Trouble on the Range

By Milo James Fowler

Everybody starts out somewhere.

For Coyote Cal and Big Yap, famous heroes of the Weird West, it was Trouble on the Range: 30 episodes of action-packed mayhem written by a 15-year-old kid with way too much imagination (and free time), filled with enough plot twists to make your head spin.

When Jack Jones's ranch is overwhelmed by foul pests, he seeks out Coyote Cal and Big Yap for help. But our heroes run into their own trouble along the way, captured by a wicked fiend intent on taking over their 30-episode serial and making it his own. In the process, the author is also kidnapped, sending events spiraling out of control. As the plot unravels, unlikely allies must unite to save the day. Or something like that.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Effervescent Press
• Release date: Jun 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227060778

Book preview

EPISODE I

THE PESTILENT MENACE

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The land of Texas sprawled out over most of the United States like a big bear rug in the year 1891. Here there were no fences, only endless cattle range stretching on for miles and miles—ninety-nine percent of it belonging to one man: the despicable Jack Jones. Countless hordes of those mindless creatures known as cattle roamed over (and sometimes under) every square inch of that dry, cracked earth, each and every ugly horned head among them carrying the despicable brand of Jack Jones's Double J Ranch.

Why was he so despicable, this Jack Jones? Well, that's a good question and it deserves an even better answer. I'm just not the one to give it.

So anyhow, the land of Texas sprawled out like a big bear rug—(Or did I already write that?)

One hot, dry, dusty, pleasantry-forsaken day out on the east range, Jack Jones found himself with a few of his hands. (Those would be his men, by the way. His employees, not his paws.) Flies and buzzards flocked around them real thick that day as they sat mounted on their trusty steeds. But old Jack Jones didn't have to worry about those pests buzzing around his head because he was something they weren't: He was despicable.

(Honestly, though, the flies and buzzards were fairly despicable, too—just not to the same degree as he. It would have been like comparing apples to oranges and whatnot. Confused yet? Good. My work here is done.)

So Jones turned to the trusty hand mounted beside him and said, Zebadiah, don't these here pests seem to be flocking awful thick today?

But here's the thing:  ol' Zeb couldn't answer. Only muffled mumblings and grumblings and pathetic, incomprehensible sounds issued forth from his wind-chapped lips because it was around him that these pestilent pests happened to be flocking thickest at the moment.

Jones scowled at him. Can't understand a word out of you.

They returned to the Double J Ranch house, and Jones shut himself up in his office, collapsing into the big swivel chair behind his massive, despicable desk. He turned to scowl out the window, and all he could see for miles upon miles were black clouds of airborne pests. He couldn't even see his beloved range that sprawled out over half of the United States like a big bear rug. And that made him sore.

Something's got to be done about them flies and buzzards, he declared to himself, pounding a clenched fist down on the massive desk.

The desk crumbled to pieces beneath the force of the blow. Jones scowled at the dusty heap.

Reckon there be termites afoot, to boot.

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TO BE CONTINUED...

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Will Jones get rid of the pestilent menace?

Will we find out why he's so despicable?

When will our heroes (Coyote Cal and Big Yap, in case you've forgotten) appear on the scene?

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To find out, stay close to your eReader for the next installment of

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TROUBLE ON THE RANGE!

EPISODE II

A TALE OF TWO JACKS

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Jack Jones, as despicable as ever, sat back in his huge, cowhide swivel chair—a chair that had, at one point in time, been located behind his massive, despicable desk. It had been a formidable, oppressive, and impressive piece of furniture to be sure, that grand desk of his.

But now those days were over. For there lay the sorry remains, a pile of dust and splinters. The handiwork of a whole caboodle of pestilent termites.

A sudden knock sounded at the door.

Come on in, Jones said in a melancholy tone, staring at the heap of rubble before him and lamenting the desk's early demise. Gone too soon, he sighed. Oh, I hardly knew ye.

The door swung open wide, and in swaggered Jack Jones's devoted dog, Jack—an ugly old hound with a pair of loaded six-shooters strapped around his flabby, wrinkled belly.

What is it, Jack? Jones was in no mood for visitors.

The dog sat back on its haunches and chewed on a wad of tobacco. After a moment's silence, he spat a squirt of brown juice onto the floor.

Well, Jack. Looks like life ain't treatin' you so good.

Looks that way, don't it, Jack, said Jones.

Jack spewed another stream of tobacco. What you aimin' to do 'bout them flies and buzzards out there, Jack?

Jones shrugged. I don't rightly know. So far, bein' despicable ain't done no good.

Well then, replied Jack. I might have the solution.

What's on your mind, Jack?

"Well, it's like this. There be these two hombres in town who've been advertisin' in the local paper under Pest Control: Coyote Cal and Big Yap's Pest Removal Service, it says. So I was thinkin', what say me and the boys go in and round up these two hombres and bring 'em—?"

"You sure that's how you say hombre? asked Jack. With a pronounced h like that? I always thought the h was silent."

Well, I don't rightly know, Jack.

Hmmm. Jack pondered that for a moment. Say, which one of us is talkin', anyhow? asked Jack, more than just a bit confused.

I couldn't say, Jack.

One of us should've been named Rover, said Jack.

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TO BE CONTINUED...

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Will it become clear which Jack is saying what?

Will Coyote Cal and Big Yap ever arrive on the scene?

And what about the range that sprawls out over Texas like a bear rug?

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To find out, stay close to your eReader for the next installment of

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TROUBLE ON THE RANGE!

EPISODE III

THE KID'S NOT ALL RIGHT

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About four hundred miles from Jack Jones and his range that sprawled out over most of Texas like a flea-infested bear rug, there sat the small, rundown town of Dry Creek (also known as Parched Throat, San Diego, and Drought City).

It was a very small town. There was a saloon, another saloon, and, just for good measure, one more saloon. And that was about it. Being the only town in this part of Texas, it attracted all manner of hired hands and cowboys and outlaws like a pond gathers scum. (Except this town had no ponds.)

There was no law in Dry Creek, so crime abounded—particularly murder, disguised as the natural result of gunfights. It was here that ruffians like Billy the Kid, Cisco the Kid, and Jesse the James liked to find refuge from the law. And they challenged just about anybody they met to a gunfight.

One hot, dry, pleasantry-forsaken day in Dry Creek, two scallywags rolled out of Saloon #1 with fists flying and curses a'plenty. Such behavior was a common sight of course, but what drew the attention of the townsfolk was the fact that both of these hombres were from Billy the Kid's outlaw band.

Billy the Kid didn't like it when his men fought amongst themselves. He didn't like it one bit.

So, as the two scallywags kept pummeling each other with their dirty fists, the crowd of townsfolk let out an audible gasp. For they had seen the doors of Saloon #1 creak open. And they had seen Billy the Kid himself step outside.

He shook his head in disgust as the two men kicked up a cloud of dust in the middle of the street, beating the living daylights out of each other. They didn't even notice him.

In a flash, Billy the Kid drew his six-gun and fired away, slamming back the hammer with the palm of his other hand. The men stopped fighting. They stopped breathing, too. Grinning a wide, tight grin, Billy the Kid holstered his shooting iron and turned back toward the saloon, leaving both his men dead and bullet-riddled in the street.

BILLY! a voice rang out as Jesse the James stepped out of Saloon #2. The author got it wrong, Kid!

Billy the Kid regarded Jesse the James coolly out of the corner of his eye.

James thundered, "One of those men you just