Welcome To The Bullpen
Short Story Section
The Bullpen is arena where amature western authors can submit Western Short Stories and Cowboy Poetry, and have the opportunity to receive feedback from you, the readers.
This is the Short Story Section
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.
My Horses
Claine M. Tanner
I got to thinking the other day about the horses that I have owned. One never forgets a good and trusty saddle horse. My mind wandered back over the years in a pleasant and dreamy recount. When I arrived at the beginning of my riding days many years back I pondered and reminiced and a smile spread across my face. As a very young pup I had a corral full of nice horses. I had a stud or two and some paints and a bunch of brood mares and of course some seasoned and dependable geldings. They were good horses and I have fond memories of those days. My cousin and I teamed up together to manage a pretty nice cavy of remarkable mounts.
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CROSSROADS
Lone Wolf Thunder
Introduction
Welcome to Texas, the mid-1880s, and a tiny incidental desert hamlet named Crossroads. It's a little known, seldom spoken of frontier town, snugly nestled beneath majestic mountains along the southwestern border between Texas and Mexico, and morally poised between virtue and corruption. It's a mundane community barely on the maps of this vast region, a unique shade of gray in this harsh black and white world. It's a tiny society unto itself where the sublime sometimes means the surreal. It is a place where wandering souls come for a variety of reasons. For some it's to seek a better life away from the increasingly modernized mayhem of progress. For some it's a place to hang their hat before moving on to their destiny. Still for others it's a sanctuary from the past, a last chance of sorts to start anew.
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Retrieving the Bull
Claine Tanner
It was one of those afternoons when one would like time to stop. It was warm and the combined smell of leather, a sweating horse, as well as sage and cedar filled my nostrils. I had trailered my horse to the mouth of the cedar draw where the jeep road narrowed. Buck stepped out of the trailer and swept the country with his eye setting his internal God given GPS. We headed up the untraveled road. Cedars and sage crowded in along the road but thinned a little as we gained altitude. From my deer hunting days I automatically scanned the pockets of quaking aspen and scrub oak. The choke cherries were in bloom and I took a moment to remind myself of my boyhood outings with my family to gather choke cherries…..little red berries that juiced out to make the very best jams and jellies on the planet.
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Dead Mule Creek
George Steven Jones
Arizona Territory - 1869
It was a hot day in the Mule Mountains, made cool by a sudden wind that seemed to come from another dimension - a memorable wind, lingering and laden with trouble. Beneath orange, grey skies, the Arizona landscape seemed calm, peaceful even. But just over the mountain tops a fierce storm threatened to overtake the quiet afternoon.
Hut Robbins, a tall older man of Irish descent, sat on the porch of a miners shack wiping sweat from the inside of his hat. Taking note of the sudden wind he said out loud, and for no reason other than to hear himself say it, “A bad storm’s a brewin’!”
He stared out at the horizon for a moment before adding, “But… we need the rain I guess.” then he went back to wiping the sweat from his hat.
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Reconciliation
Tracy Thurman
Willy Brooks had fifty dollars in his pocket when he walked into the Silverton bank. It was the most honest money he’d ever had at one time and for the first time he felt an inkling of responsibility. He dusted off his worn clothes, stuffed his shaggy blonde hair under his hat, squared his shoulders and walked up to the teller’s window. “I’ve got some money I’d like to put in your bank.” He stated to the man behind the bars.
The clerk took in his appearance and asked, “Do you have an account here?” Willy glanced around at the other people milling about in the room, some stealing a sideways glance in his direction. One lady whispered something in another’s ear. “I don’t guess I do.” He answered feeling uneasy.
The man withdrew some papers from a drawer and passed them over to him. “Fill these out and we will open an account for you.”
Willy’s face turned red and he pushed the papers back. “Maybe you could fill ‘em out, I just want to put some money in the bank.”
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A Woman's Work
Laura K Johnson
He rode in from the East.
With his hat lowered and his body slumped on his horse, he looked like a puppet, his head bobbing haphazardly on his shoulders. We watched him from the frozen mud packed road, three people familiar with his evil black heart.
If there was a way, I swear I would have stopped myself from looking at him straight on. But there was no help for it. His entire being nearly pulled my eyeballs out of their sockets. It was like he carried a divining rod made of his bones and aimed it right at me.
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Kings over Jacks
Samual Engelman
My right index finger pulled the card slowly across the table towards me, and my face remained like stone when I turned it over, although inside my heart beat slightly faster. The King of spades almost grinned at me when I slipped it into place among the other five cards in my hand. I would not say it was my lucky card, I did not believe in luck, but ole King David sure as hell had won me some money over the years since my overdue retirement. I say overdue not because I was old, but instead because I was tired. I was tired of the endless tracking and riding, the near-misses that left bullet holes in my duster, but most of all, I was tired of fighting. My particular expertise had run its course anyway, and I had nothing to show for it but the loathing of these newly arrived “civilized” settlers. I had cleared this dangerous and untamed land for them, and now, men like me were the only thing which did not belong in the “New West.” However, something I did not realize when I handed my badge over, but I would soon after, was that even if a man changes his occupation, it does not change who he is.
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McNulty’s Revenge
Lowell “Zeke” Ziemann
A fitful night of sporadic napping passed. Before sunrise Bret McNulty rose and hurried down the long hall. Maybe Jim came home quietly during the night and would be in his room. Bret frowned at the sight of the empty bed. Hope dwindled. His stomach knotted. Jim should have returned home from Laramie two days ago.
Still in his long handles, the tall angular rancher walked out of the sprawling log ranch house and paced the veranda from end to end. He squinted into the rising sun and scanned the purple foothills that appeared to lean on the front ridge of the gray Snowy Mountains. There was no sign of an approaching rider.
“Sarah,” called Bret.
His wife stepped out onto the porch. “I know Bret, I know,” she said sympathetically, “Go find him.”
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Thunder and Lightning
Tim Tobin
Life happens despite our best efforts at planning the future. From his earliest childhood Paul O’Reilly wanted to be an aeronautical engineer. He had toy rocket ships and his own designs for new spaceships. He scoured the Internet for information on the Apollo program and read about Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins and the other moon walking astronauts. He studied the Lunar Excursion Module and the Lunar Rover. After college Paul wanted to work for NASA and help put a man on Mars. He left for the University of Nevada Reno just before his eighteenth birthday. The state university wasn’t MIT but his father could afford it. Besides, Paul had thought, a good graduate school would be next and then on to NASA at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Houston, Goddard or maybe even the Cape.
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Blessed are the Peacemakers
Samuel Engelman
The flesh tore easily from the dead longhorn steer. It was a slaking meal for the scavengers gathered around the carcass, and the coyotes ate gluttonously. They looked up only for a moment to see the stagecoach pass them by, only a few hundred yards away, carrying two passengers, a driver, and a man carrying a scatter-gun.
“Do you not find it even slightly prejudicial on our part that we insist on assimilating the Indian into a culture such as ours which they do not comprehend? Why can we not let them live as they have for generations?” Pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and augmenting his wide hazel eyes, Dr. Joseph Grant looked across to his only traveling partner in the loud dusty wagon. He was enjoying the intelligent conversation, though he had decided the man across from him was a brigand. Grant had also decided that this lout was curiously educated, however, and spoke English, Spanish, and Comanche all with an articulate tongue. Grant prided his own self on his mastery of French and Latin, and had found some bizarre intellectual attraction to this ruff westerner.
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HOT SPOTS
Scott White
The air was heavy with soot and heat, and it tasted like ash, and dirt and lost hope. I drove the four-wheeler up to the top of the mesa to get a look. The sun was just setting into the smoke and the blaze of the grassfires that stretched across the horizon. For just a moment, the flames seem to feed off the blazing orb, turning the smoke clouds orange. It was mesmerizing. Just then a Chinook helicopter passed overhead, so low I could feel the slap of the rotor blades. The pilot waved as he headed for the fireline. I stayed and watched the chopper drop down into the smoke over the blaze and turn to fly parallel with the edge of the fire. The belly of the Chinook seemed to open and thousands of gallons of water crashed onto the burning land.
The fires that began six days earlier destroyed a reported half million acres of rangeland and now, pushed on by forty-mile-an-hour winds, threatened to consume that much more. It was ironic that this wildfire started when a small storm passed over this stretch of parched, drought-stricken ranchland dropping just a little rain but throwing off slender needles of lightning. As the clouds moved over a mesa spotted with wind turbines, the wind picked up as lightning struck a dry patch of brush and within minutes a flame began eating real estate.
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THE PREACHER AND WATER MAKER
A.R. Matlock
The deep tracks of the heavily loaded wagon appeared to have no definite destination. The hills of southeast Indian Territory are crisscrossed by small streams and groves of black jack oak covering the canyon sides, no easy drive by any measure. One would almost believe that the two men sitting on the spring seat were waiting for someone to find them. It made us almighty curious.
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RESCUE AT ELK CREEK
A.R. Matlock
At fifteen, I was an experienced woodsman running the woods and the rolling hills around Elk Creek. The day I showed Ma and Gatlin, my older brother, I was strong enough to aim my rifle and hit where I pointed. I went out on my own.
I counted myself a good shot, but Gatlin was better. Living most of my life in the woods had taught me to be careful, especially today. I was young in years but I wasn’t dumb. So I waited in a grove of persimmon before crossing an open patch of ground leading down to the creek.
My senses told me something was not quite right,...
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Too Old For All That Gold
Conway Mitchell Kangas
The War of Southern Insurrection and the score of years that it occupied should never be overlooked for its part in changing history. Never in documented time did such a mixture of events occur that changed the direction of the whole world. The term industrialized nation had come about, cotton was no longer king, wooden ships were being replaced by ironclads, and the west for the most part had opened up. As time went by’ the National Asylum’ filled, then slowly emptied of civil war and Indian war veterans, only to be replaced and renamed by soldiers of the Great War. Three score after the fight for state rights ended and a half a continent now removed, gathered in a building created and described best by its name ‘the old soldiers home’ there sat a grizzled old man on the edge of a one man cot. He was one of those undocumented figures, none other than James Mitchum, known to his friends as Tamer.
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Bud Clayton
True Accounts
Myles Culbertson
Tough … that is always the first term that comes to mind whenever I think of Bud Clayton. Even in his later days the man’s stature and demeanor testified of a life lived in a world intolerant of fear or weakness. Bud’s countenance revealed a seasoning gained in the transition from territorial frontier to modern industrial society. His inscrutable expression was at once fierce and pleasant, impermeable as a canyon’s rock face. His piercing stare could end a fight before it started.
He was my great uncle, whose wife Bess was W.O. Culbertson’s sister. Strikingly beautiful, she was Bud’s softening complement.
I knew the two of them when I was a child. In those days Bud was a police chief and later a judge in Tucumcari, New Mexico, but he had been a cowboy much of his life, working for some of the major cattle ranches around the turn of the century, including the 3 million acre XIT. A notorious bronc rider, it is said he offered a standing bet that he could put silver dollars in both stirrups under his boots, ride any bucking horse till it quit, and the dollars would still be there. Bud rode in some of the biggest rodeos of the day, like Cheyenne and Pendleton, but he was always more at home on the big outfits, not in the rodeo arenas.
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Dusty Hills
Richard Douglas
As the aged rider crested the rise, he looked toward the next hill in the far distance. There was an unbroken view of nothing but sand and more of the same. He was beginning to doubt his choice of going by way of this route. The stage road had many safe stops and plenty of water. Here there was none. Not even a cactus or sage bush in sight. Just sand. He prodded his horse on toward that next hill.
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No Rain For Miles
By M.S.
“Fifty five days.”
“How long?”
“Fifty five days.”
“What are you going to do Miles?”
“Keep digging.”
Miles got up off his chair and walked to the steps of the back porch leaning his hand against a wooden post. He stared off to the horizon. Nothing but brown. Brown dirt - dry and dead. Withered corn shriveled and crisp on the ground. Brown sky filled with dust and shimmering with heat.
Miles walked down the steps of the porch and to the well. It was dry at least for the first thirty seven feet.
“Are you going to stay and help?”
Jesse wiped the sweat from his face and breathed hard, “No, I think I better be getting back to town you know, the store and all.”
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Green Chili
Dave Cox
Chapter 1
Little Ben
“Chili Verde!, Aqui!, Ahora!” These were the sounds of the vendor as he pushed his cart around the plaza. Praying that he could make enough from the turistas to keep from having to go to the Forest Service and getting on the fire fighter list another year.
He wasn’t a lazy man but he liked to work for himself: go in when he wanted to; not because he had to; the same with leaving, hours he put in, days off and everything else a working man had to put up with.
It didn’t take that much living in the pueblo. He didn’t have to pay a landlord or a mortgage. He had a garden with an endless supply of water from the sacred lake. He usually got an elk every year and some years he would even add a buck to the cold room where he hung his meat for the winter.
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Tombstone
By Charles Langley
The stranger wore a brand-new ten-gallon hat that had never held water and still had that store-boughten smell. His chambray shirt was starched and ironed and had fancy little stitches around the pocket. His belt, wide and hand-carved, had obviously never supported a six-shooter and his polished high-heeled boots sported no spurs. He was a dude, that’s what he was, an out-and-out dude.
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Two short stories, The Greenhorn and The Shooter By Charles Langley
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.
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.
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Making Papa Proud
D. Kirts Lewis
They were honest men sitting tall in the saddle high up on my ridge so I wasn’t fearful of them as I had been of many. There’s a fine line between honor and contempt but even at a distance you can get a good feel for a man by the way he sits a saddle and any jury would have agreed with me, they were honest men.
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The White Rainbow
Dave Cox
I first saw her in the summer coming from Tucson. We had left the main highway from Santa Fe near Nambe and taken the high road to Taos. The very moment I first laid eyes on her I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I was totally under her spell. As I looked down on her I knew that was it. There would be no other. I was so smitten that twenty years later when I found out she had lied to me even about her name I immediately forgave her. After that long the love was too deep, the shared experiences too many, the pains too lingering.
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Cowboy Billy meets the Terrible Turkey of Taos
Dave Cox
Folks you can finally get rid of those Mastiffs, Pit Bulls, Dobermans, and German Sheppards. Besides costing a fortune to feed and doctor I’m almost afraid to bring up the baths and poop in the yard and God forbid in the house.
There is actually a better animal to protect the old homestead. A critter so mean, so vile he makes my liver quiver just to tell the story.
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Cowboy Billy Meets the Red Cow Disease
Dave Cox
If you think mad cow disease was bad, you ain’t heard nothing yet until you hear about the dreaded red cow disease. This is the story of the horrific red cow disease and how it came to pass.
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American Money
Ray Busler
The women must think I am deaf, or a child. I hear then say my granddaughter is to marry a white man. When the pain goes away, I will rise and kill them both. Better for her to be dead, and it is a long time since I killed a white man.
The French priest comes by every day now. He brings medicine. He reads from the black book, and I sleep. I do not think I ask for his medicine, but I am no longer sure.
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The Elk Hunt
Ray Busler
A fresh breeze rose suddenly, shattering the vast green stillness into a million dancing facets; darkness and light, silver then shadow, advancing and receding, obedient to the music of the wind. A lost mariner might have taken this vista to be a great and placid sea, a sea that extended in unbroken monotony to the blue wall of the horizon. But, there was no mariner because there was no water. There was not yet even a proper name for this place no Bay of Colorado or Gulf of Nebraska. This was simply the prairie, and if it was any kind of sea at all, it was a sea of grass.
Atop a low hill that rose like an ocean swell, two brothers looked down onto this sea counting the buffalo that lay like islands where they had fallen. The hunt was over.
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CHANGED MAN
By A.R. Matlock
Driving a four-hitch is a shoulder wrenching, back breaking job, plus riding that hard wood plank seat all day for days on end is a tough proposition. I had some good and some bad experiences during the three months I had hauled freight between Kansas City, Missouri and Fort Smith, Arkansas. They were both staging points for westward bound folks. In 1839 a lot of folks, were coming through Kansas City, bound for the western mountains and plains. Also there was the movement of the Cherokees into the Indian Territory and Fort Smith was one of the entry points into that wild country, so there was lots of freight being hauled over the trails. I had been hauling freight for over two years, working for a couple freight lines. It paid pretty well, but once I get my fill of it, I’ll move on to something else. I had just finished a long haul from Fort Smith to Kansas City and the only thing I was thinking about was a hot bath and some good food, that’s when Price and I met up.
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THE PREACHER
By A.R. Matlock
The sounds of thunder rolling down the canyon hid the sound of the shot; while the lighting pierced the dark black ominous clouds and the rain continued coming down in sheets, a lone solitary outline of a saddled horse standing as if holding a vigil for some obscure reason. The lighting continued to light the night sky illuminating the steep rocky slope lined with blackjack oak and a black object appearing to be a man’s body, unmoving and without life. The storm had raged for two hours. The deluge of water filling a stream bed that roared into life. The body was that of a man whose face had been battered and bloodied but there was still life remaining has a hand brushed across his forehead, a signal of reassurance that he was alive.
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Four Graves
Ron Somers
Dan let the horse drink out of the water trough in the middle of town. He had been riding for four days and right now a good cooked meal was all he could think about.
The town of El Bueno was larger than he had imagined.
He found a man standing out front of a store and asked him for directions to the land office.
“Second building on the right, just past the bank.” the man told him.
“Thanks.”
Inside, the office was cool. Dan walked up to the counter and waited for someone to come out from the back room to help him.
The curtain moved aside and a small man with spectacles appeared. “Can I help you sir?” he said.
“I sure hope so.” Dan replied. “Got this land deed and I need to have it verified. It would be helpful too if I had a map of its location.”
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The Bell of Vallecitos
Dave Cox
There once was a great empire in the American Southwest that controlled the trade of Spain’s northern empire in the Americas, Mexico, America, Texas and New Mexico. The name of this empire was the Comanche Empire. Their empire was vast and basically divided into two separate empires the eastern and the western. They both converged at the Taos, New Mexico, trade fairs.
When gifts were sent regularly by the Spanish governor in Santa Fe life was good. If Mexico was late or too broke or disinterested in the North then life was not so good for the rancheros scattered in the Northern provinces of New Mexico. Life could be downright brutal, lives and homes destroyed; people too terrified to leave the safety of their home.
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The Journey
Robert Collins
Ethan Miller was leaning against the support beam under the wooden awning on Front Street. He was in the shade, avoiding the direct heat of the sun and watching the activity on the dirt road. A few people were walking from one side of the street to the other. There were half dozen horses tied-up in front of the saloon and a buckboard was being loaded in front of the general store. He pulled a stick match out of his vest pocket and stuck it between his teeth. Ethan pushed his hat back revealing his entire face.
Across the street, a middle aged woman stepped off the boardwalk and headed right for him. It was Lizzy O’Donnell, the wife of the local preacher. He could tell by her gait and smile that she was going to want something from him and he was sure he wanted nothing to do with it.
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The Rogue Cowboys
Robert Collins
Standing on an outcrop, holding the reins to his horse, Jacob Wright took in the stunning sight. He was about a five hundred feet above the valley floor, in the same spot he had stood dozens of times before and was still amazed at the beauty of it all. He and his wife Rebecca had a small spread about twenty miles north of Laramie and he had ridden out two days earlier. He was searching for any stray cattle that may still be alive. Over the last few days he was able to round-up a couple dozen but also came across just as many rotting carcasses. Some of the strays were his brand and some from other ranches. He would sort it out later. He had built a temporary corral to hold them and this would be his last day before he herded them home.
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The Fire
Robert Collins
The boy sitting by the fire heard a horse scraping it shoes along the hard ground. He got up and backed into the shadows.
A voice in the darkness said, “I’m coming to the fire. Don’t shoot.”
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THE SHADOW
Vince Doherty
He arrived with the darkness, his sorrel cantering down a bustling main street on which mule carts plodded like migrating buffalo. To the west, a dying sun had turned El Paso’s adobe world to shimmering gold and, as the rider’s shadow lengthened, it fell like night on the cowboys and vaqueros who strolled from saloon to saloon in search of pleasure. At the Butterfield Stage Office, the newcomer stopped momentarily to glance at the notice board. The date was April 10, 1881.
Behind the rider now were the vast and silent Texas plains, over which he had ridden for four long days, watched only by bands of Comanche who still prowled ghost-like and resentful through a world once their own. Now an army of railroad workers toiled night and day to build an iron road that would bring the white man’s future in its wake.
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A Man With No Name
Ron Somers
I could feel the warmth of a fire on my face, and a damp cloth; touching my forehead. Opening my eyes; the best I could, I saw the outline of a young woman, hovering over me.
“Father, he’s awake.” she shouted.
Her words echoed in my head and caused a pounding; that felt like a bad night’s bender. I squinted, but couldn’t make anything out. Closing my eyes, I must have blacked out.
Several times, I woke to an empty room and a warm fire glowing. I could smell fresh baked bread, and wished I had something to eat. Touching my tongue to my lips, I could feel them; cracked and dry. Once again, my head was pounding and I lay quietly, staring at the ceiling. I wanted to move, but was unable. Every little movement caused my head to ache. Sometime later, I lost consciousness again.
The next time I opened my eyes, it was daylight. I could see the young girl, opening the shades to let the light in. For a second, it blinded me and I squinted. She had turned to leave; when she noticed I was watching her.
“You’re awake.” she said in a soft voice. “You’ve been in bed for two days. I bet you’re hungry.” She came over and helped me set up.
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Too Old For All That Gold
Conway Mitchell Kangas
The War of Southern Insurrection and the score of years that it occupied should never be overlooked for its part in changing history. Never in documented time did such a mixture of events occur that changed the direction of the whole world. The term industrialized nation had come about, cotton was no longer king, wooden ships were being replaced by ironclads, and the west for the most part had opened up. As time went by’ the National Asylum’ filled, then slowly emptied of civil war and Indian war veterans, only to be replaced and renamed by soldiers of the Great War. Three score after the fight for state rights ended and a half a continent now removed, gathered in a building created and described best by its name ‘the old soldiers home’ sat one of these undocumented figures, none other than James Mitchum, known to his friends as Tamer.
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Hot Spell
Bill Baber
For weeks on end it had been hotter than Billy be damned. Heat lie on the parched, arid land like a wool blanket that could not be kicked off. Before noon each day, the sky turned a flat white, the sun becoming an unblinking eye of fire. There were no clouds, not a breath of breeze, just the steady, unbroken, oppressive heat.
Once the heat settled in for the day, the little town of Gleneden seemed deserted. There was no commerce being conducted, none of the usual midday sounds from the saloon, no riders coming into town because the trails were thick with alkali dust that would choke a horse and make a man mighty uncomfortable.
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The Last Gunfight
Mike McCann
It was 1885 and in the small town in Barry County, Missouri and the young sheriff warmed his hands near the old iron stove. It was early fall and there was a chill in the air that day but the chill going through this young man’s body was mostly nerves. The sheriff’s position had come open last year and since work was hard to find in this area and the pay was good for being the law, Jason had jumped at the task. The newly elected mayor had given him a badge and slapped him on the back and said “Got get-em.”
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The River
Tracy T Thurman
I came to the river out of desperation. It had been a long time since I ventured away from a world filled with greed and envy. I guess I finally couldn’t stand another traffic jam or another edition of the evening news.
My life had become a revolving door of doctors and lawyers. There wasn’t anything I could do about the sickness that grew in me. I kept it a secret and warned the doctor to do the same. My wife had her lawyers drawing up divorce papers and I certainly didn’t want her to know about my cancer. She could go and find her own happiness, take what she wants and leave me alone. Like the cancer there wasn’t anything I could do about it anyway. My life had been devoured by a run amok system and my soul was crying out for respite.
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Reaching For Straws
By Brian McTavish
The auspicious Horseshit and Gunsmoke Writers of the West were enjoying their annual convention in The Saddlestrings Hotel in beautiful downtown Duncan, Arizona. The members had arrived from many places; most quite distant from Duncan and many of the attendees continued to complain about the one hundred mile bus or taxi ride from the Tucson International Airport. But, that was nothing new to the organization. Members always bitched about the location of conventions even though they had always voted for future convention sites. That was the only thing they were allowed to vote for.
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Boys and Bulls
James J. Liles
For those of you who have ever raised kids I am real sure you’ll agree that the teen years can be more than a little trying. By the time their 15 or so they are convinced that there ain’t nothing that they can’t rope ride, brand, cut or otherwise abuse.
My 15 year old was at that point in life.
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COOL WATER
James J. Liles
I mentioned earlier that there were cowboys from the ranches and farms and there were those from the cities. Well I sort of fell in between those two groups. I lived on the Navajo reservation for a time as a young boy and went from there to my uncle’s farm for a couple of years. During this time I managed to convince myself I was somewhat of a cowboy and proceeded to follow the path of a young aspiring rodeo cowboy entering all the local junior rodeo’s.
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Pinned Down
Keith Hite
The big red headed sergeant chanced a look at his unconscious partner. The bloody furrow on the side of the kid’s head continued to ooze crimson, only the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest assured him that the young man was still alive. His own wound, though troublesome, had quit bleeding and his arm now throbbed numbly. He turned from the unconscious kid and scanned the rim of the small canyon. Their tormentors were still out there, waiting for him to present a target.
The canyon was all of a hundred yards wide and less than seventy feet deep. The floor stretched back a mere quarter mile before ending abruptly in a sheer rock wall. There was a smear of emerald moss drawing a vertical line in the black wall. It was dampened by a trickle of alkali tainted water forming a small pool that drained into the sand and disappeared. The floor of the canyon was scattered with sage, scrub, and huge basalt and lava boulders. The black rocks soaked up the high desert heat, making their hiding place feel like an oven.
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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 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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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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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 pupwet 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 cootset 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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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