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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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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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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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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Shooting Star: A Western Flash Fiction Story

There was little doubt Derek had shot the man lying dead on the dusty street.

For one thing, Derek’s six-shooter was still smoking.

For another, it was a gunshot that woke him from his slumber.

What wasn’t so clear was just where that left him with the mob of folks who had crowded around the scene. Derek’s sleepwalking had landed him in some precarious positions before, but this was the first time he was cut off from all hope of escape.

He scanned the throng of faces …

Some of the men looked angry.

Some looked happy, somehow. Almost giddy.

Most just seemed a strange combination of shocked and bored.

And the women … well, there were lots of flushed cheeks and fluttering eyelashes. That, Derek had seen before, and he’d have to deal with it by and by.

If he worked his way out his predicament, that was.

After he’d turned about the circle of onlookers a couple of times, a thought hit him …

Where in tarnation was the sheriff of this town?

“Ain’t you all got a sheriff?” Derek decided the best course of action was to push the issue. He wouldn’t have killed a man for no reason, and there were plenty of witnesses.

Why, this whole mess could probably be cleared up with just a few minutes of talking.

“Well?” he prodded.

Suddenly, no one would look him in the eye, but a few of the gawkers were goggling the dead man.

Derek followed their gazes to the center of the street, where his victim lie. It was then, for the first time, he noticed the sun glinting off something shiny on the man’s chest.

It was a sheriff’s star.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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!”

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?”

Buried Reckoning

Graverobbers were the lowest of the low, a scourge on God’s green earth. And now look what they had wrought!

Deputy Randall Kroft shook his head and gazed down on his fallen friend and boss, Sheriff Blaze Bowman. Why, the stress of trying to catch the scoundrels who had plagued Whitlock all summer had finally taken its toll.

A man of 50 could only stand so many long, overnight vigils, so many disappointments. Poor old Blaze’s heart finally just gave out.

It was a real shame.

Of course, that big old ring on Bowman’s finger would help ease Randall’s pain. Along with whatever else the sheriff was hiding there in his coffin.

And it would be easier than ever for the deputy to collect his bounty, what with Bowman out of the picture. All he had to do was wait until nightfall.

Randall stifled a grin as he turned away from Blaze’s casket, but he couldn’t swallow the song in his heart, and his usual, “Oh! Susanna,” broke out as a soft hum.

--

Blaze Bowman could scarcely breathe, and the blackness was more complete than any he had known in his life. If it weren’t for the scratching of some varmint or other at the foot of his wooden box, the sheriff might have believed he really was dead.

He knew there wasn’t much longer to wait, though.

Judging by the way Randall Kroft had lingered over Blaze at the funeral that afternoon, the sheriff knew his suspicions were most likely correct -- his own right-hand was the cowardly graverobber who had confounded the sheriff for months.

Somewhere above him, the whistled strains of “Oh! Susanna” muffled through the dirt, and hard metal struck the earth.

Blaze smiled ruefully in the darkness and clutched his six-shooter.

Randall’s reckoning was at hand.