Paul Peppers

This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and locations are fictional. Research for this story came from two articles, the "BIG DIE-UP," by H. Allen Anderson and “FENCE CUTTING," by Wayne Gard, from the Handbook of Texas Online.

Lee Wright

A kid from somewhere up in Oregon winged me a few weeks back. I put a bullet through his heart sure enough, but not before he took a pretty good chunk out of my left bicep. Had he lived long enough, the kid might have enjoyed the considerable honor of being the first man to get off a shot against the great Judas Kane. ‘Course that kind of reputation can make a man cocky, reckless. And, if I hadn’t killed him, some other gunny would have done it soon enough. Kids like that rarely last long, no matter how fast they are.

Tim Tobin

When the Prophets caught Sailor Jack, no law existed for a hundred miles. So Matt and Josh Green hanged the sailor in an East Kansas ghost town because Jack murdered their brother for a few silver dollars and his gun belt.

Sailor Jack died denying he killed Noah Green.

***

“Trips, “ he declared. “Aces.” With that pot, Will Wormley won almost $20 on the night. Willie the Worm, as he was known, played poker well and honestly. Willie didn’t have to cheat. He could read a flush just as easily as a bluff.

Bruce Harris

Pa told me not to worry, that everything was make-believe, pretend, or just for show. He said that everything would be okay in the end. Nothing was real. That’s what he said. I believed him.

William S. Hubbartt

“Ok Clay, here ya go. Four rocks, forty yards,….now!”

BAM,…BAM,…BAM,…BAM

“Dangit,  I missed the last one,” said Clay as he spun the Army Model 1860  Colt into his holster. “But I done better ‘n’ you, Kenny.”

“I’d a had four if’n I hadn’t slipped in the grass here,” replied Kenny.”I done four last time.”

C.LYNN CHRISTIAN

Medford Dornan crouched behind the boulder high on the ridge, shoulders hunched against the chill of the downdraft from the twin peaks above. Pulling the collar of his Confederate great-coat higher, he peered through the scraggly cedar rooted in a crack in the rock.

By Von Harter

Brantmeyer shifted in the saddle. With a small wince for the strength of the sun, he tried to will away the dark haze of last night’s drink. He tipped the sombrero back to scrub a little wet mud from his face.

“Lordy.” On his head, the fancy black sombrero was a lead weight. Designs of silver thread that made it so special now made the hat weigh twice as heavy on a brittle skull.

By William S. Hubbartt

“Too rich for me blood,” said the miner, in a distinct Irish brogue, as he laid his cards face down on the table and scooped up his remaining two gold nuggets. “I’m tapped out.”

“Unfortunate, my dear man.  It’s been a pleasure, as always.” The portly man in the dirty sweat stained white suit and red vest quickly pulled the nuggets and coins from the center of the table to the pile just inches from his round belly. “Perhaps your luck will be better tomorrow.”

By Jim Hanley

Clint Barker listlessly filled the shot glass with the cheapest whiskey in the saloon and watched the tipsy cowboy pour the rotgut down his throat. “’Nother,” the man demanded.

“You haven’t paid for the last two,” Clint said.

By Joseph Mogel

The sun was just cresting the mesa on the edge of town, as the men rode past a sign emblazoned with the words Joshua Gulch. Tents dotted a hill that sloped south of buildings set in the small valley. The dust from the men's horses settled in front of collapsed mine entrances as they rode into the small village. A handful of sleepy townspeople strolled around the packed earth Plaza.