western | Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

February 24, 2012

From “Gambler’s Prosperity” by C. Alton Parker

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“Now, I run an honest faro bank, good sir,” Evans said with his best ten-dollar smile. “I’d stake my reputation on it, and I’m known from Dunn’s Crossing to Prosperity Falls.”

“Hmph,” Perkins snorted. “That might be enough for the miners and other hardtack types wandering through here, but I’ve read my Hoyle’s. It says there ain’t an honest faro bank from ocean to ocean and I’m apt to agree.”

“Well, if you see it that way, sir—not that I agree with said interpretation—I could see my way to moving on.” Evans kept smiling even as his mood darkened and he slowly reached for his faro box. He’d hoped for a few more days—maybe even a week—in town.

“Now, I ain’t closed you down yet on account of the fact that no matter what I say, people with more money than wits is gonna want to play, and I’d rather you out in the open where I can get a clean shot then in some back room where you’re free to put .44 to brainpan if someone catches you at your cheating.” Perkins rested his hand on the heavy Colt Walker by his side. “I may not go by ‘Gravedigger’ Perkins anymore, but I’m not afraid to fill six feet of earth with them that deserve it.”

“You wouldn’t gun down an unarmed man in broad daylight with witnesses, would you, deputy?” Evans said. He kept the grin at its brightest even as he eased his box closed, ready for an upturned table and a run to the post outside. “Seems like that’d be bad for all kinds of business, not to mention raising all sorts of questions. I’ll see myself out, if you don’t mind, and save you the cost of a cartridge.”

January 16, 2012

From “The Prosperity Holdup” by C. Alton Parker

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“It’s junk,” one of the bandits cried, after sifting through the cart. “Ide beads and a heap of rocks!”

The leader, Hart, looked at Jacob and Virgina. “What kinda pea-brained, lily-livered Prosperity Falls asshole puts four guards on a cart full of rock and Ide art projects?” he cried.

“The same kind of pea-brained, lily-livered asshole who’d attack a cart guarded by Rangers, I’d reckon,” Jacob said.

Hart flicked his revolver at one of his men–finger still on the trigger. “Go on up.” The second flick pulled the trigger back enough to fire, and the bandit Hart had been pointing at emerged with a hole through his slouch hat.

“How are you still alive, if that’s how you handle your shooting irons?” scoffed Jacob. “I swear, I’m beset by utter morons at every turn.”

“Take their horses,” Hart said to his lieutenant with the still-smoking headpiece.

Virgina’s hand crept around to the Remington nestled safely in her duster. “You need a new recruit there, Mister Hart?” she said. “Maybe somebody with no fingers so they can’t accidentally shoot you in the ass?”

“For riding,” Hart said. “Back to the camp, at least. Then we’ll have ourselves a nice feast.”

Virginia saw Jacob’s hand tighten on the mare’s leg in his hip holster. “You’d go to all the trouble of robbing the Prosperity Rangers just to end up eating a pair of $50 horses?” he laughed. “You’re about as good a rustler as you are a shootist.”

December 27, 2011

From “Every Hentsett, Every DeWitt” by Teddy R. Mongeau

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“Every Hentsett is a low-down, dirty, good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch. Exceptin’ the ladyfolk, of course, who are daughters-of-a-bastard.”

Keith Hentsett didn’t look up, and took a pull from his glass as if nothing had happened. “I reckon you’re right about that, Mr. DeWitt,” he said. “You seem to be the authority on such matters.”

DeWitt reddened, clearly frustrated that he’d failed to get the expected rise out of his adversary. “I said you came from a house of whores and half-breeds, boy,” he growled. “Your momma’s popped out sixteen bastards with sixteen johns and your pa paid double the going rate after they laughed at his gun.”

“That has a ring of truth about it,” Hentsett said. “Glad to know how it really went down after all these years. Buy you a drink, Mr. DeWitt?”

DeWitt swatted the glass out of Hentsett’s hand. “Dammit, boy, you better jump or you’ll get a bullet in your back.”

Keith sighed. “Very well, have it your own way then.” He reached up, seized the front of DeWitt’s duster, and slammed the man’s head down on the bar. The man could barely grunt before his nose was broken and he toppled to the bar floor, unconscious.

“If any of you cares, I’d move him from that position,” Keith Hentsett said. “Might drown in his own blood otherwise.”

October 15, 2011

From “The Withdry Line” by Samuel Roth Palmerston

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“Don’t mind him,” the bartender said. “The Withdry family’s always been a boil on our collective asses.”

“I beg your parton?” William Withdry said, stumbling from his chair. “Say that again, you toadsucking waterserver!”

“What, the part about your grandfather being hung for stealing horses?” said the bartender. “From the only ranch in the territory? As I recall, they found him from a monogrammed kerchief he left at the scene–why, yes, that’s right, the Withdrys came in all foppish from back east looking to make a fortune and quickly slithered back into the dust.”

“You’re trying my patience, old man,” William said, swaying a bit on his feet.

“Or maybe you meant your pappy, the great filibuster, who got himself down to Mexico to earn himself a fortune to replace the one his pappy shat on,” the bartender roared. “Spent two years in a Mexican jail after his men deserted him, and your mammy had to sell everything you owned to make bail!”

A pistol was in William’s hand. “Them’s fightin’ words,” he growled.

A shotgun was in the bartender’s. “Oh, you hear that from a real poke, Billy? Where’d you be without this place, anyhow? Blind from your momma’s moonshine?”

April 12, 2011

From “McWhit and Colt” by Francis Garfield Ivers

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Slim C. McWhit certainly earned his name. His momma had passed him off to an aunt and headed west as soon as she could travel, leaving him only with a daguerreotype and a given name. But if nothing else the woman was prescient, as people had often said–safely out of earshot–when observing Slim’s lanky frame and uncanny skill with the knife.

He made his living as a trapper, hunter, and occasional gambler, as did many of the old cowhands rattling around Prosperity Falls. Ever since the Ide raids had caused the settlement there to splinter–and drop its time-honored rules against gambling and making a dime off Ma Nature–there had been opportunity for folks like Slim.

A fellow Texan had arrived with Slim, one Coulton Baines. Colt Baines was cut from the same cloth and shared a similar story of growing into his name, even though he preferred Remingtons and Schofields for his trick shooting. Though they’d come as friends, the two soon parted as enemies over a woman, and not an establishment in Prosperity Falls saw one coming without a shade of fear over what’d happen if the other happened upon them.

January 25, 2011

From “Ashes to Ashes, Dirsts to Dust” by Ronald Yar

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“I’m lookin’ for John Dirsts,” Cameron said. He clinked the glass down and tapped it for another shot.

“Lots are,” Murray replied, deftly dispensing a fresh belt of whiskey. “What makes you think anyone here knows a whit about ‘im?”

Clink. Tap. “Only liquor for miles around that won’t blind you. Now how about that John Dirsts?”

Murray hesitated until Cameron sent his shot glass back with a silver dollar in it. “Lots of folks come through here askin’ after Dirsts,” he said. “It’s them posters what done it. Problem with posters is they ain’t always current. Dirsts is dead.”

“Another man took ‘im in?”

“Naw. Poisoned by moonshine, or so the doc said. He’s been under a cross on the hill goin’ on a week now. General store sells shovels if you wanna see for yourself.”

October 30, 2010

From “Gravedigger Perkins and the Legend of Evans’ Gold” by Russ Fowler

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The announcer’s voice, warbled by the distance of the WQEH transmitter, breathlessly ran through the series’ back story:

“It’s time once again for the adventures of ‘Gravedigger’ Perkins, the only lawman of the West to earn that grim moniker through his tireless pursuit of law and justice…and his pursuit of evildoers to their graves! But Gravedigger Perkins isn’t tangling with any old small-time thugs, is he cowpokes?”

“No!” cried Sandy.

“That’s right, he’s got two of the meanest outlaws in the West to bring their eternal justice! Daniel ‘Thinker’ Evans, a mastermind of planning and execution! The godfather of crime out West! The Moriarty of the Mojave! And Thinker Evans’ sinister sidekick Robert ‘Shooter’ Dawson! The murderous yin to his boss’s yang, a hardened killer with the second-most skillful gun west of the Mississippi! With Gravedigger Perkins on their trail, it’s anyone’s guess where the adventure will lead!”

October 9, 2010

From “Prosperity Falls” by C. Alton Parker

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: drama, fiction, historical fiction, mask, masquerade, party, story, western |
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This post is part of the October Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s theme is masquerades.

The Prosperity Masquerade was the social event of the early autumn season, and invitation in hand Virginia was going to make her presence known, wearing the family’s hand-me down costume as befit any son or daughter of Marshals Vincent and Patricia MacNeil. Prosperity Ranger or not.

When she arrived, whispers ran throughout the crowd, about the scandal of an ex-Ranger appearing at a Prosperity Masquerade and young master Sullivan’s motives for the invitation. Partly out of a mean-spirited desire to see how far those flames could be fanned and partly out of a need to express her gratitude in person, Virginia sought her host out, given a wide berth by everyone that recognized her.

Jacob stood at the center of the crowd, visibly ill at ease. He was dressed as a motley jester–the very costume two generations of Sullivans had worn before him–but the front hung open, revealing the young man’s mud-spattered Ranger uniform and gun belt, and the three-pronged hat was in his hands rather than on his head. Virginia was drawn closer to Jacob as revelers moved about him like river waves, and moments later they were face to face.

“Virginia…I was hoping you might come,” Jacob said when he spied her.

At a loss for how to respond, Virginia bit her lip. “How have you been?”

“Nothing’s been right since…then,” Jacob muttered. “Nightmares, rumors, the Ide on the warpath after all they did for me…everything’s unraveling.”

“What do you mean?

“I…I can’t explain it,” said Jacob. He waved Virginia away. “I need to get out of here. I’m suffocating. Please, enjoy the ball.” Before she could protest, he had slipped away, shedding his costume piece by piece and leaving each on the floor as he went.

“What are you doing here, MacNeil?” someone barked. It was Ellen Strasser, resplendent in a dress of eastern silk and wearing a Venetian mask. “Only Prosperity Rangers and their invited guests are allowed to attend! ‘Washout’ doesn’t qualify.”

“Jacob invited me,” Virginia said, spinning her invitation between two fingers. “If you’ve got a problem, take it up with him.”

Suddenly Virginia was up against the wall with Strasser’s arm across her throat. “Don’t you even think of dragging the young Mr. Sullivan’s name through the mud with your presence here,” Strasser hissed. “Isn’t almost getting him killed enough?”

“It got me an invitation,” Virginia said. “Maybe you should try almost getting Jacob killed next time. Then you can be his guest instead of just being here because you’re a Ranger.”

Strasser drew a derringer from her bustle. “Invitation or no, you are leaving. Now.”

The widow Sullivan appeared behind them, dressed all in white and speckled with crepe paper snowflakes. “Is there a problem here, Strasser? As a Ranger you ought to know that firearms are prohibited at town events.” A Colt Army glistened in the holster at her side.

June 2, 2010

From “Throwdown at the Holyoke” by Colleen Foster

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The thing is, Harry de Vries was all show. Oh, he looked mean, and he was big enough, and long hours under the hot frontier sun had given him the leathery consistency one expects of a shootist. But the fact was, de Vries was myopic, with everything more than four feet away rapidly fading rapidly into colored blurs. Spectacles were out of the question–who’d ever heard of a shootist using spectacles for anything but reading, and de Vries was illiterate.

Nevertheless, through intimidation, bluff, and bravado, de Vries had been able to establish a fearsome reputation in the territories. Not enough that he could completely do as he pleased, but enough that free drinks were often poured, free nights in the bordellos were not unknown, and anyone who knew his name would think twice about irking him. Few had the stones to challenge someone so ornery-looking and weathered; fewer still had cajones enough to stand de Vries down when that big Schofield came out of its holster; no one had noticed that the aim behind it wasn’t true. So Harry de Vries was a big man about the mining settlements.

All without firing a shot.

Then there was Hanson Everett. He could see clear as an eagle on a sunny day, but something wasn’t quite right upstairs. His own mother had said so after finding Everett hunting for rattlesnakes as a boy, letting them jump out and bare their dripping envenomed fangs before bringing a rock down on their skulls. As an adult, he recklessly sought out danger wherever it presented itself–rustling single cows from the largest and best-guarded herds, picking barroom fights, and generally flapping his gums.

Oh, there had been beatings aplenty, and more than a few stints in local jails. But Everett was smart enough to lie his way out of many predicaments, and he was good-looking enough to disarm many would-be antagonists with a smile (any attempt to refer to him as “Handsome” Everett inevitable led to bloodshed, however). The way Everett figured it, he was like a piece of pig iron in the forge, with each hammer blow making him stronger and bringing him closer to being something to really be feared. And then…well, watch out, territories.

Everett and de Vries met in the Holyoke Saloon in Dunn’s Crossing just short of midsummer; neither would walk away from the confrontation.

Excerpts From Nonexistent Books