Because he
knew how to organize things, Burt Anderson, took over the cleaning up of the
main street. The dead numbered six, the wounded eleven. Seven horses, two mules,
and five wagons had been destroyed. Seven of the Indians had been killed, and
five of their ponies. They removed the wounded to the saloon and the dead to
the livery stable because it was the coolest place in town. The Indians were
dragged by their heels through the dust at the end of a rope and dumped without
comment in a hastily dug communal hole half a mile outside of town. The horses were
dragged to the flats, soaked with coal oil, and set afire. Anderson worked tirelessly,
and as much of his effort went into consoling the widowed women who had lost
husbands and the mothers who had lost sons as into attempting to get Fury back
on its feet.
I’m of two minds regarding
this rugged Fawcett Gold Medal offering from 1958.
On the one hand, the
action, the internal lives of men and women under stress and duress is ably and
admirably played as in the offered paragraph that heads this review.
On the other hand,
there is a bit of hampering [to this reader’s mind] and that hampering comes
from a shoehorning of soap opera machinations.
A good opening third of
the novel is mired in these melodramatic pawns on chessboard maneuverings.
The last two thirds
are where this novel comes to life. It is alive with events. Alive with the interiors
of people in response to those events. It is here that the novel shines.
If one has a tolerance
for the opening shenanigans, a reader is likely to find much to enjoy here.
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