Western Showdown Quotes

I felt like the sheriff in an old Western, gearing up for a showdown at high noon, only to find out the black-hat outlaw accidentally fell off his horse and died from a concussion on his way to the gunfight. No satisfaction, no closure.

If the plot is a machine that allows you to get from set piece to set piece, and the set pieces are things without which the reader or the viewer would feel cheated, then, whatever it is, it’s genre. If the plot exists to get you from the lone cowboy riding into town to the first gunfight to the cattle rustling to the showdown, then it’s a Western. If those are simply things that happen on the way, and the plot encompasses them, can do without them, doesn’t actually care if they are in there or not, then it’s a novel set in the old West.

Becks had a pistol in either hand, making her look like an illustration from some fucked-up pre-Rising horror/Western. Showdown at the Decay Corral or something.

Now they emerged upon a great prairie, an expanse of rumpled short-grass plains with occasional clumps of trees dimly seen in the distance, like tiny islands in a sea. This was the western border of a scattered belt of forest land, about forty miles in width, which stretched across the country from north to south, from the Arkansas to the Red River. This oddly fashioned landscape was called the Cross Timbers.

stock runnin’ on the plains south of the Platte all the way

besieged

I’d prefer ‘Bonnie Blue Flag’, if you take requests…” Tom had turned and rested his elbows on the bar. His hand was inches from the Colt. These were the men he was looking for.

Pastor Jill’s sons glared as he approached. The street went quiet, like in a Western. The people were ready for a showdown. Matt said, “How are you doing?” The brothers might have been twins. One kept up the stare. The other started loading Eva’s belongings into the trunk. Matt did not blink. He kept smiling and walking. “I’d like you to stop that now.” Crossed-Tree-Trunk-Arms said, “Who are you?” Pastor Jill came out. She looked over at Matt and scowled too.

As radioman Rudolf-Günter Wagner broadcast the news to the crowds of newly liberated Berliners, his words were drowned out by joyous whoops and shrieks. “Hurrah!” they shouted. “Wir leben Noch!” (We’re still alive!). Berliner Manfred Knopf had lived through four years of uncertainty. Now he felt a sense of victory. “We belonged to the Western world!

At the bottom of the Kremlin’s neurotic view of world affairs,” Kennan wrote, “is traditional and instinctive Russian sense of insecurity.” This insecurity manifested itself in a “patient but deadly struggle for total destruction [of] rival power.”20 He warned that this was particularly the case in hot spots like Berlin, where the Soviets were not to be trusted on any level. “Everything possible will be done to set major Western powers against each other,” he wrote. “Anti-British talk will be plugged among Americans, anti-American talk among British.” The Soviets were masters of sowing seeds of mistrust. “Where suspicions exist, they will be fanned; where not, ignited.” So

do, but he was a man of many experiences, and in the past there had always been a way out. Usually there was, if a man took his time and kept his head.

The showdown with Yugoslavia emerged as a disturbing example of how the intrinsic weakness of international law concerning crimes against humanity helped shape the cold war and was in turn shaped by it. Tito’s government made repeated, detailed requests to the Western Allies to turn over scores of Yugoslav Nazis and collaborators who had fallen into U.S. and British hands.

What?

but