RIO RUIDOSO
Three Rivers Trilogy, 1
by
PRESTON LEWIS
Genre: Historical Western
Publisher: Five Star Publishing
Date of Publication: February 19, 2020
Number of Pages: 299
2017 Elmer Kelton Award from the West Texas Historical Association:
Best Creative Work on West Texas
Scroll down for the giveaway!
Rio Ruidoso offers a gripping blend of history and story as two-time Spur Award-winner Preston Lewis explores the violent years before the famed Lincoln County War in New Mexico Territory. Seamlessly weaving fact with fiction, the author details the county’s corruption, racism, and violence through the eyes of protagonist Wes Bracken, newly arrived in the region to start a horse ranch with his alcoholic brother.
Bracken’s dreams for the Mirror B Ranch are threatened by his brother’s drunkenness, the corruption of economic kingpin Lawrence G. Murphy, and the murderous rampages of the racist Horrell Brothers. To bring tranquility to Lincoln County, Bracken must defeat those threats and stand his ground against the ever-changing alliances that complicate life and prosperity in multi-racial Lincoln County.
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EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO OF
RIO RUIDOSO
BY PRESTON LEWIS
Together they joined other dancers, stepping into one another’s arms and into the flow of the music. Even though he held her at arm’s length, that circumspection could not prevent the stares of the prudish matrons lining the walls with folded arms and scowls on their wrinkled faces. Sarafina, by the slight hesitation in each step, felt their hard gazes, but her equally strong will countered their disapproval.
Wes recognized the tune as “After the Ball” and above all the fiddles he recognized that of the soldier Davison for its sharp precision.
As the song ended, Sarafina curtsied to Wes, who bowed just as the door flew open. A woman screamed. Wes glanced at the commotion, his hand falling instinctively to his waist for his pistol. His fingers came up empty, then he remembered hanging his gun belt on a peg by the door.
A shot exploded in the room.
Wes jumped for Sarafina, pushing her to the floor, flinging himself atop of her.
Women and children screamed as adults tripped over themselves hiding.
One, two, three more shots punctured the air, the smell of black powder engulfing the dance floor. People gasped and shrieked. Near the entry, Wes saw a man clutching a bloody spot on his shirt.
“Luis,” screamed Sarafina, clawing from under Wes and crawling over people toward her son. Wes jumped up, shoved her back to the floor and clambered over the thrashing forms between him and the bench. All around men were blowing out the lamps, and the room dimmed, lit only by the flickering candles on the chandelier and by the flames in the two corner fireplaces. Wes darted to the wall where Luis had rested. The bench, though, was overturned and nothing looked the same. A baby’s wailing rose above the commotion.
Three more shots, one after another, flared from the entryway to be answered by more screams and the loud wail of Luis. Wes clambered for the basket. Just as he reached for it, two more explosions spit lead from the door, and the basket jerked and tumbled beyond Wes’s grasp.
“Luis,” Sarafina screamed.
Wes glanced at the door, seeing the profile of two men with pistols in their hands. He looked over his shoulder in time to see Sarafina jump up from the tangle of arms and legs that moments before had been dancers.
“Get down, Sarafina, now,” Wes shouted as he grabbed the basket and pulled it into him, but the basket was empty. He heard a whimper nearby, then a scream as his hand fell against a bundle on the ground. It was Luis.
Wes jerked the baby to him, flinching at the touch because the wrap covering him was soaked, Wes fearing from blood. The baby screamed uncontrollably as Wes screened him from the men at the door.
Two more shots flashed and thundered into the smoke-filled room, now acrid with the bitter aroma of gunpowder. “Let’s get out of here,” a voice called, followed by the heavy fall of boots outside.
Before anyone else stood up, Sarafina ran to Wes’s side, clutching her son’s damp bundle. In the dimness, she unwrapped him and celebrated. “He’s only wet himself,” she cried. “He’s okay.” Then she sobbed.
Wes pounced to his feet and scampered over the cowering forms toward the door. Knocking his coat from the peg, he jerked his gun belt free and strapped it on. At the exit, he met Haskins tugging his scabbard in place. Together they dashed outside. Fifty yards down the street, two men turned and fired at them.
“You sons a bitches,” Wes cried out. He grabbed his pistol and took aim. “You’ll die tonight,” he screamed.
Preston Lewis is the Spur Award-winning author of thirty novels. In addition to his two Western Writers of America Spurs, he received the 2018 Will Rogers Gold Medallion for Western Humor for Bluster’s Last Stand, the fourth volume in his comic western series The Memoirs of H. H. Lomax. Two other books in that series were Spur finalists. His comic western The Fleecing of Fort Griffin received the Elmer Kelton Award from the West Texas Historical Association for best creative work on the region.
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———————–
GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY!
1ST PRIZE: Signed Copies of Rio Ruidoso & Bluster’s Last Stand
2ND PRIZE: Signed Copy of Rio Ruidoso
FEBRUARY 18-28, 2020
(US ONLY)
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