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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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.”

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.

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.”

Dark Rivals: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Every night at half-past 11, old Hoss Jacobs drained the last drop from his canteen, gazed out at the open range in front of Grayback Gulch Mine to make sure no one was fooling round … and promptly passed out cold.

It had taken Jess Sanders all of five days to figure out the hired watchman’s routine, and it came none too soon.

Jess, after all, was a scholar, not a miner. But as soon as he heard the big news out of Garden Park, he knew Colorado was the place for him.

And, even though he didn’t have the gear to get the job done, he knew who did.

Within a week, Jess had made his way west and hired on with the Clayton company.

The intense labor racked his soft body, and Jess almost gave up each of the first three days.

But on the fourth, he noticed an unusual shape emerging from one of the rock walls he passed on the way to his assigned station.

By Friday, that shape was unmistakable. Jess had to rescue his treasure before the real miners damaged or lost it.

And so, as Friday seeped into Saturday, Jess tiptoed around the sleeping Hoss and eased his way into that first dark chute. He had memorized the layout of the mine and felt his away through the blackness until he made the final turn leading to his quarry.

There, he stopped and lit his lantern. As orange light flickered against the walls, an unmistakable click thudded in Jess’s ears.

Before him stood Avril Thomas, holding the great lizard’s thigh bone in one hand and a revolver in the other.

“Looks like we both had the same great idea,” his rival paleontologist said. “I just had it first, is all.”