By Shaun Ryan

The elongated shadow cast by horse and rider seemed to dance across the long grass, an eerie caricature stretched by the rising sun. The rider’s weary gaze twitched from its impossible shape to the ridges on either side of the valley, searching for any threat. The new day’s peachy glow warmed Nate Loorde’s back as he rode west. It was a welcome sensation.

His aching muscles soaked in the warmth, protesting the long ride a little less as he stretched in the saddle. He was bone tired, having ridden through the night.

By Ben Bridges

Link Dayton was out back, chopping wood, when he heard the young boy shout, “Rider comin’, Pa!”

He was a bulky man forty summers old, with a mess of black hair spilling from beneath his loose-brimmed hat and a shaggy black beard that covered a square and stubborn jaw. He sunk the axe into the stump nearby, straightened to his full six feet two, wiped his over-large hands on the bib of his stained coveralls and headed for the house.

By Herschel Cozine

It was late summer, 1879. The fierce desert sun left Will weak and near delirium. He had survived for three days by carefully rationing his water. But with only a few swallows left, he knew it was just a matter of time before the desert claimed him. The few cactus plants that grew in this part of the desert offered little in the way of water; surely not enough to keep a man alive.

By John Kelly

The skin of the canteen was leaking and he figured he had four swallows before he ran out. He tipped the canteen vertical and swallowed. Four times. And was out. He looked down as sweat dropped onto the horn of his saddle, smiling wryly. He stuffed the canteen into a rear pouch and shifted in the saddle, titling his hat back. A grove of trees was in the distance. But there was just scrub brush and dirt between here and there.

By Jay Miller

1870 on the California Trail. Gold was amuck, whiskey was abounded, women were not plentiful, and the cattle herds were being driven hard.

Jed sucked his last sip of whiskey from the bottle and tossed it into the fire.

By D. L. Chance

He died like he’d lived: In the saddle. A heart attack got him.

I didn’t know the man, but since he was the uncle of a friend’s wife I went along with them to the funeral when they asked. Except for a dozen or so months in the army in his late teens, he’d spent his whole life on his ancestral ranchlands way out on the Eastern Colorado prairie, and the drive out to the town closest to his spread took us almost two hours.

The little church was already packed when we got there.

By Steele CampbellEven though I awoke when he stirred the topmost step, I feigned sleep until my father stood next to my bed and spoke.“It’s morning and those horses won’t harness themselves.” He went back up the creaky stairs, leaving me to have heard and obey.I sat up, hanging my legs off the bed. Pulling my sleep heavy head from my hands, I looked at my brother. He hadn’t budged. He continued sleeping with no intention of venturing into the dewy morning, which would be cold until the sun’s rays peaked over the mountains and rehearsed movements warmed tired muscles.

By Mark Mellon

The travelers drew near the lake before sundown. Suggs and Mendoya rode ahead to scout a camp. The leaders of the Anglo and Tejano factions, they resembled a frontier Don Quixote and Sancho: Suggs, lean and wiry in a frock coat and plug hat, long rifle slung over one shoulder, and the dour, rotund Mendoya in his black sombrero, saddle adorned with silver conchos.

"Enrique," Suggs said, "how come your folks look so glum?"

"Que?" the Tejano barked. "They look like always."

By Asher Ellis

The sting from a sharp slap to the horse’s haunches made the animal sprint even faster across the desert plain. Its broad hooves thundered against the hard clay ground as it sped along like a living locomotive. The beast didn’t know where it was going nor that it had become the latest prize of Sam Cornet, the self-proclaimed greatest horse thief in the West.

Larry Payne

Marshal Cooper Smith stepped out onto the boardwalk in front of Della's Café. He'd just finished his favorite breakfast of hotcakes, warm syrup and coffee. Only one thing could make it better. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out the fixings and rolled a cigarette, sticking it between his lips. After a short search, he found a match, striking it against the side of the building, lighting the quirley. What could be better, he thought, taking a long drag and stepping off the boardwalk, walking across the street in the direction of his office.