Short Stories & Tall Tales by Bill Henderson
Weaned on Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour, Bill Henderson has spent most of his adult life in his beloved Arizona deserts and mountains.
A retired construction superintendent, he now has time to pursue his love of writing, prospecting, and prowling ghost towns.
With one collection of western short stories under his belt, he is now writing his first full length western novel due out this winter.
The Bonnet
Bill Henderson
He closed the doors to the barn and carefully inserted the bar through the loops, wiring it into place to keep the wind from jarring it loose. Reaching up, he found the rope and peered through the snow looking for the lights of the house. Nothing. Well, that’s the reason for the rope he told himself, and began to trudge through the drifts toward the unseen house.
Turkey Creek
Bill Henderson
Jake could still faintly hear the wagon retreating and again he cautioned his younger brother not to move until he was sure it was gone. Yesterday morning, they had been fishing the Verde River on the northern boundary of the ranch, when the man in the wagon pulled up.
Maggie May McAllister
Bill Henderson
There was a low, morning mist hanging in the Iowa woods, and not a breeze to be had. I’d heard a big old, bushy-tailed red squirrel jabbering at something, and I had him spotted. This one would make four and that’s a fair breakfast for three folks. Pa was still in Waterloo, so it was just me, Ma, and Maggie May.
The Yuma Stage
Bill Henderson
From the cloud of dust and the clatter of steel rims on stones, I knew the afternoon stage from Yuma was just over the next rise, maybe half a mile off and headed my way, so I rode off the road, just as four men appeared from out of a dry wash. They pulled bandannas over their faces and took up positions on either side of the road. They hadn’t seen me, so I dismounted and let the reins trail on the ground.
The Yarnell Bank
Bill Henderson
It was one of the smoothest jobs he had ever done. The lock on the bank’s front door yielded easily to his expertise, so he stepped into the darkness, found a place to hide, and waited for the dawn, carefully re-locking the door behind him. He didn’t want to alert the banker that anything was amiss.
Oak Creek Canyon
Bill Henderson
It was a pleasant camp, situated on the banks of Oak Creek, a few miles south of Flagstaff, where he had delivered a prisoner, just yesterday. He spent the night under an overhang, enjoying the sound of a soft rain and the burbling of the creek water. He found some dry wood under another overhang, built a small fire, heated a pot of coffee, and fried some bacon. He was a contended man when he rolled into his blankets and drifted off.
