, Miss Densmore? I’m a cattle rancher.”

“I’ve also heard that you are a man who’s skilled at finding people and dealing with any sort of trouble.”

“Who told you that?” Solomon asked in a stern tone that startled her.

“Sheriff Lahey told me.”

He frowned. “My past is none of his business…or yours, ma’am. He had no call to tell you anything about it.”

“The sheriff was just trying to help, I’m sure.”

“If he wants to help then he should do it himself.”

“He told me that if he went searching after every man who was running late, he wouldn’t have time to do anything else.”

Solomon’s expression softened. “Lahey was right about that. Also…most men get cold feet before their marriage, and rightly so.”

What does he mean by that?

“Try and be patient, Miss Densmore. Your cousin’s probably just savoring his last few days of freedom, that’s all. He’ll be back in his own good time.”

“I wish I could be as certain as you about that, but Allan’s never late for anything. He went hunting alone and I fear that he’s been in an accident or robbed or—”

“Sorry, I’m retired from that line of work now. You’ll have to hire somebody else to find him,” Solomon said, getting to his feet. “You wasted your time riding out here.”

“My family will pay you two-hundred dollars, plus expenses, to find him, Mr. Abel.”

Solomon put his hands on his hips then let out an exasperated sigh. “As you can see, we’re working on a building here. I’m a busy man.” He waved an arm at the half-finished structure. “Even if I wanted to do it, I just don’t have time to go off on a wild goose chase after some missing groom.

“And frankly, ma’am, it’s very possible that your cousin doesn’t want to be found. Maybe you should let him have some time alone before he gets joined at the hip with some woman for ever and ever.”

So that’s it, he’s a woman hater.

Fannie began to tear up. She felt certain that whatever had happened, Allan really was in trouble. “Please, Mr. Abel, you’re our only hope to find him. Sheriff Lahey won’t help us and we don’t know what else to do!”

***

He stood there uncomfortably as she hung her head and sniffled. When Sol saw her pretty green eyes watering, he groaned inwardly.

Oh, great…how do women know I can’t stand female tears? Once they start to cry I’m like putty in their hands.

She took out a handkerchief and daubed at her eyes. Sol watched her until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Heaving another sigh he blurted out, “Alright, Miss Densmore, alright! I can’t stand to see a woman cry. I suppose I can take a week off the ranch and let Johnny and Gaston continue work on the bunkhouse.”

She glanced up at him, wiping her nose. “Are you sure, Mr. Abel?”

He nodded and frowned. “I’m sure. Tell me where your cousin went hunting.”

She told him the location of Allan’s expedition and—when Sol asked—told him that her cousin didn’t have any enemies she knew of that might want to cause him harm. Then she gave him one-hundred dollars up front.

“Thank you,” he said curtly, tucking the money into his pocket.

“Thank you so much for helping us…you have no idea how much my family and I appreciate this.”

“Please inform your family not to tell anyone about my past. I’m hoping my gunman days don’t become known around this area, Miss Densmore. Not because I’m shy, but because a man makes enemies of criminals in that line of work. So, the less said about who I am, the better. Alright?”

“Yes. I understand completely. Mum’s the word. And thank you again for your assistance.” She climbed onto her horse.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, cringing even as he said it. He wasn’t welcoming this search at all and had no desire to resume his old profession, even for one job. He had been coerced into it by the power of female tears.

If anybody asks me to do this again, I’m saying no—I don’t care how good looking a woman she is, or how many tears she cries.

He watched Fannie ride away and shook his head, feeling embarrassed at his weakness.

---

“A Gunman’s Last Word” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Sol Cain, a divorced and bitter hired-gun, decides to quit living on the edge and become a rancher. While he tries to keep a low profile and turn down any requests that would put his deadly skills to use again, he receives an offer he can’t refuse. Little did he know that this job would attract the attention of Mac Gallagher, a vindictive criminal he’d sent to jail years before…

Will Sol have the guts and nerve to defeat a ruthless outlaw bent on revenge?

Things become more complicated when Sol falls for Fannie Densmore, the gorgeous woman who asked him to get in trouble for one last time. Fannie is desperate to find her lost cousin but it won’t be long before all hell breaks loose, dragging her and Sol into a winner-take-all confrontation with the notorious criminal. Could Sol rescue Fannie from the clutches of Gallagher and survive his greatest challenge yet?

Sol hopes that his gunslinger skills won’t fail him now…

In a mad chase across the Montana mountains, Sol is faced with a threat he could never have imagined. When he is wounded in a saloon showdown with his nemesis, he finds himself literally running for his life. Will Sol take down an evil man obsessed with destroying him, or will tragedy consume him along with the woman who made him believe in love again?

A pulse-pounding drama, which will make you turn the pages with bated breath until the very last word. A must-read for fans of Western action and romance.

“A Gunman’s Last Word” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!