My Favorite Westerns

 A few weeks ago I listed my favorite crime movies, films that I never grow tired of while seeing something new each time. That got such a nice response (especially on Facebook), I decided to do it again, this time with Westerns.

 

Here are the criteria I set out in January for the crime films:

1. I have to like the movie.

2. It has to bear up under repeated viewings.

 

With that in mind, here are my personal prejudices:

I don’t generally care for what I call “good haircut” Westerns. The American West was a grungy place; there’s a high bar to clear if everyone looks too well groomed. One movie listed cleared that bar; a few others have questionable grooming, but make up for it elsewhere.

 

I’m also not crazy about movies that perpetuate the myth of The West. More than a few of the problems we have today can be traced to what people think actually happened back then. The last thing I want to see is something that reinforces that. Again, a couple of those listed do that in their own way, but they’re so good I get over it.

 

Here's the list. As before, it’s in chronological order, so no valuation is implied.

 

Shane (1953)

The quintessential “mysterious stranger rides into town, does what has to be done, and leaves” film. Alan Ladd was short, but he was badass. His minimalist speech is not the affectation of the stereotypical laconic cowhand; it’s the language of a man who does not intend to repeat himself. Van Heflin and Jean Arthur are perfect as the homesteaders, and Jack Palance sets the standard for hired guns.

 

The Professionals (1966)

Another classic Western plot: rich man (Ralph Bellamy) hires four mercenaries (Burt Lancaster, Lee Marvin, Robert Ryan, and Woody Strode) to get back his age-inappropriate wife (Claudia Cardinale) who has been kidnapped by a Mexican bandit (Jack Palance). Things aren’t quite what they appear, though the mercenaries make sure justice is done. The stars have a ball working with each other (Editor’s Note: Woody Strode was born 30 years too early or he would have been a big star himself), the sets are appropriately grimy, and the right note is touched in every scene. Has what might be the greatest closing line in Western history.

[Name redacted to avoid spoiler]: You bastard.

[Name redacted to avoid spoiler]: In my case, an accident of birth. You, sir, are a self-made man.

 

Hombre (1967)

Maybe Elmore Leonard’s best novel, and quite possibly the best Western ever. Paul Newman plays John Russell, a white man captured by Apaches as a child and raised on a reservation, who inherits his white foster father’s boarding house. That sets up a stagecoach trip with Russell and a motley band that leads to not only a tense and well-crafted plot, but can provoke long discussions about what people owe each other. Richard Boone cements his place as one of the all-time bad guys, and Frank Silvera as the vaquero creates a minor role that lives forever.

 

The Wild Bunch (1969)

Westerns could never be the same after The Wild Bunch. Sam Peckinpah’s hyperviolent (for the time) ode to the closing of the frontier is, in its way, a buddy movie. What each member of the gang feels he owes the others eventually takes control of the film, as they understand their day is ending and decide to meet it on their own terms.

 

The Outlaw Josie Wales (1976)

Interesting that a film released in the year of the American bicentennial takes such an uncompromising and harsh look at the nation’s history. Clint Eastwood’s breakout film as a director, he also plays Josie, who wanted nothing more than to go home after the Civil War until a Union officer betrays his men at their surrender and murders Wales’s family. Revenge is delayed as Wales accumulates a ragtag band of followers that provide detail of actual life on the frontier while the revenge story plays out.

 

Unforgiven (1992)

Eastwood again, deconstructing more of the Western myth. This time he’s a reformed gunman turned farmer who needs money so desperately he accepts an invitation to kill a couple of men who disfigured a whore. Morgan Freeman is his partner, and Gene Hackman was never better than as Little Bill Daggett, the local sheriff who has many admirable qualities, though not enough to offset his darker nature. The scene where Little Bill tells a journalist (Saul Rubinek) how English Bob (Richard Harris) truly earned his reputation as a gunfighter should be required viewing for those who still subscribe to The Myth.

 

Tombstone (1993)

Yes, it’s a myth perpetuator, but it makes the list for four reasons:

1. Wyatt Earp is not portrayed as the classic white hat good guy.

2. The gunfight at the OK Corral is as well-done and likely realistic as has ever been filmed (though that scene in Wyatt Earp is also excellent).

3. Val Kilmer as Doc Holliday.

4. It’s just so damn much fun to watch, primarily due to Val Kilmer as Doc Holliday.

 

Open Range (2003)

Robert Duvall and Kevin Costner star as the last of the open range cattle operations, matched against a ruthless English transplant who’ll draw no line in his efforts to put them in what he considers to be their places. Lots of good subtext here with the competing ranch operations as well as a look at PTSD in the post-Civil War era.

 

Appaloosa (2008)

Ed Harris wrote the screenplay, directed, and stars in this adaptation of the first of Robert B. Parker’s Cole and Hitch Westerns. Viggo Mortensen is excellent as Hitch, and Harris and co-screenwriter Robert Knott were smart to leave Parker’s dialog as intact as possible. In some ways it’s Spenser and Hawk in the Old West with even harder edges, but the plot and byplay make this one that bears up under repeated watching. My only quibble is that I have a hard time believing a man such as Virgil Cole would fall so hard for Renee Zellweger. Diane Lane was originally cast in Zellweger’s role; her and Cole I could understand.

 

True Grit (2010)

I get that the 1969 version is very good, maybe even John Wayne’s best. I’ll even go so far as to say he earned his lifetime achievement acting Oscar for his portrayal of Rooster Cogburn; Robert Duvall as Ned Pepper is tough to beat, too. Then again, Jeff Bridges is better than The Duke, Barry Pepper is no slouch, and let’s not even try to compare Matt Damon and Glen Campbell; Hailee Steinfeld is also more believable as Maddie. The Coen brothers are far more loyal to the book, and to good effect. Both versions are worth watching, but if you can see only one, this is the one to watch.

 

That’s ten, and I’m sure I’ll do an honorable mention list down the road. That said, there’s one more I can’t bear to leave out of my personal Pantheon. It doesn’t have the weight some of these others do, but I love it so much it gets a pass.

 

Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid (1969)

The ultimate buddy movie, which happens to be a Western. As the beginning states, much of what happens is true. Paul Newman, Robert Redford, and Katherine Ross are a trio for the ages. I will never get tired of watching this movie. In fact, if you told me I could only watch one film for the rest of my life, this might be it. If you gave me five, I guarantee it makes the list.

 

(People are going to ask about Blazing Saddles. It’s in the comedy list I’ll do in a while.)

Happy Trails to the Western

The Western I have been working on sporadically for five years finally bit the dust. It is no more. It’s pushing up daisies. It has gone to join the choir celestial. Bereft of life, it rests in peace. It has ridden off into the sunset, kicked the bucket, bought the farm, and taken a dirt bath.

 It is an ex-Western.

 I noticed during the final days of working on it that I wasn’t enjoying myself. Usually second drafts, where I rewrite the entire book, are fun. This was drudgery. The decision to cut bait after 34,000 words came when I realized the problem: it violated Edith Wharton’s fifth rule of writing:

 Have a point.

 The book was a mash-up of scenes from Westerns I’ve enjoyed, some good character interactions, and dialog I was happy with; the whole was less than the sum of its parts. Even I would have got to the end and thought, “So what?” I have projects on the back burner that do have points. I’ll work on those. (I have two or three possible Forte stories still in the embryonic stages, and a Penns River book is coming together rapidly since I abandoned the Western.)

 Another problem was the voice. I finally found what seemed to be a voice that sounded appropriate for a Western, but writing it was as left-handed an exercise as I can remember. I considered going back and re-writing it again in the voice I’ve developed over twelve crime novels just to see how it worked, but realized I’m sick of looking at this story. If I’m going to essentially start over, I should have something worth writing about.

 I may well try another Western. I picked up a couple of non-fiction books on the recent vacation that could generate ideas. I also plan to revisit Charlie Siringo’s memoir, which has a story I remember as having potential.

 The ultimate problem with the book I just set aside was its origin: I wanted to write a Western. It wasn’t that I had a story I wanted to tell or a character I wanted to explore. There was nothing organic about it. If nothing else, this has taught me to keep the horse before the cart when starting out on a new book.

 I should have known better. I’ve always wanted to write a heist or caper novel, but never had the idea for one that struck me as something I could write well enough to make it worth spending a year on. Same thing with a straight-up comedy. Whatever governor I have that made me realize those desires didn’t have legs took a vacation when it came to the Western.

 I suspected this was the case a while ago, but I’m a stubborn bastard. Everything I found wrong could be fixed, and I kept fixing things until what I had was a Frankenstein’s monster of a book. So I’m setting it off on an ice floe to bother me no more. I can always cannibalize bits if they fit into another book.

 No time spent writing is ever wasted. I learned a lot from this. I wouldn’t have minded learning it a little quicker, but that’s how life is sometimes. Knowledge is not always achieved in a timely manner. Just ask those people whose last words before being intubated are, “Can I have the vaccine now?”

 

 

 

 

The Eighth Angel, Finale

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 & 4

 

5.

The Anderson Ranch, southeast of El Paso, near the Rio Grande

 

John Anderson spent the day pacing. Delivering Travis to Angel de Venganza had been as easy as John had feared. Cooped up on the ranch, never allowed to travel alone since members of the posse started turning up dead, Travis jumped at the chance to go to El Paso alone for a simple errand. John knew Travis would find justification to spend the night drinking, gambling, and whoring. John would never have minded if Travis had been able to confine himself to those activities. He’d been young once himself.

Travis in town on his own was what led to the current predicament. No whores caught his drunken fancy that night, so he forced himself on a young married woman named Rosalyn Bentley. Travis almost had to kill the husband when he came looking to avenge his wife’s honor. John never learned all the details, but some agreement assuaged Bentley’s grievance; a scapegoat was needed. Jaime Escalante had a reputation as a roughneck and Lothario. He had been known to flirt with Rosalyn Bentley and there were white men in El Paso who had suspicions about their women’s interactions with Escalante. Hanging the rape on him would only work if no one looked too closely, and there were people who mattered in El Paso who would not be inclined to look closely at all.

John Anderson knew none of this when he agreed to hire a posse to bring back the accused rapist. At the time he’d been proud to see Travis step forward to choose and organize the men, attributing it to a growth of civic responsibility. Only later did he realize the story Travis and Bentley cooked up would not hold water were the Mexican allowed to face charges.

Dark thoughts and recriminations occupied John’s mind all day until he noticed the shadows creep along the side of the main house. Travis had left not long after sunup. John had begun to worry the Mexican might have gone back on his word when he heard a horse approach at a full gallop. The hoofbeats stopped at the edge of the front porch and a voice he didn’t recognize at first began to scream.

“Daddy! Daddy! God damn it, Daddy. Come look what that son of a bitch half-breed beaner did to me!”

John ran to the front door. Travis sat his horse so close to the porch he could dismounted directly onto it. He was hatless with hair hanging over his face in long strands. Tears dripped form his jaw. Snot fouled his mustache.

“What is it boy? What happened?”

“What happened? What happened? This happened!”

Travis pulled the hair back from his face to look straight at his father. Branded into his forehead was the letter V, the lower point almost to the bridge of the nose, between the eyes.

John felt ill. Refused to look away. “Did they hurt you, boy?”

Travis’s face a mix of pain, rage, and confusion. “They? Weren’t no they. One man. Same one killed Red and Easy and the others. Picked me off on the way to town like he’d been waiting for me. First time in almost a year you let me go out alone and…” A flush of realization came to Travis’s face. “You knew.”

“It was the price of saving your life.”

“You worked it out? You talked to him? Knowing what he’d been doing, you met him and didn’t kill him?”

“We have to answer for what we did. To atone.”

“You got a brand on you I don’t know about? What the hell does V stand for, anyway? He said you’d know. Said it was appropriate.”

Tears clouded John’s vision. Travis had lived within a mile of the border all his life and knew no more than ten words of Spanish that weren’t insults or blasphemy. “Violador, I expect.”

“What’s that in English?”

“Rapist.” John was already recovering. “Get Esmeralda to put some of her salve on that burn. I’ll help you down.”

Travis reined his mount away from his father’s reaching hands. “I don’t need no more of your kind of help, you old bastard.” Walked his horse to the corner of the house. “I’m warning you, old man. You best sleep with one eye open form now on.”

John let him go. Much as he loved the boy and as much as his son was hurting, he knew the only way Travis would come at him was to hire it done. John stood alone and watched the sun begin to sink across the river. All the work he’d done. Buried a wife, a daughter, and a younger son, only to leave his life’s labor to such an heir.

He didn’t know how long the man had been sitting his horse at the crest of the ridge. Only after Joh focused on him did the rider tip his hat before walking his horse down the other side.

 

6.

Southwestern United States and northern Mexico

 

Seven years later, it surprised no one when Travis Anderson hired six gunmen to bring Angel de Venganza back to the Anderson ranch, dirt still falling on his father’s casket. The men, renowned bounty hunters all, ranged as far as Yuma, Fort Smith, Denver, and Chihuahua. They examined hotels and saloons and brothels and stage lines and train depots for two years. Travis had no idea how much whisky or how many whores he paid for.

He recalled them when the expenses began to cut into his own habits. In all that time and distance they encountered no one who had seen or had knowledge of a man named Angel de Venganza. He had no family nor friends nor enemies. No birth or baptismal records. No headstone.

Men who knew Easy Book in Texas could not place the name. The men who’d been drinking with Red Durham in Bisbee never had a name for the young Mexican Red sat with that night. Never got a good look at his face. The livery owner was new in town, the previous proprietor having moved on. California, maybe. Or Oregon.

The only person to see Angel de Venganza after John Anderson watched him ride his horse into the setting sun was Travis Anderson, who saw him every night.

 

The Eighth Angel, Chapters Three & Four

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

 

3.

Northern Texas or southern Oklahoma Territory

 

Angel lay on his belly at the crest of a hog’s back as he looked across a small stream meandering through some bottom land. The sun rose behind him to reflect off the water. He’d been there for over an hour waiting for Kansas Jack Sloat to awaken.

Kansas Jack had not been easy to find. With warrants bearing his name from Texas, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arkansas, he only remained available for Angel to track due to guile and cunning.

Angel pulled a Sharps rifle from the grass beside him as Kansas Jack shrugged off his bedroll. No more than 250 yards distant, in line with what little breeze there was. He rose and stretched. Started a fire for his coffee. Scanned the horizon 360 degrees. Angel remained motionless, knowing he was not visible, as flat to the ground as he was, buffalo grass around him and the sun rising behind.

Jack poked the fire to get it burning how he wanted. Walked away to a small stand of trees to do his morning business. He had returned to within thirty feet of the fire when Angel shot him low in the belly.

Angel walked down the reverse slope of the hill to retrieve his horse. Slid the rifle into a saddle scabbard and mounted. Allowed the horse to pick its own pace down the hill toward the stream. No need to hurry. Kansas Jack would wait.

 Jack had crawled to within a few feet of his kit when Angel’s roan splashed int the stream, the sound drawing the wounded man’s attention. He looked toward the water, a hand shielding his eyes from the morning glare. Lay motionless until his face showed recognition of his plight. Started crawling with increased vigor.

Angel let his horse amble through the water. Jack got within a foot or two of the pistol sticking out of his bedroll before Angel drew his Colt. Thumbed back the hammer. Jack froze at the click of the cocking mechanism. A quick calculation before he reached for the gun. Angel shot him through the hand.

Jack yelled. His other hand fluttered, unsure of which wound to cradle. “Son of a bitch! Who the hell are you?”

“That was a mistake. Walking away without your guns.”

“I checked. Everything was clear.”

“Not as clear as you thought.”

“I asked once already. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Angel de Venganza.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

“Not yet.” Angel holstered his gun and sat his horse. “What about Jaime Escalante? Maria Rodriguez? Do those names mean anything to you?”

Realization crossed Kansas Jack’s face. “The pistolero in that canyon south of Juarez.”

“My friend in the canyon. My friends.”

Kansas Jack glanced again toward his pistol. Not three feet away. Resignation began to settle onto his features. “You the one killed Easy Book?”

“And Red Durham.”

“Red’s dead, too?” Angel nodded. “Pete Davis.”

“Not yet.”

“You will, though.” Not asking. Angel nodded. Kansas Jack grimaced. “What about that peckerwood Travis Anderson? It was him started all this.”

“His turn is last.”

“Why’s he get to live longest?”

“So he can know what is coming.”

“His old man?”

“He will have his own reckoning.”

Kansas Jack rolled from his side to his back. Looked into the sky. “Gonna be hot.”

“Not compared to where you are going.”

Kansas Jack said, “Kiss my ass” with no venom, almost like to felt obliged to say it. “How’s it gonna go? You leave me here to fight off the coyotes and buzzards till I bleed to death? Or do you got something clever in mind?”

“I am not a clever man.”

“You outsmarted me sure enough.”

Angel scanned the horizon. Jack was right. It would be a hot day. The morning sky was beautiful. “I am not here to make you suffer.”

“You’re doing a damn fine job of it, if it’s not your intent.”

“I only want you to understand why you are here. Dying by my hand like this.”

Kansas Jack closed his eyes. Shuddered. “I won’t beg, and I won’t apologize. Not asking no consideration, but I argued against killing the woman.” Wiped his brow with the sleeve of his union suit. “Would it be too much to ask for my hat?” Pointed. “Sun’s coming right in my eyes.”

Angel dismounted. Picked up the hat. Tossed it to Jack. Positioned his horse between the dying man and the sun.

Jack left the hat be, shaded now by the horse’s shadow. “I’m obliged to you.” Breathed like someone was sitting on his chest. “We took a job. For money. We did it. That’s how I earn my living. I never figured to die indoors but I damn sure never thought I’d go out like this, gut shot by a Mexican that’s keeping the sun off me while I die.”

Angel tapped his thumb on the butt of his pistol. “Why did you do it?”

“I told you. It was a job.”

“How much were you paid?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That much?” Angel shook his head. Put a foot into the stirrup. Gave Kansas Jack a long look before mounting.

Jack said, “So that’s it? You’re gonna leave me here to die after all?”

“No.” Angel turned the horse so it stood alongside the man on the ground. “They should not have died, but Jaime and Maria died well. I will give you the same opportunity.” Drew and cocked his pistol. Aimed so Jack could look into the barrel. “You can look away. You can close your eyes. Or you can watch the bullet come for you. It is your choice.”

Kansas Jack said, “I’ll see you in hell.” But he watched.

 

4.

El Paso, Texas

 

Angel held the pistol along his leg as he opened the hotel room door. The man in the hallway was at least sixty years old. Tall with a bit of a stoop. Hair was white and wispy on top. He wore expensive clothes and boots and the hat in his hand cost more than a cowhand made in a month. “You the one goes by Angel?” Pronounced as Angel did.

“Si.”

“You know who I am?”

“Si.”

“You know why I’m here, then.”

“Si. I did not think you would come alone.”

“Then you don’t know why I’m here. You mind if we sit?”

Angel stepped back. The man entered the room. Took the only chair. Angel leaned against the wall.

“You killed them all. Didn’t you?”

“Jaime killed one. In the canyon.”

“You killed the rest, though.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“You went to the trouble to find me and you have to ask me that?”

“Are you finished?”

“Almost.”

“Just my son left to kill. Is that it?”

Angel did not think that required an answer.

“What Travis did was wrong. What I did was worse.”

“I can forgive you protecting your son. Sending five men to kill two you knew were innocent is not so excusable.”

“That’s not why they were sent.”

“Think of who they were. What did you expect to happen?”

“I didn’t know the woman would be there. The man I wanted brought back to stand trial.”

Angel shook his head. “That might have exposed your son’s responsibility. You could not risk it.”

“I didn’t know at the time my son was responsible. I give you my word on that.”

Angel didn’t answer right away. “A trial would never have happened. Vigilantes would have taken a role.”

The older man lowered his head. Nodded. “I expect so, knowing what I know now.” The room remained silent but for the sound of the man’s breathing. It had an unhealthy rasp. “How can we make this right? Short of you killing us?”

“An act of contrition.”

“That some Catholic thing?” Angel nodded. “The way you mean, it stops short of killing Travis?”

“You are not concerned for your own life?”

“I got it coming.” The older man tapped the hat against his leg. “I lived my whole life trying to do right. Drove a hard bargain but I honestly don’t think I ever cheated a man or took unfair advantage. Maybe if I had more experience doing the wrong thing it wouldn’t have gone so bad this time, but, Lordy, I have left the path. So, yeah. You think I got it coming, I have no argument for you.”

“And your son? Travis? He does not have it coming?”

“I never taught Travis wrong from right. Not proper. You want to take this out on someone, take it out on me.”

“You do not think a grown man should be able to figure out for himself that rape and murder are wrong?” No answer.

Angel straightened himself from the wall. Sat on the corner of the bed closest to the older man. “You deserve to die for what you have done.”

Tears filled the man’s eyes. No fear on his face or in his voice. “I do.”

“I believe the penance you are putting yourself through is more righteous than a quick death. An act is still required.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Give your son to me.” Angel went on before the man could protest. “I swear to you on Jaime’s and Maria’s graves I will not kill him. I suspect he will not be as willing to make amends as are you, so it is likely I will have to impose his contrition upon him.”

“Torture?”

“Not the way you mean. Any physical pain he endures will be far less than what you are putting yourself through.”

“You won’t kill him.” As if afraid to believe it.

“I will not kill him. I give you my word.”

“What’s my part?”

“It must be you who delivers him to me, and he must know it was you who betrayed him.”

“But you won’t kill him. Cripple nor blind him?”

“I will return him to you in perfect working order.”

The man showed his resignation. “When and where?”

“Send him to town one week from today. Alone.”

The man looked into Angel’s eyes. Either saw or didn’t see what he looked for. Whatever he saw, he stood. Slapped his expensive hat against a thigh. Halfway through the door he stopped and turned back toward Angel. “How do you know I won’t have a posse waiting for you?”

“You won’t.”

John Anderson settled his hat. “No, sir. God help me, I won’t.”

 

The Eighth Angel, Chapter Two

 

Chapter 1

 

2.

Bisbee, Arizona Territory

 

The handsome roan was in good condition, though in need of grooming. The same applied to the rider. He dismounted in front of the livery and brushed dust from his clothing as Earl Hollowell came out wiping his hands on a rag.

The man handed Earl the reins. “He needs a good grooming and a better feeding. How much for you to treat him as if he were your own?”

“Same as for everyone else. That’s the only way I care for an animal, like he was mine.” Earl told him the price.

The man paid for three days. “I might not be here that long, but you’re welcome to it.”

Earl nodded his thanks. “What’s your name, son?”

“Call me Angel.” Pronounced it the Mexican way. Ahn-hell. “Angel de Venganza.:

“What brings you to town, Angel de Venganza?”

Angel spoke with not quite a Mexican accent, as if he grew up on this side of the border in a home where Spanish was the primary language. A not uncommon accent around here, though Angel sounded like he was from farther east. Texas, maybe. “Drifting west. I might stay a few days if I find work that agrees with me. Could be gone in the morning, too.”

“What kind of work agrees with you?”

“I’m not particular. Ranch work if I can get it, but I’ll hoe a line if someone is willing to pay. Did some hunting a while ago.”

“I’ll keep an ear out for you. Where can someone find you?”

“Don’t know yet. This is the first place I stopped here in town. How about I find you?” Earl could live with that. “Where can I get something to eat?”

“How much are you looking to spend?”

“I’m not broke. Yet.” A shy smile.

Earl pointed down the street. “Try the Desert Rose. There’s cheaper places, but when the Rose sells you a steak it’ll be from a steer. They might even be able to put you up. Assuming they have room, that is.”

“They won’t care I’m not white?”

Earl shook his head. “That’s why I didn’t suggest the hotel. Those rooms are nicer, but they won’t let you in unless you offer to sweep up and clean the spittoons. Then they’ll let you sleep in the tool shed.”

Angel tipped his hat. “Gracias. I guess everyone who comes through town sees you sooner or later.”

“Looking for someone? Or don’t want to be looked for yourself?”

“I’m not hiding. Just wondering if a man named Red Durham came through in the past few days. Wears a hat with an Indian-style band and rides a big chestnut gelding.”

“What do you want him for?”

“A mutual friend asked me to look Red up if we were ever in the same place. I heard he had come this way when I was in Las Barras.”

“Can’t say for a fact it’s his horse, but that chestnut gelding over there come in day before yesterday. Wasn’t me checked him in but I seen the owner leaving. He might could’ve had a hat like that.”

“Do you know where he can be found?”

Earl spit a healthy stream of tobacco juice away from Angel. “You could ask at the Rose. They ain’t seen him, try the Last Chance up the street on the way out of town. He’ll of been in one or the other, maybe both. One thing. You ask in the Last Chance, be discrete-like. Sabby?”

The Desert Rose was as Earl described. The steak was excellent and each beer come in a fresh, chilled mug. Not cheap, but not unaffordable. No one knew of Red Durham, though no one took it out of place for Angel to ask.

Earl hadn’t exaggerated about the Last Chance, either. Looked like it opened when Bisbee was new and it would have been the last—or first—opportunity for refreshment and recreation in a while. The kind of place where men coming out of or going into the desert for reasons they’d rather not disclose would stop before pushing on.

Angel stepped through the batwing doors. Put a dollar coin on the bar. Spoke when the barman passed by for the fifth time without acknowledgement. “Excuse me. I’d like a drink.”

The man looked at Angel as if he were a javalina pissing on the bar. “You’d be happier in Agua Prieta. Might even have some tizwin there. Mescal if you can pay.”

“I am not an Indian. And I can pay.”

“Maybe you ain’t an Indian, but you’re sure as hell a breed of some kind, which means you can’t pay in here. Head on down the road, Pancho.”

Angel retrieved his dollar. Flipped it in the air before replacing it in his pocket. Turned to face the room, resting his elbows on the bar. “Does anyone here know a man named Horace Book? His friends call him Easy.”

The barman was back. “I told you to get your half-breed ass out of here.”

A voice said, “Hold on there, Slick.” A man seated near the door where Angel had entered stood. He wore a hat with an Indian-style band. “How do you know Easy Book?”

“We did some work together in Texas.”

“Texas takes in a lot of territory. Whereabouts?”

“Odessa. Monahans. We were hunters, feeding the railroad workers.”

The man approached the bar. “When did you see him last?”

“A year or so ago. I think he had a woman in Arkansas.”

“I’m sure he did. And Texas. Oklahoma. New Mexico. Canada for all I know.” The man extended a hand. “Red Durham.”

“Angel de Venganza.”

“Well, Mr. Angel de Venganza, I’m pleased to meet you.” Said it Anglo style. Ane-jell. “Set us up, Slick.”

“He ain’t drinking in here.”

“That’s because you ain’t give him nothing yet. A friend of Easy Book can drink with me anywhere. We could either pay for it or let you clean up the mess after we’re done and you wake up. What’ll it be?”

Slick left the bottle. Angel and Red took a table in the corner. Red said, “What brings you to this piss pot?”

“Drifting west. I heard someone mention you in Las Barras and was curious to see if you were here. Easy gave me something for you.”

“Easy gave you something for me?”

Angel took a ten-dollar gold piece from a pocket. Placed it on the table. “Easy said I should give this to you if I came across you.”

“Ten dollars.”

“He mentioned some whores in Tucumcari.”

Red’s laughter shook dust from the timbers. “By God, that was a time. Are you telling me that crazy sumbitch is giving everyone he meets on their way west ten dollars to give me?”

“We got pretty close. And he knew the route I planned. And he was very drunk.”

“And you carried this how long? A year?”

“I take my promises seriously.”

“Even to a drunk?”

“Especially to drunks. They are the most easily betrayed.”

Red laughed again. “Well, then, Mr. Angel Dee Whatever, you and me’s gonna have to drink up this ten dollars Easy give you. I think it’s what he’d want.”

They spent Easy’s money and then some until Angel turned over his glass as Red went to pour. “No mas. It has been a long few days. I need a bath and some sleep. Enjoy your evening, mi amigo nuevo. I will see you mañana.”

Angel got his bath and changed his clothes but did not send the dirty to the laundry. Found a comfortable place where he could see the front of the Last Chance and pretended to sleep.

Red left with another man after midnight, each of them drunk enough for half the town. Angel feigned sleep as they walked toward the hotel. The other man went in. Red continued on, stopping once to vomit next to a trough. Angel stood and took a route calculated to intercept Red at the next corner. He did not hurry. Red was in no condition to require chasing.

Angel pitched his voice so only Red would hear. “Red.”

“Huh? Who’s that?”

“Angel. From the Last Chance. I got some sleep and wonder if you would like a nightcap.”

Red spent several seconds pulling together the new opportunity. “Sure, I guess.” Turned back toward the Last Chance.

Angel took him by an arm. “Not that cesspool. I found a quieter place.” Led a compliant Red around the corner and down an alley.

“Where’s it at?”

“Close.”

No moonlight made walking treacherous once they left the graded street. A hundred yards from the nearest building Red had sobered up enough to ask where they were going.

Angel said, “We’re here,” and slid a knife six inches into Red below the breastbone, pulling down his belt buckle. Withdrew the knife to let Red fall. Knelt to wipe the blade on Red’s trousers. Stood without speaking until the dying man gave him what awareness he had left.

“Last year you and Easy and three others chased a man and a woman out of El Paso into the desert south of Juarez. Do you remember?” Red showed no recognition. “Do you remember this?” Still no sign. Angel pressed a boot into Red’s open wound.

“It was all legal. The Mex raped a white woman.”

“The posse was never deputized.”

“A man named Anderson paid us to get him. For Christ’s sake, get me a doctor.”

“This man Anderson was not the law.”

“He might as well be around those parts.”

“But he was not. He paid you to kill the man.”

“The Mex shot two of us. Killed one in the desert. Shot him right off his horse.”

“What would you have him do? A paid band of gunman chasing him.”

“It was self-defense. The Mex shot first.”

“Did the woman also shoot first?”

“What woman?”

“The young woman you also killed that day in the desert.”

“That was self-defense, too.”

“Only one gun was found.”

“How do you know?”

“It is enough that I do know. She picked up the gun after the man lay dead. Maybe there were bullets left. Maybe not. I know the man, so my guess is not. Yet you shot her seven times. With rifles. From well outside pistol range.”

Red grew paler in the weak light. “How do you think you know so much?”

“Every time you do not disagree confirms what I say.”

“Who were these people to you?”

“Friends. That is all you need to know.”

Red’s eyes fluttered. Opened again. “You kill Easy?” Angel nodded. “You gonna kill me now, too?”

“I have already killed you. I allow you to linger only so you can know the reason why.”

“You told me. Now get it over with, you half-breed bastard.”

Angel placed his feel either side of Red’s shoulders to stay clear of any spurting blood.

 

The Eighth Angel

 

Well, Pilgrim, I finally finished a Western.

 

Not a novel, and therein lies the rub. It’s a short story, and markets for Western short stories are harder to find than nuns in Deadwood. Rather than continuing to frustrate myself, and knowing I have half a dozen short crime pieces saved up that might well have outlets, I decided to give it away here on the blog in serial form. (What the hell. It worked for Andy Wier.)

 

In the spirit of the recent craze for anthologies based on songs, “The Eighth Angel” is inspired by the song “Seven Spanish Angels.” In a perfect world, the opening chapter would have been the lyrics, but the rights owners never responded to my request, so I’ll just include a link to the song  for everyone who reads it here. (Sorry about the ad.)

 

Here’s the intro. The rest of the story will play out over the weekend and into Monday. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please feel free to forward the link.

 

THE EIGHTH ANGEL

 

1.

The Mexican desert southwest of Juarez

 

The horse was done in. Maria was a small woman, but her horse fell lame miles ago. Asking Jaime’s to carry them both at speed proved too great a burden. Jaime looked over his shoulder toward Juarez. Saw the ball of dust that signified the approaching riders. A stand was possible if Jamie and Maria reached the small box canyon to the southwest before the riders overtook them.

The canyon was smaller than he’d hoped, with sides too steep to navigate on foot. He found the best spot he could, sacrificing what high ground he could obtain for a bit of cover. Not that it mattered much; the riders would see them wherever they were. Jaime walked the horse to a spot where it would be the first thing the riders saw in the hope of buying a few seconds of uncertainty. The spot he chose for them to stand would at least keep the sun in the riders’ eyes as much as possible in such a small, steep canyon.

Jaime checked the loads in his revolver. Spun the cylinder. Looked into Maria’s brown eyes. “Say a prayer for me, Maria.”

She threw her arms around him. Buried her face in his chest. “God will keep us free. The seven angels would not abandon us.”

They held each other a minute or two until Jaime heard the riders enter the canyon’s mouth. Held Maria at arm’s length to move her deeper into the shadow behind him. “Stay out of sight. They have no reason to harm you when it is over.”

Maria resisted. “We will leave together.”

Jaime shook his head. “This is my last fight. If they take me back to Texas it will not be alive.”

The riders paused when they noticed the horse. The leader saw Jaime first. He pointed and they all spurred their horses that direction. A hint of a smile touched Jaime’s lips. Arrogant gringos. They expected him to cower, approaching as they did. He took careful aim and shot the leader. The man lurched but maintained his mount.

The riders pull up to return fire. What tiny advantage Jaime had was due to the horsemen having to shoot from bright sunlight into the shadows where he stood in as much cover as was available. Lost even that when the riders took stock of the situation. They withdrew out of range to stand their horses and take aim. Four rifles against one pistol made for a short fight.

Maria counted each of Jaime’s shots. Waited for the smoke to clear and the riders to approach. When they were close enough she ran to Jaime took the pistol from his dead hand. She said a silent prayer for forgiveness as she aimed and cocked Jaime’s empty gun and let the rifles tear her to pieces.

 

Terrence McCauley, Author of Dark Territory

Among the highlights of my writing career was a Bouchercon panel assignment in Albany circa 2013. (Editor’s Note: The Oxford English Dictionary has called to complain about the use of the word “career” to describe my writing activities, to which I say, “Bite me, you Limey gobshites. I got your Brexit right here, pal.”) Moderated by the lovely and talented Peter Rozovsky, it included Eric Beetner, Mike Dennis, Jonathan Woods, and today’s guest Terrence McCauley. I’d read Terrence’s book Prohibition and was delighted to run into him in the booksellers’ area before the panel, where we chatted and he gave me a copy of another of his Prohibition-era books, Slow Burn. We became friends and remain so even as I have come to understand there’s nothing the prick can’t write well, from period crime novels to techno-thrillers to crossovers of the two and now, Westerns. We’ve talked about his previous writing before, so today we’re going to focus on Westerns.

One Bite at a Time: Your Prohibition- and pre-World War II-era books are well received, as is the University series of techno-thrillers. What took you over to Westerns?

Terrence McCauley: I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with the genre. On the one hand, I love the true history of that time in our nation’s history. The drama, the danger, the rawness of it and the wickedness, too. I never liked how it was portrayed in movies or television shows because I think they whitewashed a lot of things and flat out lied about the way people lived back then. Like the whole showdown on Main Street at high noon. Those kinds of things didn’t happen very often, if at all. I wanted to write a western that was closer to the kind of story I wanted to see. Almost every type of story has been told about the west, all the way from the unrealistically patriotic movies of John Ford to the equally unrealistic revisionist history of later years. I wanted to tell a story that was about people, not stereotypes. People seem to have liked it.  

OBAAT: I haven’t had a chance to read Dark Territory yet, but Where the Bullets Fly is a fascinating mix of modern sensibilities and sensitivities while also serving an homage to classic Western tropes. Was that the plan, or did it just come out that way?

TM: I wrote the kind of story I wanted to see, but rarely did. The western expansion was a far more diverse time than people realize and I wanted to write a story that showed that diversity without pandering to current audiences seeking diversity where there was none. For example, there weren’t many women gunfighters, so I don’t have such characters in my westerns. But the women weren’t shrinking violets, either, and I write the same type of strong female characters in my westerns as I do in my other books. There were, however, black lawmen at the time, most notably Bass Reeves among others. My Billy Sunday character harkens back to that. After introducing him as an essential character in Bullets, I have him branch out even more in Dark Territory and in the third Mackey book, tentatively titled Blood Warrant that I’m working on now. I plan on continuing to add more realistic, diverse characters to the mix in my westerns because I always seek to avoid stereotypes and want to keep my work as interesting for me and for the reader.

OBAAT: How hard was it to fall into a style that suited a Western after writing the University series? I know The Fairfax Incident came between but that’s closer to the University than to a Western.

TM: I’ve found it to be more restorative than anything else. It keeps me from getting stale. Too many books of the same type in a row tend to bore me and I deserve better. So does my audience. That’s not to say I’m done with the University Series or Charlie Doherty or Terry Quinn or James Hicks or any of the characters I’ve created. Far from it.

But I enjoy the challenge of changing up tone and setting of my stories. Writing about the 1930s for me is like a bowl of ice cream. I love every second of it and I love it more with each passing page. Fairfax wasn’t an easy book to write, but it was a joy to do it.

Writing about Hicks and the University Series has become easier as I’ve grown more familiar with those characters and what they can do.

Westerns are a different pace entirely. Everything took longer back then and present special challenges. One couldn’t just pick up a phone and call. They couldn’t hop in a car or board a plane and get from point A to point B quickly. Even the shortest trips took the better part of a day at least and required planning. Horses needed to be fed and tended to. They got sick and injured, too. Death was always just a cold or an infected cut away. It was a deliberate time and only deliberate people survived it. So, in some ways, my westerns are different from the rest of my work, but there are also many similarities.

OBAAT: What or who are your primary influences as a writer of Westerns?

TM: The movies played a huge role in my interest in westerns, just as they played a role in my interest in the 1930s. But, like the 1930s, once I began doing research into the actual era, I found a world the movies only scratched.

However, my first real interest in westerns came from a short story I had to read in high school called, “The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky”. It was a story that broke all of the expected tropes in westerns and showed me that there was much more to the genre than I had seen in the movies.

But the movies that had an impact on me were huge. Yes, The Searchers is flawed and could have done with a sharper editor’s blade, but several of the scenes in it were iconic as was the ending. (The book is excellent, by the way, and differs from the movie in several key areas.) The Outlaw Josey Wales was right up there with another anti-hero and epic scenes filmed by Clint Eastwood. 

OBAAT: You and I have known each other as members of the crime fiction community since we shared a Bouchercon panel in Albany in 2013. I know you’ve been to at least one major Western conference. What are they like? Similarities? Differences?

TM: I attended the Western Writers of America conference in Billings, Montana in 2018 and absolutely loved everything about the experience. I love Montana, the scenery and the people. The convention was much smaller than Bouchercon, but fantastic. People who think the genre only encompasses books about cowboys and Indians and bandits and sheriffs really need to take a look at the number of categories they have for the Silver Spur Award to see how wrong they are. The amount of scholarship in that community is so deep, it’s almost impossible to believe. Sure, they cover western history and fiction, but they also cover modern subjects as well, such as organized labor and environmental issues facing the west. People’s political views were all over the map, too, and they didn’t mind welcoming the bald guy with glasses and the thick New York accent into the fold. They couldn’t have been nicer to me and my wife, Rita, and I’m proud to be a member of the organization.

To the contrary, I’ve seen a lot of bitterness and piety in the crime fiction community lately and it saddens me. There’s a mob mentality that seems to spring up right before a convention that creates a nasty undercurrent throughout the event. A controversy is born, sides are chosen and armies of right and righteousness take to steed and charge into battle.

At least on Facebook and on blogs and on Twitter, anyway.

It’s a trend that’s not fair to conference organizers, volunteers or to attendees. Unfair accusations get thrown around like they don’t mean anything, but they do. We have to be mindful of people who seek to burn things down simply to have the joy of licking the ashes. The ruins be damned.

For example, last year’s Bouchercon was dominated by the #MeToo movement and respect for women. It’s a just cause that can never receive enough support or attention. Anyone who believes it’s not a problem that deserves to be stomped out wherever it takes place is a fool. Some attendees even wore stars on their name tags to show they cared and could be a safe space for women who needed help. My wife and I even volunteered for the program, but no one got around to giving us a star. We kept an eye out anyway.

But the luster of those stars dimmed when it actually came time to actually do something about defending female attendees or female staff members of the hotel. One particular participant was on a drunken tirade the entire weekend and none of the brave souls with stars stepped in when he was nasty to women or to female staff members. Many members of this star force probably remained quiet because a) the offender was a friend of theirs and b) because the guy who drank actually posed a physical threat. Posting one’s commitment to defending women on line is one thing. When faced with a raving drunk who could knock you on your ass? Well, that’s different. It’s far safer to stay in the crowd and sip your pilsner and talk about your training than actually putting it into practice.

The drunken offender was obviously going through a lot and needed some kind of assistance. But I abhor grandstanding phonies who either brag about their bravery online only to shrug when it’s needed. I hold people who use a crisis they helped to create as a way to sell books in particular contempt. “Take a stand against predatory men and fight for women.” Great idea. Sign me up, until: “And the best way you can tear down the patriarchy is to buy my book right now.” Huh?

There have also been a lot of ugly accusations thrown around concerning racial diversity in our genre. I’ve had good friends smeared on both sides. Their motives have been questioned and it’s horrible. But good things come out of turmoil and I’m glad to see a dedication to increasing the diversity in our gene. It won’t happen immediately and we can’t get there soon enough, but I’m glad many members of our community are taking steps to moving it in the right direction.

My take on controversies at conventions is simple. If you see or hear of someone stepping out of line or doing something horrible, do something. Call them out on it directly, or get someone else to do it. Demand answers. You’re entitled to them. If not, then remain content to talk about craft beer and social injustice and stay in the corner where you belong while the people who are actually trying to improve things do their work.

OBAAT: Dark Territory followed Where the Bullets Fly by only six months. Is this a sign of a permanent shift toward Westerns? Two books you got ideas for at once and had to get off your chest? Or do Westerns seem to come quicker for you?

TM: Where the Bullets Fly was actually written ten years ago before I was published. I had it on my computer for a long time while I waited to see if the genre might rebound. When my agent asked me for a list of all my work, I figured he’d ignore the western. To my surprise, that’s what he focused on. The good people over at Kensington were interested and they bought it. They asked for Dark Territory so quickly because they knew I was in between projects at the time.

Writing about the west comes quicker to me now than it did when I started Bullets. I know these characters now. I’m comfortable with them and the world they inhabit. Writing about Aaron Mackey and Billy Sunday and the evil James Grant is easier because I know them now, but it’s by no means easy. I try to make each book a bit different than the last, so each work presents its own new set of challenges.  

The Summer of Western Research

The Summer of Western Research™ is over. There are still wispy remnants floating around like steam dissipating in a breeze, but the heavy lifting is over. I found what I needed.

The primary purpose of dedicating three months of reading and viewing to Westerns was to tie together my understanding of the canon enough to see if I could write a book in the genre without embarrassing myself. I’d read very little, and, while I’ve always been a fan of Western movies, I watched them for entertainment value. My understanding of what made them work was superficial.

Among the chores I set myself was to get a mix of fiction and non-fiction, and to see how well the fiction served the reality on which it was based. The point was to see how much additional research I’d need to do justice to the project, and would it require more time than I was willing to take away from my other projects. I needed enough of a basis in fact to make the story more than a second-rate horse opera, but I didn’t want to make it my mission in life, either.

For a while I played with the idea of a fictionalized account of true events. Nothing as obvious as The Gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Probably not even a Wyatt Earp anecdote. A fictional story about Bat Masterson and his brothers came to mind. I dismissed it because a “brothers as lawmen” story was already strong in the popular culture from the movie Tombstone and no way did I want to compete against that, nor be too strongly influenced.

A story near the end of Six Years with the Texas Rangers by James B. Gillett showed promise as something I could run with—and I may some day—but ultimately seemed too narrow a scope. If I’m only going to write Western—also a distinct possibility—I wanted to cover some ground.

And there, my friends, was the rub. As most author friends are already aware, the trick when writing a book is rarely what to include; it’s what to leave out. Every good plot point or character development touches on something that deserves exploration itself in order to do it justice. To touch even half the bases well would take a book of Michener-esque length, and I wouldn’t read another Michener novel if you tied me to an anthill and cut off my eyelids.

Decisions got made. The book will take place in Wyoming Territory circa 1885. Two experienced lawmen will butt heads while pursuing common goals, not the least of which is setting a teenage boy on the right path. The town marshal is a father figure. The U.S. marshal is a minor celebrity, happy to tell stories of the times he spent with the Earps and Masterson and their kind. The core of the story is who wants the best for the boy, and which he follows. I’ll tell that through the evolution of a new city ostensibly created so the local ranches wouldn’t have to be so self-sufficient. Unlike Deadwood, Necessity is a planned town as much as one could be in those days, but once the blacksmith and grocer and service providers arrive the saloons and prostitutes and gamblers can’t be far behind, not so long as there are cowboys with money to be taken.

No plot yet, and only the most amorphous ideas of action scenes. I have the characters, though, and that’s the key thing I learned from this summer’s research. The core of a successful Western is the same as the core of a successful crime story. Doesn’t matter if it’s John Russell or Bat Masterson or Virgil Cole or Jimmy McNulty or Popeye Doyle. The story will come now that I know what it’s about.

Many thanks to all those who have encouraged me, and to those who provided the source materials—both fictional and non-fiction—that I drew upon. There’s no way to know how the book will turn out, but I had more fun this summer, and learned more about my subject, than I’ve ever had researching a book. It’s worth it just for that.

The Western Conundra

When I first floated the idea of writing a Western a few years ago I thought of it as a lark. Something fun to shift my imagination from the steady diet of crime fiction. After a while it occurred to me that it should also be, you know, good. I’ve always been a fan of Westerns, mostly of a certain type, but I’d never immersed myself in the culture as I have with crime. I have very little good to say about writers who decide to dash off a book because they kind of like a certain type of story but have no knowledge nor understanding of their canon. The results are so superficial a decent high school teacher would toss them out.

This led me to 2017 and my Summer of Western Research™. I set aside all other writing projects and read Western fiction and non-fiction and watch Westerns. Not just any Westerns. What some would call “revisionist” Westerns, though what was revisionist fifty years ago is pretty much the mainstream now. Basically I stayed pretty much away from what I half-jokingly refer as Westerns where no one needs a haircut. I like setting and tone to be as important to what I write as the story, so I’m as interested in how the story is told as I am in what it is.

This has led me to a far more interesting place than I had imagined when I set out on what I thought would be a relaxing summer. It’s not that the research has been a burden. Far from it; I’m having a ball. It’s just that what I’ve read and seen has provoked long conversations with myself and placed me in a situation exactly opposite where I expected to be. Where I at first wondered what I could put into the story, now my primary need is to decide what to leave out, as the elements that interest me have become so broad one book can’t contain them, and I have no intention of writing an epic, anyway.

I have already discarded my original germ of a story idea and tentatively replaced it with a story drawn from the memoirs of a Texas Ranger. The story idea suits all of the questions I have still open, though I have much yet to decide. Among the decisions on the table:

• When will the story take place? My idea of a Western falls into a window of approximately 1870 – 1900, but when exactly? It matters. Technology and living conditions changed rapidly. The physical location of the story will be bound to the date much more than a more contemporary tale.
• Speaking of physical location, where exactly? Or does exactly matter? I’m thinking eastern Wyoming or Colorado, maybe even Nebraska, but how far west? Depends on the date setting and what kind of story I choose to tell. Use a real town, make one up of whole cloth, or base a fictional town on a real place, as I have with Penns River?
• Language and style of writing. This may be the hardest decision of all, and one that will most directly affect the actual work. The examples to choose from range from David Milch to John Ford to Elmore Leonard to Zane Grey to contemporary accounts. All have pros and cons, whether considering dialog or narrative.
• Point of view. Should the story be told by
• A real historical figure passing through it
• Real people in supporting roles
• Real person as the main character
• Narrator serving as a Dr. Watson for a real person
• All fictional
• Should the story itself be
• Creative non-fiction, or, as the disclaimer at the beginning of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid reads, “Much of what follows is true.”
• Pure fiction
• Fiction loosely based on a true story.
• Facts woven into fiction, as if the Western were written by James Ellroy
• The relative importance of female characters. The closer to the frontier one got, the more likely women were to be prostitutes. That’s a fact. Still, not all of them would be, even on the frontier itself. How to handle this without becoming stereotypical, but also not becoming unrealistic, requires considerable thought
• What prominence to accord minorities, whether referring to Blacks (likely freed slaves or their children), Mexicans, or Indians. Again, time and place are key. I don’t need to worry about treating Indians too much as bloodthirsty savages if the story is set in a town off the frontier ion 1895. That’s a more delicate line to draw if it’s in the Dakota Territory in 1877.
• Criminals and law enforcement, including
  
• Weapons available
• Techniques of each

As I said, I’m not looking to write an epic. Seventy-five to 90,000 words is my fifteen schnitzengruben. Trying to be too inclusive in a single work is worse than making too many trimming decisions, as the book will wander and eventually be about nothing. That’s okay. This is a book I’ll likely write in fits and starts over time as I can work it in without falling behind on the schedule Down & Out might like for me. It may evolve more be written. It may also be the only Western I ever write, so I’m going to want it to be something I’m proud of, even if others may disagree with some of my decisions.

Comments not just welcome. They’re encouraged. Have at it.

Abbreviated Thoughts

Tom Pitts raised an interesting point on his blog the other day. (Go ahead. Read it now. What I have to say will make more sense if you have, and it’s probably better than whatever I’ll come up with.) The gist of Tom’s piece is that writing an alternate history may not be as daunting as he’d thought. Just take actual history and tell it however you want.

(A brief digression. I read Tom's novella Knuckleball over the weekend. I'll have more to say about it when i have some time, but, if you haven't read it, you really ought to.)

This grabbed my attention, as I’m playing with the idea of a Western that will, in essence, be an alternative history. Deadwood is the obvious inspiration, as I plan to set the story where the stagecoaches used to change horses on the run from Cheyenne. There’s a town there—Lusk—named after the rancher who donated the land and laid out the streets.

That was to have been the point of this blog, to show how Tom got me thinking about blending reality and fiction into a Western that would capture some of the spirit of Deadwood without either becoming ensnared by its scope, or ripping it off. (Unsuccessfully, of course. Deadwood will always stand as a unique artistic accomplishment.) I’ve been pushing these ideas around in my mind for weeks now as The Beloved Spouse and I watch all three seasons back-to-back, twice through. I thought a blog post would be a good way to work some things out, and Tom had me inspired.

What happened was less serendipitous. The blog post rambled, taking in more unsettled ground with each paragraph. I’ve had a long couple of weeks and a trying weekend lies ahead. So it goes. In life you have to do a lot of things you don’t fucking want to do. Many times, that’s what the fuck life is: one vile fucking task after another. So this is all I got. Read Tom’s post. It’s better than anything I have in me right now. I’ll be ready to go after scratching a couple of things off my list. Pain or damage don’t end the world, you know. Or despair, or fuckin’ beatings. The world ends when you’re dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man — and give some back.

I’ll do better next week.