Last Scout by Wade Everett

 

“Another thing too,” he said. “A man picks his work because he is what he is. When a man ain't afraid to try himself, to find out what he is, he'll take a job with some risk. When he ain't man enough to do that, he clerks in a store, or counts plews another man fetches to him. It's always been that way, boy. Back in the days of the fur trade, them rich titled fellows would come out and run the tradin’ posts. They'd faunch about in knee britches and sniff snuff and keep books. Then go back to New Orleans and tell what a tough time it was, how cold it got in the winter.” He laughed. “They thought they was livin’, boy, but the livin’ was a far piece out, to a place they'd never see, on account of it took a man to just get there. You see them far places, boy. You go when the itch gets you, and don't come back till you've seen it all.”

We stopped in front of the express office. “You're an old pirate, grandpa.” He took it the way I meant it, as a compliment, and he gave me a near toothless grin, “Yeah, I've bayed it the moon and made a couple of trips to hell just to see what it was like down there. But I got no regrets. Life’s a strong taste, boy, and only a few are man enough not to choke on the sweetness of it, or wretch on the gall.”

My second Everrett [Will Cook] novel after the excellent First Command [also reviewed here.]

In comparison it is the lesser of the two.

That fault may be mine; it is from the POV of a boy which gives the novel the feel of a “young adult” effort.

That does not prevent Everett/Cook from providing enjoyment and…

A good amount of Wisdom with a capital W.

As in this example…

“It don't bother man to die when he knows he's doing somethin’. It only bothers him he knows all that's left is the dyin’.”

Or this one…

“A man is what he is from moment to moment. What he's been doesn't count, and what he's going to be ain't worth a hill of beans. Just this moment, that's what we are, no more.”

It may be “lesser” Everett/Cook but I still enjoyed the hell out of it.

Stories of Christmas and the Bowie Knife by J. Frank Dobie

 

“The gift without the giver is bare.” Gifts can be manufactured, some beautiful, many useful, but giving-out feelings can’t be—though they can be cultivated. The love and cheer associated with Christmas will always be the best thing about it. How often just a good word that conveys the word-giver’s generosity of spirit enriches people! I remember the “Merry Christmas, sir!” of a gray-haired woman scrubbing stone steps at a college in Cambridge, England, during the war; and recollection of her sturdy, cheerful, kind nature brightens my world. I can hear my mother’s “Christmas Gift” or “Merry Christmas” as I write these words. Whoever heard her greeting received a gift, for she meant every syllable of it, felt every tone in it. Sunrise, starlight, silence of dusk are never trite. Generous feelings and cheering words are never trite. Merry Christmas!

A brief volume from Western historian Frank Dobie.

I adore Mr. Dobie’s work [some of which is reviewed on this blog] and t’is the season for Christmas tales so…

The first half, our Yuletide section is more a terse remembrance than a narrative—sweet but not essential.

As for the second half of the book regarding the legendary Jim Bowie and his fabled knife…

It is good folklore but has little to do with actual history.

Dobie presents it as such so there is no quibble with him “making claims.”

It is a brief twofer volume—again not essential but I am not sorry at all I spent a little time with it.

Merry Christmas!

The Sun Dance Murders by Peter McCurtin

 

I drove through places you never heard of Flora Vista, Kirkland, Shiprock. There was no air conditioning in the car, and it was at least as hot as hell. At Durgin Springs I stopped to have a look at the wrecked post office. I talked to two of the survivors, both local whites, but there wasn't much they could tell me.

A Neo-Western from 1970. Seems to be a mix of Mickey Spillane transported to Elmore Leonard’s Southwest Mr. Majestyk territory, add some Billy Jack American Indian Movement politics, fake “red man” mysticism and you have a potent mix of some very un-PC seventies era sex, violence, casual racism and beaucoup misogyny.

I can get behind such vibes often—I find S. Craig Zahler’s excesses works of art.

Here, though,…here, while written with brisk craft, the non-stop “I’m a lady-killin’ bad-ass” narrative becomes laborious.

In a short dose, perhaps, but we are expected to follow these adventures for 156 long pages.

Our hero is so damn Manly there is never a doubt that all of the feminine species will throw themselves at him and all males of the species will be intimidated and/or laid low in bursts of violence.

I might have enjoyed this one far more when I was much younger and read the first few Mack Bolans with avid attention.

I am no longer that younger me.

If everything here that turned me off to the book sounds like your cuppa, well, giver ‘er a go.

Not badly written, just too much…way too much.

How the West Was Written by Ron Scheer

 

Honey-Cooler—an extraordinary person or thing. “It’s a honey-cooler. You will fall dead when you see it.” Frederic Remington, John Ermine of the Yellowstone

This non-fiction dictionary of Western words arrived on my doorstep as a gift from, Spur-Award Winning author and all ‘round Good Man, Richard Prosch.

The volume is clearly a labor of love. A compendium of unusual words or phrases as found in early Western literature.

What distinguishes this book from many similar volumes is Mr. Scheer’s focus on the words offered being captured in the habitat of Western fiction and not in historical tomes.

Will Blevins excellent Dictionary of the American West handles the historical side of word affairs more than ably.

But we must not assume that Scheer’s volume being focused on the fictional side is any less informative. Not at all.

The author offers the word, the definition, the novel where it can be found as well as the sentence and then provides the historical origin of the word-if any.

Overall, a magnificent piece of work.

I read it just as I did Mr. Blevins’ aforementioned work, top-to-bottom as one would read a novel.

Should find a home on the shelf any Western writer, historian, or lover of Frontier wordplay.

Excellent volume.

Thanks, Rich, it’s a real honey-cooler!

Lessons from the Oregon Trail by Mark Hatmaker

 

[All excerpts are taken from The Oregon Trail: Sketches of Prairie and Rocky-Mountain Life by Francis Parkman the observations were penned by a 23-year-old Parkman as he was to embark on a 2-month journey into the Great West.]

This volume is a frontier Rough n Tumble classic that hints at many aspects of how life lived Wild is different from the domesticated.

It offers many a lesson on how living closer to the bone of necessity can inform us for own venturesome treks or, at the vey least, provide some palliative perspective even if we decide never to set a foot into the unknown.

“Meanwhile we erected our own tent not far off, and after supper a council was held, in which it was resolved to remain one day at Fort Leavenworth, and on the next to bid a final adieu to the frontier: or in the phraseology of the region, to "jump off." Our deliberations were conducted by the ruddy light from a distant swell of the prairie, where the long dry grass of last summer was on fire.”

Let us look to that last sentence again: Our deliberations were conducted by the ruddy light from a distant swell of the prairie, where the long dry grass of last summer was on fire.

·        A dramatic beginning to a tremendous exploit where poetry and truth meet.

·        Not only a trip into the unknown where dangers are known to occur, it begins with danger on the horizon [wildfire.]

·        How many of us have postponed far lesser “adventures” for obstacles less daunting than a wildfire in the offing?

Humans remain human. Here we learn of the expedition leader resenting dissension.

“We were a little surprised at this disclosure of domestic dissensions among our allies, for though we knew of their existence, we were not aware of their extent. The persecuted captain seeming wholly at a loss as to the course of conduct that he should pursue, we recommended him to adopt prompt and energetic measures; but all his military experience had failed to teach him the indispensable lesson to be "hard," when the emergency requires it. "For twenty years," he repeated, "I have been in the British army, and in that time I have been intimately acquainted with some two hundred officers, young and old, and I never yet quarreled with any man. Oh, 'anything for a quiet life!' that's my maxim." We intimated that the prairie was hardly the place to enjoy a quiet life, but that, in the present circumstances, the best thing he could do toward securing his wished-for tranquillity, was immediately to put a period to the nuisance that disturbed it. But again the captain's easy good- nature recoiled from the task. The somewhat vigorous measures necessary to gain the desired result were utterly repugnant to him; he preferred to pocket his grievances, still retaining the privilege of grumbling about them. "Oh, anything for a quiet life!" he said again, circling back to his favorite maxim.”

What was true for the British Army officer holds true for many of us. We choose to skip the unpleasantness, or the brief bout of “hardness” that might cure what ails and choose the non-strategy of persisting in woe “he preferred to pocket his grievances, still retaining the privilege of grumbling about them.”

·        How true of many? Perhaps ourselves at times.

·        We know a solution, refuse to act, and prefer the privilege of grumbling about our own inaction.

·        It was weak sauce to a young Parkman, it is weak sauce to al who have to hear the whining.

We must consider how cherished the journey further on must have been to dare what must be endured.

“These were the first emigrants that we had overtaken, although we had found abundant and melancholy traces of their progress throughout the whole course of the journey. Sometimes we passed the grave of one who had sickened and died on the way. The earth was usually torn up, and covered thickly with wolf-tracks. Some had escaped this violation. One morning a piece of plank, standing upright on the summit of a grassy hill, attracted our notice, and riding up to it we found the following words very roughly traced upon it, apparently by a red-hot piece of iron: MARY ELLIS DIED MAY 7TH, 1845. Aged two months. Such tokens were of common occurrence, nothing could speak more for the hardihood, or rather infatuation, of the adventurers, or the sufferings that await them upon the journey.”

In a land and society reduced to essence. No pretension can persist.

“No living thing was moving throughout the vast landscape, except the lizards that darted over the sand and through the rank grass and prickly-pear just at our feet. And yet stern and wild associations gave a singular interest to the view; for here each man lives by the strength of his arm and the valor of his heart. Here society is reduced to its original elements, the whole fabric of art and conventionality is struck rudely to pieces, and men find themselves suddenly brought back to the wants and resources of their original natures.”

The crucible of experience forges men and women, it renders them impervious to petty woes. Just as training the body hardens and strengthens it, the spirit responds in kind. We could all use a dose of that cure I wager.

"The prairie is a strange place," said I. "A month ago I should have thought it rather a startling affair to have an acquaintance ride out in the morning and lose his scalp before night, but here it seems the most natural thing in the world; not that I believe that R. has lost his yet." If a man is constitutionally liable to nervous apprehensions, a tour on the distant prairies would prove the best prescription; for though when in the neighborhood of the Rocky Mountains he may at times find himself placed in circumstances of some danger, I believe that few ever breathe that reckless atmosphere without becoming almost indifferent to any evil chance that may befall themselves or their friends.

The perils of the journey were weather, environmental, the indigenous peoples who saw you as interlopers, and those outcasts in civil society who were considered “lesser” who chose a land with no boundaries where their powers could be expanded.

The Barbarians of Old newly equipped with better steel and gunpowder.

“As we gained the other bank, a rough group of men surrounded us. They were not robust, nor large of frame, yet they had an aspect of hardy endurance. Finding at home no scope for their fiery energies, they had betaken themselves to the prairie; and in them seemed to be revived, with redoubled force, that fierce spirit which impelled their ancestors, scarce more lawless than themselves, from the German forests, to inundate Europe and break to pieces the Roman empire.”

What can be done without when we are reduced to what really matters?

“It is worth noticing that on the Platte one may sometimes see the shattered wrecks of ancient claw-footed tables, well waxed and rubbed, or massive bureaus of carved oak. These, many of them no doubt the relics of ancestral prosperity in the colonial time, must have encountered strange vicissitudes. Imported, perhaps, originally from England; then, with the declining fortunes of their owners, borne across the Alleghenies to the remote wilderness of Ohio or Kentucky; then to Illinois or Missouri; and now at last fondly stowed away in the family wagon for the interminable journey to Oregon. But the stern privations of the way are little anticipated. The cherished relic is soon flung out to scorch and crack upon the hot prairie.”

A land and society that demands development of the self; those constitutionally unable to develop turned back or did not survive.

“In a moment a door opened, and a little, swarthy black-eyed Frenchman came out. His dress was rather singular; his black curling hair was parted in the middle of his head, and fell below his shoulders; he wore a tight frock of smoked deerskin, very gayly ornamented with figures worked in dyed porcupine quills. His moccasins and leggings were also gaudily adorned in the same manner; and the latter had in addition a line of long fringes, reaching down the seams. The small frame of Richard, for by this name Henry made him known to us, was in the highest degree athletic and vigorous. There was no superfluity, and indeed there seldom is among the active white men of this country, but every limb was compact and hard; every sinew had its full tone and elasticity, and the whole man wore an air of mingled hardihood and buoyancy.”

We must not forget that the American Frontier was a variegated obstacle that required WIDE resources. An assumption of a few skills, or specialized skills misses the mark by far.

“But the FOREST is the home of the backwoodsman. On the remote prairie he is totally at a loss. He differs much from the genuine "mountain man," the wild prairie hunter, as a Canadian voyageur, paddling his canoe on the rapids of the Ottawa, differs from an American sailor among the storms of Cape Horn.”

Conjure the scene in your minds eye…

“This was our plan, but unhappily we were not destined to visit La Bonte's Camp in this manner; for one morning a young Indian came to the fort and brought us evil tidings. The newcomer was a dandy of the first water. His ugly face was painted with vermilion; on his head fluttered the tail of a prairie cock (a large species of pheasant, not found, as I have heard, eastward of the Rocky Mountains); in his ears were hung pendants of shell, and a flaming red blanket was wrapped around him. He carried a dragoon sword in his hand, solely for display, since the knife, the arrow, and the rifle are the arbiters of every prairie fight; but no one in this country goes abroad unarmed, the dandy carried a bow and arrows in an otter-skin quiver at his back.”

Always armed, even over-armed with ornamentation.

What’s your ornament to be cast away? What is your back-up?

You have a hole-card armed or unarmed, right?

One-trick ponies didn’t last on the Frontier.

 

The following: Bravery? Foolishness? Recklessness?

All three?

“Six years ago a fellow named Jim Beckwith, a mongrel of French, American, and negro blood, was trading for the Fur Company, in a very large village of the Crows. Jim Beckwith was last summer at St. Louis. He is a ruffian of the first stamp; bloody and treacherous, without honor or honesty; such at least is the character he bears upon the prairie. Yet in his case all the standard rules of character fail, for though he will stab a man in his sleep, he will also perform most desperate acts of daring; such, for instance, as the following: While he was in the Crow village, a Blackfoot war party, between thirty and forty in number came stealing through the country, killing stragglers and carrying off horses. The Crow warriors got upon their trail and pressed them so closely that they could not escape, at which the Blackfeet, throwing up a semicircular breastwork of logs at the foot of a precipice, coolly awaited their approach. The logs and sticks, piled four or five high, protected them in front. The Crows might have swept over the breastwork and exterminated their enemies; but though out-numbering them tenfold, they did not dream of storming the little fortification. Such a proceeding would be altogether repugnant to their notions of warfare. Whooping and yelling, and jumping from side to side like devils incarnate, they showered bullets and arrows upon the logs; not a Blackfoot was hurt, but several Crows, in spite of their leaping and dodging, were shot down. In this childish manner the fight went on for an hour or two. Now and then a Crow warrior in an ecstasy of valor and vainglory would scream forth his war song, boasting himself the bravest and greatest of mankind, and grasping his hatchet, would rush up and strike it upon the breastwork, and then as he retreated to his companions, fall dead under a shower of arrows; yet no combined attack seemed to be dreamed of. The Blackfeet remained secure in their intrenchment. At last Jim Beckwith lost patience.

"You are all fools and old women," he said to the Crows; "come with me, if any of you are brave enough, and I will show you how to fight." He threw off his trapper's frock of buckskin and stripped himself naked like the Indians themselves. He left his rifle on the ground, and taking in his hand a small light hatchet, he ran over the

prairie to the right, concealed by a hollow from the eyes of the Blackfeet. Then climbing up the rocks, he gained the top of the precipice behind them. Forty or fifty young Crow warriors followed him. By the cries and whoops that rose from below he knew that the Blackfeet were just beneath him; and running forward, he leaped down the rock into the midst of them. As he fell he caught one by the long loose hair and dragging him down tomahawked him; then grasping another by the belt at his waist, he struck him also a stunning blow, and gaining his feet, shouted the Crow war-cry. He swung his hatchet so fiercely around him that the astonished Blackfeet bore back and gave him room. He might, had he chosen, have leaped over the breastwork and escaped; but this was not necessary, for with devilish yells the Crow warriors came dropping in quick succession over the rock among their enemies. The main body of the Crows, too, answered the cry from the front and rushed up simultaneously. The convulsive struggle within the breastwork was frightful; for an instant the Blackfeet fought and yelled like pent-up tigers; but the butchery was soon complete, and the mangled bodies lay piled up together under the precipice. Not a Blackfoot made his escape.”

A land that bred cheerfulness in spite of circumstances.

"Two more gone under! Well, there is more of us left yet. Here's Jean Gars and me off to the mountains to-morrow. Our turn will come next, I suppose. It's a hard life, anyhow!" I looked up and saw a little man, not much more than five feet high, but of very square and strong proportions. In appearance he was particularly dingy; for his old buckskin frock was black and polished with time and grease, and his belt, knife, pouch, and powder-horn appeared to have seen the roughest service. The first joint of each foot was entirely gone, having been frozen off several winters before, and his moccasins were curtailed in proportion. His whole appearance and equipment bespoke the "free trapper." He had a round ruddy face, animated with a spirit of carelessness and gayety not at all in accordance with the words he had just spoken. "Two more gone," said I; "what do you mean by that?" "Oh," said he, "the Arapahoes have just killed two of us in the mountains. Old Bull-Tail has come to tell us. They stabbed one behind his back, and shot the other with his own rifle. That's the way we live here! I mean to give up trapping after this year. My squaw says she wants a pacing horse and some red ribbons; I'll make enough beaver to get them for her, and then I'm done! I'll go below and live on a farm." "Your bones will dry on the prairie, Rouleau!" said another trapper, who was standing by; a strong, brutal-looking fellow, with a face as surly as a bull-dog's. Rouleau only laughed, and began to hum a tune and shuffle a dance on his stumps of feet.”

The boon of vast experience, as here, to draw upon a knowledge of sailing when there is not an ocean in sight.

“I leveled at the white spot on its chest, and was about to fire when it started off, ran first to one side and then to the other, like a vessel tacking against a wind, and at last stretched away at full speed.”

Parkman was no respecter of the Tribal ways he encountered, but his respect for the indigenous mettle and natural-hewn physique was unadulterated.

“Savage figures surrounded our tent, with quivers at their backs, and guns, lances, or tomahawks in their hands. Some sat on horseback, motionless as equestrian statues, their arms crossed on their breasts, their eyes fixed in a steady unwavering gaze upon us. Some stood erect, wrapped from head to foot in their long white robes of buffalo hide. Some sat together on the grass, holding their shaggy horses by a rope, with their broad dark busts exposed to view as they suffered their robes to fall from their shoulders. Others again stood carelessly among the throng, with nothing to conceal the matchless symmetry of their forms; and I do not exaggerate when I say that only on the prairie and in the Vatican have I seen such faultless models of the human figure. See that warrior standing by the tree, towering six feet and a half in stature. Your eyes may trace the whole of his graceful and majestic height, and discover no defect or blemish. With his free and noble attitude, with the bow in his hand, and the quiver at his back, he might seem, but for his face, the Pythian Apollo himself. Such a figure rose before the imagination of West, when on first seeing the Belvidere in the Vatican, he exclaimed, "By God, a Mohawk!"

Compare the following to your last “sick day” or “I’ll skip doing this because of that twinge in my knee.” We are all vastly more capable than we resolve to be.

“I recall these scenes with a mixed feeling of pleasure and pain. At this time I was so reduced by illness that I could seldom walk without reeling like a drunken man, and when I rose from my seat upon the ground the landscape suddenly grew dim before my eyes, the trees and lodges seemed to sway to and fro, and the prairie to rise and fall like the swells of the ocean. Such a state of things is by no means enviable anywhere. In a country where a man's life may at any moment depend on the strength of his arm, or it may be on the activity of his legs, it is more particularly inconvenient. Medical assistance of course there was none; neither had I the means of pursuing a system of diet; and sleeping on a damp ground, with an occasional drenching from a shower, would hardly be recommended as beneficial. I sometimes suffered the extremity of languor and exhaustion, and though at the time I felt no apprehensions of the final result, I have since learned that my situation was a critical one.”

Upon recovery Parkman remarks that his recovery was possible likely because of such hardships. Sometimes the cure is in what we avoid.

“Hardship and exposure had thriven with me wonderfully. I had gained both health and strength since leaving La Bonte's Camp.”

How shall we face perils? Avoid them? Fear them?

Perhaps they are not what we assume.

We will never know until we venture.

“Suddenly the sky darkened, and thunder began to mutter. Clouds were rising over the hills, as dreary and dull as the first forebodings of an approaching calamity; and in a moment all around was wrapped in shadow. I looked behind. The Indians had stopped to prepare for the approaching storm, and the dark, dense mass of savages stretched far to the right and left. Since the first attack of my disorder the effects of rain upon me had usually been injurious in the extreme. I had no strength to spare, having at that moment scarcely enough to keep my seat on horseback. Then, for the first time, it pressed upon me as a strong probability that I might never leave those deserts. "Well," thought I to myself, "a prairie makes quick and sharp work. Better to die here, in the saddle to the last, than to stifle in the hot air of a sick chamber, and a thousand times better than to drag out life, as many have done, in the helpless inaction of lingering disease." So, drawing the buffalo robe on which I sat over my head, I waited till the storm should come. It broke at last with a sudden burst of fury, and passing away as rapidly as it came, left the sky clear again. My reflections served me no other purpose than to look back upon as a piece of curious experience; for the rain did not produce the ill effects that I had expected.”

Ponder the skill, the grit, the daring of…

:The chief difficulty in running buffalo, as it seems to me, is that of loading the gun or pistol at full gallop. Many hunters for convenience' sake carry three or four bullets in the mouth; the powder is poured down the muzzle of the piece, the bullet dropped in after it, the stock struck hard upon the pommel of the saddle, and the work is done. The danger of this method is obvious. Should the blow on the pommel fail to send the bullet home, or should the latter, in the act of aiming, start from its place and roll toward the muzzle, the gun would probably burst in discharging. Many a shattered hand and worse casualties besides have been the result of such an accident. To obviate it, some hunters make use of a ramrod, usually hung by a string from the neck, but this materially increases the difficulty of loading. The bows and arrows which the Indians use in running buffalo have many advantages over fire arms, and even white men occasionally employ them.”

Compare the following with Captain Bligh’s pragmatic view on “A hand on the tiller” as prayer.

“This honorable mention of the Mexican clergy introduced the subject of religion, and I found that my two associates, in common with other white men in the country, were as indifferent to their future welfare as men whose lives are in constant peril are apt to be.”

And now the comparison.

The mutiny on the H.M.S. Bounty resulted in Captain William Bligh and 18 of the loyal crew being set off ship in a 23-foot open boat with food supplies for one-week.

[BTW-I have a 22-foot sailboat, 6 people get snug, 18, I can’t even imagine.]

The boat was loaded so heavily that the seas were a mere few inches from the top of the gunwales.

Captain Bligh had long made it his duty to know his business and was considered a master-navigator.

With these meager supplies they travelled 4,160 miles in 47 days. They faced gale force winds, high seas, starvation, torrential rains, and had to bale constantly to stay just above water. Bligh himself spent most of his time at the tiller, all the men said his skills and tenacity is what saw them through.

The following is Bligh on what he saw as “velleity” [A wish, hope, or prayer not strong enough to lead to action.] This comes from a passage between one of the many violent storms.

“Once, in a brief lull between storms, Fryer had suggested that a prayer be said. “No, Mr. Fryer,” he replied. “Pray if you like, but to my way of thinking, God expects better than prayers at a time like this.”

[From Men against the Sea by Nordhoff and Hall.]

The Frontier and the Sea breeds men and women who have no time for velleity.

Action is the Chapter and Verse.

Compare the following with The Texas Proverb.

“When in the midst of his game and his enemies, hand and foot, eye and ear, are incessantly active. Frequently he must content himself with devouring his evening meal uncooked, lest the light of his fire should attract the eyes of some wandering Indian; and sometimes having made his rude repast, he must leave his fire still blazing, and withdraw to a distance under cover of the darkness, that his disappointed enemy, drawn thither by the light, may find his victim gone, and be unable to trace his footsteps in the gloom. This is the life led by scores of men in the Rocky Mountains and their vicinity. I once met a trapper whose breast was marked with the scars of six bullets and arrows, one of his arms broken by a shot and one of his knees shattered; yet still, with the undaunted mettle of New England, from which part of the country he had come, he continued to follow his perilous occupation. To some of the children of cities it may seem strange that men with no object in view should continue to follow a life of such hardship and desperate adventure; yet there is a mysterious, restless charm in the basilisk eye of danger, and few men perhaps remain long in that wild region without learning to love peril for its own sake, and to laugh carelessly in the face of death.”

The Texas Proverb

Cowards Never Started,

The Weak Don’t get Here,

& the Unfit Don’t Stay.

The honest question to ask the self is, which are you?

Next Parkman describes “Indian Religion.” He has a bit of respect for it yet considers it a little “less.” [We’ll come back to this.]

“After advancing for some time, I conceived myself to be entirely alone; but coming to a part of the glen in a great measure free of trees and undergrowth, I saw at some distance the black head and red shoulders of an Indian among the bushes above. The reader need not prepare himself for a startling adventure, for I have none to relate. The head and shoulders belonged to Mene-Seela, my best friend in the village. As I had approached noiselessly with my moccasined feet, the old man was quite unconscious of my presence; and turning to a point where I could gain an unobstructed view of him, I saw him seated alone, immovable as a statue, among the rocks and trees. His face was turned upward, and his eyes seemed riveted on a pine tree springing from a cleft in the precipice above. The crest of the pine was swaying to and fro in the wind, and its long limbs waved slowly up and down, as if the tree had life. Looking for a while at the old man, I was satisfied that he was engaged in an act of worship or prayer, or communion of some kind with a supernatural being. I longed to penetrate his thoughts, but I could do nothing more than conjecture and speculate. I knew that though the intellect of an Indian can embrace the idea of an all-wise, all-powerful Spirit, the supreme Ruler of the universe, yet his mind will not always ascend into communion with a being that seems to him so vast, remote, and incomprehensible; and when danger threatens, when his hopes are broken, when the black wing of sorrow overshadows him, he is prone to turn for relief to some inferior agency, less removed from the ordinary scope of his faculties. He has a guardian spirit, on whom he relies for succor and guidance. To him all nature is instinct with mystic influence. Among those mountains not a wild beast was prowling, a bird singing, or a leaf fluttering, that might not tend to direct his destiny or give warning of what was in store for him; and he watches the world of nature around him as the astrologer watches the stars. So closely is he linked with it that his guardian spirit, no unsubstantial creation of the fancy, is usually embodied in the form of some living thing—a bear, a wolf, an eagle, or a serpent; and Mene-Seela, as he gazed intently on the old pine tree, might believe it to inshrine the fancied guide and protector of his life.”

And in the very next paragraph we have this…

“Whatever was passing in the mind of the old man, it was no part of sense or of delicacy to disturb him. Silently retracing my footsteps, I descended the glen until I came to a point where I could climb the steep precipices that shut it in, and gain the side of the mountain. Looking up, I saw a tall peak rising among the woods. Something impelled me to climb; I had not felt for many a day such strength and elasticity of limb. An hour and a half of slow and often intermittent labor brought me to the very summit; and emerging from the dark shadows of the rocks and pines, I stepped forth into the light, and walking along the sunny verge of a precipice, seated myself on its extreme point. Looking between the mountain peaks to the westward, the pale blue prairie was stretching to the farthest horizon like a serene and tranquil ocean. The surrounding mountains were in themselves sufficiently striking and impressive, but this contrast gave redoubled effect to their stern features.”

In this very next paragraph Parkman says “something impelled him” despite his weakened condition. He followed that silent edict and found strength and edification in the climb. He behaved just as Mene-Seela and reaped similar blessings/rewards. Perhaps it is not foolish “to read nature like an astrologer.”

One of Parkman’s most vital lessons.

“Shaw and I were much better fitted for this mode of traveling than we had been on betaking ourselves to the prairies for the first time a few months before. The daily routine had ceased to be a novelty. All the details of the journey and the camp had become familiar to us. We had seen life under a new aspect; the human biped had been reduced to his primitive condition. We had lived without law to protect, a roof to shelter, or garment of cloth to cover us. One of us at least had been without bread, and without salt to season his food. Our idea of what is indispensable to human existence and enjoyment had been wonderfully curtailed, and a horse, a rifle, and a knife seemed to make up the whole of life's necessaries. For these once obtained, together with the skill to use them, all else that is essential would follow in their train, and a host of luxuries besides. One other lesson our short prairie experience had taught us; that of profound contentment in the present, and utter contempt for what the future might bring forth.”

Parkman is not singular in feeling this “profound contentment in the present, and utter contempt for what the future might bring forth.”

It was a common attitude amongst denizens of the frontier.

“Mingled among the crowd of Indians were a number of Canadians, chiefly in the employ of Bisonette; men, whose home is in the wilderness, and who love the camp fire better than the domestic hearth. They are contented and happy in the midst of hardship, privation, and danger. Their cheerfulness and gayety is irrepressible, and no people on earth understand better how "to daff the world aside and bid it pass."

For those with Frontier Hearts in Modern Times, I leave you with this Lesson from The Strong Hearts.

“The society of the "Strong Hearts" were engaged in one of their dances. The Strong Hearts are a warlike association, comprising men of both the Dakota and Cheyenne nations, and entirely composed, or supposed to be so, of young braves of the highest mettle. Its fundamental principle is the admirable one of never retreating from any enterprise once commenced.”

What a noble way to conduct oneself.

I repeat:

“Its fundamental principle is the admirable one of never retreating from any enterprise once commenced.”

May we all find a lesson or two from The Oregon Trail and be Strong Hearts!

“The Last Running” by John Graves

 

“Liberty,” Starlight said out of nowhere, in Spanish. “They speak much of liberty. Not one of you has ever seen liberty, or smelled it. Liberty was grass, and wind, and a horse, and meat to hunt, and no wire.”

An elegiac story of the End of an Era—the Last Buffalo Hunt conducted under less than noble conditions.

There is a brutality here, sadness, and attempts to reclaim nobility.

It is a brief tale, one with a wallop not found in many a longer tale.

Well, worth the considerate readers time.

True art.

A Vaquero of Brush Country by Frank Dobie

 

And in 1878 there were sights in Fort Griffin. Established eleven years before as an outpost against Indians, it became soon after the battle of Adobe Walls, June 27th, 1874, headquarters for thousands of butchers engaged in annihilating the “southern herd” of American bison and also for cow men and cowboys engaged in establishing ranches on the vast ranges that the slaughter of the buffalo and the attendant subjugation of the Indians were leaving vacant. I have seen Hells Half Acre in Fort Worth but here was Hells Half Hundred Acres. It was beyond all odds the worst hole that I have ever been in. The population at this time was perhaps five thousand people, most of them soldiers, gamblers, cow thieves, horse thieves, murderers, wild women, Buffalo hunters, altogether the most mongrel and the hardest-looking crew that it was possible to assemble. The fort proper and the big store were up on a hill. The sights were down under the hill and the flats where every house was either a saloon, a gambling den, or a dance hall, generally all three combined. No man who valued his life would go here unarmed or step out alone into the darkness. If about daylight he walked down to the river he might see a man hanging from one of the cottonwood trees with a placard on his back saying, “Horse Thief #8”-- or whatever the latest number was.

Written in 1929, this is a collection of reminisces from cattleman-rancher John Young.

It is full of incident, shenanigans, tragedy, and insight.

It may be non-fiction but those who are fans of McMurtry and the historically accurate Benjamin Capps will likely find a lot to love about this volume.

It is clear many a fine fiction writer delved into such volumes.

Nothing dry about this tale.

Nonfiction that reads like a raconteur having his way around a campfire.

Whispering Wind: A Thriller Icon’s Only Western

The Day of the Jackal, The Odessa File, The Dogs of War, The Fourth Protocol, these are only a few of the volumes written by Frederick Forsythe and then turned into film.

He offers his only Western “Whispering Wind” as a novella in his volume of short stories collectively titled The Veteran.

It was nine in the morning and already burning hot. They had been riding for three hours. General Custer liked to break camp early. But already the scout could smell the whiskey on the breath of the man beside him. It was bad frontier whiskey and the smell was rank, stronger than the perfume of the wild plum, cherry and the torrents of rambling dog roses that grew in such profusion along the banks to give Rosebud Creek its name.

So how is this work?

That is a tough one to answer without spoilers.

We begin with scout Ben Craig who has been reputed by some to be the only survivor of The Battle of Little Bighorn.

The lead-up, battle-scenes and aftermath are provided in Forsythe’s trademark well-researched forensic detail. This reader found this section of the novel fascinating.

Then somewhere in the middle, Forsythe provides a plot twist that I never saw coming. I cannot mention anything from this section without spoiling it for potential readers.

It is fair to say, it resembles L ’Amour’s Last of the Breed but with a twist. We’ll leave it at that.

I found the first half of the novel exceptional and the second half, while not necessarily my cup of tea, still of interest.

Well worth a read for many.

You’ll know at the “twist” whether to plunge on.

It is a wild one.

“I-80 M. 490-M.205” by John Sayles

 

“Ahh, copy you, Roadrunner, she's been clean all the way from that Grand Island town, so motormotor.”

[A moving van accelerates.]

“How about that Roadrunner, this is Overload up to 424, that you behind me?”

[The vans headlights blink up and down.]

“Well come on up, buddy, let's put the hammer down on this thing.”

The voices are nasal and tinny, broken by squawks, something human squeezed through wire. A decade of televised astronauts gives them their style and self importance.

We have a rare short story from screenwriter, John Sayles, the excellent film Lone Star being just one sample of his Western work.

This was written in 1975 for The Atlantic magazine; conceived in the midst of America’s CB radio fad.

A pop culture boom that brought us Trucker-as-Cowboy stories in film and song and spawned many a non-trucker to install a radio in their vehicle, spawn a handle, hit the highway and see who had their ears on.

This story told almost exclusively in CB jargon, mixed with screenplay bullet points for action and forays back into standard prose is more than a pop culture curiosity.

Sayles’ tale is darker. We have a voice out there in the midst of the chatter that is up to no good—one intent on darker things.

The story of the Voice and how truckers attempt to figure out who or why this voice is doing what they are doing is mighty intriguing.

The story has a bit of that 1971 film Vanishing Point’s existentialist vibe to it.

All in all, an interesting story—creative in premise and creative in execution.

First Command by Wade Everett

 

These men were brothers; Travis could see the common whelping stamped on them. Ben Arness said, “This is Pete Rink. His brother, Oney.”

“Hidey,” the other one said.

“The woman is their wife,” Arness said. “Name’s Esther.”

“Their wife?” Travis said.

“She be,” Owney Rink said. “Pete and me shared the same breast as little yonkers. Somehow we never lost the habit of sharin’.” He looked at Travis as though he expected him to make something out of it, because others had. “Wimmin is scarce out here. Esther’s satisfied. So’re we. If you don't like it, ride on. Got no use for the army anyway.”

“Me neither,” Pete Rink said.

This brief novel [142 pages] is a marvel.

Essentially a cavalry procedural in which Lieutenant Jefferson Travis receives his first command and commits to doing the right thing come hell or high water.

Everett was a nom de plume for Will Cook, himself a former US Cavalry veteran, among many other things in a colorful and eventful life.

That real-world experience shows here.

While written as a formulary Western, this novel exceeds that formula.

Men and women both are more than the surface characteristics that we usually see, where lesser authors use a character trait or two to serve as “color” while they push pawns around the plot.

Everett’s humans are real, not all good, not all bad—but when they are bad, they are as bad as it gets.

The novel is full of incident, full of characters second guessing where lesser novels behave in foregone conclusive manners.

Having not read Cook in his Everett guise before I don’t know if my evaluation of this novel is because I was taken by surprise or because it actually is a superior piece of Western art.

I lean heavily on the latter.

142 pages of real men, real women experiencing tragedy, loss, heartache, disappointment, and enjoying a small [often very small] redemption here and there.

A novel written by a man with real world experience for adults who know the world ain’t black and white.

This novel earns an easy A+.

The Californians “One Ton of Peppercorn”

 

Let’s take a look at a single episode from this NBC series that ran its first season in 1957 and its second in 1959.

The first season followed Dion Patrick [Adam Kennedy] an Irishman news reporter in Gold Rush era San Francisco.

The second season switched protagonists and followed Sherriff Matthew Wayne [Richard Coogan] in the same setting.

Our episode choice is from the 1959 Coogan season.

The story is brisk, the narrative a bit simplistic, and Coogan is a bit, well, bland. Serviceable but bland.

The interest here is in the pre-fame guest star, James Coburn playing Coogan’s country cousin.

Coburn is exuberant and of interest, to me at least due to my day job, of using the unusual fighting technique of “Ramming.”

It is portrayed for laughs but t ’was indeed a real specialty of some fighting men.

Coburn and brevity made the time pass, but not much to really prod further viewing based on this single episode.

Dutch Uncle by Marilyn Durham

 

For my grandmother,

who always liked a good clean story

But mostly for my mother,

who doesn't—

[The book’s epigraph.]

And now our offered excerpt.

“What do you do now?” It was Carrie asking.

Jake turned in surprise. Several sharp answers sprang to his mind, but he put them away. “I play poker,” he said simply.

She gave a ladylike sniff of disapproval. “That isn't an occupation; It's a vice.”

 He smiled. “Miss Hand, you’re right, as far as most people are concerned. Many are called and few are chosen, the preachers say. I'm one of the few. I get by, and I don't take anything from people except what they want to give me-- like those preachers.” He touched his hat brim turned and finished the motion with an imperious gesture.

As you read the above exchange one can envision the rascally charm of Jim Garner delivering it with a twinkle in his eye.

Our protagonist, Jake Hollander, seems molded on the faux cynical yet reluctantly good-hearted Maverick character.

The author plays this game well.

This 1973 novel is Durham’s follow-up to her debut Western The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing.

This is a less serious novel than that affair, but it is well-written with an easy gregariousness that is not afraid to allow a tragic moment or two to leaven the proceedings.

All in all, a strong novel, well worth the serious Western reader’s attention.

The Dakotas: The Episode That Led to Immediate Cancellation

 

Disclosure: I was not aware of this single-season 1963 series until I read about the controversy over this single episode.

This ABC adult Western dealt with Marshall Frank Ragan [Larry Ward] an actor unfamiliar to me till this show—he’s quite good, a laid-back Bogart vibe.

Ragan is accompanied by his deputies, Vance Porter [played by an amiable Michael Green], Del Stark [a young energetic Chad Everett], and J.D. Smith—played by Jack Elam. Elam is a revelation; I had only known him for his semi-comic sidekick work. Here he is damned effective as a laconic lawman who can stare a man down without giggle or smile proffered. He’s very very good here.

On to the episode and the controversy.

The episode in question is titled, “Sanctuary at Crystal Springs.” It was written by Cy Chermak and directed by Richard Sarafian.

The script and the staging are the stars here. We open directly into a siege followed by unexpected outcomes with hostages—I won’t spoil it, I will just say that I was surprised at how far the margins were pushed for a 1963 series airing at 7:30 PM.

We wind up inside a church for further incident.

The story is one of violence, faith [the word “atheist” is bandied about a good bit], and the necessity of “what must be done.”

Whether it was the violence or the faith-issues that led to the outcry, or a bit of both is debatable.

Needless to say, only one additional episode was aired, with another already in the can left unseen.

So, the show itself—Is it any good?

In a word-Yes.

In more words—It is excellent!

I will seek further episodes and lament the loss of what may very well have been a classic.

It is mature, well-played, and quite well-staged. [Sarafian would go on to lens the iconic 70’s film Vanishing Point.]

This single episode stands head and shoulders above most predictable fare of the time [and ours.]