D. Kirts Lewis

They were honest men sitting tall in the saddle high up on my ridge so I wasn’t fearful of them as I had been of many. There’s a fine line between honor and contempt but even at a distance you can get a good feel for a man by the way he sits a saddle and any jury would have agreed with me, they were honest men.

The Greenhorn
Charles Langley

He had been hanging around town for about two weeks, spending little but time, because time was all he had. The hostler let him sleep in the livery stable loft. He tried to ease his hunger pangs with a nickel slice of cheese from the large wheel of cheddar in the general store and five cents worth of crackers from the barrel at the end of the counter.

By Charles Langley

The stranger wore a brand-new ten-gallon hat that had never held water and still had that store-boughten smell. His chambray shirt was starched and ironed and had fancy little stitches around the pocket. His belt, wide and hand-carved, had obviously never supported a six-shooter and his polished high-heeled boots sported no spurs. He was a dude, that’s what he was, an out-and-out dude.

“I hear tell this town of Tombstone has some real tough hombres,” he said, lookin’ right at me. “Know any of ’em?”

Dave Cox

Chapter 1
Little Ben

“Chili Verde!, Aqui!, Ahora!” These were the sounds of the vendor as he pushed his cart around the plaza. Praying that he could make enough from the turistas to keep from having to go to the Forest Service and getting on the fire fighter list another year.

He wasn’t a lazy man but he liked to work for himself: go in when he wanted to; not because he had to; the same with leaving, hours he put in, days off and everything else a working man had to put up with.

By M.S.

“Fifty five days.”

“How long?”

“Fifty five days.”

“What are you going to do Miles?”

“Keep digging.”

Miles got up off his chair and walked to the steps of the back porch leaning his hand against a wooden post. He stared off to the horizon. Nothing but brown. Brown dirt - dry and dead. Withered corn – shriveled and crisp on the ground. Brown sky filled with dust and shimmering with heat.

Miles walked down the steps of the porch and to the well. It was dry at least for the first thirty seven feet.

Richard Douglas

As the aged rider crested the rise, he looked toward the next hill in the far distance. There was an unbroken view of nothing but sand and more of the same. He was beginning to doubt his choice of going by way of this route. The stage road had many safe stops and plenty of water. Here there was none. Not even a cactus or sage bush in sight. Just sand. He prodded his horse on toward that next hill.

True Accounts
Myles Culbertson

Tough … that is always the first term that comes to mind whenever I think of Bud Clayton. Even in his later days the man’s stature and demeanor testified of a life lived in a world intolerant of fear or weakness. Bud’s countenance revealed a seasoning gained in the transition from territorial frontier to modern industrial society. His inscrutable expression was at once fierce and pleasant, impermeable as a canyon’s rock face. His piercing stare could end a fight before it started.

Conway Mitchell Kangas

The War of Southern Insurrection and the score of years that it occupied should never be overlooked for its part in changing history. Never in documented time did such a mixture of events occur that changed the direction of the whole world. The term industrialized nation had come about, cotton was no longer king, wooden ships were being replaced by ironclads, and the west for the most part had opened up.

A.R. Matlock

At fifteen, I was an experienced woodsman running the woods and the rolling hills around Elk Creek. The day I showed Ma and Gatlin, my older brother, I was strong enough to aim my rifle and hit where I pointed. I went out on my own.

I counted myself a good shot, but Gatlin was better. Living most of my life in the woods had taught me to be careful, especially today. I was young in years but I wasn’t dumb. So I waited in a grove of persimmon before crossing an open patch of ground leading down to the creek.

A.R. Matlock

The deep tracks of the heavily loaded wagon appeared to have no definite destination. The hills of southeast Indian Territory are crisscrossed by small streams and groves of black jack oak covering the canyon sides, no easy drive by any measure. One would almost believe that the two men sitting on the spring seat were waiting for someone to find them. It made us almighty curious.