Wyoming Showdown, by Rusty Davis
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Wyoming Showdown, by Rusty Davis
PDF Ebook Online Wyoming Showdown, by Rusty Davis
The High Plains of Wyoming's open range are a chance for men to make a killing--or just to kill. Rourke, a bounty hunter with a trail of graves and gunfights behind him, is drawn into a high-stakes game where the greedy and powerful want to exploit the West for their own gain, regardless of the rules. In a time and place where death and violence are as much a part of life as untamed herds of buffalo and the wild freedom of the raging winds, Rourke has to choose between drifting through life and taking a stand, knowing it could be his last. Battling unseen enemies as well as audacious rustlers, Rourke rides with a blacksmith whose best years are long past him, and Caledonia MacReynolds --a girl as free and wild as the Wyoming sunsets--to stand up against the odds. As the dark side of progress spills greed across the Plains, drifters and grifters must make their choices, and take their stands. As the final showdown nears, Rourke must decide which friends are still true, which ones are betraying him, and who--if anyone--can be trusted. The powerful forces of change spreading from the East meet the free spirits of the West in a confrontation that forces Cal and Rourke to stand tall and shoot straight.
Wyoming Showdown, by Rusty Davis- Amazon Sales Rank: #6414838 in Books
- Published on: 2015-09-16
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 1.00" h x 5.70" w x 8.60" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 245 pages
Review Caledonia MacReynolds is a true find - a strong female character in a Western novel. ... she is a powerful, dynamic character. ... the book's continual contrast of the wild and free ways of the West with the less honorable ways of the East ... resembles a societal commentary embedded with the story. A different time. A different place. Eternal values and conflicts. They all come together in "Wyoming Showdown," a book that should be wearing a star - five of them to be exact. From books.google.com/books/about/Wyoming_Showdown.html?id=d0G1oQEACAAJThis is an enjoyable Western, written by a new author with definite knowledge of western lore. Although his background is freelance writing, I feel he has found a future in writing Westerns. The pace of the story, from the opening pages until the climax, is exciting and unrelenting. The characters are well-formed and credible. The author continues to put the protagonist in danger, while the mystery behind the horse-stealing becomes even more complicated. I highly recommend this western novel as a real page-turner. -- from historicalnovelsociety.org/reviews/wyoming-showdown/The book also paints an intriguing picture of right and wrong, with some of its characters having their feet planted on both sides of that line.The narrative works on multiple levels. One interests me more than the others - the book's continual contrast of the wild and free ways of the West with the less honorable ways of the East. In a day and age when America is convulsed between red states, which on most maps includes Wyoming, and blue ones, which are very much in the East, this theme of the book resembles a societal commentary embedded with the story. from reallygoodwesterns.blogspot.comFrom True West Magazine: Five Star Publishing has published Rusty Davis's Wyoming Showdown. Davis has a passion for the real and imagined West that comes alive in his tale on the high plains of the lawless, windswept territory. His hero is Rourke, a bounty hunter who finds himself and his life at a crossroads in the boomtown of Rawhide. Readers, who enjoy classic Max Brand Westerns will enjoy every page of Davis's first novel, and will be eagerly awaiting the further adventures of Rourke and his high-spirited, ladylove Caledonia MacReynolds. truewestmagazine.com/wyoming-showdown-review/
From the Author An excerpt from "Wyoming Showdown:"Rourke leaned against the gallows tree. The Nestor boys approached. He wondered about the men who had been where he was, with their last sight on earth a jeering crowd come to watch a man die. For a moment, he wondered if a tree felt all the misery around it, like the Indians said, or if it was only a tree. He chuckled grimly; he'd have to ask Star. Cal would surely think he had gone crazy then.Evening was drawing near. Townsfolk had gathered. Everybody wanted to see. Nobody wanted to see too well in case a gunfighter didn't shoot straight. Shame, he thought, that this couldn't have happened in the middle of the day so everyone could have a good view. A north wind picked up. Rourke took off his battered hat and left it on a branch. He liked the wind in his hair. He gave Cal one more thought, put her out of his mind. Not now. Later. Doubts and fears and mortality were gone. The wind breezed around him. He was ready.The Nestor boys walked slowly. Rourke moved away from the tree, a plain challenge and target even in the fading light. He stood with his hand by his gun, waiting. On the Nestor boys walked. Their fingers danced the way gunmen did so they could move as fast as possible in the split second that separated death from life. There were no challenges. They had all walked out here before, to the place where men dared other men to kill them. They felt little, if they felt anything at all. Not even hate. Just men in a time and place where the price being paid was kill or be killed. Henry Nestor walked in the middle, eyes on Rourke. The others kept pace to the steady brother who held it together. Stanley had a sawed-off shotgun slung over his left shoulder on a strap. Carl wore two pistols. Two were for show. Shoot one right, you have everything you need. Three on one. He wondered what it would be like to have the odds on your side. He'd never known. He never would.The Nestors spread apart as they walked closer. They knew how to do the job, he gave them that. Man didn't live long in the territory in the trade of a gunfighter without knowing how to kill. The wind gusted. He felt the cold edge of a norther once again. A smile welled up unbidden. Lorraine loved those hard cold winds. Maybe the wind meant that she was with him. Maybe it was time to finish this.Rourke ambled forward with the deliberate pace of a man who was ready to be done with a chore. One is not supposed to brace three. One of them rules that don't matter, he reminded himself. Rourke's movement checked the Nestors, who had expected him to stand and wait, perhaps using the huge trunk of the gallows tree as cover. He caught the glances among brothers as the unexpected planted in his opponents a seed of doubt, a ghost of fear of the unexpected, a possibility of an unknown trap. Then Henry nodded again and they continued walking towards each other. They were 50 yards apart. Rourke liked to be closer. The boys walked closer; Rourke walked as well. Blow that horn, Gabriel, he told himself. It's time for someone to die.
From the Inside Flap Wispy dust blew across the hard-baked packed dirt of Broken Corners' one and only street. It left a gritty coat of white on horses and men who had long since inured themselves to the omnipresent irritant. Along both sides of the short space of buildings that marked the town, cracked, sun-baked, weather-beaten boards gleamed through the flecked paint of the false-fronted buildings. Deep gray clouds far off to the west spoke of looming rain, rain that would slake the thirst of wilting corn while turning the town's pitted street into an impassable trough of Wyoming mud. That would be another day--a day when life was lived according to its usual routine and the street would be all but empty because everyone had work to do on the ranches and farms that spread around the small settlement.Today, Broken Corners' one street was filled to overflowing. Knots of men and boys gathered along the hitching rails by the hotel and the store. Voices rose and faded like the rolls and swells of the sea as their tension of anticipation grew. The pounding of the boys as they ran along the duckboards added drumbeat-like spikes of tension as men waited. Women remained inside, where they pushed aside curtains as they pretended to dust furniture or straighten displays in the stores. More than one woman wished men would simply kill each other far from town so that these gory spectacles could be avoided. Many also feared that--like the town over the hill--men who had wagers on one man or the other might turn the gunfight into an occasion for a violent brawl. The women knew full well who would have to sew up the wounded. However, even the women who disapproved knew that the fuss was to be expected. In this late summer of 1868, little varied the work-a-day life in a hard-bitten Wyoming frontier town as much as the exhilarating spectacle of two armed men walking out into the street with each planning to kill the other in a gunfight. Unlike the times when drunken cowboys staggered out of the saloon and fired at each other, being as likely to hit the sky as the man they were angry with, this showdown was for real. The deadliest bounty hunter in all of Wyoming had challenged one of the most famous outlaws of the territory, a man with a string of killings who always came back to Broken Corners.The time for the showdown had been set in a note delivered to the outlaw back in the morning. Advance notice gave the crowd time to grow. There was more attendance than for the travelling preacher. Men argued over whose watch was right, as if any of them were. One thing they knew as the sun passed its peak: It was almost time.From the direction of the hills that shimmered distantly through the heat, a lone rider slowly neared the scraggly collection of buildings. The man had been resting in the shade of the trees by the craggy brook a mile to the west. One of the men coming into to town to see the gunfight insisted that had Red Jim gone out to get him, it would have been easy because the gunfighter was sleeping. The truth was not quite that simple, but the bounty hunter knew that when there was nothing to do but wait, he might as well be comfortable. He had done this often enough, after all. All he had wanted while he waited was a place to be alone. Now, he seemed indifferent as the horse walked down the street. He dismounted and hitched his mount to a rail, talking quietly to the horse for a moment. He smiled at the animal as if this was another day, another town. The horse was a giant black stallion with a white mark on his forehead. To a man, the townspeople and ranchers admired the animal, which combined beauty, strength and speed. Plans were already being made to sell him or steal him when the stranger would need him no more, so confident that today's drama would end in the way all others before had finished--Red Jim standing tall with a smoking weapon in his hand and the lifeless body of a challenger who was not quite fast enough being dragged away to be buried at the edge of town in what was the beginning of a gunfighters' cemetery.The man who walked away from the horse did not impress the onlookers. He was medium-sized, carelessly dressed and thin in the face. His boots looked old. His clothes were worn and covered with trail dust. Saloon bums often dressed better. The flat-crowned black hat was nondescript. Beneath it, his face was shadowed by the hat, hidden by a beard and muted beneath the layers of dirt. The eyes that burned holes from beneath the brim radiated intensity that was in contrast with the rest of his actions, but not many townsfolk had ventured close enough to look. They did notice the pistol strapped to his right leg below the hip in a gun belt that seemed to be as much a part of the man as his arms and legs. They knew his name was Rourke. What he was trying to do this day he had done before. Some said he had killed fifty men; others put the number lower. Despite the lack of information, all were convinced he was deadlier than almost anyone else--except for Red Jim. On that one, they were not yet convinced. They knew what Red Jim could do. There were graves on the edge of town to prove it. They had told this to the man when he issued his challenge to Red Jim. The man accepted the information without comment. If he cared, it didn't show. ..From Chapter 1 of "Wyoming Showdown."
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0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. "Want to die, boy or you want to live?" By Amazon Customer I've read lots of westerns. The nitty-gritty ones that spew gore all over the place in the name of realism; the sappy ones where the ruggedly handsome cowboy spends half the book rescuing the ditzy damsel; the hokey ones where "the man who shot me wore a polka-dot handkerchief"; and the the horrible ones where the author has no clue about the real world of riding horses and working cows (amusing, but every cowboy in the book would be thumbless. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't write about roping).Wyoming Showdown carefully dances the dividing line between these danger zones and the result is a genuinely fun story. Bounty hunter, check. Guns-for-hire riding into town to take down the sole good guy, check. Bad guys scheming and blazing gun battles with lots of dramatic lines, check. The story flirts with elements that - although indispensable to any classic western - are almost cliche, but Wyoming Showdown manages to pull them off with satisfying competence. My personal favorite is during a showdown in a dusty street, the bounty hunter stalks towards his prey... and privately thanks his stars that the street isn't muddy because of what an idiot he'd look.The damsel isn't ditzy, either, which I appreciate. One of my favorite lines of hers (upon running into the cowboy again after a shootout): "If a girl was in Fort Laramie, there's a fella would be steak about now."A western ought to be fun. This one is. Wyoming Showdown is a fast, well-told western that doesn't try to be epic or gritty or anything more than what it is - which is, simply, a dang good story. Can't ask for more than that.
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