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.

Robbers by Christopher Cook

 

Ray Bob said, You ever watch westerns? That sounds just like a line out of a western. Outlaw shows up to see his old runnin buddy, and the little woman says, He’s changed. He don’t want your kind of life no more. Why don’t you just go on, leave us alone? And if he’s a good outlaw, he understands and rides off and you feel sorry for him, being all alone again. But if he’s a bad outlaw, he hangs around waiting, playing with his gun, making her all nervous. Ever notice that?

Here we have a Neo-Western complete with outlaws and a dogged Texas Ranger. It is unapologetically violent, but there is no “romance of violence” here. It portrays violence for what it is, stark and senseless.

Even our “heroes” are reflective of real-life, nobody’s perfect and often those we ask to protect and or fight for us may not fit the “shining armor” ideal but…they sometimes get the job done.

“You the first Ranger I ever met, he said. Rule grinned. Well, they say we’re something special. That’s PR mostly. Deep down inside, I’m the same as anyone else. The sheriff hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. Nodding thoughtfully at the apparent sagacity of that remark, at its implied candor. I’m a regular sonofabitch, Rule said. Why I work alone. Nobody can stand me.”

The novel is no mere genre piece, it approaches literature without straying into pretension.

It stands in the middle-ground between Stephen Hunter’s elevated noir of Dirty White Boys and Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men.

The novel can be thought of as Hell or High Water without the redeeming motive.

Along the way we are treated to ideas that bring one up short as in this observation from a Texas honky-tonk owner.

Cause you a roots man, Bubba Bear was saying, off on another run, cause you’re not modern, post-modern, avant pop, all that wonka-wonka jive. World’s gone theoretical, friend, vicarious and abstract. Image over substance. Folks bored of the real thing, not that they see it much. They disconnected from the past, their own nature. But not you. Am I right or wrong? Eddie said he reckoned so, one way or the other. Bubba Bear grinned. You’re sharp, Rufus, you got that inborn native intelligence. Comes from having your feet on the ground. All that black Mississippi mud between your toes, the wisdom of the gut. You’re not a spectator, man, you’re a creator. I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, wherein at ease forever to dwell. That’s Tennyson. I celebrate myself and sing myself. Whitman, another roots man. What I’m saying, friend, is you’re too busy creating the universe to pay attention to the ancillary bullshit. You’re rooted. Otherwise you’d be living secondhand sucking off TV and pop music, reading People magazine, have a soul about as big as my left nut. Know what you’d be? Eddie allowed he wasn’t sure but had a notion. That’s right, Bubba Bear rolled on, a consumer. A corporate subject. Someone whose sole allegiance is to money. Someone who lives within the borders of his debt in permanent exile. Make it, spend it, finance the difference, living on the installment plan. Eats what they throw at him, says yum-yum. Garbage, his only creation.

An unapologetically real journey.

Highest marks for this reader.