Since I received such an outstanding ovation for my previous post about the Territorial News, I thought I would run another one. This edition has Chapter 3 of The Captivity of the Oatman Girls by R. B. Stratton on the front page and continues further into the paper. Also on the lead article is 'Indian Massacre' on the West-bound Stage. This is about a stage robbery west of Wickenburg, AZ, in 1871. The robbers were dressed up as Indians it was thought and was "one of the bloodiest deeds ever committed in Arizona."
Another article was about Ned Huddleston, horse thief and cattle rustler, who turns out to be none other than Isom Dart of Brown's Park fame and an acquaintance of Butch Cassidy during the time Cassidy was in Brown's Park. This article says he was killed by Tom Horn, who plugged him as he was coming out of his cabin one morning.in October 1900.
There is an article about a Gunfight in Fort Worth, which I found interesting. The big fight was between Luke Short and Jim Courtright. The dispute was over the "protection" offered to Short by Mister Courtright and Short said he didn't need it, so they tried to kill each other in front of the Shooting Gallery Saloon. Short won and Courtright was killed. Short got off, the judge ruled justified self-defense at the trial..
A full-page ad lures visitors to Florence, AZ, with the Chapel of the Gila short history in the center of the page. The Chapel was constructed in 1870 and subsequently renamed the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary Catholic Church. One of the ads is for "The only indoor fast draw shooting range in the U S." Florence is an interesting little town, home of the State Prison and not far from the "Casa Grande" ruins and museum. Have a nice visit.
The paper is still available for $29.95 a year.
HAPPY MOTHER;S DAY!
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Not About Raccoons
I ran across this book at a Used Book store and bought it thinking it had to be some sort of western about a Hell and Damnation preacher. Was I surprised when I began reading it and found out it was the story of a young Baptist in early Kentucky who had a lasting effect on the Baptist religion and revealing to them the faults in their take on it. The book is Raccoon John Smith, written by Louis Cochran whose "maternal grandfather was also a preacher and a lifelong advocate of 'Christian unity' after the manner of Raccoon John Smith" it says in the author bio on the back inside flap of the cover.
I continued reading until the end, not that it was a subject that appealed to me much, but since I invested a whole simoleon in it, I would read it no matter how boring it was. Well, it wasn't really boring overall as I followed Raccoon John Smith around the towns and churches in Kentucky in the early 1800's. Although it isn't a traditional shoot-em-up, Kentucky at that time was on the edge of the frontier and there was an episode early on about the killings and unsocial-like behavior of the Harpe gang.
Young John found out early on with urging from his family and others that he was a member of the Elect, having had a revelation and was further urged to set his sights on becoming a preacher. As he learned more about the Bible and the Baptists, he had other revelations that convinced him that the Baptists was not considering the full facts of the Bible. He met several preachers like Barton Stone and David Fall, who thought pretty close to the way he did, and as time goes on, he was booted from several churches as a heretic and Reformist, not being able to change enough people from their deep-seated beliefs and Calvinist ways. The narrative is pretty dull in places to me as John gets married, raises a family and has a couple of the kids die and his house catches fire and wipes out some of them. But John recovers, keeps preaching, gets remarried and has more kids. He was called upon to preach in homes, churches, barns, and oversee weddings by the hundreds, sometimes doing ten in a day.
John meets Alexander Campbell and becomes a "disciple", believing that baptism by immersion and the Bible are all that is necessary for a Christian to be a good Christian. As time struggles on, he attends a meeting of the Disciples of Christ and the Church of Christ believers and they become united in a loose conformance to the same principles of faith and consider themselves "Unified."
From reading the book, I learned again some of the problems of the various religious sects and will continue to see that there will never be a total re-unification into just one Church of Christians. There is just too much politics and power involved for those in power to relinquish even in the Name of God.
For the most part, I thought the book was just fine and written in language easily understood.
I continued reading until the end, not that it was a subject that appealed to me much, but since I invested a whole simoleon in it, I would read it no matter how boring it was. Well, it wasn't really boring overall as I followed Raccoon John Smith around the towns and churches in Kentucky in the early 1800's. Although it isn't a traditional shoot-em-up, Kentucky at that time was on the edge of the frontier and there was an episode early on about the killings and unsocial-like behavior of the Harpe gang.
Young John found out early on with urging from his family and others that he was a member of the Elect, having had a revelation and was further urged to set his sights on becoming a preacher. As he learned more about the Bible and the Baptists, he had other revelations that convinced him that the Baptists was not considering the full facts of the Bible. He met several preachers like Barton Stone and David Fall, who thought pretty close to the way he did, and as time goes on, he was booted from several churches as a heretic and Reformist, not being able to change enough people from their deep-seated beliefs and Calvinist ways. The narrative is pretty dull in places to me as John gets married, raises a family and has a couple of the kids die and his house catches fire and wipes out some of them. But John recovers, keeps preaching, gets remarried and has more kids. He was called upon to preach in homes, churches, barns, and oversee weddings by the hundreds, sometimes doing ten in a day.
John meets Alexander Campbell and becomes a "disciple", believing that baptism by immersion and the Bible are all that is necessary for a Christian to be a good Christian. As time struggles on, he attends a meeting of the Disciples of Christ and the Church of Christ believers and they become united in a loose conformance to the same principles of faith and consider themselves "Unified."
From reading the book, I learned again some of the problems of the various religious sects and will continue to see that there will never be a total re-unification into just one Church of Christians. There is just too much politics and power involved for those in power to relinquish even in the Name of God.
For the most part, I thought the book was just fine and written in language easily understood.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
O. Henry
This month's header sketch is O. Henry (William Sidney Porter). I hope I didn't mess it up too much.
O. Henry (Porter) lived from 9-11-1862 to 6-5-1910.
American writer famous for his stories with surprise endings.
Born in Greensboro, NC, died in NYC from cirrhosis, diabetes and an enlarged heart.
Buried in Asheville, NC.
Moved to Texas in 1881, LaSalle County (hill country, I presume).
During his life he was a draftsman, pharmacist, bank teller, and journalist, in addition to being a writer. He played the guitar and mandolin and sang.
As a bank teller he embezzled some money (why? I don't know. He needed it, I guess.) When the law came calling, he left for New Orleans and Honduras. He returned to Austin to be with his wife, who was dying from TB, and surrendered. He was given a five-year sentence, but spent three years in jail where he worked as the prison's pharmacist.
Mister Porter liked his "porter" and was a heavy drinker.
He wrote many stories and submitted them for publication, and many were published. He wrote about ordinary people, clerks, policemen, waitresses, etc. Some of his best were contained in the Cabbages and Kings collection. A couple of his best known were The Gift of the Magi and The Ransom of Red Chief. I liked both of those, laughing at Ransom and being sad with Magi and both had surprise endings.
This info taken from Wikipedia about Mr. Porter, where you can get a more detailed description of his life and works and how he chose his pseudonym, O. Henry.
O. Henry (Porter) lived from 9-11-1862 to 6-5-1910.
American writer famous for his stories with surprise endings.
Born in Greensboro, NC, died in NYC from cirrhosis, diabetes and an enlarged heart.
Buried in Asheville, NC.
Moved to Texas in 1881, LaSalle County (hill country, I presume).
During his life he was a draftsman, pharmacist, bank teller, and journalist, in addition to being a writer. He played the guitar and mandolin and sang.
As a bank teller he embezzled some money (why? I don't know. He needed it, I guess.) When the law came calling, he left for New Orleans and Honduras. He returned to Austin to be with his wife, who was dying from TB, and surrendered. He was given a five-year sentence, but spent three years in jail where he worked as the prison's pharmacist.
Mister Porter liked his "porter" and was a heavy drinker.
He wrote many stories and submitted them for publication, and many were published. He wrote about ordinary people, clerks, policemen, waitresses, etc. Some of his best were contained in the Cabbages and Kings collection. A couple of his best known were The Gift of the Magi and The Ransom of Red Chief. I liked both of those, laughing at Ransom and being sad with Magi and both had surprise endings.
This info taken from Wikipedia about Mr. Porter, where you can get a more detailed description of his life and works and how he chose his pseudonym, O. Henry.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Territorial News
The newspaper, Territorial News, is distributed around to stores and Circle K's and other places and you can pick up a copy for FREE, or you can subscribe to it at the reasonable rate of $29.95 for a whole year.
Anyway I was going through a copy I picked up in Apache Junction yesterday and a couple of things caught my eye: The paper is running The Captivity of the Oatman Girls Among the Apache and Mohave Indians by R. B. Stratton who wrote it in 1857. This edition of the News had Chapter 2 - The Massacre: The Capture of Olive and Mary Ann. I have this book on my shelf, so I didn't read the Chapter.
Another article was "Buffalo Bill Cody A True Legend of the West", which he was. I didn't read this one either. Anoither item was "A Previously Unknown Picture of Bill the Kid Surfaces in NM". I looked at the photo and I looked at the only known photo of Billy the Kid next to it and decided they should never have taken the trouble to run this article in my opinion. Comparing the photos, I noticed in the Unknown Picture the feller they alleged may be Billy didn't look much like the only picture of Billy, again in my opinion. The new pic of Billy and Dan Dedrick shows a young man with a pointed chin which the only pic of Billy shows his chin was broader and that's why I don't think it was Billy.
A full page ad showed that The Righteous Brother's Bill Medley; A Frankie Valli Tribute; the Little River Band; Roots and Boots; Billy Cosby; and 3 Redneck Tenors will all be making their appearance in the Valley. WOOPS! I should have looked at the dates. They've all come and gone, so that ain't goin' to help anybody git a l'il culcher. However, The Montana Guys play every Monday from 5 to 8 pm at the Hitching Post lounge on Hwy 88 E. Apache Junction. And the McNasty Brothers will be at the Mining Camp Restaurant until May 17th.
And there was an article on "Fur Trapping in Canada", which I didn't read. I don't think I'll be doin' any of that this summer or next.
A very interesting newspaper, maybe I'll subscribe or maybe not.
Anyway I was going through a copy I picked up in Apache Junction yesterday and a couple of things caught my eye: The paper is running The Captivity of the Oatman Girls Among the Apache and Mohave Indians by R. B. Stratton who wrote it in 1857. This edition of the News had Chapter 2 - The Massacre: The Capture of Olive and Mary Ann. I have this book on my shelf, so I didn't read the Chapter.
Another article was "Buffalo Bill Cody A True Legend of the West", which he was. I didn't read this one either. Anoither item was "A Previously Unknown Picture of Bill the Kid Surfaces in NM". I looked at the photo and I looked at the only known photo of Billy the Kid next to it and decided they should never have taken the trouble to run this article in my opinion. Comparing the photos, I noticed in the Unknown Picture the feller they alleged may be Billy didn't look much like the only picture of Billy, again in my opinion. The new pic of Billy and Dan Dedrick shows a young man with a pointed chin which the only pic of Billy shows his chin was broader and that's why I don't think it was Billy.
A full page ad showed that The Righteous Brother's Bill Medley; A Frankie Valli Tribute; the Little River Band; Roots and Boots; Billy Cosby; and 3 Redneck Tenors will all be making their appearance in the Valley. WOOPS! I should have looked at the dates. They've all come and gone, so that ain't goin' to help anybody git a l'il culcher. However, The Montana Guys play every Monday from 5 to 8 pm at the Hitching Post lounge on Hwy 88 E. Apache Junction. And the McNasty Brothers will be at the Mining Camp Restaurant until May 17th.
And there was an article on "Fur Trapping in Canada", which I didn't read. I don't think I'll be doin' any of that this summer or next.
A very interesting newspaper, maybe I'll subscribe or maybe not.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Out of the Blue
Out of the blue, the postal person delivered a card the other day. It was from the Ventana Sierra Advanced Writing Workshop to notify me of their upcoming shop on June 6-8, 2014, in Carson City, Nevada. I appreciate getting this information, although I have no plans to attend this year. Maybe they included me in their address list as a good candidate for more education in this line of endeavor, and I can readily understand that. I would be the first one to admit that I sorely need something like this, but courses like this are usually too costly for my pocketbook.
Poets and Writers magazine contains a lot of ads for courses like this and MFA studies, all of which makes interesting reading for some folks but not me until I hit the lottery. The issue of May/June 2014 also has a guide to Free Writing contests, which would be more up my alley if only I had more time to write a short story or poem. I think later on in the year, I'll be able to devote some time for just such an enterprise as I finish my present project. I will put this item on my handy bookshelf
for now, but if you are interested in sending some work to a contest or two, this issue is your baby.
Poets and Writers magazine contains a lot of ads for courses like this and MFA studies, all of which makes interesting reading for some folks but not me until I hit the lottery. The issue of May/June 2014 also has a guide to Free Writing contests, which would be more up my alley if only I had more time to write a short story or poem. I think later on in the year, I'll be able to devote some time for just such an enterprise as I finish my present project. I will put this item on my handy bookshelf
for now, but if you are interested in sending some work to a contest or two, this issue is your baby.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Single Jack by Max Brand
Another story by the prolific author Max Brand, this edition published in 1966, the third printing by Pocket Books.
Andrew Apperly visits his lawyer brother, David, in New York City to convince David to return West with him..
Andrew brought with him a dog, or a wolf, or a wolf-dog to be trained by a man who handles tigers and other wild animals.
"The dog can't be trained," admits the wild animal trainer in so many words.
The dog, Comanche, saves a man from drowning in the East River. The man is running from the law.
Comanche is this man's dog.
This man is Jack Deems (Single Jack).
The Apperly bros head west with the dog, leaving Jack behind, but not for long. He shows up at the Apperly Ranch to get his dog. Apperly says he can have him for nothing but a little assistance in fighting off the big rancher who is stealing his cattle and running the town of Yeoville, Alex
Shodress.
It turns out that Jack is the fastest, slickest, gol-darndest gunman ever, and the best gol-darndest knifeman and ropeman and everythingman ever seen or heard of out West or back East or up North or down South.
And this Apperly lawyer feller, David Apperly, starts his lawyering in Yeoville, right in the midst of all the bad men of that portion of the country controlled by Alex Shodress, the biggest, gol-darndest cattleman outlaw, and crookedest town owner you ever met.
Single Jack is told to keep an eye on David, but David gets shot two or three times and is hauled away to a pretty girls' house, where she takes care of him, since he isn't dead.
And the plot thickens and thickens right up till Shodress and his men catch Jack and throw him in jail in leg irons, wrist irons, arm irons, hand irons, lead cannon balls and a twenty-four hour guard by the fasstest guinamn on Shodress' payroll and ole Shodress himself. Darn, what a pickle he's in.
But darn, this girl's brother, Steve, who works for Shodress and who David had locked up for extreme killing, and who Shodress busted out of jail, slips Jack a file. Jack goes to work right under the noses of his guards and at an opportune moment overcomes a guard and steals his guns, and you guessed it, is on his way to extreme freedom with his dog and new wife, the girl who was helping David.
I'm telling you, it was one of the gol-darndest, amusing, exciting stories right up to the very end. But the author changed the tone a couple of times like he was writing with his tongue planted firmly in cheek in my estimation which threw me for a loppy curve for an instant, but was soon back to the regular tone and style of writin', the Max Brand style. Max Brand is really Frederick Faust, which you already know.
Andrew Apperly visits his lawyer brother, David, in New York City to convince David to return West with him..
Andrew brought with him a dog, or a wolf, or a wolf-dog to be trained by a man who handles tigers and other wild animals.
"The dog can't be trained," admits the wild animal trainer in so many words.
The dog, Comanche, saves a man from drowning in the East River. The man is running from the law.
Comanche is this man's dog.
This man is Jack Deems (Single Jack).
The Apperly bros head west with the dog, leaving Jack behind, but not for long. He shows up at the Apperly Ranch to get his dog. Apperly says he can have him for nothing but a little assistance in fighting off the big rancher who is stealing his cattle and running the town of Yeoville, Alex
Shodress.
It turns out that Jack is the fastest, slickest, gol-darndest gunman ever, and the best gol-darndest knifeman and ropeman and everythingman ever seen or heard of out West or back East or up North or down South.
And this Apperly lawyer feller, David Apperly, starts his lawyering in Yeoville, right in the midst of all the bad men of that portion of the country controlled by Alex Shodress, the biggest, gol-darndest cattleman outlaw, and crookedest town owner you ever met.
Single Jack is told to keep an eye on David, but David gets shot two or three times and is hauled away to a pretty girls' house, where she takes care of him, since he isn't dead.
And the plot thickens and thickens right up till Shodress and his men catch Jack and throw him in jail in leg irons, wrist irons, arm irons, hand irons, lead cannon balls and a twenty-four hour guard by the fasstest guinamn on Shodress' payroll and ole Shodress himself. Darn, what a pickle he's in.
But darn, this girl's brother, Steve, who works for Shodress and who David had locked up for extreme killing, and who Shodress busted out of jail, slips Jack a file. Jack goes to work right under the noses of his guards and at an opportune moment overcomes a guard and steals his guns, and you guessed it, is on his way to extreme freedom with his dog and new wife, the girl who was helping David.
I'm telling you, it was one of the gol-darndest, amusing, exciting stories right up to the very end. But the author changed the tone a couple of times like he was writing with his tongue planted firmly in cheek in my estimation which threw me for a loppy curve for an instant, but was soon back to the regular tone and style of writin', the Max Brand style. Max Brand is really Frederick Faust, which you already know.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
More Books
My computer has been off-OFF-OFF the last few days while we entertained relatives from Texas and Kansas, except for a brief time on one afternoon. On our quick visit to Scottsdale, I stopped in the antiquarian book store, Alcuin Books, and browsed partway through the Western and Arizona sections before the wife caught up with me and I quickly settled on three books:
1. Hands Up, True Stories of the Six-Gun Fighters of the Old Wild West, as told by Fred E. Sutton and written down by A. B. Mac Donald and printed by the A. L. Burt Company. On the inside front flap of the book cover it says "This popular priced edition is made possible by the author's acceptance of a reduced royalty." It was copyrighted in 1926 and 1927 by the Bobbs-Merrill Company. And that flap also states: "Here's REAL action for you. Over 300 pages of blood-curdling, thrilling Western, taken direct from the lips of one who participated." Can't wait to get started on it.
2. Deadly Dozen, Twelve Forgotten Gunfighters of the Old West, by Robert K. DeArment, and published by the University of Oklahoma Press in 2003. (Not an old book.) This one covers gunmen that I'm not familiar with, that is, I didn't recognize many names, except John Bull. I probably have seen their names in some book where they weren't the subject of the story.
3. Law West of Fort Smith, An authentic history of frontier justice in the old Indian Territory, by Glenn Shirley. This was published by Henry Holt & Company and copyrighted by Glenn Shirley in 1957. On the front inner flap of the cover it states, among other things: "Replete with colorful anecdotes and full of the flavor of the Old West, this thrillingly authentic book puts Judge Parker in his proper place in American history and paints a vivid picture of the Indian Territory and the social changes that came in the wake of the pioneers.
1. Hands Up, True Stories of the Six-Gun Fighters of the Old Wild West, as told by Fred E. Sutton and written down by A. B. Mac Donald and printed by the A. L. Burt Company. On the inside front flap of the book cover it says "This popular priced edition is made possible by the author's acceptance of a reduced royalty." It was copyrighted in 1926 and 1927 by the Bobbs-Merrill Company. And that flap also states: "Here's REAL action for you. Over 300 pages of blood-curdling, thrilling Western, taken direct from the lips of one who participated." Can't wait to get started on it.
2. Deadly Dozen, Twelve Forgotten Gunfighters of the Old West, by Robert K. DeArment, and published by the University of Oklahoma Press in 2003. (Not an old book.) This one covers gunmen that I'm not familiar with, that is, I didn't recognize many names, except John Bull. I probably have seen their names in some book where they weren't the subject of the story.
3. Law West of Fort Smith, An authentic history of frontier justice in the old Indian Territory, by Glenn Shirley. This was published by Henry Holt & Company and copyrighted by Glenn Shirley in 1957. On the front inner flap of the cover it states, among other things: "Replete with colorful anecdotes and full of the flavor of the Old West, this thrillingly authentic book puts Judge Parker in his proper place in American history and paints a vivid picture of the Indian Territory and the social changes that came in the wake of the pioneers.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Book Signing
Yesterday was the annual swap meet at the Methodist Church a couple blocks away. We took some books to sell and sign if anyone cared to buy, and the day turned out pretty darn good. The weather could have been a little better, starting out in the high 50's with a cold breeze blowing things around. It warmed up as the morning progressed and the people started showing up to have a look at all the tables and wares and a few nice people even stopped by our setup. Not everyone purchased a book (Darn!) but some were readers and bought a book or two. One nice couple from Moab, Utah, even bought four of my novels and took a photo of us standing at the end of the table. (Thanks, Moabians.)
Moab is a nice, friendly little town situated along the Colorado River in southeast Utah not too far from the Colorado Border. The place attracts a lot of tourists since it is not too far from the Monument Valley, where John Wayne and others have made movies, and Canyonlands. The Arches National Monument is on the outskirts as you head north out of town. A great stopping place for touring these national parks. Butch Cassidy and his gang hid out in the desolate rocks and hills to the northwest of Moab and south and east of the town of Hanksville.
Anyway, back to the sale. Springtime is the time around here when everyone wants to get outside and get rid of the old clutter that has collected over the wintertime, and it seems like anyone who has a bare spot in their yard or in a parking lot hold these "swap meets." So, the crowd was not as big as last year, but enough to call the sale a success in my book. Around 11:30 AM we packed up the remainders and toddled off home, with a sigh of relief and a hope we can make it next year.
Moab is a nice, friendly little town situated along the Colorado River in southeast Utah not too far from the Colorado Border. The place attracts a lot of tourists since it is not too far from the Monument Valley, where John Wayne and others have made movies, and Canyonlands. The Arches National Monument is on the outskirts as you head north out of town. A great stopping place for touring these national parks. Butch Cassidy and his gang hid out in the desolate rocks and hills to the northwest of Moab and south and east of the town of Hanksville.
Anyway, back to the sale. Springtime is the time around here when everyone wants to get outside and get rid of the old clutter that has collected over the wintertime, and it seems like anyone who has a bare spot in their yard or in a parking lot hold these "swap meets." So, the crowd was not as big as last year, but enough to call the sale a success in my book. Around 11:30 AM we packed up the remainders and toddled off home, with a sigh of relief and a hope we can make it next year.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Bret Harte
I've forgotten everything I ever knew about Mr. Bret Harte, the subject of the sketch in the header, so I looked him up on Wikipedia to revive my memory somewhat. I do remember reading The Outcasts of Poker Flat when I was in high school and enjoyed it, although my mind is telling me that I don't remember anything about the story other than I liked it. And we did have a fairly long look at his life and some of his writings besides the aforementioned story in our class taught by our "Socialist" teacher at the time. I call the teacher "Socialist" because of his ravings about Marx in the class and I didn't understand what he doth talk about until later. It has nothing to do with Mr. Harte.
Harte was born in 1836 and moved to California in 1853 where he received experience in the mining and camping world while working as a miner, teacher, and journalist in the Humboldt Bay area and from which he later wrote his stories, including The Luck of Roaring Camp. Mister Harte married Anna Griswold in 1862 in San Rafael, California and must have had a miserable life with her because she "was impossible to live with" said Henry C. Merwin an early biographer.
In school, I never learned the extent of his writings, which are considerable according to the bibliography on Project Gutenberg, which lists about 65 publications, including his poem written for Charles Dickens, Dickens in Camp. I hereby furnish the first stanza or two below to give you a taste of his poetic ability, which Frederick S. Myrtle says "Bret Hart has been generally accepted as the one American writer who possessed above all others the faculty of what may be called heart appeal, the power to give to his work that quality of human interest which enables the writer and his writings to lie in the memory of the reading public for all time." (From the foreward to the poem.)
"Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;"
And there you have it, and my thanks to Wikipedia and Project Gutenberg. I will read further of the works as time goes by for inspiration for my own simple writings.
Harte was born in 1836 and moved to California in 1853 where he received experience in the mining and camping world while working as a miner, teacher, and journalist in the Humboldt Bay area and from which he later wrote his stories, including The Luck of Roaring Camp. Mister Harte married Anna Griswold in 1862 in San Rafael, California and must have had a miserable life with her because she "was impossible to live with" said Henry C. Merwin an early biographer.
In school, I never learned the extent of his writings, which are considerable according to the bibliography on Project Gutenberg, which lists about 65 publications, including his poem written for Charles Dickens, Dickens in Camp. I hereby furnish the first stanza or two below to give you a taste of his poetic ability, which Frederick S. Myrtle says "Bret Hart has been generally accepted as the one American writer who possessed above all others the faculty of what may be called heart appeal, the power to give to his work that quality of human interest which enables the writer and his writings to lie in the memory of the reading public for all time." (From the foreward to the poem.)
"Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;"
And there you have it, and my thanks to Wikipedia and Project Gutenberg. I will read further of the works as time goes by for inspiration for my own simple writings.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Intro to "Trouble at Sagrado Ranch"
"Trouble at Sagrado Ranch" is the story of the Hawkins family in New Mexico Territory. Originally from Virginia, they moved to Texas to run a cattle ranch when the Civil War came along. The two older sons (Pete and Thaddeus) fought in the War on the side of the Confederates and came home to Texas find the family ranch had been lost to unscrupulous men and their father had moved the family to New Mexico to run a ranch at Sagrado (a fictional town near Socorro). And this is mainly their story of life in New Mexico Territory and the trials and tribulations of settling there. A couple of characters from "O'Shaughnessy's New Deputy" (Billy Kelly and the Navajo, Tohyil) play a big part in this story.
The first chapter lays the ground work for what follows, and I hope it's a good introduction in setting the scene and plot. Here is Chapter One:
"Sound Retreat!" my brother, Sergeant Peter Hawkins, yelled to the bugler. The noise was deafening with the shells exploding like thunder all around and the chatter of the rifles adding to the cacophony of the battle. I looked around, wiped the cold sweat from my brow, and Pete yelled at me, "Let's get out of here before we're overrun. It's every man for himself. Come on, follow me."
Zebediah Stewart, the bugler, bravely ignored the flying bullets and brought the horn to his lips, but no sound came out. He fell in a heap, killed by a Minie ball that nicked the mouthpiece of the trumpet and continued through the mouth and out the back of the neck shattering the spine.
"Dammit, why did he stand up to blow his tooter? Dammit to Hell!" said Sergeant Hawkins. "Fall back, men, and stay close. Stay low and hide if you can."
He dropped to a prone position and fired his Hawken rifle in the direction of the Yankee sounds. The brief flashes of fire in the dark from the Union rifles in the distance didn't give much of a target. He crawled on his belly into a thicket on the river bank.
"Pete! Pete! Is that you?" I said from my concealment in the bushes, my eyes squinting and drawn tight trying to see any movement in the darkness.
Pete, hearing my anxious voice coming from a few feet away where I was crawling further into the bushes, said, "Sh-sh, quiet. Let them Yankees get on past. We'll just lie here until daylight and hope they go around us.
I saw his jaws tighten as he looked around to get a better view of his surroundings. We whispered encouraging words to each other as we changed positions on the rocky earth. I drifted in a restless
sleep as the night wore on, tired and hungry from the days' prolonged activity. Waking up at times, I could see and feel a heavy fog settling in, hiding the outline of the trees and hills and everything else more than a few feet away.
Dawn was breaking, barely discernible at first through the fog. Pete sat up and looked around, seeing me sitting on the earth with a hand to my head.
"Are you hurt? Why you holdin' yer head?" he said, staring at me.
"Just got a slight headache, nothing serious," I said, staring back.
"We'll stay here until the sun burns off enough fog to see a good distance. We don't want to stumble into a company of them Yanks," said Pete, now smiling and still watching me.
We sat silently listening for sounds, but everything was quiet.
"I guess we're alone, Pete. Do y'all suppose any of our soldiers got away or are they prisoners by now?" I said.
"Well, we ain't prisoners," said Pete. "We can be thankful for that. We'll take a look around for any survivors. Them Yankees have moved on south and we'll have to be careful and not get caught by their rear guard."
The battle for Newtonia was over for all intents and purposes and the Confederate soldiers were on the run for Arkansas, those that remained in the Army. The others, the many deserters and me and Pete, headed for Indian Territory and home. The war was nearing an end for us.
We stuck together with a small group of southern sympathizers we found hiding in a barn. They said they had been fighting alongside us in one company or another. They told us they were part of Quantrill's Raiders, and they could have been for all we knew. They didn't stay with us very long before they went hunting for Quantrill.
Pete and I lived on squirrels, rabbits, a stray chicken, and managed to catch a possum or two as we hiked through the country heading in the general direction of Texas.
"We ain't deserters, but I can't see no reason for tryin' to join up again with Old Pap's troops. Who knows where they are and what they're up to now," said Pete. "Look at us. Our clothes are ragged, shoes are worn out, and we ain't got no more Minie balls. We might as well throw our rifles away, too. I'm headin' home to Texas. Y'all comin' with me or are you goin' lookin' for Genera Price?"
"I'm sick of this war and all the fightin' and noise and killin' and everything else about it. I'm goin' home, too," I, Thaddeus Hawkins, said, staring at my brother and smiling like a dog that had a 'coon treed. "You look like you been pulled out of the poorest house in the poorest neighborhood in the poorest town in Missouri, brother. You look like the poorest tramp I ever did see. Hahaha," I laughed.
"I guess you think you look better than I do," said Pete, "but, you don't. You're just as darn raggedy as me if not a good deal worse," and he laughed hard, too.
Taking our time and hoping the war would end, we made our way down to Fort Smith where we found jobs clearing trees from farmland. We worked for almost four months and were able to regain some of the weight lost in the fighting and purchase new clothes and shoes that would last until we reached home.
On April 9, 1865, we arrived in Austin. It was the same day that General Lee surrendered to the Union Army and the war was over.
No longer obligated to fight for the south we set out the next day by shank's mare for the old homestead a few miles north of Austin. Our spirits livened up seeing familiar objects like the old waterhole, the old oak tree, and other landmarks as we came nearer home.
"I'm goin' to drink a whole gallon of milk and eat a loaf of Ma's fresh-baked bread with honey and butter," I said, rubbing my left hand across my flat and empty abdomen, thinking I would soon be filling it up.
"I'm goin' to sleep for a week in my old bed before I start herdin' steers again," said Pete, taking off his new cowboy hat he purchased in Austin. "By the way, where are the cattle? I don't see any around. They always used to be some drinkin' at the waterhole."
He looked inside the new hat and rubbed his fingers around the sweatband before he put it back on his head.
"Pa's probably got them rounded up to take to market," I said, watching my brother. "You need to get yourself a haircut, if that hat's too tight on your big head."
"Yer pretty shaggy yerself, you little cricket," said Pete, who was bigger and heavier than me, but we both had brown hair and greenish-blue eyes.
Our old house was empty when we reached it, dark and abandoned. We searched all through it, but couldn't find a sign of anybody living here for some time.
"What do you think happened? There ain't nothin' left belonging to the family," I said, looking at my brother, dejected.
"Mister Blain will know. Let's go over there in the morning," said Pete, dropping his poke to the floor. "We'll make ourselves to home here tonight. At least we got shelter if it starts raining."
We found the Blain house after a six-mile trek over the rolling hills, arriving just before noon. Missus Blain and a girl that looked like our younger sister Lila, were on the front porch peeling potatoes.
Lila, now fourteen, slim, with light brown hair, saw us first and watched us as we made our way down the nearest hill, jumping a small stream and walking toward the house. She studied our faces, dark from the sun, and said, "I think that's Pete and Thaddeus back from the war," her voice carrying through the air to our ears.
She jumped up and ran to meet us. Missus Blain stood up and watched as the young girl let out a yell and greeted each of us with a big, strong hug. We walked to the porch with Lila between us, talking a mile a minute. We greeted Missus Blain and sat down on the steps.
"You fellers are a sight for sore eyes," said Lila, smiling with a tear in her eye. "My gosh, it's been two years at least. I'm glad to see y'all made it home from the war safe and sound. Ma and Pa gave me a letter for you when they left for New Mexico Territory, but I told them I was goin' to stay in Texas. I wasn't goin' to no godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere where there ain't no schools or nothin' for a young girl. I'm goin' to stay here and go to school in Austin and become a school teacher. And Mister and Missus Blain said they would take care of me and they been awful good to me. Did y'all ever get that letter that Pa wrote about Pappy dying?"
"We didn't get no letter," said Pete, disappointment in his eyes.
That news upset me. "Pappy's dead? I can't believe it. I was looking forward to seeing that old cuss again. I always liked Pappy Fisher and the stories he told. He was always there when I wanted to talk about something or other. I'm sure goin' to miss him."
"He was helpin' Pa round up some cattle and just keeled over and fell right off ole Brownie, and he was in Heaven before he hit the ground. Pa said he must've had a heart attack, poor ole feller. Pa buried him on a hill overlooking the house under that big oak tree. We all miss him." She eyed both men with concern and said, "I'll go get that letter Pa left."
"That Lila, just talky as ever, ain't she, Pete?" I said, smiling. "How y'all been Missus Blain. I see you and Mister Blain got quite a herd of cattle. We counted a lot of them on the way over here."
"Fine, fine. Mister Blain and I are doing fine, and I think Lila is, too. She's a peach of a gal," said Missus Blain, a blue-eyed, matronly woman with black hair starting to turn gray.
Lila came back with the letter and handed it to me. "I don't know what it says. It's sealed up," she said, taking her former seat between us.
"Here you read it, Pete," I said, handing him the envelope.
"All right," and he tore it open. "It reads, 'Dere suns Ma and I hop you are in good helth wen you reed this leter. We lost the ranch to the bank last yere, wen sum crukid cattle byers took our catle and left the contry without payin' us. We coldent afford to mak eny more paymen on the morgij, so the bank tuk it back. we are goin to Sagrado New Mexco whair Ill be runnin a ranch fer a Mr Woolensack, a rich Englshmun. He sed it was a butaful layout along the Rio Grand River. You and Thad cumon to Sagrado and bring Lila with you. She's livin with the Blains Adam ran of and got maried and livs in San Antone. Ma sez be gud and carfle on the trail Yers Ma and Pa and Willie and LeGrand.'"
"Lost the ranch, huh? We oughta go after those crooked cattlemen and get Pa's money back," I said, angry on hearing that.
"Maybe we'll run across 'em over there in New Mexico," said Pete, but not believing it. Sighing, he continued, "We'll stay here a few days, if it's all right with Mister and Missus Blain." He eyed Missus Blain.
"I'm sure Bert won't mind. He's been holding a couple of horses that Mister Hawkins left behind in case you boys showed up and some of your old clothes. You can just make yourselves comfortable in the bunkhouse and then come on back here for dinner. Lila is turned into a wonderful cook and is a big help. She can stay here as long as she likes," said Missus Blain."
And that's the first chapter. Comments are more than welcome.
The first chapter lays the ground work for what follows, and I hope it's a good introduction in setting the scene and plot. Here is Chapter One:
"Sound Retreat!" my brother, Sergeant Peter Hawkins, yelled to the bugler. The noise was deafening with the shells exploding like thunder all around and the chatter of the rifles adding to the cacophony of the battle. I looked around, wiped the cold sweat from my brow, and Pete yelled at me, "Let's get out of here before we're overrun. It's every man for himself. Come on, follow me."
Zebediah Stewart, the bugler, bravely ignored the flying bullets and brought the horn to his lips, but no sound came out. He fell in a heap, killed by a Minie ball that nicked the mouthpiece of the trumpet and continued through the mouth and out the back of the neck shattering the spine.
"Dammit, why did he stand up to blow his tooter? Dammit to Hell!" said Sergeant Hawkins. "Fall back, men, and stay close. Stay low and hide if you can."
He dropped to a prone position and fired his Hawken rifle in the direction of the Yankee sounds. The brief flashes of fire in the dark from the Union rifles in the distance didn't give much of a target. He crawled on his belly into a thicket on the river bank.
"Pete! Pete! Is that you?" I said from my concealment in the bushes, my eyes squinting and drawn tight trying to see any movement in the darkness.
Pete, hearing my anxious voice coming from a few feet away where I was crawling further into the bushes, said, "Sh-sh, quiet. Let them Yankees get on past. We'll just lie here until daylight and hope they go around us.
I saw his jaws tighten as he looked around to get a better view of his surroundings. We whispered encouraging words to each other as we changed positions on the rocky earth. I drifted in a restless
sleep as the night wore on, tired and hungry from the days' prolonged activity. Waking up at times, I could see and feel a heavy fog settling in, hiding the outline of the trees and hills and everything else more than a few feet away.
Dawn was breaking, barely discernible at first through the fog. Pete sat up and looked around, seeing me sitting on the earth with a hand to my head.
"Are you hurt? Why you holdin' yer head?" he said, staring at me.
"Just got a slight headache, nothing serious," I said, staring back.
"We'll stay here until the sun burns off enough fog to see a good distance. We don't want to stumble into a company of them Yanks," said Pete, now smiling and still watching me.
We sat silently listening for sounds, but everything was quiet.
"I guess we're alone, Pete. Do y'all suppose any of our soldiers got away or are they prisoners by now?" I said.
"Well, we ain't prisoners," said Pete. "We can be thankful for that. We'll take a look around for any survivors. Them Yankees have moved on south and we'll have to be careful and not get caught by their rear guard."
The battle for Newtonia was over for all intents and purposes and the Confederate soldiers were on the run for Arkansas, those that remained in the Army. The others, the many deserters and me and Pete, headed for Indian Territory and home. The war was nearing an end for us.
We stuck together with a small group of southern sympathizers we found hiding in a barn. They said they had been fighting alongside us in one company or another. They told us they were part of Quantrill's Raiders, and they could have been for all we knew. They didn't stay with us very long before they went hunting for Quantrill.
Pete and I lived on squirrels, rabbits, a stray chicken, and managed to catch a possum or two as we hiked through the country heading in the general direction of Texas.
"We ain't deserters, but I can't see no reason for tryin' to join up again with Old Pap's troops. Who knows where they are and what they're up to now," said Pete. "Look at us. Our clothes are ragged, shoes are worn out, and we ain't got no more Minie balls. We might as well throw our rifles away, too. I'm headin' home to Texas. Y'all comin' with me or are you goin' lookin' for Genera Price?"
"I'm sick of this war and all the fightin' and noise and killin' and everything else about it. I'm goin' home, too," I, Thaddeus Hawkins, said, staring at my brother and smiling like a dog that had a 'coon treed. "You look like you been pulled out of the poorest house in the poorest neighborhood in the poorest town in Missouri, brother. You look like the poorest tramp I ever did see. Hahaha," I laughed.
"I guess you think you look better than I do," said Pete, "but, you don't. You're just as darn raggedy as me if not a good deal worse," and he laughed hard, too.
Taking our time and hoping the war would end, we made our way down to Fort Smith where we found jobs clearing trees from farmland. We worked for almost four months and were able to regain some of the weight lost in the fighting and purchase new clothes and shoes that would last until we reached home.
On April 9, 1865, we arrived in Austin. It was the same day that General Lee surrendered to the Union Army and the war was over.
No longer obligated to fight for the south we set out the next day by shank's mare for the old homestead a few miles north of Austin. Our spirits livened up seeing familiar objects like the old waterhole, the old oak tree, and other landmarks as we came nearer home.
"I'm goin' to drink a whole gallon of milk and eat a loaf of Ma's fresh-baked bread with honey and butter," I said, rubbing my left hand across my flat and empty abdomen, thinking I would soon be filling it up.
"I'm goin' to sleep for a week in my old bed before I start herdin' steers again," said Pete, taking off his new cowboy hat he purchased in Austin. "By the way, where are the cattle? I don't see any around. They always used to be some drinkin' at the waterhole."
He looked inside the new hat and rubbed his fingers around the sweatband before he put it back on his head.
"Pa's probably got them rounded up to take to market," I said, watching my brother. "You need to get yourself a haircut, if that hat's too tight on your big head."
"Yer pretty shaggy yerself, you little cricket," said Pete, who was bigger and heavier than me, but we both had brown hair and greenish-blue eyes.
Our old house was empty when we reached it, dark and abandoned. We searched all through it, but couldn't find a sign of anybody living here for some time.
"What do you think happened? There ain't nothin' left belonging to the family," I said, looking at my brother, dejected.
"Mister Blain will know. Let's go over there in the morning," said Pete, dropping his poke to the floor. "We'll make ourselves to home here tonight. At least we got shelter if it starts raining."
We found the Blain house after a six-mile trek over the rolling hills, arriving just before noon. Missus Blain and a girl that looked like our younger sister Lila, were on the front porch peeling potatoes.
Lila, now fourteen, slim, with light brown hair, saw us first and watched us as we made our way down the nearest hill, jumping a small stream and walking toward the house. She studied our faces, dark from the sun, and said, "I think that's Pete and Thaddeus back from the war," her voice carrying through the air to our ears.
She jumped up and ran to meet us. Missus Blain stood up and watched as the young girl let out a yell and greeted each of us with a big, strong hug. We walked to the porch with Lila between us, talking a mile a minute. We greeted Missus Blain and sat down on the steps.
"You fellers are a sight for sore eyes," said Lila, smiling with a tear in her eye. "My gosh, it's been two years at least. I'm glad to see y'all made it home from the war safe and sound. Ma and Pa gave me a letter for you when they left for New Mexico Territory, but I told them I was goin' to stay in Texas. I wasn't goin' to no godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere where there ain't no schools or nothin' for a young girl. I'm goin' to stay here and go to school in Austin and become a school teacher. And Mister and Missus Blain said they would take care of me and they been awful good to me. Did y'all ever get that letter that Pa wrote about Pappy dying?"
"We didn't get no letter," said Pete, disappointment in his eyes.
That news upset me. "Pappy's dead? I can't believe it. I was looking forward to seeing that old cuss again. I always liked Pappy Fisher and the stories he told. He was always there when I wanted to talk about something or other. I'm sure goin' to miss him."
"He was helpin' Pa round up some cattle and just keeled over and fell right off ole Brownie, and he was in Heaven before he hit the ground. Pa said he must've had a heart attack, poor ole feller. Pa buried him on a hill overlooking the house under that big oak tree. We all miss him." She eyed both men with concern and said, "I'll go get that letter Pa left."
"That Lila, just talky as ever, ain't she, Pete?" I said, smiling. "How y'all been Missus Blain. I see you and Mister Blain got quite a herd of cattle. We counted a lot of them on the way over here."
"Fine, fine. Mister Blain and I are doing fine, and I think Lila is, too. She's a peach of a gal," said Missus Blain, a blue-eyed, matronly woman with black hair starting to turn gray.
Lila came back with the letter and handed it to me. "I don't know what it says. It's sealed up," she said, taking her former seat between us.
"Here you read it, Pete," I said, handing him the envelope.
"All right," and he tore it open. "It reads, 'Dere suns Ma and I hop you are in good helth wen you reed this leter. We lost the ranch to the bank last yere, wen sum crukid cattle byers took our catle and left the contry without payin' us. We coldent afford to mak eny more paymen on the morgij, so the bank tuk it back. we are goin to Sagrado New Mexco whair Ill be runnin a ranch fer a Mr Woolensack, a rich Englshmun. He sed it was a butaful layout along the Rio Grand River. You and Thad cumon to Sagrado and bring Lila with you. She's livin with the Blains Adam ran of and got maried and livs in San Antone. Ma sez be gud and carfle on the trail Yers Ma and Pa and Willie and LeGrand.'"
"Lost the ranch, huh? We oughta go after those crooked cattlemen and get Pa's money back," I said, angry on hearing that.
"Maybe we'll run across 'em over there in New Mexico," said Pete, but not believing it. Sighing, he continued, "We'll stay here a few days, if it's all right with Mister and Missus Blain." He eyed Missus Blain.
"I'm sure Bert won't mind. He's been holding a couple of horses that Mister Hawkins left behind in case you boys showed up and some of your old clothes. You can just make yourselves comfortable in the bunkhouse and then come on back here for dinner. Lila is turned into a wonderful cook and is a big help. She can stay here as long as she likes," said Missus Blain."
And that's the first chapter. Comments are more than welcome.
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