Gray Gunslinger's Guide to the Gospel

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4835-6317-6
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 248 Seiten

What if the right friendship could change your life forever? An aging gunfighter is about to find out. Flint is a well known over-the-hill gunslinger in the old West: tough as nails and afraid of no one. He killed his first man before he could shave, has no family and few friends. He'll never attack innocents nor shoot a man in the back; so, compared to many hired gunman, he's actually a good person. However, after the past couple days, the gunslinger's world and way of thinking has been turned upside. It all started when a wily mountain man, who throws a quick blade and is a crack shot with a rifle, invited the old gunfighter to ride with him. The rumor mill claims that if you tangle with 'the Boy', you'll earn yourself permanent residence in boot hill. Surprisingly, the Boy offers Flint a partnership and something he secretly craved for since he was a small boy. The Gunslinger's Guide to the Gospel is a story of an unlikely partnership between two tough frontiersman. One willing to leave an old life behind to chase after the unknown in search of peace and forgiveness-the other, to share his secret of peace and forgiveness with anyone he meets.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Gray, Ryan

Leseproben

PROLOGUE The bearded man exploded into the saloon, through red batwing doors. He moved faster than his body was used to. He almost knocked over a saloon patron attempting to leave and another sitting down, with a large glass of cheap, rotgut whiskey. Both customers glared at the hasty gent who did not notice his disruption. Instead, he looked around the watering hole in search of someone. He located him behind the bar. “Sam!” The out of breath messenger stepped quickly to him and waved an excited greeting, he clumsily bumped a table and knocked over a stool on his way to the bar, but his disruptions did not slow him down. When he reached the bar, he leaned over the mahogany wood to emphasize the urgency of his message. “He’s comin’ down the street!” Sam, the bartender, leaned slightly over the bar and peered outside through the saloon doors. They were still swinging back and forth from the enthusiastic messenger’s entrance. Sam, the owner and keeper of the largest saloon within the city limits of Muddy Valley, was not a man easily excited. He continued his work of cleaning shot glasses with a kitchen towel, which was slung over his shoulder. “Are ya sure?” The cool barman asked with a deep gravelly voice. He betrayed a hint of curiosity. The bar was fairly empty, since the sun was still high in the sky and most men would not be in for a drink until well after work. Around these parts, work only ended after the sun had called it a day. But there were always a few outliers; a few towns folk who wanted a cool beer with lunch or the sad, yet, honest drunk who just wanted to live in a bottle. So Sam was open in the early afternoon, because business was business. Mr. Jones or “Jonesy”, as his friends called him, yanked out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face and neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he had run that fast. “Yeah, sure as shootin’ and I think he’s comin’ here! See, I heard Margy from the store say—” Another voice from down the bar cut Jonesy off. This voice was mean, arrogant, and a little drunk. “Of course he’s comin’ this way, you deadbeat blow-hard!” The new speaker did not look at Jonesy, but stared across the bar as he spoke. His was hat pulled down over his face. “Besides, ain’t that why you’re here? To see some action, but hide behind somebody’s petty coat while it happens, Jonesy?” The arrogant man laughed at his own insult. Jonesy turned pink with embarrassment. Who does this guy think he is? He thought to himself. Huffing indignantly, Jonesy replied, “No, I ain’t scared. I just came here to warn Sam since it’s his place and all. Besides, what gives you the right to talk to me like…” The rude speaker stood and turned to face Jonesy. It was Steele. Jonesy’s indignation stopped in mid-sentence, and the tone of his voice changed. “Sorry, Steele, I didn’t know…I mean, I did not know who you are; I just didn’t realize that, well, that it was you.” Jonesy swallowed awkwardly, gulping hard. Steele walked past him and pulled up to the counter, facing the bartender. Sam stared back at him, unconcerned. “Who is this, Boy and what does he want?” Steele asked. The barkeeper had seen Steele’s type in the past. He was a gunfighter, a good one at that, and was always for hire. The type of job did not matter, only the odds of coming out alive and the money involved. There were two things Sam knew about Steele that made him uneasy. The hired gun didn’t like taking jobs that meant prisoners, and his reputation always had to be the best and baddest of all gunmen, or at least in his little corner of the West. The arrogant gunslinger had to always be the most feared and talked about gunman around. Sam was a man past the middle in age. A father of three and a widower. He could see past the disguise of many people that they themselves would never have believed. He always thought Steele acted like a five-year-old child just trying to get his way. The frightening thing was, he was good with a gun. Steele spoke with his usual arrogance. “Bartender, I asked you a question, you old coot! What do you know about this Boy?!” Sam’s response was one that came from a man who was confident in his own abilities. And the sawed off shotgun beneath the bar. He also did not care too much about what most people thought, especially a twenty-two-year-old sniveling man-child. “I keep telling you, Steele, call me Sam.” “Who cares what the devil I call you, bartender, just give me an answer!” The gunslinger swore. “I can’t say that I know too much about him—” Steele sneered. “Well, tell me what you do know, old timer!” “I will if you give me a chance, sonny,” Sam retorted. “All I know is that he’s a good shot with a rifle, and he is hunt’n someone. That’s it.” Sam stalled for a few seconds waiting for the tension to build in Steele’s young, arrogant eyes. “That and he seems to cause a bit of trouble wherever he goes. He causes it, and always walks away on top. Even on top when it came to Mike Gonzales.” Steele did not look worried until Sam mentioned Gonzales. That hombre was greased lightning! Steele thought. How’d some Boy get the drop on him? The gunslinger’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. This is my town! He thought to himself and slammed his fist on the bar with angry determination. Sam observed the behavior from the other side of the bar. He had seen this a dozen times from dozens of different men. All these arrogant youngsters were trying to leave a mark on this world with their quick hands and blazing guns. Sam just hoped that the Boy was fast enough to teach Steele a lesson but not fast enough to kill him. If he didn’t start wising up, Sam thought, this arrogant youngster was going to be killed by somebody soon. The air in the bar was thick with tension. No one moved, they just waited as the gunman contemplated what his next moves should be. After almost a full minute, Steele blurted aloud, “Well, we’ll see if he can end up on top in my town.” He retrieved his whiskey glass from down the bar and shot-gunned the hard drink down his throat. The left side of his face winced from the warm burn of the rotgut whiskey. Steele pulled his hat firmly against his head and started walking towards the swinging doors. “There’s one more thing you should know,” Sam called after the gunslinger, attempting to scare the hothead a bit more. “He don’t carry pistols, and he don’t need to!” Steele did not stop, but ignored the warning as he walked into the middle of the street and tucked his dirty coat behind the butt of his tied-down Smith & Wesson Model 3. The pistol butt was finished wood and the barrel, matted silver. Steele grazed the side of the smooth walnut handle. He grinned whenever he felt the row of notches, neatly cut into the wood. Steele had always built himself up to these moments, reciting in his head: You are faster than him! You are faster than any of them! He believed that if he thought that he was faster than someone, then he would be. Steele had never thought of himself as a killer, just someone doing what he was good at. Yet, he sometimes had to admit to himself he was beginning to enjoy the chase, the excitement and everything else that came with the nature of killing. He was killing more and more, even when he did not need to, or intend to! It seemed that Steele could not control himself at times. But when he thought of the women he got, the feelings of every eye on him when he rode into town, and the sight of all the other men stepping aside when he came through, he did not care; he was hooked. The only part of killing he really disdained was the smell; that disgusting stench that always chased you down when you were bringing in a body for bounty. Steele’s thoughts were interrupted when he saw a figure making his way on the sidewalk towards Sam’s saloon. Steele saw the Boy out of the corner of his eye for the first time. He turned to face the Boy and size him up. Steele was not impressed. He was considerably short, yet powerful in build. Sam, the tender, was right; he did not carry a gun. He looked more like a trapper from the mountains than a feared gunfighter. The gunfighter walked to the middle of the street with all the swagger he could muster. “Hey, Boy, come here.” Steele’s tone was mocking, and he pointed when he finished his sentence. “I wanna talk to you.” The Boy stopped and turned his head slightly to the left and eyed the challenger. “I ain’t on the shoot,...