Unicorn Western Full Saga - Paperback

The gunslinger and the unicorn crossed the Sands, with nothing in front and nothing behind.

After two long years of wandering the great wide open, exposed to the biting wind and angry dust that swirled through the Sprawl as though it owned it, the marshal’s skin was like leather, as if he’d been tied, beaten, tanned, and then beaten again. His hands were large and scarred, with long digits that curled like a skeleton’s. As big as his hands were, they were still the fastest part of him — and with Clint Gulliver, as with any other marshal of The Realm, his slowest part was faster than the fastest part of most any other man. 

The gunslinger stared out at the world through the piercing blue eyes of a predator, under drawn, V-shaped brows that arched above a cruel nose. His eyes were shaded from the sun by a battered brown hat that looked a hundred years old — faded, torn, and pierced in several places as if by bullets. A scowl creased his face like a cut.

The unicorn, on the other hand, was as clean as the man was dusty. His coat was a bright white, brilliant enough to be blinding. Where the man looked weathered, the unicorn looked untouched. Where the man looked unkempt, the unicorn looked immaculate. Where the man appeared poisoned with anger, the unicorn looked purer than snow in The Realm. 

The unlikely pair plodded through the Sprawl as they had each day for nearly as long as either was willing to remember. Days were never different. They would walk until their legs were willing to carry them no farther, then they’d make camp and fall quickly asleep. Sometimes, the man would ride atop the unicorn, eyes forward and mouth set, bareback without reins or tack. To keep the man in place, a filthy hand would bury itself in the unicorn’s opulent mane. When the gunslinger pulled his hand away, the mane would fall neatly into place, unsullied by tangles, dirt, grit, or grease. Other times, the man would walk beside the unicorn, since even a gunslinger’s legs required the occasional stretching. 

Sometimes, they spoke, but mostly they didn’t. In the two years spent trudging from one empty spread to the next and never nearing their destination (finding The Realm was like finding a splinter in the Sands) anything that needed saying had been said at least twice. 

When there was talking to be done, Edward usually started it. 

“Something’s wrong,” the unicorn said, pausing in a cactus-pocked spot of desert behind a small rise just as the sun was starting to set. The sun was dumping a bucket of bright tangerine all over the dusty desert — a sure sign, once upon a time, that they were walking west. But the days when a compass could be trusted were gone. Thanks to the shifting of the ground that occurred out this far, moving straight ahead could lead a man backward, and the sun might rise in any of the world’s four corners. 

Clint’s hand twittered at his side, instinctively moving toward the stock of the seven-shooter on his right hip. 

Edward said, “Not that sort of wrong.”

“Wrong is if we don’t make camp soon,” the gunslinger said, letting his hand hang limp at his side. “I’m tired and hungry. I need a bed and a slice of turkey pie.” 

“Keep needing, then,” said Edward. “We have jerky wraps and delicious water. The engraved canteen that’s in your pack, however, is filled with apple brew, and for that, I’ll thank Providence.” 

“Unicorns don’t believe in Providence.”

“Of course we do. Providence provides brew. It’s the rest of your stupidity we don’t believe in. Time. Space. How you think that hat looks good on you.” 

Clint swung his left leg over Edward’s back and slid to the sand. A plume of dust spit up from the ground and recoated the clean areas that friction from Edward’s sides had made on the insteps of his boots. That was another thing about the accursed Edge — the sand here wasn’t quite sand. 

The gunslinger tugged on his hat. “What’s the trouble you mention?” 

“A pain. I feel it in my chest.” 

Clint spit. “Too much brew.”

“No. It’s something else, something obscene. I can feel it as we walk — or rather as I walk, with a lazy load on my back. It’s as if there’s a wall in front of us. With every step, it feels like I’m driving myself farther against some sort of perversion, like I’m slowly walking into a long and rusty spike.” 

Clint shook his head. 

“I know what you think,” said Edward. “But before you mock me, think on what I’ve not yet said: we may finally be closing in.” 

Clint’s icy eyes opened wider as the sun-wrinkled flesh surrounding the whites pulled back. “Is it her?” 

“Cerberus.” 

“Dharma Kold’s unicorn of a different color,” Clint rasped, nodding. He kept his eyes open so he wouldn’t see the obsidian black mount riding across his mind. If Cerberus was near, so was Kold. And where the dark rider went, so did his prisoner … always assuming, of course, that she was still alive. 

Unicorn Western (book 1)

The Wanderers (book 2)

A Fistful of Magic (book 3)

Shimmer to Yuma (book 4)

The Man Who Shot Alan Whitney (book 5)

The Spectacular Seven (book 6)

Open Meadows (book 7)

The Unforgotten (book 8)

The Magic Bunch (book 9)

Pages: 716
Trim size: 6x9 inches
Paper: Cream

Johnny B. Truant is the bestselling author of Fat Vampire, adapted by The SyFy Network as Reginald the Vampire. His other books include Pretty Killer, Gore Point, Invasion, The Beam, Dead City, Unicorn Western, and over 100 other titles across many genres.  

Originally from Ohio, Johnny and his family now live in Austin, Texas where he's finally surrounded by creative types as weird as he is.