A lifelong Western enthusiast who traces his love of Western fiction back to his childhood days of reading Louis L’Amour novels, author Scott Harris is a published Western novelist who has contributed a Western series, Western anthology, and numerous Western short stories to the genre.
In 2017, Harris, who loves nothing more than settling into his hammock with a glass of bourbon, a cigar and great Western, released the first two books in his Western series — “Coyote Courage” and “Coyote Creek” — that follow the tale of Brock Clemons and his journey into the West accompanied by his horse, “Horse,” and wolf, “Wolf.” The Brock Clemons story, especially when he is joined by his new wife Sophie and his adopted son Huck, is one of bravery, adventure and romance, transporting readers back to a time when chivalry, courage and gun fights ruled the day in the West. Harris will release the third installment in the Brock Clemons’ series, “Coyote Canyon,” in early 2018.
Additionally in 2017, Harris also released a Western anthology, “52 Books * 52 Western Novels: Old Favorites and New Discoveries" — a look at 52 of the greatest Western novels of all-time, co-authored by Paul Bishop, and has been a contributor on numerous anthologies, such as “Six Bullets to Sundown,” (volumes 7 & 8), “Six Bullets to Sundown; A Christmas in Texas” and “Gifts from the Outlaws.”
Harris plans to continue writing and publishing a variety of Western-related works and looks forward to continuing to connect with fans and authors alike.
I’d been in town for less than an hour and had only met two people, Huck, the boy who worked at the livery and Ray, who owned the town’s general store, when three men with attitudes decided they didn’t like me and wanted me to leave the town saloon, the Dusty Rose. These had to be the same three men who hit Huck.
It seems odd that in twenty years of traveling the Southwest—trapping, scouting or simply riding through the territory wondering what’s around the next bend—I’ve never been to Santa Fe before today. I’m tired after a long trip and happy to find what looks to be a quality livery. The owner, a man named Skip, promises to take good care of my horse, and I believe him. He also directs me to a hotel he assures me is the nicest in Santa Fe, and an easy walk from the livery, which is no small thing the way I’m feeling. The De Vargas does seem like a very nice hotel, and whether or not it’s the nicest in Santa Fe, if the rest of Santa Fe follows suit, it promises to be an enjoyable, restful—and hopefully profitable—visit. Read the full story HERE>>
Once I reached the trail, it turned out to be a fairly short, uneventful ride into town. There was a decent-sized hill, some might say a small mountain, between my sleeping spot and town, so that’s what blocked the light and probably any sound. Or maybe it’s just a quiet town.
The little spot where I’m sitting now and watching is perfect for doing just that. Or for a picnic. I’m high enough to be able to look into town and close enough to see most of what’s happening on the street, and this little grove of trees offers good protection until I’m ready to be seen. I’m not expecting any trouble, and there’s no reason to think there will be any. But, on the other hand, I don’t know many western travelers who live to see the other side of thirty years old that don’t show caution when they can. Read the full story HERE>>
The Perfect Gift
Reverend Matt was excited as he jumped up on top of the bar of the Dusty Rose Saloon. The Rev loved every day and he certainly looked forward to Sundays, but this was Christmas and so it was special. Last night, Matt’s wife, Stacy, had thought he was more excited about this morning and giving his sermon than she and her brothers had been on Christmas Eve when they were little and looking forward to their presents the next morning.
Willy pulled up a box and took a seat next to one of the two upstairs windows at the Dusty Rose saloon. He set his rifle against the wall and took a sip of his coffee. The rifle was a Springfield Model 1861 that he took with him when the war ended, and he’d just never seen a reason to get a different one. Other than the memories, it was the only thing he had kept from the wars he’d fought in.
The shot explodes into her chest, killing the mustang instantly and barely allowing me the moment necessary to jump clear before she collapses on the trail. Startled, but not injured, I quickly crawl behind the horse, using all of her eight hundred pounds for protection from whoever is trying to kill me. I’m lucky she fell scabbard side up, so I’m able to grab my Winchester 1866. A quick check shows it’s fully loaded, as is my 1858 Army revolver, which I set next to me. As quietly as possible, I lever one of the fifteen shells into the chamber of the 1866. I loosen the cinch on the saddle and create enough space to slip the rifle through and still be able to look down the trail, hopefully, without being seen.