Well I finished 'The Last Posse' and dutifully sent it off to Joe Gentile at Moonstone and after all this time devoted to getting it done I'm feeling kinda strange now that I've come at last to that point when it's done. Mind you while initial feedback from the publisher is good I have been promised comments, so it looks like the story'll be back on my lap pretty soon.
Anyhoo in the interest of posterity, here're the first two paragraphs of the story.
HE had been riding hard for three days and nights. Pounding through the shit hole desert, the dust filling the cracks in his creased leather skin. His mount kept a steady gallop. Mustang was the horse’s name. He’d been meaning to think up a better one, but never quite getting round to it. The sound Mustang’s hooves made upon the ground measured time like the beating of a heart. It instigated another chapter of the rider’s life in the shit and dirt and dust of the Wild West.
Time may be chronological, but life is a map of events in search of whatever connection it may find. Like the time he’d risen for a late breakfast of horsemeat and whisky, then made his way to Old Man Jessop’s for a dry shave. He sat slumped in the barber’s chair as Jessop caressed his neck and chin with sure fine strokes. Steady, Jessop was sure steady. In another life the old man would have been an artist or a gunslinger.
The 'he' in question above is Wyatt Earp. Around 16000 words later and we're done. More later.