The Greenhorn
Charles Langley

He had been hanging around town for about two weeks, spending little but time, because time was all he had. The hostler let him sleep in the livery stable loft. He tried to ease his hunger pangs with a nickel slice of cheese from the large wheel of cheddar in the general store and five cents worth of crackers from the barrel at the end of the counter.

Occasionally he humored his hunger by spending an extra jitney on a tin of potted meat. His resources were getting slim and unless something came up he would have to steal his cheese from mousetraps in the horse stalls and maybe even eat the mice themselves.

He stood out among the booted and denim clad cowpokes in his white dress shirt that showed too much contact with a washboard and the derby hat that might have fitted his head if he could have afforded a haircut. Yes, he wore pants, too, but they were too nondescript to even mention. He was willing to work, but what could a plumb greenhorn
do in a town where the rancher was king and the cowboys were his vassals.

One prospective employer told him, "You'd be about as useful to me as tits on a bull."

The biggest ranch in the valley was the Z Bar spread. In their way
with words the cowpokes and wranglers had slurred "Z Bar" into "Zebra" and that
was how it was known. "Pecos Bill" Alder was the remuda boss and he ruled
the roost with an iron hand, having lost the real one under a wagon wheel while
trying to stand-off a stampede during a summer storm.

Now the round-up was over and the waddies were in town for some fun.
After the once a month trip to Madame Millie's House of Pure Joy and
enough time in a poker game for the professionals to take their money, there
wasn't much they could afford to do. Except hassle a stranger whose run of
bad luck had brought him to a spot just left of abreaking point.

"D'ja ever break a horse?" "Pecos Bill" asked the stranger, "I got a
job of work for you if you have."

"Once or twice," the fellow answered. "I sure could use a job."

"Gotta bronc needs gentling and my wrangler's got a broke leg. Give ya
two bucks to ride him for ten minutes."

He didn't mention that the ornary piece of hoss-flesh was the infamous
"Zebra" dun and that the condition of the wrangler was the dun's
doing.

Back at the ranch they fed the dude a meal of bacon and beans and
readied his mount. Now, the dun was an outlaw that had grown so very
wild that he could paw the man right out of the moon whenever he got
riled. But the outlaw stood right still, as if he was in on the fun.

When the stranger hit the saddle, the "Zebra" dun quit the earth,
travelling right straight up for all that he was worth. He was
kicking, and jumping and turning wall eyed fits with his hind feet
perpendicular, his front feet in the bits. You could see the tops of
mountains, under Dunnie every jump, but the stranger just sat on
him, just like a camel's hump. The greenhorn stayed right on him, and
stroked his black moustache. He was calm as a summer boarder waiting
for his hash. The ride ended with the previously unridden "Zebra" dun
trotting up to the fence and standing subdued while the rider
casually got off and stood stroking the animal's sweaty flank.

"I'll be damned," Pecos Bill exclaimed.

"Gimme the two bucks," the stranger said.

Now I'll tell ya. There's cowboys and there's wranglers, remuderos and
rough riders, but I've never seen one that could ride like
that.There's one thing, and a sure thing, that I've larned since I
been born, every down-on-his-luck stranger ain't a plumb greenhorn.

The Shooter
Charles Langley

She stood there waif-like in her pressed denim pants and soft chammy shirt, eyes blazing
fire, the smoking gun still gripped tightly in her dainty hands. Deputy Sim Pruitt sat on
the floor, his left sleeve dripping blood.

“Why’d you do it,” the Sheriff wanted to know, “You and Sim have some kind of history?”

“Never saw him before in my life,” she said, “Until I came in here and he said it.”

“Said what?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I sure ain’t gonna repeat it. Woman got a right to defend
herself agin a varmint like him.”

“Anybody hear what Sim said?” the Sheriff asked the men at the bar.

No answer.

“Anybody see how she got his gun away from him?”

No answer.

“Sim, I’ve seen you take down some pretty mean hombres in my time. How could you let
a female no bigger than two hoots and a holler take your piece and gun you down?”

“I ain’t proud of it. I don’t want to talk about it though.”

“If you said anything out of line to Miss Priss here, ‘fess up to it and we’ll pretend it never
happened.”

“My name ain’t Priss, Mr. Sheriff. It’s Kate Owens. And I don’t appreciate you talking
about me like a young ‘un. I’m sixteen and I should be treated like a lady.”

The Sheriff sized her up and half-smiled.

“I don’t mean no disrespect, Miss Owens. Only we don’t cotton to people just shooting
down a deputy sheriff for no reason.

“You gonna tell him or do I have to?” the only other woman in the establishment asked
the girl. She got no answer, so she turned to the Sheriff.

“This is Katie’s birthday,” she said. “She got all prettied up and put on that new brassiere
thing she ordered from Montgomery Ward. So she came here to look for her Pa who
tends bar here sometimes. That’s when Sim said it.”

The Sheriff’s patience was waning.

“Said what, for crissakes?” he roared.

“He said ‘Got a match, Sonny?’ ”

The Sheriff looked at the deputy on the floor and the pretty girl in the denim pants.

“Justifiable shooting,” he ruled. “Sim, git off your ass and get back to work.”