From the book his eyes shifted to the doorway leading to his and Tarl Bimbo’s bedrooms. Rubbing an eye, he shuffled across the room, through the doorway and down the short hall to stop before his bedroom door. Joy filled his weary heart with the thought he was within mere steps of his bed. Another yawn racked his body, but he fought it enough to enter his bedroom. He shut the door with a thump, leaned back against it.
Before him was his bedroom as he left it, neat and tidy, everything in its place and a place for everything—but now covered in a four day layer of dust. With a shake of his head, he shuffled across the room to stand at his bed. He looked at the dusty bedspread, sighed.
"I’ll deal with it tomorrow," he huffed.
He threw back the bedspread, blowing up such a cloud of dust it brought on a resounding sneeze. After wiping his nose, he looked from the inviting bed to his dressed body and back again and back again. Did he want to get into his nightshirt or not? The answer to that question came after he slipped out of his coat and vest, which he draped over the footboard, and kicked off his shoes. That was close enough. He slipped into bed, rolled from left to right side before settling in.
A smack of his lips, a yawn, and he was asleep. But he did not find the refreshing slumber he sought. No, he twitched and thrashed about, dreaming dark dreams of the quest, wandering through mysterious places, the fear of dangers ever so real, and the tragedy of loss repelled him. Yet he could not break free from it no matter how hard he tried…
Then he grew calm.
A little smile came to his lips.
He felt strangely—protected from his own nightmare.
Into his dream had stepped a tall, shapely warrior woman with long, wavy blonde-brown hair.
Bonus Story Introduction
My Father was a born poet. He was a master of rhyme and rhythm, and during the early "Space Race" he had a poem selected and printed in the Huntsville news paper. Yet most of his poems were written for fun. We had a binder full of them, and in the 1980’s I collected them in a book I entitled Poems and Thoughts by Gerald G. Jones, copies of which were given to family members.
I wanted to self publish the book for him when I started publishing my works, but somehow misplaced the original manuscript, so I could not in time…
In the 1960’s, he had a hankering to write prose, taking a writing correspondence course. There was a binder full of his exercises, etc., like his poetry. Unfortunately, I never took full advantage to read them through, but what I do remember reading impressed me. Yet I do not think in the end his heart was really into it.
Flash forward to the 1990’s. During my writing slump I sought inspiration through a Creative Writing course at the community college, Shelton State. The class turned out to be for Senior Citizens, so I was a man in my 30’s surrounded by 70 and 80 year olds, and it turned out each and every one of them was sharp on the subject of writing. I was quite pleased—I was inspired!—and one class led into another and another and another.
It was with my final class that my Father decided to join me. Something had inspired him to try writing prose again, and I could not have been happier, though I made a deal with him that neither of us would comment on the other’s work…. My Father’s favorite writer was Louis L’Amour, which meant he wrote a Western.
Flash forward to the 2010’s. I have self published two collections of short stories by this time, moved them from hardcopy to kindle. Well, my Father found his Western and asked if I could "kindle-ize" it.
While kindle does offer short fiction for 99 cents, it is of or near novella length. His story was too short. I suggested he write an additional story or two to beef it up, but his heart just was not into doing that. We compromised with me promising to submit his story to The Saturday Evening Post.
Sadly, I procrastinated too long, leading into my life becoming a fiasco, and my Father passing away in 2013.
All his passing did was make me more determined to get his story in print. I promised him. But how? I thought of writing a Western of my own, but not only did I doubt my ability to write well in that genre, a story just was not there for me. Then the answer came to me in a snap! What better place to feature his once-in-a-lifetime story than with this book—the book 35 years in the completing showed I was destined to write. True, the genres are worlds apart, but they fit together. Two stories of destiny (in more ways than one) joined together in one volume.
Okay, folks. Now it is time to don your Stetson, strap on a six-shooter, yank on a pair of boots, spurs a’jinglin', mount your Appaloosa and ride into the Wild West…
The Last Ride by Gerald G. Jones
The sun was hot in the afternoon sky as John Harris rode over the crest of the hill, his sweating horse gasping for breath as it labored down the hillside toward the ranch-house half hidden among the cottonwoods. As his horse limped up to the corral John spurred him around back of the barn. Without looking back John threw himself from the saddle, drew his rifle from the saddle scabbard and dropped behind the corral fence.
Within minutes the dust cloud that followed his trail down the hillside revealed a posse hot on his trial. As the posse pulled up a hundred yards from the ranch-house, John fired. The shot landed just in front of the lead horseman. As the horse reared, John moved to the other side of the barn and fired another shot.
The posse quickly dropped back and hid their horses among the trees. Dismounting, they fanned out across the hillside and began to pepper the barn and corral. When there was no return fire they stopped shooting and the Sheriff called to them to drop back in the trees for a confab.
"Looks like he’s gone to ground," said Sheriff Holmes. "I suppose we better spread out and see if we can flush him out."
"You want him dead or alive, Bob?" asked his deputy.
"We’ll take him alive if possible, Jim," said the Sheriff."Just don’t take any chances. I don’t want anybody hurt over this guy."
As his men sought vantage points where they could cover the barn and ranch house the sheriff tried to reason with the fugitive, "John. John Harris Can you hear me?"
"I can hear you, Bob. What do you want?"
"I don’t want any bloodshed, John. Give yourself up and I’ll guarantee you a fair trial. Otherwise we’ll have to blast you out."
"Well now, Bob, that will surely take a lot of that bloodshed you don’t want. You know I can’t give myself up for a hanging. And you know that’s what it’ll come to. Those people in Cottondale aren’t nearly as forgiving as you are."
"I know, John, but I don’t want to lose any of my men and I don’t think you want to kill any of them. It’s just that we have to bring you in. I’d find it awful hard to explain what happened if we don’t."
John didn’t answer for a few minutes. He was busy studying his surroundings. He was well hid for the moment but if any of those deputies got up on the low ridge behind him he would be exposed to direct fire and in grave danger. As he considered a solution to this problem he re-started his chatter with the sheriff.
"Bob, don’t you think we can work something out without anyone getting killed?"
"I don’t see how, unless you are willing to give up and come back with us. I can’t just walk away. You know I am just doing my duty, my job."