Stephen G. Lonefeather

I was sitting in my wheelchair watching from the window of my room. I’d just rolled myself up to the glass to get a little sunshine when all hell broke loose on the boardwalk across the street.

Now it might only be a guess on my part as to what the deputy was thinking exactly, but I’d known him for eleven years … I once even wore the same badge he does. … so I watched him do just what I thought he would do— I saw him run for cover.

Maddie Holthe

Death came to Rawlins the day I turned thirteen. Tall and skinny I was, all hands and feet, fast outgrowing my britches. Pa was long of limb too so I reckon I took after him; that was fine by me, for no better man lived than my Pa. For fifteen years he’d kept the peace in Rawlins. Although folks in town knew him as a gentle man, to drifters and troublemakers he was a man not to be called less’n they could back their play with a gun.

by John S. Craig

He had known many kinds of cold, and this was the sunless and bitter kind. He had known the cold of the Indiana and Kansas prairie as a boy, and the snowy cold of Colorado as he and his family marched to Denver along the Federal Road west into the dry, frigid winds that swept down from the distant Rockies onto the stark plains.

Mike Kearby

Author’s note – How did David Crockett die at the battle of the Alamo? This question has been the catalyst for much rancor among historians, Americans, Mexicans, Texans, and history aficionados. The story below while fictional, offers a plausible explanation of what could have happened that Sunday morning in San Antonio and might well satisfy both sides of the Crockett question.

Joe Mogel

The pounding on the door was loud but brief. Priest Fransisco, in a nightshirt and holding a candle, groggily shuffled through the mission church to the front door.

Clifton Bush Jr.

Ben Farnsworth rode through the canyon, his left arm in tatters. He held the pommel of his saddle with his right hand, and steadied himself. On either side of him the cliffs rose to tremendous heights; how he got to this place he did not know. He had lost a lot of blood and his mind was wandering. His horse kept plodding through, going forward to where he knew not.

Clifton Bush Jr.

He rode through the sudden rainstorm, the wind whipping his slicker and threatening to tear the hat off his head. He pulled the oilskin tighter about himself, and pulled his hat down to keep the water out of his eyes. Lightning crackled in the background, and the thunder boomed in response. His horse plodded on through the nasty weather, each leg movement rewarded with a fresh slop of mud upon his skin.

Clifton Bush Jr.

I

The rising sun found him lying on his side, unconscious. He was weak with thirst, and had lost some blood as well. There were dried spatters of it following him up the sandstone ledge to where he had finally collapsed. Who he was or how he got here he had no clue. He didn't even know what had happened to him in the past few days. All he knew was that he was hungry, thirsty, tired, and dizzy from loss of blood.

Kent Kamron

With the arrival of the railroad into Sentinel Butte, the locals knew this lazy town of hearty settlers lying near the border of the Dakotah and Montana Territories was about to blossom. Without a doubt, this midge on the prairie landscape would double in size every year, and within a decade, the people were sure this town would become the jumping off station to the West. After all, the railroad was a measure of prosperity. It brought wood, cement, steel, more settlers, and every product imaginable for the home and ranch house.

Andrew Stuchlik

Tommy Typhoon - Part Three
I still find myself sufferin’ in the thoughts of what I coulda’ done differently. A cold chill runs right through me when I picture their faces. Surely, if anything, it’s my arrogance that’s got me here. If only I had been stronger, if only I was a better man than what I was, than who I have become, things would be different.