Small Snippets

When I paused recently to take stock of what I’d written this year, I was surprised—as I often am when I look back over a few months’ work instead of focusing on how much I am accomplishing (or not accomplishing) in the day-to-day of the present. I admit, the first three-quarters of the year were tough going, but I did make inches of progress here and there; and October was a good month indeed. Once again I’ve racked up more words on short story projects than on any of my novels-in-progress, but I don’t really mind. I’m very happy with several of these stories, and I’m now looking at releasing another Western collection sooner rather than later. And hopefully the bit of momentum I’ve been gaining will spill over onto one of those “big” projects at the right time.

Meanwhile…we have snippets! For the first time in ages! Most of these are from the aforementioned Western short stories, plus a tiny taste of a Mrs. Meade short story which you’ll be reading in its entirety even sooner…

Dell Paget had not said a word. He moved between the men without looking at them, seemingly unconscious of the threatening attitude that radiated from them, and stood staring down at the calf, which had ceased to struggle and lay there with slightly heaving sides, raising its head every once in a while and letting it fall back with a thump of its muzzle in the dust. There was a freshly burned brand on its flank—a little crude as might be expected of one done with a straight iron, but a perfectly legible Paget mark.

*

“You’ve got an idea,” said McCreath. “I can see it running round inside of you. What’s up, Giff?”

“I’ve got a hunch,” said Gifford. “It’s a long hunch, but I’ve got to play it, because I don’t see any other way out of this. I’m going out for a while. Owen, you think anybody’ll try to scare up trouble here tonight?”

“Not without my say-so.”

“Well, then don’t say so. I’ll be back before dark if I can. But if I don’t make it back till morning, just remember I voted for you last election, and I’ll be sorely disappointed if you let any unauthorized persons get in this jail when they shouldn’t.”

~ “The Smoking Iron”

“Sorry, Parson,” he said, “you’ll have to find another way. This is Glenn range, and no sheep come on it.”

“Well, that’s within your right to say,” said Donald, “but are you sure you want to enforce it? We don’t intend to take your grass or your water, merely to pass through, turning neither to the right hand or the left.”

Mullen was no Old Testament scholar, but he had a vague idea he was being laughed at. “Boss’s orders,” he said stiffly. “We’re not to let any sheep through here. Not for any reason.”

*

The bleating of the sheep was growing louder and more chaotic, and as he opened the door he heard the pounding of horses’ hooves, and the crack and clatter of a gate flung back. Whistles and yells mingled with the crescendo of terrified sheep’s voices, and then the thudding rumble of hundreds of small hooves that told him the sheep were spilling out of the pen. He ran toward the noise. He could see nothing except a dim cloudy mass that was the sheep’s white wool, melting away and streaming crookedly together again in their flight into the night. The dogs were still barking frantically, one voice a little distant as if it was trying to stem the tide of stampeding sheep.

~ “Sheep Need a Shepherd”

Rex’s right hand fumbled in the pocket of his sheepskin-lined coat and brought out a packet of cigarettes, and he focused in on the action of taking one out and putting it in his mouth, flicking the lighter with his thumb, holding the flame to the cigarette: forcing his numb-feeling hands to keep going through the motions of what they were supposed to do. Roger’s voice jarred in his ear: “—said you weren’t changing your winter pasture, so I don’t see the need to change anything else. Unless you’ve gone and changed your mind about that too?” The voice was injured, accusing.

*

Friday morning was gray and misty, the ceiling of cloud over the valley lowered like a blanket over the corrals and the home pasture, with torches of yellow aspen on the hills glowing through the fog. There was a fine mist on the shoulders of the men’s coats, and the clang of a gate or the sound of a laugh seemed to echo back a little from the fog, as if the valley had grown narrower as the sight of it was shut out.

~ “Big Aspen”

“Mrs. Henney,” said Mrs. Meade firmly, “you are too sensible a woman to be giving any credence to the idea of ghosts at your age.” (Mrs. Meade was not sure this statement was true, but she thought it would do Mrs. Henney good to hear it.)

*

Eleven o’clock that night found Mrs. Meade arranged upon a slightly unsteady but comfortable seat composed of a cushioned footstool topped by the pillows from her bed, which placed close to her door gave her an eye-level view through the keyhole when seated upon it. The gaslight in the hall was adjusted to a nicety, low but not too low, and from a hasty experiment Mrs. Henney had participated in after her other boarders had retired, Mrs. Meade knew she would have about five seconds’ decent view of anyone passing along the hall.

~ “Mrs. Meade and the Invisible Lodger”

Stay tuned…