Stories From The Old West Novels & Stories

"I think this one here has something he wants to tell you." I prodded him one more time. "We did it. We took some of your cattle. But it was Wilson that made us do it," he wailed plaintively. Bill cocked his hat back and gave me a big smile. "You know, when my grandfather started this ranch they would just hang horse thieves and cattle rustlers. Seems like that was justice. Shame we have to be civilized now a days."

Kian just shrugged, only saying, “My pack are nomads, and the passing of stories have been our tradition for centuries.” The sun was getting lower in the sky, I could feel the air growing ever colder with each minute, and a lot of it was the chill from Kian’s story. We couldn’t just stand out here any longer. I turned to Nick and said,

Since it was a Saturday, the children could play as much as they liked. … Old Crows Town was a small town. From above, the outline of the town looked like a crow with black outlines and everything. No one knew how exactly how long Old Crow Town had been around. Not even Old Cabbage, the oldest man in the town. Many of the members in the town had either migrated there or the members of the older generation who knew anything about the town’s history were long dead.

He needed a plan. During the next couple of days, business at Dixie’s Diner kept everybody hopping. Wade felt the beginnings of a friendship developing between Pops and himself. The old man knew a little, or sometimes a lot, about practically everything—particularly if it had to do with Tribute or Texas or horses—and he was full of stories that generally started with, “Back when I was a boy,” and ended with, “And you can take that to the bank.”

and Ezra was shaking his head and Dax was sitting beside me with his hand back on his own knee and his jaw was tight from trying not to laugh. After dinner we sat around the fire. The wine kept flowing and the conversation got easier. Rena started telling stories about the packs she'd visited on the border, the wolves she'd healed, the things she'd seen on the road. She talked about the refugee column and the night the sky turned orange and the old man who'd carried his dead wife's shoes for twenty miles because he couldn't bear to leave them behind. The room went quiet after that story and Hilde was holding her daughter tighter and Ezra was looking at the fire and Dax's hand found mine betw

In 1890, my great-grandmother Takoda was only a child when her ancestors told her stories while they huddled around the campfire with handmade blankets from buffalo hide. Later, she told my mother the same stories about humans who could walk on all fours and pale skins and drink your blood. Nowadays, no one talks about the past, which leads us to believe they are just scary stories the tribe elders tell for fun or to put fear into the youngsters so we won’t enter the woods outside our borders. However, I believe nothing they say. But my grandmother does and never lets my family forget it. I usually get grounded for laughing at her, thinking she’s a crazy old woman.