A Good Man
Kristen Lynch

It was the unexpected sight of that dead coyote that caused a great amount of shock, even to us, who lived out here in Wyoming and could proudly profess a rather impervious armor acquired by a lifetime of sandstorms, bitter snowdrifts and the constant threat of piercing arrowheads. But, for us to come across something so offensively dead or in this case, intentionally killed, produced a profound quandary among the eighteen of us students (make that seventeen, for we were short one student that day). We, the students, had been the first ones in the schoolhouse on what we thought was a typical Monday morning and instead of finding Mr. Stratham at the blackboard writing out the lessons for the day ahead or in his seated position at the head of the class, correcting assignments at his desk, there was something else in his place. A riotous, sweet stink of death, swallowed up in a cadaverous silence save for the frenetic buzz of bumbling black flies, who propelled themselves out of the putrefying hide and sought escape by continually bumping into the glass window panes.

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Selling Out
By William S. Hubbartt

“This is a hold-up! Everybody against the wall…over there…Now!” yelled Tawny.

Three customers at the teller windows turned quickly, backing away from the gruff looking dusty brute waving a colt. Gasps were heard, and one woman holding a parasol that matched her floor length royal blue taffeta dress let out a fearful shriek.

Trail dirty, big boned with solid muscles, and a pocked complexion, Tawny looked threatening with or without a brandished colt. The tellers, two middle aged men in white shirts with high collars and sleeve guards, instinctively raised their hands.

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Four Corners
Johnny Gunn

Few noticed when the tall, lanky man rode into town, after all, trail weary men find their way to Four Corners often, what with trails leading off to all the cardinal points, taking people, bringing people, giving the town its purpose in being. His horse, all black but for a small star in the middle of its forehead, was tired, but gave the impression that it still had lots of go left in him, and the rider, also tired, dusty, had that look about him that said, “don’t rile me, don’t ask questions, stay back some.” He was his own man, he knew it, and you would be better off if you knew it.

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On the Heels of Carter Gray
By J.J. Daniels


Rumors had circled for weeks predicting his arrival. Circled like buzzards gliding in a dead noon sky. They grew in number and ferocity as he drew near, sensational stories of cruelty and wonder that would soon be shaped into legend as time caressed them with sand and tongue. Door locks were reinforced, valuables stashed in dark places, and a watchful eye set on the horizon for the coming of Carter Gray.

He arrived in blistering heat and, though he rode in more than a hundred yards from the outskirts of town, the bartender was the first to lay eyes on him. His skin was rough and weathered, his clothing torn and dusty. He pulled a wide-brimmed hat down lower than seemingly possible as he strode purposefully into the run-down saloon. All eyes followed him from the door to the bar.

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Donovan’s Dream
William S. Hubbartt

Donald Donovan woke with a start, with a vivid memory of the painful screams of his wife, Kathleen. He looked around, in a grey fog, again hearing high pitched screams. Up the hill he saw a ringtail, half out of its hole, squealing noisily. To his left, down the hill, he heard a rustling sound, a momentary flash of movement, showing reddish brown fur, which he recognized as a fox chasing another ringtail into the safety of its hole in the ground. That one got away, but the fox would find another.

The pounding pain in his head and the ache in his back from sleeping on the hard ground caused his thinking to be as thick and foggy as the morning sky above. He shivered momentarily, feeling the dampness of his clothes and the cool air overhead. An awareness crept into his mind, assembling some the events of the previous night. The rig was parked and the horses stabled. Then, he had ridden the dun bareback to the saloon in Marysville. Whiskey, it seemed, was the only thing that pushed Kathleen’s painful cries from his memory.

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Mirage
Herschel Cozine

A blazing midday sun, its tentacles of fire reaching down to sear the scorching earth, raged in the cloudless sky. There was no breeze, and the wilted mesquite stood motionless along the desert trail. A cloak of silence was thrown over the terrain, eerie, surreal. Heat waves gave a life to the rocks and cactus; a slow steady shimmering like that of a ghost.

A cloud of dust billowed on the horizon, listless; settling back to earth in a lazy contempt of the force responsible for its disturbance. Slowly, lethargically, a figure appeared; first a spot in the distance, becoming larger, forming two spots, shimmering through the heat.

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Souls in the Wind
Jeremy Lane

James Briscoe stood looking out the window of his study. He often came upstairs in the midmorning and poured himself two fingers of whiskey. It wasn’t an honorable practice to be drinking this early in the day—he knew that—yet he found it relaxing. It was his time to think.

On this particular morning he watched as Polly Ann, the daughter of Smoke Jackson, his most reliable and highest-paid farmhand, walked out of the barn, where his son was tinkering with an old wagon. Normally he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, except that James had witnessed several suspicious things of late and was watching with a careful eye.

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Winter of `93
Dorman Nelson

There was a time when he'd just ride up and say hello.
She would flash a nice, but shy smile and welcome his company.
Now the old cabin was empty and winter's fingers had frosted even the inside of the once cheery room.

He reined up on a knoll above the bench of land where the log fence ended in a scattering of timbers. He thought about her. Wondered what she and her children would be doing this cold, cloudy day. He got off his horse, squatted there holding the reins, just letting his mind wander.

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Gold Belly
Nathan Oser

Three Foot Flats was a bushel of bad apples. It was the smallest patch of town in the whole blistering desert, and hideaway to a wily round-up of thieves, rogues, and scoundrels thick as prickles on a cactus and meaner’n scorpions in your boots.

My pa had fit in like a cork in a bottle. Wish I could say he was a good man in his day, but then I’d be a liar just like him. Fact was, he was more than a liar--he was a murdering, thieving rascal to shame all others. He was known and wanted in more states and territories than I had digits to count, and I reckon it was due to his widespread notoriety that the folks in Three Foot Flats got to calling me Drake’s Boy.

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Death Sentence
William S. Hubbartt

“Gentlemen of the jury, what is your verdict?”

The room became silent. Hesitantly, Joshua, a middle-aged farmer rose from the corner of the room, nervously holding a small slip of paper. He looked down, unfolded the paper, and then his eyes rose and scanned across the room and locked onto Johnny Floyd. Someone coughed over by the bar, and a glass clinked a little too hard onto a table in the back of the room.

In 1873, more often than not, justice in Kansas was meted out on the street. This time, because street justice had been perverted, justice was administered by a travelling circuit judge in the local saloon, the only room large enough to accommodate an angry citizenry. While the serving of whiskey was suspended during the trial, observers were permitted to consume drinks ordered before the trial began. On the western plains in July, a man needed liquid refreshment to make it through the day.

Joshua’s jaw set, and a sneer formed on his lips. A chair shuffled in the crowded and stifling room. Outside, a horse whinnied and stamped its foot.

“The jury finds Johnny Floyd guilty,” read juror Joshua, “guilty in the murder of Sarah Gorman… Death by hanging!” The roomful of angry citizens erupted, “ Yeh! Yeh!” Above the din, one man yelled out, “Hang ‘m from the ole oak tree!”

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The Mountain Man
R. Howard Trembly

There was, many years ago, a mountain man by the name of Seth Edwards, a man of enormous height and strength. He had fought the Shoshone of the Great Basin, the Comanche of the South Plains, and the Utes in the Rocky Mountains of the continental divide. He even searched for gold in the Superstition Mountains when no white man had ever gone into these spiritual sentinels of the Apache and come out alive again.

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The Padre
Jason Hunt

Kyle William Lees rode slowly in the darkness through the center of town. The Cantina at the far end was well-lit, but something was different. The horse hesitated.

“It’s okay,” Kyle muttered. “It’s just there ain’t no piano tonight.”

Kyle’s brow furled beneath the brim of his hat. He did not like the silence any more than the horse did.

He dismounted and teethered the horse to a rail outside the Cantina. He felt that both .45s were in their holsters and pushed through the swinging doors into the light.

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Three Fingered Jack
by Johnny Gunn

It ended with the singular blast from the muzzle of a Colt, the clatter made when the body, flung backwards with the force of a rock slide, clattered through chairs and tables, making a decided thump on arriving face first on the bar room floor, bleeding its last onto the rough boards. The silence that followed, while feeling like eternity in length, ended quickly, in fact, with the jostling of men and women making for the swinging doors, open windows, or staircase, and with no thought for their fellow man. Three-fingered Jack found himself alone, except for the dead one, of course, and stood quietly at the long oaken bar wondering if anything had been proved.

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HANGMAN’S NOOSE
Larry Payne

Part I

The stifling heat hung over the makeshift courtroom enveloping the twelve men walking from the open door of the saloon’s back room. Angling up the staircase, they resumed their seats on the stairs facing the three tables in front of them.

To the right of the staircase, at a lone table, sat Judge Thomas Becker, who regularly held court in The Lucky Lady Saloon on his visits to the town of Sweetwater.

To the left of the staircase, facing Judge Becker, were two tables. The one closest to the staircase was presently unoccupied. At the near end of the other table sat attorney Jacob Wyatt, Marshal Cooper Smith at the far end and Wyatt’s client, Charlie Gilson, who was accused of killing a man in a saloon fight, sat between them in shackles.

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THE SILVER FREIGHT
Edward Massey

The boy rested the shotgun butt on his right thigh, barrel extended above his head. He held his right hand high on the butt, resting his finger lightly on the trigger guard. He kept his finger clear of the barrel. It was dead cold. The boy’s posture was as erect and stiff and straight as the shotgun. Together, the shotgun and the boy formed a totem sitting next to a man.

The deep blue tissue of cold sky stretched high above him. He followed the sky’s edges out as far as the eye could carry. Moonlight and white hills combined to provide enough light to see the trail across the frozen rock. He could see they were alone out in the open. Someone could be hiding behind the scruffy sagebrush and scrawny pines up in the foothills. Not much cover, but someone could be there.

The totem boy’s breath streamed out ahead. He measured how he felt inside. Calm. He measured his breath. Normal.

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Milagro
Maureen Gilmer

Alma knew from the stories of her people that there had been dry times before. The stench floating on the winds told her every day that cattle were dying all over the valley. From her small adobe atop a long, low rise just north of the massive Tejon Ranch, she could see the condors circling where carcasses littered the low lands. The great dark birds were her spirit guides, a part of her world since birth. They came close to her house in the early winter mornings, perching like great sentinels of death on fence posts and dead trees. There they opened their enormous wings to the rising sun as it cleared the High Sierra peaks to the east. For what seemed like hours they stood, the black plumage efficiently absorbing the heat until they took flight for the day.

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AND HELL CAME WITH HIM
Larry Payne

Part I


Lightning streaked the darkened sky above the solemn group around the grave. The preacher, standing at the head of the grave, read passages from his worn bible while four men, dressed in black suits, grasped the ends of the two ropes stretched under both ends of the wooden coffin. Slowly, they moved the coffin over the open grave and began to lower it. A woman’s white-gloved hand appeared from the coffin, slid the lid to the side and reached out to the group above.

“WIL, NO. DON’T LET ME GO.”

Wil Sunday sat upright in his bed. He looked around the moonlit bedroom, a chill running over his sweat soaked body. The recurring nightmare became a frequent part of his nights since he buried his beloved wife, Cassie.

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Ten Miles from Town
Raymond Maher

Ann felt the winter cold seeping through the sod house, penetrating to the very cook stove itself. The cook stove had proved to be weak and often overwhelmed by the extreme cold that blanketed the prairies these last few weeks. It was the heart of winter and the thin line between frostbite, freezing, and death was sod walls and a cast iron cook stove. The winter had proved its powerfulness by battering their sod house with cold and scorn for its meager heat and shelter. It seemed at times as if nature itself was against their intrusion into the vast prairie. Yet, Ann was determined that they would make a home there on the prairie despite its endless emptiness. She would keep swallowed any discouraging words that at times overwhelmed her. She would look to her God for help to comfort her thoughts and attitude. She would look to her husband to share his strength and determination for homesteading.

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4:15 Fiasco
By Joe Mogel

“We ought to rob a train.”

The piano was tinkling as the saloon patrons milled through the poker room. Among the tables of barflies and high rollers, there sat a group of six rumpled, middle-aged men. An empty pitcher of beer and a bowl full of nuts stood over the cards and poker chips.

“Rob a train? You can’t even dig a proper silver mine! How are you supposed to rob a train? You’re out smarted by dirt!”

“Hobble your lip!”

“It isn't as if you were successful. Remember the horse ranch?

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A Season in the Brush
Steven Clark

August 1864 – North of Liberty, Missouri

The devil incarnate.
At the outset of July he had been relatively unknown to the Federals, referred to in their reports simply as “the guerilla Anderson.” Now, less than two months later, they were calling him a host of colorful names: the devil incarnate; the murdering fiend; the most desperate of desperate men; or as one newspaper put it, “the most heartless, cold-blooded bushwhacking scoundrel that had operated in Missouri since the outbreak of the war.” All were fairly accurate descriptions of William T. Anderson, the man most knew lately as Bloody Bill.

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The Calling
Jim Hanley

Tom Hayden sat in the sacristy in his t-shirt and black pants, his Mass vestments draped over a folding chair in St Michael’s Church in Brooklyn, New York. A bottle of Irish whiskey was on the floor beside his chair, and he held a quarter-filled glass in his other hand. Tom stared at a Sheriff’s badge in his hand; he kept the badge from his days in Brig County, Kansas in 1883. He contemplated how his life had gone: lawman, seminarian, parish priest; what was next? Surely, he thought, Monsignor Brenner was coming to “defrock” him.

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A Stranger in Branchwood
Mike Smith

Intro:

Anyone who's anyone in Branchwood know's the tale of lil' Ben Sutter. He was everone's favorite fool. All of the other children were quite cruel to lil' Ben. They'd hit and kick him. They'd even stone him with rocks. More than once Ben came home with dirty clothes and a busted lip. As far as anyone could tell, they picked on him 'cause of his weight. It went on for several years.

One day lil' Ben came home from school to find his father's corpse sat upright in his favorite chair. The man had a severe heart attack and died. By the time the coroner discovered the death, Ben Sutter had disappeared.

The townsfolk speculated that the boy, distraught with grief, wandered off and got lost in the woods. They figured he was probably eaten by wolves. The boy was never seen again. Folks soon forgot about the tragic affair.

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“BONY CREEK CABIN”
By Darren Travers

The shivering snowflakes pelted unforgivingly against the frail man’s elderly face. Each white splash of cold seeped and sunk into his skin. Moments later another icicle had formed along his bony bridge of nose. Hanging side by side now with the seven other pearly glaziers that stretched his minute head. Desperately he tried to look ahead towards his target. But his flimsy hat flopped and flapped annoyingly against his face. Forcing his tired eyelids to open and close like a revolving door. He coughed out painfully adding sorrow to the solitary surroundings.

Firmly he held the reins of his shaking horse. Plod by plod, the resourceful creature carried his awkward friend. Trudging slowly through the cake of snowy grass. Hoping that the next step would be his last. But the delicate tap against his hide informed him that the journey wasn’t over. Up above the lonely travellers, the starry night inter-joined so perfectly with the falling flakes that it was impossible to tell which white object beamed above their creeping souls.

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Sundown
Cody Wells

In the small town of Bitter Creek, a gunshot followed by a high pitched scream echoed through the night air like a banshee taking flight. Tom McKlusky lay in dirt outside of the Red Dog Saloon on Main Street, blood oozing from a hole in his gut. A large number of the townsfolk had gathered around the dying man.

“Someone get the doc,” an old woman cried out.

“Too late for that!” another countered.

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“THE SKELETON BAR GOLD MINING CO. (LIMITED)”
Vincent J. Maranto

Every small town in the west contains at least a half dozen adventurous and gold thirsty individuals---come from the ends of the earth maybe---who, on the slightest provocation will abandon their businesses, pool their hard earned savings and brave any danger in an expedition that promises quick and large returns.

The imagination, once inoculated with the virus of sudden and immense riches, usurp every function of rationalism, and the victim, deprived of judgment, will listen with a marvelous faith to stories incredulous to any save a crazy person. To be cocksure, where there is grave uncertainty; to discount impossibilities, to reach conclusions to variance with calm reason and cold logic, are mental conditions for the ardent reception of such a story as was presented to four young men in the town of Pony, Montana one rainy day in the spring of 1896.

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Tommy Typhoon - Part One

The Dicken’s Proposition
Andrew Stuchlik

It’s hot tonight, most like every other night here. The sweat on my head- just under the brim of my hat- is jus’ a gentle reminder that I’m home. There really ain’t more to expect from a place where rocks and cactuses outnumber the people living here by the hundreds. The kinda place where the sand is never far, and the idea of green is jus’ a memory of another time and another place, that surely ain’t here. ‘Spose it would be kinda depressin’ to someone who ain’t been here for too long. But, I’ve become pretty fond of this place- and to me- it’s kinda comfortin’ knowin’ by heart every buildin’ and every soul who’s ended up here for one reason or another.

I walk into the bar and see the same faces I do most every other night, ‘cept this one that is. It‘s been a while since we had a guest in this sleepy little town, but I don‘t think much of it at the time. He’s tall, prolly six foot two give or take an inch or two depending on which stool he’s sittin’ at. The man’s wearing a battered, dust covered, and sun bleached overcoat sitting on his shoulders, and for now, he seems pretty content at the end of the bar waging a silent war with the alcohol in his glass. Well, whatever was in that glass didn’t seem to be faring very well against the rock hard stomach of the man who was treating it like a child’s juice.

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Tommy Typhoon - Part Two

The Death Of Tommy Typhoon
Andrew Stuchlik

I stand with the glaring, beaming sun at my side. I slow my breathing to calm my body, to focus it into the actions that are to follow. I can feel the eyes of everyone around me, all of them staring at me, all of them are waiting in anticipation of what would happen in the next few seconds. My wife and my son are standing out in the audience. Annie’s praying and my son smiling, still too young to realize what was going on. The sight of his father’s face provides a comfort and security with just a smile; it was like he felt nothing could go wrong with his father near by.

I turn my head and stare down the man standing in front of me, a young face to be sure. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old. I see him looking at me but through his confidence, I can see the boy whose mouth and self-assurance had gotten him in deeper than he would’a liked. While I- on the other hand- am a more kind of experienced- secure.

I’ve done this, stood face to face with death and come out standing, more times than I can count now. This is how I provide for my family. This is how I give us the life that keeps us comfortable. Although, Annie would argue about how comfortable she was with my chosen profession. But, I’m a gunfighter and I am very good at what I do.

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Tommy Typhoon - Part Three

The Life and Times of Thomas Sanderson
Andrew Stuchlik

I still find myself sufferin’ in the thoughts of what I coulda’ done differently. A cold chill runs right through me when I picture their faces. Surely, if anything, it’s my arrogance that’s got me here. If only I had been stronger, if only I was a better man than what I was, than who I have become, things would be different.

I know that the past is what’s passed, ain’t no changing’ that; but I can’t help but find myself there more times then not. I ain’t a good man, hard as I try, I jus’ can’t seem to be him. Thought I’d said goodbye to that beast, but every now an’ then, I can still see him staring back at me. He’s jus’ waitin’ for a time when my will is weak, and my heart is sufferin’, bidin’ his sweet time; waiting till he can surface again. Waiting for the time when he can take over again, waiting till I need him too.

He’s a part of me, I can feel him inside ‘a me, and I can’t seem to ever make him go away. I can see him in my reflection, I can feel him coursin’ through me. Maybe I ain’t strong enough, or maybe I jus’ ain’t ready. Either way, I can’t seem to let him go yet. He reminds me of where I came from, and where I’m headin’. For that I’m grateful, and for that, I’ll always hate myself. Why can’t I be strong enough? Why do I feel like I still need him? I go back and forth in my head, but I always find myself in the same place where I started from. Nowhere.

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Law Comes to Sentinel Butte
Kent Kamron

With the arrival of the railroad into Sentinel Butte, the locals knew this lazy town of hearty settlers lying near the border of the Dakotah and Montana Territories was about to blossom. Without a doubt, this midge on the prairie landscape would double in size every year, and within a decade, the people were sure this town would become the jumping off station to the West. After all, the railroad was a measure of prosperity. It brought wood, cement, steel, more settlers, and every product imaginable for the home and ranch house.

And what a grand location for a growing community.

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TUNNEL OF THE DEAD
By Darren Travers

Standing on the top of the hill, Buck Henry had a great view of the land below. He could see for miles over the sprawling cavernous landscape. The sun-scorched ground was lit up by the beaming sun above. Small mountains, caverns and boulders filled the area. The figure in the distance was still on his trail. Knowing that life has few real coincidences, he felt that he was being followed. Could it be someone from Big City was coming for the diamond? The thought had crossed his mind. Tumblers Hill was only twenty miles away so he could reach it in a few hours. After one last look at the figure that followed, he hopped back on his horse and turned back towards his destination. Then he went on his way.

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PIT OF TERROR
Darren Travers

Hanging upside down with your legs and hands tied was a bad enough experience. But to awaken from your forced unconsciousness to such a delight was double the torture. Blood rushing fiercely to your brain. Your eyes and nose heavy with the thundering pressure. Your mouth dry and sore, aching for some water to relieve the stress. Every limb in your body feeling stretched and strained. The inner workings of your stomach feeling queasy. Even the ankles and wrists suffering the crushing pressure from the ropes that held them tight. Then your eyes look around trying to piece together the puzzling picture. But when you’re upside down, everything is distorted. Can you see clearly and what do you see? Mountains, trees, people? White men, Indians? Who do you hear speaking? What are they saying? Why the hell are you in such an awful predicament?

All of these thoughts and feelings racked through the soul and mind of Thomas Murphy. His questions were answered. Answered by the evil, cold tone of an old friend. Burt Stryker.

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The Stranger
Clifton Bush Jr.

I

The rising sun found him lying on his side, unconscious. He was weak with thirst, and had lost some blood as well. There were dried spatters of it following him up the sandstone ledge to where he had finally collapsed. Who he was or how he got here he had no clue. He didn't even know what had happened to him in the past few days. All he knew was that he was hungry, thirsty, tired, and dizzy from loss of blood.

He finally awoke, and blinked his eyes, adjusting to the brightness of the sun, now a third of the way up in the deep blue sky. He got up on all fours, and immediately regretted it. A wave of nausea hit him, and he laid back down again, shielding the brightness from his eyes.

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The Card That Won
Clifton Bush Jr.

He rode through the sudden rainstorm, the wind whipping his slicker and threatening to tear the hat off his head. He pulled the oilskin tighter about himself, and pulled his hat down to keep the water out of his eyes. Lightning crackled in the background, and the thunder boomed in response. His horse plodded on through the nasty weather, each leg movement rewarded with a fresh slop of mud upon his skin. They rode together into a canyon, trying to find shelter from the abrasive storm. Soon they came across an overhang, and man and horse gratefully hid underneath the rock ledge, dodging most of the pellets of water.

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Cold Steel
Clifton Bush Jr.

Ben Farnsworth rode through the canyon, his left arm in tatters. He held the pommel of his saddle with his right hand, and steadied himself. On either side of him the cliffs rose to tremendous heights; how he got to this place he did not know. He had lost a lot of blood and his mind was wandering. His horse kept plodding through, going forward to where he knew not. The dizziness was getting stronger with the loss of blood, and he knew he had to do something. He stopped the horse and got off, dropping to his knees on the rocky soil and grunting in pain. He got back up, and taking the leather thong that held his bedroll on the horse, untied it. He used that to tie a tourniquet on his arm, lest he bleed to death.

He thought of his predicament. Five to one, and they all had gold fever. He had five hundred dollars worth of gold in his saddlebags, and they were itching for every last dollar of it. How the hell was he to get out of this one?

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