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The cottonwoods along the Avonkarea stood thick where the Tomichi emptied into it, their pale trunks crowding close like old women gathered to whisper. We had ridden this passage many times, Ouray and I, leading the Tabeguache, the shade of these trees a familiar greeting on the long trail between the Uncompahgre and the Cochetopa. The spring melt had swollen both creeks so that they sang loud enough to swallow the sound of our horses' hooves on the soft earth, and it was this singing, I...

I saw a circus once, in Denver, on one of our visits to the white man's world.

It was a gaudy, clamoring thing with a great canvas lodge that could be placed over a dozen of our lodges. It was staked to a muddy lot at the edge of town, its pennants snapping in a wind that carried the smell of roasted peanuts and animal dung. Ouray and I had no interest in it, but the men escorting us insisted we take it in, as though it were a gift they were bestowing, a marvel we could not possibly have...

I recently posted a short story on Reedsy prompts. Here is the link if you'd like to read it. https://reedsy.com/short-story/rk04qc/

I’ve been studying how to market my books, which has required some soul-searching. A major key is narrowing down who my audience is. Although I don’t mind somebody picking up one of my books, reading it, and saying, “That’s not for me,” what I want is for readers to read my book and say, “That’s what I’m looking for.” Realistically, that ain’t everybody.

What kind of writer am I?

I write historical fiction with an American frontier setting and Western books. The plots of traditional Westerns...