Tucked In: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Annie hated Dan Felton, God rest his soul.

It was the former sheriff of Applegrove, after all, who had insisted the town jail be built on top of the highest hill in the county.

“You all’ll thank me when Coyote Creek floods the valley and the prisoners are locked in safe and sound up here!” he’d bellow.

What a farce! Coyote Creek was more of a puppy trickle, and now Annie was stuck trudging the half-mile trek from the center of town whenever she wanted to visit her husband, Archie.

‘Course, Archie never would have made sheriff if Dan hadn’t collapse one morning walking up the hill to work. That made Annie smile a little as she huffed and puffed the last few steps into the front of the jail, lugging a picnic basket for supper with her husband.

“Oh boy!” Archie greeted her. “Let’s eat!”

No sooner had they sat down at Archie’s desk than a clap of thunder shook the whole building.

Ned Malloy clanked his metal water cup against the bars of his cell and called out in anguish.

“Sheriff, I’m scairt o’ the thunder. Can you send that pretty lady back here to rock me to sleep.”

The men in the other two cells snickered and joined in the catcalling. Annie’s face flushed, but Archie brushed passed her and swung open the front door.

She followed and gasped at what she saw.

Coyote Creek had jumped its banks and was already crawling into the buildings in the town below.

“Welp,” Archie said with a chuckle. “Looks like we’ll be spendin’ the night up here, Annie.”

The inmates howled from the back of the jail.

“Can the missus sleep with me t’night, Sheriff?” Ned taunted.

That sealed it.

Annie definitely hated Dan Felton.

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Know Your Terrain: A Western Flash Fiction Story

“So you say a band of river pirates ambushed you and took my gold?” Jack Brooks leaned back in his leather chair and puffed a thick cigar. The roaring fireplace cast his flickering shadow against the brick wall on the other side of the ornate parlor.

“That’s right, sir.” Larry Custis was nervous.

Brooks was the most infamous crook this side of the Rockies, but no one seemed much interested in putting an end to his enterprise. Either you were for him, or you were against him.

And no one double-crossed him. How did he and Hank ever think they’d be the ones to get over?

“And … they kidnapped Hank,” Larry sputtered. Then, with a bolt of inspiration, added, “Probably killed him!”

“Mmmmm,” Brooks grunted as he tapped ashes onto the floor. “And you say this happened at the fork of the river?”

Larry’s eyes shifted in gloom of the room, and he hoped the fat man wouldn’t notice. “Yes, sir. That’s right.”

“Uh-huh.”

Brooks sighed and leaned forward. He struck a match somewhere in the dark and used it to light a candle on the table between them.

As the flame whispered to life and cast its glow across Larry’s face, he heard the unmistakable click of a gun hammer locking into place, cocked and ready for action.

Brooks pulled his chair closer, and his broad, smiling face gleamed in the candlelight. He slid his right hand toward Larry to reveal the glinting barrel of his revolver.

“There’s just one problem with that story, son,” Brooks said. “Arrow River doesn’t have any forks. A straight shot between Logan and Nevada.”

Larry swallowed hard. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Now,” Brooks went on. “You sure there isn’t something else you want to tell me?”

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Run, Sally: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The prairie ground thundered like a thousand Navajo drums under Sally’s pounding feet. She breathed in the dry, cool autumn air, and her lungs burned with the fire of youth.

Through a stand of vibrant blue oaks she flew, exploding out the other side onto a carpet of golden rolling grass that swayed into the rocky ranges to the west. And there, shimmering in the morning sun like the spirit of another lifetime, stood her mother.

Tears flowed from Sally’s eyes as she pumped her legs even harder and sprinted toward the loving figure awaiting her in front of the distant foothills.

A sudden stinging pain on Sally’s backside stopped her in her tracks, and she craned her neck backward to find the source of her torment.

“C’mon, girl!” Jackson commanded as he pulled himself up into the saddle. “We gotta move on!”.

Sally winnied into the sky, weeping for her lost dream -- the same one that had visited her over and over these last few weeks.

She reared up, then tore off toward the horizon in a cloud of dust. One of the bags Jackson had loaded onto her back spilled into the dirt behind them, scattering its bounty on the desert floor.

Behind her, Sally could hear the whoops of angry men and she felt the wind of their bullets buzz past her ears.

Jackson guided her through a stand of dingy blue oaks, but the men’s cries grew closer.

When she was younger, Sally could have outrun anyone, anything.

But now her lungs were ablaze and, by the time a hot slug burrowed into her skull, her heart had already begun to sputter.

As Jackson tumbled under her faltering hooves, Sally steeled her gaze on the horizon, where her mother shimmered in front of the western foothills.

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