Short Stories & Tall Tales by L. Roger Quilter
L. Roger Quilter is a retired electrician who served in the Royal Canadian Navy for twenty-two years.
Born in London, England, he and his family moved to Canada in 1954. Father, grandfather and now great grandfather, he and his wife, Kathleen, make Victoria, British Columbia their home.
Since retiring in 1989, he has written many stories, including two in anthologies, Creature in The Rose, BeWrite Books and Black Sails, 1018 Press - a pirate fantasy.
After trying several genres, he is now into Western themed stories.
“As a teenager I fell in love with Jim Hatfield stories, by Jackson Cole. Years later I became upset, because I learned Jackson Cole was a name used by twelve different writers.”
Roger’s next project is a humorous slant on history.
Tex McShane’s Last Ride
L. Roger Quilter
There was no wind. The fierce storm that raged for several hours overnight left a path of destruction and devastation in its wake. Large branches, ripped from the trees by the sheer strength of the gusts, lay across the trail that wound through the hills west of the normally arid Texas desert. Shreds of juniper bushes were scattered in all directions. Previously dry riverbeds now showed swift, flowing water as the hills drained.
Black Stetson
L. Roger Quilter
1. Gunshots in the Dark.
The thundering sounds of two horses galloping at breakneck speed shattered the twilight silence above the canyon’s rim. Two men leaned over their mounts’ necks oblivious to the foam streaked flanks and labored breathing of the animals.
The Phantom Beast of Montana
L. Roger Quilter
Joe Simmons raised himself up in his stirrups, to see better over the tops of the bushes surrounding him. As he looked around his horse shied and whinnied.
“Stand still, you dumb ol’ hoss,” Joe shouted, “What’s the matter with you?”
One of a crew of cowhands searching for a lost bull, Joe shielded his eyes against the glare from the late afternoon sunshine.
“Hey Dan, Barney,” he yelled, “Where are yer?”
There was no reply, and he realized his two partners were no longer in the vicinity.
The Stranger’s Business
L. Roger Quilter
The sun slipped behind the western mountains as he rode into town. If you glanced at him, you could see a tall, middle-aged man, slumped in the saddle of a sturdy horse. Lashed to the pommel, a lariat connected to his packhorse hung slack as the animals strode together at a walking pace.
Lean of figure, with a nondescript air about him, he rode through the deserted main street to the hotel. Dismounting, he tied the lead horse’s reins to the rail in front of the edifice, grabbed his satchel and entered the foyer.
The Preacher of Dubois
L. Roger Quilter
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Intoning the burial service with a catch in his throat, Reverend Michael Reilly stood in the pouring rain as three coffins slowly descended in the newly dug graves in Dubois Cemetery, or Boothill as the town’s population knew it.
The graveyard sat on top of a hill west of the town, where exposure to the chill winds blowing from the nearby Teton Range made it an unpopular place to tarry for long, especially in early march.
Luke’s Legacy
L. Roger Quilter
“He weren’t much to look at; thin, short and wiry, showed all of his sixty years as he shuffled along, but thar wuz somethin’ about him that drew yer attention.” Rusty swallowed more of his beer as he regaled the three men, seated at a table in the Black Stallion saloon in Cimarron. The person in question was Rusty’s friend, Luke, who passed away the day before. Falling off a horse, chasing cattle kills a man, especially when his head strikes a rock.
Black Hills Gold
L. Roger Quilter
Tom Adams reined in his horse and gazed around, as he carefully searched the landscape, but nothing disturbed the tranquility of the rolling prairies spread around him. The early summer of 1869 was dry and the long grass shimmered back and forth in the light breeze.
Tom, a slim man with lean features, burnt dark brown from exposure to the elements, his wrinkled skin belied his true age of thirty. He squinted from the glare of the harsh sunlight, searching for any signs of his quarry.
A Drifter Named Lew
L. Roger Quilter
He was a loner. He didn’t look like he had much of a personality, even looked downright characterless, but I think that’s the way he preferred it. He sat slumped in the saddle on a piebald mustang that showed its age; a weary mount with its head lowered as if to graze. Horse and rider seemed indifferent to everything around them. Nobody could figure how old either of them were, or just how fit or run-down. All they saw was just an old saddle tramp on an aging cayuse drifting through, looking neither left nor right.
