New Releases- The Calling by James P Hanley

Available from 5 Prince Publishing www.5princebooks.com  books@5princebooks.com 
Genre: FICTION / Westerns
Release Date: November 6, 2014
Digital ISBN 13: 978-1-63112-077-0 ISBN 10: 1631120778
Print ISBN 13: 978-1-63112-078-7  ISBN 10: 1631120786
Purchase link : http://www.5princebooks.com/buy-links...


Sheriff Luke Atwell, a religious man, doubts his occupation after accidentally shooting a female bystander during a gunfight. The violent deaths of lawmen and criminals that follow heighten his questioning as he joins the priesthood to counter evil as a man of peace. However, his lawman instincts remain as he deals with crime in his inner-city parish. Temporarily relieved of his priestly obligations, Atwell returns as sheriff to the changed, now crime-ridden Kansas town to rethink his calling, joined by unlikely reinforcements—an experienced but alcoholic deputy and a youthful banjo player. The team, often outnumbered, confronts thieves and killers in a series of gun battles. As Atwell fights lawlessness, he struggles with his feelings toward a recent widow. Eventually he must decide:  keep the badge or again wear the clerical collar. 

About the Author

Jim Hanley is a Human Resources professional, adjunct professor and short story writer, Jim has had over 70 stories appear in print and online publications.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Atwellnovel14
Website: http://jaahanley.blog.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/James...


EXCERPT of The Calling:
Chapter 1

The wind carried the dust across the empty streets of Planting, Kansas as storm clouds over the distant counties moved in to drench the parched soil and drought-weakened crops. In the far valleys, tribes held ceremonies to call upon rain gods. The horses in the corrals at the edge of town sensed the forming precipitation and paced anxiously. Lightning flashed against the hills in warning, and Sheriff Luke Atwell, standing under the wood overhang of the jail, scanned the horizon. His thoughts turned back east to the filled streets of New York City, the bustle of residents hurrying down concrete sidewalks and horse pulled carriages impatiently trotting on avenues. Lights from lamp posts and high buildings had kept the darkness from the city until early morning, he remembered. He’d answered the question so often as to why he left the ‘big city’ for a small town in farm-and-cattle country Kansas that he now just shrugged his shoulders when asked. Going back inside, he sat at his desk and lifted his feet, placing his boots on the worn wood. Deputy Albright, a twenty one year old former ranch hand, came in and shook the dirt from his sweat-rimmed hat.
“Rain’s coming, Sheriff. Mrs. Myers said she can feel it in her bones and that’s more reliable than the weather predictions that those meanerol—”
“Meteorologists,” Atwell corrected.
“Showing off your college education, Sheriff?” Albright said to tease.
“No, just displaying your ignorance,” Atwell joked back.
After the Civil War, Kansas became a central point for cattle shipment for the region as the railroad didn’t reach into states like Texas. The Kansas Pacific Railway provided transport of beef east, and towns like Planting grew along the path of cattle drives, supplemented by local farming and horse raising.
Planting was a collection of stores, businesses and buildings in parallel lines along the main street. Most structures were single-story, except for the general store, which had a second level for storage, and the boarding house. The neatly-painted store signs in front were unadorned, solely listing the establishment’s services. In one stretch of buildings, a string of simple clapboard shops were connected as if constructed at the same time: a butcher, a feed store, the post and telegraph office. Most structures had a wooden overhang propped up by thin poles to keep the rain and snow from the boardwalks and a hitching rail in front. The newspaper office, The Planting Chronicle, was near the center of town, but the general store was the place where gossip moved more quickly than the merchandise. The saloons had the most decorative fronts with opaque glass and a lantern over the front door. On the edge of the street was the town barbershop where two men lined up the scissors, hair tonic, blades and frothing soap, and wiped the leather chairs that swiveled. The town drugstore was owned and operated by Doc Eylward, and when not ministering to the physical complaints of townsfolk, he sold remedies, soaps, ointments and dressings.  Separate from the main section of town was a schoolhouse and further along the road, the church. The three-level boarding house with balconies on the upper levels protected by white railings was the largest edifice in town.
Standing close to each other, Sheriff Atwell was the taller and older lawman by three years. Years in the sun planting in open fields had darkened Albright’s skin, and most folks in town, even the sheriff, called him Brownie. On the other hand, Atwell was fair-skinned, and his even features attracted the young women in town. Both men had a dark brown mustache, were slender, and dressed in store-bought clothes that fit loosely. They shared a pride in polished boots and at the end of the day rubbed a cloth over the leather to wipe off the dirt that had accumulated. “Biggest threat to a man’s dignity is stepping in shit and smelling all day like a horse stall,” Albright had said once, as he cleaned out between the heel and sole with a dull-edge knife.
The quiet day was ending when a man swung open the jailhouse door, and gasping, said, “Sheriff, there’s a ruckus in the saloon. Could be a problem.”
“Hold on, Brewster. Tell me slowly, what happened?” Atwell demanded.
“This man came in and you could sense he was looking for trouble. Squinty-eyed and growling like a rabid dog, he poured down one whiskey after another and when the bartender asked him to pay up before the next round, the man reached across and punched Old Man Amos. Now you know Amos can’t defend himself, as tired and worn as he is by bartending, and everyone in the place was too scared to do anything about it.”
Albright offered to go to the saloon but Atwell put up his hand in a stop gesture. “I’ll take this one.”
The sheriff liked his deputy and had watched him handle some ornery drunks and cowboys letting loose in the town, but Deputy Albright had little experience as a lawman, so Atwell chose him more for his ability to charm and talk a man out of doing harm. “They’ll either listen to you or shoot you to shut you up, so you’d better work on your gun handling in case it’s the latter,”  the sheriff had said when he pinned the star to Albright’s chest. In time, the deputy improved both his aim and hand speed, but Sheriff Atwell knew an experienced gunfighter would have the advantage. 
“If I wanted nursing, I’d go back to my Ma’s house,” Albright said in frustration but quietly accepted the order to stand down.
“Need you to keep an eye on Brewster in case he has a heart attack. He’s wheezing like a cat with asthma,” Sheriff Atwell said with a grin as he walked out. Looking up at the sky, he saw that the scouting clouds had dimmed the sun and in the distance the dark clouds were rushing across the sky as if being chased. He knew that rain would soon fall. As he entered the saloon, he saw the whores were against the wall as far from the bar as they could get without going up the stairs to the rooms they jokingly called ‘their place of business’. The few men who stayed were at tables and only one man was at the bar. The sheriff looked at the man’s gun sticking menacingly out of the holster. Atwell recognized the Colt 44-40, called the Peacemaker, a popular weapon used by the Army. The bone grip was worn smooth and the holster leather was bent near the trigger, likely, the sheriff thought, from frequent draws.  The man growled at the bartender who groggily leaned against the mahogany counter. When service wasn’t quick enough, the man reached over the bar for a three-quarters full whiskey bottle, knocking over glasses in the process.
“Put the bottle back,” Atwell said, “and leave.”
The cowboy let out a sarcastic laugh, “Who says so?”
“I’m the law and if you are not out of here, I’ll arrest you for disorderly conduct.”
“You by yourself, Sheriff?  Ain’t no one man going to tell me what to do. I think you need to leave before you get hurt.”
“Out!” Atwell said loudly.
The man turned and shouted to the others in the saloon, “You hear him. He’s calling me out and here I was minding my own business, having a drink when this lawman calls me out. Well, I ain’t never run from a fight. Guess you folks will be needing a new sheriff real soon. You go out first, Sheriff.”
“So you can shoot me in the back, no thanks. You go first.”
“I don’t need to plug you in the back; I’ll do it in the middle of your chest. You’re calling me a coward, and I don’t take that well.”
As he weaved past, the man glared at Atwell. His face was twisted in anger. The stubble and stains from tobacco darkened his jaw. Leaving the saloon, he stumbled slightly stepping down from the wooden walkway. As the cowboy walked to the center of street the town’s men and women moved away, vacating the dusty street around him while Sheriff Atwell stepped slowly out of the saloon.
“You can leave—”
Before the sheriff could finish the sentence, the cowboy reached for his gun. Atwell grabbed for his weapon and had the barrel nearly pointed at his opponent, but just before he pulled the trigger, a bullet struck his shooting arm and in that second his arm jerked and the bullet left his gun pointed away from his target. The gunman seemed momentarily stunned that his shot had almost missed; the barrel of his weapon wavered slightly. Swinging quickly back around Atwell fired again and he saw the man fall backward, blood spurting out of the hole in his chest. When the shooting stopped, Atwell looked at his own wound and saw that the bullet had torn through his shirt and grazed his upper arm taking a bite of flesh; blood was flowing down his arm. He walked toward the dead cowboy and stared at the gunman’s blank expression, his life blasted out of him.
Suddenly, Atwell heard a commotion to his right and saw men and women running toward a prone figure outside the general store. A woman screeched and muffled voices said, “My God, she’s been shot.”  Walking toward where they were congregating, the sheriff was stopped by the strong pull of his deputy. “You need to go to the doc about that wound. I’ll see what’s going on over there.”
“I heard someone call out ‘she’s been shot’”.
“Let me check while you go get fixed up. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
When the general store proprietor stood up, after leaning over the figure in front of his establishment, he looked toward Sheriff Atwell. “She’s dead.”
Confused and weakened from the loss of blood, the sheriff pushed past his deputy and saw a lifeless, young lady on the ground with a bullet wound in her stomach. Atwell faltered, his knees buckling. He felt Albright’s grip and slight tug upward.
“Look at your arm, Sheriff, the blood is pouring over your fingers like a stuck-open pump.” He called out to a farmer he knew. “Arnie, take the sheriff to Doc Eylward.”
Atwell reluctantly accepted the help and they walked slowly toward the doctor’s office down the street. Doc Eylward, having heard the shots, knew he’d soon have visitors and was waiting outside the door. “Bring him in here,” he instructed.
“Nobody’s bringing me anywhere. I’m on my own steam,” Atwell said huffily.
As he sat down on a long table covered with a white cloth, Atwell said, “You should be out there helping that woman.”
“Sit back, Sheriff, this is going to take some stitching. She’s beyond help, from what I hear, and you need tending before you slowly bleed to death.”
Atwell winced while the doctor sewed up his arm. He could still hear voices from the street: a shout to help pick up the dead cowboy, the softer appeal to take the woman to the undertaker, then it was silent before the usual street noises began again. Deputy Albright came into the office and grimaced when he saw Doc Eylward stitching the sheriff’s arm like he was repairing a torn shirt.
“You okay, Sheriff?”
“I’m fine. Who was she? What happened? Did I shoot her?”
“From what I gathered, her name is Eleanor Manus. Her sister is Peggy Mattingly, the former elementary school teacher who arrived a few years ago and married Joe Mattingly. Mrs. Mattingly was at her husband’s clothing store while her sister went shopping in the general store. Seems Miss Manus was buying a few things before leaving on the late stage back to Texas. She must have had something on her mind and didn’t pay attention to the ruckus in the street when she came out the store. The clerk came charging out to warn her to come back inside but he heard the shots and saw Miss Manus fall. Bill Remsen was standing diagonally across the street and saw everything. He said that a bullet nicked your arm as you were squeezing the trigger and your gun hand moved slightly to the right so that you missed the gunman but your shot struck that woman. It was an accident, Sheriff, nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” Atwell bellowed part in response, and part from the deep penetration of the physician’s needle. “I killed an innocent woman.”
“Your gun shot that woman and the cowboy was as much, or maybe more, to blame for hitting your arm as you fired.”
“Semantics,” Atwell exclaimed.
“I don’t know what that means, but it ain’t your fault. It was just bad luck for that woman.”
“Stop calling her that woman, she has a name. Miss Manus,” he barked.
“I’m going to talk to her sister and tell her how sorry you are about what happened,” Brownie Albright said.
“Thanks; I’ll see her myself after a while.”
“And you need to take a day or two days off to heal,” Doc Eylward said, as he wound a bandage around the sheriff’s arm. “Don’t do anything to open those stitches, Luke.” He was one of the few in town who called the sheriff by his first name.

Walking toward the jailhouse which consisted of a desk, a few chairs, two cells and a backroom mostly filled by a wobbly bed, he felt the rain soak his tattered shirt and drench his pants. Water cascaded over the brim of his hat. Still, he never increased his pace and made a stop where the shooting occurred. Both bodies had been carried away. The downpour lightened the black blood to a pink color and some of the reminders of the killings were washing away. Looking across to where the woman fell, he noticed a circle of stain on the wood sidewalk. As lightening cracked, town residents hurried out of the rain, some with newspapers over their head as a temporary umbrella. The sheriff was drenched by the time he’d reached the jail and his shirt showed spots of blood.