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    A Turning Point for Charlie Pilsen
    A Turning Point for Charlie Pilsen
    A Turning Point for Charlie Pilsen
    Ebook52 pages46 minutes

    A Turning Point for Charlie Pilsen

    By Harvey Stanbrough

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    About this ebook

    Charlie Pilsen is on the top of his game and the top of the world as an outlaw in the 1880s Texas panhandle. He'll visit with his only living sibling, then hit the score that will make him wealthy for the rest of his life. Then it all begins to come unraveled.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStoneThread Publishing
    Release dateSep 19, 2016
    ISBN9781370574711
    A Turning Point for Charlie Pilsen
    Author

    Harvey Stanbrough

    Harvey Stanbrough is an award-winning writer and poet. He’s fond of saying he was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. After 21 years in the US Marine Corps, he managed to sneak up on a BA degree at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales in 1996. Because he is unable to do otherwise, he splits his writing personality among four personas: Gervasio Arrancado writes magic realism; Nicolas Z “Nick” Porter writes spare, descriptive, Hemingway-style fiction; and Eric Stringer writes the fiction of an unapologetic neurotic. Harvey writes whatever they leave to him. You can see their full bios at HEStanbrough.com.

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      Book preview

      A Turning Point for Charlie Pilsen - Harvey Stanbrough

      A Turning Point for Charlie Pilsen

      Harvey Stanbrough

      the Smashwords Edition of

      a FrostProof808 publication

      an imprint of StoneThread Publishing

      To give the reader more of a sample, the front matter appears at the end.

      A Turning Point for Charlie Pilsen

      Shortly after dawn on Thursday morning, the arid air of Dalton, Texas was still chilly from the cloudless night. Marshal Bob Gibson sat in a straight back chair on the platform at the train station. The chair was leaned back against the wall.

      Beneath the cuffs of his brown canvas trousers, his boots extended to the planks, his right ankle crossed over his left. A Colt nestled in a holster on the right side of his waist. The holster followed along the outside of his right thigh. It was tied off above his knee with a thin leather strap.

      His arms were crossed over his chest, the off-white shirt sleeves thinned at the elbows. His brown three-button vest hung open, revealing the right point of the star on his left breast. His head was tilted forward, his chin near his chest. His hat was tipped forward over his eyes, which were peacefully closed.

      For the moment.

      A man has to take his rest where he can find it. It had been a rough week.

      But he wasn’t sleeping. He was listening. And waiting.

      In the distance, a train whistle sounded. Then again.

      Gettin’ to be that time.

      Barely discernably, he shook his head.

      Why can’t people just mind their damn manners? Either that or stay home?

      If Johnny Pilsen had done either one, and he’d still be breathing.

      He’d still be breathing and I’d be breathing a lot easier.

      But that isn’t what happened.

      A week and a day ago, early on Thursday night, Johnny Pilsen got bored and picked on at the same time. Then he got rowdy and reckless.

      And then he got dead.

      * * *

      A new batch of seven wanted posters lay face up on the desk before Marshal Gibson. Behind him, leaning slightly forward to look over his shoulder, stood Zeke Masters.

      The marshal picked up a poster and pointed. Now this ol’ boy here’s a real hard case. And—

      He looks like a hard case, that’s fer sure.

      If anyone knew a hard case when he saw one, it was Zeke. He alternated between being the town drunk and a mostly helpful volunteer deputy. If he had one truly annoying personal habit, it was his penchant for interruption.

      Zeke absentmindedly brought his left hand to his mouth and bit off a fresh plug of chewing tobacco. He dropped the remainder back into his left pants pocket. He worked the plug into position between his teeth with his tongue, then bit down. A small bit of brown juice seeped from the left corner of his mouth. It bubbled there, threating to drop.

      The marshal turned his chair slightly. He looked up at the thin old man, then gestured toward the guest chair on the other side of his desk. Why don’t you have a seat, Zeke? No reason we shouldn’t both be comfortable. In fact, there’s no need for you to stay. I can finish goin’ over these myself.

      Zeke wagged one hand in the air. No no, now. I don’t mind stayin’. You forget, this used to be my job. I know how lonely it can get. He cackled and moved around the desk.

      His thinning white hair was tousled, and his face and neck were dark from too many hours in the sun. Except for the pale band across the top of his forehead. His hat usually covered that. A sheen of alcohol sweat covered his face, neck and chest down to where his long-john top was buttoned.

      His trousers were so filthy it

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