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Western Short Story Bio. of J. R. Lindermuth
A retired newspaper editor, J. R. Lindermuth lives and writes in a house built by a man who rode with Buffalo Bill--which may have helped inspire his interest in the West. His 15 published novels are a mix of mystery and historical fiction. Since retiring, he's served as librarian for his county historical society, assisting patrons with genealogy and research. He is a member of International Thriller Writers and a past vice president of the Short Mystery Fiction Society.
by J. R. Lindermuth
Just because he shares the Christian name, Judge McLain considers himself on a par with that other Solomon. What he tends to forget is even that wise old Israelite had his share of mistakes in judgment. Read the full story HERE>>
CHARLEY’S FINAL GIFT
By J. R. Lindermuth
Uncle Charley Flynn was one of the last of the Forty-Niners, but not one of the lucky ones.
Charley came ‘round the Horn at the beginning of the rush and progressed from camp to camp across the Sierras with the horde of other Argonauts, Chinee and other foreigners, battling the elements and the Indians for a share of the wealth that never fell to his lot. Read the full story HERE>>
By J. R. Lindermuth
The bear rose up before him and the boy fell back on his rump. For a long terrifying moment, the grizzly stared down on him with its small, red-rimmed eyes and He-Who-Does-Not-Sing thought his pounding heart would tear out through the flesh of his chest. Read the full story HERE>>
A DECEITFUL GAME
J. R. Lindermuth
Clamping his hat to his head with one hand, Rideau swiveled in the saddle and looked back over his shoulder. He detected no sign of the men pursuing him in the barren stretch of sand glistening in the sun between here and the conic hills and irregular knobs on the horizon.
He nudged the horse on with his knees, mounted a rise and started down toward a brush-choked ravine. He heard water now, liquid music as it rushed over rocks and swelled the air with its sweet smell. Read the full story HERE>>
Silent as an Indian, Tilghman crept up and studied the two men from behind a screen of brush. Years of living in the desert had honed his senses and he’d heard them before he saw them. He didn’t recognize the strangers who’d invaded his camp, but he knew what they were.
“Luck haint nothin’ but an accident, boy, and that’s the truth,” the old man told his companion.
They were sitting in the pines on a bench overlooking the little town that was Boone’s destination. The town was only a few weeks old and Boone had headed for it as soon as he heard about the strike that precipitated its growth.
A BAD DRAW OF THE CARDS
By J. R. Lindermuth
The outlaw was busy currying his horse when Abel Kane entered the stable.
Rowdy Joe McKibben glanced at him, but didn't hesitate in his task. "Figured you'd be along sooner or later, Sheriff. They tell you where to find me?"
Rowdy Joe nodded his head. "Never should have teamed up with those fool amateurs."
THE PRICE OF A MEAL
Flynn drew back on the reins and surveyed the sod hut tucked neatly into the coulee below him. Between the stream below the house and the blessing of a few summer showers, the grass seemed in better shape than the drought-stricken sections he'd left behind him that morning. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the chimney of the lean-to kitchen. Read the full story HERE>>
A Man Willing To Kill
Gabe Engels stirred the fire with a stick. "You gonna hang back there in the dark forever," he said in a voice just loud enough for the other to hear him, "or do you fancy a cup of coffee?"
rolled under a heavy foot and a twig snapped. "You keep a
hand clear of that six-shooter on your hip and I might accept a
Gabe raised both hands to shoulder height. "Come on out then. Haint my intent to shoot nobody." Read the full story HERE>>