Long Horn, Big Shaggy: A Tale of Wild West Terror and Reanimated Buffalo

By Steve Vernon

There are things out there that you ain't dreamed of!

Things like back-from-the-dead mountain men, green ghost rock spirits, carrion stallions, time-travelling mad scientists and zombified buffalo.

And that's just for starters.

This is a bone-chilling romp through a Buffalo Bill fun house. A wild west horror novella that starts at a gallop and gathers momentum faster than a herd of stampeding avalanches.

I guarantee that you will NEVER look at a severed head the same way again.

"The Wild West just got a whole lot wilder! LONG HORN, BIG SHAGGY takes gun-toting cowboys, thier horses and even buffalo and gives them an unabashed zombie makeover." - Rue Morgue Magazine

"Laced with sardonic wit, visceral imagery and dialogue that will have you laughing out loud - this is the Old West as seen through Hell's meanest left eye squint." - Tim Curran, author of SKIN MEDICINE

"I knew that Steve Vernon was a good writer when I found myself cheering for a decapitated head. Anyone that can put such personality into a dislodged appendage, simply by internal dialogue, deserves kudos in my book." - Adrienne Jones

This is, simply put, the wildest western horror romp of recent years. In his new novella, "Long Horn, Big Shaggy," Steve Vernon has taken icons of the Wild West, combined them with elements of H. P. Lovecraft, H. G. Wells, and George Romero, and created something unique in both voice and scope that will stick with readers long after the tumbleweeds have rolled off down the path. – Cemetery Dance (David Niall Wilson)

One of the most gleefully scatological and outrageously clever novellas I've ever read - found myself wondering "Well how in tarnation is he going to top THAT?" as I moved from chapter to chapter, and Vernon somehow managed to do it. He's got the gift. - If you've got a taste for over-the-top gross-out stories in the campy mode of the Evil Dead movies, this is definitely a book you should look into. – The Goreletter

Long Horn, Big Shaggy is absolutely brilliant. A wonderful, twisted tale that is perfect for campfires and stormy nights. Steve Vernon has excelled as a writer and is one of the finest new talents of horror and dark fiction. – Owl Goingback, Bram Stoker Award winning author of Crota.

"If Harlan Ellison, Richard Matheson and Robert Bloch had a three-way sex romp in a hot tub and then a team of scientists came in and filtered out the water and mixed the leftover DNA into a test tube, the resulting genetic experiment would most likely grow up into Steve Vernon." - BOOKGASM

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Vernon
• Release date: Feb 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386670209

Steve Vernon

Everybody always wants a peek at the man behind the curtain. They all want to see just exactly what makes an author tick.Which ticks me off just a little bit - but what good is a lifetime if you can't ride out the peeve and ill-feeling and grin through it all. Hi! I am Steve Vernon and I'd love to scare you. Along the way I'll try to entertain you and I guarantee a giggle as well.If you want to picture me just think of that old dude at the campfire spinning out ghost stories and weird adventures and the grand epic saga of how Thud the Second stepped out of his cave with nothing more than a rock in his fist and slew the mighty saber-toothed tiger.If I listed all of the books I've written I'd most likely bore you - and I am allergic to boring so I will not bore you any further. Go and read some of my books. I promise I sound a whole lot better in print than in real life. Heck, I'll even brush my teeth and comb my hair if you think that will help any.For more up-to-date info please follow my blog at:http://stevevernonstoryteller.wordpress.com/And follow me at Twitter:@StephenVernonyours in storytelling,Steve Vernon

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What Readers Have To Say About Steve Vernon

If Harlan Ellison, Richard Matheson and Robert Bloch had a three-way sex romp in a hot tub, and then a team of scientists came in and filtered out the water and mixed the leftover DNA into a test tube, the resulting genetic experiment would most likely grow up into Steve Vernon." – Bookgasm

Steve Vernon is something of an anomaly in the world of horror literature. He's one of the freshest new voices in the genre although his career has spanned twenty years. Writing with a rare swagger and confidence, Steve Vernon can lead his readers through an entire gamut of emotions from outright fear and repulsion to pity and laughter. - Cemetery Dance

Armed with a bizarre sense of humor, a huge amount of originality, a flair for taking risks and a strong grasp of characterization - Steve's got the chops for sure. - Dark Discoveries

Steve Vernon is a hard writer to pin down. And that’s a good thing. – Dark Scribe Magazine

This genre needs new blood and Steve Vernon is quite a transfusion. –Edward Lee, author of FLESH GOTHIC and CITY INFERNAL

Steve Vernon is one of the finest new talents of horror and dark fiction - Owl Goingback, author of CROTA

Steve Vernon was born to write. He's the real deal and we're lucky to have him. - Richard Chizmar

Dedicated to my mother - Madge Chatelois - the storytelling lady of Yarmouth

And also to my grandmother Judy Vernon - who let me stay up and watch the all night horror festivals

And, as always I dedicate this to my darling Belinda, my beacon in the darkness, my lady, my wife.

*  Bone Bits, Boogers and Walking Bastard Haunts *

The bullet chewed into the meat of Jonah Walker’s dust gray horse long before he heard the shot.

Jonah kicked free of the stirrups as the horse dropped. Tried to land on his feet. He hit the ground like a sack full of busted bricks, smack dab in front of parched out buffalo skull. His ankle twisted and his knee sang out like a fresh-skinned Siamese cat. 

He looked down at the buffalo skull. He could have sworn the dead hump bones were laughing at him.

Shut up skull. You’re dead and I ain’t.

If they were laughing, he was outnumbered. There was nothing out here but dead humps, as far as he could see. Dead buffalo, blown down to nothing but shiny white bones. Skulls and rib cages. Whole damn skeletons.

Buffalo hunters had picked this range clean a long time ago. They had rode through like a herd of gun toting locusts. They had took the skins, and some of the bones that were close enough to the railroad tracks to sell for fertilizer. But out here, this far from nowhere, in the shadow of the distant mountain men call the Devil’s Anvil, they just shot the big humps dead and left them where they fell. Which was probably what the booger who’d just shot Jonah’s horse had in mind for him.

At least he was still alive.

The way he figured it, that put him way ahead of the hump skull.

At least for now.

He touched his knee, ginger-like. It felt spongy and warm. Already swelling up. Soft under his fingers, like the bone was wet and rotting.

He didn’t think anything was broken. At least he sure hoped not. That horse wasn’t going anywhere too fast, and civilization was one hell of a long hobble-walk away.

The horse kicked and snorted red foamy snot. A thick pink gumbo of tissue and blood and half breathed air. Was a lung shot. Slow death and no coming back. He ought to finish the dang thing off, but he didn’t have that many bullets left.

It snorted. Then it kicked again. More horse snot.

Maybe he could use his knife to open its throat. Save on bullets. Wonder how long it’d take a horse to bleed out dry? Damn thing’d probably kick him to death, halfway through dying.

It stared at him. Eyes as black and flat as Apache tears. The damn thing was begging to die. 

Damn. It was a good horse. He’d stolen it three towns back. Horse stealing was pretty bad trouble, but need makes want when the devil rides for home, and at that time he’d needed a horse real bad.

It was all that sheriff’s fault, damn it. If that old badge holder hadn’t caught that bullet in the middle of that bank hold up, Jonah wouldn’t have needed that horse so bad. Then that fool kid got himself shot too bad to ride, and fell off in the street with the money bags in hand, hanging head down from his horse, his ankle hooked like grim death into the stirrup socket. The damn horse panicked.  Rode hard for hell’s far gate, bouncing the kid behind him, scattering nuggets of skull bone and brain gunk and all that Jesus dying money from one end of the street to the other, until Jonah had turned and plugged three quick shots into the thick of the horse’s screams.  The townsfolk rose up like cat bit mad dogs, rooting in the street for the brain stained chunks of dirty gold and folding cash.

Jonah tried not to think about any of those bullets pissing through horsemeat and into the boy. Tried not to think about what he might have been aiming for.

To hell with that. A man does what he has to. Takes what he needs, and eats what he can get, and tries not to ask too many damn questions. It’s better to be the jaws than the meat, every time.

The horse snorted again.

Damn it.

It only threw him once. Didn’t eat much. The owner never came looking for it. He was too busy sifting through the brain bits and pocketing messy gold.

What was the boy’s name anyway? Billy?  Jesse?

He couldn’t remember.

He was too busy trying to remember how many bullets he had left in his pistol. He never was good at counting. He lost track at somewhere about four.

And wasn’t that the sorry truth. It was the reason why he’d robbed the bank in the first place. He’d needed money.  If he’d had some cash in his pockets before, he might have been able to afford the little luxuries that made life feel easy.

Things like a fresh horse.

Or extra ammo.

Maybe arithmetic lessons

The horse whinnied, soft and wet. Like its lungs were blowing through a thick red mud.

It was in pain. Real bad pain.

Hell.

Jonah sympathized. His own knee was burning like fresh caught sin.

The horse kept staring. The buffalo skull stared. Even the dirt stared.

To hell with it.

He drew the pistol and put it up against the horse’s skull. Just about three inches left of the ear. One shot ought to do it.

He held the pistol there for a long silent minute. Tried to think of something holy to say, before putting the horse down.

He let his breath slide out in a whistling sigh. He wondered who the hell had fired the shot, and when would he catch up with him.

And he would catch up with him, come hell or gully high water.

And then, because he was thinking of something else beside what he needed to say, the words rose up.

G’bye you brainless sack of windy oats. If I get half a chance you know I’m going to avenge you.

That seemed holy enough.

He squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, damn near deafening him. The horse didn’t hear a thing.

Another bullet whizzed in home, tumbled and popped through