At the Altar: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Mabel Joplin worked the strand of black satin through her gnarled fingers, weaving and twisting it into a perfect bow tie. She stepped back to appraise her work and pursed her lips in satisfaction.

“I don’t know why you’re going to so much trouble, Mama,” Pete Joplin said.

“Everyone’s come out to see you, ain’t they?”

Pete examined himself in the full-length mirror. He had to admit he looked pretty spiffy.

“Well, they’re here to see me and Anna.” He fit the wide-brim hat over his coal-black hair. “I just wish I could talk to her.”

Mabel’s tense face hardened to a deeper shade of stone, and she looked out the window.

“You’ll see her soon enough, son. And then you’ll be together forever, just like God intended.”

Pete stepped to his mother’s side and joined her in eyeballing the gathering crowd. Folks had come from all across Canyon County for the occasion.

After a couple minutes of silence, Jed Clanton arrived with a jagged knock, and the back door creaked open. The men had known each other since they were boys, and Pete was glad to have Jed at his side.

“You ready, Pete?” Jed asked. Pete nodded.

“I love you, Mama.”

Mable just stared out the window. “I’ll see you directly, I expect.”

Pete watched his mother for a beat, then the two men walked across the small cabin, where Jed opened a second door.

The gathering crowd roared below them. Pete gazed across the platform to find Anna’s warm and loving eyes.

The throng erupted, and the two hangmen prodded their charges onto the gallows.

Pete smiled at his bride. Their life of crime was coming to an end, but, yes, they would soon be together forever.

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It's for You: A Western Flash Fiction Story

It had taken Roger Anderson more than a year to find Canyon Roost, but it was just the kind of town he needed.

No rail station, no post office, no hostelry, no telegraph.

Most importantly, there almost no people.

No people who knew Roger, no people who knew Phillip Hudson.

And … well, no lawmen to hang Roger for gunning down Hudson.

One thing Canyon Roost did have, though, was a tavern.

Marvin Harper, the barkeep, had been there as long as anyone could remember, and he was more or less the mayor of the place.

Marvin had been married once, but his wife, Stella, died in childbirth, leaving the barkeep to raise Matty, their son. Matty was a fine boy, but ambitious enough to want to leave Canyon Roost.

And so he did, catching on with one of those fancy telephone companies on the east coast.

When Matty came home for Christmas that first year, he brought a telephone with him and gave it to Marvin. 

Like any proud father, Marvin proudly displayed the gift, right there in the middle of his walnut bar.

Of course, the regulars rode him about it.

“Why, that’s a useless piece of junk, Harper! Who’s gonna call you? That’s the only telephone within a thousand miles!”

Marvin would just smile and ignore their barbs, because he knew one day, someone would call.

Even so, when that telephone rang one late night in October, shattering the soft murmur of his handful of customers, Marvin nearly jumped out of his skin.

Roger watched on from a dark corner, dread growing in his chest.

“Hello?” Marvin said into the receiver.

He was sheet-white but nodded. “Yeah, he’s here.”

Marvin turned and beckoned for Roger.

“It’s for you, Anderson. Some fella named Hudson.”

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Black Jack Hacksaw: A Western Flash Fiction Story

“I need an answer, son. Now.”

Black Jack Hacksaw growled, close enough for Tommy to see the beads of sweat just starting to climb over top of the older man’s pushbroom of a mustache.

Tommy wanted to give Hacksaw what he needed, but there was a problem -- he didn’t have the answer Jack Black wanted to hear.

And that was a tough spot to be in.

Growing up in the Snakeheel River basin, Tommy had heard all about Hacksaw and how he handled those he considered fools, those who couldn’t answer his questions in a satisfactory manner.

Now, in person, the man was even more intimidating than his legend, and Tommy was scared.

Scared to answer, scared not to answer … scared to blink.

“I said … tell me now!” Hacksaw was fully agitated, and he rubbed the palms of his hands over the butts of twin six-shooters in his side holsters.

Tommy was out of time.

“Um … six?”

In a flash, Hacksaw drew both weapons, firing one to the sky and one to the ground.

A plastery powder rained down on him and turned his salt-and-pepper hair a ghostly off-white.

He pivoted on a boot heel to face Matt Duncan.

“Duncan … what’s two plus three?”

From across the room, Tommy could see Matt swallow hard. He didn’t have the answer, either.

Hacksaw squared up on the boy, hands on his pistols again.

And so the tense dance resumed, but this time it was Matt’s burden to bear. Tommy almost felt guilty for the relief that flooded his chest.

Such was life in a schoolhouse run by the man who was once the baddest lawman west of Flathead Range.

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The Long, Long Arm of the Law: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Fog hung low around Hal Morgan’s simple cabin as he trudged up the dark trail late Tuesday night.

“Banker’s hours” may have meant a cushy gig back east, but out here in the hardscrabble west, it meant waking up before everyone else and going to bed even later.

“Stop right there, Hal.” A voice growled from the gloom.

Morgan squinted into the mist and was shocked to see Sheriff Roscoe Ritter, and the barrel of his gun, emerge from nothingness.

“Sheriff, what …”

Ritter pushed up his wide-brim hat, took a wide stance, and cocked his revolver.

“You’re under arrest, Morgan.”

“What? You must be joking! On what grounds?”

“Embezzling, you scoundrel!”

Ritter shoved the nose of his gun into Hal’s chest -- the man was not joking.

---

A long, tense hike to the jail gave way to an even more uneasy silence once they were inside.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Ritter said when Hal pressed him about the charges.

Morgan tried to sleep, but every time he drifted off, the building popped or a mouse scurried across the floor.

When the first long rays of morning finally streamed through a window high on the wall,  Ritter stood and walked toward the front of the building.

Hal just watched, dazed.

No sooner had the Sheriff disappeared than Deputy Frank Johns clopped into the back room.

“Morgan! What are you doing here?”

As Hal told his story, Johns’ face went sheet-white.

“What’s wrong, Deputy?”

“Hal … Sheriff Ritter was gunned down at the bank over in Wrathchapel yesterday morning.”

“Who would do that?”

“Far as we can tell, it was the same fellas who robbed our bank not more than an hour ago.”

The shadow of a wide-brimmed hat flashed on the wall between them, then shrank to nothing.

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First Dance, Last Dance: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The way Clara Hankins figured it, Emma Dalton must have been just about the finest lady west of the Rockies.

Had to be some sort of saint if a man like Rick Dalton would go through so much trouble just to make her happy.

What Rick wanted when he walked into Clara’s dance hall was waltzing lessons. His fifth wedding anniversary was in six months, and he’d long ago promised his bride they’d dance together on that night.

He intended to honor his vow.

Truth be told, Rick was clunky to start, but Clara was a skilled teacher. Before long, he glided with a grace that belied his rough-and-tumble stature as a rancher.

And, though it filled her soul with guilt, Clara grew quite fond of the man. In her heart, she held out secret hope that, somehow, there was no wife. That Emma didn’t really exists.

But on the big night, she told Rick, “You’re ready.”

He touched the brim of his hat and disappeared into the night. Seconds later and overcome by impulse, Clara followed.

The autumn air was crisp, and a pale moon hung low and massive in the sky. The ghostly light made it easy for Clara to keep Rick in sight.

It also made her fear being caught, but she could no more turn back than stop breathing.

After what seemed like hours, Rick wound his way through the iron gate of a remote cemetery.

A strange mixture of sorrow and exhilaration clawed at Clara’s throat when she spied the stone where he stopped ...

“Emma Dalton 1861-1882”

Tears spilled out of Clara’s eyes as she watched Rick dance gracefully over the grave of his dead wife.

Her spine froze when she realized that two shadows waltzed beneath the bone-white moon.

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Autumn Homecoming: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The late September sunset dappled the prairie in front of Haper’s Mountain, shining like the moon there on the western edge of the Rockies.

Harper’s Mountain … Jon could hardly believe it had been 40 years since he left New York behind.

His job.

His ma and pa.

His sorrow.

Back in those days, Jon and Catherine would spend these early fall days walking hand-in-hand through lush meadows and dense woods on the outskirts of the city.

The air had swirled with the warmth of summer tinged by the crispness of autumn death, leaves threatening to unleash their blinding glory at any moment.

And swarms of tiny purple butterflies always flitted around Catherine, captured by the same magic that bound Jon to the woman.

Or maybe they were drawn to her angelic voice as she sang out a chorus of “Dixie.” She never quite forgot her southern roots.

The changing of the seasons was pretty much the only thing Jon missed about his old life, though, aside from Catherine herself.

He’d done a pretty good job of shutting down those old memories, too, and hadn’t even thought about New England autumns in ages.

But as he dozed under a scraggly tree that would never look any different than it did right then, something tickled the back of his hand, and his eyes fluttered open.

A purple butterfly.

It flew toward the mountain, and Jon was powerless to resist the urge to follow.

He bounded over a hill he’d never seen before and stopped, breathless, at the sight before him.

The scrubby prairie had yielded to a lush, golden meadow, decorated by thousands of dancing purple butterflies.

Ahead of him, the mountain was nothing but white light, and strains of “Dixie” echoed through the valley, calling him home at last.

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Heartmelt: A Western Flash Fiction Story

“I knew you was sneakin’ around on me, you no good scoundrel!”

Mabel Jones stood in the bedroom doorway of the ramshackle cabin she shared with her husband. Hot-poker jealousy burned in her belly and boiled up into her eyes.

Elmer stiffened from his berth on the rope rug in front of the fireplace. The glow from the blaze filled the tiny living room, laying all his secrets bare.

Outside, rain beat against the tin roof, and somewhere behind him, water broke through the  ceiling and hammered into the wooden floor.

*drip*

*drip*

*drip*

Gilda turned in Elmer’s arms to face Mabel.

“Now, Mabel,” Elmer began, rolling into a seated position. “It’s not what you think.”

“I warned you, Elmer Jones! I warned you not to bring that filthy beast into this house ever again. How could you do this to me?”

“Now, Mabel … it’s rainin’ hard outside. Stormin’!”  Elmer pointed toward the ceiling and cocked an ear upward. Lightning flashed through the cabin’s single window, and thunder crashed like a cymbal. “She’s scared, that’s all.”

“Well, she can be scared somewhere’s else. Get her outta my house now, Elmer!”

Breaking free from Greta’s grasp at last, Elmer stood.

“I’m not kickin’ her out, Mabel. She got nowhere else to go. And besides …”

“And besides, what, Elmer?!” Mabel interrupted. “You love her don’t you?”

“Well …”

“Well what?” Mabel was fuming.

Greta winced at the loud voices and stood, whining. She padded across the floor and sat in front of Mabel, then licked the angry hand that hung near her face. The dog slid down and cuddled against Mabel’s feet.
“Well, you might too if you gave her a chance.”

Mabel huffed and pulled away.

“I’m goin’ to bed.”

And she did.

Greta followed close behind.

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