(no subject)
I'm on a roll with the writing! Just got the official results of the Western Short Story Contest -- "Red" won second place!
I'd post the story here for you guys to read, but it's due out in anthology form in April so I think I'll make everybody buy their own copy ... MWAAAAAAhahahahahahahahaha
However, I am not without a heart ... here's a short story that's not in the anthology:
The moon rode high in a cloudless sky. The Sweetwater Kid held his breath as the doorknob turned beneath his hand. He and Devon Day were on the prowl tonight, and the First Street Bank of Marshall Springs was their prowling ground.
They'd traded their usual cowboy gear for the dark clothing of the professional burglar. Black shirts -- cotton at this date, but soon, quite soon if Sweet had anything to do with it, the shirts would be of silk. Black linen trousers, less likely to make noise than their usual denim or canvas ones, paired with soft shoes rather than boots. They'd even left their hats with the horses, stashed safely behind the local stables (which closed well before they would be finished with their chores here at the bank).
Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid had done their homework for this job -- and then some. They'd been in Powellville when they'd heard rumors of a strike at a nearby mine -- drunken miners did tend to blather on over a poker table, especially when you kept them well supplied with more beer. The Clara Mine had indeed struck a rich vein of silver -- and the next scheduled shipment or ore was ... tonight.
Dev and Sweet had ridden into Marshall Springs to check out the possibilities. The town was just large enough so that a couple of youngsters like themselves didn't raise a lot of notice. There were two or three cattle ranches within a day's riding, and Marshall Springs saw its share of young cowboys. Dev and Sweet had made certain that they'd done nothing to disillusion the good townsfolk of the notion that they were merely two more cowpokes celebrating a payday.
They'd stocked up on their supplies, had a bath and a beer -- and changed some money at the First Street Bank! -- and then ridden ostentatiously back out of town in the afternoon. Once out of sight of the town, they'd cut across the desert and taken quite a circuitous route back to the outskirts. The supplies had provided a picnic among the red boulders overlooking the road. And before they'd finished their repast, they'd been treated to the sight of a heavily loaded wagon, surrounded by armed guards, rattling into town. The first of the ore had arrived.
"Now for the bad news," Sweet had said with great reluctance. "We have to come up with a reasonable excuse to stick around town until the mine owner actually gets paid for that ore, and stashes his profits into said bank."
Sometimes a man just had to suffer for his art. They'd gotten work at one of the local ranches.
For a week, Dev and Sweet had sweated and slaved over acres of hairy beef, miles of fencing in need of repair, and corrals of ornery horses that didn't want to be ridden. And for a week, one of them had ridden into town every night to make sure the miners hadn't gotten that big paycheck yet.
And at last, all that sweat was about to be rewarded. The door of the bank swung open, and the Sweetwater Kid turned to grin over his shoulder at his partner. Amazing how many people -- even bankers -- simply pull a door shut, trusting that it will latch securely. One small sliver of wood jammed solidly into the strike plate insured that the bolt would extend, but not lock into place. A professional thief could easily force it back out.
And The Sweetwater Kid was indeed a professional.
He glanced back once more as he pushed the door open, and saw the moonlight glinting off Devon Day's grin. The shaggy blonde mop shone white as he ducked his head to follow Sweet inside. The saddlebags over his shoulder creaked softly, and he raised a hand to stop their movement.
Sweet picked up his bag of burglary tools, gently pried his secret weapon from the strike plate and quietly closed the door. Because he was a professional, he made sure he heard the click as it fastened. When the sheriff made his rounds in an hour or so, he'd find the door securely locked, and his streets just as he expected.
Except for the pair of enterprising young bandits already inside the bank, of course.
Sweet and Dev tiptoed through the moonlit lobby. The Sweetwater Kid had not yet hit enough banks to find the echoing emptiness of a bank afterhours commonplace, and started at a sudden creak from the roof. He scrubbed a hand over his chin and chuckled softly, not exactly liking the forced quality of his laugh. Surely a man's nerves would get used to things like this.
Devon Day, on the other hand, glanced around as if in his own bedroom, his bright blue eyes taking in every shadow or cranny that might conceal a lawman. And the lawman who could hide from Dev would be the world's greatest concealment artist. With Devon Day at his back, Sweet could be certain that wherever they were, it was safe as houses.
He cast his own glance around the empty room. He'd always liked banks -- the hushed air of importance of the tellers, the soft rustle of paper money changing hands, the solid clink of coins. It was almost like being inside a church.
They crept silently across the floor towards the teller cage. The half-door creaked as he pulled it open, making Sweet flinch. Once they reached the vault, though, his anxiety drained away like water. His entire body leaped to attention at the siren call of the safe just beyond the iron bars. The new Pierce and Hamilton seemed to wink coyly, teasing him.
The Sweetwater Kid was a professional, and a professional never hurries, even when urged on by a seductive piece of modern technology. They had a long way to go before he could get his hands on that safe. The iron gate must be gotten past, and then there was the safe itself. This model wasn't an easy one to crack by hand.
He reached inside his bag of tricks and pulled out the bar spreader. A few swift turns once it was in place, and the bars were just the way he wanted -- a hairsbreadth away from screaming in protest. He glanced at his partner and pulled out the pocket watch.
Dev nodded, and moved to take up what had become his usual position on a job. He turned his back on Sweet and faced out into the empty room. Devon Day was on the job, and not even a mouse could move without him spotting it. The Sweetwater Kid could work without worry now, secure in the knowledge that his partner had his back.
Sweet pulled out his pocket watch and focused on the minute hand. This particular job was going to work beautifully because of the obsession the local railroad engineer had with making his trains run to pinpoint accuracy. On each of those nights Sweet had ridden into town, the train had arrived at precisely 9:15 pm.
And the engineer would be pulling into town in 10 ... 9 ... 8 ...
The Sweetwater Kid grinned and slid the watch back into his pocket. He grabbed the handle of the spreader. His hands were slick with sweat. He swiped them against his trousers and gripped the handle again.
3... 2.... 1.... The piercing, lonesome wail of a train split the night -- completely drowning out the shriek of stressed metal. Before the echoes of the whistle had died away, Sweet had forced the rods far enough apart to allow him to slip inside.
Devon Day made no effort to force his broad shoulders through the slender opening. He merely passed the saddlebags through and kept up his vigilant watch outside the vault. Sweet left the protection of their team to the expert, and turned to face the delectably complicated Pierce and Hamilton.
To a man whose love of money was exceeded only by his love of a complicated puzzle, the intricacy of a safe's mechanism was an irresistible lure. Sweet settled beside the safe, getting comfortable on the floor. This could take hours! Long, lovely hours, full of clicking tumblers and rolling dials, of possibilities and decisions. The Sweetwater Kid felt a grin spread across his face. He leaned forward, rested his face against the cold, smooth metal, and set his hands on the safe.
He barely heard Dev shifting his position through the night. Barely noticed when his legs went numb. It was all he could do to remember to keep breathing. Each time a tumbler clicked into place, a thrill of satisfaction ran through him. A professional -- and the Sweetwater Kid was certainly a professional! -- never gloated. But Sweet couldn't help shooting his partner a delighted grin when the last tumbler dropped, and the handle of the safe door turned beneath his hand.
Dev grinned back, pumped a fist in the air, and returned his attention to the empty bank. The sheriff must have passed the window several times by now. He must have gone off duty and gone home to his wife and comfortable bed, leaving the deputy on patrol until morning. Sweet had never even heard the footsteps on the sidewalk outside, but neither of the men had noticed the activity on the other side of the securely locked bank door.
Working quickly, Sweet pulled out everything inside the safe. He fanned a stack of hundred dollar bills beneath his nose. There was nothing quite like the smell of newly-stolen money! Almost regretfully -- he'd have liked to run his hands through the loot for a few minutes -- he stuffed the paper money into one saddlebag. A professional never wastes time salivating over the booty.
Sweet hesitated over a stack of stocks and bonds, but finally returned them to the safe. He'd yet to figure out a way of cashing the things in safely. But they were working on the problem, and perhaps in the future Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid would play the market.
For now, he merely loaded the second bag with coins -- and the unexpected bonus of a hefty sack of gold dust! He'd heard no mention of a strike anywhere, and resolved to look into the situation at his earliest convenience. Preferably from several towns away.
Bags safely packed, Sweet slid back out of the vault and rejoined his partner. He clapped Dev softly on the shoulder and they crept to the back door. Sweet let the security expert crack said door open and peer out in search of wandering deputies or wakeful townsfolk. Dev nodded his approval, and Sweet followed him outside.
He glanced up at the setting moon. Hard to believe all that action had only been one short night's work. Sweet felt as though he'd been hard at it for days. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, and he thought he might have worked off a pound or two. His fingers ached and one ear was numb from the pressure of the safe. His legs still tingled. His right knee throbbed.
He'd never felt better.
He grinned at his partner as they reached the spot where they'd left the horses. Dev nodded once, flashed a grin of his own, and mounted up. Then, Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid, saddlebags heavier by $50,000 than before sunset, rode into the darkening night.
I'd post the story here for you guys to read, but it's due out in anthology form in April so I think I'll make everybody buy their own copy ... MWAAAAAAhahahahahahahahaha
However, I am not without a heart ... here's a short story that's not in the anthology:
The moon rode high in a cloudless sky. The Sweetwater Kid held his breath as the doorknob turned beneath his hand. He and Devon Day were on the prowl tonight, and the First Street Bank of Marshall Springs was their prowling ground.
They'd traded their usual cowboy gear for the dark clothing of the professional burglar. Black shirts -- cotton at this date, but soon, quite soon if Sweet had anything to do with it, the shirts would be of silk. Black linen trousers, less likely to make noise than their usual denim or canvas ones, paired with soft shoes rather than boots. They'd even left their hats with the horses, stashed safely behind the local stables (which closed well before they would be finished with their chores here at the bank).
Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid had done their homework for this job -- and then some. They'd been in Powellville when they'd heard rumors of a strike at a nearby mine -- drunken miners did tend to blather on over a poker table, especially when you kept them well supplied with more beer. The Clara Mine had indeed struck a rich vein of silver -- and the next scheduled shipment or ore was ... tonight.
Dev and Sweet had ridden into Marshall Springs to check out the possibilities. The town was just large enough so that a couple of youngsters like themselves didn't raise a lot of notice. There were two or three cattle ranches within a day's riding, and Marshall Springs saw its share of young cowboys. Dev and Sweet had made certain that they'd done nothing to disillusion the good townsfolk of the notion that they were merely two more cowpokes celebrating a payday.
They'd stocked up on their supplies, had a bath and a beer -- and changed some money at the First Street Bank! -- and then ridden ostentatiously back out of town in the afternoon. Once out of sight of the town, they'd cut across the desert and taken quite a circuitous route back to the outskirts. The supplies had provided a picnic among the red boulders overlooking the road. And before they'd finished their repast, they'd been treated to the sight of a heavily loaded wagon, surrounded by armed guards, rattling into town. The first of the ore had arrived.
"Now for the bad news," Sweet had said with great reluctance. "We have to come up with a reasonable excuse to stick around town until the mine owner actually gets paid for that ore, and stashes his profits into said bank."
Sometimes a man just had to suffer for his art. They'd gotten work at one of the local ranches.
For a week, Dev and Sweet had sweated and slaved over acres of hairy beef, miles of fencing in need of repair, and corrals of ornery horses that didn't want to be ridden. And for a week, one of them had ridden into town every night to make sure the miners hadn't gotten that big paycheck yet.
And at last, all that sweat was about to be rewarded. The door of the bank swung open, and the Sweetwater Kid turned to grin over his shoulder at his partner. Amazing how many people -- even bankers -- simply pull a door shut, trusting that it will latch securely. One small sliver of wood jammed solidly into the strike plate insured that the bolt would extend, but not lock into place. A professional thief could easily force it back out.
And The Sweetwater Kid was indeed a professional.
He glanced back once more as he pushed the door open, and saw the moonlight glinting off Devon Day's grin. The shaggy blonde mop shone white as he ducked his head to follow Sweet inside. The saddlebags over his shoulder creaked softly, and he raised a hand to stop their movement.
Sweet picked up his bag of burglary tools, gently pried his secret weapon from the strike plate and quietly closed the door. Because he was a professional, he made sure he heard the click as it fastened. When the sheriff made his rounds in an hour or so, he'd find the door securely locked, and his streets just as he expected.
Except for the pair of enterprising young bandits already inside the bank, of course.
Sweet and Dev tiptoed through the moonlit lobby. The Sweetwater Kid had not yet hit enough banks to find the echoing emptiness of a bank afterhours commonplace, and started at a sudden creak from the roof. He scrubbed a hand over his chin and chuckled softly, not exactly liking the forced quality of his laugh. Surely a man's nerves would get used to things like this.
Devon Day, on the other hand, glanced around as if in his own bedroom, his bright blue eyes taking in every shadow or cranny that might conceal a lawman. And the lawman who could hide from Dev would be the world's greatest concealment artist. With Devon Day at his back, Sweet could be certain that wherever they were, it was safe as houses.
He cast his own glance around the empty room. He'd always liked banks -- the hushed air of importance of the tellers, the soft rustle of paper money changing hands, the solid clink of coins. It was almost like being inside a church.
They crept silently across the floor towards the teller cage. The half-door creaked as he pulled it open, making Sweet flinch. Once they reached the vault, though, his anxiety drained away like water. His entire body leaped to attention at the siren call of the safe just beyond the iron bars. The new Pierce and Hamilton seemed to wink coyly, teasing him.
The Sweetwater Kid was a professional, and a professional never hurries, even when urged on by a seductive piece of modern technology. They had a long way to go before he could get his hands on that safe. The iron gate must be gotten past, and then there was the safe itself. This model wasn't an easy one to crack by hand.
He reached inside his bag of tricks and pulled out the bar spreader. A few swift turns once it was in place, and the bars were just the way he wanted -- a hairsbreadth away from screaming in protest. He glanced at his partner and pulled out the pocket watch.
Dev nodded, and moved to take up what had become his usual position on a job. He turned his back on Sweet and faced out into the empty room. Devon Day was on the job, and not even a mouse could move without him spotting it. The Sweetwater Kid could work without worry now, secure in the knowledge that his partner had his back.
Sweet pulled out his pocket watch and focused on the minute hand. This particular job was going to work beautifully because of the obsession the local railroad engineer had with making his trains run to pinpoint accuracy. On each of those nights Sweet had ridden into town, the train had arrived at precisely 9:15 pm.
And the engineer would be pulling into town in 10 ... 9 ... 8 ...
The Sweetwater Kid grinned and slid the watch back into his pocket. He grabbed the handle of the spreader. His hands were slick with sweat. He swiped them against his trousers and gripped the handle again.
3... 2.... 1.... The piercing, lonesome wail of a train split the night -- completely drowning out the shriek of stressed metal. Before the echoes of the whistle had died away, Sweet had forced the rods far enough apart to allow him to slip inside.
Devon Day made no effort to force his broad shoulders through the slender opening. He merely passed the saddlebags through and kept up his vigilant watch outside the vault. Sweet left the protection of their team to the expert, and turned to face the delectably complicated Pierce and Hamilton.
To a man whose love of money was exceeded only by his love of a complicated puzzle, the intricacy of a safe's mechanism was an irresistible lure. Sweet settled beside the safe, getting comfortable on the floor. This could take hours! Long, lovely hours, full of clicking tumblers and rolling dials, of possibilities and decisions. The Sweetwater Kid felt a grin spread across his face. He leaned forward, rested his face against the cold, smooth metal, and set his hands on the safe.
He barely heard Dev shifting his position through the night. Barely noticed when his legs went numb. It was all he could do to remember to keep breathing. Each time a tumbler clicked into place, a thrill of satisfaction ran through him. A professional -- and the Sweetwater Kid was certainly a professional! -- never gloated. But Sweet couldn't help shooting his partner a delighted grin when the last tumbler dropped, and the handle of the safe door turned beneath his hand.
Dev grinned back, pumped a fist in the air, and returned his attention to the empty bank. The sheriff must have passed the window several times by now. He must have gone off duty and gone home to his wife and comfortable bed, leaving the deputy on patrol until morning. Sweet had never even heard the footsteps on the sidewalk outside, but neither of the men had noticed the activity on the other side of the securely locked bank door.
Working quickly, Sweet pulled out everything inside the safe. He fanned a stack of hundred dollar bills beneath his nose. There was nothing quite like the smell of newly-stolen money! Almost regretfully -- he'd have liked to run his hands through the loot for a few minutes -- he stuffed the paper money into one saddlebag. A professional never wastes time salivating over the booty.
Sweet hesitated over a stack of stocks and bonds, but finally returned them to the safe. He'd yet to figure out a way of cashing the things in safely. But they were working on the problem, and perhaps in the future Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid would play the market.
For now, he merely loaded the second bag with coins -- and the unexpected bonus of a hefty sack of gold dust! He'd heard no mention of a strike anywhere, and resolved to look into the situation at his earliest convenience. Preferably from several towns away.
Bags safely packed, Sweet slid back out of the vault and rejoined his partner. He clapped Dev softly on the shoulder and they crept to the back door. Sweet let the security expert crack said door open and peer out in search of wandering deputies or wakeful townsfolk. Dev nodded his approval, and Sweet followed him outside.
He glanced up at the setting moon. Hard to believe all that action had only been one short night's work. Sweet felt as though he'd been hard at it for days. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, and he thought he might have worked off a pound or two. His fingers ached and one ear was numb from the pressure of the safe. His legs still tingled. His right knee throbbed.
He'd never felt better.
He grinned at his partner as they reached the spot where they'd left the horses. Dev nodded once, flashed a grin of his own, and mounted up. Then, Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid, saddlebags heavier by $50,000 than before sunset, rode into the darkening night.