The Afterlife of Slim McCord-my newest western is out in hardcover this November from Robert Hale's Black Horse Western imprint and is available for pre-order from Amazon, The Book Depository and Robert Hales own website now. My previous titles have all been quick sellers and pre-ordering is the best way to be sure you'll get a copy on publication day.
It's my most out there western and I'm eager to see what my readers think of it. It's got all the traditional elements that have made my previous westerns so successful, but it's got a twist in that the main character is dead for most of the novel and the narrative doesn't rely on flashback scenes to propel the story.
Below is an exclusive extract7
‘Shot in the
back,’ the barker yelled. ‘Ain’t no lawman who could have taken Mad Slim McCord
face on.’
‘You sure got
that right,’ Clay Blackman offered a nickel but the barker held up his hands,
palms forward.
‘No, no, old
timer’ he shook his head vigorously. ‘Not me, give it to him.’
‘Him?’
‘Sure,’ the
barker smiled. ‘Put it in his mouth. He’s the one you’re paying to see and it’s
only right he takes your money.’
‘In his mouth?’
‘Sure, he’ll
gobble it right up.’
Blackman
frowned. It seemed a particularly gruesome thing to do but nevertheless he
pushed the coin between his dead friend’s lips. He winced as his fingers
brushed the dry, almost abrasive tongue.
Strange but
McCord didn’t even look dead, propped up as he was against a wooden frame, more
like he was sleeping on his feet. The preservation was incredible, and the dead
man’s skin, although cold and leathery, seemed to glow with vigour. His eyes of
course were glass; Blackman knew that because Slim’s eyes had been a pale grey,
rather than the vibrant blue that now stared sightlessly into an unfocused
distance. One of the eyes had also been placed at an irregular angle, which
gave Slim something of a cock-eyed appearance.
‘How’d he end up
like this?’ Blackman wasn’t aware that he had given the thought a voice.
‘Well now,’ the
barker rubbed his chin, as though considering his reply rather than going into
a well-practised sales pitch. ‘Was a time Mad Slim McCord was one of the most
feared man in the West. He terrorised the badlands and sent many a lawman to an
early grave.’
Blackman smiled
at that. As far as he knew Slim had never been much of a killer, he hadn’t
liked killing, and would avoid doing so whenever it was possible. He tended to
scare folks with a dazzling combination of skilful gunplay, which was often all
it took. One time, Blackman remembered, Slim had shot a sheriff’s hat clean off
his head and then plugged it twice more as it spun through the air. After that
the lawman hadn’t been any trouble to them and they had been free to go about
their unlawful business.
‘The fact that
he lived as long as he did is testament to how successful a bandit he was,’ the
barker continued. ‘But McCord’s luck ran out one day down in Santino when a
lawman recognised him from an old wanted poster and shot him in the back. Just
like that. No warning and a bullet in the back.’
‘Long way from
Santino to here,’ Blackman said. ‘How’d
he end up here?’
‘You see no one
claimed the body,’ the barker said. ‘And so the undertaker, figuring he could
profit from such an infamous outlaw, decided to embalm the body in preserving
solution made of arsenic and strong spirits.’
‘And you bought
him?’ Blackman looked the barker directly in the eyes.
The barker
nodded, proudly.
‘He’s been dead
close on seven years now and looks as if he could have been shot this very
morning,’ the barker said. ‘The undertaker had to remove a lot of his innards
you know, stuff him back up with sawdust and the like, but that’s a darn fine
preservation job, darn fine. American
craftsmanship at its best.’
‘You bought the
body to turn a profit?’ Blackman found that the most tasteless thing he had
ever heard.
‘Sure did,’ the
barker said. ‘And I charge a nickel a view. That’s what’s called the
entrepreneurial spirit operating in a free market. God bless America.’
‘Guess he sure
ain’t gonna’ choke on that nickel,’ Blackman said.
‘We only here
one week in Possum Creek,’ the barker said with a broad smile. ‘Be sure to tell
all your friends.’
Immediately
another man entered, holding his nickel out between a thumb and forefinger.
There was a queue of at least fifty people outside the tent waiting for a
chance to see the dead outlaw. Slim had never been that successful an outlaw,
Blackman recalled and guessed that he was making more money dead than he ever
had alive.
‘I hear he’s
been preserved with a paint made of strong whisky,’ someone in the crowd said
as Blackman pushed through and made his way to the saloon.
*
The story continues in The Afterlife of Slim McCord by Jack Martin available for pre-order now.
