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Outlaw. Bounty hunter. Lawman.
At one time or another, John Holcomb has worn each of these hats. But his violent life extracted a toll. The aches of old wounds can be soothed with a bottle, but no amount of whiskey can dull the pain of losing his wife and son.
Now, years later, the aged gunman is dying, and faced with a stark realization: he has one slim chance to make amends for past failures, and leave something behind for his loved ones.
Holcomb's plan is simple. With the help of his biographer, he will write his memoirs, and record as his legacy the story of his life. Back east, the fabled West is all the rage, and tales of dashing heroes and black-hearted villains are a hot commodity. Publishing his life story could bring in enough money to provide for Molly and Cullen's future—IF it will sell.
Holcomb figures to stack the deck. He's stretched the truth. The heroic life he's revealed to his biographer is built on a base of bull. But though the bulk of his story is fiction, Holcomb is dead certain of one thing: the ending will be a blast, written in gun smoke, blood and thunder.
Richard Freeland
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2018
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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John Holcomb leans back and slips a battered brier wood pipe from his suit coat pocket. He digs a pinch of tobacco from a calfskin pouch, and tamps it home with a callused forefinger. There’s no need to hurry. His slat-back chair is comfy, and he has all the time he’s going to have, here in this cool, shadowed bar. Sitting at a card table, his back to the wall.
Old habits, it seems, die hard.
Holcomb is a seasoned forty-eight, pared down by adversity and illness. He feels older. He has survived more shooting scrapes than any man has a right to, and sports the scars to prove it. But a bum knee—the result of a misunderstanding with a skittery horse—bothers him most. A bone-deep ache constantly announcing its presence.
In the long run, it won’t matter. The cancer eating his innards will kill him soon enough, and he’ll be done with pain.
He touches off a lucifer with his thumbnail and stokes the bowl with
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