We are back! Well, we rounded up two new Cowgals, Rebecca Bonham and Crystal Zeller to help in the office, so we can be on top of the state of the press. This week we are featuring some writers, and will do the same next week, until the first week of November.

So saddle up and get ready to ride!

Loyal unto Death (1)


Lissanne Lake has been a full time freelance illustrator for thirty years. She has done art for over two hundred book covers, including covers for best-selling authors such as Terry Pratchett, Thomas Disch, Raymond Buckland & David Bischoff. In addition, Lissanne has created hundreds of other paintings for magazines and game products and other publications,including a tarot deck, the Buckland Romani Tarot and also has done several large murals.She lives and works at her home in North Bergen, NJ, with her partner Alan and a bossy dog. Her above painting is titled, “Loyal Until Death.”

“Teach Me”

by Larry Bradfield

He got up his courage and knocked on the door
Of the local school marm who lived ‘bove the store
He’d seen her aplenty when he was in town
And got weak in the knees when she was around
He couldn’t keep his mind on buildin’ a fence
And the boys wondered why he’d gotten so dense
Then she opened the door and said not a word
He stammered “I’m Jim and I cain’t count the herd!
If you’d teach me numbers I’d be well ahead
And ranchin’ that’s hard would be easy instead.”
She said, “I wondered what reason to knock you would find
But counting a herd never entered my mind.
Take me to supper before we talk cattle
Then we can get past this meaningless prattle
And talk about things that we both think about
There is more on your mind than cows I don’t doubt.”
Her straightforward manner caught Jim unaware
He tried to think but all he could do was stare
He thought she might rope him before he knew it
Then he thought, “Well, thank God. Just lead me to it!”

Larry Bradfield TBA


(In a cabin near Witch Hazel Creek, north British Columbia, 1957)

by Andrew Hubbard

The winter wind, wolf-like
Claws at the door, rattles it,
And with icicle fangs
Would have it down.

Frost grows thicker on the window
Imperceptibly, in cathedral shapes
Goblin shapes
Claw-hand shapes.

A draft comes down the chimney
Scattering embers that quickly chill
Another draft follows, bolder.

Mindless yet malign
The cold wants to get in at us
Have its way with us,
Consume our fragile warmth.

It wants us stiff, blue-handed
In a rigorous pose it chose
For us to hold until we are
A feast for flies in the spring thaw.

Frankly, I think it will succeed.

I’ve little doubt
It will win out.

(You never liked the little rhymes
I made up at the worst of times.)

My dear, my dear, my precious dear
Come hold my hand.

See the frost tongue
Coming under the door?

My love for all these turbulent years:
We have so little left to fear.

Andrew Hubbard was born and raised in a small fishing village on the coast of Maine. He graduated from Dartmouth College magna cum laude, receiving awards in creative writing and psychology, and a degree in English. He completed his formal education at Columbia University, receiving a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing, summa cum laude. For most of his career, he worked as the Director of Training for a number of major financial institutions. He is a well-known speaker on the topic of corporate training, and has authored three books and dozens of articles on the subject. He is a former martial artist and competitive weight-lifter, a casual student of cooking and wine, a gemologist, a collector of edged weapons, a licensed handgun instructor, and an avid outdoor photographer. He currently lives in rural Indiana with his wife, two Siberian Huskies, and a demon cat. His previous book with IP was Things That Get You.

“Bullwhip Bob”

by Leroy Trussell

Bullwhip Bob,
with uh’pop whipper snap.
he had uh’stagecoach drivin’ job,
an his whip unwrapped, with a thunder clap.

He could take out uh’ eye,at ten feet,
strack uh’ match in mid air.
take off uh’ fly on uh’ bovine seat,
an cut uh’ umbras hair,with barbershop care.

One day took on uh’ gun fighter,
with uh’ pop of his whip.
twere uh’ split second blur,
yank that six gun right off his hip.

Why the other day,hung uh’ desperado,
with only his whip.
he was uh’ robbin’ the stage of its dough,
well right out that saddle,off his horse in uh’ outlaw backflip.

Kap tuh’ stage,n horses goin’,
with uh’ crack of his whip.
never leavin’ uh’ mark uh’ showin’,
reins tightly gripped,and loud poppin’ sound of the tip.

Leroy Trussell TBA

“Dusty Old Book”

by Poppa Mac

New cook on the wagon this year
Certainly hoping he’s a good one
Last one only here a month
Before he was on the run

Seems different than the rest
Nothing appears to get him mad
Food tastes pretty darn good
So it’s not starting out too bad

Doesn’t join in the card games
Never seen him take a drink
Sits quietly reading his book
Claims it helps him to think

Asked if I read the bible
Couldn’t say that I had
Momma used to read though
Mostly when I was being bad

One night he asked me to join
As he began to read aloud
Read about how Jesus loves us
Sat with his head bowed

Those words touched my heart
Like nothing else had before
Tears fell from my eyes
I begged him to hear more

That’s when I remembered
The book sitting on my shelf
It was totally covered in dust
Never really opened it myself

Was a bible given me by mom
Been sitting there quite awhile
Funny how now it felt right
Too take it from the pile

Can’t believe what I found inside
The words changed me forever
I now live as a child of God
And will forsake him never.

Geoff “Poppa Mac” MacKay is a Cowboy Poet, Preacher & Storyteller, and was born in Manitoba in 1960, as well as growing up throughout Western Canada.  Poppa Mac is a life-long cowboy, a poet, and storyteller Working on ranches and at rodeos throughout Western Canada as a wrangler and rodeo clown, provided Poppa Mac with lots of stories. Whenever possible, you’ll still find him on horseback in a pasture working cattle, or in a rodeo arena delivering God’s Message.


by Mark F. Geatches


The man watched the red-brown glob ooze down the pitted face of the spittoon. His expression held a twisted smirk like a man trying to drop a stubborn ordure. The saloon was aphonic except for a couple of whores weeping and such. Wiping his forehead with a checkered handkerchief the man propped himself against the tired bar. He counted eight, mostly men, sprawled dead in odd comfortable positions.


“Damned if I ain’t still got it,” he croaked.

Walking toward the doors the man tipped his hat and wheezed, “Ladies.”
The mahogany doors continued to beat the air as he crumbled onto the parched road.

Mark F. Geatches, whether writing, reading, or riding his Mahindra tractor, Mark’s assiduity is accompanied by music. Mark finds music and writing the perfect mental connection; the nexus of focus and inspiration. Mark has been published in Romance Magazine.

Guest editors have put things together, chosen some fantastic western writers, and a new cover, depicting the harshness of how the west can be, and was.


Miriam King
Stephen Page
Rodney Nelson
Grant Guy
Greg Patton
Steve Young
Shannon Pool
Karla K. Morton, Texas Poet Laureate
Donna Long
Daniel Bulone
Anita Haas
Leroy Trussell
Honor Brigand
Andrew Hubbard
Clarence Wolfshohl
Gregory Kirchhof
Charles Shepherd
Poppa Mac
Ronald Tobias
Ryan Lee
Merle Grabhorn

The book, Unbridled III is available from us at Red Dashboard LLC (email orders: editor@reddashboard.com) at $6 ea, over 10 $5 ea (under ‘other’ sellers), or via Amazon.com.

We thank contributors for their submissions!

Editorial Staff and Managing editor, Elizabeth Akin Stelling

Logo Nat Day Cowboy box
This isn’t quite Cowboy Poetry, but it’s sure entertaining to say the least. We’ve just put out our III Unbridled anthology, and submissions are opened up again for the 2018 season, so follow Robert Martin’s lead, get to writing…

Herbert The Jock

Poor little Billy with no friends at all,
Only Herbert his boa constrictor.
Football was his game,
But nobody to play with.

“Herbert, wanna play some football?”
Said Billy.
Herbert couldn’t talk because he’s a snake.
Twenty years it took to
Teach him how to tackle,
Wrapping his body around Billy’s legs.

So out in the yard they went one day.
Billy got the ball and ran.
Herbert wrapped his body around
And down went Billy on the twenty yard line.
From that day on, Herbert became a jock.

Then it was time to go on defense.
Herbert got the ball and
Slithered in for a touchdown.
“Hey, that’s no fair.
I can’t tackle you.
You don’t have any legs,” said Billy.

Moral of the story:
When thou approach’th the time
To teach something to play football,
Teach a dog, cat, kangaroo, hippopotamus,
Orangutan, elephant, mouse,
Dinosaur, or a wife.
They all have legs.
Then you can tackle one of them.
Thou must abide by the rules:
Offense and defense.

Automatic Button Boy

Fingers, buttons, thoughts, words
Two hundred miles an hour
A wizard, intellect, playful spirit
Flying around the keyboard
Just a stroll in the park
A quick hop and a jump
A hundred hours in five minutes
Racing a pack of Cheetahs
A smooth ride in a Rolls Royce
Just a boy, a seasoned veteran
A master without a master
A pianist with no piano lessons
A humble giant of technology
A master of time and space
Automatic fingers in the right places
A house without a wall
A guru with no patience
A sprinter speeding upward
Reaching the summit without a map
A pilot landing on a star
Goes this little baby boy
Flying into cyberspace
At the speed of sound
With his little automatic fingers
Finding the right places
On his casual computer
With too many buttons on it
For us old geezers to find.

Please little boy.
Slow down and
Show us how you do it.
Start at ground zero, PLEASE!

Beat That Friggin’ Drum

Beat the hell out of that drum,
You music beast with the big sticks.
Send that friggin’ band out into space.
Show them how powerful you are.
Don’t give a damn if you
Come in at the wrong place.
Make a new one for them.
Forget those friggin’ rudiments,
Those chains that bind your spirit.

You are the bomb, the beast,
The steady rhythm master,
The dancer with the
Airy feet and heavy fingers,
The poet with a metal heart,
The despot of swing,
The man with no name,
The island in the mist,
The thunder in the sky,
The lightening in the spirit,
The courier from hell,
The devil with a song,
The minstrel without a care,
The religion without a church,
The private universe,
The alien, the planet,
The sky, the all.
So go out and beat the
Hell out of that friggin’ drum.

Jolly Ole’ Cannibals

Yummy yum yum
For the tummy tum tum
Fat boys and girls
And a bottle of rum

Arms and feet with
Salt and pepper
Yummy yum yum
For the tummy tum tum

Don’t come to dinner
‘Cause you might be dinner
Come after dinner
And have lottsa fun

Cracking jokes and
Beatin’ that drum
Jolly ole’ cannibals
They’re so much fun

Yummy yum yum
For the tummy tum tum
Yummy yum yum
For the tummy tum tum

Robert Martin’s writing has appeared in: Mature Years, Alive Now, Wilderness House Literary Journal, Long Story Short, Poets’ Espresso, among others. He’s won two “Faith And Hope” awards, and published two chapbooks. I am also a pianist and the organist at First UMC of Wind Gap, PA. His works have been chapbooks are: In Reverence To Life – and – A Sage’s Diary (published by In His Steps Publishers)  Robert also writes the speeches for the mayor of Wind Gap.

Better Late Than Never

April 5, 2017


It’s been a while, and our managing editor had unforeseen health issues (serious) in her family–she is back! Books are in production, including Unbridled, CCP’s anthology, and we’ll begin posting soon.

We’d also like to announce:

Red Dashboard LLC Publishing has expanded, into Canada. This venture will ensure Canadian writers will have lower shipping costs, and other advantages. We are setting up the website this week and will share link once it’s all finalized (website). Until then you can submit mss (Canadian writers) via me or our Canadian managing editor at freedom.chevalier@reddashboard.com.

Freedom joins Red Dashboard as Managing Editor of Red Dashboard Press Canada.

Freedom Chevalier is a celebrated journalist and author who grew up in the entertainment industry. She had her first professional gig at the age of four. Freedom sang and acted continuously on stage until leaving the biz at 24, having written several plays and charted country songs including “The Ride”.

Changing paths, she worked in international finance for a decade–working with big hitters like Morgan Stanley and Deloitte. During this time, she continued to flex her creative skills by penning two new plays, including the award-winning “Blue Plate Special”.

We are looking for new tight fiction; boundary-pushing stories in all genres, especially—Westerns, LGBT, Sci-fi, and Aboriginal Voices.

Submissions accepted, but a formal submission period is to be determined.

We are looking forward to our new path, and hope Y’all saddle up and join us!

A Look Into History

October 13, 2016


The managing editor’s history that is. Elizabeth Akin Stelling was born in Fort Worth, Texas, but spent plenty of time in Mineral Wells, Breckenridge, and Odessa, Texas. She had heard family stories, old timer’s they called each other, about how rough living in west and far west Texas was, back in the early century when cowboys and ranches filled the dusty roadways. Elizabeth was born in 1961, and began a love affair with the old west, Native Americans (her great-grandfather mentioned was part Cherokee, and her mother was Choctaw), the oil boom her family benefited from, and how her father taught her to live off the land–even though she was a “sort of” city girl in modern eyes. It never left her, thus Cowboy Poetry Press was born in 2010.

Recently someone from her family’s past approached her on one of her personal blogs, and turned out to have been engaged to her father (what a surprise!), eventually marrying one of his 2nd cousins, paternal-maternal Estill side of the family. Much about her great-grandfather was a mystery, Corine has brought him to light. This old article was shared…


Estill Moving West

—Mineral Wells Oldtimer Recalls Cattle Drives Through Ft.Worth

By Ray McGehee   MINERAL WELLS, Texas

In 1879, a slight, tow-headed, five-year-old boy stood in front of a Fort Worth general store and watched a dusty herd of big South Texas steers amble up Main Street on their way to Kansas. Wide-eyed, he watched as cowboys, their faces covered with dirty handkerchiefs, cursed and cracked long whips to keep the herd moving westward, to bed ground outside town.

Awed by campfire stories of Texas, heard from travelers he’d encountered since his family left their (Stamping Ground) Scott County, Kentucky farm, Clarence R. Estill was soon to be a part of Texas history which few people can still remember. Although his 84 years have dimmed his sight and hearing, Clarence Estill lives today in a world of keen memories of the development of a part of this state which many historians have termed, “the toughest, roughest country, mile-for-mile, to be found anywhere.”

“It was a lust to move west,” Estill says, “which caused Papa to sell his Kentucky farm and pack up for Texas.” But this lust subsided a few days west of Fort Worth when he pulled his team up and made camp near the present town of Cisco in Eastland County. Here the Estill family planted its roots amid the torrid aftermath of Civil War with its carpetbaggers, outlaw rule, cattle rustling, coming of the railroads, and later the era of oil booms.

While still a boy, Estill assumed the role of a man when the first railroad moved westward from Fort Worth into the cedar breaks of Eastland and Palo Pinto counties. For 15 cents an hour he turned in 10-hour days on the railroad to help supplement the family’s meager income. Rough Times, Herd Justice “Those were rough times.” he says, “and I well remember one day a man rode into Eastland and said he had been robbed just west of town by two ornery looking Clarence Estill characters. It didn’t take long for a bunch of men hanging around the livery stable to saddle up and go out looking. “I didn’t hear any more until I started home the next morning and saw two men hanging by their necks from a big oak tree.

We had pretty fast justice in those days; but you know it was a longtime before anybody else was robbed around Eastland.” After living in tents and dugouts while following the railroads, and not sleeping in a “built” house for six years, Estill’s father moved to a small farm just south of Fort Worth near the present town of Benbrook. Farming was hard in those days, and a large portion of the people were drawing daily rations from government soup lines, but the senior Estill decided to give up his small farm for a larger one near Mineral Wells.

In 1886 when Clarence was 12, they moved to a place four miles east of Mineral Wells. And despite the fact that folks there too, were in soup lines, the Estill family managed to make ends meet. Eleven years after his family moved to Palo Pinto County, Clarence, then 23, met and married Delia Mary Connaster, the daughter of a Palo Pinto rancher, who have their own story of moving westward from York, PA, originally from Germay. As he recently recounted his long and interesting life, Delia, in a voice too low for his failing ears, added many details which otherwise would have been omitted.

One of his memorable experiences took place shortly after the turn of the century when a man named George Lock offered Estill $25 to deliver two mares to his brother near Robert Lee in Coke County-a distance of about 190 miles.

“I took the job under one condition,” Estill said, “that being that I could make the trip as fast as the horses would take me. You see, I had a family by then, and since I’ve always been a family man I didn’t like being away from home too long.”

“Well,” Lock told him, “they’re good-blooded mares and in good road shape, so I guess it’ll be all right if you don’t kill ’em.”

Estill saddled what looked like the best of the two and headed west, riding one and leading the other. 190 Miles in 36 Hours “For36 hours I rode that mare and never took the saddle off until I reached Lock’s house about a mile from Robert Lee. “I never will forget stopping at a house just south of Buffalo Gap. I rode up and asked a lady if I could water my horses. She said I could, and if I had time she would make a pot of coffee. I waited in the shade of a big oak tree until she came out with the best coffee I ever drank. “I got to Winters, south of Abilene late that afternoon and ate in a boarding house. That was the first real food I’d had since leaving home. “Just after dark I headed west from Winters and made the 20-oddmiles to a little town near the Colorado river (the present town of Bronte) where I rested and watered the horses again. It was a little before day light then, and when I learned it was only 12 miles to my destination, I rode on and got there about mid-morning. “Seeing how tired and sleepy I was, Mr. Lock insisted I have a good meal and a night’s sleep before heading home. “That was a mighty fine night’s sleep, and the next morning Mr. Lock wanted me to go with him to a horse race, but I declined, saying I had to get home. And after one of his hands tied my saddle in a wool bag, I boarded the train for home with my $25 hidden in my boot.”

Last year at 83 and assisted by his son Virgil, a Brazos County peace officer, Estill realized a lifetime ambition. After years of searching, he was able to find his mother’s grave in a small cemetery near Cisco.

“I had hunted her resting place since her death when I was just a kid, but was never able to find it. But with Virgil’s help and some old documents, we found it clearly marked with a stone my father had erected.” Estill credits his long life to what he terms “homemade” wisdom. “I’ve never taken a drink of anything stronger than good black coffee, and I’ve never used tobacco in any form,” he says, adding: “And about 61 years ago I made sure I found and married a good woman.” Mr. and Mrs. Estill live alone near the outskirts of Mineral Wells. She still does all her own housework while he “piddles” around the yard. Here’s how one of his neighbors describes him: “Mr. Estill is a serious minded old timer, but certainly from the old school where a man’s word was his bond.”


Elizabeth remembers her Dad’s fondness for that set of grandparents. His mother would tell her the story of how she’d pack up an old doctor’s bag and drop him off old Jackson Highway, pointing him toward old highway 80, west, towards the Estill home, he would hitchhike the hour and half, or more to their house for a week or so. He loved the butter beans that waited on the old wood stove. And the good black coffee he continued to drink as his daughter grew up. “Daddy would take us out on hikes around that old farm, an area called Indian Creek. I have fond memories of that place, and I miss seeing Clarence’s wife, my great-grandmother, we called Mammaw Estill, rocking on the front porch, waiting for us to visit.”

“Daddy confirmed his mother’s stories, saying back then it was safe as a 13 year old to walk and often catch rides from sheriffs, farmers, and random salesmen in old model-T fords along the road.” Elizabeth couldn’t imagine, but she herself has his adventuresome spirit.


Keep an eye out for the newest volume of Unbridled III, 2016. It’s been a long grueling year with personal time off, but we’re back up and running!

2015 October Issue- Week 5

October 29, 2015

“Longhorn Grazing” by Merle Grabhorn


by Karla K. Morton

The world is tethered,

strung too tight for too long,

coiling the only way it knows –

wild riot, chaos, mob;

looting neighbour’s stores

for vodka and cell phones;

knots like this bobbin,

spinning wrong;

winding worse with each half hour;

God straining to hear

through screaming, torched police cars,

spewing cans of tear gas.

I stop for a moment

to listen to the night,

the soft nicker of the horses;

the pull and munch of grass.

Somewhere in Ferguson, Missouri,

New York, LA and Dallas,

grass grows just like this,

offering up its gentle hands.

Slowly I unwind

and wind again the bobbin,

ease the grey thread

into the slim steel eyes.

All the colours of the world combined

make grey.

I like the way such tiny stitches

move into two fabrics;

the way they bind through tug and storm;

the way the sewing machine hums as it works,

though no one else but the horses can hear;

the way mothers and grandmothers

reach for needle and thread;

the slow mending of the ravel.



by Max Sparber

There’s a town I know in Arizone

And a stagecoach hauling scrip

There’s a bandit waiting up for it

And she’ll rob that brother whip

She’s a pistol with a .38

And a thatch of well-shorn hair

And Pearl she is on the shoot

As she rides her crowbait mare

She’ll relieve whatever is in the boot

And the bullwhacker his gun

She’ll lighten the load of each passenger

But give a dollar to every one

O will you stop her

On the Butterfield Overland Mail

O when Pearl Hart comes for you

On the Globe to Florence trail

There’s a town I know in Arizone

Where a girl bandit can be found

And there’s a posse headed there for her

She’s the grave or prison bound



by Mark F. Geatches


The man watched the red-brown glob ooze down the pitted face of the spittoon. His expression held a twisted smirk like a man trying to drop a stubborn ordure. The saloon was aphonic except for a couple of whores weeping and such. Wiping his forehead with a checkered handkerchief the man propped himself against the tired bar. He counted eight, mostly men, sprawled dead in odd comfortable positions.


“Damned if I ain’t still got it,” he croaked.

Walking toward the doors the man tipped his hat and wheezed, “Ladies.”

The mahogany doors continued to beat the air as he crumbled onto the parched road.



By Seth Ehret

From far down the valley the two riders struggled through the ever deepening snow. The heavy flakes plummeted down, blurring the image of the approaching riders. Had there been anyone to watch from the top of the valley, their straining eyes would have become confused by the dark spots that dashed and disappeared and reformed into shapes that tricked the mind and blinded the eyes.

The two riders were returning from a hunt. The burlap sacks tied to their saddles were empty and their rifles sat frozen in the scabbards. They were named George and Bill, and the horses were a reflection of the men they carried. In the lead, George rode a tall, dark, young gelding, whose strong legs propelled him forward in lunges that shook the snow from George’s shoulders and cleared a trail behind him. Following was Bill, atop a tired grey gelding whose best days lay behind him. It had a shrunken appearance as it shambled along through the late October storm. Its head hung low collecting ice and snow. Both men had their hats pulled down and their bandannas tied tightly around their faces to protect from the driving snow that began to sting as the wind increased and the temperatures dipped.

The sky was a leaden veil, heavy and foreboding, a couple hours till daylights fail. Every once in a while, George had to stop and look back to make sure that Bill still followed behind. The visibility was now so poor that if they were to become separated by more than fifty feet they would be lost to each other. As George and his horse blazed on ahead the gap between them would increase. The farther behind Bill fell the more George’s trail would get filled in and the harder it became for Bill to follow. Each time George stopped to wait it would be a little longer until Bill and his old grey horse caught up and they could start out again.

One of these times, when George stopped, it was in front of an especially deep drift of snow. He twisted his body in the saddle to look back and saw no sign of Bill. Instead of waiting hunched over letting the cold grab hold of him, he decided to jump off and do some of the work to break trail himself, giving the horse a rest and warming himself up in the process. He slid off the saddle and sunk down to his knees, and he wasn’t a short man. Leading the horse behind him, he began fighting his way into the drift, shoveling snow out of the way with his arms and stomping down to force a path. The snow on either side of him was level with his waist by the time he stopped to take a rest. He glanced back to see that Bill had caught up and was leaning down close to his horse’s neck. To curse it to hell or lift its spirits George couldn’t tell. George threw himself back at the snowdrift, forcing his way through the last ten feet and coming out of it with a pretty good sweat worked up beneath his coat. Bill and the horses followed close on his heels into the slightly shallower snow on the other side.

George stepped into the saddle and let Bill ride up close beside him. “You ever seen anything like it?” he shouted, leaning over to the older man.

“Plenty of times, sure, much worse than this.” Bill boomed back.

“Oh? Well in that case why don’t you lead the way?”

“Because this horse is too tired and lazy. You’d have been home a long time ago already if you didn’t have to wait for us all the time.”

“To tell you the truth I don’t know if I could even find my way home right now.” George admitted. “You’ll have to tell me if I’m still heading the right direction.”

“You know as well as I do to just stick to this incline till the top of the valley, and besides, the horses would probably find their way home without our help anyway.” Bill said with a sharp edge to his voice. “Just stop wasting time already.”

At that George spurred his horse ahead, once again taking the lead. Bill was right, George did know the way home, and he wasn’t worried, he had just wanted Bill to feel like he was contributing something. With Bill having such a hard time, George tried to look appropriately miserable, but he was weathering the storm with relative ease. All George had to do to forget the biting cold and stinging snow was to think of his wife and baby waiting for him at home by the fire, probably with some hot food prepared. Bill had no one waiting for him at his nearby cabin. George would have to invite him to stop so that he could warm up and wait out the storm. Besides, it had been quite a while since Bill had come over for supper.
They pushed on through the snow, George holding his horse back so that he didn’t get too far ahead, and Bill pushing his harder in an effort to keep up. At that pace, their progress was steady, but it was taking a hard toll on Bill’s horse. They could tell that they were nearing the top of the valley because the slope was getting gradually steeper. The last stretch before they reached the flat plain would be difficult, even for George’s horse, who was doing a lot of work to forge a trail through the deep snow. Behind them the bottom of the valley was swallowed in a grey, swirling abyss that grasped after the fleeing men to pull them down into its darkness and despair.

George stopped when he heard a yell from Bill and turned around to look. They were on the steepest part, Bill’s horse had stopped and wouldn’t move forward. Its sides were heaving and even through the snow the hot air shooting from its nostrils was easily visible, shaking the built up frost and ice around the horse’s mouth as it stood and trembled. From the horse’s back Bill was feverishly kicking his boots into the horse’s sides and whipping the reins against its rump. All of this effort exhausted Bill, he dropped his arms to his side and slumped his shoulders, his own chest heaved trying to catch his breath.

George called back to Bill. “Should we use my rope to try to pull it the rest of the way?”

Bill took a while to answer. “What’s the use? I should just leave the damn thing here. It wouldn’t make any difference.” He looked down at the horse. “What good are you anyway?”

Looking back at his old friend, George could think of nothing to say. There was nothing he could do to help Bill if he didn’t want to help himself. “It’s not very far to the top now, we’re almost there.” George said to him before he turned and let his horse plunge ahead the rest of the way. From up on the plain the sky looked clearer towards home and the wind had blown some of the snow away so that it wasn’t as deep. Back down the trail, it was still hard to see, but through squinted eyes he was sure he could make out Bill’s figure standing in front of his old horse, and it looked like he was leading the way out of the valley.

Seth Ehret is a a young rancher from south-eastern Alberta. He attended the University of Alberta where he took creative writing courses instructed by Thomas Wharton. Seth Ehret enjoys writing about animals and nature and draw much inspiration from my horses.

2015 October Issue- Week 4

October 26, 2015

“Windmill 2” by Leroy Trussell


by Richard Manly Heiman

Bill hunkered down in his four bit room. He shrank
Inside his own legend. He cursed
His treacherous eyes, without no tears.

I’ll tell you, once the man saw keen!
Quick as a bobcat he picked up the infinitesimal move, the slight shift of a finger
Before a hand jerked and the tranquil exploded and somebody died.

Bill wiped with his sleeve, once snowy, now
All stained with road grit. Bill stared bat-like through the window grime and curtains
Film before his eyes, he dimly made out Jane.
Disheveled girl, that Jane. Tumbledown, all drunk on whiskey
Lurching along in the hell-flea-bit town. Hell, Jane.

Sister of mercy, Jane/ Scout of the Black Hills, Jane
Swam the Platte /Wrote her legend
Lied about Custer she /Freak talked old Sitting Bull/Jane.

Bill slept a lot, threw cards
Stroked his mustachios, aimed at targets
Missed, had visions, saw dark spots on a tall sun he
Dreamed of gold and endless buffaloed plains.

Bill heard shadows wailing out of Abilene
From Hays and nameless places, pushing him to some foregone
Conclusion, facing the wall
Staring down black aces, turning to stone.

Richard Manly (Rick) Heiman lives in the Northern California “Gold
Country” where there is currently little gold left and no water from which
to pan it. He works as a substitute teacher and writes mornings, evenings,
weekends and when the kids are at recess. He is in his fourth quarter of
the Lindenwood U. MFA Writing program. Rick rides horses whenever he can
find one slow and low enough to mount up!






Pine Creek Clocks c. 1982 *

By Denis Robillard

In a far off place I hear duelling clocks
In a room on a ranch.
The burdens of the day lie deep and heavy
Inside the entrails of clocks.
Breathing expanding
Exhorting themselves in slingshot time.
Above the scene a gun totting Brautigan
Takes pot shots at these dueling clocks,
His poem bullets splitting the targets
Like rotten logs,
Mind dangling metaphors
Splitting through amnesiac veil of booze
Trying to find another blackberry motorboat.
Another watermelon waterfall trapped






Summer in Del Rio

by Suzanne Bailie

Two years since a drop of rain whispered through town,

Even tress withered right out of the ground.

Folk clung to the shade afraid of day light hours,

Their petrified souls cried for cool water.

Under the dark of a new moon a lone

Silhouette appeared on the outskirts of Del Rio.

A rider, an angel of sorts, with icy blue eyes darting with fire.

God’s eternal foe in black hat and buckskin.

Whispered thoughts led him to the saloon.

Where he flowed on a motionless breeze.

All drinking ceased.  Even the flies held their breath.

The place became as still as a cathedral.

Glancing round the room with predator knowing.

He strode right by their hollow desperate souls.

Wisps of smoke curled from his dark skin boots.

“Large whiskey,” the simple order.

“I’m powerful thirsty and I’ve a fiendish ride.

Pour me your best golden fire.”

With shaking hands, the barkeep filled an empty glass.

Whiskey downed through pale thin lips.

On the wooden counter, he tossed a gold coin.

It burned forever all who tried to claim it.

With a Sulphur sigh, he left the bar

and people still claim to this day.

When Lucifer, himself, needs a shot.

It must be summer in Del Rio.




Dine With Pat

Food & Dining in the Garden State


Western short stories, heritage and trail recipes.

The Blank Page

Confronting Writer's Block