The Wrath of God by Jack Higgins

 

The chief of police usually managed to execute somebody round about noon on most days of the week, just to encourage the rest of the population, which gives a fair idea of how things were in that part of Mexico at the time.

That is the opening line of Jack Higgins’ 1971 novel.

If you recognize the name, yes, that Jack Higgins, of The Eagle Has Landed and other such uber-British stiff-upper-lipped adventure fare.

For the record, I’ve read and enjoyed immensely The Eagle Has Landed and Storm Warning but found his later work to fall off a bit. But what was solid, was solid.

This novel is his only stab at a Western. A western set in the Mexican Revolution. Rife with dust, sweat, venal authorities and half-venal antiheroes.

This novel plays like a lost Sergio Leone or Robert Aldrich Western.

One can easily imagine a ‘70s era Lee Marvin, Richard Harris, Rod Steiger and Fernando Lamas eating these chewy characters alive.

This is a solid, briskly paced testosterone fueled adventure filled with fine imagery.

I regret Mr. Higgins did not write more in the genre, but I will salve myself by delving deeper into his earlier work.

If anything I stated here is your cuppa, then you’re in for a fine afternoon.

Enjoy!

Cowboy Slang by Edgar “Frosty” Potter

 

He had callouses from pattin’ his own back.

The subtitle of this book is “Colorful Cowboy Sayings”; a compendium of, well, that.

We get 123 pages of single space “witticisms” such as “Plain as the hump on a camel” or “Dished up soup made out of dirty socks.”

This volume seems more composed than an accumulation of research.

If one reads Ramon F. Adams’ The Cowboy Dictionary or Win Blevins’ Dictionary of the American West you will find very little [if any] crossover from Potter’s book with either of these more scholarly books.

That is not to say scholarly makes all things better, but Adams and Blevins give us authenticity. They culled from original sources to give us words and sayings as they actually existed in the “wild.” We get a feel for the humor and wit of the men and women of that day.

Mr. Potter’s work feels more like, “Oh, I thought of another good one, I’ll write that one down.”

It feels more yarnspinning’ than truth. More Twain truth-stretching than reportorial accurate.

The problem is, as with the examples offered, none of these manufactures are particularly clever or memorable.

If one needs a feel for authenticity for one’s own tale-spinnin’ or would simply like a homespun chuckle, well, frankly there’s better fare than this.

I admire all who put pen to paper to make a mark in the world; perhaps this would have fared better with me if it wasn’t offered as truth.

Instead of truth one is served a plate of whimsical “I don’t think so.”

The Winter Family by Clifford Jackman

 

High summer night in Oklahoma. Warm winds that smelled of apple blossoms. Now and then a lightning bug winked on and drifted through the air. Quentin Ross caught one in his fist and held it there, with its radiance leaking between his fingers and reflecting in his shallow eyes. For a moment he rolled the lightning bug between his thumb and forefinger, and then he crushed it, smearing himself with its luminescence, and he smiled, wide and empty.

That opening passage lets you know that we are outside the bounds of the formulary Western; we are sojourning in the squalid landscape of many an uber-violent neo-Western.

Admittedly, this is a brand of the genre I can enjoy a good bit.

This 2015 Western crosses the border into McCarthy’s Blood Meridin territory, where also resides James Carlos Blake’s superb In the Rogue Blood and S. Craig Zahler’s also transgressively enjoyable Congregation of Jackals.

All of the titles mentioned have been reviewed on these pages, quite favorably.

The trouble is, this novel is so reminiscent of those without quite reaching that balancing tone of high art and rough violence that with each brief chapter I would continually think of the comparison novels.

While there is nothing wrong with this novel, there may be information in the fact that this reader continued to think of other novels while reading this one.

It strikes me as an unfair review on my part and my failing in that I could never quite settle into the dark territories Mr. Jackman had to offer without thinking about former trips into this territory that I enjoyed.

The dilemma of being on vacation while thoughts of past enjoyable vacations persistently intrude.

Make of this what you will.

Saddle Tramp by Todhunter Ballard

 

Shamus McGee was happy. There had been few days during his twenty-three years when he had not been happy. He was a big man and when people made fun of his good nature he grinned.

“I'm too big to be nasty,” he told them. “If I went around hunting up trouble people would call me a bully. And if I refused to fight they'd call me a coward. Way it is, I like everyone, so I never have cause to battle.”

This 1957 novel from Mr. Ballard gives us the trope of the big amiable man who’d rather not fight but…as one would assume, he gets pushed a bit to far and even mild pots sometimes simmer and boil over.

This is fine serviceable entertainment in the “Destry” vein. It may be formulaic, but I found it to be more successful than the highly regarded Destry Rides Again by Max Brand. I think that good reputation is more from the film than from the source  novel, but that’s just me, what do I know?

While no classic, it’s head-and-shoulders over all the “Solid-jawed” heroes who boil from the go.

A fine afternoon whilin’.

The Killers, Edited by Peter Dawson

 

Pop Jennings took care of the horse and then warmed up a pot of beans and a pan full of bacon for Jeff. After Jeff had eaten, the old man looked at him with shrewd, twinkling eyes and asked, “Are you ridin’ or lookin’?”

“I'm not headed any place in particular, if that's what you mean,” Jeff said.

“Then you're lookin’. There's only two kinds of people. One kind is always ridin’ over the hills to a place where the grass is greener. They never find it. The other kind is lookin’ for a place to settle down and it don't matter much to ‘em where that place is. I figure you're the looking kind.”—Bill Gulick, Gambler’s Luck

This 1955 anthology is subtitled “A Collection of Stories About Gunslingers.”

It has 11 stories from Gulick, L.L. Foreman, Elmore Leonard, Thomas Thompson, Bennett Foster, John Jo Carpenter, Tom Blackburn, Steve Frazee, William Holder, Verne Athanas, and Will Brown.

Some are a little less than others, but the following tales are worth an afternoon’s read: Gulick’s work, Steve Frazee’s “Learn the Hard Way,” Will Brown’s “Into the Guns,” and the oft-anthologized Leonard’s “3:10 to Yuma.”

Overall, a solid sampling of the 1950s style of hardmen.

The Pick of the Roundup Edited by Stephen Payne

 

Sighs and sniffling and throat clearing came from the far corner of the room where two old men haggled softly over the pawns on a chess board. The corner was dim as twilight. Cullen turned his head to stare at them, seeing bent spines and white, tufted hair and withered hands reaching out to touch the pawns with such anxiety that life and death hovered over the board, and each breath was a shallow jealous effort. Time dribbled away between their withered fingers.

That opening quote is from The Promise of the Fruit by Ann Ahlswede, the crowning story in this 1963 anthology from the Western Writers of America.

This anthology offers ten stories and one poem.

Ahlswede’s story is the reason I sought out the anthology—Jon Lewis has listed it as one of the 100 Best Western Short stories and it does indeed pack a mature wallop.

Another fine story is T.V. Olsen’s They Walked Tall. It is a formulaic tale well told.

The remaining offerings, well, they pale alongside Ahlswede’s work.

I repeat, I sought it out for a single story—not sorry I did.

Fine writing, fine observation.

And I got Mr. Olsen’s winner as a bonus.

Weird Western Tales: The Black Seer of Death Canyon

 

This August 1977 issue of the DC Comic is my first foray into the Weird Western series.

I was rarin’ to go for a bit of colorful nostalgia.

In this story by Michael Fleisher, with art by Dick Ayers and Frank Springer we are treated to what I can only assume is an attempt to launch a series character called The Scalphunter.

The Scalphunter is a half-white, half-Kiowa named Ke-Who-No-Tay.

This issue’s scrap is not much above a Hopalong Cassidy adventure with a bit of bloodshed thrown in for good measure.

We are also introduced to Wakwame, the Black Seer who seems to be an additional attempt to launch a Black character in the West ala Marvel’s Luke Cage Power Man hero.

I reckon I’m not qualified to pass judgement on this tale as it was clearly not written with a 59-year-old man in mind.

It seems serviceable comic book fare.

Not sorry I delved.

I likely won’t delve more.