Synopsis

The Sangre de Cristo Mountains, The Blood of Christ, provide the backdrop for Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves, a tale of murder, revenge and redemption. Jack Sloan, businessman, gambler, casino operator, and tough guy is trapped by two con artists and kills them to escape.  Three years later, he’s built a new life with his new love, Darlene, but knows payback is on the way. It comes in the shape of two hard cases bent on avenging their partners’ deaths. The beautiful Mattie is the brains behind the crew, while Irvine, a psychotic who wields a knife, plays her main muscle.

The two track down Jack and plot their attack. Jack and his enemies weigh the risks of confrontation and then prepare for the battle of their lives. But no matter how carefully they plan, it’s still a crapshoot, and the outcome is in doubt until the end.

Excerpt

Rain pelted my thin tee shirt.  It chilled me through in five heartbeats.  No sense in trying the fancy Leica field glasses.  Water dripped from my eyes and obscured the lenses.  The storm surprised me.  Nothing to do except hunker down and pull my hat over my ears.  

I could make out my rancho without binoculars.  The arroyo behind the barn roared with runoff.  Twenty-six acres looked small from here, marked off by the barbed wire and coyote fences that crisscrossed the property.  Someone ran from the casita to the main house with an umbrella.

The rain stopped after fifteen minutes.  I took off my tee shirt, wrung it out, worked my arm and shoulder muscles, and put it back on.  The dampness would feel good once the sun came out.

Movement to the west made me look up.  Too awkward for a coyote or stray dog.  I wiped the lenses and adjusted them to the new distance.  I focused on a shadowy figure in a poncho.  Short and skinny, he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.  I stretched out on the level rock I’d selected for an observation post and hoped no rattlers wanted to come out and take the sun.

The man carried a battered leather satchel over his shoulder and what looked like a scoped .223 rifle in his right hand.  A bush hat shaded his eyes, and a pair of binoculars hung around his neck.  He placed his paraphernalia on a rock and stripped off his rain gear.  He spread the poncho on a flat shelf and disappeared.  What the fuck?  I stared through my Leica’s for a full five minutes before I picked up an outline.  His clothes made him blend into the landscape.  The storm had caused him to move, otherwise, I wouldn’t have spotted him.  Once detected, his image became sharper.  He’d assumed the position, flat on his belly, propped on his elbows, field glasses trained on the main house.

I checked the load in my Glock, shoved it into my shoulder holster and crab-walked to a boulder twenty feet back from my position and out of his line of sight.  Once I felt safe, I stood and stretched.  Way too old for this kind of shit.  I peeked over the rock, shaded the binoculars with my hat, and checked to make sure my man hadn’t moved.  I wouldn’t feel so alone if Mike, my old collie, were with me.  Bile rose in my throat when I thought of the moron who ran him down.

The familiar terrain belonged to me.  I worked my way several hundred yards downwind and around the backside of the slope until I judged I stood behind his position.  My running shoes may not have been official western wear, but they didn’t make noise on the rough surface.  If he spotted me from a distance, the rifle would give him a huge advantage, but close quarters would give the edge to my pistol and