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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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.

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.”