Tuesday, January 9, 2024

Introducing Audio Connections




          It’s been a couple of years now since I retired and I’ve been enjoying it. One of the ways of achieving that has been to keep busy and much of that business has been the recording of my stories.

          Why would I do that?

          The easiest answer would be that I write those stories so that people can be entertained and the addition of audio books widens the scope of those who can be entertained. Readers, yes, but now listeners.

          But it also goes back to the last 22 years of my so called “working life”.  At least 60% of that time was by myself and with little to occupy me but the pictures floating around in my imagination.

          Sure, those pictures sometimes turned into the start or perhaps a scene in one of my stories. Sometimes there was satellite radio or recorded music. But it would have been far easier and time would pass faster by hearing a story from someone else.

          That did happen. On at least a half dozen times I trained new drivers and the hours listening to their stories flew by.

          Now, with the various platforms available, my stories and my voice can be telling those stories while you’re driving, painting, cutting the grass or vacuuming the carpet. You can download them to your phone or perhaps to the sound system in your vehicle. You can also download them to your computer and with a “memory stick” or “USB drive” carry those stories around from vehicle to vehicle.

          Yes, I have some satisfying responses to the printed and digital stories I have out there. But I also know there are those who don’t think they can take the time to read a book, even those who need to do so. With and audio book, you can have the entertainment, make those “robotic” times more satisfying and the days more rewarding.

          “The Great Liquor War”, my first published novel and now my first published audio book is available at audio.com. It, and most others that I’ve looked at have samples on the “buy” page so you have an idea to what you could be listening. In the case of GLW it is chapter 19 where the NWMP and BC Police with some volunteers attempt to stop a train/payroll robbery.

Click on the link and it'll take you right to that sample.


          Most of my readers will know that there is a sequel to “The Great Liquor War” entitled “Homesteader: Finding Sharon” which is what I am recording now.

          In the early fifties I remember my great grandmother McGowan leading me over to a big floor radio and a fifteen minute or half hour story, often the serialization of a novel. Some of those stories went into full production with sound effects and a large cast of actors and others were simply narrations. So far, my stories are narrations by the author --- which would be me.

          I’ve noticed, as have others, that my reading/voicing one of my stories can supply a whole new feeling.

          Eventually I hope to have all my stories available in audio versions.

There's an author page right here and another at Amazon.ca/author/dmmcgowan 

Thursday, November 2, 2023

Remembrance Day 2023


          Remembrance Day is back around again and, as with most times each year, it isn’t hard to understand the admonition that “If we don’t make a point of remembering this foolishness, we’ll do it again.”


          Because we’re well on the way to doing it again. Israel, Gaza and Ukrainian certainly but attacks on humans because of religion, skin color, political persuasion or some other excuse to cover the fact that the attacker can’t think for himself.

          Enough of that for now; enjoy the story.

          Bye the way, this story and poem are about to be re-released in “People of the West: A short story timeline,” on Amazon, probably by end of November.



By D.M. McGowan

         Before men started shooting at him with 7.92 mm bullets from their Bf 109s Harry Burnside had been a singer. He stood in front of fifteen, twenty and sometimes thirty-man orchestras and sang the Dorsey, Kenton, or Ellington songs or whatever else the crowd in front and the band behind wanted to hear. He had worked his magic in Detroit, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati and his home town, Windsor, Ontario. Harry thought it was only right to use his natural talent, his voice, to make at least part of his living. It had also been a great way to start a young life and learn the music and entertainment business from professionals. It was only incidental that it was the perfect place for a teenager to learn from the masters how to party.

Sometimes horrendous events are necessary to save a young man from himself. In Harry’s case it was the war in Europe that brought a young man’s party life to a close, at least temporarily. Of course, it also accelerated the danger in that life.

Not that Harry rushed to a recruiting station in the autumn of 1939. Some of his young friends and even the older men he worked with certainly did. It was one of the older musicians who convinced him signing up for service was the thing to do.

“Folks ‘r sayin’ this here war is gonna be over in no time,” Marvin, a trumpet player said. “They is sorely mistaken. I bin readin’ up on these here Germans an’ they got ‘em an army. British ain’t got nothin’ an’ they’s gonna get whacked.”

“Are you suggesting we Canadian boys should go over there and get whacked, as you say, right along with them?” Harry asked.

“First off, I ain’t a Canuk, I’m a southern boy,” Marvin said. “Second, when things get tough, they’ll be comin’ for us anyway. Might as well sign up for somethin’ you want t’ do instead o’ somethin’ the government thinks you’d be good at.”

“You’re country isn’t in it,” Harry pointed out.

“Not yet,” Marvin responded. “Now, you’ve been workin’ here an’ there along with singin’. I don’t got no income but my trumpet. A man signs up he’ll get three squares a day an’ a cot.”

Harry took a drink of his whiskey and water and cast his gaze around the musicians gathered in the late night or, to those who were not musicians, early morning booze hall.

“You know, Marv, I’ve always wanted to learn to fly a plane,” Harry said.

Marvin clapped him on the shoulder. “Now you’re talkin’, boy. Royal Canadian Air Force. What say we go sign up first thing in the mornin’?”

Harry looked at his watch. “Might I suggest early this afternoon? I might be awake by then.”


Somewhere between Windsor, Ontario and Ashford, Kent, Harry lost touch with Marvin, but not with other men from the southern United States. Almost half the men stationed on the airfield were Americans who had traveled north to Canada and signed on with the RCAF.

Though they wore Canadian uniforms and insignia they were technically in Royal Air Force squadrons. The squadron commander was a British major, and Harry’s wing commander a Canadian Lieutenant or “Leftenant” as the British officers insisted. The other two Canadian pilots presently assigned to their understaffed wing were actually from Arkansas. In the two-man barracks enjoyed by RAF pilots one of those southerners, Otis Tyler was Harry’s bunk mate.

“Ah hear we all getting’ new radios next month,” Otis said as the two pilots walked down the hall one early morning in late August.

Harry shrugged with one shoulder as he held the door open with the other hand and let Otis out into the humid dawn. “Be fine if they’re better than the T9. But if they aren’t, well, I’m starting to get used to being up there all by myself.”

“Mighty handy fur tellin’ somebody where you’s ‘bout t’ crash,” Otis noted.

“As long as they work and you’re no more than a mile away” Harry countered. “The T9 is good for about that far. You’re probably better off depending on a farmer seeing you go down.”

Otis chuckled.

As they approached the mess hall their wing leader, Lieutenant Mapes reached the door and opened it for them.

“Good news chaps,” the officer said as the two non-coms passed through the door, he held open for them. “Just spoke with the CO. We stand down today.”

“Excellent!” Harry said. “Now I can have some real breakfast and more than one cup of coffee.”

“Yuh all worry too much ‘bout that coffee thing,” Otis said.

“Quite good policy,” the Lieutenant said.

“Nothin’ to it,” Otis responded. “Yuh all just take an empty cola bottle up with yuh.”

“I say, old boy, a bit hard to pee in a bottle when one is trying to avoid the 109 that is glued to your tail. Not to mention that bottle flying around loose in the cockpit.”

“Yuh all make sure yuh strap it in so it don’ fly ‘round,” Otis said. “As fur takin’ a leak when Gerry’s on muh tail an fillin’ my magic carpet full o’ holes, why ‘bout then I don’ have no trouble passin’ water.”

Lieutenant Mapes laughed. Harry grinned and shook his head in resignation.

“Since we aren’t going up to be shot at, perhaps we could talk about something else?” Harry suggested.

“Our Calm Colonial boy is right once again,” Mapes said. “We have a day to repair gear.”

“And talk about new radios,” Harry suggested.

“There isn’t anything to talk about,” Mapes said. “I’ve heard the same rumors as you men. However, I haven’t heard anything from the Old Man and I haven’t seen any radios. Other than the 9 in my Spit that quit working entirely the last time I was up.”


Later that day, Otis asked Harry to join him and some other airmen to study and review the local ladies and pubs. However, Harry had grown out of the need to wake up with a pounding hangover. He had already had years of partying. Besides, bringing in bullet scarred Spitfires had made the drinking bouts seem very unimportant. His mates, often a year younger or more, still asked him even though he seldom went with them.

An hour after the other pilots had gone into town Harry walked off the base and caught a ride into Ashford. He walked the streets for awhile admiring the buildings and the history.

Occasionally a Junkers 88 would fly across the English Channel very close to the water, start a steep climb to miss the Cliffs of Dover and release a bomb mounted to its belly at the end of that climb. The speed of the bomber combined with the force of the climb would cast that bomb for a very long way and it would land wherever the laws of physics, geology, and aerodynamics might decide and no man could say. On that beautiful day in late August, 1940 a building Harry had admired moments before and at that moment was no more than a block and a half away, disappeared in a cloud of dust, smoke and noise.

Harry Burnside had been flying over Britain for three months. He had been as far as France on a half dozen occasions. He had no idea how many dog-fights he had been in but had shot down three Me 109s and crash landed twice. He had landed successfully in Spitfires that probably should have quit flying several minutes before. He had been scared out of his mind on those occasions but had worked his way through it.

That day, on the streets of Ashford, after the completely random bombing of a very historic building, Harry Burnside could not control the choking fear.

Looking around he saw the sign for a pub, the Anvil and Hammer. He stepped through the door and saw ale glasses stacked on the bar. He turned the pint glass over and said to the barman, “Whiskey.”

The barman could see by the look on Harry’s face that discussion might be dangerous. He poured a shot into the ale glass.

“Fill it,” Harry ordered.

The inn keeper complied.

Harry downed the whiskey and noticed only in passing that it was smooth, a single malt.

            He put the glass back down on the bar and said, “Again.”

            Once it was full, he downed the second glass.

            He remembered opening the door to his barrack, but very little after that.

            Much later Otis Tyler returned to find his bunk mate, the man who usually refused to go drinking with his mates, passed out on the floor.

            “Burnside,” he said, as he picked Harry up and placed him on the bunk, “yuh all just like them travelin’ preachers back t’ home; preachin’ hell fire an’ brimstone then next thing yuh got some farmer’s daughter out behind the tent.”

            And that is how Sergeant Pilot Harold Burnside became known as “Deacon.”


 Native Sons in World War One

By D.M. McGowan and K.L. McGowan

© 2019

Seventeen native boys left the Upper Peace

The only land they’d known, all in their teens.

They’d all grown up wild out among the trees.

Knew where to find pelts, beaver ponds or streams.

They hunted for their supper, trap or single shot

And only their mothers gave safety a fleeting thought


After two hundred years of Scott and Fleur de Lis

They knew some other talk, sometimes two or three,

English, French and German were spoken in the land,

And whatever tongue was spoken by their particular band

Some of them could read and write more than just their name

But the army didn’t care, green privates all the same


An amazing great adventure for young trapper men

From freedom of the wild to a Canadian Army pen

Across the land in trains, something never seen.

Mistreated by a Sergeant, but still bright and keen.

Dropped off in camps and marched around a square

“Dig some dirt from here and put it over there.”


On the trains again east to Canada’s Maritimes

March down to the docks in perfect double lines

Then up a gangplank to a big steel canoe

Then told to put their kit where you couldn’t fit a shoe

A dozen ships in convoy from the Bedford shore

But count on German U boats sinking two or more.


More camp time in England, weeks without the sun

Then finally sent to France to show them how it’s done

Trenches that collapse from rains that never end

Bodies on the wire or sprawled out in no man’s land.

All caked in mud, “Are they ours? Are they theirs?”

Days and weeks of boredom, then terror and despair.


Vimy Ridge, the Somme or maybe Regina Trench

Maybe English on the left other times the French

High Wood or Kitchener’s, Avion as well

With the Aussies at Gallipoli, some lived to tell

Passchendaele, Arras, knowing each the end

If not for the war, surely for the men


M├ętis, Cree and Dane a total of Seventeen

On a great adventure, young, naive and keen

But the Great War wasn’t a great place to learn

For seventeen go but only two returned.


Tuesday, August 29, 2023

Biased News? No News? You can still see!

 Even with slanted reporting or forces trying to hide what's happing one can still see and hear. 

Some of it's even acceptable. Much of it isn't. A great deal is, admittedly, depressing. But concentrate on the uplifting stories and try not to spread the crap.

Hopefully the following supply a grin or a chuckle.

The Legacy

By D.M. McGowan

 With Trudeau our shepherd we shall forever want

His spending and taxes lead us to debt and despair

He forces our offspring to lie down in barren pastures

He leadeth us to business in polluted waters

Tthere is no rod and staff for evil doers

But  a welcome into larcenous brotherhood

Lies and fraud are placed on high

For moral actions no just reward

But the laws of nature will again prevail

For a broken ship can no longer sail

Pray a return to reason sure and sound

Before the entire crew sink and drown

So Very Helpful

By D.M. McGowan


They’re all looking after us

I heard the other day

A new program introduced

For which we’ll have to pay


No fee was actually mentioned

Perhaps they didn’t know

But those of us who’ve been there

Know exactly how that goes.


Those of us producing

Always have to pay

Those that only cost

Bills appear they run away


It’s not the ones need a lift

I complain about, oh no,

It’s those that claim to manage

And do it so very slow


They’re all so very helpful

With things we don’t need

But things that need some care

They just let ‘em bleed


Or eliminate entirely

Things that let us know

Their objective isn’t helping

But maintaining full control

Saturday, April 8, 2023

Are we finally liking logic?

 Are things finally looking up?

Or is it all just a flash in the pan?

This is an opinion piece. If you like it, that’s great. If you don’t that’s good, too. Leave a comment regardless of your stance. You are entitled to your opinion.
Travis Tritt 2022

Kid Rock 2022

I was beginning to think we might not see a demonstration of intelligence ever again. But finally, someone has made a stand for logic. Hopefully that action, though it might cost them a small amount will grow and expand so that we can all get back onto a productive, sustainable track to success for the majority.

I’ve been getting very tired of courts creating legislation. Laws that govern the interaction of the diverse members of society should, to my mind, be created for the people by the people. That is, a majority of the population choose representatives  (definitely NOT “leaders”) to create laws which ensure development, (growth or progress) and safety for a majority of the population in a way and for a result or goal that the majority envision and desire.

Not legislation from a body who’s whole reason for being is administration of legislation created by legislators representing the majority.

If a governing body did not receive a majority of votes cast by the populace they DO NOT have the support to create any new legislation that is not supportive of laws/legislation that already exists. Any attempt to create such legislation is counter to  the countries creation or constitution and thus a treasonous act.

If a governing body amalgamates with other elected officials who had not been completely supportive of their expressed/advertised policies in the lead up to and during the election in order to achieve a governing majority they DO NOT have the support to create NEW LEGISLATION but can only manage through existing legislation. Anything else should be considered destructive to the constitution and thus treasonous.

There are very few governments in the world today – barring of course the disgusting, inhumane dictatorships that claim all manner of benign governing methods such as Russia, China and North Korea – who have the backing of a definable majority of the population. Therefor there should be very few new “laws” enacted in those countries.

Having made statements that I hope shine a light on the disgusting actions of many so called “enlightened” governments I’ll now turn that light on the general populace.

There seems to be a strong belief that the primary focus of “western” governments or democracies is freedom.  I don’t know if this is because of the often quoted, “It’s a free country” or because no one was paying attention in school during social study classes. The freedom was never intended to be complete or without restrictions.

Individual  ”freedoms”  of democracies  are only meant to extend to the point where the actions of the individuals do not interfere with the safety or lifestyle of the majority. This includes religion, managerial methods and life-style. Religion would include cults that have members “drinking the Cool-Aid.” Managerial methods would include minority governments amalgamated with some peripheral body. Lifestyle would include so called “trans gender” persons competing in sporting events against those who have always belonged to their “newly acquired” gender.

There have been court decisions stating that those who have not reached
the “age of majority” and thus are without the right to vote, consume alcohol or even be licenced to drive on public roads, can never the less legally make a decision about their own gender. The primary reason they are not given those rights is because the majority don’t think they have the knowledge or experience to make such decisions without guidance. Perhaps the court decision that they can make a decision about their own gender was the result of some legal student’s reading of poorly worded legislation. Perhaps it was in response to a case that should not have been presented to a court of law. There is absolutely no question that it is one of the top five stupid judicial decisions ever handed down.

Another one of those top five dumb decisions is related and pertains to the sports world. Apparently someone who has competed as a male in a very physically demanding sport can undergo gender transition therapy and/or surgery and then compete with women in the same sport.

Legally that is; certainly not morally.

And if that is true the legal system needs to make serious efforts to incorporate morality. Without it, they aren’t doing that for which they are required.

And if you were six or seven in that aforementioned sport you can very well become number one in the new endeavor because the competition is no longer a competition. Perhaps you even leave the “competition” far behind because many in the sport, those who have spent years working toward the top, may just QUIT IN DISGUST.

If the playing field isn’t level, why even have the sport?


It is time we all made our voice heard. It is time to stop this destruction of our society. Make a statement before today’s society goes the way of all those societies that succumbed to an absence of morality and increased indifference

In the instance where a few have now spoken out it was a transgender influencer, Dylan Mulvaney and Anheuser-Busch who started the back-lash. Anheuser hired Mulvaney to be a spokesperson for their “March Madness” promotion and put her (?) picture on Bud Light cans.

First it was Kid Rock who spoke out then it was Travis Tritt who said, “enough is enough.” Since Anheuser-Busch is a sponsor for many concerts and jamborees it will undoubtedly cost those entertainers who have taken this stand (There are more than just two).

You can find this story at Country Rebel .com/ Bud Light Boycott Explained

 But how much should it cost to save society?

How much is logic worth?

Is there a way to reward hard work, intelligence and talent, perhaps by issuing top marks or rewards?

Is there a way to reward a good effort by demonstrating that more effort might result in a higher mark?

Is there a way to demonstrate that no effort will result in no reward?

And why would any company support a kids show featuring drag queens, a trans-gender person regardless of their past accomplishments, an unrepentant thief and liar (including politicians),  or anyone who incites violence.  It might – might – garner attention for your “brand” in the short term but history shows that it’s all destructive to society and in the long term, destructive for you


Friday, March 31, 2023

Self Important Idiots Do Vex Me

Responding to rudeness

and unwarranted condemnation
Here is an excerpt from "The Making of Jake McTavish", Chapter 6. At this point in the story Jake has had a successful winter, despite it having been one of the worst in decades. He is proud of that success and the prospects for the future. However, the man he has been working for has made a serious error at a poker game ...

One of Canada's Rocky Mountain Rangers, John Clarke

with 1776 Winchester

Picture from mid 1800s

Calgary cowboys in 1883

Three years before the "winter of blizzards"

 An excerpt from

The Making of Jake McTavish

Chapter 6

 Southern Manitoba, 1887

  It was May 16, 1887 when Egan and four other men rode up to the cabin. Jake had just finished having lunch and was on his way out, intending to ride around the cattle.

Jake was feeling cocky and proud of himself. Of the hundred and fifty cows he first started out with he still had one hundred and four. They had also increased their numbers with sixty-three calves, which was not a great rate of reproduction, but considering that the cows were all malnourished and many had wounds, it was a good number. Besides, other people Jake had talked with had lost far more. Some had lost most of their herds.

When the five men rode up Egan opened his mouth as if he was about to say something but the man riding beside him, the only one with a full beard, spoke first. “You get out of here saddle tramp, and be damn careful what you take with you. Everything here is mine.”

Jake hung his jacket on the saddle horn, turned slowly, jacked a round into his rifle and fired a round under the man’s horse. A dirt geyser peppered the horse’s belly slightly. The mount liked neither the blast nor the geyser, reared slightly and then bucked. By the time it hit the ground Jake had chambered another round and fired again. When Jake fired the third round the horse took off bucking across the prairie. The other four horses were backing, humping, and dancing. Jake’s mount, used to him shooting wolves, coyotes and wounded cattle turned his head to watch the antics of his equine brethren with some interest.

“Damn it, Jake,” Egan complained. “Settle down. I lost everything to him in a poker game. It’s his.”

Jake looked over to see if the other three riders were close enough to hear, then asked, “Everything? What about the pay you promised me? If I’m lookin’ fer a place t’ live, I’d say I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

“Now just settle down and keep quiet. I’ve a plan for that, but don’t interrupt. I expect it’ll take me a few minutes, now that you’ve upset Carter.”

They sat in silence for a few moments as the other men brought their mounts under control.

“As far as that goes, you could have had no place to live over the winter,” Egan pointed out.

“Now that’s true,” Jake admitted. “But I did a damn fine job on these cows an’ figure I deserve some recognition.”

“Well, you won’t get any from Hal Carter. As for me, I certainly appreciate it as I’ve already said. Not that your efforts will help me much now.

“My own fault. I know better than to gamble. I’m a good card player, but when I take chances, I lose. If I had followed my own rules I’d still own this herd.”

The other four riders returned with jumpy, snorting, head-shaking mounts. Jake still held a loaded rifle in his hands so they came up in such a way as to keep Egan between them and the wild man with the weapon.

“Now, Hal, you just take it easy for a minute,” Egan said. “Jake here has managed to make it through the winter with about three quarters of the animals he started out with and that’s a lot better than many have done.”

“Cattle ‘r damn thin,” Carter observed.

“They’re alive,” Jake said.

“That’s enough,” Egan said, glancing at Jake. “He’s right, though, they’re alive. I’ll get back to that in a minute.

“As for you owning everything, Hal, I put up the cattle and horses I own out here. That includes anything wearing an E C connected brand and most of the horses are wearing Bar 2. There are four horses here aren’t wearing either brand. Jake’ll be taking them when he leaves. And there are several other things around here that aren’t wearing those two brands I mentioned, like the food in the cabin.”

Egan paused, turned his gaze and unreadable expression from Hal to Jake, and then looked back at Hal. “What do you say you and your men take a look at the cattle and I’ll help Jake pack up?”

Hal chewed on the ends of his moustache for a moment and then nodded. He let his eyes flicker to the Winchester Jake still held under his arm, nodded again and said, “Reckon that sounds like a good idea.” He turned his mount away and the three other men followed.

So in the spring of 1887 Jake became a wealthy saddle tramp. He only had fourteen Canadian dollars, two U.S. dollars and eighty six cents, but he was rich in other goods. He had four horses, a fine, double rigged saddle, a short barrelled Colt pistol, a Colt Navy .36 and a Winchester rifle. He also had a serviceable pack saddle, bed roll, enough food to last a month and the pack covered with two tarps.




Friday, January 13, 2023

A Review of "The Great Liquor War"

 4 out of 4 stars

Official Review: The Great Liquor War by D.M. McGowan


Post by Kelebogile Mbangi » 22 Sep 2018, 13:38

[Following is an official OnlineBookClub.org review of "The Great Liquor War" by D.M. McGowan.]

The Great Liquor War is a historical fiction book by D.M. McGowan. It is set in the 1880s in the British Colony of British Columbia.

(Author note: In 1874 BC became a province of the 6 year old country of Canada)

Hank James is a young man who has set out into the world to find his fortune. He settles in Rossland where he stakes a claim and makes a living from panning gold. Soon, he realises that he will probably never become rich on that piece of land. Jack Kirkup, a British Columbia Police constable, advises him to start a freight business in Farwell where construction of the transcontinental railway is currently underway. Kirkup's advice turns out to be gold, and Hank is able to build a successful freight business. The railroad construction is policed by the North West Mounted Police. Thus, Farwell is burdened with the presence of two different police forces. Inevitably, these two forces clash. Because he feels that he owes Kirkup, Hank is pulled into the conflict, known as the "Liquor War". With the police forces distracted, criminals in the area jump at the opportunity to intensify their activities.

The Great Liquor War is action-packed and entertaining. It is told from Hank's viewpoint. Hank is quite likeable. He is easygoing and has an amusing dry humour which is edged with sarcasm, making his narrative hilarious!

There was not a single dull moment in this book. This is largely due to its colourful characters, from tough, no-nonsense police officers to pompous judges. Despite this, the book is plot-driven. Thus, there are no tedious backstories that drag out and delay the storyline. Because of the engaging plot, I found that my enthusiasm for the book remained high all the way to the end and did not wane.

I mentioned earlier that the book is narrated by the main character, Hank James. His narrative added to the 1880s feel and setting because he speaks in the style of the time. Most of the time, I found it easy to understand him, but there were a few times when his slang went over my head. Fortunately, I could fill in the gaps by reading the author's note at the end of the book. Here, the author explains which parts of his book are based on true events.

All in all, I greatly enjoyed reading this book. It isn't lengthy, and has a comfortable, slightly fast pace that kept things moving along nicely. I rate it 4 out of 4 stars. It deserves nothing less. If you enjoy stories about cowboys, or legends in the west, then I think you will enjoy this book.

The Great Liquor War

Click on the author picture to the right to
View:  on Amazon


Tuesday, December 27, 2022

Another FIVE star review


Review of Jake McTavish from TUTORLUCHI

The Making of Jake McTavish, by D. M. McGowan, is one 1800s canard set in the west. It encompasses unique storytelling with a chronological tale. This western tale features well-developed characters that are wholesome make-believe. The book is set in such a manner that it is easy for readers to actualize the atmosphere. Without giving too much away, the book follows a young man, Jake, up to his marriage till his wife’s rape case and murder. Jake’s response to the varied challenges makes up a very intriguing plot. 

There's a solid diffusion of ecstasy in this book. At first, I was a bit skeptical about the setting, but alas, I enjoyed every bit of the book. The language was easy to connect with, and comprehension was flawless. 


I would recommend this book to historical mystery buffs. Ultimately, this is a 5-star novel and deserves the broadest possible readership. 

 Found at amazon.com/author/dmmcgowan 
or simply click on the author picture to the right