PREVIEW: The Rider
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| Deborah Cullins-Smith's short story "The Rider" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
Read more about the author, Deborah Cullins-Smith. |
The tall, lean figure folded into a slouch had given the name of Adam Grosslin. Not as
immaculate as Griffin, this man was clearly a predator, selling his gun wherever the
need arose. In this case, business took him to a small town on the Mexican border.
The coach would deliver him to Bent’s Fort, where he could equip himself with a
horse and supplies for the remainder of his journey.
The gawky young man scrunched nervously in the corner with a black case on his lap
introduced himself as Buddy Edgerton. His wheat-colored hair fell across his forehead,
veiling innocent blue eyes, which peeked shyly between wavy curls.
“I’m a s-salesman,” he stuttered. “We specialize in b-books, paper and ink for
schools.”
Alice Anderson sat stiffly between Buddy and Miss Tomlinson, trying not to be tossed
into either lap by the bouncing of the aged stagecoach following the old Santa Fe
Trail. Her light brown hair straggled from the black mesh snood, and her hands gripped
the edge of her seat with whitened knuckles. A black high-necked traveling frock
gave testimony to a recent death in her family. No one questioned whom she had
lost, a fact for which Alice was grateful. Talking about her mother’s passing was still
an open wound to her tender young heart.
A thump on the side of the coach caused the women to jump. Andy Jenkins, a
taciturn, hawk-eyed man who rode shotgun with the driver shouted, “Rest stop!”
Passengers of Jed Taylor’s stagecoach knew better than to argue about when,
where, how often, or how long these breaks would occur. Like obedient school
children, they disembarked, stretched achy muscles, relieved themselves behind
rocks, trees, or bushes—whatever was available—and drank from water canteens. Jed
ran a tight schedule, and he brooked no nonsense. A huge grizzly bear of a man, Jed’
s long gray hair and beard were frizzy and unkempt. But his gruff exterior masked a
kind heart and a genuine concern for the welfare of those entrusted to his care.
“I do believe my insides will never stop shaking again, as long as I live,” groaned Miss
Tomlinson, pressing her hands against the small of her back.
Alice smiled sympathetically at her, as Griffin assisted both women to the ground.
“You got five minutes here, so do what you gotta do,” growled Jed. “We ain’t sittin’ ’
round here all day. We gotta’ make Pawnee Rock before sundown.”
He pointed to the sand rock formations in the distance and sent a brown stream of
tobacco juice over the side of the coach.
They stopped at one of those rare spots across the flat, featureless landscape of
Kansas. Trees grew in a thick clump around a small brook. The women headed off to
the left, and the men to the right. The summer sun reflected off the desert sand and
heated the water in the stream to lukewarm, which felt wonderful on Alice’s face
and hands when she returned from the trees.
immaculate as Griffin, this man was clearly a predator, selling his gun wherever the
need arose. In this case, business took him to a small town on the Mexican border.
The coach would deliver him to Bent’s Fort, where he could equip himself with a
horse and supplies for the remainder of his journey.
The gawky young man scrunched nervously in the corner with a black case on his lap
introduced himself as Buddy Edgerton. His wheat-colored hair fell across his forehead,
veiling innocent blue eyes, which peeked shyly between wavy curls.
“I’m a s-salesman,” he stuttered. “We specialize in b-books, paper and ink for
schools.”
Alice Anderson sat stiffly between Buddy and Miss Tomlinson, trying not to be tossed
into either lap by the bouncing of the aged stagecoach following the old Santa Fe
Trail. Her light brown hair straggled from the black mesh snood, and her hands gripped
the edge of her seat with whitened knuckles. A black high-necked traveling frock
gave testimony to a recent death in her family. No one questioned whom she had
lost, a fact for which Alice was grateful. Talking about her mother’s passing was still
an open wound to her tender young heart.
A thump on the side of the coach caused the women to jump. Andy Jenkins, a
taciturn, hawk-eyed man who rode shotgun with the driver shouted, “Rest stop!”
Passengers of Jed Taylor’s stagecoach knew better than to argue about when,
where, how often, or how long these breaks would occur. Like obedient school
children, they disembarked, stretched achy muscles, relieved themselves behind
rocks, trees, or bushes—whatever was available—and drank from water canteens. Jed
ran a tight schedule, and he brooked no nonsense. A huge grizzly bear of a man, Jed’
s long gray hair and beard were frizzy and unkempt. But his gruff exterior masked a
kind heart and a genuine concern for the welfare of those entrusted to his care.
“I do believe my insides will never stop shaking again, as long as I live,” groaned Miss
Tomlinson, pressing her hands against the small of her back.
Alice smiled sympathetically at her, as Griffin assisted both women to the ground.
“You got five minutes here, so do what you gotta do,” growled Jed. “We ain’t sittin’ ’
round here all day. We gotta’ make Pawnee Rock before sundown.”
He pointed to the sand rock formations in the distance and sent a brown stream of
tobacco juice over the side of the coach.
They stopped at one of those rare spots across the flat, featureless landscape of
Kansas. Trees grew in a thick clump around a small brook. The women headed off to
the left, and the men to the right. The summer sun reflected off the desert sand and
heated the water in the stream to lukewarm, which felt wonderful on Alice’s face
and hands when she returned from the trees.
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
DUST BLEW INTO THE cramped stagecoach, invading the eyes
and noses of its uncomfortable passengers. Caroline Tomlinson
covered her mouth with a mittened hand and coughed. Every
inch the epitome of a proper spinster, Miss Tomlinson’s dark
hair was gritty with sand and her sour demeanor reflected her
discomfort.
John Griffin reshuffled a deck of cards with casual indifference,
his careless manner giving him the appearance of a coiled
rattlesnake sunning on a rock, gracefully relaxed but capable of
striking with lethal impact. His neatly trimmed beard showed
little gray, though his weathered face indicated he was well
past middle age.
and noses of its uncomfortable passengers. Caroline Tomlinson
covered her mouth with a mittened hand and coughed. Every
inch the epitome of a proper spinster, Miss Tomlinson’s dark
hair was gritty with sand and her sour demeanor reflected her
discomfort.
John Griffin reshuffled a deck of cards with casual indifference,
his careless manner giving him the appearance of a coiled
rattlesnake sunning on a rock, gracefully relaxed but capable of
striking with lethal impact. His neatly trimmed beard showed
little gray, though his weathered face indicated he was well
past middle age.
