Wild Western Massive Boxset Bundle Volume One

Hey it’s Chris,

I’ve rounded up all the western books I’ve written over the past ten years and WOW!

Even I didn’t know there were that many.

I mean, a cowboy sits by the fire and scribbles out a few lines while the cows moo at a harvest moon, and turns out, if he does it on the prod, then my posse, you can turn out some books.

I’ve even tried my hand at dictating from an outline and let’s just say, it’s working.

A little trick I picked up reading about old Isaac Asimov and some his sci fi shenanigans.

Speaking of tricks, old Youtube and Amazon and all them others are up to ‘em again.

Old tricks that is.

They like to change up their algorthym to keep up with the rapidly expanding frontier, I guess.

What it means for us though?

Well, if you signed up on Youtube to go listen to a wild western adventure and got shown a comedy mystery, you might think some dirty words.

Like what in tarnation and what the heck.

But since I write a whole lot of stuff in a whole lot of genres (7 if you count all the non-fiction I crank out in a given year), I got into a bad habit of just putting them all up on one Youtube channel-

Turns out, the algo don’t like that.

Because like I pointed out just a few moments ago, you go there expecting one thing and get another, it just makes for a bad experience.

Now, I could go into detail and explain I tried keeping it all in playlists, but that don’t work as well as you might think.

They like the niches like I like my calico queens… neat and clean.

So from here on out, tomorrow’s anew and on Wednesdays, we’re going to talk about the new Westerns you can listen to on Youtube or read from Amazon (or my store) or Google or Apple or Barnes and Noble.

And I’m even thinking of putting in a whole western story each week, either short or by chapter because I like the whole cowboy serial idea.

To celebrate though, I made a big boxset called SADDLE UP and put it up on Amazon.

It’s got about ten books in it, and goes for 9.99.

Then I got to thinking about what I did with a big bunch of sci fi books for those readers and look, there’s no way I can’t make the same kind of great deal for you.

So, I put twenty five books into a WILD WESTERN BIG BOXSET BUNDLE and you can grab it for $20 for a limited time.

I mean, that’s like striking gold in them there hills;

You don’t have to grab it, of course.

You can get the books listed below one by one if you like (they’re mostly $2.99 each, so take as many as you like)

I’ve even linked to ‘em so you can just click the ones you wanna pick and set aside some time for your cowboy dreams and adventures.

But, if you feel like saving a little money, go ahead and ROUND UP this WILD WESTERN BIG BOXSET BUNDLE today.

1. Duckfoot Ranch
2. Pecan Creek War
3. Scatter Shot
4. Ten Dollar Mustang
5. Pistol Whipped
6. Red River Ferry
7. Last Drop
8. Cow Puncher
9. Bearcat Pass
10. Fast Shot
11. As Good as Gold
12. Ramble Range
13. Claim Jumper
14. Gunpowder Trouble
15. Bushwhack Range
16. Bear Wash War
17. Kicking Dust
18. Outlaw Range
19. Six Gun Preacher
20. Outlaw Trail
21. Gunpowder Range
22. Wild Ride
23. South Bound
24. Crack Shot
25. Bloodied Trail

Plus, since you’re in the posse; let’s start the Wednesday Western Serial Series:

Here’s chapter one from a BRAND NEW western adventure, GRAVEYARD DEAD:

Chapter 1: River of Blood

The sun was a merciless hammer, beating the dust of the trail into a fine, choking powder. Down below the wagon trace, a river snaked through the valley, its water shallow and deceptively clear, glittering like a vein of silver in the hardpan earth. It was there, at the ford, that hell had opened its gates.

Rip Campbell saw it from a low ridge, the scene unfolding like a devil’s pantomime. He was a cowboy on the drift, looking to pick up work with a ranch when he came across the bushwhacked wagon train. His mare, Sandy, a tough, sand-colored mustang with more sense than most men, stamped a hoof, her ears pricked forward, smelling the blood on the wind.

A group of bandits, garishly dressed as Comanche raiders with daubed-on paint and stolen feathers, were swarming the wagons mid-stream. Their war cries were tinny and false, lacking the guttural conviction of true warriors. Rip’s eyes narrowed. He saw the scuffed toes of cavalry boots beneath a breechcloth, the glint of a whiskey bottle passed between two of the attackers as they cornered a screaming woman. These weren't Indians. This was something uglier.

A volley of rifle fire cracked from the wagons, but it was panicked and poorly aimed. The pioneers were outgunned and outmaneuvered, caught in the open water. Rip didn’t weigh the odds. He didn’t consider the twenty miles that separated him from a hot meal and a soft bed. He saw the wolf at the throat of the sheep, and his hand moved on its own, drawing the Colt from its worn leather holster.

He dug his heels into Sandy’s flanks. The mare surged down the slope, a blur of motion and intent. Rip fired twice from the saddle, his shots spaced and deliberate. The first slug caught the bandit with the whiskey bottle high in the chest, spinning him around into the river with a choked cry. The second shot took the horse out from under another, sending the rider tumbling into the churning water and mud.

The ambushers wheeled around, their feigned war-whoops dying in their throats, replaced by curses. They saw a lone rider, a silhouette against the blazing sun, charging headlong into their midst. It wasn't the numbers that gave them pause; it was the sheer, reckless audacity of the act. This wasn't a settler. This was something else. This was a predator.

Rip rode to the rescue, but he was just one man. He fired again, scattering their formation, turning their attack into a frantic defense. A bullet whined past his ear, close enough to make it sing. He wasn't trying to kill them all, just to break the charge. He was a force of chaos thrown against their own, and it was enough. With panicked glances at their fallen men, the bandits broke off, kicking their ponies back toward the far bank and disappearing into the brush.

Rip pulled Sandy to a halt in the middle of the river, the water swirling around his boots. The sudden silence was more profound than the gunfire had been. It was filled with the groans of the wounded and the soft, desolate weeping of a child. "They'll be back," he warned, his voice a low drawl that cut through the stunned quiet. He looked toward the wagon master, a burly, red-headed man who was clutching a shoulder leaking blood from the graze of a bullet.

"We must bury our dead," the redhead answered, his voice thick with pain and defiance. "We can't leave them out for the animals."

The people stared up at him from their waterlogged wagons, their eyes wide and hollow. Rip saw their stark, skinny faces, etched with the hardship of the trail and now glazed with fresh horror. He saw a woman with flint in her eyes and a small girl hiding in her skirts—the widow Clara Bell, though he didn’t know her name yet. He saw a sallow-faced man with a twitchy gaze who looked away the moment Rip’s eyes met his—her brother, Elias. And he saw a boy, maybe fourteen, with a smudge of dirt on his cheek, staring at Rip as if he were a figure from a legend.

For a long moment, Rip felt the powerful urge to leave. He could turn Sandy's head and ride away, reminding himself that this sorry lot wasn't his problem. They weren't his responsibility. He had a few coins in his pocket for whiskey, and the town of Prospect Ridge wasn't far. People died on the pioneer trail every day. The West was a graveyard, and shallow, unmarked resting places lined the trail from Missouri to the Pacific.

His gaze drifted to the ground where the bandits had been. He saw the clear, deep print of a cavalry boot in the mud. A few feet away, a brass shell casing glinted—military issue, not the reloaded shells a savvy Indian might use. His foster father's words echoed in his mind, a familiar, cynical refrain: "You can't fix stupid, Rip." And heading west without hired guns for protection was stupid. These people hadn't just been unlucky; they had been careless.

He let out a long breath, the dust of the trail and the scent of blood filling his lungs. He almost did it. He almost pulled the reins and left them to their fate. But then he saw the boy, Tommy, still watching him, his fear mingled with a desperate, shining hope.

"Alright, fella," Rip drawled, his voice resigned. "There's a town about twenty miles in that direction." He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, his eyes once more roving over the bedraggled crowd.

"You want to bury your dead here," he said, his voice hard as iron, "we circle these wagons and you take every pistol and rifle you got and get ready. Because they will be back before the sun is down. You fight, and maybe you bury some more of your own right here." He scanned the horizon, as if saying the words might summon the killers back.

He let the grim reality of that sink in.

"Or," he continued, his tone softening just a fraction, "we wrap your dead in canvas, put 'em all in one wagon, and we ride. We ride as fast as these tired mules can pull us, and we don't stop till we see the lights of town. It'll take the rest of the day and half the night. If you stay, I'm riding on. But if you head for town, I'm headed that way too. And I'll ride with you."

The wagon master, Bram, didn't hesitate for long. The choice was between a graveyard here and a chance there. "Wrap the dead!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with grief and urgency. "Into the last wagon! Move, people, move!"

As the settlers scrambled to obey, a grim and terrible efficiency taking over, Rip backed Sandy out of the river. He watched from the saddle while the mare greedily munched on the rich green grass at the water's edge. His eyes, however, never settled. They swept from the nervous pioneers to the darkening sky, from the rocky bluffs to the deep shadows stretching across the land. He was no longer a drifter just passing through. He had made their fight his own. And he was on the hunt for the trouble he knew was coming.

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WILD WESTERN BOXSET BUNDLE