The year is 1871. A mysterious force stalks the Wild West, killing settlers and even the toughest outlaws. Soldier-turned-bandit Jack Stark is given a choice: Hunt down whatever’s out there, or face the noose. The chase will take him from dangerous mining towns and snowy wastelands to ancient caves that hold the most terrible secrets… and eventually into the middle of one of the biggest disasters in U.S. history. As Stark soon learns, it’s not just his life at stake: the country’s future rests on his ability to shoot fast and think faster.
Targeted Age Group:: Adult
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I’ve always loved old Westerns, especially the novels of Cormac McCarthy and the films of Sam Peckinpah. I’ve also loved werewolves — they’re big, fast, powerful, and loaded up with sharp teeth. “Cowboy Werewolf Massacre” combines those loves. It originally started life as a screenplay, but they’re not making a whole lot of Westerns (much less Western-Horrors) anymore, so I decided to turn it into a novel, which worked out better, because it allowed me to layer in additional characterization.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Jack Stark is a Union soldier turned outlaw, so he’s very much the embodiment of the best and worst of men who lived in that era. His friend John is much more of a vagabond and an all-out criminal, but charming in his way. Emily is tougher than everybody else combined. I borrowed a lot of archetypes for these three main characters, but I tried to give them additional “flips” in order to break out of the usual cliches. The villains represent the corruption and decadence of that era (late 1870s).
Book Sample
CHAPTER 3
Three men worked their way at speed through the trees, on foot, leading horses heavy with supplies and rifles. They were, in order:
Monsieur Tramp, a gray and broken-down gent in his fifth decade, dressed in an expensive suit that had definitely seen better days.
Cormac, a young punk with two very big pistols strapped to his waist, and a bowler hat very precariously holding position on his head. With Cormac, people very quickly learned to never call him “Kid,” even though he looked roughly fifteen years old.
At their head, Jack Stark, lean and wiry and mean, with an air of command: the type who leads soldiers into battle with dry wit and a lot of courage. Stark paused to check the snow every few yards; in the silvery light of the moon, he could see the tracks heading west, already half-buried by the falling snow.
“He’s close,” Stark said.
“How in damnation did Billy’s fat ass get that far ahead?” Cormac grumbled.
Based on his expression, Stark clearly assumed the worst had happened to dear Billy. “Be ready,” he told them.
Monsieur Tramp piped up: “How do you know this is our man, and not some trapper or…”
Stark pointed to a bare footprint. “See how that middle toe’s missing?”
“It’s night,” the Tramp said. “I can’t see nothing.”
“Well, if you could, you’d see the middle toe’s missing. The middle toe I cut off, back in the day.” He laughed, sourly. “Doesn’t seem to have affected his speed any.”
At that moment they spied, a few yards away, a dark lump against the snow: Billy, naked, torn open from neck to crotch, his blood already crystallizing in the sub-zero wind.
Stark knelt down and picked up Billy’s shotgun. Broke it open to find both shells still in the breach. Setting the weapon aside, he began probing the dead man’s wounds.
“What did this?” Monsieur Tramp asked. “A bear?”
“This was no bear,” Stark said.
“Our man?” Cormac asked.
Stark plucked a long, dark, bristling tuft of hair from a wound, brought it close to his eyes. “I’d say so, yes.”
“What kind of man rips another one open?” the Tramp asked. “It ain’t civilized.”
“I’d say it’s time you tell us exactly who we’re hunting here,” Cormac snarled.
“All you need to know is that he’s very dangerous, and very fast, and you’re being well paid to help me bring him back,” Stark said, rising, the shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm.
“Dead or alive.”
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