Can't Always Wait: A Western Flash Fiction Story

A dozen dazzling orange-and-black butterflies flitted from behind a boulder a hundred feet in front of Vance. They were a welcome splash of color on the late-summer landscape covered in the dust of a months-long drought.

Wonder turned to horror when a small boy dashed from the brush in chase of the Monarchs. It was too late for Kayla to stop, so Vance tugged her reins to the right -- it was his only hope.

Kayla whinnied like a banshee but skittered to the rear of the unsuspecting child, then trotted to a stop. Vance hopped off the mare, boots clopping against the hard ground, heart pounding hard.

Before he could follow the boy, a woman called out behind him.

“Vance! Vance … where are you?”

The boy, nearly out of Vance’s sight, stopped and turned toward the voice, even as Vance did likewise. Both of them answered at the same time.

“Yeah?” Vance said, confused.

“Over here, Ma,” the boy yelled.

Something rustled behind Vance.

A radiant blond woman stepped around the boulder and gasped when she spotted Vance.

Hilda.

The last time he saw her, she was sitting in a rickety chair at her mama’s kitchen table, and he was setting off to hunt for the outlaw Juan Jimenez. Vance knew when he chased Jimenez into Mexico five years ago he might never see Hilda again.

And he sure never expected to find her this far from Texas.

“Who’s this man, Ma?”

The boy stepped between Hilda and Vance, gazing at the stranger. His mouth was Hilda’s, but his eyes were even more familiar.

Hilda flushed. “Vance,” she said, touching the boy’s shoulder. “You go on back to the house. Daddy’s waiting for you.

“I just want to talk to this nice man for a minute.”

From Darkness, Hope: Western Flash Fiction

“I suggest you take the boy out and do something, just the two of you. While he can still walk.”

Ben Harper’s words fell like an anvil on Ed Shanly’s chest. Just a week before, Tommy had been fine, a healthy nine-year-old boy.

“Ain’t there nothin’ you can do, Doc?”

Harper shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ed. Tommy’s getting weaker by the day, but I just can’t find anything that could be causing it.”

Reverend Anson stepped out of the cabin’s back bedroom. “Tommy’s in good spirits. Wants to go fishin’.”

“Then we’ll go fishin’,” Ed said and shuffled past the preacher.

When he was gone, Anson addressed Harper. “May God help you see the way to help this child, Ben.”

“At this point, it would take a miracle, Reverend.”

“Well, then, that’s what we’ll pray for.”

And so they did.

--

“Maybe we can use that shiny bait again, Pa.”

Ed and Tommy were standing on the bank of Coon Creek, ready to wet their lines.

“Shiny bait?”

“Yep, them worms over in that holler.”

Ed followed Tommy’s pointing finger to an old oak with a deep, dark crevasse at its base. Ed walked to the tree and crouched down in front of it.  He called over his shoulder to Tommy.

“Is this where you got the worms you been usin’ to fish this week?”

“Yep! Careful, though, Pa. They’ll bite your fingers!”

Ed frowned in confusion, then turned back to the tree just in time to catch a sunbeam splash across the cleft. There in the breach, a dozen baby copperheads squirmed to get out of the light.

Behind them, the mama snake’s belly slithered by, and she hissed in the darkness.

“C’mon, Tommy!” Ed whooped. “We gotta go see Dr. Harper!”

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.

Fire Dancer: A Western Flash Fiction Story

You couldn’t really call her a girl. She was too short and too … well, too beautiful, in a weird sort of way.

But if she wasn’t a girl, what was she?

Jacob didn’t know, and he didn’t really care. All that mattered was that he knew where to find her at the end of a long week working on the railroad.

Right there, dancing in the campfire Yooko built for his family.

Heck, if it wasn’t for Yooko, Jacob wouldn’t have made it three days in Las Cruces, let alone met Chooni. Most of the other men on the line were just plain old white or black, but Jacob’s dark hair and olive skin made him different.

A half-breed, they called him.

He’d been sulking through the desert alone that first night when Yooko found him and took him home for supper. Even though the indians called him “gringo,” Jacob knew they liked him.

They even gave him some of their special tea and let him sit in while the elders told their stories. That’s where Jacob first heard about Chooni -- from Yooko’s grandfather.

Just sip your tea, the old man had said, and she’ll appear in the flames. She’ll dance for you.

And Hell if she didn’t!

Jacob wondered if she would also grant him a wish, just like Hamuli said she would. This might be the night Jacob asked, but first, he had to tell her how he felt.

“I love you, Chooni!” he whispered.

All around him, the family erupted in laughter, as they always did.

That didn’t matter to Jacob, though. Not as long as he had his peyote and his little fire dancer.

He took another sip and watched his girl sway in the night.

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.

So Long, My Lady: Western Flash Fiction

Just because you love a girl doesn’t mean you get to spend your life with her.

Hell, Clint knew from the second he met her that Molly was too good for him, that he couldn’t hold onto her. She was a lady. He was nothing but a lifelong vagabond cowboy.

But Clint also knew Molly needed him, in that moment, and he would give his own life to protect her if he had to.

And they both had Cletus to thank for bringing them together. If the broken-down gelding hadn’t been so skittish, Clint would have missed Molly completely.

Whoever heard of a horse afraid of a rocky shadow in the desert?

But there was something about the dusty, moonlit canyon trail that spooked old Cletus, and he nearly bucked Clint from the saddle. In the ruckus, Molly peaked her head out from behind a boulder, and the cowboy’s heart slammed hard against his ribs.

How could such a dazzling creature end up battered and dirty in the middle of nowhere?

He scooped her up, and they rode. Hardly a word passed between them, but Molly’s eyes told him she felt the same way he did.

They didn’t stop until the third night, when they found a watering hole outside of Rockpoint. Clint helped Molly clean up, and he fed her the last of his biscuits and meat.

Finally, they walked together into the center of the sleeping village, leaving Cletus behind so as not to wake anyone.

In front of the jail, Clint tied one piece of rope around Molly’s neck, then used another to tie that makeshift collar to the hitching post.

He gave her one last scratch behind the ear.

“So long, my lady.”

A tear streaked down his cheek as he shuffled into the darkness.

Heart of Gold: A Western Flash Fiction Story

The oak trees had grown up.

That was Tom’s first thought as he shuffled around the last bend leading him home. When he set out twenty years before, the grove of saplings stood just chest-high. Now they towered to forty feet.

In their shadows stood a strapping young man, musket held across his chest. He stared at Tom with hawk-like eyes.

Tom knew those eyes from his own mirror.

“Can I help you with something, mister?”

When Tom read the notice of Molly’s death, he thought it was time to come home. To make amends for running out on the family when Mike was just a few months old.

Hell, back then Tom was too young to be a daddy, and probably not cut out for the job, anyway.

Now …

Well, he didn’t know if he was up to the job or not, but he had money. Pockets full of the gold he’d spent years mining, panning -- stealing.

That would make everything alright.

Only, he could see his boy had grown up without him. Hadn’t needed a two-bit daddy.

Didn’t need him now.

“Um, nope.”  Tom curled his lips into a rueful smile. “Just passing through. Didn’t know no one was on this land. Sorry to bother you. Jake’s the name.”

Mike gave a slow nod but kept his gaze on the old man.

Tom headed for the open range to the west, gold straining his back and regret stabbing at his heart. At a fencepost that marked the edge of the property, he glanced toward the stand of oaks.

Mike was gone.

Tom hollowed out a spot at the base of the pale with his boot heel and stooped to empty his pockets.

He turned toward the horizon and scraped along as best he could. Heavier than ever.