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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Lone Star Liberty: Paranormal Western Flash Fiction Story

Steven never even knew there had been a Texas branch of the Underground Railroad until the other men at Lone Star Blasting started whispering about the Russell mansion.

Old man Russell, they said, had built his house high on a hill at the edge of town with a special purpose in mind -- hiding slaves and helping them escape into Mexico.

Part of the house’s design included hidden tunnels that began under the front porch or inside the house and spilled out into the open country at the back of the property.

And, well, tunnels ran both ways.

Of course, there were also stories about ghosts, mostly of slaves who had met their demise in the tunnels and came back to either protect the house or seek revenge on their murderers.

Steven didn’t put much stock in that sort of talk, but the other part ...

What if Steven could find a passage and make his way into the house while Russell was traveling? Why, the treasures inside might set him up for life!

And so it was that Steven found himself behind Russell’s mansion on a starry autumn night, shovel and scythe in hand.

At first, there was no sign of an entrance of any sort into the hill. But after a few minutes of hacking and prodding, Steven’s shovel struck something hard, and he brushed away the dirt and roots to reveal an iron door.

The old hinges creaked as Steven pried the gate open and slipped inside.

He lit his lantern and started down the dark tunnel.

When he was a few feet in, the gate groaned again behind him, and then slammed shut.

From the murkiness in front of him, a whisper growled: “You got no business in Mr. Russell’s house!”.

And then … the lantern went dark.

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Inspiring Bible Verses for New Believers

Where do new believers turn for inspiration?

Certainly, you can come to websites like this one ... and you can go to church ... and you can join prayer groups ... and talk to other believers.

But, as someone who is just finding his way along this journey of faith after a whole life outside the church, I can tell you that the Bible itself is the ultimate source of Christian inspiration, and all those other roads lead back to the Good Book.

 With that in mind, then, I present this collection of inspiring Bible verses for new believers.

 These mean a lot to me, and I hope they will bring some peace and joy to your life, as well.

1 Corinthians 15:58

Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.

Romans 6:23

For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 10:9

because, if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and  believe in your heart  that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.

Matthew 6:33

But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.

Mark 10:45

For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.

Acts 24:16

So I always take pains to have a clear conscience toward both God and man.

Romans 4:20-21

No unbelief made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised.

Hebrews 11:6

And without faith it is impossible to please him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.

1 Peter 5:6

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you,

Psalm 2:12

Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his wrath is kindled but a little. Blessed are all they that put their trust in him.

Matthew 27:54

Now when the centurion, and they that were with him, watching Jesus, saw the earthquake, and those things that were done, they feared greatly, saying, Truly this was the Son of God.

Mark 16:16

He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned.

John 3:15-16

15 That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. 16 For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

John 3:18

He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.

Acts 3:16

And his name through faith in his name hath made this man strong, whom ye see and know: yea, the faith which is by him hath given him this perfect soundness in the presence of you all.

Matthew 6:33

But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.

2 Timothy 3:16

All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness.

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Colossians 3:12

Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.

James 1:2-4

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

Ephesians 2:8-10

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God – not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

Philippians 4:13

I can do all this through him who gives me strength.

Second Corinthians 4:6

For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.

1 Thessalonians 5:11

Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.

2 Corinthians 1:3-4

3 Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 4 who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.

Psalm 46:1-3

1 God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. 2 Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, 3 though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging.

2 Timothy 1:7

7 For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.

Ezekiel 33:19

But if the wicked turn from his wickedness, and do that which is lawful and right, he shall live thereby.

Proverbs 27:1

Boast not thyself of tomorrow; For thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.

X Marks the Ghost: A Western Flash Fiction Story

“Keep your voice down, Frankie. Do you want to wake up the whole camp?”

Teddy Smithers sat up on the thin layer of blankets that served as his bed and listened into the darkness.

“There’s no waterfall in these parts, Frankie,” the old man said.

Around him, Teddy’s fellow railroad workers began to stir.

“Hush up, Teddy!” one of them whispered harshly from across the barracks. “We’re tryin’ to sleep.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Frankie.” Teddy lowered his voice.

Nearby, Bob Chambers leaned in closer. Just who was Teddy talking to?

“Well, it ain’t that I don’t believe you, Frankie. It’s just that I never heard of anyone finding gold around here.”

Frankie! Ol’ Teddy must be losing it, Bob thought.

Frankie Smithers was Teddy’s long-lost son, killed in a railway explosion near on three years ago now.

“Alright boy,” Teddy said, eyes darting back and forth in the dark. “No need to get all riled up. I’ll head out there with you.”

Bob eased back down onto his own mat and watched Teddy sneak out into the moonlit landscape.

When he was sure the old man was gone, Bob followed after him.

--

They walked for a good fifteen minutes through the cold desert night, Bob lagging behind a hundred feet or so. Though the words were inaudible, he could see that Teddy was talking all along the way.

Finally, Teddy disappeared over a small hill.

Bob eased his head over the ridge and was astounded by what he saw -- Teddy shuffled with reverence toward the bottom of a suddenly lush valley.

On the other side, a raging waterfall splashed into the ravine.

And Teddy was talking again -- but this time, Bob could hear a second voice.

“The gold’s right there, Dad.”

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Smeller Pete to the Rescue: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Nancy May Morgan was in trouble.

On Friday night, she’d taken off her engagement ring so as not to scare away the boys in the dance hall.

She didn’t realize it was missing until Saturday morning and then spent all day searching high and low. No luck.

Her beau, Judge Thomas Righter, was due back in town on Monday morning.

And so, on Sunday after church, it was with a healthy dollop of desperation that Nancy May approached the only man in town who could help her -- Smeller Pete.

As the saying went, if you’ve lost your girl, Smeller Pete can smell her feet from a mile away.

It was an easy agreement -- two pints of whisky in exchange for the services of Pete’s magnificent nose.

They set off within minutes, but progress was slow.

The afternoon sun bore into their skin as they made a meandering path through the town, up one side of the main street and down the other.

By five o’clock, they had turned north into the desert and left the village behind them. Unease crept into Nancy May’s belly as the shadows grew longer.

“I think we should turn back, Pete,” she said. “My ring can’t be this far out.”

Pete came to an abrupt stop.

He held up a finger to shush her. “There ya go.”

He pointed toward a single, scraggly tree on a rise in the distance. Nancy May could just make out a midnight black raven perched in its nest among the top branches.

And, glinting in the sunlight … brilliant golden metal.

“My ring!”

Pete was already walking away.

“Aren’t you going to get my ring?” Nancy May pleaded.

“No, ma’am. My specialty is findin’ things. Seems you need a retrieval expert.”

He giggled as he disappeared into the dusk.

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Artful Escape: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Ronnie Sacks had hit a long streak of bad luck -- lost jobs, broken relationships, eviction notices.

But Pingleton Pawn was going to be his savior.

Ronnie had grown up reading pulp westerns and watching every cowboy movie he could find, so he had always known that one job -- the right job -- could be his ace in the hole when times were rough.

Times didn’t get any rougher than this.

And, like his idols from the old west, Ronnie would be a hero for knocking over Pingleton’s. After all, the pawn shop preyed on folks when they were down, and Ronnie would pay them back in spades once he got things turned around.

What he hadn’t counted on was that the store would have working alarms or that the cops would respond so quickly.

And so, grabbing whatever loot he could carry, Ronnie sprinted into the night with sirens and police dogs hot on his heels.

It was his bad luck that tracked him down, though, and Ronnie found himself trapped in a dead-end alley, cops closing in from the front and a brick wall at his back.

Desperate, Ronnie took stock of his bounty from Pingleton’s and asked himself a do-or-die question -- what would a real old west outlaw do?

--

Officer Straily followed Champ into the dark alleyway, weapon drawn and halogen flashlight playing like a portable sun off the slum walls.

When the beam found the end of the line, Champ barked and Straily stopped cold.

A used-up graffiti kit lay on the ground. Paint dribbles grew into splashes near the wall.

There on the bricks was a crude mural of an old train, heading off into a distant mountain range.

From the caboose, Ronnie Sacks winked at Straily and adjusted his cowboy hat.

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Gone with the Dawn: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The first rays of sunlight sparkled over Roper Ridge to the east, and Oatfield now lay ten miles behind the posse.

Twenty men hellbent on justice had spent the night searching for the scoundrel who murdered Sheriff Frank Pulliam behind Sully’s Saloon. None of them had known each other for more than a couple days, but they all had one thing in common -- they were going to make their fortune at Potter’s Creek, where Roger Fuson found gold the week before.

And they had been counting on Pulliam to keep the town nice and quiet while they went about their work.

But now Pulliam was gone, gunned down because … well, no one was really sure why.

All anyone knew was that two shots had been fired ‘long about midnight, and that one of them dropped Pulliam in a pool of blood.

When the men poured out of the tavern, they found Pulliam crumpled on the ground, tended to by old Floyd Mason, the town drunk.

That other shot? Floyd said the sheriff had winged his assailant as the outlaw made his retreat.

The mob of men had shown up plenty quick, and Floyd reckoned they should be able to find the fella right easy. He’d be the one bleeding all over the desert floor.

Paul Kramer agreed with Floyd on one thing -- the throng had materialized in a flash.

Before he knew what was happening, the band of men had swallowed him up, and he’d been compelled to partake in their hunt.

Now, as the tired mob disbanded and some of them  turned back toward town, Paul joined the dozen or so who decided to give up their gold quest and head on home.

He was just glad no one had noticed the bullet hole in his shirt sleeve.

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The Preacher's List: A Western Flash Fiction Story

“Father, we ask that you have mercy on our brother Wesley Morgan and lift up his wretched soul to live forever in your heavenly kingdom. Amen.”

Reverend Jason Stone touched the chest of the dead man in the casket in front of him and looked out at the small congregation.

Twenty men, all of them Morgan’s fellow railroad workers, shuffled in their straight wooden chairs. A few offered uncomfortable amens of their own.

Most of these rough-and-tumble hombres hadn’t set foot in a church for decades … at least until Reverend Stone arrived in town a couple months before.

Of course, the backroom of a saloon didn’t really count as a church, but Stone sermoned every Sunday at nine of the morning, come rain, shine, or hangover.

The men still weren’t sure what to make of Stone, but his presence gave them a certain comfort.

Watching him walk around town every day reading that tattered old Bible of his and taking notes while he prepared for his next oration made them feel an extra sort of protection.

And Stone’s timing was good, too.

Why, if he hadn’t come along when he did, all those men who had died in accidents -- Morgan was the eleventh --  would have been buried with no rites at all.

For his part, Reverend Stone was more than happy to help shuttle these poor souls to their destiny.

After all, these were the same men who stole his family’s land in Kansas, all in the name of progress.

As the pallbearers closed the coffin lid, Stone smiled and marked Morgan’s name off the list he kept there in the middle of his bible.

Halfway through the alphabet now, with much progress behind him and plenty still left to do.

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Delivered from the Storm: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Thunder crashed and lightning tore open the black sky like a stockman’s knife cutting through a hunk of dried-out longhorn hide.

Pete Betman stood on the edge of a gulch that, an hour before, had been desert-dry but now raged like the Colorado river.

“Jim!” he shouted into swirling air.  “Jim … where are you?”.

A hard tug on his elbow threatened to tumble Pete to the ground, and he whirled to face Matt Anderson.

“C’mon, Pete!” Matt called over the din of the wind. “The storm is getting worse. We have to go back!”

Edgar Wilson had sent his ranch hands out to round up a few stray head of cattle before the rough weather set in.

They hadn’t made it in time.

“We can come back for the cattle later!” Matt’s voice was strained.

“I don’t care about the dang cattle”, Pete said, yanking his arm away. “We gotta find Jim.”

“It’s too dangerous, Pete,” Matt pleaded. “We can find him later, too.”

Pete set his jaw. “No sir. You don’t leave a pal to die. Jim wouldn’t leave us out here.”

Matt nodded, resigned now to his fate -- the water was rising fast.

The wind shifted just then, and it carried an anguished cry.

The two men turned together in the direction of the wail.

There, two hundred feet upstream, Jim stood on a huge boulder calling out to his buddies. He was surrounded on three sides by certain watery death, but the fourth offered a clear rescue path.

Before Matt could blink, Pete was halfway to Jim. When they were separated by ten feet or so, the mutt leaped from his stony perch and into Pete’s waiting arms.

“You knew I wouldn’t leave you behind, boy,” Pete said.

Then, man and dog turned toward home.

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Turk's Revenge: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The door to Dillon Gregg’s cabin screeched in the midnight wind, and he tensed his body into a ready crouch.

Coming home to an uninvited guest was a danger of living alone in the frontier forest that he’d had long since accepted.

For one thing, years spent longhunting in the wilderness had honed his stealth into a weapon.

Mostly, though, Harmon Miller had forced his hand.

Returning  from his first hunt in the western mountains, Dillon had been dog tired when he dragged himself through the darkness and into his cabin.

Wasn’t aware there was someone inside until he lit the lantern on the kitchen table.

Harmon, asleep on the floor, gasped. By reflex, Dillon buried a hatchet in Miller’s forehead.

It was the only crime Dillon ever committed and, lucky for him, the only witnesses were Miller and his raggedy old one-eyed dog.

Dillon dragged Harmon out into the forest and left him where the Dalton City authorities might find him, eventually.

The dog followed him out, whining the whole way, and stood by his master as Dillon retreated.

A few weeks later, Dillon ventured into town for supplies, and folks were abuzz about how Sheriff Thomas had found the town hobo with an ax in his skull and his dog, Turk, at his feet.

The townspeople chalked it up to the local Indian tribe, which was well and good with Dillon.

He moved on, determined to never be surprised again.

But now, that swinging front door had his full attention. He never noticed the predator creeping up from the blackness until it had his throat in its jaws. 

Hot blood poured down Dillon’s shoulders and chest, and dizziness threw him to the ground. A single eye glistened in the darkness as Turk lunged to finish his work.

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Help for His Journey: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Bradley unfolded the crinkled paper and studied it again. He had always known this day would come, but he still had trouble fitting the words into his world.

Every time he read the letter, his heart and mind filled with a flood of emotions.

Sorrow …

Regret …

Urgency …

Anger …

Mostly anger, he reckoned. He had left that life behind him, and here his mother was, begging him to come home one last time.

Juanita stood from her seat at the kitchen table and walked across the room, slipping an arm around Bradley’s waist.

“You need me to help pack your things, darlin’?” she asked.

She always knew just when he needed her, and just what he needed from her. He hoped he gave her the same comfort.

He thought he did.

Bradley turned toward his wife and pulled her close, kissing her soft lips.

“I don’t want to go back there, ‘Nita,” he whispered.

She pushed him to arm’s length and stared deep into his eyes.

“Bradley, he’s your daddy. Nothing he did or didn’t do, before the war or after, will ever change that.”

Her husband bristled.

“Plantation owners like my daddy are the reason we had to fight in the first place. You know that, ‘Nita.”

She nodded and laced her fingers in his, then tugged him toward the back door of their little prairie home.

“He’s dying, Brad. And without him, there would be no you. No us.”

She motioned toward Blake and Nelly, frollicking through the autumn grass.

Tears welled in Bradley’s eyes as he watched their children, felt the warmth of his wife beside him.

He pulled his wife’s hand to his lips, their fingers a tangled harmony of brown and beige.

“Can you help me pack?”

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Bluffaloed: A Western Flash Fiction Story

“What was it that feller said, Joe? My ears ain’t workin’ too good today.”

The old man’s scraggly voice screeched above the hum of a midday crowd at the Salty Saloon.

Joe, burly and greasy, leaned forward on the bar and shrugged. “Somethin’ about a deed.”

“A deed. Interestin’.” The graybeard pulled himself off his stool with a groan and lumbered toward the end of the bar, where a thick young man sat nursing a whisky.

“Now,” the old man said. “What’s this ‘bout a deed?”

“Oh, I just came by to introduce myself. I’ll be takin’ over Albert Campbell’s place.”

The old man’s eyes grew wide.

“You don’t say!” He scratched his chin. “Say … how’d ya come into that property, if ya don’t mind me askin’?”

“Well,” the outsider shifted in his seat, “I’m Phillip Ayers, Mr. Campbell’s, um, nephew.”

“Nephew! Why, I ne’er knew ol’ Albert had a nephew. D’you know that, Joe?”

“Nope.”

“Strange he never mentioned it. So, I guess he left you the place in his will. I mean … when he up and died here awhile back. What’s it been three, four months?”

“Uh, four,” Ayers said.

“So ya gotcha a deed and everything. I’ll bet Albert even signed it for ya, huh?”

“Yep, that’s right.”  Ayers stood. “Well, I gotta be goin’.”

“There’s only two problems I see with that story, sonny,” graybeard said.

Ayers stopped cold.

“First, Albert never learned to write. And second … well … you never can trust local gossip.”

The old man hobbled across the floor to stand in front of Ayers.

“I mean, can’t an old coot go on a huntin’ trip without everyone just assumin’ he’s dead?”

He thrust his hand forward in greeting.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ayers. Name’s Campbell. Albert Campbell.”

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The Price of Passage: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Now this was the kind of life Billy Stokes had always imagined for himself.

All during those hardscrabble years working with Daddy at this ranch or that … and later, when Daddy was dead and Billy was on his own ...

All he needed was a break.

That break came when he caught on with the Morton Company and met Petey Smith.

Petey was a rough character, and none too smart, but he had a head for the no-good. Didn’t take long for the two of them to start talking, and scheming.

The way Billy and Petey figured it, a well-placed stick of dynamite would close off the mine and leave them with a month’s worth of gold they could cart away at their leisure.

It was a shame all the other miners had to die, but it was a price the two men were willing to pay.

‘Course, Petey hadn’t counted on Billy double-crossing him -- a second well-laid charge made the booty Billy’s alone.

Not that it hadn’t bothered Billy’s conscience.

Indeed, Petey always insisted on splashing his face with toilet water -- in case he found true love in the mines, Billy supposed -- and the stench had haunted Billy’s dreams for months.

Billy shook his head loose of those memories now and took in the grand ballroom of the Queen Francesca, the first luxury ship to make the passage from Butler Bay up to Thorntown on the regular.

The pretty lady on his arm leaned in, her sweet smell fluttering his heart.

Billy smiled -- such were the spoils of wealth and the distance of 20 years.

Then, a tug on his arm.

A long-forgotten odor mixing with his lady’s.

An offer from a familiar, if aging, face.

“Care for a drink, sir?” Petey Smith, tray in hand, sneered at Billy.

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Shooting Star: A Western Flash Fiction Story

“It was a night about like this, on the other side of Bear Mountain.”

George Sharp waved his hand toward the hulking rock face off in the distance. The orange campfire flickered in his black eyes.

“The sky was clear and cold, full of stars. Just like tonight.”

The other men had heard Sharp’s tall tale before, but never in the dark.

“Everything was still and quiet …just me and Elvira hunkering down by the fire with our evening vittles, ready for sleep.”

The only thing Sharp talked about more than that mythical night was Elvira, his long-dead horse.

“I was just dozing off when a fireball shrieked across the sky with the roar of a jaguar.”

Shooting star.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking -- shooting star. But it wasn’t.”

The men elbowed each other and snickered. They knew what was coming.

“In spite of the racket, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was flying way up above the ground on  … I don’t know … some sort of mechanical bird. No, not ‘on’ -- inside it.”

Overhead, a star streaked silently across the sky.

“And there were these … things. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel ‘em, alright. They poked and prodded at me, and then …”

One of the men nudged a buddy and pointed at Sharp’s arm as he stoked the fire.

“Well, they branded me. Burned a big old star right there on my forearm.”

He rubbed the spot the men had noticed.

“And then, they dropped me here in Racoon Valley and told me to wait for them to come back.”

Another star, brighter and roaring like a big cat, arced across the sky from behind Bear Mountain.

The eerie glow lit up the men’s scared faces, and George smiled.

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At Home with Friends: A Western Flash Fiction Story

There’s nothing a man needs after a long journey more than the comforts of home.

Travis Bankhead had a home once, before Union soldiers tore it to pieces.

And he’d certainly been on a long journey, one that began with sights set on those self-same Union soldiers.

But that all changed there on the battlefield at Buffington Island, fighting next to his friend and fellow Confederate, John Chambers.

Travis took a slug in his thigh as the battle turned against the South, and John had two choices -- stay and tend to his buddy or turn tail and run.

Chambers ran, leaving Travis for dead.

Well, ol’ Travis Bankhead was a tougher than that. He didn’t die, but the Union captured him and shipped him up to Camp Chase in Columbus.

Two years as a prisoner of war, with only a shoddy old drunk of a doctor to tend to his leg, left Travis with a terrible limp.

He could still shoot, though, and he reckoned that was about all he needed to make it as an outlaw.

Travis followed the stream of money pouring westward all the way to Arizona where, before long, he started to hear stories about the former Confederate soldier who had made good and turned himself into a right smart lawman.

Name of John Chambers.

And so it was that Travis decided to pay his old friend a visit.

The fire crackled on that cold November evening when Sheriff Chambers’ boot clopped down on the wooden planks of his front porch.

Inside, Travis winked at Chambers’ wife and small daughter, and held a finger to his lips.

“Don’t spoil the surprise for your daddy.”

It had cost him plenty, but Travis thought this new home would do just fine.

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