The Lawman’s Fading Echo (Preview)

Chapter One

Blackthorne, Colorado

July 11, 1895

Marshal Edward Morgan had just about had it with his job. Twenty years as a lawman had afforded him some perspective on the problems from which people suffered, and those problems could all be boiled down to one issue: There were too damned many of them. People, that was.

At the moment, Ed believed there were about four dozen people crammed into the dining room of the Showdown Saloon, the premier drinking spot of the small town of Blackthorne, Colorado. What used to be a small town, anyway. Thanks to Jed Wills not being able to keep his damned curiosity under control, the small town was rapidly growing into a big one. From there, it would either implode and become a ghost town or expand and become a city, and then he might as well be living in Boston or New York.

He sipped his rum and just managed to set the bottle down before someone’s shoulder crashed into his back. Bracing himself on the edge of the bar, he turned to see a very drunk prospector lifting a hand in apology before moving on to a table where other, equally drunk prospectors waited.

Not that he could judge anyone for drinking. He had already worked his way through about a third of his bottle.

He lifted it again and savored the warm, slightly sweet bite of the rum. The Spanish didn’t do much right, but they knew how to make liquor. Well, that was the silver lining to the cloud of newcomers. Before Jed Wills stumbled on that gold up near the river, the only alcohol you could find in Blackthorne was whiskey and beer.

Whiskey was fine, too. Maybe he’d get himself a bottle of that to take home.

The door burst open and loud, boisterous laughter carried across the saloon to Ed’s ears. He sighed and sipped some more of his rum. When he turned to see who had entered, he took another sip.

Carter Birch was one of the less savory new arrivals in town. He had shown up the month before after a ten-year stint in federal prison for bank robbery. Ed had shaken him down and obtained a promise from the outlaw that he would keep his nose clean in Blackthorne, but Ed didn’t trust the smooth-talking Birch any farther than he could throw Birch’s companion.

Birch himself was of slight build, five inches shorter than Ed’s five-foot-eleven and probably a good thirty pounds smaller. Ed looked down at his slightly protruding belly and frowned. Forty pounds smaller.

His companion, however, was at the opposite end of the spectrum on both counts. Jean Gagnon stood a massive six-foot-four and weighed closer to three hundred pounds than two. He was the biggest man Ed had ever seen save for John Thunderbird, the Indian who worked for Patty at the Golden Inn.

Most of that weight was powerful, tightly corded muscle, but it was the emptiness in his eyes that disturbed Ed the most. Jean was a French Canadian and while he didn’t have a criminal record in the United States that Ed knew about, he would bet his badge that the big Canadian had a violent past.

Hell, some days Ed seriously considered giving his badge away for a bottle or two of good Caribbean rum.

It wasn’t that Blackthorne was particularly lawless. It had its share of problems, but it was no worse than any other frontier town. Even with the influx of prospectors and the gamblers, and the hustlers and soiled doves that followed them, Blackthorne could at worst be described as rowdy.

It was just that things never got any quieter. There might not be any organized gangs, vicious murders, or rustlers since Ed had killed Don Buckley a year after he’d pinned on his badge, but there was always something. A riot here, a beating there, petty theft someplace else… Ed felt like a schoolteacher trying to rein in a class of rambunctious boys. If it weren’t for Patty, he would have left a long time ago.

Patty’s face flashed across his mind. Her warm smile, her light brown hair, her soft blue eyes and the crows’ feet at the corners that she hated so much. He smiled softly. He loved those little wrinkles. They made her look kind and gentle and…

And thoughts of the woman he knew he loved but could never have vanished when he heard the cry come from a table a few yards down.

“How the hell did you end up with the same ace three hands in a row?”

The questioner slurred his words noticeably, and Ed’s heart sank. Some drunks were happy, like his deputy, Michael, who could talk your ear off for hours if you gave him enough whiskey. Hell, he could talk your ear off for hours sober. Other drunks were moody and sullen, like Ed, and preferred to be left alone.

Then there were angry drunks. Those were the ones who always managed to be a pain in his ass.

“I have good luck,” Angry Drunk’s companion replied, his own words slurring. “Ain’t my fault the sun’s shinin’ on me and settin’ on you.”

“Good luck or good cards,” Angry Drunk said. “Fixed cards.”

Ed sighed and hung his head. Accusing a man of cheating was a quick way to start a fight. He really didn’t want to deal with a damned fight right now.

“Fixed cards? What the hell are you trying to say?”

Nothing. Sorry. It’s the whiskey talking. I guess you just had good luck today. Want to put the cards away and have another drink before we calmly return to our rooms and avoid any kind of behavior that would force the poor marshal here to intervene when all he wanted was one damned night of peace?

Of course, that wasn’t what Angry Drunk said. What he said instead was, “I’m saying you’re a liar and a cheat.”

Ed sighed and rubbed his temples. For God’s sake, if you didn’t want to lose money, then why the hell did you decide to gamble? And was it really worth going to jail over? Or maybe the hangman’s noose if you got even more stupid?

“What did you call me?”

That shout was accompanied by the sound of wood scraping as a chair slid backward. Ed sighed again and lifted his eyes to see a man of around thirty glaring down at another man of the same age who stared defiantly back.

That man, Angry Drunk, pushed his own chair backward as he got unsteadily to his feet. “I called you a liar and a cheat!” He looked around to make sure everyone could hear him. “I called you a liar, a cheat, and a coward!”

Oh, for the love of…

Ed stood himself, taking a moment to allow his vision to stop swimming as he observed the altercation.

Please, just apologize. Please, just shake hands and act like adults.

The other man, who was just as angry and just as drunk as the original Angry Drunk himself, jutted his chin forward. “Why don’t you say that to my face?”

“I think I just did,” Angry Drunk said. “Should I call you a whoreson, too?”

Ed rolled his eyes. Angry Drunk Two narrowed his own eyes and said, “Go to hell, you son of a bitch!”

Quite imaginative with the insults today, aren’t we? Ed thought.

He started toward the two men, moving slowly so he didn’t lose his balance. He needed to cut back on his own drinking. He cast one rueful glance back at the half-full bottle of rum on the counter. Maybe he could convince Jonas to let him take it home.

When he turned his eyes back to the table, Angry Drunks One and Two were in the process of drawing their handguns. Watching the two of them stumble around and fight with their holsters would have been funny if Ed wasn’t the one who had to deal with it.

He quickened his pace, but not before Angry Drunk One managed to free his pistol. Drinks crashed and chairs clattered as the patrons in front of him dove to safety.

“Hey!” Ed called. “Stop!”

He doubted Angry Drunk One even heard him before firing. The shot hit Angry Drunk Two in the arm, and he fell with a cry.

“That’s what you get, you son—” Angry Drunk One began.

He finished when the butt of Ed’s own handgun hit the back of his head. Angry Drunk One fell to the ground, a bewildered look on his unconscious face.

Laughter echoed through the bar. Ed looked up and frowned at the source of the laughter, Carter Birch and Jean Gagnon. Birch had a thin, nasal tenor and laughed like the squawk of a crow. Gagnon’s voice was as deep as he was large, and his laughter sounded like the lowing of a bison.

“Good one, Sheriff!” Birch called. “So quick on the draw you didn’t even need to fire a bullet!”

“Marshal,” Ed corrected. Then, louder so the whole saloon could hear, “Anyone know these two?”

The one who had been shot groaned and tried to sit. “We’re new in town. We’re prospectors out of Wyoming.”

“Well, now you’re inmates out of Wyoming,” Ed said.

He yanked the man to his feet and staggered a little, catching himself on the table where the cards still lay scattered. This earned another laugh from Birch and Gagnon, silenced by a glare from Ed.

He pulled out his handcuffs and shackled Angry Drunk Two. “Hey,” the man pouted, “my arm’s hurt real bad.”

Ed looked at the wound. The bullet had grazed Angry Drunk Two’s shoulder. He would have a nice scar to show the soiled doves at the brothel on the second floor of the saloon, but he would be all right.

“You’re fine,” he said irritably.

“What about infection?” Angry Drunk Two whined.

Ed grabbed the whiskey glass from the table and poured it over the wound. Angry Drunk Two howled and hopped on his feet, earning more laughter from Birch and Gagnon. When Ed ignored the laughter this time, others in the saloon joined in, and as Ed helped a groggy Angry Drunk One to his feet, the patrons greeted the newly-conscious shooter with jeers and catcalls.

“Whazzappening?” Angry Drunk One asked. “Where am I?”

“You’re on your way to jail,” Ed said. “You and your buddy here got into a fight over cards. Now you get to sober up in a nice, warm cell.”

“Wait… jail?”


Ed led the prisoners from the bar. Since all three of them were drunk, the journey was eventful as Ed struggled to stay upright while maintaining control of the prisoners.

“One foot in front of the other, Sheriff!” Birch cackled.

“Marshal,” Ed corrected, shoving his two collars through the door of the saloon.

Luck, it seemed, hadn’t completely deserted Ed, because he shoved the men directly into the surprised Deputy Michael Cornwall. The young Michael wasn’t so big as Thunderbird or Gagnon, but he was big enough that colliding with two drunk men startled him rather than knocking him over. He reached out and instinctively grabbed the two men by the shoulder, casting bewildered eyes at Ed.

“What’s going on, Marshal?”

“Wonderful,” Ed said. “Take these two to jail. They’re drunk, and they need a nice cozy place to cool off.”

Michael blinked. “But I was going to have a drink.”

“The saloon’ll still be here when you get back,” Ed said.

He turned and headed back to his place at the bar before Michael could protest. The crowd cheered him as he staggered to his seat, and Ed lifted a hand for calm, ignoring the jeers from Birch and Gagnon.

He had just taken his seat again when he heard hoofbeats and gunshots outside. He sighed and looked longingly at the bottle of rum in his hand. “Goddammit.”

Chapter Two

The mood in the saloon changed as the hoofbeats drew closer. The cheering and laughter that had accompanied Ed’s arrest of the two hapless gamblers was gone, replaced by muttering and tense looks.

The last thing Ed needed was a panic, so he lifted his hands and said, “Stay calm everyone. And stay inside.”

“You don’t want help, Sheriff?” Gagnon asked, his deep voice thickly accented by his French Canadian heritage. He grinned and patted the handle of a massive Bowie knife concealed by a scabbard on his left side. “I can throw this faster than most men can shoot.”

“It’s Marshal,” Ed corrected again. “And no, I want you to stay inside, and I want your knife to stay exactly where it is.”

Gagnon chuckled and lifted his hands. “As you say, Sheriff.”

Ed didn’t bother correcting him again.

He stepped outside, hoping the cool night air would sober him a little. Unfortunately, it was the middle of July, and the air wasn’t much colder outside than in.

The sight of three gunfighters armed with rifles riding in circles in front of the saloon and firing shots in the air helped a little. Ed had a feeling this encounter would end with more than a scratch and a bruise.

“Hey!” he shouted. “What the hell’s going on?”

The riders turned and grinned at him. They were young, probably in their early twenties. One of them looked to be even younger than that.

It was this one who pulled his horse to a stop and lifted his hand for his companions to follow suit. He grinned at Ed with the cocky aggression of a young gunfighter. It reminded Ed of another slightly older but no less cocky gunfighter he had once faced on this same street. That had been in daylight, though, and there had been one of them instead of three.

“Well, how do you do, Sheriff?” the young man said.

“Marshal,” Ed replied, “and I’m all right at the moment. How are you?”

“I’m just fine and dandy,” the young man replied. He looked up and down the street and gestured expansively. “I’m just getting acquainted with my new town.”

“So you’re here to stay a while, then?”

The young man chuckled. “Oh yes. We’re here to stay.”

His companions laughed. Ed would never understand for the life of him what people always found so funny. “Well, in that case, we might as well get acquainted. As you almost surmised, I’m the marshal of Blackthorne. Name’s Ed Morgan.”

“You were the law around these parts?” the young man asked.

Noting his use of the past tense, Ed replied calmly, “I am the law here, yes.”

The outlaws—and Ed was now certain that’s what they were—grinned at each other. The leader turned back to Ed and said with exaggerated politeness, “Well, thank you so much for taking care of things while we were away.”

The other two giggled again. Ed kept his eyes steadily on the leader. “May I ask your name?”

“Sure.” The young man took off his hat and bowed low with a sweeping gesture. “My name’s Ethan. This here’s Cole and that’s Bart.” He replaced his hat. “We’re the Gold Hill Gang.”

Ed suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “The Gold Hill Gang. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of you.”

“Well, that’s no matter,” Ethan said, smiling widely. “You’ll get to know us soon enough. We plan to be here a long time.”

“If that’s the case,” Ed said, “then I’ll have to ask that you keep your horses to a walking pace when you’re within the town limits. I’ll also have to insist that you refrain from firing your weapons while you’re in town. For the time being, I’ll allow you to keep them with you, but if you continue to cause trouble, I’ll have to confiscate them until you leave.”

The outlaws shared another look and burst into laughter. Ed shifted his stance and brought his hands to his hips. He tried to focus on Ethan, but his eyes kept swimming. He shouldn’t have gotten so drunk.

Patty Lydell’s voice scolded him in his head. That’s what I always tell you, Ed. You drink too much, and one of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed that way.

When the outlaws calmed, Ethan met Ed’s eyes. “That’s funny. Thank you for that, Marshal. We needed a good laugh.”

“Nothing funny about it, son,” Ed said calmly. “Blackthorne is a town that welcomes all sorts”—unfortunately—“but we expect a degree of decorum from our residents and visitors. That includes refraining from firing your weapons in the middle of our main street.”

“I don’t think I’ve been clear, Marshal,” Ethan said. The smile vanished from his face. “This is our town now. We’re here to take over. You were the law here. Now, the law is what we say it is. That goes for your sweethearts, too.”

“Skinny one and a plump one,” Cole, the outlaw to Ethan’s left, observed. “Marshal here has something for every occasion.”

He laughed at his joke, and Ed felt his heart sink. Were Birch and Gagnon looking for trouble after all?

He looked to his left and saw with relief that the skinny one and plump one referred to weren’t Birch and Gagnon but his own deputies, Michael Cornwall and Robert Esparza.

Michael, of course, was the plump one. He looked at the outlaw with his wide, simple eyes, then looked questioningly at Ed. Ed didn’t bother trying to signal to him. The boy had a kind heart and a good attitude, but he was every bit as simple as his gaze hinted.

Instead, he looked at the short, wiry man standing next to him and nodded. Bob Esparza was thirty years old and the far more competent of Ed’s two deputies. He returned Ed’s nod and rested his hand on the butt of his handgun. Michael continued to stare at Ed until Bob slapped his arm and whispered to him. Then Michael put his hand on his own pistol.

Both men faced the outlaws, and Ethan said, “Well, well. I guess it’s three versus three now.”

He tried to keep the same arrogance in his voice, but Ed could pick up on the tension underneath. Cole and Bart were no longer smiling, and the tightness in their shoulders and faces was more clearly visible than Ethan’s.

Ed felt a touch of pity for the boys. They were clearly in over their heads.

“Listen, boys,” he said, “I’m thinking I know why I ain’t heard of you before. I’m thinking I know why there’s only three of you and not a dozen or more. I’m thinking you’re new at this; I’m thinking you all probably ran away from a ranch or a mine somewhere and thought you’d try your hand at being gangsters. That sound right?”

Ethan didn’t answer, but his narrowed eyes and the worried glances the other two cast at each other was all the answer Ed needed.

He nodded. “All right. Here’s what’s going to happen. You boys are going to ride on. I don’t care where you go, and I don’t care what you do. I’m not going to send word to the U.S. Marshals in Denver, and I’m not going to form a posse and come chasing you. You leave Blackthorne, and you can do whatever you want outside of my jurisdiction. But you’re not taking over this town, and you’re not making trouble for anyone who lives and works here. That sound fair to you?”

Cole and Barton actually sighed with relief, and Cole even began to turn his horse to ride out of town, but Ethan lifted his hand for them to stop. Then he glared at Ed.

“Marshal, I don’t think there’s a need for any further conversation. We’re taking over this town. You can either get out of our way and enjoy a nice, quiet retirement, or we can shoot you where you stand and take the town anyway.”

Bob shifted his stance, and Ethan’s eyes snapped toward him. “That goes for you too, baby doll.”

Bob didn’t react to the insult, but Michael, God love him, decided now was the time to show Ed how brave and strong he was. He drew himself up and said, “Now listen here. Marshal Morgan’s given y’all a command. I suggest you follow it.”

Ethan’s grin returned. “Well, would you hear that. Doesn’t she have the sweetest little voice? Say something again, sweetheart. I ain’t heard a woman’s voice in ages, and you sound just like an angel.”

Michael reddened and stuck his lower lip out in a pout. The outlaws threw their heads back and laughed.

Ed felt heat creep up his spine. Michael might be a little slow, but he was a good boy who was making something of himself, unlike these three.

“All right,” he said, “you’ve all had your laugh. Now get.”

The outlaws looked back at him, stunned at the sudden hardness in the marshal’s voice. Cole and Bart shared an uneasy look. Ethan’s face paled.

Then a laugh echoed from the saloon. Ed snapped around to see Carter Birch and Jean Gagnon had walked outside after all. The laugh was coming from Carter, who stared at the outlaws contemptuously.

Ed opened his mouth to tell Carter to shut up, but it was too late. With a snarl of rage, Ethan drew his handgun.

He made it halfway out of his holster before Ed’s first shot buried itself in his throat. He fell to the ground, gurgling and clawing at the air.

Bart leveled his rifle at Ed, and Ed swung his handgun toward the outlaw and fired again. His head swam as he spun and the shot only grazed Bart’s shoulder. Bart cried out and dropped his rifle, then glared at Ed and reached for his handgun.

Ed’s third shot left a dollar-sized hole in Bart’s forehead. He stood straight in his stirrups, then fell to the ground. When his right boot caught in the stirrup, his horse spooked and bolted out of town, dragging Bart’s body with him and leaving a trail of blood in the sand.

Cole turned his horse and fled after Bart. He made it ten yards before another shot rang out and he fell to the ground.

Ed turned toward the sound of the shot and saw Michael struggling with his handgun in its holster. Next to him, Bob slowly lowered his handgun and holstered it again.

Ed glared and stomped toward the two of them. Behind him, he heard Birch and Gagnon laughing again. Bob saw Ed’s glare and his stoic expression faltered a little.

“What the hell was that?” Ed asked, keeping his voice low so the crowd gathering at the front of the saloon couldn’t hear. “He was riding away!”

“And he could have come back with a dozen men,” Bob protested. “We don’t know for sure they were by themselves.”

“So you shot a man in the back?” Ed challenged.

Bob glared at him but kept his voice calm. “They were going to kill us, Ed.”

Ed opened his mouth to retort, but then just sighed. God, he was so damned tired of all this.

“Clean this mess up,” he said. “Michael, will you quit messing with your pistol? The outlaws are dead already.”

Michael looked up and sheepishly released his handgun.

“Go get Doc Preston,” Ed commanded. “Tell him he’s got three bodies to prepare for burial.”

“Doc Preston goes to bed early every night except Friday,” Michael protested.

“Then wake him up!” Ed shouted.

Michael jumped like a cow poked by a prod. “Yes, sir, Marshal. Right away.”

He waddled away, belly jiggling, and Ed felt a headache growing behind his right eye. He had a new deputy arriving in the morning, a Texas Ranger. If God had any mercy, the man would be better than his current deputies.

But in Ed’s experience, God reserved his mercy for others.

Chapter Three

Samuel Marcus looked out the window of the train and got his first good look at Blackthorne, Colorado. From a distance, the town was beautiful—nestled in a shallow draw at the foot of the Rocky Mountains and situated along the banks of the pristine Colorado River. The buildings were rustic, made of pine planks with tall, brightly painted façades. The homes surrounding the town proper were equally rustic, cabins and cottages of the same wooden construction with chimneys of either tin or mudbrick and flat-sided, steeply angled roofs. In the distance north of the town, Sam could see the herds of the nearby ranches.

He smiled softly. This was just the change he needed. St. Louis was home to nearly half a million people and hadn’t grown nearly as fast as its population. Thousands lived in squalor, begging on the streets or picking pockets for spare change. Still more lived slightly better, but only slightly, stuck in limbo working long hours in mills or factories to come home to tar paper houses choked with coal smoke and surrounded by debris, garbage, and human and animal waste. Sam would never forget the smell.

Not all of St. Louis was so bad, of course. Like any other city, it had its wealthier quarters and middle-class neighborhoods, its parks and theaters and fairs. But Sam had spent most of his time in the less reputable places, and Blackthorne would be a welcome change.

He looked at the badge on his chest and his smile faded slightly. He still didn’t feel like a Ranger. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d pinned the star to his vest. Now he was going to replace it with a different star and a different title.

He looked back out the window and saw with some surprise that the platform appeared to be quite crowded. Not only that, but a loose group of wagons and horses surrounded the north side of the platform. News of the gold must have spread like wildfire.

Well, that shouldn’t really surprise him. His own train carried a dozen new prospectors hoping for a piece of the deposit that was rumored to surround the town, though to Sam’s knowledge, it had only been confirmed in the one narrow canyon where the Wills claim was. Still, even the rumor of gold attracted people like flies.

The train’s whistle blew, startling a sleeping woman across from Sam. The woman woke with a cry, then flushed beet red when she realized what had happened. Sam offered her a smile he hoped was comforting and turned his attention back to the approaching platform.

The closer they got, the more troubled Sam became. The crowds on the platform weren’t just friends and relatives waiting to greet the arrivals. He saw over a dozen soiled doves laughing and gazing coyly at the men crowding around the windows of the train. One of the women caught Sam’s eye and lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing a long, toned leg up to the knee. Sam smiled professionally and tipped his cap. The woman laughed and blew him a kiss, and Sam made a mental note to avoid her when he stepped off the platform.

Aside from the soiled doves, there were a number of shifty-looking individuals with cunning gazes who prowled among the waiting passengers on the platform. Sam watched in amazement as one of the men deftly stole a coin purse from an elderly fellow and disappeared into the crowd.

Others chose to look for coin the old-fashioned way, sitting near the edges of the platform in dirty, ragged clothes with unkempt beards and plaintive eyes beseeching travelers to bless them with any spare change. One of the beggars was a woman carrying a crying child of maybe two or three and staring hopefully at anyone who walked near.

What the hell was he walking into? He knew from Mortimer Salley that Blackthorne’s marshal was a little overwhelmed, but this was unbelievable!

The train came to a stop, and the passengers eagerly disembarked. Sam was jostled and shoved and pushed as he navigated through the crowd. The conductor and footman fought futilely to keep the outgoing passengers organized and prevent the oncoming passengers from boarding until everyone had disembarked. Sam watched in alarm as the elderly man whose purse had been robbed a moment ago was nearly crushed between the two groups before the conductor drew a pistol and fired into the air.

That finally got everyone’s attention. “That’s enough!” the aghast conductor announced. “All of you, behave yourselves! Now, the outgoing passengers are going to disembark first. Then the oncoming passengers can board. And for God’s sake, take your time. We’re not going anywhere. Let’s please not kill each other.”

The crowd grumbled irritably but at least managed to approximate order as they left the train or waited to enter. Sam stepped onto the platform and waited for his bag. When it became clear that the footman was going to take a while getting to the bags, Sam looked around and tried to get his bearings.

The platform itself was in decent shape, but it was woefully unprepared for a crowd this size. It was designed for maybe thirty or forty people, and by Sam’s reckoning, there were more than twice that many struggling to orient themselves.

He saw another man pickpocketed and called out for the victim’s attention, but the man only gave him an irritated glance and headed onto the train, his thief long gone in the crowd.

Sam filed away the pickpocket’s appearance and decided he’d have to wait until he spoke with Marshal Morgan before he started enforcing the law. If things were this bad here at the station a mile outside of town, they might have bigger problems to deal with.

“The Lawman’s Fading Echo” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

In the shadowed streets of Blackthorne, Colorado, Marshal Edward Morgan stands at the edge of despair. The town he’s sworn to protect is unraveling at the seams, caught in the tumult of a booming gold rush and a chilling spree of murders, the first in decades. With his back against the wall, Edward’s battle-worn spirit faces the ultimate test.

Can he marshal his fading strength to defend his town one last time?

Samuel Marcus is a young deputy with ambitions as vast as the Texas plains he left behind. Summoned by Edward, his old friend and mentor, Samuel envisions a fresh start and a chance to outrun the shadows of his past. But Blackthorne is far from the orderly haven he expected. Confronted with a town teetering on the brink of chaos and a leader who seems to have lost his way, Samuel’s resolve is put to the test.

Is he the hero Blackthorne needs, or is the weight of redemption too heavy a burden to bear?

When even more trouble arrives, threatening to bring the demons of both of their pasts back to haunt them, Edward and Samuel hover on the brink of failure. Will they choose to stand together and defeat this new threat as allies, or will past failure undermine their hope and deprive them of a chance for a bright future?

“The Lawman’s Fading Echo” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!

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