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Western Short Stories
Tom Sheehan

​Western short stories Bio. of Tom Sheehan

Sheehan (31st Infantry, Korea 1951-52; Boston College 1952-1956) has multiple works in Rosebud, Linnet’s Wings, Serving House Journal, Literally Stories, Copperfield ReviewLiterary OrphansIndiana Voices Journal, Frontier TalesWestern Online, Faith-Hope and Fiction, EastlitRope & Wire Magazine, The Literary Yard, Green Silk Journal, Fiction on the Web, The Path, etc. He has 16 Pushcart nominations, 6 Best of the Net nominations (one winner).

Later book publications include The CowboysBeside the Broken TrailIn the Garden of Long Shadows, Between Mountain and River, Catch a Wagon to a Star, and Jock Poems and Reflections for Proper Bostonians, by Pocol Press, and Jehrico by Danse Macabre. Back Home in Saugus (a collection) is being considered, as is Beneath My Feet This Earth Slips into the Far-side of Another’s Telescope and Pages from Fallen Books. In production status is The Grand Royal Stand-off at Darby’s Creek and Other Stories at Pocol Press.

Recent releases include  Small Victories for the Soul VII, from Wilderness House Literary Review, and Alone, with the Good Graces from Pocol Press. He was Danse Macabre’s 2016 Writer-in-Residence in Las Vegas.

Here's a link to Tom's LinkedIn profile>>

After a long day ridin’, ropin’, and sometimes rustlin’, cowpokes love to stop by a local saloon to wet their whistles. Card playing, loose talking, and fighting always ensued, some in good fun and others deadly serious. In this collection of stories, author Tom Sheehan rides and relaxes with them all. You’re in the right place for rollickingly good western yarns.

Seventeen western short stories by Tom Sheehan.

Here's a link to all of Tom's books on Amazon>>

Western Short Stories by Tom Sheehan

Brickley’s Son

Tom Sheehan

Raymond Brickley’s son, called “Brick” by most of his pals, saddled up his newest horse he called Black Joe, a mustang bred here in America and favored by cowboys managing herds of cattle. Black Joe, among other things, was Brick’s best pal on the ride anywhere, and at night tethered close to him out on the wide-open range. Read the full story HERE>>

Night Fires Near Waco

Tom Sheehan

From the door of his cabin in a slow roll of hills in Texas, Jugs Hanlon saw the night fires near Waco for the third night in a row. It was a 6 to 7 hour’s jaunt to get there, and he had resisted the trip so far. He had no relatives in that mix, but a few old friends had settled down near Waco and he paused to bring back a few of the grand ones, like Studs Kelly and Burke Whiting and Lone Mo, no last name ever revealed, not once, not ever. Read the full story HERE>>

Jock Clifford, Sheriff of Kenny’s Korner

Tom Sheehan

The illegitimate son of a wild and wooly cowpoke and a native girl of an unknown tribal affiliation, became a deputy and then a sheriff by hard work, knowledge of the territory around the southern part of New Mexico, and eyes as open wide as any man on the prowl for criminals, clues and data found hanging practically in the air but only for the good eyes at searching. Read the full story HERE>>

Bill Carter’s Little Bitter Bills

Tom Sheehan

Mona Carter met her husband at the door of Luke Gurkhas General Store in Ott Hills, Texas, with a single and quite small bag of goods in one hand, a stern look on her face, before she tried to fully embarrass him, saying, “If you don’t get that new job that pays in cash, I won’t be able to feed your two kids, or myself, after one more week.” Read the full story HERE>>

Alias Jack Felton, Mystery Lawman

Tom Sheehan

The one man in the Big Dog Saloon, in a small corner of New Mexico, that the barkeep, Joe Kittering, did not know, had not seen before, made him wonder what kind of horse he was riding. Horses, for Joe Kittering, told a lot about their riders. For the money, for rider or owner, the quarter horse was most valuable because of its price, endurance, its build and muscle set, agility on a drive, and that breed’s smooth responses under pressure, all according to which kind of demands were directed for it. Read the full story HERE>>

Bezball at Its Roots

Tom Sheehan

Carla McCullough, widowed for three years, dropped in front of her ready stance in a field on her ranch to start the first game of Bezball in all of Nevada, a round object she had fashioned from wound string and rope, stuffed unknowns of a rubbery nature, and held together with a skin from an animal, for a game she had called Whacko. It was a Sunday in June of 1867, the Great War over, and a huge roast on the fire for her ranch hands, her treat for them on a glorious day. Read the full story HERE>>

Whistling Dixie

Tom Sheehan

The lead rider for Joel Marshal’s herd, The JM5, heading up the trail for Montana, softly whistled Dixie for all his hours in the saddle, him from Kentucky every breath of his day as long as he was working the herd. He answered to hellos that called him “Kit, Ket or hey there,” as long as the hailing was friendly in tone or attention. Read the full story HERE>>

Broderick “Brock” Felton, Deputy

Tom Sheehan

The day Brock Felton got his deputy badge, it was tossed into his lap by the current sheriff of Stockwood, Colorado, Deke Withers, on the job just three weeks and looking for help. Brock was the only one around who had done any law work at all and that was in a few posse chases, so it was a leap up for the youngster. Read the full story HERE>> 

Off the Beaten Path

Tom Sheehan

The old stranger in the region, marking himself with cane help, hair wild as a jungle tree, scowl and scar regular countenance parts of facial structure, revelations as they were, came to a split in the path he trod. Which way to take befuddled him, choice not a regular gift for him, often a minor torment. It was angular, small as the turn was, but separation loomed, difference, life and history as they might come to pass. Read the full story HERE>>

A Window Floating in the Darkness

Tom Sheehan

Tuck Turner sat his saddle with each breath bouncing through him for long minutes at a stretch, feeling the pain go deeper, hoping it would go away, looking for someone to help him as he carried a rifle slug someplace in his body, the pain like fire in a pit, deep down, not known where or why. Read the full story HERE>>

Costas Coattails Known as Coot

Tom Sheehan

He came into Winter Hills, in northern Colorado, saying his name at the Skid Rock Saloon as Costas Coattails, which the bartender, known for creating new names or just plain changing names for the good of the town, or for the good of the man, began immediately calling him Coot. The name stuck. Read the full story HERE>>

Town without a Badge

Tom Sheehan

At the edge of a mountain in Nevada sat the little town of Bancroft, hardly known elsewhere by hint or whisper because it was so small, so quiet there, and had no law officer, neither sheriff nor deputy. Nestling was apparent to those living there against the mountain at their backsides, under that scarp of protection; love and luck induced each one of them. Read the full story HERE>>

Kid Bullet

Tom Sheehan

He was as thin as a gnawed bone a hungry dog or wolf had been at, with not a hair on his lip or chin, lanky to boot, and so handy with either of his guns, in either hand, that folks around Newhorn, Texas called him Kid Bullet, wise enough to read odd looks and stares on the faces of people around him at any particular time, intentions nearly imprinted in their voices, and some of their words smaller than curses. Read the full story HERE>>

Born to be Sheriff of Crocker County

Tom Sheehan

Willis Warner, often referred to as Able Willy from about the age of 10 years, had a multiple load of talents, some of which included the working parts of gunnery, like aiming at a target, moving or not, and hitting it. Rarely did he miss at hunting animals to feed on, questionable looking strangers getting too close to his lonely mother’s cabin, whether she had a preference or not. Read the full story HERE>>

The Wapsing Drama

Tom Sheehan

It came off-handedly to her, she thought, from nowhere at first, and struggled for full recollection. Pearl Williams was in a bind and it touched everything she touched; the last page read, the page she was reading, the words she wrote, the dreams she had, the hopes that might have to come a long ways with their own problems, difficulties innumerable and mounting by the hour, the course of study, and this very day she was breathing in. Read the full story HERE>>

Read more western short stories by Tom Sheehan in the <<Ranch Romance>> and the <<Side Trail>> sections