An Excerpt from A RED WINTER IN THE WEST
Now available for pre-order from Cemetery Dance
Carson Ptolemy sat astride his gelding Abraham, looking at the long skinny hand of the pocket watch. How quickly such a small mechanism made the past a measurable thing. So long as he watched that little hand move, he was living in the present. Second by second. He didn't have to think of what had happened or what was to come. Only the moment mattered. This moment especially.
He looked up from the watch, over the edge of the cliff. His eyes traced down to the parallel iron rails bisected by timbers reaching as far east as there was an east, and westward, too.
Abraham stamped impatiently.
“It's coming, boy. Should be along any minute.”
He checked the shells in his converted LeMat.
Far away, a shrieking whistle cut the air.
Carson holstered the revolver and looked west to the canyon valley where two great walls of limestone rose high above the rail line. A tendril of smoke climbed above the gap.
The timing would have to be perfect. There wouldn't be another chance. He and Abraham had practiced the descent down the embankment for the last two days. Now it was time to put practice to use.
Another steamy blast, another mechanical howl. Both closer this time. The train would come roaring out of the canyon but would have to let off steam before reaching the wide arc of the bridge. Carson needed to be on board before the ground gave way to the dark, rushing torrent of the Rio Grande.
The locomotive roared out of the canyon. Painted black as night, screaming like a behemoth straight out of Hell.
He gave Abraham a squeeze, and the gelding perilously bounded down rocky soil. He leaned back, trusting the horse to do the navigating. They hit the ground at the bottom of the embankment at a full gallop.
Abraham half-stumbled, stuttering his gait.
With one false step, the train threatened to thunder past them.
There was no need to kick or spur. Abraham opened up full speed. The horse raced against the power of the infernal machine, not needing to win, just to keep the contest close.
The shades were drawn over the car windows to protect from the prying light of the July winter sun. The wheels rolled over and over with a loud, undeniable momentum. But the horse and his rider leaned in close, close enough so the man could reach for the railing of the caboose.
Carson reached out, took hold of the rail.
His gloved hand slipped on the rail’s slick surface, sliding along the frost-rimmed brass. Almost tumbling out of the saddle, he pulled himself back up to full height and posted high.
“Come on now! Come on, boy!”
The clopping percussion underneath them intensified as the gelding stormed forward. Carson threw a leg over to ride sidesaddle, where he struggled to balance amid the jostling pace. He groped again, this time throwing both hands at the rail in an all-or-nothing maneuver. The brass railing rebuffed his right hand, but the left found purchase.
Carson jumped.
Like it so far?
I hope so. And if you do, I hope you’ll pre-order Book Two in THAT LIGHT SUBLIME from Cemetery Dance
