Tuesday, August 16, 2022

Mojave Guns by Roe Richmond

 


They jogged onward in the eerie brilliance of moonlight and starshine, breaking the stillness with the chop of hoofs, the rustling creak of leather, jingling bridles and clinking metal, the grunt of horses and the breathing of men. Alkali dust spiraled up, and shod hoofs struck occasional sparks off the stones. A coyote howled sorrowfully and was answered from afar. An owl hooted and then another. When Raven halted the column, they could hear the faint stir and scrape of small earth creatures. The air smelled of blistered sand and rock, greasewood, sage, and once in a while the pure breath of pines.

My first by this author, and a curious one for me. That opening selection is typical of the excellent renderings of scenery and the punishing feel of conducting campaigns in such conditions.

Yet, most all else is a fairly rote cavalry tale related almost indifferently, that is, compared with the skill shown in the “Men in landscape” sections.

The author shows such skill in some sections, and then seems rushed and detail skipping on others.

Most curious in that the demerits are not from lack of ability.

Not at all.

Another selection.

The sun soared higher in the molten blue, and the heat became barbarous, brutal in its intensity. Drenched in sweat, silted Confederate gray with dust, the column toiled on across the barren broken plains of Hellsgate toward the principal range of the Osages. Girths frothed white, saddle-leather scorched through uniform pants, rifle barrels burned the most calloused palms. Lips were parched and split to the texture of scar tissue, each lower one with its central gash, eased only by leaves of chewing tobacco. Eyes sank ever deeper into blackened, hollow-cheeked skulls of faces. Misery grew in the harassed ranks until death seemed almost welcome, if it could come in one quick flash.

Again, the land lives and breathes in a way that the people within do not.

Most curious.

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