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Western short stories Bio. of Chuck Tyrell
Charles T. Whipple is a native of Arizona who resides in Chiba, Japan. Whipple writes fiction and nonfiction. His articles have appeared in many magazines, including Time, Newsweek, Honolulu magazine, Tokyo Journal, Cruising World, Boating New Zealand, Sport Diver, and more.
His nonfiction books include Seeing Japan, Inspired Shapes, and several in Japanese. He writes western novels under the pen name of Chuck Tyrell for Black Horse Westerns, Edition Bärenclau, Piccadilly Publishing, Sundown Press, and contributed short stories to the Express Western anthologies Where Legends Ride and A Fistful of Legends, and Western Fictioneer anthologies.
He is part of the Ford Fargo persona that writes the Wolf Creek series from Western Fictioneers. He has won prizes for both advertising and journalism, and received the first-place Agave Award in the Oaxaca International Literature Competition in 2010. His novel, The Snake Den, won the 2011 Global eBook Award in the western fiction category. Whipple was a lifetime member of the now-defunct National Association for Outlaw and Lawman History.
He is a current member of Western Writers of America, Asian-American Journalists Association, Society of Writers, Editors, and Translators (SWET), Tauranga Writers Inc., and, of course, Western Fictioneers. Whipple is married, has one wife, two sons, four daughters, and 19 grandchildren. He is fluent in spoken and written Japanese, and understands many forms of English.
The name he received at birth was Sojiro. The name he earned in the dark mountains of Hida was Kage, the shadow. The name he used when he came to El Paso was Kay, because it meant respect. And out of respect for his dead father, he meant to put Jason Peligross to death.
I met Kay at the King’s Palace, one of El Paso’s better saloons. I say met, but he came looking for me.
Our game of five-card draw was no more than three hours old when Kay pushed his way through the batwings. He was an odd-looking little man to our eyes, dressed in clothes the color of desert sand. Blousey trousers like the Turks wear with wrappings around the shins and the strangest moccasins I ever saw. Read the full story HERE>>
Stomp Hale rode up to the RP Connected with a cloud on his face and fire in his eyes.
“Light and set, marshal,” I called.
He grunted a mite as he heaved his thick body off the pinto and wrapped her reins over the hitching rail. “Golderned if you don’t live a long way out, Ness Havelock.”
“Come on in out of the sun,” I said. “Probably scare up some coffee, if you’re interested.” I opened the front door and motioned Stomp in. My wife Rita met him halfway across the room, both hands extended. “Adam Hale. You’ve not been here for ages.” She took Stomp’s hands. “How are you, Adam? Tell me.” Only Rita called Stomp by his given name.
Stomp got a half smile on his square face. “Come all the way out from Saint Johns for a cup of your fine coffee, Miz Havelock. I surely did.”
“Then you sit right here at the table and I’ll get you a cup.” Rita led the sheriff to our walnut dining table and sat him in a high-back chair. “Momentito,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Stomp turned his Stetson around in hard, weathered hands. He said nothing, so I let him sit. He’d talk when the time came. Read the full story HERE>>