Western Gunslinger Novels & Stories

"Okay, so I can assume you are the only one around these parts?" Mark was still smiling from the shirt joke, but there was an underlying seriousness as well. Elena spotted it and said something about it. "Why the concern about other werewolves? Do you know something?" "Well, I guess I should tell you. I have had some of the local ranchers complain about missing cattle. The latest item was Bud Grierson down at Merv's Tavern bragging about how he shot some giant wolf with his new 7mm Remington Magnum last Saturday morning. He was telling everyone who would listen that he blew a hole the size of a basketball out of the side of the wolf and it just kept running. Nobody really believes him, but t

I dried my eyes and stared at the road with a heavy heart. I understood why I couldn't be going to Gavin's house from Oscar's house. I wondered why Oscar was willing to do it. It was a good five hours drive, and I was exhausted by the time we got there. Gavin's house was on the outskirts of town. It looked like a mini castle. Very ancient but well-kept building. The inside, though, was modern and ostentatious. It screamed of wealth, but the house wasn't child friendly. Apart from the pictures that hung on the walls in both the hallway and the common areas, there were all sorts of dangerous weapons hanging on the wall too. The house was an arsenal. The weapons did not look like props at all.

“You two will end up making out in the middle of a gunfight for grins and giggles.” “You jealous, husband? You know you’re the only man I ever root,” the Australian man replies, groping the other man’s rear-end. “Fine. Corpse Collector and Drogo,” Ryder addresses the two bikers, “you two go get Sidhe. He is to the west. Follow gunfire.” They nod to Ryder before taking the safety off their guns and running toward the empty vacation houses pelted with bullets.

Besides, he was pretty funny. Corbin was a tall lean guy with copper-colored skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes. He had your typical Wyoming accent and some ordinary cowboy bad habits like tobacco use. He was nice and would help you out if you needed it, but there wasn’t really anything special about him, other than his ability to ride.

He never had a mate, he's a lone wolf, and so taking care of me was the only thing that kept him alive, wolves need a mate but Ethan didn't have one, instead, he decided to take care of a child, call me his own and then raised me to be me. Ethan didn't share my birth father's ideas, he doesn't believe that vampires are bad, he says they aren't so bad, not all vampires kill on sight, not all vampires are bad, just the rogue ones, just like there are rogue wolves. And when I asked about the ones who killed my family, Ethan explained things to me, and they weren't pretty not at all.

Rollins turned to look at the big outlaw and drew his second Colt and aimed at Horace 'Big Hoss' Gator, the leader of the infamous Gator Boys Gang. It was now or never. Edward drew his pistol and fired in one motion. Sheriff Rollins staggered back, his shoulder exploding in a spray of blood. The old man dropped his guns and went down. Edward didn't wait to see if the gnarled lawman was going to live or die, he hurled the fat banker at the deputy and took a running leap at the open window. He heard Big Hoss yelling after him as he landed hard on the gravel outside. As far as Edward was concerned, the Gator Boys were done. Billy Dukes, Frogface, Johnny B and Travis Jayne were already dead, and

The sky looked like someone had erased it with a dirty eraser as it was grey, smudged, and looking like more rain would drop. “Just on time.” He opened the door as I entered. He didn’t ask where I wanted to go, only responded, “Let’s do something different,” before pulling out of the drive. We went to three different gun ranges. Apparently, Oscar had a thing for guns. And talking. He talked the whole way there. Talked while he loaded his first magazine. Talked while the instructor was giving directions like he wasn’t even there. “Old revolvers do it for me,” he said, pausing to aim. “You know the ones I mean? With those handles you see in westerns. There’s something about the sexiness of tha

Somewhere, a screen door whined on rusted hinges, slapping rhythmically against a frame bloated with rot. A man bursts out of the house, screen door slamming behind him. He’s a mountain of a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and wearing a leather jacket similar to the other two. Clutching my duffel bag in one hand and a .44 Magnum in the other, barrel still smoking. The *Lou Nwa* (Black Wolves) patch—a snarling wolf with flaming fleur de lis for eyes—marked him as a crew even the bayou’s ghosts feared. His Dyna Glide hog idled at the curb, handlebars wrapped in gator hide, tooth-studded grips flecked with dried reptilian blood. Swamp mud crusted the fenders like concrete, embedded with crawfi

After we went down the slopes, we were about to enter the town when five horsemen appeared before us. One of them came forward. He had the look of a sheriff from the Old West; his right chest had a gold shield badge engraved with a weighing scale. He must be a Libra member. “Greetings, Sheriff Earp,” Zeki said. “Mr. Zeki, howdy,” he greeted with a Texas accent. He then turned his piercing, steely eyes to us. “Where y’all headed?”

The mildly warm day and clear skies could change in a helluva hurry on the high plains of Wyoming and she shivered at an odd sense of foreboding. Each steady clip brought the man closer, but she couldn’t see his face. A long sheepskin coat brushed the thighs of faded Wranglers, drawing attention to the championship belt buckle centered between trim hips. Leather gloves covered fingers curled around the strap of a camouflage duffel bag. This man wasn’t one of those young, green city boys looking for “real” ranch work and a wild Western adventure. This guy was one hundred percent cowboy, from the tips of his scuffed Tony Lamas to the brim of his dusty black Resistol. Chassie probably looked li