Kevin Carson

Deputy Albert Allen was tacking up his horse in the livery stable owned by the Sheriff. He retrieved his saddle and slung it over the sorrel he preferred to ride.

“I’ll rig him up for you if you like,” offered Billie Lloyd, the stable hand.

Allen bent over working to tighten the cinch, “Almost done now Billie, you just keep on cleaning up.”

Billie watched, resting on his pitchfork while Allen finished up, “Where are you bound?”

“I have business to attend to out Covello way. After that, we’ll see,” Allen replied.

James P. Hanley

Sheriff Dave Nelson of Carter’s Crossing stared at the dead man on the saloon floor. There was no visible blood, no bullet hole in the body and no one saw the killing.

“He just fell over,” the puzzled bartender pulled on his gray-speckled beard and explained, shifting his bulk from leg to leg, “He ordered a whiskey, swallowed it and about ten minutes later, his head struck the bar and he went down.”

Don Chenhall

William “Frog” Edwards jerked conscious, gripped in panic. He had dreamed of torture, where he was spread-eagled in the blazing sun while ants crawled over him. He tried to wet his flaking, peeling lips with his swollen tongue, but there was no wet. Sprawled on his back on a gentle incline of fist-sized rocks, he vaguely considered that he no longer felt discomfort from their sharp edges.