Wynne McLaughlin

“It’s my belief that all of the greatest tales ever told have been told in saloons. It was in such smoky, heathen-filled den of iniquity that I first heard the tale of the Bone Feud. As with all great tales, it was at its core one hundred percent true. In fact, much of it has long been a matter of historical record. But tales grow in the telling, and I therefore must apologize in advance for any inaccuracies, and beg your indulgence for any romanticized embellishments. I have decided to present the story here, just as it was told to me. I find it entirely too rich and too entertaining to alter, simply to curry favor with pedants and historians.”
― Wynne McLaughlin, The Bone Feud

“I want the real story, the one that won’t make it into the history books or the scientific journals.”
“And you think I’m the man to tell it, do you?”
“If you were actually there, you are most definitely the person to tell it. You’re absolutely right. There have been plenty of stories. The trouble is, every account is different. Most of them are second or third hand. I don’t know . . . I guess I figured, maybe since you weren’t in such a rush to tell your version, it might be the closest to the truth.”
Garvey chuckled heartily. “Well, I can’t argue with that logic, son. Despite my choice of reading materials . . .” he nodded towards the adventure novel he’d set down, a recent translation of the French novel by Jules Verne, A Journey to the Center of the Earth, “I’ve never been one for unnecessary embellishment. You want the God’s honest truth? In this particular case, there’s no need. It’s a hell of a goddamn story.”
I was already flipping open a notebook and licking the tip of a sharpened pencil to take notes. I may have been salivating.”
― Wynne McLaughlin, The Bone Feud

“Cope laughed. “I wouldn’t worry yourself, my friend. Eobasileus has been extinct for thirty-seven million years.”
At this, the preacher could no longer contain himself. “Nonsense! Utter nonsense!”
“Nonsense?” asked Cope.
“The archbishop James Ussher, using the Holy Bible itself, worked back generation by generation, mathematically, and calculated that the Earth was created on Sunday, October 23, 4004 BC at precisely eight a.m.”
“Did he, now? Eight a.m., precisely?”
“Precisely,” the preacher insisted.
Copy and Sternberg exchanged amused looks.
“Well,” Cope replied, “since the rotation of the Earth assures us that it’s always eight a.m. somewhere in the world, I suppose I should applaud him for guessing the correct time, at least.”
The cowboy couldn’t help but interject.
“Pardon me, Preacher, but if I recall correctly, didn’t the Bible say something about the Lord resting on the seventh day?”
The preacher looked confused. “What?”
“I’m certain of it.” The cowboy quickly snatched the Bible from the preacher’s hands and opened it to the first page of Genesis. “Sure. Here it is. He got started on a Monday, making light and darkness. By the time he got around to creating the Earth it was well into the third day. I make that to be Wednesday, not Sunday.”
Nonplussed and blushing, the preacher snatched his Bible back.
The cowboy shrugged. “Looks to me like your archbishop pulled a fast one, Preacher. Or maybe he just wasn’t all that good at calculating.”
― Wynne McLaughlin, The Bone Feud

“Garvey sighed. “I expect I should say a few words.”
“It would seem apropos,” said Cope.
Garvey considered for a moment, and then began to speak.
“This here preacher . . . well, there’s no doubt he was narrow-minded enough to see through a keyhole with both eyes. That don’t mean he deserved this. I expect he believed that when men die, they go to a better place.” Garvey frowned. “I’m not so sure about that . . . and I’d soon as not risk finding out for myself . . . but for his sake, I hope that’s the case.”
Garvey turned around to face a second, nearly identical grave beside the first. “The stage driver . . . well, he made his choice, and paid for it. I heard his nickname was ‘Whiskey Jack.’ I expect his breath had more than a little to do with that. Whiskey Jack was . . . well, he was a capable driver. Too bad he wasn’t a faster draw. May they both rest in peace.”
Cope and Sternberg fought off grins and tried to maintain their solemn composures.
“Amen,” said Cope.
“Indeed,” added Sternberg.”
― Wynne McLaughlin, The Bone Feud