Martin Mann squints as he scans the horizon, the nub of a used cigar clenched between his teeth. He lets out a frustrated sigh as he dismounts Blue Baby. His dusty boots hit the ground. “You can take it easy, girl. We’re done fer today,” he says, giving his horse
Walker McCoy was the measure of how stubborn the dead could be. He was buried at twenty-two feet in some nowhere prairie just outside of Greer County on October 4th 1867. Two days later, a group of Indians found his severed arm—identifiable only by a trashy signet ring. That limb
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We rode out just as the sun peaked above the horizon. Scarfed down eggs and biscuits, followed by coffee as the first few rays of light began to show through the window. We said goodbye to our ma and pa and then we left. My older brother Bud and I
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“Have you ever heard about the curse of Snake McQuinn?” I switched the beam from my flashlight off. It was Halloween night, and sure enough, there were some kids trespassing in Farmer Huxley’s old hay barn. I’m the sheriff in Walnut Brook, and it wasn’t the first time the old
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