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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Spittoon Muldoon of the Calvary Saloon: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The locals called him Spittoon Muldoon.

Or Billy the Book.

Each one fit the humble barkeep just as well as the other, and together they wrapped up all anybody knew about the man who always had a good word for the patrons of the Calvary Saloon.

He loved his tobacky …

And he always carried that strange leather book with him. Spent every night behind the bar reading and scribbling notes, folding little pieces of paper into its pages.

So it was no surprise to Sam Waters when he walked into the fancy white church to find that Billy had carried the cracked and weathered volume with him all the way to the end.

What had surprised the sheriff of Smallwood was that Billy had any ties to the fancy folks in Clinton at all.

Truth was, no one had known where the old man spent his days until that telegraph arrived two days before, on Friday.

Sam had posted notices around Smallwood and told the folks he ran into, but he didn’t expect to see many of them in Clinton on Sunday.

He had been wrong, though.

One whole side of the church was filled with Sam’s own neighbors and friends.

The other was filled with strangers.

As Sam looked down on Billy lying there in the casket, he heard them all whispering the tavern keeper’s name.

“How did you know Reverend Muldoon?” a soft voice asked from Sam’s right.

He barely even noticed the young girl standing beside him, because his gaze was focused on the cover of Spittoon’s mysterious book.

Its cover read, “Holy Bible.”

The Hangman's Burden - Western Flash Fiction Story

Ordinarily, this type of situation would have been handled with a couple rounds of fisticuffs behind the saloon.

But this was no everyday skirmish among friends, this matter that boiled up between Levi Wright and Sam Robson over the past few days.

Hell, truth was, this pot of trouble had been simmering for years, ever since they were boys in Copperhead.

Back then, Levi was the straight-laced farmer’s son who walked to town for school every morning and Sam was the village troublemaker.

Still, the boys had formed a fast and uneasy friendship.

For every pit of snakes Levi helped Sam avoid, there were three more they both charged into at fullsteam.

Levi’s parents had been relieved when Sam disappeared one night when he was 16 -- their boy could go about building a respectable life.

Eventually, Levi landed a job as a deputy, and the hangman, in Crag.

Then one night, a scraggly stranger sauntered into the town saloon while Levi sat nursing his whiskey. Sam recognized his old friend right away, and they took to reliving shared stories over beers.

Before long, their remembrances grew raucous, a few locals got riled up, and a tussle broke out.

In the dustup, Levi and Sam found themselves backed into a dark corner by the sheriff. When the lawman drew his six-shooter on Sam, reflexes took over, and Levi dropped his boss with a single shot.

The reunited friends stared at each other in the dark as the tavern mob descended. Awful truth spread between them like an oil spill.

Now, after a quick trial, the two locked eyes again.

“It’s alright, partner,” Sam said. “This is how everyone always knew I’d end up.”

Levi swallowed hard and choked back tears as he slipped the noose over his buddy’s head.