I'll Wait Up for You: A Western Flash Fiction Story

For a dozen years, Bobby Logan had worked for this moment.

He’d tracked Stanley Ferguson all through Nevada and Arizona, giving the scoundrel just enough lead so he wouldn’t hear the falling hooves of destiny closing in on him.

And all the while, Bobby had inched his way up the ranks of lawmen -- doing chores at the jail when he was still a boy, serving stints as a deputy and jailkeep in Wickenburg and Ragtown, even chasing down bandits in the open desert near Hackberry.

Finally, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, Bobby became sheriff of Barrentrail just about the time Ferguson pulled off his bank heist in Black Mesa.

Barrentrail was the perfect sort of town for a scaredy-cat outlaw looking to lay low after he got a little big for his britches. All Bobby had to do was wait, and Stanley would come to him.

So that’s what he did, night after night. Walking main street, patrolling the outskirts on horseback, looking out into the desert from the balcony of his room at the hostelry.

Bobby doubted he’d slept more than a couple of hours at a stretch since he was thirteen, but that was OK.

Vigilance was his respite from the world.

Still, it was a surprise when the man slinked into Bobby’s jail late one night asking for a place to sleep and a bite to eat. Bobby had expected the coward who shot his daddy to at least be smart enough to avoid laying himself across the jaws of the law.

“Sure, I can help,” Bobby grinned as he escorted a sickly looking Stanley through the front door.

This was going to be easier than he ever imagined.

And, at last, Bobby was pretty sure he’d get a good night’s sleep.

So Long, My Lady: Western Flash Fiction

Just because you love a girl doesn’t mean you get to spend your life with her.

Hell, Clint knew from the second he met her that Molly was too good for him, that he couldn’t hold onto her. She was a lady. He was nothing but a lifelong vagabond cowboy.

But Clint also knew Molly needed him, in that moment, and he would give his own life to protect her if he had to.

And they both had Cletus to thank for bringing them together. If the broken-down gelding hadn’t been so skittish, Clint would have missed Molly completely.

Whoever heard of a horse afraid of a rocky shadow in the desert?

But there was something about the dusty, moonlit canyon trail that spooked old Cletus, and he nearly bucked Clint from the saddle. In the ruckus, Molly peaked her head out from behind a boulder, and the cowboy’s heart slammed hard against his ribs.

How could such a dazzling creature end up battered and dirty in the middle of nowhere?

He scooped her up, and they rode. Hardly a word passed between them, but Molly’s eyes told him she felt the same way he did.

They didn’t stop until the third night, when they found a watering hole outside of Rockpoint. Clint helped Molly clean up, and he fed her the last of his biscuits and meat.

Finally, they walked together into the center of the sleeping village, leaving Cletus behind so as not to wake anyone.

In front of the jail, Clint tied one piece of rope around Molly’s neck, then used another to tie that makeshift collar to the hitching post.

He gave her one last scratch behind the ear.

“So long, my lady.”

A tear streaked down his cheek as he shuffled into the darkness.

Heart of Gold: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The oak trees had grown up.

That was Tom’s first thought as he shuffled around the last bend leading him home. When he set out twenty years before, the grove of saplings stood just chest-high. Now they towered to forty feet.

In their shadows stood a strapping young man, musket held across his chest. He stared at Tom with hawk-like eyes.

Tom knew those eyes from his own mirror.

“Can I help you with something, mister?”

When Tom read the notice of Molly’s death, he thought it was time to come home. To make amends for running out on the family when Mike was just a few months old.

Hell, back then Tom was too young to be a daddy, and probably not cut out for the job, anyway.

Now …

Well, he didn’t know if he was up to the job or not, but he had money. Pockets full of the gold he’d spent years mining, panning -- stealing.

That would make everything alright.

Only, he could see his boy had grown up without him. Hadn’t needed a two-bit daddy.

Didn’t need him now.

“Um, nope.”  Tom curled his lips into a rueful smile. “Just passing through. Didn’t know no one was on this land. Sorry to bother you. Jake’s the name.”

Mike gave a slow nod but kept his gaze on the old man.

Tom headed for the open range to the west, gold straining his back and regret stabbing at his heart. At a fencepost that marked the edge of the property, he glanced toward the stand of oaks.

Mike was gone.

Tom hollowed out a spot at the base of the pale with his boot heel and stooped to empty his pockets.

He turned toward the horizon and scraped along as best he could. Heavier than ever.

Just Passing Through: A Western Flash Fiction Story

“What are we gonna do, Sheriff?”

“That scoundrel run off with all our gold!”

Calvin Roberson held dismissive palms toward the angry crowd gathered in the low early-morning light outside the Killigan jail.

“Now, first of all, fellas … Sheriff Tom Harkin is still the law here in Killigan. I just happened to be passing through.”

“And it’s a good thing, too. Harkin don’t know his --”

“Easy there, Philip,” Roberson warned. “Sheriff Harkin is in charge here, and we take orders from him. All I can do is offer up a bit of advice based on my work over in Stonewall.”

Roberson searched his audience. None of them seemed to suspect Stonewall was made-up, but he could feel the weight of Harkin’s stare. The lawman was trying to figure him out.

“Now,” Roberson continued. “What we gotta do is split up into about five groups and fan out to the north. No sane man would take on the desert south of here on his own, especially not saddled with all that gold.”

“Now wait a minute …,” Harkin objected.

“You got no say here, Harkin,” one of the men barked.

“Time’s awasting, gentlemen.” Roberson tried to diffuse the dynamite that might crash his scheme.

It worked ...

His words prodded like a hot iron rod, and the throng set off toward the Colorado border all at once.

Harkin watched them go, then studied Roberson. The two men had spent most of the night a few feet apart in the jail, but Calvin had been filthy and unshaven then. It was darn near a miracle the changes a razor and some soap could wrought.

Finally, Harkin shook his head, mounted his horse, and headed off in search of the bandit.

Calvin watched him go, then disappeared into the southern sandscape.

Sugar Shoals and the Shoshone: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Johnny Shoals swallowed a spoonful of ice cream and kept his eyes straight ahead. He had too much invested to tip his hand now.

Behind the counter, Elmer Hoskins stacked brown glass bottles and shiny tin pillboxes on dark, shellacked shelves. It was all snakeoil to Johnny, but he was glad for the diversion.

Not many towns that side of the Mississippi had a soda fountain, but then not many towns had a fat-cat glutton like Thomas Galloway, either. The infamous banker had followed the scent of gold west, and his chubby nose led him right to Sandy Springs.

Johnny had tracked that same stench because he knew the railroad always followed money. The first time he heard one of Frank Thatcher’s telegraph messages bipping through the air of Elmer’s shop, Johnny knew he had chosen well.

Thatcher was trying to expand into the northwest, and what better homebase than his old buddy’s adopted hometown? The railway man set about wooing Hoskins.

Thanks to his training with the Union army, Johnny was able to decipher the code by ear, and it would ultimately allow him to avenge his lost family, trampled by the hooves of Thatcher’s ironhorse.

And now, after three years of swilling ice cream he didn’t want, Johnny had the answers he needed. The gentle {i}dit-dah{/i} of the telegraph spelled out Thatcher’s final plans.

Johnny stood and placed his spoon on the counter, then walked toward the front of the store.

“Sugar, don’t you want your ice cream?” Elmer called out to him, using the nickname Johnny had earned with every bite.

Sugar Shoals stopped in the doorway and answered without turning back. “Nope. Got a train to catch.”

And he knew an army of Shoshoni who would be more than happy to help him save their land.

Helping Hands: Western Flash Fiction

A shadow flashed across the blazing sun and granted Blade welcome reprieve from the hellfire that baked him into the earth like a porcelain doll born of the devil’s blazing kiln. 

Despair nearly swallowed him whole when he cast his burned and weary eyes to the sky to find the source of his salvation -- a flock of vultures circled not far above.

Just as the birds descended close enough for him to see their vile faces, their vortex was torn asunder by a blinding ball of light that set itself down at Blade’s feet.

He was terrified but powerless to move and gaped in wonder as a beautiful woman in white stepped onto the desert floor.

“Do not despair.” She smiled and handed him a slip of worn paper.

On it was a hand-drawn red arrow, and the woman pointed to the north.

As if lifted by an invisible hand, Blade stood and walked several steps beyond the stranger. Nothing but scorched, barren earth lay in every direction. He turned toward the woman to protest her instructions … but she was gone.

The paper vibrated in his fingers, and he looked down to find the red arrow glowing. A gust of wind snatched the slip from his hand, and it disappeared into the sky.

Confused and desperate, Blade looked back toward the north and was astounded to find a creek babbling not more than a hundred feet from where he stood.

A man crouched on the bank, drinking liberally from the sparkling water. He stood and smiled, and Blade could see the man wore a reverend’s collar.

“Well, hello, there, son. You look like you could use a friend.”

Something brushed against Blade’s palm.

It was a slip of paper, with a red arrow pointing toward the preacher.

Wildflower Memories: A Western Flash Fiction Story

There was no room in Elmer’s life for a woman.

Not with 200 head of cattle, a mile of fence to mend, and winter bearing down.

And, especially, not with what the last woman did to him.

When Elmer and Harriet said their “I Do’s,” she promised to love him ‘til death did them part. She kept her end of the bargain for fifty years, too.

Elmer just always figured their parting would come with him six feet under instead of the other way around.

The heartache had just about crippled him, and now his daughter wanted him to go on a “date” with some widow from town?

Hell, Elmer had never been on a date in his whole life. He and Harriet met through their daddies, who worked on a ranch together, and were married by the time they were 16.

Before that, there had been just one little girl, a Sunday school crush named Margaret.

Elmer would get up early every week before church to pick wildflowers from the field behind his family’s prairie house. Margaret’s favorite was tickseed, and she’d pull her chestnut hair behind her left ear and slip one of the golden blooms overtop.

Elmer smiled at those memories as he clopped onto the wooden porch of Caroline’s Cafe in downtown Colton. He could see Mary through the front window, and she waved him in.

He grimaced but knew he couldn’t resist his youngest child. He took off his dusty hat and stepped through the door, where Mary greeted him with a hug.

“Daddy,” she said. “This is Meg.”

“Good to see you again, Elmer.”

Meg was about his age, with smiling eyes and gray hair streaked with chestnut. From behind her left ear, a golden tickseed winked at Elmer.

Becky and the Bobcat: A Western Flash Fiction Story

It wasn’t everyday you found a leather diary on the side of a dusty prairie trail.

Ace Carter stooped to pick up the book but nearly dropped it again when he opened the cover.

The writing was neat and girly, so it could have belonged to Becky Bronson. But there was blood on the paper.

If even one hair on Becky’s precious blond head was harmed, well, her daddy would kill Ace.

Still, the diary was his first lead since Billy hired him to track down his wayward daughter.

“She been kidnapped by Tommy Anson.”

Ace doubted that, on count of Becky’s reputation, but then Billy hadn’t left Ace a choice. Thirty dollars was $30, and Billy Bronson was a mean son-of-a-....

A blood-curdling roar erupted from behind the rock wall at the next turn in the path. Ace whipped his rifle into position, ready to unload if the big cat came his way.

Instead, a tuft of yellow hair flicked around the side of the stone face.

“Why, you ain’t gonna shoot me, are you, big fella?” Becky Bronson teased.

Ace lowered his weapon. “No, I ain’t gonna shoot you. But I ain’t gonna let you get ate by that bobcat, neither.”

“There ain’t no bobcat here mister. Just me.”

“You alone? Your daddy sent me out here to rescue you from Tommy Anson.”

The evening air had grown cool, and Becky pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. She used the end to dab something red next to her mouth.

“My daddy knows I can take care of myself. Say, you sure are handsome!”

It was then that Ace saw a man’s bloody boot jutting out from behind the rock where Becky stood.

As Ace turned tail and ran toward town, a bobcat roared behind him.

The Legend of John McScaredy: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The first time Gavin Norton saw John McCurdy, it was from inside a casket.

Barlow County had been beset by a series of grave robberies, and Sheriff Thomas Rains charged Gavin with nabbing the crooks.

The young deputy hatched a plan to wait where he knew the thief would show up -- in the grave itself.

Gavin would never forget the expression of abject terror that splashed across the ugly, lantern-lit face that peered in at him that night when he sat upright in the coffin.

The outlaw disappeared into the darkness before Gavin could even get to his feet.

As the years passed, whispers emerged throughout the west about a bandit named John McCurdy who had once been so frightened at a gravesite that his hair turned white in an instant.

So scared, in fact, he could no longer venture out into the dark, an affliction which earned him the nickname of “McScaredy.”

Nevertheless, legend had it  McScaredy developed into something of a magician, able to slip into any setting -- in broad daylight -- and take whatever he wanted.

Outwardly, Gavin denounced McScaredy as a myth, but he often wondered whether there might be some connection to his long-ago encounter.

Those thoughts plucked at Gavin as his stagecoach passed a graveyard on the way to Millcreek. He was an old man, but still lean and virile, and he often fantasized about the adventures of his youth.

As if cued by those memories, the coach lurched to a stop, and a white-haired gunman leaped into the rear compartment.

Gavin recognized the dog-faced man and jumped to his feet, ready to fight.

John McCurdy recognized Gavin, too, and this time, the sight of a corpse coming toward him was too much for his ticker.

McScaredy keeled over, dead, his magic finally run dry.

Double-Dog Dunderhead: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Don’t let anyone ever tell you all dogs are the same. My daddy used to tell me that, and I believed him … until last night.

Here’s how it happened…

Ol’ Joe Appleton and me got to drinking down at the Thirsty Turtle Saloon in the afternoon, and after a few whiskies, he started flapping his gums.

Seems there’s this new stagecoach driver who stops next to the river under the old oak tree at Barnham’s Grove to fetch some cold water every single evening.

And when he does, anyone at all could walk up to the wagon and pilfer the daily deliveries.

Easy pickins, Joe says.

By that time, both of us were good and snockered, and I sure liked the sound of some easy money.

So Joe and me headed down to the river and set up camp on a little hill just across the way from the big oak. Joe brought his mutt, Roger, with him as usual, and the three of us sprawled out in the grass.

Well, the evening was warm, and Roger curled up real close to me -- before I knew it, I was asleep. When I woke up, it was nearly dark, and I could see Roger was rooting around down by the tree.

I tore off toward the pooch, worried he was going to blow the whole shebang!

Only … it wasn’t Roger at all.

It was some mean-looking mongrel who didn’t take kindly to my meddling. He gave me a good chase, teeth bared and growling, until I figured out I couldn’t outrun him. That’s when I went straight up this here oak tree.

That beastie kept yelping at me all night, long after Joe and Roger headed for home.

And the stagecoach driver?

Fella never did show up!

The Charlatan: Western Flash Fiction

Dalton Delaney was a fraud, and now his deception was coming home to roost.

He’d had no idea when he walked into the Flatrock Bank that a robbery was in progress, but one look at the patrons facedown on the floor and the six gunmen with bandanas over their faces had left no doubt.

“Something is wrong here,” he whispered.

Before he could really register what was happening, though, six shots rang out, and six bandits fell over -- dead.

Floorboards creaked behind him, and Dalton whirled toward the front of the building just in time to see a blond man in a tall black stetson disappear into the midday sun -- but not before he turned to wink at Dalton.

What happened next was an explosion of shouts and tears and, ultimately, gratitude.

Folks in the bank assumed Dalton had dropped the bad guys, and he did nothing to dispel that notion. Finally, he was somebody. A hero.

And he couldn’t very well backpedal the next week when citizens of Flatrock demanded that Sheriff Baxter deputize him.

Then Deputy Jones was shot dead in a second attempt on the bank that left the jail overflowing.

So, when a lookout tore into town on horseback yelling about a hostage situation on the outskirts of town, Baxter had little choice but to send Dalton.

“Prolly just a false alarm,” the sheriff said.

Dalton hoped so, because he could barely handle a gun without shooting himself.

As he followed behind the scout, though, it didn’t take long to realize they were heading toward the Delaneys’ homestead.

His stomach dropped when they got there ...

Pretty Molly stood on the front porch, gun at her temple.

Blond James Shreveport smiled from under his stetson.

“I ain’t leavin’ without my girl this time, Dalton.”

Count on Dying this Morning: A Western Flash Fiction Story

There were 237 paces between the bottom of the stairs at the Coalridge hostelry and the swinging doors of the town saloon.

That was the sort of thing a cardsharp like Dennis Minton noticed. Numbers had always been his best friends, but they’d also made him an outcast.

Growing up on a farm, Dennis was expected to concentrate on chores, not schoolwork. But he couldn’t help himself -- he’d head out to the barn to bale hay, and before he knew it, he’d figured out there were 1012 boards in the loft or that Bessie had 23 spots on her coat.

All that counting worked out pretty well when he was playing cards. There were always 52 of them, and he always knew where any particular card was at any particular moment.

But a fella could only stay in one place for so long when he won every hand.

That’s why Dennis moved around so much, and why he was heading out of Coalridge early on a Sunday morning after a Saturday-night cleansweep.

The sun was peeking over the horizon when Dennis eased onto the seventeenth -- and last -- riser outside the hostelry

He froze -- the soles of his boots were held together with 52 stitches, just like a deck of cards.

The last footprint in front of the bottom stair ... well, that boot had 55 stitches.

With only his own room up the stairs and with nothing to either side, Dennis had one option.

He planted a toe in the dusty street, pivoted to face the darkness behind the stairs, and fired his six-shooter.

Joe Meeker tumbled into the thoroughfare, dead.

He had two guns in his holsters, one bullet hole in his chest ...

… and zero money to his name.

Just as Dennis had left him the night before.

Golden Opportunity: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The sandbar appeared like a pillow from Heaven dropped into a crook on the west bank of the Hobnail River. It was a sign, and Matthew’s momma had taught him well enough that you never ignored a sign.

“Hey, Tyrus.” He nudged his companion with a makeshift oar, reaching across the raft. Matthew nodded to the far bank. “Let’s pull over to that island for second.”

Tyrus followed Matthew’s gaze, then turned back with cockeyed eyebrows. “That ain’t no island, son”

“OK, fine. But we gotta stop for a minute. I’m gonna be sick.” Matthew staggered and nearly tumbled into the churning water.

“Alright, alright. Cool your heels.” Tyrus began to paddle toward the sandbar but cast his eyes behind them, toward the north. “We can’t stop long. They won’t be far behind us.”

Matthew ogled the canvas-covered piles between the two men. They had spent months planning the heist, and it came off without a hitch. Still, it wouldn’t take the bankers and lawmen back in Ralston long to figure out the getaway route once they noticed the money missing.

“Fine. I just need a minute or two on solid ground.”

Matthew push-paddled away from the raft to help speed them along, and the two men worked in silence for several minutes.

“Just a few feet now,” Tyrus said at last.

It was time.

As Tyrus stretched forward for the final stroke, Matthew pushed him hard in the back with his oar. Tyrus toppled from the raft and splatted face-first in the sand.

In a flash, Matthew angled the raft back into the current of the river.

“Hey!” Tyrus yelled when he had righted himself.

“Don’t worry, Ty,” Matthew called. “I’ll come back. I’m gonna get you. And if I don’t … well, I’m sure the sheriff will!”

Chasing Shadows: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Shadows already stretched out long by the time Barney galloped through the outskirts of Tuskwood, and Colt dug his heels into the stallion’s sides.

Truth be told, when Colt had left town ten years earlier to find adventure in Oregon, he thought he’d never return. Back then, Tuskwood was nothing but a podunk watering hole on the edge of the Montana frontier, and it looked like not much had changed.

Sure, the village had pushed its western boundary out a mile or so, but it was still just a cowtown.

And as Colt tore through the main street, he could see that the simple one-room schoolhouse still waited on the eastern edge of the strip. Golden evening sunlight sparkled against the slate roof.

Colt never much appreciated the subjects Ms. Anderson taught when he was a kid -- readin’, writin’, ‘rithmetic, as they said -- but she was easy enough on the eyes and always smiled real nice like.

Still, his sister’s letter had left Colt surprised -- that Ms. Anderson was just now getting hitched and that the news bothered him.

Gnawed at him for a few days until he couldn’t stand it.

Looking back, he guessed he’d always fancied the schoolteacher. And now that he was all grown up and knew she was still unwed ...

He couldn’t let it sit.

So he bolted off across the countryside with two days to make a three-day trip, pushing Barney harder than he thought the horse could stand.

They had made it, though -- maybe.

As man and horse painted the town in dust, their shadows fell across the wedding party in the schoolyard. Bride and groom turned from the altar, and Ms. Anderson flashed that nice smile at Colt, just like old times.

Seemed like he was in time, after all.

A Cowboy's Beacon: Western Flash Fiction Story

Dinner is done and it’s almost dark, but John is just now shuffling up the dusty path to our house.

It must have been a hard day in the mine because he’s tilting to one side and walking real slow.

And why isn’t he riding Hollow Hoof?

Whatever happened, I’ll bet I can make him feel better -- always do.

And I’ll bet he tells me I’m pretty -- always does.

He’s walking through the door now.

“Damn horse ran off while I was down in the mine,” he says to Molly. He used to tell her she was pretty, too.

“Oh, no!”

“Well, it ain’t my fault.” John sounds angry.

“No, I didn’t think it was, but what --”

“And … well, Mr. Rumley fired me today.”

“Oh, John!” Molly’s voice is so shrill it hurts my ears. “What happened?”

“One of the carts derailed and hit another one. Whole load of ore spilled down into the cavern. Wasn’t my fault, though!”

“Then why --”

“I don’t know, OK? I don’t know!”

“What are we gonna do, John?”

“Well, I reckon you’ll leave me for some fancy boy who’s not such a bonehead. I’ll prolly just go hungry for awhile.”

“No, John!”

He leaves, slams the door behind him as he heads out.

It’s really dark now.

There been lots of bad days since John and Molly lost the ranch -- that’s how they say it -- but this must be the worst.

Oh! The door is opening again.

John sticks his head in and looks at me.

“C’mon, Callie. Let’s go for a walk.”

I trot next to his side as the door whooshes shut behind us, and I can hear Molly crying.

John pats my head, and I feel him calm down.

“You’re just about the prettiest dog I ever seen, ol' girl.”

Spittoon Muldoon of the Calvary Saloon: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The locals called him Spittoon Muldoon.

Or Billy the Book.

Each one fit the humble barkeep just as well as the other, and together they wrapped up all anybody knew about the man who always had a good word for the patrons of the Calvary Saloon.

He loved his tobacky …

And he always carried that strange leather book with him. Spent every night behind the bar reading and scribbling notes, folding little pieces of paper into its pages.

So it was no surprise to Sam Waters when he walked into the fancy white church to find that Billy had carried the cracked and weathered volume with him all the way to the end.

What had surprised the sheriff of Smallwood was that Billy had any ties to the fancy folks in Clinton at all.

Truth was, no one had known where the old man spent his days until that telegraph arrived two days before, on Friday.

Sam had posted notices around Smallwood and told the folks he ran into, but he didn’t expect to see many of them in Clinton on Sunday.

He had been wrong, though.

One whole side of the church was filled with Sam’s own neighbors and friends.

The other was filled with strangers.

As Sam looked down on Billy lying there in the casket, he heard them all whispering the tavern keeper’s name.

“How did you know Reverend Muldoon?” a soft voice asked from Sam’s right.

He barely even noticed the young girl standing beside him, because his gaze was focused on the cover of Spittoon’s mysterious book.

Its cover read, “Holy Bible.”

Black Moonbeam: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Lightning sizzled across the night sky and unleashed a whip-crack of thunder loud enough to wake a doornail.

In the flash, Maizy's ears pinned back, and Oscar knew he was in trouble.

The mare winnied into the blackness and stood straight up on her hind legs. Didn’t even come back down before bolting for the open range.

A sick weightlessness twisted Oscar’s belly before his back pounded into the ground, knocking his wind into a cloud of dust.

Lightning crashed again, and he could just see Maizy’s golden tail disappear over a far ridge.

She’d be back, he thought, but probably not ‘til morning.

By then, he might be dead -- drowned or eaten or electrocuted to a crisp.

Pain erupted in pulses from his spine, through his arms and legs, and Oscar cursed himself.

For being foolish enough to try and bring in the cattle when he could taste a storm in the air.

For getting so damn old.

Hell, when Black Moonbeam had flung him off in a storm just about like this one, Oscar had scrambled to his feet and given chase. Now, Oscar rolled onto his knees and coughed.

Black Moonbeam … it had been 20 years since that regal stallion disappeared into the night, but Oscar missed him everyday.

Something rustled off in the darkness, and Oscar gripped his six-shooter.

“Maizy? That you?”

Thunder exploded around him, and the sky lit up like a battlefield. Against the electric yellow clouds, the silhouette of a horse clopped toward him.

It wasn’t Maizy.

The jet-black coat had turned salt-and-pepper, the back swagged with age. But there was no mistaking the intense eyes and the spotlight swath of white fur on the muzzle -- a moonbeam.

Black Moonbeam.

Oscar nodded.

“Well, get on over here and help me up, then.”

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The Caregiver: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Alton Davis hardly recognized the face staring back from the mirror.

Wrinkled and leathered, each line told a story in his life’s tale, each scar another role he played on the path toward destiny.

There was the knick on his chin he got on his 16th birthday when he and Daddy stopped a band of rustlers at the edge of their ranch.

He grew those freckles on his nose under summer skies spent in the saddle -- on farms, riding the range, searching for adventure.

Glaring white snow and relentless desert sun forced the squints that forged those crow’s feet.

His furrowed brow erupted from the smooth mantle of his forehead when Daddy fell ill and cracked down the middle when Mommy died a few years later.

The little dimples in the corners of his mouth that had advanced like a railroad into creases, dividing his upturned lips from the hard features around them and reflecting the smile in his eyes, and in his heart?

Well, he never had those at all until Betty showed up. The babies started coming a few years later and tattooed those laugh lines -- permanent reminders of love and joy.

When Alton was a boy, the old folks talked about Shapeshifters who roamed the edge of the frontier, warding off the death of the wilderness at the hands of “progress.”

He always thought the stories were just wives’ tales. Now, he knew better.

Hit bloodshot eyes, set deep in their sockets and purchased with his wife’s illness, told him as much.

Alton turned from his reflection and stepped toward the bed where Betty lay, pale and weak. He shifted into his final role, that of caregiver, and prepared for battle.

Her death would have to wait at least another day.

Turning the Tables: A Western Flash Fiction Story

If Sheriff Frank Wilkins hadn’t been so hellbent on covering his own tail, he might have felt his hackles raise as the two men clopped up main street toward the Thorn Hollow jail.

Instead, he was just impressed with his new deputy.

Why, Wilkins had been trying to collar Tommy Chance for the better part of twenty years. All Wilkins really wanted was a few minutes alone with Chance — just long enough to find out how much the young rancher remembered about their first encounter.

Never was able to convince Tommy to sit down and chat, and never could find a charge to pin on him.

But as a first assignment, Wilkins had sent Davy Rusk out to the Chance place to see if he couldn’t convince Tommy to come into town for a spell.

Not that Wilkins thought Rusk would come back with his quarry …

But, by golly, there they were, shuffling along and jawing like they were old friends!

Wilkins greeted the two men at the door with his best phony grin.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Tommy nodded. “Sheriff. Deputy Rusk here says you been wantin’ to talk to me.”

“Oh, yes. That. Well, I just like to get to know all my citizens — you and me never really had a heart to heart.”

Wilkins motioned Tommy to a chair in front of the desk. He didn’t notice Rusk lock the door when he came in.

Or that the deputy pulled out his handcuffs as he stepped behind the sheriff’s chair.

“Now,” Tommy said, propping his feet on Wilkins’ desk as Rusk cuffed the sheriff to his chair.

“Why don’t you explain to me and my half-brother here why you killed our mama and my daddy all those years ago?”

Saving the Enemy: A Western Flash Fiction Story

There shouldn’t have been anyone at the construction site so late on a Saturday night.

Jackson had studied the work patterns of Watson Railway for more than a year as it marred the countryside and had even signed on to work the last 1000 miles.

Driving railroad spikes and laying iron track what hot and heavy work, but Jackson hardly felt it. Didn’t matter what happened to him, anyway.

Not after the railroad had forced his family from their land and killed his daddy from stress. And his mama after that, from a broken heart.

But Jackson Starr was no monster … no killer. Not like Harold Watson, who would ruin families for a few coins.

So Jackson didn’t hesitate when he spied the moonlit figure poking around the newest section of track after he’d already pushed the dynamite plunger.

Jackson ran toward the man,flailing his arms and shouting, but the fella just stood there, flummoxed by the commotion. Jackson barrelled into the stranger just as the sticks detonated under the nearby construction shack.

The two men rolled down an embankment to safety, but a hunk of wooden beam conked the interloper on his head. Jackson scooped him up and ran across the desert while fire raged behind him.

Now, as Jackson stood bent over his knees trying to catch his wind, the portly older man stirred. Jackson crouched down and grabbed the fella’s hand to let him know someone was there with him.

Gradually, the stranger’s eyes swam into focus, then flashed to the burning, mangled wood and metal.

“How did I get here? Did you carry me out here?”

Jackson nodded.

“Well, young man, looks like I owe you a debt of gratitude. And Harold Watson always pays his debts.”

In a Bind: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Dorian Blunt wasn’t your average mineworker, and Sheriff Jim Holton hardly knew what to say to the man.

Still, gold had been vanishing from the Branson mine for a month, and Jed Branson was threatening to pull his operation out of Dry Bluff .

Holton had interrogated every man in a five-mile radius except for Blunt, and his first glimpse of the man’s hostelry quarters made him anxious to get it over with.

Blunt had pulled his bed into the middle of the room and built shelves along the walls. These were stuffed with the fanciest books Holton had ever seen.

Blunt himself sat cross-legged on the floor in front of a lantern, reading a paper-covered tome -- “The Purloined Letter,” by Edgar Allan Poe.

Holton leaned against one wall and throttled Blunt with the same interrogation he’d rolled out a hundred times before.

There was nothing at all in Dorian’s answers that made Holton think the bookworm was a thief, but there was something about the man himself that felt just … not right.

“You’re an unusual sort around here, Blunt,” Holton said.

“Yep, I gathered that from talking to the other fellas at the mine. They don’t seem like big readers.”

In one motion, Blunt rose from the floor and thrust his book into Holton’s hands before the Sheriff could protest.

“But I’ll bet you’d like this one, Sheriff. And don’t worry …”

Dorian pulled another volume from a shelf. It was a second copy of “The Purloined Letter,” this one with gold-edged pages and golden lettering. Blunt opened the cover to reveal a shiny golden front plate.

“... I already have an upgrade!”

As Holton shuffled off into the night, he was convinced that something was off-kilter with Dorian Blunt.

He just couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

The Legend of Alligator Schultz: Western Flash Fiction Story

“Tell us about Alligator Schultz, Daddy!”

Early-spring work on the farm had left Addie Scott exhausted, but he couldn’t disappoint his nine-year-old son, Albert.

Besides, Alligator Schultz was a great story.

Addie sidled into a rocking chair next to the potbelly stove, and Albert sat in front of him on a thick rope rug. Grandpa Scott dozed in the next chair.

 “They say Alligator was the greatest stagecoach bandit in all of Oklahoma,” Addie began. “He’d crouch in swampy areas and just wait for a coach to drive by.”

“And he’d hold his breath all day!” Albert shouted out.

Grandpa groaned and twitched.

“That’s right, Albert. Ol’ Alligator would hold his breath all day if he had to. But one night, Alligator tried to rob a Union sharpshooter heading west after the war, and the fella pegged Alligator right through the throat.”

Thunder cracked -- snow was turning to rain. Grandpa jumped in his seat but did not wake.

“Alligator ran off into the woods … the soldier and a couple other men gave chase. They searched all night long but never found Alligator.”

Thunder clapped again -- this time Grandpa woke up, eyes red and wild.

“What happened to Alligator?” Albert asked.

“Well, some folks say he drowned in the marsh thanks to that hole in his neck. Others say he escaped and made a new life for himself. Settled down, raised a family.”

“But always terrified of the rain!” Albert finished.

Addie nodded and smiled.

“Hogwash!” Grandpa bolted from his chair. He tugged his scarf tight across his throat. “That story is a load of bunk!”

A torrent pelted the tin roof, and Grandpa grabbed his ears in pain as he stumbled toward the back bedroom.

“When will this infernal rain ever leave me in peace?!”

The Hangman's Burden - Western Flash Fiction Story

Ordinarily, this type of situation would have been handled with a couple rounds of fisticuffs behind the saloon.

But this was no everyday skirmish among friends, this matter that boiled up between Levi Wright and Sam Robson over the past few days.

Hell, truth was, this pot of trouble had been simmering for years, ever since they were boys in Copperhead.

Back then, Levi was the straight-laced farmer’s son who walked to town for school every morning and Sam was the village troublemaker.

Still, the boys had formed a fast and uneasy friendship.

For every pit of snakes Levi helped Sam avoid, there were three more they both charged into at fullsteam.

Levi’s parents had been relieved when Sam disappeared one night when he was 16 -- their boy could go about building a respectable life.

Eventually, Levi landed a job as a deputy, and the hangman, in Crag.

Then one night, a scraggly stranger sauntered into the town saloon while Levi sat nursing his whiskey. Sam recognized his old friend right away, and they took to reliving shared stories over beers.

Before long, their remembrances grew raucous, a few locals got riled up, and a tussle broke out.

In the dustup, Levi and Sam found themselves backed into a dark corner by the sheriff. When the lawman drew his six-shooter on Sam, reflexes took over, and Levi dropped his boss with a single shot.

The reunited friends stared at each other in the dark as the tavern mob descended. Awful truth spread between them like an oil spill.

Now, after a quick trial, the two locked eyes again.

“It’s alright, partner,” Sam said. “This is how everyone always knew I’d end up.”

Levi swallowed hard and choked back tears as he slipped the noose over his buddy’s head.

April Fool's Gold: Western Flash Fiction Story

Dot Wilson caught the toe of her shoe on a rock just as she was about to climb into the family wagon. Her shoulder bag spilled into the dusty grass, scattering its contents at the feet of Tom Harper.

“That last step is a doozy!” Tom teased and roared with laughter.

Dot’s face flushed, and Tom felt like a heel for poking fun at her.

“Here, let me help you with that,” he said, stooping to gather Dot’s baubles. He had scooped up most everything when he whistled in appreciation.

“Now what do we have here?” he asked, holding his hand up to the dazzling sunlight. In his fingers was a radiant golden nugget that glistened like the morning dew.

“Oh, that? It’s nothing, really. Just some old rock I found down by the stream yesterday. Justin said we might come back and pick up a few more of them if we don’t find anything in California. You know, just on the count they’re so pretty and all.”

“You don’t say.” Tom looked off to the horizon, lost in thought.

It was April 1, six months since the Wilsons and Harpers had set out from Boston to find their fortunes. It hadn’t taken long for Dot and Justin to figure out their partners were more burden than help.

“Say,” Tom began as Justin walked up with the bedrolls. “I been thinking. Maybe Jess and I will just hold out here for awhile.”

He was still ogling the sunlit nugget.

A few minutes later, Dot turned to Justin as their horses picked up speed.

“Think it’ll work?”

Justin nodded. “Yep. Nearest assayer is two days from here. By the time ol’ Tom figures out he’s sitting on a mountain of Fool’s Gold, we’ll be ghosts on the wind.”