Come Sundown

By Ted Atoka

A hostile take over attempt, and love at second sight. The gunfire begins on a beautiful sunny day when a man called Junior drives his classic Mustang convertible down Main Street in Stopgap, Oklahoma.  He has no conception that he’s about to become part of a group that fights against a hostile takeover of a local landmark and business.Add a few pretty girls to the scene, several ATVs, a saloon called the Horse Trough, and a bunch of guns … you can almost imagine the kerfuffle that ensues. Come Sundown is a contemporary humorous western with action on nearly every page. Will the people in white hats triumph over evil? Will the handsome cowboy ride off into the sunset with the pretty girl? The answers to these questions lie between the covers of Come sundown. The rest is up to you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Huntington House Press
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386208815

Ted Atoka

Ted Atoka lived the first half of his life in Boston, MA. He made a Christmas visit to friends in Oklahoma in 1981, and fell in love with country life. Five weeks after returning home—to a raging snow storm, he packed up and moved to OK. He and his wife live on a piece of land on the side of a dirt road. They share the fresh air with a peacock named Penelope, two dogs, a small herd of deer, and a feral cat.

Book preview

Main street

Nothing aggravates me more than a stranger who shoots at me with a Colt .44. He’s on the sidewalk, and I’m sitting at a stoplight in my ’80 Mustang convertible .

The downtown area of Stopgap, Oklahoma, isn’t a hustling metropolis with shoppers and foot traffic all in a hurry. It’s simply a neat, tidy little town that’s usually fun to visit, and that makes the idea of being shot at more perplexing.

My car is near the center line. I’m waiting to turn left. A teenager pulls up on his motor scooter and stops on my right. His machine idles as we both wait for the light to change...and suddenly it does.

The instant the signal switches from red to green, the scooter backfires...loud as a gunshot. The report startles a man on the sidewalk. He snaps his head in my direction and sees the open end of a black anodized pole sticking over the window ledge of my car, aimed directly at him.

Stopgap has an open-carry gun law. The man on the sidewalk draws his revolver in a flash and blasts off a single shot at me. His aim is poor. My rearview mirror, situated about six inches from my head, explodes in a ball of glass confetti. The slug ricochets off the mirror’s support arm, whistles through the sun-warmed air, and embeds itself in the crotch of a tuxedo-clad mannequin on display in the window of a formalwear shop.

I think, This ain’t gonna be good, Junior.

I see a cop with gun drawn; he’s inching along beside a parked car that’s between him and the shooter.

The cop’s face is snow-white. Drop the gun. Do it now!

The armed man wheels around, trying to locate the voice.

Drop the gun and raise both hands. Do it now or I’ll shoot.

The gunman lets his revolver fall from his hand. It strikes the brick sidewalk and discharges. The right front tire of a new Lexus wheezes loudly and deflates.   

The police officer rushes to the scene and kicks the revolver as hard as he can. It skids over the edge of the curb and vanishes down a storm drain.

Oh, NO, Junior. This definitely ain’t gonna be a good day.

ABOUT TWO HOURS LATER, I sit in a small room in Stopgap’s police station. The door opens, and the man I’d been introduced to as Deputy Majors smiles and takes a seat across the table from me.

Thank you for writing out your statement, Mr. Peavey. I appreciate all the information you’ve provided. Let’s just take some time and review it; it’s important that we have all the details. Okay with you?

Certainly, but please call me Junior. My parents gave me the name Jackson, same as my dad’s, and that led to constant mix-ups. Please call me Junior. That’s easier.

The police officer’s right eyebrow arches. Okay...Junior. You said that you’re from back east, born in 1968, and you’ve lived here for a little more than a year. You bought the old Spencer place?

Yes, just southwest of town. It’s 15 acres, and that’s big enough for me. I’m a writer. I lost my wife three years ago, and I want to do some work around the place, rehab it. It’ll be good therapy for me.

I know the spot. It’s been in the Spencer family since Oklahoma became a state. Omar Spencer was the last of the clan. He was just shy of his 99th birthday when they found him propped up against a big cottonwood by his farm pond. He had a smile on his face and a flask of whiskey in his hand. He was a kind man. You’ve got yourself a nice place.

The policeman flips to another printed page. How long you been a writer?

Writing was my first job, and I never quit, although I changed employers a few times. Now I write books...fiction. I made enough money on my last two to leave my city job and settle down here. My wife had cancer and passed away two years before I made that decision. Nobody but my boss tried to talk me out of it, and he couldn’t convince me otherwise. So, here I am.

"Well, you made a good choice, Junior. The Spencer place needs a bit of work, but then again, everything around here does.

Have you ever met Dan Meeks before?

The fellow who shot at me? No. Seems like a nice guy, though. Uh. Apart from shooting at me.

The deputy chuckles. Yessir, that he is. I’ve known him all my life. He’s a rancher, retired now. One thing I’ve noticed about him lately is that he acts awful edgy and jumpy, like he’s got something gnawing on his mind.

He slides his papers into a folder and looks up at me. I believe we’re done here, Junior; thank you for your help. Dan Meeks has agreed to replace your rearview mirror, and he’ll also pay the owners of the Lexus and the formalwear shop for all damage caused. They’re not going to press charges. Lucky for him, a friend of his was able to use a special tool and snag his revolver from the storm drain...it’s an expensive piece of artillery.

We stand and shake hands. He says, Follow me, and I’ll have the desk deputy sign you out.

Next thing I know, I’m standing at a raised counter in the front of the station. 

I scribble my name on the bottom of three official-looking papers, hand the ballpoint pen back to the clerk, and say goodbye.

I turn away and walk down a hall toward the front door. Dan Meeks’ lanky frame steps through a doorway under a sign that reads Gents. We nearly collide with each other.

Meeks steps back abruptly. S’cuse me, Mr. Peavey; I’m so sorry. You all through with ’em too?

Yes, sir, just now finished up, and please call me Junior.

Meeks nods and moves to one side. When we reach the door, he holds it open for me to pass through, and we step into the fresh Oklahoma air.

Buy you a drink...or something to eat, Junior? That’s the least I can do... ’specially since I blew your mirror to smithereens.

You know something? I’m about to starve. Sure thing, Dan. You pick the spot...I’m still the new guy on the block around here.

A maroon Mercedes minibus with a golden peanut mounted