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Short Stories & Tall Tales by James J. Griffin
While a native New Englander, Jim has been a student of the frontier West from a very young age. He has traveled extensively throughout the western United States, and has visited many of the famous Western frontier towns, such as Tombstone, Pecos, Deadwood, Cheyenne, and numerous others.
Jim became particularly interested in the Texas Rangers from the television series Tales of the Texas Rangers. His deep interest in the Texas Rangers led him to amass an extensive collection of Texas Ranger artifacts, which is now in the permanent collections of the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum in Waco.
Jim has also been an avid horseman all of his life. He bought his first horse, a pinto, while he was a junior in college, and has owned several American Paint Horses, including his current mount, Yankee.
Jim's books are traditional Westerns in the best sense of the term, with strong heroes who have good moral values. Highly reminiscent of the pulp westerns of yesterday, the heroes and villains are clearly separated with few shades of gray. No anti-heroes to be found here.
Jim is a graduate of Southern Connecticut State University. When not traveling out West, he currently divides his time between Branford, Connecticut and Keene, New Hampshire.
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The Phantoms of Metototootsie
James J. Griffin
Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved
1
“We’ve been makin’ good time, Bob,” Thad “Spider” Webb said to his riding partner, Bob Taylor, as they and two other Box X cowboys, Mort Sullivan and Pete Hollings, rode along. The four men had been in the saddle for five days as they drove a small herd of eighty head of cattle south from the Box X home range, near Benson, Arizona, to Fort Huachuca, the Army post only fifteen miles from the Mexican border. Sam Manson, owner of the Box X, had sold those steers at a good price to the quartermaster at the fort. The soldiers stationed there were certain to appreciate the fresh beef, once it arrived. Or, as Sam had told the four men he chose to drive the herd to the outpost, “If the beeves got to the fort at all. All you men will have to face is stinkin’ Apaches, sneakin’ Mexicans, and lousy white raiders. And that’s not even countin’ the desert, which will try to kill you every chance it gets. Good luck, men.”
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A Kidnapping in Alice
James J. Griffin
1
“We’ll be in Alice shortly, Jasper. Soon as I look up Dave Owens, I’ll get you settled in a stall for a couple of days,” Texas Ranger Joe Kaminski told his horse. “Reckon you could use some rest as much as I can, mebbe more. And this time, I’m finally gonna catch a bigger fish than Dave, bet a hat on it.”
Jasper merely snorted.
“Oh, you don’t think so, horse?” Joe said, with a chuckle. “Well, I’ll show you, smart guy. C’mon, get movin’.”
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The Wolf
James J. Griffin
Tate Sims watched from a bluff high above as his target knelt alongside a small creek, then bent over the water, cupped his hands, and dipped them into the stream. Sims lifted his rifle to his shoulder, aimed carefully, and fired. His target arched in pain when Sims’ bullet ripped into his back, then collapsed face-down into the creek.
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Bullets, Blizzard, and the Babe
James J. Griffin
1
“Sam, looks like we might make it home for Christmas after all,” Texas Ranger Lieutenant Jim Blawcyzk remarked to his gelding, Sam. “That’s Jude Tobin’s horse, along with the boy’s who’s ridin’ with him. Looks like the information we were given back in town is correct; they are holed up in that shack.”
The Ranger and his ill-tempered one man horse, a palomino and white splotched paint, were hidden in a cluster of boulders, which sheltered them from view of the cabin. Two horses, still saddled and bridled, were tied to the rail out front. A dim light shone through the cabin’s only window, casting its yellowish glow on a thin covering of snow which coated the ground, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney. For nearly three weeks they had been trailing Jude Tobin, who was wanted for bank robbery in three counties, and his young cousin across north Texas. Most of the hunt had taken place during bitterly cold weather, unusually frigid for Texas, even in mid-December. Now, it appeared their search had finally come to an end.
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Gunfight at Taylor Ridge
By James J. Griffin
After what seemed like weeks of dreary, rainy weather here in New England, Sunday dawned warm and sunny, so after attending 7:30 Mass I decided to take my horse Yankee out for some riding and patrol time. Yank and I are volunteers with the Connecticut Horse Council Volunteer Horse Patrol. Members of the patrol help park rangers and personnel from the Connecticut D.E.P. in assisting visitors to the state parks and forests.
Once I saddled up, Yank and I headed for the Town of Clinton Land Trust properties of Buell Forest and Taylor Ridge, which are close to the stable where I board Yankee. The trails in those areas aren't heavily used, so I didn't bother with my uniform. I just put on my jeans, long sleeve denim shirt, neckerchief, and my cowboy boots and hat. Due to the prevalence of Lyme Disease in this area, which was first discovered in Lyme, Connecticut, which is only about ten miles from Yankee's stable, I always dress this way to help avoid picking up ticks, no matter the time of year or how hot the weather.
I had been riding for about an hour and was alongside the Indian River when Yankee pricked up his ears and sniffed the air, a sure sign that someone or something is nearby.
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Partners
By Jim Griffin
"Looks like those hombres headed right into the canyon, T. That shoe with the piece chipped out of it shows plain enough," Texas Ranger Jack Blanchard told his buckskin paint gelding. Blanchard had dismounted and was carefully studying the hoofprints left by the horses of the men he'd been following for the past three days.
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The Youngest Ranger
By James J. Griffin
Texas Ranger Clay Taggart reined his black and white overo to a halt atop a low hill. The view took in the settlement a short distance south. Taggart swung out of the saddle and pulled off his Stetson. He lifted his canteen from the saddlehorn, opened it, and poured most of the contents into the hat. He placed the hat in front of the horse’s muzzle. The gelding drank greedily.
“That’ll be Uvalde just ahead Mike,” he told the horse. “We’re headin’ into Travis Burnham’s home grounds. Mebbe we’ll finally catch up with him. Boy howdy, he’s led us a chase for fair.”
Taggart had been trailing the renegade for almost two months, from San Marcos, where Burnham had robbed and killed two cattle buyers, through Boerne, where he’d robbed the bank, badly wounding the clerk, to Kerrville. Taggart had missed finding the outlaw in that town by two days. Word had reached Burnham a Ranger was on his trail, so he left town on the run.
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The Wind
By James J. Griffin
I awoke with a scream loud enough to wake the dead. I began to leap from my bunk, butinstead settled back down, shaking with fear and covered with sweat. The full moon sent its vivid light through the bunkhouse window and directly onto my bed, while a steady wind moaned through the pines. That wind had blown open the door and slammed it against the wall.
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Railroad Canyon
By James J. Griffin
Lucy Squires Taggart gazed distastefully at her Texas Ranger husband while he dressed.
“Clay, please tell me you’re not going to wear that shirt,” she said.
“Why not? What’s wrong with this shirt?” Clay responded.
“It’s all faded and worn. The elbows are ready to wear through, and it’s been patched too much. And those old bloodstains. They’ll never wash out completely,” Lucy explained.
“What does it matter?” Clay protested as he snapped the shirt closed and tied a bandanna around his neck. “I’m gonna be on the trail for weeks. In two days it’ll be all dusty and sweat-stained anyway.”
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Banker's Bluff
James J. Griffin
The sun was setting over the rugged, arid landscape of far west Texas. Young Texas Ranger Pete Natowich pulled his horse to a halt, not quite sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.
“Trooper, unless I’m seein’ things, that’s a lake just ahead, off to the left. Who’d ever have thought we’d find this much water around here? We’re gonna spend the night here, boy. Can’t make Rankin until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest anyway.”
Pete put his big bay gelding, with the half-crescent star and strip on his face, into a trot. Sensing water and rest ahead, Trooper responded eagerly. Both man and horse were tired, having been on the trail from Austin for several long, hard days. Pete had been a Ranger for little more than a year. He was barely over eighteen years old, lean, blue-eyed and blonde-haired. This was his first solo assignment, an assignment which would have been handed to one of the more experienced Rangers, if any had been available. The long ride had taken its toll.
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