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
Humid winds howled through the canyon, throwing up plumes of black dust. The particles clinked against the reinforced glass of my goggles as we trotted across the terrain. A set of specs and tightly-woven coverings were necessary when you’re hoofing it across the wastes. I was glad to be properly
The frontier, that section of the world where the roots are soaked by blood and tears rather than rain. Grampa told many stories: the be the immortal, mist-swimming striga, the covens of witch and warlock, or my own least favorite yet most constant nightmare appearance: The trees of skin and
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
You can only bury the dead so deep Read More »
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
A Cold Wind Through Prairie Grass Read More »
Lane Brandon cursed himself for remembering. Out here, it was easy not to. Freight trains, barrooms, cathouses, jailhouses – all those belonged back in Denver. He’d come west to rope and tame mustangs, not to be at a hostler’s beck and call. Thus he’d enlisted his fellow groom, Gordon Plowman,
