“A Lady’s Pistol” by Chuck Caruso

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Nobody said it.  Not Briggs or Gillespie.  And sure as hell not Mr. McClain, who wasn’t even there having this conversation with them in a small clap-board tavern off the main street.  Called the Buffalo Head, the place had gotten its name from its most prominent decoration, an impressive trophy mounted on one wall.  The tavern also happened to be one of the few in this section of town that McClain didn’t own — at least not on paper.

None of them said the actual words, “Go kill that chinaman, Dickie.”  But to Dickie Sloane their statement of his mission was as clear and as cold as the creek water running down from the snowpack on Mount Whitney.

“Here,” Briggs said.  “You’ll need this.”  He slid a well-worn derringer across the table to Dickie.  A small pistol with two short .36-caliber barrels, over and under, it felt surprisingly heavy in Dickie’s hand.  Fully loaded, the derringer held just two shots.  Dickie had heard the derringer called a lady’s pistol, but that didn’t matter to him because using it was going to make him the man he had always wanted to be.  Sure as shooting, it would.  Dickie was flattered to find out the big man, Mr. McClain himself, knew who he was.  He’d been so happy at this news he would have turned down cash payment anyway, but he was more than willing to accept the alternate payment they offered him.  Six months worth of free tumbles at the Blushing Rose.

“Keep it hid,” Gillespie said.  “Till you’re ready.” Continue reading →

“Stranger on a Black Stallion” by Jared McVay

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The black stallion, its head held in regal splendor, danced down the dusty street less than two hours after the sun brought news of the coming day.

On his back, a tall man with a tied down colt on his hip rode easily in the saddle, looking neither left nor right, yet his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, missed nothing.

Reining in at the sheriff’s office, the man ground hitched the stallion, knowing the big horse would stand quietly, waiting for his master to return.

“Where can I find the sheriff?” the stranger asked of an old man sweeping the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office.

The old man had a bent back and watery eyes. He leaned on his broom and eyed at the stranger and his horse. “Down to the cemetery. The Beeler gang shot him four days ago.” Continue reading →

“Soldier’s Disease” by Tom Pitts

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Some of the children in town called him Colonel Tom.  He was never a Colonel.  It was one of the many reasons he avoided town: the looks from the children, the looks from everyone. The only reason he even went into town anymore was to get his bottle of morphine. The rest of the time he was stuck at his shack in the Sweetwater Woods. The creek trickling by could barely be classified as water, let alone sweet, but it was his and only his, as far as he could tell.

The Great War for Southern Independence had been over for almost six years now; he was sure he could still smell the carcasses of his comrades buried in shallow graves near his home, the shack. Forgetting the war was getting easier and easier, but the smell would still haunt him. There were cool nights when the sickly sweet stink would compel him to pull up his floorboards, searching for a dead rat or possum, only to find dirt and pebbles. On warm days he’d scrub himself raw in the muddy creek, thinking the offending smell might be coming from him.

The days passed quickly on the morphine. It was the days without the drug that were torturous and slow. But even when he felt his best, there wasn’t much time to get things done. The sweeping, the chopping … all waited till they absolutely had to be done. He never cooked till he was too hungry to wait any longer. His musket stood still now; he couldn’t afford the shot or the powder. He hunted only with traps, often waiting too long to check them and finding the meat spoiled. But it was only himself he had to look after, and he didn’t pass judgment on his sloth. Thomas knew that he still worked hard. He worked for the morphine. Continue reading →

“Rise to the Challenge” by John Laneri

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Hours after the fire, people continued to wander the ruins – their thoughts lost in the swirling wisps of smoke drifting from blackened rubble and scattered debris. They were in Texas, circa 1890, and each of them knew that change was coming to Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

In the saloon, Vernon Carter’s eyebrows lifted heavily. “As mayor, I’m tellin’ you gents we have at serious problem confronting us.”

He paused a moment, his eyes moving from face to face, studying the other two men on the town council. In appearance, he was an older man with rosy cheeks and a weather-beaten face.

“In fact,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “Our town will dry up to nothing unless we come up with some serious thoughts. As I see it, things are about to change faster than a fellow can spit. We need to get our heads together and think out a solution.” Continue reading →

“Santa Martina” by Eirik Gumeny

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After a difficulty in Santa Fe made it a liability for Calvin Dunlap to show his face there, he shinned it north, not stopping until he reached Santa Martina. More specifically, the Suerte Negra cantina.

Calvin made his way to the long, oak-panelled bar, ordered a bourbon, slapped down a dollar, and had the bartender leave the bottle. He put away the shot he was poured, letting it burn in his mouth before swallowing, and glanced to his left, out the entrance way, to what was passing for a hotel across the street. The porch was crooked, the windows were broken, and the old man asleep out front looked both.

Cal put his hand back into his pocket, feeling around at the remaining coins, and figured he had more than enough to cover the cost of a night in that particular establishment. It hadn’t been all that long since he had slept in a bed, but it could run a fair deal longer soon enough. Calvin’s aim was South Dakota, and whole lot of miles between him and Santa Fe.

Calvin poured himself another drink and downed it in a gulp. He gathered up the glass and the bottle and turned around, surveying the room for an empty table and a dark corner.

What Calvin Dunlap found was six feet of trouble he thought he’d left in Texas. Continue reading →

“No Rest for the Weary” by Sandra Seamans

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Colby Stevens stood on the ridge watching for movement in the town below. The only thing tracking along the main street was tumbleweeds and dust kicked up by the wind. With a storm brewing and night coming on he needed a place to hole up. Besides, he didn’t fancy getting caught out in the rain when he could sleep with a good solid roof over his head.

“Looks deserted, old friend,” he said. Swinging up into the saddle, he nudged Blue down the slope. “Let’s see if we can find us some water down below in that old ghost town, maybe rustle you up some hay.”

As they neared the town, Colby’s horse became skittish, trying to back away from the town as if it were a patch of quicksand. Colby patted the horse’s neck, “Easy, boy, ain’t nothing here can hurt us. The place is deserted.”

Colby urged Blue forward with a gentle prod of his heels. “See there, fella, nothing’s gonna hurt you. ‘Sides Mange won’t be looking for us to hole up in an empty town. He knows I’m partial to a good saloon and plenty of company. You know, Blue, there ain’t nothin’ worse than a man like Mange dodgin’ your every step. Man keeps a body plumb tuckered out trying to stay clear of his kind of trouble. Well, maybe tonight will be different.”

Most of the town was boarded up tight against the wind and strangers. Colby never understood why folks boarded up a town they were deserting. It wasn’t like they were ever coming back. Made you wonder what they were trying to hide behind them locked doors and boarded windows.

“You know, Blue, they might better strip the buildings down to the ground and take the boards and nails with them to the next boom town they plan to set up business in. Least then they’d have something to build with. Course, they could just be trying to get shunt of past so they can start fresh. Either way, there just ain’t no figuring the whys of what people do.” Continue reading →

“Rosie’s Chicken & Biscuits” by Axel Howerton

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Zeke had seen all manner of nature’s savagery during a lifetime on the trails—Death and dismemberment, cannibalism, all manner of killing —this was different. These were no bloody wolves, no mountain lions, no coyotes eating their own dead, no giant Tenochtitlan eagles sweeping down on the cool night breeze to carry off a tup or two. These were goddamn monsters from hell.

Q was twisted up, long legs stretching out with his boot heels in the dust, body low to the ground and his shoulder up against the edge of the trunk that was shielding them. Q had grown up hunting cougars in West Texas. He knew how to creep out, get a clear shot at a rabid heap of teeth and claws. Rosie called Q Ol’ Dog and Zeke was the Young Pup. The Ol’ Dog had hunted damn near everything that could be killed with a knife or a gun, but he didn’t look like a hunter now. Zeke could feel Q next to him, trembling like an autumn leaf, the oaty smell of fresh piss wafting up to mingle with the stench of slaughter.

He ain’t never shot no Chupacabra, Zeke thought to himself. He remembered Rosie saying it, crossing herself over those big, sweet caramel teats and mumbling in her queer backwoods Spanish. Chupacabra. Goat-suckers. Demon Dogs. Continue reading →