Welcome To The Bullpen
The arena where amature western authors can submit Western Short Stories and Cowboy Poetry, and have the opportunity to receive feedback from you, the readers.
For the most part, these authors are greenhorns and this is a forum to help them improve their craft. Feedback is very important to the continued growth of any writer so please give them the courtesy of CONSTRUCTIVE criticism and also let them know when they’ve done well. Please keep in mind this is a family oriented website and these authors may not yet be the professionals they hope to become. Your feedback should reflect that. But then again… you can be constructive and still be tough; after all, this is the BULLPEN.
The Bronc Buster
Rebecca Rose Taylor
The bronc buster’s been thrown
More times than you can count.
Often times they become
Fixtures in the bunkhouse,
For all their broken bones
Don’t permit them out.
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The Visit
Mike Massey
I saw the old man sitting there, had seen him once before,
All stooped and rangy lookin’ just starin’ at the door
I wondered what the old man saw, or what he hoped to see,
Just sittin’ in that train depot, seemed kinda’ strange to me.
He wore a beat up cowboy hat, sweat stained and dusty black,
And tall stack well worn buckaroos, with heels wore down in back.
A dirty old bandana rag that’d sure seen better days,
And faded denim wrangler shirt with cuffs rolled down and frayed.
His hands were old and weather worn, all cracked and scarred and bent,
Which told of how he’d earned his keep and how his life was spent.
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A Cowboy’s Last Request
Mike Massey
Lord, when I die don’t bury me beneath the ground so cold,
Just strip my hide and tan me up, then carve and tool me bold.
Slick and dye my edges, then roll and tuck me neat,
My shoulder hide to cover swells, my back for on the seat.
Use my ‘ole neck leather, to wrap around the post,
A three-inch slight-pitch cap, dear Lord, is what I’d favor most.
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The Snake
Scott Wyatt
Big John Sullivan had never felt such pain. It seemed to grow worse by the minute. The enormity of the situation smoothered him like a wet blanket. He took a couple deep breaths, but began to choke as waves of nausea rolled over him. He hadn’t felt this scared since he stepped off the boat from Ireland at nine years old.
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PEARLY GATES
Jim Liles
There was this fella, whose name I don’t recall
Who met his untimely demise
Ride’n broncs at the local rodeo
Is were he made his final ride
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CHARITY’S GRAVE
Vincent J Maranto
On the old stage road between Bozeman and Helena, Montana, as it crosses the Crow Creek Divide, is a little square fence, enclosing a grass covered mound. The surrounding country is rugged, like thousands of places in this country of mountains. A limestone ridge rises abruptly on the west, while a quartz-site reef on the east, slopes to the Missouri river, two miles away.
The fence around the lonely grave is timeworn, yet in repair; rough-edged boulders lie thickly upon the ground, while down the slope, a little stream of mountain water trickles its way to the river.
The denizen as he passes murmurs “Charity’s grave”—the stranger’s curiosity is aroused and he inquires, why this lonely resting place?
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The Legend Of High Noon
Fermin Martinez
Blood begins to drip into the sink. A guilty switch blade lays in the basin, it’s golden handle stained sanguine.
“You look good.” He says to his reflection.
He buttoned up his old flannel sleeve, his right hand a dripping crimson. His hair a tangled, knotted mess. His real name was buried with his mother. The girls of The Ennio Hotel called him Baby, but he notoriously graced warrants as
“High Noon!” They shouted from outside.
His eyes perked up, and he strained his ears to listen. His malnourished frame swayed, and his gaze fell on his right hand. The extremity had quickly gone pale beneath the blood. He wiped his hand, staining a towel, and stepped out.
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The Old Trails are Gone
Robert Blankenship
Has it been so long ago
When dust filled and choked the air
And the cowboy rode sitting tall
While driving cattle there
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The Wisdom of a Ranger
Tim Carpenter
The intensity of the hot afternoon sun was merciless. Shimmering heat waves stretched out to the distant horizon, appearing to make objects move even though they were stationary. The distortion from the rising heat made the desert appear somewhat unreal, with tall, wavy saguaro cactus interspersed with what looked like long, narrow, glittering lakes out in the distance. The lakes appeared cool and refreshing. The air was stifling, hot, and smelled of dust.
It was all an illusion created by the heat radiating from the ground and Ward Hatcher of Company A, Texas Rangers paid little attention to it. He had seen it all before, many times. The thought of cool, refreshing water was alluring, but Ward knew these shimmering lakes held only the promise of death. To dwell on their possible existence was madness.
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Four Days Out Of Dodge
Tim Carpenter
The dust was boiling up into the afternoon sky and my neck was itching from the sweat and the heat. It was miserable sometimes riding drag on a herd of Texas longhorns, but I knew in my heart that I had it to do. I didn’t have to ride drag if I didn’t want to, being the boss of the outfit, but I knew that the men working for me didn’t like riding the drag either, and it was only fair for me to take my turn.
You see, I could never ask these men to do anything that I wasn’t willing and able to do myself, and because I was willing to do whatever it took to get these ornery critters to Dodge, they were too.
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Westward The Mountains
Tim Carpenter
I topped out on the rise about mid-morning and reined in my horse. The big strawberry roan was grateful for the break in the action, and started nibbling at the sparse grass growing helter skelter between the rocks. I took the time to roll a cigarette and then surveyed the seemingly endless panorama before me. It was a tortured and lonely land, worn by the wind and scorched by the sun. Spires of red and yellow sandstone reached high into the azure sky, pointing forlornly toward the only escape from the searing heat and the windblown sand.
Far away, out across a labyrinth of canyons, I could just make out my goal; the far, blue mountains with their snow-capped peaks and their promise of cool, swift running streams. It was to these mountains I was headed, hoping to find gold and a new start.
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Pete Simmons Last Ride
Tim Carpenter
In the early spring of 1887 the Spur Creek outfit experienced the loss of one of its favorite cowboys. Pete Simmons had worked on the Spur Creek ranch for a long time, and his death from pneumonia had a big impact on all of us. Pete was older than most of us, and was a true cowboy in every sense of the word. He had been cowboying most of his life and had started up the Chisholm Trail with a herd when he was thirty years old. After fighting for the Confederacy in the War Between the States, he had made several trips to Dodge City, Kansas, and Ellsworth and Abilene as well.
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The Last Manhunt
Lowell “Zeke” Ziemann
Despite the handcuffs, Jake Franks swung up into the saddle. The muscular outlaw glanced back at the deputy riding a small roan and cradling a shotgun across his lap. Soon,the silver haired sheriff emerged from the jail and mounted his pitch-black mare. As the rising sun cast long shadows upon the street; the three gigged their mounts and rode out of Caldwell.
Jake was an angry man. Angry from the time when, as a fourteen year old Georgian, he had witnessed General Sherman’s famous “March to the Sea” with its devastation and death; and angry after he killed three Yankee troopers and then fled to Indian Territory to escape Union patrols; and angry enough for subsequent forays into “Bloody Kansas” to continue his murderous ways. He had earned the $2000 dead-or-alive bounty that hung over his head.
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IF A COWBOY YOU WANT TO BE
Robert Blankenship
If it is a cowboy
You truly want to be
Here,s a scribbled list
Of some things that you will need
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Opportunity Knocks
Leslie Johnson
There are no “Rules of Engagement” in Horse trading, among horse traders themselves it is no holds barred and give no quarter. It is, and can be, a rough and tumble form of gambling, with the winner being the one who suckered the competition. Unscrupulous traders will prey on unwitting customers, but no trader worth his competitor’s respect would stoop to that. Sometimes, just sometimes, a trader can get suckered by customer who might not have even meant to.
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PG Was a Mule Man
Leslie Johnson
PG was a mule man, and a fairly good one, depending on who you talked to. As such, he really didn’t fool with horses much, unless it was mares to produce more mules with. When Hervie talked to him about working a four year old palomino quarter horse who had had some ground work but no riding,(owned by some silly old woman, wink, nudge, wink..) PG told him he just the thing.
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A Horsetrader's Wife
Leslie Johnson
Being the wife of a horse trader, even a part time one, can lead to interesting predicaments, especially a very broke horse trader who has to sometimes deal with horses nobody else would want. When my husband, Hervie, got a call from a buddy of his with a “real good colt, three year old buckskin, lotsa chrome!”, but just green broke, he fired up the ’65 Chevy we were depending upon at that time and took me with him. He would ride the colt the two miles home, and I would follow in case there was trouble. Despite the fact “green broke “ most probably meant the colt had never been handled closer than the rope to catch him with, Hervie had every confidence he would ride him home.
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Marshal Dillon
Robert Blankenship
From old Dodge City
To Old Fort Hays
Marshal Dillon travelled
In the Gunsmoke days
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The Dancehall Girl the Stranger and the Bad Man
Randall Smith
Cast of Characters
Jason Reilly - Newly appointed Federal Marshall.
Kathryn “Peaches” Malloy – Singer, Dancer, Server of good food at Juanita's Cantina.
Faro (Pharo) Spence - Murderous gang leader.
Juanita – Owner of Juanita's Cantina (and Jason's cousin on his mothers side)
Kitty McCloud – Beautiful daughter of Daniel (Digger) McClould , recently bushwhacked.
The Setup (A little history lesson)
On September 9th 1850, California officially became 31st State of the United States of America. Congress immediately approved funds to bring law and order to the new State......and Jason Reilly was the man for the job. He was born in Alta California..spoke fluent Spanish and French..And, was hell with a gun.
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Along Came Smith
R. Michael Brown
Lariat Smith and Ike Moon were cowhands who had ridden down from Kansas to see if the grass was greener in Texas. Smith was twenty-five, yet in Moon’s mind he was still a pup—wet behind the ears. Lariat was six foot and large framed. He was clean-shaven, square-jawed, with blue eyes and black hair under a narrow-brimmed hat. Moon was fifty, yet in Smith’s eyes he was an old coot—set in his ways.
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Anna’s Prayer
Lowell A. Ziemann
CH 1
With the setting sun warming his back, Marshal Dan Zach rode slowly back to Fairview. The beauty of the shadows creeping up the slopes of the White Mountains with various shades of gold and green suited his somber mood. A tall man, he was splendidly dressed in his Sunday best; grey suit, white shirt, with string tie. His badge peeked out proudly from his vest. His grey hat sat straight on his head. His eyes, usually alert or narrowed with concern, seemed vague and drifting. He rode unusually relaxed. His mind wandered over the peaceful events that had transpired that Sunday…the small church on the edge of town, the congregational picnic, the ride with Anna to her ranch, and the comfortable conversation.
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A Cowboys Day
Robert Blankenship
He’s up early in the morn
Rising way before the dawn
He wants to git out and git to workn
Lord knows, He’s got a lotta work to git done
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"A Few Precious Acre's"
Delia J. Fry
Who chose this trail
These endless miles
Promising not to fail
With fear in their smiles
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Fletcher’s Pride
By Robert Nicholas
Ol’ Fletcher pulled himself up from the rectangular hole in the ground and sat atop the mound of freshly dug earth next to it. As he inhaled deeply, a smile spread across his weathered face. This had to be what the Great Hereafter smelled like; dirt, fresh wood, and flowers.
He took a long sip from a silver hip flask and grimaced. The last of the burial witnesses had left with the Parson, and all was once again quiet in the cemetery.
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Broken
Bro. Brad Curtis
There he stood as if chiseled in stone with nostrils flaring
With a stance that seem to say, who will be so daring
Who would climb upon his back and try to ride
This mighty steed of such power and kingly pride
For one could see he was master of the brood
He offered protection and capture had been his job to allude
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Billy Wilder
By Harold Ratliff
Billy stepped out of the cabin well fore daylight. The feel of the cool morning air felt good against his grizzled old face. Billy really wasn’t that old but his thirty odd years and the life he lead made him feel that way. Stepping back inside, he grabs his first cup of coffee to begin the day. Billy took this job bout six months ago. Too many people were beginning to want him dead. His former life as a hired gun was catching up with him fast. Seemed there was nowhere Billy could go that death wasn’t following. Sitting down in a saloon for a stiff drink or a good game of cards can never happen again he thought to himself.
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Harry Loiter – The founder of a town out west called Procrastination
By Ted Robbens
Some Pioneers heading west
Would fail in their quest
Because their belongings exceeded
The basics they needed
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I Ran Into Butch Cassidy
By Oscar Case
It was a rainy, foggy, cold, wet night when I stopped into The Lost Boot Saloon for a quick belly-warmer. The whiskey business was slow in the Lost Boot and no wonder. It sat at the bottom of Clay Hill all by itself. The town was on top of the hill, and when the road gets wet like tonight, nobody was going to venture down the hill on a horse or in a wagon. The wet clay stuck to everything and it was about eighteen inches deep. And that was not the only reason. The town was the only habitation around for miles at the edge of the Uintah Mountains. So, I found myself to be the only customer.
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To the Man in the Woods
By Ronald Anick
He looked out the window of his cabin nestled at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. The land was covered with a layer of snow so deep that he was sure it was over his head still in many places. Yet, this was already the end of March, and summer seemed so far away. It didn’t matter. Here in this structure he’d built last fall he was safe and warm.
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Where I Belong
By Rebecca Rose Taylor
Rounding up cattle for a living was all right according to Grant Stewart, the newest hired hand for The Box A Ranch in Cheyenne, Wyoming but if did have its downfalls. It wasn’t a good life for a family man, too hard a life for women and children or so many men thought, some found it all right. It all depended on the woman and her upbringing, a lot of things could happen on a ranch, people could get hurt, the same thing goes for a western town. In the year 1872, it was just too much for a lot of women could handle others like the ranch owner Michael Brigg’s daughter Hannah could handle it but that was just her upbringing.
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From Dark to Done
By Harold Ratliff
Up before the morning sun,
a full days work, so much to be done.
Feed the horses before your own,
grab a bite to eat, then get going.
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The Testament of Friendship
By Stephen Cunningham
The three men sat beside the fire they had going in the dryness of the summer’s riverbed. It hadn’t rained in these parts for months, and usually didn’t this time of year. It was more of a scar carved out from where the water was, than a river, now. When the rains came again, it would be a couple of feet deep in places, but that was a while off yet and these men had no need to worry. They’d even get a good night’s sleep. A coyote might sniff around the edges, smelling beans, but besides the spiders, they’d be fine. Their horses tethered not too far away, and the stars all shining overhead. Three men on their ways back home.
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One Lone Rider
By Stephen Cunningham
One lone rider, sitting on the ground. Watching another stage get robbed. From high up on a hill he watches, as three bandits aim their rifles at the stage men and get the box passed down. Whatever money was in their pockets, also. Then the three thieves ride off, and the one lone man gets to his feet, over to his own horse, and slowly rides to follow them. Doesn’t want to catch up just yet. He’ll wait, being patient until darkness has settled. They will only have one man standing watch, if that. They’re all too far out in the wild lands for federales to have shown up yet, so they won’t be too worried about being found. One lone rider creeping in, as the camp fire dwindles, as the coals are seething but the light from them is minimal. Getting rid of the bandits, in whatever ways, so he can have whatever’s in the box they stole for himself.
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Don't Cry For Me
By Wanda Stevens
For I have watched the morning sunrise from the top of Utah’s tallest mountain,
saw the early rays of first light paint the desert landscape with an incomparable beauty that cannot be reproduced with camera or paint brush on film or canvas.
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Two poems by Wanda Stevens
Pryor Creek Rodeo
By Wanda Stevens
I can remember back when I was young
There wasn’t many places to go,
so we would all look forward to a happy event
the Pryor creek rodeo
LEROY & WANDA AT 60 BELOW
By Wanda Stevens
We are sitting here, wrapped in all the clothes that We own
Listening to the cold winds blow
You will shiver and shake in whatever you wear
When the temperature is 60 BELOW
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Lessons of a Lifetime
By Peter R. Quigley
A hot breeze blew through the window and Abe wiped the sweat from his brow. The dusty heat of these towns never used to bother him. Oh to be young and quick again. He looked up at the fresh face staring at him and shook his head.
“What?” the kid asked and Abe snorted.
“You kids are all alike, full of vinegar.”
The face darkened slightly. “I’m twenty years old. Quit calling me a kid.”
Another snort. “Twenty? My boots are older than that.” He sighed. “What do you want, kid?”
The kid frowned, but answered. “I want to learn all of the tricks. I’ve heard you’ve been telling them.” He paused and then added, “now that you see the end of the line.”
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The Roan They Call the Outlaw
By Malcolm Davey
I’ve seen him around at the big rodeo,
Everyone loves him; he gives them a show.
He’s a rugged old roan with plenty of will,
To stay on his back would be such a thrill.
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Gold Is Where You Leave It
By H. E. McChristian
George sat back in the chair and had another sip of tea. He was sitting on
the front porch of his modest log cabin he had built half way up Baker's Mt.
As he gazed across the valley before him he was very much aware of the
two young men gently moving in the swing to his right.
"So, you'all came way up here to listen to an old man spin a tale, eh?"
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George Just Rode Horses
By H. E. McChristian
George never thought about entering the rodeo, he was too busy riding horses. The ranch was in south Texas and George never thought about using 4-wheelers, branding shutes, and for sure he wasn't worrying about the battle of the sexes! George, and those like him, just tossed a rope on, laid em down, and slapped a brand on their rump.
On the X bar T, the horses were wild, tame, broke, and unbroke. The cattle was all wild. Wide open range leads to wild eye cows. College was afar off but if a young man survived he could earn a P.H.D. in cow knowledge. Gals were kinda spare on the range where George joined the other hands to herd cattle. So you can understand his suprise when the boss brought a young thing out to the line shack and introduced her as the new hand.
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The Gamble
By Josh Williams
Men playing cards. The West blows in through Saloon doors and calloused hands move to cover over half-full glasses. Despite the sun outside the breeze still brings a chill. Skin puckers and bristles under the leather and rasping rough cotton of clothing before the heat settles back in.
One says ‘Deal’, another says ‘I wanna see that picture book shaken up real good.’ The one with the cards says ‘This ain’t no picture book, Lucas, this here’s the Devil’s Bible.’ Laughter from plains hyenas, drifted in with the wild wind.
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A Century Ago
By Harold Ratliff
As a child growing up in a town so small,
I often dreamed of being a cowboy riding tall,
In the saddle, on the range riding herd,
just me, my horse, and the songs of the bird.
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What's in a Hat
By Herold Ratliff
I’ve been wearing a hat since knee high to grandpa.
In my little world, a bare head was a flaw.
Growing up with brown felt, always on head.
I could roll the thing up, used for a pillow in bed.
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Trouble in Two Guns
By Michael D. Griffiths
The morning dawned as bright as it was cold. A lurch brought me to full consciousness, as the train continued to cross the high desert prairie of northern Arizona. The constant rattle of the wheels made me wonder how I had been able to get to sleep at all. To me they sounded like steel dentures rolling around in a rusty can. I suffered a moment of panic, when I looked over to see that my new bride Hannah was no longer in the seat next to me.
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Thirteen Turns
By Kevin Blake
Torn between sleep and awareness Wyncock awoke to the now daily pounding of his sweat soaked temples announcing yet another headache for which there was no cure. Time, too many bone jarring days and nights aboard a four legged hurricane chasing every damned tribe known to the Almighty and all the horrors that came with it plus old man booze were taking more than their pound of flesh.
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The Old Red Barn
By Daniel R Miller
When I was young and just a boy
I used to watch when riding by
The Old Red Barns in farmers fields.
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Willy Bocain
By Patty Juliano
It was the fifth of December when he rode into town,
The new powdered snow was a covering the ground.
And he was big and rough.
And he was mean and tough.
And everyone ran when they heard that the name,
Of the mysterious rider was Willy Bocain.
You can’t depend on your name.
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Mesquite and Hard Rain
By Matthew Wanniski
John Lull sat on the porch of his sun-drenched adobe looking west as the sun set behind the Davis Mountains. He finished his coffee and struck a match, holding it up in salute to the last rays of daylight as they fled the land. Then he lit a cigarette and leaned back to smoke. Night on the plateau was a lonesome thing for some. You felt like the only person left in the world. It was hard when he first arrived, but he didn’t mind it any longer. The solitude was comforting, and the night brought a degree of relief from the endless summer heat.
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Two poems and a short story by new author Scott Biddiscombe.
I think he has a future, what do you think? Let him know.
In These Wilds
By Scott Biddiscombe
Dancing embers float above
The crackling fire’s glow
While gently falling to the earth
The first glimpse of winter snow
Once More, Tomorrow
By Scott Biddiscombe
Upon these sing-song winds we ride
Across majestic plains
Beneath a million diamonds overhead
Until dawn first breaks the day
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Uncle Earle
By Dixie Elder
Found him leanin' against a fence post
head tilted back, like he was star gazin'
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Montana's Waitin' for Me
By Brendan Booher
(at age 11)
When I'm a man I'm gonna wear chaps,
I'm gonna be a cowboy, perhaps--
'Cause right now I'm thinkin'
Of where I'd like to be . . .
Montana's waitin' for me!
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Run
By Laura Finlay
When your soul cries out
And your spirit’s spent
And those mountains start callin’ your name,
Strap on your spurs
And cock your hat low,
Just grab on to her mane.
You ride that horse like you stole it.
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The Grocery Line
By Joe Owens
Standin in the grocery line
that weaved back 40 feet,
I just kept on remindin me
a person's gotta eat.
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Birth of a Gunfighter
By Joe Owens
Through bat wing doors he entered,
a boy of twenty-one.
His youthful features contradict
twin tie-downs filled with guns.
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I Still Smell The Smoke
By Delia J. Fry
I remember when on the mountain
The sign, large puffs of white smoke
The silent language of my ancestors
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The Blessing
By Delia J. Fry
Looking through the wagon's dust
I can see a lone rider approaching
A silhouette in the midst of sundown
A single blur, shimmering in the heat
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Whisky Joe
By Shirley Utting
Sitting in the corner
Of the buffalo saloon
Is an angry old man
His name is Whisky Joe
He once had a wife
And two young boys too
There cabin was burnt to the ground
But only two bodys were found
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Like Father, Like Son
By Delia J. Fry
I read your last letter home
The paper yellow with age
I can feel your desperation
In the words "Love, Murphy"
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The Aging Cowboy
By Delia J. Fry
Creaking wheels in the dust
The runaway wagon bounces
The cattle in a blind stampede
"Catch it, it's all the provisions"
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Rodeo Show
By Shirley Utting
The rocky mountain rodeo
Is on the road once more
Giveing an amazing show
As lassoing bronco boys
Twirling guns from holsters
The crowd whistle and applaud
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Cowboy
By Shirley Utting
Cowboy boots
And cowboy guns
Galloping horses
Outlaws on the run
Cowboy hats
And cowboy buckles
Fighting with fists
Getting sore knuckles
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The Seven Riders
By Mathew Pizzolato
Tom Bronson closed one eye and sighted down the barrel. This posse just wouldn't let up. They had been on his trail for a week.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He held it and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle bucked in his hands, surprising him. Crimson blossomed on the chest of the man he aimed at and the man rolled backward off his horse.
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OK all you poets out there. Samantha is looking to improve her craft and wants your feedback, but be nice, she is a lady after all.
Where is Cowboy Heaven?
By Samantha Stollar
When cowboys cross over, where is their heaven?
when all of their lives their engines were revvin.
Dark Mornings for a Rancher's Daughter
By Samantha Stollar
I'd waken to the morning sky still in the dark
to throw on my boots and then to embark
on a trek to the barn to awaken my steed
and saddle him loosely for his strong back I did need.
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Her Secret
By Francie Davis
Hello the house!
Mind if I come in out of this rain?
Sure, coffee sounds great! I'll just leave this old horse tied right here.
What a night, what a night! You folks lived here long?
Ten years, you say? Well, sure, I guess that's possible…I usually ride up to the valley the back way.
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Texas Coup
By Dan Devine
I've heard it said that running away from your problems never solved anything, but I've made my living by knowing how to get out of Dodge before the shooting starts.
The shooting was going to start soon, mark my words.
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SHOWDOWN AT CULVER CITY
By Les Williams
He reached for the pistol that hung low and was tied down on his right hip.
“If you touch that hog leg Jake, It’ll be the last thing you do. Is that what you want, to die here on this dusty wind swept street? Having these good people see you make your biggest and last mistake?”
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Thanks Annie
By Stephen Gese'
From her letter, he sensed she was not overly educated. That was all right with him, he wasn't really looking for a schoolteacher for a wife; he wasn't long on words anyway. He just wanted someone with a pleasant disposition; easygoing, who could cook, and didn't mind chipping in if he needed a hand around the place. Someone to stroll along the creek with, someone who would keep him warm at night, a partner to grow old with who wasn't afraid of Coyotes howling on a cold Wyoming night; you know, a woman, but not a sissy
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