Saturday Night Pulps

“Listen to those birds,” said Sam. He gazed off, looking through the trees towards the hill where the deer lived. “You forget about that sound when you live in the city.” “Don’t they have birds in the city, daddy?” “Sure,” he said, and looked down at his daughter. “But not like here. In the city, all you ever see are pigeons. There are hundreds of birds here. Robins and blue jays, and sparrows and woodpeckers.” “Woodpeckers?” “Yep. Woodpeckers.” “What’s a woodpecker, daddy?” Sam smiled down at his daughter. For years, he had wanted to bring her here, to this place. A place where they didn’t have to avoid the looks of homeless beggars. Where you didn’t have to worry constantly about the safety of your daughter. Sam didn’t trust anyone around his daughter. She was his little angel. He knelt down beside her.   “You hear that knocking?” He watched her tilt her head, listening to the ho...

          excerpt from The Long Hunt         Jon Bumby was bleeding from his belly, but he didn’t let it slow him down. The Indians called him Three Crows, or Marked Nose, for the scar they had given him, but that was a long time ago. The name he used now was Jon Bumby, and Jon Bumby was leading a horse across the desert with drops of blood trailing after him in the sand. Some of the blood came from his belly, and some of the blood came from the woman draped across his saddle.              It didn’t matter whose blood it was, the Wolf would follow it’s trail.             For a time, Jon Bumby had lived with the Comanche. The old woman had taken him in and often he had slept in her teepee. The band he traveled with was small and accepted him. They taught him the ways of the Comanche. How to live in the harsh land of the Rio Escondi...