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Like many other nationalities, the Welsh made a unique contribution to the time and place we call, The Wild West. Official records show that some 80,000 Welshmen made their home on the American frontier, though the true figure is likely much higher.
This is the story of one of those men.
William Williams, otherwise known as Wild Bill Williams was no stranger to trouble. It seemed to follow him, sticking to him like a shadow. A survivor of the Little Big Horn, or so he claims, he has never had to face trouble like that which he found in the town of Stanton. When the bullets start to fly and the blood begins to run, Wild Bill is never far behind.
My previous bestselling westerns, The Tarnished Star, Arkansas Smith and The Ballad of Delta Rose are still available - check out your favorite bookseller or request the books at your local library.
- Hardcover: 160 pages
- Publisher: Robert Hale Ltd (31 Oct 2012)
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: 070909633X
- ISBN-13: 978-0709096337
Visit Amazon's Jack Martin page HERE
Under the name Jack Martin I am well known in the western community and have written several highly popular westerns. My debut was The Tarnished Star which was followed by Arkansas Smith and 2011 saw my most hardboiled western, The Ballad of Delta Rose. I also write under my actual name Gary Dobbs and my historical crime thriller, The Rhondda Ripper is available for the Kindle with a print edition to follow. Arkansas Smith II the sequel to my popular hardcover Arkansas Smith is now available as a Kindle only book, as is Savage Slaughter. October of 2012 will see the publication of a new hardcover from Robert Hale Ltd entitled, Wild Bill Williams.
BOOK SAMPLE FOLLOWS:
There was nary a frown when Wild Bill Williams was in town. He had a way about his manner that enabled most folks to forget all their troubles and become positively festive. It was said that Bill could start off a dance at a funeral and carve a grin out of the most granite of faces.
He had been born a Welshman; in a village called Gilfach Goch, a name that was unpronounceable to all but himself. But as a young man of fifteen summers, with no compulsion to go and work in the coalmines, those same mines that had aged his father beyond his years, he had had set out in search of adventure and found himself stowed away on a ship making the Atlantic crossing to the United States. He’d landed in New York and after a few aimless years had started out West in search of the future he had in mind for himself.
“Go West, Young Man, and grow up with the country”, The New York Tribune had advised in striking headlines that had filled men such as Bill Williams with optimism for a future on the rugged frontier. It had seemed Bill’s destiny to follow the westward trail. What that destiny was no one, Bill included, knew.
|GILFACH GOCH AS BILL WOULD HAVE KNOWN IT|
Indeed if Bill had ever known what he had intended to do with his life then he’d long forgotten. And these days he just walked through life happy-go-lucky and faced whatever fate threw at him.
Fate sure did like to interfere with Wild Bill Williams.
Take today for instance; one moment Bill was enjoying a poker game after drifting into the town of Stanton, and the next he was in the jailhouse nursing a split head.
It had happened thus:
Bill, face totally expressionless, peered over his cards at the men seated around the table. He was holding, “Aces Up”, a strong enough hand but he would have preferred better. There were three men, four counting himself, at the game and Bill looked at each of them in turn. Dutch Carter had a sweat on, Sam Jessup looked to be almost asleep and Cleveland Ohio, lovely name that, sat trying to suck life into a massive cigar.
‘You know,’ Bill said, about to make his move when the batwings suddenly swung open and a young man of maybe seventeen summers stood in the doorway, his face furious, his hands hanging, gunfighter style, at his side. Whatever Bill had intended to say then was lost, even to himself as the actions of the armed man had stolen Bill’s train of thought.
‘Caleb Stanton,’ the young man said. ‘I’ve come to kill you.’
The saloon fell silent and at the far end of the counter, a big man of about thirty, Caleb Stanton, Bill guessed, stepped forward. The big man was dressed completely in black - black pants, black shirt, black boots, with a black Stetson sat upon his head. He even wore a matching gun-belt and save for the glow of the Schofield pistol, the only colour about the man was his thick red hair, which was a trait of the Stanton clan.
‘Come back when you grow up,’ the man spoke directly to the kid. He seemed completely at ease but Bill noticed the way the man held his body, coiled, ready to act at any moment.
‘I’m plenty growed up,’ the young man said and pulled a Colt. He pointed it directly at the man named Stanton. ‘Make a fight then,’ he prompted.
‘I’m not going to draw on you,’ Stanton said, calmly.
‘Then I’ll shoot you down like the dog you are,’ the young man snarled. ‘Now defend yourself.’
‘In front of all these people, I don’t think so,’ Stanton said and Bill had to admire his coolness. ‘For the last time, boy. I’m not going to fight you.’
‘You’ve got no guts less it’s for disrespecting women?’ the young man sneered.