The Caregiver: A Western Flash Fiction Story

Alton Davis hardly recognized the face staring back from the mirror.

Wrinkled and leathered, each line told a story in his life’s tale, each scar another role he played on the path toward destiny.

There was the knick on his chin he got on his 16th birthday when he and Daddy stopped a band of rustlers at the edge of their ranch.

He grew those freckles on his nose under summer skies spent in the saddle -- on farms, riding the range, searching for adventure.

Glaring white snow and relentless desert sun forced the squints that forged those crow’s feet.

His furrowed brow erupted from the smooth mantle of his forehead when Daddy fell ill and cracked down the middle when Mommy died a few years later.

The little dimples in the corners of his mouth that had advanced like a railroad into creases, dividing his upturned lips from the hard features around them and reflecting the smile in his eyes, and in his heart?

Well, he never had those at all until Betty showed up. The babies started coming a few years later and tattooed those laugh lines -- permanent reminders of love and joy.

When Alton was a boy, the old folks talked about Shapeshifters who roamed the edge of the frontier, warding off the death of the wilderness at the hands of “progress.”

He always thought the stories were just wives’ tales. Now, he knew better.

Hit bloodshot eyes, set deep in their sockets and purchased with his wife’s illness, told him as much.

Alton turned from his reflection and stepped toward the bed where Betty lay, pale and weak. He shifted into his final role, that of caregiver, and prepared for battle.

Her death would have to wait at least another day.

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?”

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.”

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.

The Legend of Alligator Schultz: Western Flash Fiction Story

“Tell us about Alligator Schultz, Daddy!”

Early-spring work on the farm had left Addie Scott exhausted, but he couldn’t disappoint his nine-year-old son, Albert.

Besides, Alligator Schultz was a great story.

Addie sidled into a rocking chair next to the potbelly stove, and Albert sat in front of him on a thick rope rug. Grandpa Scott dozed in the next chair.

 “They say Alligator was the greatest stagecoach bandit in all of Oklahoma,” Addie began. “He’d crouch in swampy areas and just wait for a coach to drive by.”

“And he’d hold his breath all day!” Albert shouted out.

Grandpa groaned and twitched.

“That’s right, Albert. Ol’ Alligator would hold his breath all day if he had to. But one night, Alligator tried to rob a Union sharpshooter heading west after the war, and the fella pegged Alligator right through the throat.”

Thunder cracked -- snow was turning to rain. Grandpa jumped in his seat but did not wake.

“Alligator ran off into the woods … the soldier and a couple other men gave chase. They searched all night long but never found Alligator.”

Thunder clapped again -- this time Grandpa woke up, eyes red and wild.

“What happened to Alligator?” Albert asked.

“Well, some folks say he drowned in the marsh thanks to that hole in his neck. Others say he escaped and made a new life for himself. Settled down, raised a family.”

“But always terrified of the rain!” Albert finished.

Addie nodded and smiled.

“Hogwash!” Grandpa bolted from his chair. He tugged his scarf tight across his throat. “That story is a load of bunk!”

A torrent pelted the tin roof, and Grandpa grabbed his ears in pain as he stumbled toward the back bedroom.

“When will this infernal rain ever leave me in peace?!”

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.

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.”