I write mostly Science Fiction and Fantasy stories. Occasionally a little of what I call Slice of Life. But Westerns have been something I hadn’t tried before.

Following advice, I went onto Ebay and bought a collection of 1940s-1950s Western magazines. These stories were written during the Golden Age of pulp magazines. Reading them has helped me have a greater understanding of the genre.

Here is the beginning of a Western story I’m writing. It hasn’t been sent to an editor yet, but I thought you might enjoy it.

Snippet from No Posse Needed

Sheriff Clint McCade studied the block of properly-seasoned pine in his hand. His pocket knife made a small flick, and a tiny curl fell off the wood. Pale tawny eyes in a prematurely weather-beaten face studied the still indistinguishable shape and saw the bird beneath the surface. Much like he saw what was between the lines of what people said and didn’t say.
He propped a boot heel up on the scarred desk. It rested comfortably in the worn notch as he leaned the matching chair back on two legs. Clint pushed back the brim of his battered Stetson. An onlooker might not think the whittling was at a stage where critical cuts were required. But the survivor of Gettysburg knew battles could be lost before the first shot was fired.
The sheriff placed his knife with precision. He backed the blade out when the door of the jailhouse swung open on well-oiled hinges. Clint studied the young man who barged into his office.
Scotty Randell, who had recently been spending more time at Smitty’s Saloon than helping on his old man’s ranch, exclaimed, “Sheriff, come quick.”
Clint slowly set his chair back on four feet and reluctantly put his project on the desk. He hated leaving a thing undone, especially since the look in the young whelp’s eyes was more excitement than urgency.
“What’s going on?” Clint asked in an even tone.
The youth glanced over his shoulder then said, “They told me to come get you.”
“Who’s “they,” son?” the sheriff asked patiently as he stood and took his gun belt off the peg in the wall behind his desk.
“Ned Tompkins, Bert Hollerman, and Jordi Lawson. They’re all gathered at the saloon to be your posse. Old Clemson’s been murdered.”
“Just now?” Clint was surprised the old loner came into town. He didn’t typically show up for supplies more than once a month, and it wasn’t his time yet.
The boy shook his head. “Naw, Ned found his body being eaten by vultures out in the gulch.”
Clint nodded and finished tying the leg strap on his holster. That made more sense. With a last reluctant look at his unfinished work, he strode to the door settling his Stetson back into place. Best he found out what was going on. He didn’t need Tompkins riling up the young bucks again.