Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts

Thursday, September 10, 2026

πŸ‘΄⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine(Grandparents Day Week)⏳πŸ‘΅: His Grandfather's Watch by NR Walker




Summary:
It was just an ordinary day for Alex Harper at Harper's Antiquities, until Callum Winters walked in with a watch.

"It was my Grandfather's. I was hoping you could tell me something about it."

A love story of two couples, generations apart.

***Second Edition. Earlier edition released in 2012. No additional content has been added.***




Original Review July 2015:
This novella may be a short quick read but it is more powerful than many full length novels I have read.  I was sitting in my front yard under the shade of my maple tree and was so glad I had sunglasses on because otherwise I probably would have scared the children playing across the street when the tears started running.    The blend of contemporary and historical is perfect for the emotional buildup for the story the watch represents.

The historical part of the watch's tale touched my heart a bit more but I am a bit of a history buff so stories of the past usually do.  As my mother's 24/7 caregiver for the past 20 years, when Callum said "My life hasn't been about me in a long time" really struck a chord because in those 10 words she summed up what every caregiver lives not to mention the kind of man Callum is and the fact that Alex understands it also goes a long way in describing his character as well.

I rarely give novellas a full 5 bookmark rating just because my heart prefers full length stories but this is such a powerful emotional ride that nothing short of the full 5 is fitting.


Re-Read Review September 2018:
I really can't think of a single thing to add to my original review that would express how wonderful this novella is other than, it's shortness may be in the number of pages but not in the quality of the story.  His Grandfather's Watch had me even more teary-eyed now than it did when I first read it three years ago.  It is rare that you get two heart felt love stories in a novella but that is exactly what this little gem brings to the table.

I chose to re-read this now in honor of Grandparents Day but whenever you decide to pick it up you won't regret it and I highly recommend reading this one because not only will you be entertained but you might also learn a thing or two about understanding your family's past.  I know I can honestly say that had I not already been deeply invested in my family genealogy this story would have had me itching to discover my family's past.

RATING:




Chapter One
Sitting in the back room at my desk, with a dismantled 1901 Newman's clock, I heard the bell that chimed every time a customer walked through the door. My dad was behind the counter, and I heard him greet the customer, making small talk, discussing whatever antique it was they'd brought with them.

It's what we did.

My father's love of all things antique grew into this business, Harper's Antiquities. Dad was the expert and Mom did the research, but they both traveled, scouring the globe for their life's passion. My brother Scott did antique furniture restoration, but it wasn't something I ever saw myself doing. Then I started helping out when I was a kid at school, and I found a love of clocks.

It’s my specialty.

I could hear Dad talking to the customer, but didn't pay them any mind until I heard my name.

"Alex?"

Putting down the part in my hand, I walked through to the showroom where I found my father and the customer he was talking to. Very different from my pale skin, black hair and grayish eyes, he was a good looking guy, similar age to me, but with sandy brown, kinda longish hair, tanned skin and blue eyes. He was holding a pocket watch in his hand.

"This is my son, Alex," Dad explained. "He's the expert on watches like yours."

I extended my hand in professional courtesy. "Hello."

"Callum Winters," he said by way of greeting, putting the watch on the counter before shaking my hand. There was an accent, Southern I thought, but I wasn't sure.

Dad waited for us to let go of each other's hands, then he looked at me and smiled. "Callum was just telling me he'd like to know more about this watch."

I looked at the silver watch casing and fob chain, then at its owner. I reached my hand toward the watch, but before I touched it, I asked, "May I?"

"Sure," he nodded.

Picking it up, I could tell a few things from a visual inspection. "This casing was a popular design in the 1940's," I told him. Gently, I opened the casing to reveal the quartz face. "The dial is Hamilton, but I won't know dates or maker for certain, unless I take the back off and look at the movement."

"Could you do that?" he asked. His accent was definitely southern. "I was hoping to know as much about it as I could."

I smiled. "Sure. I'll need to grab some details, and I should be able to look at it in about two days. Then I can tell you everything I know."

Callum nodded. "That'd be great." We looked at each other for a little too long, and I couldn't help but wonder if this cute, Southern man was gay.

Dad seemed to think so, because with a cheeky smirk, he handed me the register log, looked between us and not-so subtly said, "Callum, I'll leave you in Alex's very capable hands." He pointed behind us, "I have... stuff... I need to do out the back."

Callum politely thanked him, and I considered kicking my father in the shins. We were behind the counter, so it's not like Callum would have seen me do it. But Dad must have picked up on the look I gave him, because he smiled, turned quickly and disappeared through the door.

I grabbed a pen, handed Callum the register and asked him to fill in his details. I picked up the watch, turning it over in my hands. It was a nice piece, and I couldn't help but ask, "What do you know about the watch?"

He looked up from the paperwork. "Um, it was my grandfather's. That's about all I know."

He handed me the completed form, and I told him as procedure, I required some ID. Taking out his wallet, he handed me his driver's licence. His Texas driver's licence.

"I just moved here," he said. "I've got my change of address receipt here somewhere."

He started looking through his wallet, and I stopped him. "No, its fine. I just need to sight photo ID, that's all."

He smiled kindly and nodded. "So, two days?"

"Yeah. I'm half way through another job. Then I can look at this, and I'll give you a call when I'm done," I told him. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

He shrugged one shoulder and shook his head. "No, not really. Just dates, make, model... to be honest, I'm not really sure."

As I was putting the watch and paperwork in a paper envelope, I asked him, "Would you like a valuation?"

"No," he said simply. "Monetary value isn't important."

He thanked me, I told him I'd be in touch and he left. When I walked back into the workshop, Dad grinned at me. "He was a nice young man," he said.

"Mom!" I yelled to the upstairs office, where my mother would have undoubtedly had her head in a catalogue. "Dad's trying to set me up again."

She yelled back, "Was he cute?"

Oh for crying out loud.

He was actually, but that's not the point. Dad chuckled at me.
Ignoring him, I sat the pocket watch on my desk and turned my attention back to the clock I was working on.

I managed to ignore both my parents and their comments about cute, brown-haired watch owners until they got bored and left me alone. And I managed to push the thoughts of the pocket watch and its handsome Texan owner out of my mind until it was time to go home.

*****

I arrived back at work a little before nine in the morning and headed straight for my desk, which was more like a workstation, when the paper sleeve holding the pocket watch caught my eye.
I picked it up and took the watch out, feeling the cool, heavy weight of it in my hand. I didn't hear my dad come up behind me, and his voice startled me. "How's Mr. Yeo's clock coming along?"

"Oh, shit! You scared me," I said with a laugh, clutching my heart. Then looking back to the clock I had half done, I told him, "Um, it should be ready by lunchtime tomorrow."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I think you should do the watch instead."
I looked at the pocket watch I was still holding. "Why?"

"Because Mr. Yeo is a collector," he replied with a shrug. "To him that clock is just something else he acquired. Even old Mr. Yeo will tell you that. But this," he pointed to the watch in my hand, "this means something."

Dad smiled at me. "Mr. Yeo can wait a day or two. He won't mind. I'll even phone him myself."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

He nodded. "He wants me to go with him to look at an 18th Century hand-carved Italian rococo centre table he'd seen at an auction house anyway, so I need to speak to him."

"Okay," I agreed. Within twenty minutes, I had Mr. Yeo's clock itemized and put away and the silver pocket watch in front of me.

I made my usual notes as I proceeded detailing. There was nothing remarkable about it, until I removed the back casing.

Because what I found hidden in the back of the pocket watch was unlike anything I'd encountered before.

I took out the client form with Callum Winters' details on it and picked up the phone. "Callum Winters? It's Alex, from Harper Antiquities. I'm calling about your watch."

"Yes?" he answered, unsure.

"Can you come into the store?" I asked. "There's something you need to see."


NR Walker
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn't have it any other way.

She is many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who she gives them life with words.

She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things...but likes it even more when they fall in love. She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.

She’s been writing ever since...


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EMAIL: nrwalker2103@gmail.com




Monday, July 27, 2026

πŸŽ…πŸŽ†πŸŽ„Monday Morning's Menu - Xmas in JulyπŸŽ„πŸŽ†πŸŽ…: Fizz the Season by Anna Martin



Summary:
Anna Martin's Christmas Shorts
With a fully booked season of high-scale Christmas parties at his pub, The Punch Bowl, Grant Thornton is furious when his corporate alcohol supplier goes out of business three weeks before Christmas. The pub is well-known for its excellent food and quality wine — a reputation that Grant isn’t willing to risk.

Nathan Turner is the manager at Southwark Cellars, just off the South Bank of the Thames, and is baffled by Grant’s intense demeanour and very particular demands. Of course, as a wine expert, Nathan is perfectly placed to help Grant and The Punch Bowl get through the festive season.

Grant has always had big dreams, and Nathan’s wine expertise might be the key to unlocking them. He just needs to decide which to prioritise: his business, or his rapidly growing crush.






Original Review December 2025:
This is probably not the review I intended to write because time just isn't on my side. I loved Anna Martin's entry this year in her annual Christmas Short Stories collection. I can't imagine how devastating it was for Grant to lose his upmarket alcohol supplier at his peak holiday season, luckily for him there is a local who just might be able to offer what he's missing and perhaps a little more. I think if you've read any of Martin's Xmas shorts you'll know this will end in HEA but watching Grant and Nathan get there is fun and entertaining.

Some might find it rushed but it is a holiday short after all so you should expect it going in that there journey is not going to be a slow burn. I know some don't believe in insta-love or near insta-love but I'm living proof it's real and lasting. My grandparents meant in early January 1946, were engaged on Valentine's Day, married the end of July and were still happily married when my grandfather passed away in 1994. So it is real and Anna Martin does a brilliantly fun job with Nathan and Grant finding theirs. We might not see the longgame in Fizz the Season but we see the beginnings and it'll put a smile on your face and brighten your day. What more could one ask for? Short, sweet, and a holiday gem worthy of the author's holiday series.

RATING:




It was a little after two in the afternoon when the bell above the shop door tinkled to announce a new customer. Nathan glanced over at the door, then did a full double-take. The man currently storming up to his counter looked furious. 

With me? Nathan thought to himself. He brushed his hands down the front of the canvas apron he wore over a white shirt and jeans. 

“Hi,” the angry man bit out. 

“Hello,” Nathan replied, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Welcome to Southwark Cellars. How can I help?”

The angry man was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans, and no jacket, despite the fact that it was December in London and it was absolutely freezing outside. His choice of clothes did show off his heavily tattooed arms, though, and the all-black look made his very blue eyes pop. 

“Do you supply wholesale?” 

Nathan considered that for a second. “Yes. Mostly. It depends on what you want.” 

“My supplier just went out of business, it’s three weeks until Christmas, I am fully booked five nights a week with Christmas parties, and I have no fucking wine.”

“Ah,” Nathan said. If he were in the angry man’s position, he’d be angry too. “Four Seasons?” 

If anything, mentioning Four Seasons seemed to make him even angrier. 

“How do you know about Four Seasons?” 

Nathan lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug. “I work in the wine business. When a major supplier goes into administration, we tend to hear about these things.” 

They’d been gossiping about nothing else in the shop for the past two days, wondering if the news would affect them at all. Nathan hadn’t quite been expecting the impact to land on his doorstep quite so quickly. 

“Yeah, well, I had an order of over three hundred bottles that was due to be delivered yesterday, and I only found out this morning that not only are they not being delivered today, they’re not being delivered at all.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it fashionably messy. 

Nathan offered him a sympathetic smile. “I’m really sorry. I’m Nathan. Nathan Turner.” 

“Grant Morris. Nice to meet you.” 




Saturday Series Spotlight
Part 1  /  Part 2

Random Xmas Postings




Anna Martin

Anna Martin is from a picturesque seaside village in the southwest of England and now lives in the Bristol, a city that embraces her love for the arts. After spending most of her childhood making up stories, she studied English literature at university before attempting to turn her hand as a professional writer.

Apart from being physically dependent on her laptop, Anna is enthusiastic about writing and producing local grassroots theater (especially at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where she can be found every summer), going to visit friends in other countries, and reading anything thatΓ­s put under her nose.

Anna claims her entire career is due to the love, support, prereading, and creative ass kicking provided by her best friend Jennifer. Jennifer refuses to accept responsibility for anything Anna has written.


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Fizz the Season

Anna Martin's Christmas Short Stories


Thursday, July 23, 2026

πŸŽ…πŸŽ†πŸŽ„⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine-Xmas in July⏳πŸŽ„πŸŽ†πŸŽ…: The Boyfriend Sweater Curse by Ari McKay




Summary:
All serious knitters know about the boyfriend sweater curse: knit a sweater for a boyfriend, and he’ll break up with you soon after. Gabriel Sutton isn’t the superstitious type, but after the curse strikes three times, he isn’t taking anymore chances. His new boyfriend, Noel Rivera, will have to be content with store bought gifts.

Yet as their relationship develops, Gabriel begins to believe Noel might be the perfect man for him. Noel doesn’t make fun of Gabriel’s holiday traditions and wants to create new traditions of their own. As Christmas draws closer, however, Gabriel sees signs of Noel pulling away, and he worries this relationship will be as big a mistake as the others. Are Noel’s late nights and secretive phone calls a sign he’s cheating? Or will the magic of Christmas bring Gabriel the love he’s been searching for all along? 



Original Review December 2017:
With the holiday nearly upon us, its safe to say that I have read more than a few tales of the season over the past thirty days or so.  Some might find themselves becoming even more critical when it comes to reviewing or what they are expecting well I am no more critical now than I was at Thanksgiving when I really started with this years holiday reading.  I like to think I keep an open mind all the way through and I was intrigued to read The Boyfriend Sweater Curse by Ari McKay.  I mean lets be honest, knitting is not a commonplace hobby for the younger males today so Gabriel's love of all things yarn really piqued my interest before even beginning.  And who doesn't love the element of a good curse?  Despite the dreaded sweater curse that Gabriel has potentially fallen victim to, this holiday tale is a delight.  Did the ending surprise me? No but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the journey that Gabriel and Noel took getting there.  Simply put: The Boyfriend Sweater Curse is a true gem that will warm your heart and make you smile.

RATING:





Six years ago – 
Gabriel Sutton leaned forward in his chair, watching eagerly while Jack opened his present. They were celebrating together on Christmas Eve since Jack had plans with his family on Christmas day. Gabriel had set the mood by dimming the lights in the living room of his apartment so the white lights on his tree illuminated the room with a cozy glow. His tree was decorated with an array of ornaments that reflected his various fandom interests, and he loved it. 

Jack tore off the shimmery red wrapping paper, opened the oblong white box, and peeled back the tissue paper to reveal the sweater Gabriel had knitted for him. They were both Star Wars fans, and Gabriel had spent almost six months knitting a sweater in fair isle colorwork using Star Wars images. The pattern consisted of five horizontal rows repeated on both the back and front; he’d used black yarn for the background so the images would pop, and he’d added a ribbed crew neck and cuffs. 

The first row alternated with the Rebel Alliance symbol in white and the Empire symbol in red. The second row X-Wing and TIE fighters in charcoal gray. The third row was a line of AT-ATs in white. The fourth row was a line of R2D2s in white and blue, and the last row was a row of Death Stars in white and gray. In between each row was a thin border made of lightsabers with either a blue, green, or red blade. It was by far the most intricate colorwork project Gabriel had ever knitted, but he thought the hours he’d spent on it were worth it. Jack was worth it. 

Jack held up the sweater, his eyes growing wide. “Wow, that’s really something!” 

“Do you like it?” Gabriel scanned Jack’s face for signs of enthusiasm, but while Jack was smiling, he didn’t seem overwhelmed. 

“Of course I do, babe.” Jack kissed him lightly, then put the sweater aside in favor of retrieving Gabriel’s present from under the tree. 

Gabriel didn’t see Jack wearing the sweater over the next couple of weeks, but they didn’t spend every day together, so he assumed maybe he missed seeing Jack when he wore it. Then in late January, Gabriel stopped by Jack’s apartment to pick him up for a date. A new restaurant serving Ethiopian food had opened in downtown Asheville, and they both wanted to try it. Jack opened the hall closet to get his coat, and Gabriel saw the Star Wars sweater still in its box and half-obscured with tissue paper on the floor next to Jack’s hiking boots. 

A heavy sandbag lodged in the pit of Gabriel’s stomach as he retrieved the sweater and held it out to Jack, who looked sheepish. “You haven’t worn it?” 

“It’s a little busy. I prefer simpler designs,” Jack said, offering an apologetic smile. “Do you want it back?” 

Gabriel ran his hand over the soft wool stitches, disappointed that he had misjudged what Jack would like. He didn’t like taking back gifts, but if Jack didn’t want it, fuck it. He’d wear it himself. In fact, he wore the sweater to his knitting group’s next meeting at the local independent yarn shop. They gathered each month in the cluster of comfortable secondhand chairs by the large picture window at the front of the shop, and they spent two or three hours knitting and chatting over sweet iced tea when it was warm and coffee when it was cold. 

“Isn’t that the sweater you were knitting for Jack?” Miss Hilda May asked. 

“He didn’t like it, so he gave it back,” Gabriel said, his lips twisting in a moue of annoyance, and the circle of ladies made sympathetic noises. They all knew how it felt when a handmade gift went unappreciated. 

“Better be careful,” Miss Betty said. “You might have triggered the boyfriend sweater curse.” 

“The what?” Gabriel put down the cabled hat he was knitting and turned to her. 

“The boyfriend sweater curse,” Miss Oleta said, nodding sagely. “It’s real. I knitted my first boyfriend a sweater for his birthday. We broke up less than a month later. I didn’t knit my husband a thing until we were married, and we’ll celebrate fifty years together this summer.” 

“Wait, what curse?” Gabriel frowned as he looked around the circle of older ladies. 

“You haven’t heard of the boyfriend sweater curse?” Miss Betty’s penciled eyebrows climbed to the roots of her dyed blond hair. “Oh, shit, honey. I guess we should’ve told you when you started working on that sweater, but we thought you knew. Never knit a sweater for your boyfriend, or you’ll break up for sure.”

Gabriel shook his head and scoffed. “We’ve been together almost a year. I think we’re solid.” 

Jack broke up with him by email the day before Valentine’s Day.


Ari McKay
Ari McKay is the professional pseudonym for Arionrhod and McKay, who have been writing together for over a decade. Their collaborations encompass a wide variety of romance genres, including contemporary, fantasy, science fiction, gothic, and action/adventure. Their work includes the Blood Bathory series of paranormal novels, the Herc’s Mercs series, as well as two historical Westerns: Heart of Stone and Finding Forgiveness. When not writing, they can often be found scheming over costume designs or binge watching TV shows together.

Arionrhod is a systems engineer by day who is eagerly looking forward to (hopefully) becoming a full time writer in the not-too-distant future. Now that she is an empty-nester, she has turned her attentions to finding the perfect piece of land to build a fortress in preparation for the zombie apocalypse, and baking (and eating) far too many cakes.

McKay is an English teacher who has been writing for one reason or another most of her life. She also enjoys knitting, reading, cooking, and playing video games. She has been known to knit in public. Given she has the survival skills of a gnat, she’s relying on Arionrhod to help her survive the zombie apocalypse.


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Friday, July 10, 2026

πŸŽ…πŸŽ†πŸ“˜πŸŽ₯Friday's Film Adaptation-Xmas in JulyπŸŽ₯πŸ“˜πŸŽ†πŸŽ…: The Three Godfathers by Peter B Kyne



Summary:
The story is already beloved by film buffs thanks to the many adaptations for the big screen, including the 1948 John Ford/John Wayne collaboration and the 2003 Japanese anime Tokyo Godfathers. But here is the original 1913 novelette in all its warm humanity and humor. Three bank robbers on the run in the frontier American West happen upon a birthing mother who begs the men to watch over her baby as the delivery takes her life just as another is brought into the world. Naturally, they do, and find that their new charge brings them a new outlook on their wicked ways. American novelist PETER B. KYNE (1880-1957) was born in San Francisco, California. From early on it was clear that he had a gift for writing, and his time in the army during the Spanish-American War and World War I gave him plenty to write about. Kyne's novels include The Go-Getter (1921) and Cappy Ricks (1916).

Is the story of The Three Bad Men—-not The Three Wise Men "What's a godfather, Bill?" The Youngest Bad Man inquired. "What job does he hold down?"

"You're an awful ignorant young man, Bob," replied The Wounded Bad Man reproachfully. "A godfather is a sort of reserve parent who promises to renounce the devil with all his works an' pomps."

The Youngest Bad Man smiled wanly. "Well, Bill, all I got to say is that us three're a lovely bunch o' godfathers."





The daylight raid on the Wickenburg National Bank had not been a success. It had been well planned, boldly and cleverly executed, and the four bandits had gathered unto themselves quite a fortune in paper money; the job had been singularly free from fuss and feathers. Nevertheless, as has already been stated, the raid was not a success. The assistant cashier, returning from luncheon, had, from a distance of half a block, observed two strangers in town. Both strangers were mounted and stood on guard in front of the Wickenburg National. In an alley just back of the bank two saddle horses were standing; and as the assistant cashier paused, irresolute, two men came out of the bank, mounted the two horses waiting in the alley, and, followed by the men who had been standing on watch in front of the bank, rode out of Wickenburg in rather a sus- picious hurry. The assistant cashier had an inspiration.

"Thieves! Robbers 1 Stop 'em!" he yelled.

His hue and cry aroused to action an apparently inoffensive and elderly citizen who was taking his siesta in front of The Three Deuces saloon. Now this man in front of The Three Deuces was not the sheriff. He was not even the city marshal. Rather he inclined one to the belief that he might be a minister of the gospel a soultrapper on guard at the portals of The Three Deuces, within which, judging by the subdued rattle of poker chips, ivory balls and an occasional hoarse shout of "Keno!" one could be reasonably certain of a plethora of brands ripe for the burning. The aged citizen asleep in the chair outside was arrayed in somber black, with a turn-down collar and white lawn tie, a "biled" shirt with a ruby stud in it, and patriarchial white whiskers. But his coat, of a clerical cut, effectually concealed two pieces of artillery of a style and caliber popularized by time and tradition in the fair state of Arizona.

The four galloping horsemen were abreast The Three Deuces when the cry of "Robbers!" aroused all Wickenburg. It awoke the man in the chair; and he came to his feet with the suddenness of a ferocious old dog, filled both hands and cut loose at one of the four horsemen. There was a reason for this. The elderly citizen had a deposit of three dollars and seventeen cents in the Wickenburg National. Also he possessed a fair proportion of civic pride, and the horseman upon whom he trained his hardware was carrying a gunny-sack containing a ro rata of the said elderly citi- zen's three-seventeen.

Four Bad Men had ridden into Wickenburg that December afternoon, but only three rode out. One of the three had a bullet hole through his left shoulder. The man who stayed lay, thoroughly and effectually defunct, on top of a bulging gunnysack in front of The Three Deuces. Came presently the paying teller of the Wickenburg National and removed the gunny-sack. Came half an hour later the coroner of Wickenburg and removed the body. As for the elderly citizen of deceptive appearance, he walked uptown to a hardware store, re- plenished his supply of ammunition and returned to The Three Deuces in a highly cheerful frame of mind. Here let us leave him, for with this story he has nothing further to do. From now on our interest must center on The Three Bad Men who rode out of Wickenburg headed for the California line which happens to be the Colorado River.

They made their first halt at Granite Tanks, twenty-five miles from Wickenburg. Here they watered their horses and then pressed onward toward the river. At the river they found a boat, thoughtfully provided for just such an emergency as the present.

Darkness had already settled over the land when The Three Bad Men came to the Colorado River. It would have been wise on their part to have waited until the rising of the moon, but our story does not deal with The Three Wise Men. Within the hour a posse might appear, and, moreover, The Three Bad Men were of that breed that prefers to "take a chance." They rode their jaded horses into the flood until the yellow waters lapped their bellies; then they shot them and shoved the carcasses off into the current.

An hour later The Three Bad Men landed on the California side near Bill Williams Mountain, filled their boat with stones and sank it, and shouldering a supply of food and water sufficient to last them four days, headed up a long box canon that led north to the Colorado Desert. They made fair time after the moon came up. All night long they trudged through the box canon, and at daylight it opened out into the waste.

"Well, boys, I guess we're safe," re- marked The Worst Bad Man, who was the leader of the trio. "It's cooler in the canon, so suppose we camp here. I feel like breakfast and some sleep. How's your shoulder, Bill?"

The Wounded Bad Man shrugged the wounded member disdainfully.

"High up. Missed the bone and don't amount to much, Tom. But I've bled like a stuck pig and it's weakened me a little." "I'll heat some water and wash it up, Bill," said The Youngest Bad Man, much concerned.

They made a very small fire of cat-claw and ironwood, brewed a pot of coffee, breakfasted, washed and dressed The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder and slept until late afternoon. They awoke much re- freshed, ate an early supper and struck out across the desert to the north, where in time they would come to the Santa Fe tracks. There were lonely stations out there in the sands they might be worth investigation. Then on to the new mining camp at Old Woman Mountain a camp which, following the whimsical and fantastic system of desert nomenclature, which seems to trend toward such names as Mecca, Cadiz, Bagdad, Bengal and Siam, had had bestowed upon it the not inappropriate name of New Jerusalem.

For a number of reasons The Three Bad Men preferred to travel by night. Primarily they were prowlers and preferred it. Secondly, although one may encounter tor- rid weather by day on the Colorado Desert even in December, the nights, on the contrary, are bitterly cold and The Three Bad Men had no blankets. Also there was this advantage about traveling at night and sleeping in the shadow of a rock by day: they would not meet other wanderers and there would be no embarrassing questions to answer respecting the hole in The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder.

Consequently The Three Bad Men traveled by night. From Mojave Tanks they swung west to avoid the mining operations there, although more than once they glanced back wistfully at the little cluster of yellow lights shining across the sands. The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder was in a bad way and needed medical attention. Also they needed water; but they were desertbred and could last until they came to Malapai Springs.

So they turned their backs on Mojave Tanks and tramped onward. Now they were in the ghostly moonlight of the open desert, with the outlines of the mountain ranges on each side looming dim and shadowy fifteen or twenty miles away; now they were picking their way carefully through clusters of murderous catclaw, through tangles of mesquit and ironwood. Up dark, lonely arroyos they went; down long alleys between the outstretched arms of the ocatillas with their pendulous, bloodred blossoms, passing dried, withered Joshua trees twisted into fantastic shapes as if their fearful surroundings had caused them to writhe in horror; through solitude and desolation so vast and profound as to inspire one with the thought that the Creator, appalled at the magnitude of this abortion of Nature, had set it apart as an eternal heritage of the damned.

In the forenoon of the fifth day they came to Malapai Springs. Here The Three Bad Men drank deeply, bathed, filled their canteens and stepped blithely out for Terrapin Tanks, the next waterhole a little-known and consequently unfrequented spot where they could rest for a few days before attempting the last desperate leg of their journey to the railroad.

"Don't stint yourself on the water, Bill," The Worst Bad Man advised as they departed from Malapai Springs. "There's always water at Terrapin Tanks."

Nevertheless, with the instinct of the desert-bred, The Worst Bad Man and The Youngest Bad Man were sparing with the water themselves, although careful to conceal this fact from The Wounded Bad Man. The latter's shoulder was swollen and inflamed, and it was a relief to him if the bandages were kept wet.

The Worst Bad Man, who knew the country better than his companions, had timed their arrival at Terrapin Tanks al- most to the hour. The sun was just coming up over the low red hummocks of hematite to the eastward when The Three Bad Men plodded wearily up a long, dry canon, turned a sharp, rocky promontory into an arroyo and paused.

Borne on the slight desert breeze a sound came to them from up the arroyo. It was a mournful, wailing cry and ended in a sob a sound that bespoke pain and fear and misery.

The Three Bad Men looked at one another. Each held up an index finger, en- joining silence. A second, a third time the sound was repeated.

lt's a human voice," announced The Worst Bad Man, "an' there's death in it. Wait here. I'm goin' in to see what's up."

When he had gone The Youngest Bad Man, after the restless and inquisitive manner of youth, climbed a tall rock and gazed up the arroyo.

"I see the top of a covered wagon," he announced.

"Then," said The Wounded Bad Man, "It's a tenderfoot outfit, an' that's a woman cryin'. No desert rat'd come here with a wagon. Fools drive in where burros fear to tread, Bob. They're tenderfeet."

"That's right," agreed The Youngest Bad Man. "Some nester come in over the trail from Imperial Valley and bound for New Jerusalem, I'll bet a new hat."

"Whoever's doin' that whimperin' is sure bound for New Jerusalem," The Wounded Bad Man replied with a grim attempt at humor. "An' if I don't let a doctor look at this shoulder o' mine before long I'll head that way myself."

The Worst Bad Man was gone about ten minutes. Presently the others saw him re- turning. On his hard, sunscorched face deep concern showed plainly, and as he trotted down the arroyo he scratched his unkempt head as if in search of an idea of sufficient magnitude to cope with a grave situation. When he reached his comrades he sat down on a chunk of black lava and fanned himself with his hat.

"There's a fine old state of affairs at the Tanks," he said huskily.

"They ain't dry, are they?" Fright showed in the wide blue eyes of The Youngest Bad Man. The Wounded Bad Man sat down very suddenly and gulped. The Worst Bad Man replied to the question.

"Worse'n that."

The Wounded Bad Man sighed. "It can't be," he said.

"There's a wagon at the Tanks," con- tinued The Worst Bad Man, "but no horses. It's a tenderfoot outfit a man an' his woman an' they come in from Salton, via Canon Springs and Boulder, headed for New Jerusalem. Some o' their kin has started a boardin' tent in the new camp an' these two misfortunates were aimin' to go in with the rush an' clean up a stake. They make Terrapin Tanks all right, but the water's a little low an' the man ain't got sense enough to dig out the sand an' let the water run in. He's one of these nervous city fellers, I guess, and it just naturally hurts him to set down an' wait till that sump-hole fills up. Besides, he don't take kindly to usin' a shovel, so he sticks in a shot o' dynamite to clean out th' tanks an' start the water runnin' - The Wounded Bad Man sprang to his feet, cursing horribly.

'The damned, crazy fool!" he raved. "I'll kill him, I will. I'll kill him just as sure as I'm thirsty."




Three fugitives risk their lives to bring a newborn baby out of the desert to safety.

Release Date: March 6, 1936
Release Time: 81 minutes

Director: Richard Boleslawski

Cast:
Chester Morris as Robert Sangster
Lewis Stone as James "Doc" Underwood
Walter Brennan as Sam "Gus" Barton
Irene Hervey as Molly
Sidney Toler as Professor Amos Snape
Dorothy Tree as Blackie Winter
Roger Imhof as Sheriff
Willard Robertson as Reverend McLane
Robert Livingston as Frank Benson
John Sheehan as Ed Barrow
Joseph Marievsky as Pedro
Leonid Kinskey as Card Player (uncredited)










1930  /  1936  /  1948

Peter B Kyne
Peter Bernard Kyne was an American novelist who wrote between 1904 and 1940. Many of his works were adapted into screenplays starting in the silent era, particularly his first novel, The Three Godfathers, which was published in 1913 and proved to be a huge success. He is credited in 110 films between 1914 and 1952.

When still under 18, he lied about his age and enlisted in Company L, 14th U.S. Infantry, which served in the Philippines from 1898-1899. The Spanish-American War and the following insurrection of General Emilio Aguinaldo provided background for many of Kyne's later stories. During World War I, he served as a captain in Battery A of the 144th field Artillery, known as the California Grizzlies.


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