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Short Stories & Tall Tales by John Duncklee
John Duncklee is an award-winning author of sixteen books. His published work covers fiction, non-fiction, satire, short stories and poetry. Prior to his writing career, John was a university professor in both the United States and Mexico, a cattle rancher, Quarter Horse breeder, designer of mesquite wood furniture, and served his country in the U.S. Navy during the Korean War. He lives in New Mexico with his wife, Penny, an illustrator and artist.
Awards and Recognition:
$5,000 Unrestricted fellowship for excellence in poetry:
Arizona Commission on the Arts.
Author of the Year: Friends of Branigan Memorial Library.
Las Cruces, NM
Member of the Authors Guild and Western Writers of America
Spur Award for best western poem 2008 Western Writers of America
Cowboy Poetry>>
Author's Herald >>
Interview>>
The Starving Ego
John Duncklee
Dane Biggers had a starving ego. He had had the condition all of his adult life. It didn’t plague him because he had no idea what it was that demanded attention almost constantly; but Biggers condition bothered many who came in contact with him for one reason or another.
Born in the Great Lakes Region, Biggers left for the West at age ten because his father got transferred to Arizona. Even at that tender age, Biggers had put the cowboy on a lofty pedestal, and during Biggers’s seventies, he had never removed that cowboy from his perch. Living in Arizona gave Dane Biggers his opportunity of a lifetime to become a cowboy, the kind that he avidly read about in pulp western novels. During his teen years Biggers borrowed horses from his friends and rode in the riverbed, but he never saw a cow. He didn’t need a cow to feel like he had arrived at his goal of becoming a cowboy. He found a straw, broad brimmed hat in the river, soaked the brim in hot water and curled it up like he had seen the movie cowboys wear theirs. He never realized that cowboys bought broad brimmed hats to keep off the rain and block the hot Arizona sun, but he didn’t care. He was a cowboy. It was not long before he gained enough weight so that he had difficulty borrowing horses from his friends. Nevertheless, Dane Biggers was a sure enough cowboy because he had ridden in the dry sandy bed of the Salt River that ran through the city of Phoenix. Some called Biggers “a drug store cowboy,” coming close to the truth.
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GONE FOUR YEARS
John Duncklee
Ben Norris had been a cowboy ever since he had helped his father before the old man had retired. His father, also a cowboy, worked around southern Arizona, taking care of the cattle and saddle horses on various ranches. High school left him disinterested in book-learning, as his father referred to academics, but he managed to squeak through and graduate. As soon as he had his diploma in his hand in June 1946, Ben went to work full-time on an old Spanish Land Grant, Hacienda Kino, which was owned by Harry and Kate Sinclair. He rarely saw the Sinclairs because they lived two hours away in Tucson in their mansion located in “Snob Hollow”, a section of town housing the wealthy merchants as well as a few ranchers, most of who came from elsewhere.
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THE UNKNOWN HORSEMAN
John Duncklee
The corral was circular, made from mesquite poles and posts Estacada style where the poles are laid between two posts on one end and two posts on the other. The poles are stacked as high as the builder wants them or as high as the builder has poles for. This corral was circular because the man who built it wanted it for training horses.
This particular day there were six cowboys sitting on the top poles of two of the sections of the corral. All twelve eyes were focused on a wild eyed three-year-old bay gelding that stood in the center of the corral occasionally shaking his head. The cowboys assumed that the horse was displaying his anger toward them since all six had tried to ride the gelding unsuccessfully. None of the cowboys had noticed the short Mexican man standing at the gate to the corral with his hands resting on the gate poles.
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THE OLD HOUSE
John Duncklee
Nestled in the shade of tall eucalyptus
territorial roof and porch
the ranch house
old when I first saw it the year of Pearl Harbor
Headquarters for Canada del Oro ranch
George Pusch’s, there’s a ridge named for his father
branded Z bar K
I remember because I helped a time or two
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FIDDLESTICKS
A Western Story Without Cuss Words Or Family Values
By
John Duncklee
At one time Flying Lead was the smallest town in Arizona. In spite of its size, consisting of the Muleshoe Bar, the Jackass Hotel, and The Stall and Straw livery stable, there was more mescal consumed within the town limits than whiskey in any other place in the territory. That was because Jesse served only mescal that he personally distilled out in back of the Muleshoe. There is a long footnote in one Arizona history book that when the Muleshoe Bar was dismantled the wood was used for firewood. People discovered that their stoves and fireplaces became puddled in melted lead from the many bullets that had been imbedded in the planks over the years.
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The Last Breakfast
John Duncklee
The blue and pink tour bus, with “Heavenly Tours” emblazoned on its sides, zoomed north toward Tombstone, Arizona. It slowed down as it entered the town. Every passenger looked out of the windows.
"Look at that sign in the window, boys," Ike Clanton said. "It says 'The Best Margarita This Side Of The Border'."
"If she's anything like the Margarita I knew in Juarez, we could be in for one helluva good time," Cole Younger remarked.
"All you fellers think about is women," "Doc" Holliday said from the last seat in the back of the bus.
"The Crystal Palace looks to me like our kind of place," Jesse James said.
The bus parked on a side street to discharge its twelve, grizzly looking passengers.
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THE BLIZZARD
John Duncklee
The storm unexpectedly rolled in with a fury. I had listened to the weather report the evenin' before as usual. The weather reports are not always right. Last night and this morning proved to be one of the wrongs.
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THE DOVE AND MR. McCall
John Duncklee
As he did every morning for the past six years, Jack McCall sat in his
old, tattered, wicker rocking chair on the front porch of his old adobe
ranch house in the foothills of the craggy, desert mountains. And, like
every morning, he was reminiscing to himself about his life as he waited
for Kate to bring his mug full of steaming coffee, and set it on the old nail
keg he used for a table. She would always say, “Mornin’ you old rascal.
What are you dreamin’ about this mornin’?”
Always McCall would reply, “Nothin’ much, just thinkin’ about how it
used to be.”
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CHICARO
Horse Trading with Ginger Ale
John Duncklee
During the early 1960's many cattle deals and horse trades became finalized on the bar stools or booths in the El Dorado Bar. "Chema" witnessed a good many transactions from his position behind the bar. "Chema" didn't say much, but his friendly smile made customers feel welcome.
Since my business was a combination of cattle and horse trading I came to know "Chema", and one day I expained that I didn't believe in mixing booze and business. The arrangement "Chema" and I made insured that my trading instincts came from a clear mind. Should I order a Scotch and water while sitting with anyone, he would bring me just that, a Scotch and water. If I ordered a Scotch and soda, he would bring me a glass of ginger ale.
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