When Luke McCoy killed his first man, the townsfolk of Dirtwood formed a posse, arrested him, and threw him into Beaver Ridge jail to rot.

For seven long years Luke plotted his revenge and then he finally managed to escape. Now he could act out his vengeance!

But when he rides into Dirtwood, the town is already in the grip of fear. Josh Carter and his ruthless outlaw gang have taken over the town and only Luke's childhood friend, Ethan Craig, has the courage to stand up to them.

Luke readily adds to Dirtwood's woes, but as the lead flies and the bodies mount, can an old friendship offer a man as murderous as Luke one last chance of redemption?

'I ain't returning.'

''We ain't,' Luke McCoy said, running a hand through his blond hair. He nodded to Ron Jameson and sighed. 'No matter what.'

Ron patted the third member of their group, Wesley Jameson, on the shoulder.

'You did well getting us this far, Wesley. No reason to get you killed too. You can walk out of here. Luke and I will take our chances.'

Wesley glanced over the windowsill, then dropped to the floor.

'Thanks for the offer,' Wesley said, 'but I ain't leaving my younger brother.'

'Yeah, but—'

'Stop!' Luke shouted. 'We ain't got time for family discussions. Wesley helped us escape. Even if he gives himself up, he'll face a few years behind bars. If he don't want that, it's his choice.'

Ron shrugged and wiped his sweating forehead.

'Suppose you're right. What are we doing, then?'

Luke bent his tall form and sidled along the floor. He joined Wesley by the window and glanced outside.

Facing them were Marshal Foster and three deputies. For a week, these men had pursued them since they'd escaped from Beaver Ridge jail.

They had been relentless.

Wesley was a trapper and knew how to cover tracks and confuse a pursuer. None of his tricks had confused these men for long and now they had forced them to make their stand in an abandoned house with one gun and a handful of bullets between them.

Foster stood apart from his three deputies, his rifle resting across one arm.

'Come out!' he roared. 'This is your last warning. It's your choice whether I return with your hides strung over your horses or in chains.'

Ron spat on the floor. 'Don't look like we're leaving here alive, but that marshal ain't leaving either.'

Luke snorted. 'He's an irritating son of a bitch and that's official.'

'What's it to be?' Foster shouted.

'Go to hell!' Luke shouted, lifting his head to the window.

Ron nodded. With his gun raised to shoulder height, he stood three paces back from the door.

'I'll take the first man that comes through the door,' he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. 'After that, we'll need luck.'

Luke sighed as he appraised Ron's stance. Ron was shaking, the gun barrel roving in a circle.

'I have a better plan,' Luke said.

Ron sighed. 'Then don't keep it to yourself. Any second now they'll come through that door.'

Luke held out a hand. 'Give me the gun.'

Ron narrowed his eyes. 'I'll only release this gun when I'm dead.'

'Which is in about ten seconds. I have the better chance.'

As Ron shook his head, Wesley stood.

'Luke might be talking sense, Ron,' he said. 'He claims to be a fast hand. Perhaps we should let him prove it.'

Ron frowned. 'We've only Luke's word for his skills.'

Luke mimed pulling a gun. 'You know I have fast reflexes. Give me the gun.'

Ron firmed his gun towards the door.

'Ain't seen a fast draw before. Can't judge if you're right, except in action, and then it'll be too late.'

Wesley glanced through the window. The men were fanning out and closing in.

'We'll die if you have the gun, Ron. Luke might be wrong, but I reckon he's our only chance. I'd sooner take a chance on living than die.'

Ron spat to the side and opened his mouth as if to shout his refusal. Then he lowered his head. He let the gun barrel swing down, then threw the gun to Luke.

In a casual gesture, Luke caught the gun one-handed and hefted it, getting used to the weight. It'd been some years since he'd held a weapon and the cold metal sent a flurry of anticipation surging through his veins.

From his pocket, Ron pulled out their four spare bullets, but Luke shook his head.

'Only four men are out there,' Luke said. 'I hit what I aim at. If I live long enough to take them, I won't need those bullets.'

Ron sighed. 'Hope that confidence ain't misplaced.'

Luke stood and flexed his shoulders. He tucked the gun in his belt and rubbed his fingers on his jacket, removing the sweat.

'It ain't. Trust me and we'll walk away.'

Wesley nodded and a few seconds later, Ron nodded too.

Luke took a deep breath.

'Marshal,' he shouted. 'We've been talking and we're coming out.'

'You've been talking sense,' Foster shouted from close to.

Luke turned to Wesley. 'Are they in the open?'

Wesley peered through the window. 'They're right before the door.'

'That's the last mistake they'll make.'

'Come out one at a time,' Foster shouted. 'When you come through the door, put your hands high and walk real slow or you'll be spitting bullets.'

'We know the drill, Marshal,' Luke shouted.

Luke strode to the door and flung it wide. With his hands raised to his shoulders, he stood a moment. Framed through the doorway he saw their four pursuers spread out before the house.

With his rifle to his shoulder, Foster stood before the three deputies. The barrel was still as it aimed at Luke's forehead.

The three deputies stood hunched with guns drawn and centred on Luke.

'Put those hands higher,' Foster muttered.

Luke raised his hands above his head and took a long pace.

'This high enough?'

Foster paced sideways towards the house, keeping his rifle on Luke.

'It'll do.'

'What's next, Marshal?'

Five yards to Luke's left, Foster stopped his pacing.

'You have a gun, so listen. Unarmed men can live the rest of their worthless lives in prison. Armed men can die. You have five seconds to decide which kind of man you'd rather be.'

Luke took a long pace from the house into the sunlight. He looked around the arc of deputies.

'If those are the choices, I'll be an unarmed man.'

'You're a wise man. Place your thumb and finger on the stock and pull out the gun real slow. The first sudden movement will be your last.'

'I'll be as slow as you want, Marshal.'

With his left hand, Luke rubbed the sweat from his forehead. Then he extended his thumb and index finger wide. He edged his hand to his belt and gripped the stock. He pulled, the gun inching above his belt.

Foster firmed his rifle. 'If you keep moving that slow, you'll be fine.'

When the barrel cleared his belt and the gun swung free, Luke smiled.

'Do you want me to drop the gun or throw it to you?'

'Drop the gun and take three paces. Then lie face down and place your hands behind your back.'

Luke nodded and swung his arm up six inches. He stared at the deputy furthest to his right. Then he dropped the gun.

In a move like lightning, Luke thrust his shoulders down.

Foster fired. The slug blasted Luke's hat from his head as he plummeted.

Before the gun hit the ground, Luke grabbed it with his right hand and swung it up. With a reflex series of deft movements, he fired, winging Foster with a gunshot to the hip.

Luke hit the ground and rolled, gunfire blasting around him. He came up on one knee and three crisp shots ripped from his gun, each less than a heartbeat apart and each taking the deputies through their chests. Each man spun away.

Before any of the men hit the ground, Luke swung the gun back to Foster and put a second bullet in his forehead.

Then he leapt to his feet.

From behind him, Ron and Wesley dashed from the house and slid to a halt.

Ron threw down his hat and danced a jig around it.

'Well I'll be...' he shouted. He whistled through his teeth. 'You ain't just talk. You can shoot like no man I've seen.'

Luke smiled. 'Told you before that you should've given me the gun. If you had, we wouldn't have spent the last week having these men after us.'

Ron shrugged. He wandered to the deputies' bodies and checked that each man was dead.

'Looks like we're free men. It's been a while.'

Luke nodded and stood over Foster's body. He underhanded Ron's gun back to him. With his boot, he rolled the marshal over and slipped out his gunbelt. He wrapped the belt around his waist and rolled his hips, letting the belt slip down.

With his long legs set wide, he rubbed his hands.

'What you going to do now, Ron?'

'Don't know,' Ron said, scratching his head. 'Got so many choices, it's hard to decide. Guess I know what your first choice will be.'

'What's that then?'

'That cool glass of whiskey you've been talking about for the last few years. Sometimes reckon that thinking about that drink is the only thing that's kept you alive.'

'Sometimes reckon that myself. Trouble is I reckon that anticipating that drink might be better than the drink.'

Ron laughed and grabbed the nearest horse's reins. He glanced at Wesley, who nodded.

'We're heading east,' Wesley said. 'You're welcome to ride with us.'

'Nope,' Luke said. 'We'll do better if we split up and anyhow, I'm heading west.'

As Wesley jumped on to his horse, Ron shrugged.

'Any particular place?' he asked.

'Yeah. A town called Dirtwood.'

Ron swung into the saddle too. He chuckled. 'Sounds nice.'

'Used to be.' Luke spat on the ground. 'That won't last.'

Ron tipped his hat. 'We need to be far enough away before the next pursuit begins. When it comes, it'll be more serious. If you remember those tricks Wesley taught us and avoid trouble, you should be fine.'

'I probably won't be fine then.'

'Even so, good luck.' Ron laughed. 'Always reckoned it'd be fun to have a price on my head. What do you reckon the price will be?'

Luke shrugged. 'A hundred dollars or so for us two... perhaps less for Wesley.'

Wesley sighed. 'Nobody knows I helped you escape. I won't have a price. They'll only look for you two.'

To suppress a smile Luke bit his lip.

'You shouldn't have put that idea in my head.'

'What idea?'

'Ignore me. I'm thinking about that drink again.'

Ron and Wesley provided another cheery wave, then turned.

When they'd ridden twenty yards, Luke lifted his gun and fired two slugs into Wesley's and Ron's backs.

Both men tumbled from their horses and landed in a cloud of dust.

In a few long paces Luke strode to Wesley's body. He confirmed that he wasn't breathing, but he'd hit Ron lower in the back and he writhed in agony.

'Why did... We were... We were friends,' Ron said between pain-racked gasps.

'Sorry, Ron. We were. Except friends can turn on you as much as your enemies.' Luke frowned. 'Besides, I need two bodies. They'd be yours and mine.'

Luke put a bullet in Ron's forehead. Then he dragged the six bodies into the house and riffled through everyone's pockets. He arranged three bodies by the door and scattered the other three across the room. He collected dry branches from out back. Working quickly, he bunched the branches around the doorway and piled the remaining wood inside.

The marshal had a knife so Luke struck sparks from a stone and started a fire. Once the fire had taken hold he stood back while it built into an inferno.

Luke let the heat warm him, ensuring that it'd be hot enough to destroy the building and mask the bodies' identities. Then he jumped on his horse and swung it round.

When he left the house, he headed west, his pace untroubled.

Every Christmas I treat myself to a single Malt rather than my usual tipple of supermarket own brand whiskey.

Yes, I know buying own-brand whiskey should be a crime when I live within spitting distance of a few dozen Highland and Speyside distilleries, but in truth my supermarket's Isle of Skye whiskey tastes just as good as a bottle of Talisker, which it ought to as Talisker is the only distillery on Skye. And it costs half as much, and...

Sorry, I was digressing.

For Xmas I bought a bottle of Highland Park and having poured the first glass I swirled it round and round, pretending to be a connoisseur.

Then I put the glass down without drinking and decided to anticipate drinking it for a while longer. Because when you've looked forward to something for so long, the actual event always disappoints, and you realize that the anticipation was more fun.

From this thought came the character of Luke McCoy — a man who has languished in jail for seven long years. He has anticipated two things — killing the men that put him away and finishing the glass of whiskey that he started before he committed his first murder.

But Luke finds that the pleasure of anticipating his revenge doesn't match the actual killing of the men he hates, so he is trapped, never able to move on.

So, when he comes to drinking that glass of whiskey, he puts it to his lips, but then puts it down without drinking and returns to the more pleasurable experience of anticipating drinking it.

But he knows that when he's ready to move on, he'll drink the whiskey. Until that moment, he'll anticipate it.

The novel is a tale of how Luke finds something that is more important than revenge — and more important than whiskey — but that's only because his saloon doesn't stock Laphroaig.