One Bullet More

About the Book

“Hey, saddle tramp,” said Vernon. “I don’t think I like a bum like you coming in here to drink with us men.” Matt turned to face Guthry, spread his feet shoulder wide with his gun hand thumb still hooked in his belt, still three fingers from his .44. The men that stood along the bar, drifted to one side, out of the line of fire. The room grew deadly quiet. “I’ve had just about all the crap I’m going to take from a local loudmouth like you,” Matt said. There was a deadly chill to his voice and Vernon shivered slightly from the feel of it. All of a sudden, he realized that he might be biting off a little more than he could chew. Being the braggart that he was, he couldn’t back down from the step he had taken. He crouched and went for his pistol. Realization that he didn’t even have his gun half way out of leather, and was already looking into the black hole of a barrel, that looked three inches in diameter, he froze and in no time at all he felt the sting of salty sweat in his eyes from the large beads that had popped out on his forehead and trickled down. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple moved up and down but the lump in his throat was just about to choke him and he couldn’t swallow it. He lost control of his bladder and pissed down his leg, the warm fluid trickling into his left boot. Dawning on him that he had just pissed in his own whiskey, he sucked in a mountain of air and said with a high pitched, fine toothed comb, squeak, “Ohooo, shit.” .

About the Author

James Richard Langston was born and raised in a time when a nickel was worth a dime.  He wrote this novel while living in Sera Vista, Arizona  and on his sister's ranch outside of Tombstone.  His early life's adventures included a year spent on an island in the South Pacific and logging many hours flying a single engine aircraft around the southeastern United States.  He currently lives in southern middle Tennessee.  Can be contacted by E-Mail at  jrlang@fpunet.com