Every historian or author writing the west should own a copy!
No fiction here! You want the real story on a cross country journey with inventory of men, mules, wagons, supplies, weapons and the great peril all faced? With notes added to clarify. A day to day journal written by Americas most unsung hero, with great accuracy, with occasional humor, as Edward Fitzgerald Beale led the camel expedition from Ft. Defiance to the Colorado river. His task: survey the possibility of the first wagon road across America’s vast desert, locate water and forage, assess the Indian threat. And keep his men and animals alive. If you’re a writer of the west, this is a MUST HAVE.
I'm thrilled to report that TWO THOUSAND GRUELING MILES has really gotten legs. It's 1, 3 & 4 on Amazon lists this morning an No. 1,693 out of all 6,000,000 books at the world's largest bookseller. That sounds like way down the line until you realize it's not only in the top 1% but in the top .00028% of all books. :-) I couldn't help but do the math. :-) My thanks to the No. 1 book marketing guru in the biz, Mike Bray at Wolfpack Publishing. And I hope being a good book is part of if.
By Mike Anderson KV
Kat's the author of 75 historical romance and romantic thrillers, who's appeared on the New York Times bestseller list more than 25 times. She's published in more than 25 countries and a dozen languages. She's a member of Romance Writers of American, Western Writers of America, and International Thriller Writers. She graduated from the University of Santa Barbara with a degree in Anthropology.
Quick as a cat, Sampson spins and grabs McDuff by the throat with a ham-size hand, and by the crotch with the other. McDuff grunts, his arms flailing, legs kicking, as Sampson picks him up high over his head, then screams as Sampson takes a half dozen strides and heaves him a half dozen more strides out into the stream. Then Sampson stands with hands on his hips as McDuff flops and screams as the current takes him.
“I can’t swim, I can’t …” and he goes under, comes up spittin’, then goes under again. Shep runs along the bank, barking. I swear he’s smiling, and he sure doesn’t dive in to the rescue.
Pa has been coming our way and is witness to most of this but now runs and plunges into the stream and, in seconds, is dragging McDuff to the bank.
Sampson merely climbs back into position on the cart and whips up George and Mark and moves ahead of the big wagon.
McDuff is on his back in the mud, coughing and hacking, spitting river water, when Captain Cox comes galloping up. “What the hell happened here?” he snaps at Pa and leaps off his mount.
Pa shrugs. “McDuff lost his footing I guess. He doesn’t seem to swim too well.”
I check the Mumin guy, just to make sure the 9mm took out a chunk of skull and see gray matter mixed with the pooling blood on the carpet, then turn back to Alistair.
He’s speaking in Arabic and motioning with the muzzle. When I make the door, I see another raghead. This one is in a traditional white robe and even has a jambiya, the traditional dagger, stuffed into the sash wrapped around his waist.
Alistair obviously knows his stuff and has stayed back from the creep with his long arm. So, I close and jerk the dagger from his belt. It’s a nice piece with a jeweled grip.
“Where’s the fire control box,” I ask.
“Fuck you,” he says, in perfect English.
He’s sorry. My instantaneous reaction with the butt of the Glock has shattered his front teeth. He’s bent over, hands on knees, spitting blood and shards of teeth, but it doesn’t keep me from asking again. “The fire control box?”
But all I get is a gurgle from the haji with the perfect English. But then I understand as he straightens. He’s pointing to his own chest. “American, McCord…Sean McCord,” he’s trying to say.
Then I realize this is guy Connie turned up when she was hacking sites to check out passengers and crew on the Blue Pearl. This is the first time I've come face to face with him. It makes me angry with myself that I wasn't more diligent.
“No shit, a true-blue American?” I ask, and he nods as hard as he can, looking hopeful, hand over mouth, blood seeping between his fingers.
I can't help myself from hitting him face-on with the butt of the Glock, bust his nose which sprays like a garden hose, and he tumbles to the floor. “Fucking traitor,” I manage, glad I'm not impeded by rules of engagement.
Alistair taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to see a wall-mounted panel with a Plexiglas cover. Under it is a series of switches under little individual fold-up Plexi covers, and each of them is numbered to match a deck.
“You see any reason to wait?” I ask my new running mate. “Shall I close them?”
“Jolly good,” he says, and I flip them all.
If we’re going to take the ship back, it has started here.
When word finally reaches him that his sister and her family have died a horrid death at the hands of a cattle baron and his craven cowhands, Taggart McBain comes down off the mountain with bear traps, a double barrel coach gun, two LeMats, and a Winchester. He's on the hunt. When the task is done and blood soaks the Nemesis, NV desert, he receives a shock—his sister is still alive.
Shadows of Nemesis reached No.1 on Amazon's Classic Western Bestseller list, thanks to all you fans and friends of Westerns! Thanks so much....
Mr. Martin is a master storyteller. In ‘Shadows of Nemesis,’ he weaves a story of vengeance in the old West. Tag McBain is on the hunt for the killers and kidnappers of his family. He soon becomes the hunted. With the genius that comes from Mr. Martin’s digital pen, we have an action-packed, rip-roaring tale of a twisted showdown that will leave you gasping in awe.
If you love history, particularly history of the west, you need to know about who I consider the west's most exciting character...Edward Fitzgerald Beale. Read RUSH TO DESTINY!
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We're blessed to have the best of both worlds. The mountain house in Montana, and the ocean in Ventura, CA
Where we've gone for education and research. This doesn't begin to touch the travel we've done, but space is limited.
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