Ken Rand once again rides the plains and mountains of his beloved Wyoming, pen in hand, imagination bust out of the corral and galloping wild and free in the wind. Whoppers, like you’d hear told by campfire light at the end of a hard days ride, abound in Rand’s parfleche: There’s a zombie gal who wants her way despite death and misfortune, a sheriff made of tin you don’t want to cross neither, and a magical mask that wears you. There’s a new Lucky Nickel story about this guy who grows hair like nobody’s business , and there’s this bridge out on the range that goes from here—to somewheres else.

            Somewheres else.

            Ain’t that where folks want to go in their stories?

            Sit. Read. Rand’ll take you somewheres else.