Short Stories & Tall Tales By Cole Burgett
An established author by age 14 and speaker by age 16, Cole grew up on a healthy dose of both classic literature and cheap pulps, all of which have influenced his love of writing. Described as having a soul straight out of the Old West, two of his favorite western writers are Elmore Leonard and Louis L’Amour, both of whom he grew up reading. Having published a variety of works including speculative fiction and horror, he considers the western genre to be his niche, where he is most at home. He was weaned on a wide range of western films that have influenced his take on the genre, from American classics like Rio Bravo to Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns and even modern films such as 3:10 to Yuma. He views writing westerns as a way of harkening back to simpler times as well as a means of exploring the modern world while offering up a dish of good ol’ fashioned pulp-style fun.
Born in the hills of eastern Kentucky, he has lived in Williamson, West Virginia and Kingsport, Tennessee, and currently resides in Knoxville with plans on moving to Chicago to continue his time as a student at Moody Bible Institute. He intends to work in the ministry after his schooling is complete, while continuing to sharpen his skill with the written word.
The Killers of Crazy Man
Jack Drummond
There was something strange about the way the man lay on the sun-scorched earth, all dead and shot to doll rags.
Judging by the tracks around him and the blood splatter some ways back down the trail, I could tell just by looking that somebody had plugged him while he was passing through on horseback. He’d made it just a couple of feet, then had come out of the saddle. He’d crawled some feet, but the gunman had come up on him and had become his killer while up close and personal.
Gutterson’s Notch
Cole Burgett
The man they call Gutterson came swaggering through the saloon doors and it was at that moment I knew someone was going to die. See, a rider came through the day before and stopped in for a drink. I was sitting in my usual spot—a table with one chair over against the back wall—facing the door when the rider walked in and ordered a drink. He struck up a conversation that I couldn’t help but overhear and heard him say something about Lorne Gutterson and Ricochet.
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