tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20649471832283588052024-03-27T15:37:56.095+09:00The Outlaw TrailAs an author of westerns, I figured I'd better put a bunch of interesting facts and fiction concerning the historical west on the web. This blog does that. It will include poetry, fiction, factual articles and links, and as much western color as I can muster. Have a fun read.ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-3965326254404317272013-10-08T12:22:00.000+09:002013-10-08T12:22:03.139+09:00A 30-day novel in 90 days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbTqlHxXljjB0hQdFSeyCAmbezaia3O9ar-sg9Uipc0qqYO4JBvKG5C1SuwgNCZ7IIwe0e3SYcI8pTTsMSDNi9Pd7drtYFpO87vUsmBip94uXFlI7ctZ8cM7uRk25WUM67fx6WOTW4ew/s1600/Charlie2013-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbTqlHxXljjB0hQdFSeyCAmbezaia3O9ar-sg9Uipc0qqYO4JBvKG5C1SuwgNCZ7IIwe0e3SYcI8pTTsMSDNi9Pd7drtYFpO87vUsmBip94uXFlI7ctZ8cM7uRk25WUM67fx6WOTW4ew/s200/Charlie2013-2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
If you all remember, I started my <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Write-Western-30-Days-ebook/dp/B00D6E3T6O">Nik Morton-induced 30-day novel</a> on July 9, 2013. Today I finished the draft. It's October 8, 2013. Know what? That's about what it took me to write a novel of Black Horse Western length in the pre-30-day era.<br />
<br />
What can I say? My work patterns are carved in steel and unbreakable even with the urging of Nik Morton's book? Could be.<br />
<br />
I thought Stryker's Bounty was going to be a book of blood and guts. Turns out not to be true. Maybe that's why I've no best sellers. Maybe if I cut down a character every three pages, people would be more interested in my writing, who knows?<br />
<br />
Anyway, the 30-day draft is now in the process of going through my trusty beta reader. We'll see what evolves from here.<br />
<br />
In the cave where Lester Dent and his two older boys died, Stryker and Molly and Wee Willy are alive. Just alive.<br />
<br />
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<i>No food. No water. No horses. Nothing but 250 pounds of
gold. Stryker couldn’t see a way out no matter which way he looked at their
predicament.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly and Wee Willy sat in the cavern, their backs against
the rock wall. They said nothing, but Stryker knew they expected him to find a
way out. He rubbed his left hand against the trickle of tears that always wet
his left cheek. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The gold just sat there, mocking him, or so it seemed. Molly
was there. He’d found her. That’s what he’d told Dodge Miller he would do.
Maybe if he let the gold lie. Maybe if he just walked away with Molly and Wee
Willy. Maybe. Stryker’s head got so full of maybes that he found it hard to
think straight.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And what would happen when John Walker led those gold-hungry
men back into this canyon? And he would; that white Pima would bring them back.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Mister?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker didn’t answer at first.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Mister?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker opened his eyes like he was just waking up. “What?”
he said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“We ain’t got no water, mister. I’m all right. I’m not worth
nothing. But the missus. She needs water, mister. Real bad.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I’ll be all right, Matt.” Molly’s words were more a croak
than something a human voice would make.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what did Stryker do? He left the gold and took Molly and Wee Willy up the canyon wall the same way he and Carpenter had come down. But first, he had to make a signal fire.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9JruNbl8oavlu2UQnmnuCBI_0jy4GHCHAaVKeOGSaijD2s5N7qQ6cuVCnbYro8dP_3fD_Vuj2UsbIlYrBA_EVRSpyCyfNY_Uzh2VaO5HS7QHkByFHB-kj90xRlWOsGI9lfd5tXQfnP_4/s1600/apache_scouts_on_horseback.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9JruNbl8oavlu2UQnmnuCBI_0jy4GHCHAaVKeOGSaijD2s5N7qQ6cuVCnbYro8dP_3fD_Vuj2UsbIlYrBA_EVRSpyCyfNY_Uzh2VaO5HS7QHkByFHB-kj90xRlWOsGI9lfd5tXQfnP_4/s320/apache_scouts_on_horseback.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Takishim was an Apache scout like these</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wee Willy gave a vigorous nod. “Ah allus made the fires for
my pa,” he said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“That’s the man. Build one right here.” Stryker sketched an
X on the ground with his toes.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Here? Outside?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yep. Build it with the sticks from inside, then put
creosote on. Make it smokey.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Oh, mister. They’s Induns around. Smokey fire ain’t good.
That’s what my pa say.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“We need smoke, Willy. We want Apaches to come.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Oh no, mister. Apaches do scalpin’ and such. They all’ll
cut the liver right outta a man, they will. No, sirree bob. Apaches ain’t no
good.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Did you ever hurt an Apache, Willy?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Oh, no, mister. I don’t hurt nothing. My pa allus said I
was so strong I might kill a man without me meaning to, that’s what he said.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><i>“Well. Now, we need my friend. He’s Apache. His
name’s Takishim. He’s a government scout. We send up a smoke, and he’ll see
it.”</i></span><!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tucson in an earlier day, but with electricity.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>As Stryker hit the street, Dodge Miller hopped past, using
crutch and one leg to make quick time.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Molly darlin’,” Dodge said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly now had both hands to her face and her eyes showed
panic and fear. She jerked her arm, trying to free it from Willard Dent’s grip,
but he held fast.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Missus. Missus. Missus,” Willard said, like he was soothing
a flighty filly. “Mister Miller don’t mean no harm. He’s your mister, missus.
Just yor’n.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Molly. Molly darlin’. I thought I’d lost you. I saw that
man beat you. I saw his son use you. And I had to play dead.” Tears coursed
down Dodge Miller’s face. “I’m so sorry, Molly. Can you find it in your heart
to forgive me? Molly darlin’. Please. Please. Please.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly said nothing. She shook her head again and again, but
her eyes never left Dodge’s face.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Molly. Molly. Dear sweet Molly. Forgive me, please.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>At last, Molly spoke. Her voice quavered. Dodge had to lean
close to hear what she said. “Dear dear Dodge. Can’t you see? I’m not the Molly
you carried over the threshold. I’m not the Molly that worked by your side to
built Miller’s Well into a proper stage stop. I’m not, and I never will be
again.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Dodge’s face crumpled. He covered it with both hands,
letting the crutch fall. He ignored the passing wagons, the horses and riders,
the people walking by. “Dear God. Dear God. Without my Molly, I’m less than
half a man. Dear God, please bring my Molly back.” Dodge Miller closed his eyes
and bowed his head. “Dear Lord,” he said. “Dear Lord. If thou wilt please bring
Molly back. Let her know, Lord, that she means more to me than all the silver
and gold in Arizona. No. All the silver and gold in the whole world. Please,
Lord, soften my Molly’s heart so she can feel the love I have for her.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Missus?” Willard’s voice was low, like a small child
telling a secret to its mother. “Missus?” He tugged at Molly’s arm, pulling her
toward Dodge. When they got close enough, he reached for Dodge Miller’s arm. He
put Molly’s hand in Dodge’s. “Missus. This’n’s your man. He was laying dead at
the stage stop. I seen’m. Now he’s alive. He’s wanting you to be with him,
missus. I reckon that’s a proper thing to do. Time for me to move along, I
reckon,” Willard said. He checked to make sure Dodge was holding Molly’s hand,
turned his back on them, and led his shaggy paint horse back up Scott Street,
leaving Dodge and Molly together. Before he was out of sight, Dodge had his
arms around Molly and she was shedding all the tears she’d held back while with
the Dents. Willard turned the corner and was gone.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is not the end, but you'll have to read the book to find out that part. Piccadilly Publishing will put in out toot suite, as soon as me and the beta reader get it polished up.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCWDWdz00hNlySnzltwOevQMFwz6AnSLc88cwLY8tQ5WoEt4LFeDAt2voz8o83UkMoou-Nmu3kYaof6-9GCmO_x9KVAiSl4Al7ah8P3acL-EgAoEGSrtQBDpi-9km7dquBLXQGyLbha0/s1600/Morton,+Nik+-+Write+a+Western.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCWDWdz00hNlySnzltwOevQMFwz6AnSLc88cwLY8tQ5WoEt4LFeDAt2voz8o83UkMoou-Nmu3kYaof6-9GCmO_x9KVAiSl4Al7ah8P3acL-EgAoEGSrtQBDpi-9km7dquBLXQGyLbha0/s320/Morton,+Nik+-+Write+a+Western.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there you have it. A 30-day novel in 90 days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word Count: about 43,000</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-33614284158024757722013-09-22T23:24:00.001+09:002013-09-22T23:24:37.780+09:00Writing a Western Novel in 30 Working Days--continuedToday was Sunday. I don't write much fiction on Sunday, but I do many other things. In fact, I was just making the program for our 15th annual high school English speech contest, of which I am the steering committee chair.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry it's in Japanese, but you can see the subject of the speeches will be Family.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But I have another chapter of Stryker's Bounty that I've said nothing about. You see, Lester Dent (may have to change this name, considering the famous 10 Rules of Writing by Lester Dent--What do you all think?) hid the gold in almost plain sight. Of course, Wee Willy knew where it was, but no one asked a simple man like him.<br />
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<i>“Will they find the gold, Matt?”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“I don’t know. John Walker’s a good tracker, but who knows
if he can find where Dent cached the gold.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I think of Boo Radley when I think<br />of Wee Willy Dent.</i></td></tr>
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<i>“Missus,” called Wee Willy. “Something here.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“That’s good, Willy. Can you bring it here?”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Yes, missus.” Wee Willy shambled into the cavern with
Stryker’s rifle in his left hand and something else in his right. He handed the
rifle to Stryker, then turned to give the other thing to Molly.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Wha . . .” Molly, for once, was completely wordless.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<i>“What is it?” Stryker asked.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly held the gold ingot so Stryker could see. “Gold,” she
said, almost reverently.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Where’d you find the gold, Willy?” Stryker said.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><i>“Right where Pa put it,” Wee Willy replied.</i></span><!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;">So, naturally, when the Walker-led men realize that Dent didn't hide the gold on the way to the cavern, they'll be back. But Stryker's had a load of rock dumped on him, His arm is broken. His legs are a mass of bruises. His ribs are cracked, at least, but lack of blood in his lungs seems to mean they are not broken. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An arm needed have a wooden splint<br />when one of the two bones in the<br />forearm is broken.</td></tr>
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“Cain’t find no sticks, only three little pieces, missus.”
Wee Willy’s voice caught, as if he were going to cry.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Stryker chuckled, then grimaced. Tears furrowed tracks
through the dust on his cheek. “Makes sense. No water. Nothing for trees to
grow with. No decent sticks. Well. I’ll just have to do without.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly stood and went back around the curve in the cavern.
She came back with her ragged dress and petticoat. “I’m gonna cut a slice off
your saddle blanket,” she said. “Willy, help, please.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>They moved Stryker to one side and Molly cut a foot-wide
strip from the saddle blanket. She folded it, then folded it again, and again,
until she had a pad six layers deep and a little over six inches wide. She
placed the pad under Stryker’s broken forearm and tied it firmly in place with
strips torn from her old petticoat. Whenever Stryker flinched, Molly clicked
her tongue and said, “Be strong, now, Matthew Stryker. Your arm will feel
better when its all trussed up.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And it did.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bruises can be painful, too.</td></tr>
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Problem is, there is no water in the cavern. Walker and the Alamo men took the horses and supplies. So Stryker, Molly, and Wee Willy are left, not only injured, but also without food or water. So they have 250 pounds of gold. So which is most important?</div>
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<i>No food. No water. No horses. Nothing but 250 pounds of
gold. Stryker couldn’t see a way out no matter which way he looked at their
predicament.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly and Wee Willy sat in the cavern, their backs against
the rock wall. They said nothing, but Stryker knew they expected him to find a
way out. He rubbed his left hand against the trickle of tears that always wet
his left cheek. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The gold just sat there, mocking him, or so it seemed. Molly
was there. He’d found her. That’s what he’d told Dodge Miller he would do.
Maybe if he let the gold lie. Maybe if he just walked away with Molly and Wee
Willy. Maybe. Stryker’s head got so full of maybes that he found it hard to
think straight.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And what would happen when John Walker led those gold-hungry
men back into this canyon? And he would; that white Pima would bring them back.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Mister?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker didn’t answer at first.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Mister?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker opened his eyes like he was just waking up. “What?”
he said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“We ain’t got no water, mister. I’m all right. I’m not worth
nothing. But the missus. She needs water, mister. Real bad.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word Count 34,286</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-42686495599183019882013-09-21T23:09:00.000+09:002013-09-21T23:09:36.522+09:00Western novel in 30 working days -- who knows what day it is?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjADqcE7nPcrAIVos_LYIQWjv_3GRTiGz02IOvuLUnmWRbEsppaFXI8a9E9Mh-1vltcejw_x_FSdoEWg45aRRVMNKY6r-dxxEgXWAUHFUSmrpmlGkDq6BvQzGdeL7Xc_5B8KfSpxqRCQsI/s1600/2013Sept17BreezeAtLast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjADqcE7nPcrAIVos_LYIQWjv_3GRTiGz02IOvuLUnmWRbEsppaFXI8a9E9Mh-1vltcejw_x_FSdoEWg45aRRVMNKY6r-dxxEgXWAUHFUSmrpmlGkDq6BvQzGdeL7Xc_5B8KfSpxqRCQsI/s200/2013Sept17BreezeAtLast.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
This is what happens, perhaps.<br />
<br />
The life gets hectic. The pinches of time get fewer and farther in between. Where I would have written even a paragraph before, I start making excuses. Not enough time to do a thousand words. I'll do it tomorrow. I mean, it's 30 working days, right. Remember when I started this thing? Six weeks ago? Seven? 30 days? Hmph.<br />
<br />
Still, it's not like I've been doing nothing. It's just that I'm not organized enough, not keeping an eye on what I'm doing well enough to follow Nik's 30-day plan to the bitter end. Apologies, Nik.<br />
<br />
The suggestions for planning the novel are spot on. The logic for the process is not something I can find fault with. But with this novel, I was not able to keep to a "working day" schedule. Today, for example, I wrote 1200 words. More than I have written for a while. Guess I was getting fired up to get along with this blog, maybe.<br />
<br />
I sent a bunch of men from Alamo looking for gold and the Dent column. They met with Stryker and his compadres in the middle of Hell's Trail somewhere. The miners from Alamo blew the face of the cliff above the cavern where the Dents and Stryker were holed up. I thought there would be a big standoff where lots of people would shot, get shot, and fall over dead. Didn't work out that way.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This could have been the cavern the Dents and Stryker were in.</td></tr>
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<br />
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<i>Stryker awoke to pain. At first he could not pinpoint where
it came from. His brain seemed jumbled up inside his head. His right hand
seemed crushed, held fast between two massive pieces of sandstone. His back
hurt. His ribs hurt. He could faintly hear the sound of someone groaning . . .
himself.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He heard scratching through the roaring in his ears. Someone
tugged at his moccasins.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Matt. Matt. Matt.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He heard the voice as if it were chanting his name,
breathless from the effort of trying to uncover him, to pull away the remnants
of the cliff face that had fallen on him. Fallen? No. Explosion. Someone had
blown the cliff face above the cavern.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Hands scrabbled at the sandstone debris that covered him.
Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. Lying still hurt. He didn’t try to move.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Willy. Willy Dent. You come help me get the stones off Matt
Stryker. Please.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Him what was gonna kill my pa?” Wee Willy didn’t sound ready
to help Stryker.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“If anyone can get us out of this predicament, it’s Matt
Stryker,” Molly said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Weights began to move, to disappear, and a tiny fraction of
Stryker’s pain went with it. Light came.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
John Walker, the white Pima, was backtracking the Dents. The Alamo people followed. Nate Cousins and his gunnies followed. Lige Carpenter followed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waterless. Waterless. Waterless.</td></tr>
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<i>“Goldamit, Walker. Where’s the blighted gold?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>John Walker did not deign to answer. He kept his eyes on the
distinctive prints of the Dents’ pack mule. In the heat of the day, those
tracks had led the treasure hunters into and out of two blind canyons, and to
one old campsite. There had been no sign of anyone hiding anything at the
campsite. The hoof prints of the mule were as deep going away as they had been
coming. John Walker’s eyes swept the approaches to the canyon, high and low.
The Apache Takishim might not be alone. There was a time when John Walker too
was a scout, as he was now, but then in the pay of the cavalry. He knew the
White Mountain Apaches, the only Apache tribe never to have fought the U.S.
Army. Fort Apache was on their land, the White Mountains but they lived in
peace with Nantan Lupan, the wolf they called George Crook. Walker had no
interest in being on the wrong side of White Mountain Apaches like Takishim.
But these whitemen paid him well—would pay him well—to back-track the ones they
called Dent, the ones who lay dead deep in Hell’s Trail, to find the gold they
had carried. John Walker read the greed in the eyes of the men who followed
him, in the eyes of all men but Carpenter and Cousins. Who were these men?
These men who could even be brothers of the scarfaced Stryker. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“What now?” asked Todd the bartender and sometimes
prospector. “What now?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Walker remained silent, his eyes on the tracks of Dent’s
pack mule. Nowhere did they show where a significant load—250 pounds of
gold—had been removed. Still, it would be proper to investigate one more blind
canyon. Just one more.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“They went up this canyon,” Walker said. “We will follow
their trail to see if it brings us to gold.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the gold is not there. Walker backtracks and backtracks, but the gold is not there. We'll see what happens in the next blog. Maybe tomorrow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word Count: 33,107</div>
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<br /></div>
ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-20561849606953025162013-09-07T15:44:00.000+09:002013-09-07T15:44:25.396+09:00Western Novel in 30 Working Days -- day 18
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>o tell you the truth, I don’t know what day it is. It seems
I’ve fallen back into my old novel-writing habits of writing snatches whenever
I can snatch a little time. Trying to finish up the short story we talked about
during the Interim, and trying to get started on The Sheriff, a novel for
Western Fictioneers, have kept me from long sessions at my foolscap notebook. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nevertheless, progress moves ahead, which is comforting.
Progress moving arrears would not get things done very quickly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Takishim slithered up behind Stryker.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Young man dead. Other young man very sick. Very big young
man don’t fight. Old man now tied up. You come.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker slid backward, away from the boulder that sheltered
him. Takshim led the way, showing Stryker how to hide, where to zig, when to
zag, until they reached the deep cavern where Lester Dent and his boys, and
Molly Miller, spent the night.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Rocks fallen from the cliffs above formed a breastworks of a
sort in front of the cave, but sooner or later, Cousins’ fighters would shoot
at the roof of the cavern, trying to ricochet bullets around inside and kill or
wound those inside. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>As if Stryker’s thoughts had triggered them, rifles began
pouring hot lead into the cavern. He hit the ground and wriggled to a point in
the natural breastworks where he could see the rocks that lay scattered along
the towering canyon walls. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2rl5Ov_jLvzqq-pWZiA1MLFSN8xmsJDN7bw-4Sf1VQDdP629t-HOb2Ww6QSUNqUKxYRtGIu6HGEbj2c6T88ZoyvmLEi46F5jKPaReJd8dXKQ-BPkvRNH3JjHV7d7Y7fiEP2P3Wz2xj4/s1600/Skeleton_Cave.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2rl5Ov_jLvzqq-pWZiA1MLFSN8xmsJDN7bw-4Sf1VQDdP629t-HOb2Ww6QSUNqUKxYRtGIu6HGEbj2c6T88ZoyvmLEi46F5jKPaReJd8dXKQ-BPkvRNH3JjHV7d7Y7fiEP2P3Wz2xj4/s320/Skeleton_Cave.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skeleton Cave in yesteryear</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Trying for ricochets, eh? The 5<sup>th</sup> Cavalry did
that against the Apaches at Skeleton Cave,” Carpenter said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yavapai,” Stryker said. “What’s the situation here?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yavapai?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yeah. The Indians at Skeleton Cave were Yavapais. What’s
the situation here?” he asked again.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Middle boy shot dead,” Carpenter said. “Oldest’s got the
raging shits from something. Molly figures it’s too much rotgut with too much
kerosene in it. Et him up inside, she figures. He’s useless. Wee Willy, that’s
the big kid, he’s stuck by Molly’s side. Don’t even have a gun.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the outfit that killed the stagecoach driver and shotgun
messenger, did away with passengers, tried to kill Dodge Miller, and burned the
stage station to the ground has not fared well on Hell’s Trail.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvcoZBet-5XaMXOM5S4_-3Yu2EUa7IzKwYIhR9y9E7S1WpX2x5isKJO9SPbkjWuKlsg4loooxPntmSAQUlUDhfzno0nLZKuI0oM_kqrWFZUyfpe4GFCegfixqPctphKjmqzrAZgonxcs/s1600/2011-10-05SkeletonCave_074.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvcoZBet-5XaMXOM5S4_-3Yu2EUa7IzKwYIhR9y9E7S1WpX2x5isKJO9SPbkjWuKlsg4loooxPntmSAQUlUDhfzno0nLZKuI0oM_kqrWFZUyfpe4GFCegfixqPctphKjmqzrAZgonxcs/s320/2011-10-05SkeletonCave_074.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skeleton Cave ca. 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>he cavern stretched back under the cliff for at least a
dozen yards, then slanted down for several more before ending in a wall with a
hole in it that looked like a sphincter. The hole was perfectly round and
surrounded with wrinkled limestone that gave it a puckered look. The hole
itself was a good three feet across and nothing but black space showed behind
it.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Old Man Dent’s body lay against the back of the cavern. The
ricochet had taken him from the side and ripped through at least one lung. No
exit wound showed. Lee Roy lay next to his pa, throat torn open by flattened
and jagged lead. The vast amount of blood on his clothes said he’d bled to
death.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly Miller, her clothes tattered to the point they hardly
obscured anything from view, sat with her back to the stone wall of the cavern.
Finn Bent lay crosswise of her, his head in her lap. She wiped his sweating
face periodically with a rag. She gave Carpenter and Stryker a nod of
recognition.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“How’s Finn?” Carpenter said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Can’t believe it’s just rotgut,” she said. “He’s too low
and the blood won’t stop.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Nate Cousins took the scene in at a glance. He didn’t stop
to talk, he just strode around the bend in the cavern and surveyed the horses
and mule. Nothing among the loads and gear strewn along the cavern wall even
hinted of gold.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Damn,” he said as he returned to the main cave. “Oh, ‘scuse
me, ma’am,” he said to Molly.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I’ve heard worse, Nate Cousins,” she said. “But why would
you swear?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“When you left Miller’s well, missus, that big old mule had
a heavy pack a gold. Dunno what it was in, but no one man’s gonna lift that
much. Did you see it?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Listen, Nate, I was hardly in a position to take stock of
everything Lester Bent tied on the mule.” She wiped cold sweat from Finn’s
brow. “But there was something heavy. It always took three of them to life
stuff up on the pack mule, now that you mention it.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“When’d you get here?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Just after sundown yesterday.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Heavy stuff there then?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I didn’t notice.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You unload the mule?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“No. Lester and Lee Roy did that.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Heavy when they loaded yesterday?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Didn’t notice.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Mule look light?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Didn’t notice.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Damn, missus. Don’t you watch what’s going on around you?”
Cousins’ voice started getting a hard edge on it.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Nate Cousins. Don’t you talk to me like that. I’m here with
three man-animals, and Wee Willy, and you expect me to keep minute watch on
everything that goes on? How do you think I got this broken nose?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">S</span>o Nate Cousins has his gunmen outside, the Dents are all
but gone, which leaves only the rag-tag bunch from Alamo – and the gold has
disappeared. The Alamo group comes, only to have a run-in with the Cousins
gunmen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Takishim slithered up to Stryker’s position so quietly that
the other two may not have noticed. “John Walker is here,” he said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Where?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Here.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker turned his eyes in the direction Takishim indicated.
At first, he didn’t see Walker. Then the white Pima moved his eyes, and Stryker
caught the movement. “I see you, John Walker,” he said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I reckon you can, Matthew Stryker. I may have chose Pima
ways but I speak ‘merikan just fine.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Good to meet you, Walker,” Stryker said. “You got anything
to do with all the rifle fire that’s going on?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I come to tell you to give up,” Walker said. “Ain’t no
reason for you to die. No gold’s worth that much.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsBcmNV5-ydO9XjIw6aNpYaQ2Cc20si_yoRdZFjOplXTJL6bsrMZJQToYLuVDI9p9UUrEYg2bTfPnukWK2OJBNXMPsx2F8h2Nl5HFrDexJ9x91647xkkxXCXnRjX2XYePrMZC3hfK9-M/s1600/gold-nuggets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsBcmNV5-ydO9XjIw6aNpYaQ2Cc20si_yoRdZFjOplXTJL6bsrMZJQToYLuVDI9p9UUrEYg2bTfPnukWK2OJBNXMPsx2F8h2Nl5HFrDexJ9x91647xkkxXCXnRjX2XYePrMZC3hfK9-M/s320/gold-nuggets.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Was Old Dominion gold like this?<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>“Sorry, Walker. I reckon you’re after the Old Dominion gold
that the Dents stole from the Ridges & Hale stage, but we ain’t got it.”</i></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“The Hell you say.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Ain’t got it.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Walker raised an arm, then he was gone.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I follow,” Takishim said, and he, too, disappeared.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Damn,” Stryker said. He stopped and stood silent for a
moment. “No rifle fire,” he said. Then the whole side of the canyon wall above
their heads exploded.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now Stryker and who knows who else is buried under an avalanche
of rocks blown off the cliff face by Alamo miners. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word count: 29444</div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-33722343320898222732013-08-24T23:34:00.001+09:002013-08-25T21:38:27.775+09:00Western in 30 Working Days -- Day 15<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGKEHZ5CB_MwSWMnNdQef-xP84licFngfhEkIS64Nzz2kQBLSVDo0ifuvkSXZRMiMTmPc3NYN4HI3Phyphenhyphen63lFj5_18XuRkBEMysplGhg3mtmDpz3FQZP3aqr_X8PoPu41OOBJkKDgQym4g/s1600/CharlieWhipple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGKEHZ5CB_MwSWMnNdQef-xP84licFngfhEkIS64Nzz2kQBLSVDo0ifuvkSXZRMiMTmPc3NYN4HI3Phyphenhyphen63lFj5_18XuRkBEMysplGhg3mtmDpz3FQZP3aqr_X8PoPu41OOBJkKDgQym4g/s200/CharlieWhipple.jpg" width="169" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span>ctually, I must admit, I’m adding work from two and a half
actual days to make one day on the Nik Morton calendar. That said, we’re moving
steadily along toward some gritty action, with slightly more than 10,000 words
to go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker and Carpenter
made no effort to hide. Still, they rode by night, as the powerful daytime sun
sapped the strength of man and beast all too quickly. And while the palomino
paint was mustang bred and mountain born, he was still an unknown as far as
Stryker was concerned. So he and Carpenter shaded up during the heat of the day
and rode carefully toward Hell’s Gate and the trail that was hell to the unwary
and those who knew not the desert, but was </i>ki datbaa<i> to
Apaches since time immemorial.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>While the Dents crashed into the labyrinth of Hell’s Trail, taking wrong
turns and retracing their steps as often as they made progress, Stryker and
Carpenter closed in from the west, as did Nate Cousins and his gun hands. The
rabble from Alamo, following John Walker, moved quietly for rabble, but the
eyes of Norrosso’s Apache Scouts noted their progress.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>As Stryker and Carpenter saddled up at dusk, an Apache in knee-high
moccasins, breechclout, and cavalry blouse that was already beginning to fade.
Stryker rubbed the tears from his cheek with his upper arm. “</i>Dagot'ee<i>,” he said.
“Norrosso sent me.” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker nodded. “Coffee?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The Apache shrugged. “No time,” he said. “We go to the
woman.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYX_tGOY_YdoE9eU7sOxSzHdSC-5ZhQF0waYPT9O8StFWxPh6AsuLOC-VZ-lSqvWvmBlVBkZ41vuEjUKKaBa4013fMJ3q3KW1Lkd9vzOhtz6UE65e3GcOqC4GlP0_MDquiiBMeB0tGKs/s1600/rc16707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYX_tGOY_YdoE9eU7sOxSzHdSC-5ZhQF0waYPT9O8StFWxPh6AsuLOC-VZ-lSqvWvmBlVBkZ41vuEjUKKaBa4013fMJ3q3KW1Lkd9vzOhtz6UE65e3GcOqC4GlP0_MDquiiBMeB0tGKs/s320/rc16707.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">General Crook and two Apache scouts</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So Norrosso’s
colleagues, the White Mountain Apache scouts attached to Camp Thomas on the San
Carlos reservation, knew where the Dents were, and other groups of men and
gunmen, too. He sent Takishim to guide Stryker and his friend, and they aimed
to rescue Molly Miller. They also aimed, though it was not said aloud, to
rescue 250 pounds of gold.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXR6C13Sl9vnMf7eyPGP2pMRxTfHVRGrP3qi4JSwwx2s54OXul9WYxS-m8jcuiWarR_U3uXsnZusOGUn2cn36-fUGMWpzmNtCdvvVUteVNIu5h3KTpYCnpF1j9V0hyphenhyphenUJX_vZ7IkFjPsE/s1600/az-lower+antelope+slot+063+(452x680).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXR6C13Sl9vnMf7eyPGP2pMRxTfHVRGrP3qi4JSwwx2s54OXul9WYxS-m8jcuiWarR_U3uXsnZusOGUn2cn36-fUGMWpzmNtCdvvVUteVNIu5h3KTpYCnpF1j9V0hyphenhyphenUJX_vZ7IkFjPsE/s320/az-lower+antelope+slot+063+(452x680).jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not exactly the same place, <br />
but an idea of the deep canyons<br />
the Dents were trying to get through</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The land lay as if
broken by some giant’s sledgehammer. Maybe John Henry’s. As the sky began to
turn gray in the ease, Takishim stopped. After a few moments, he led them off
to the side to where a fractured slice of rock leaned away from its mother
cliff. A pathway led into the space between the outward-leaning slice of
redrock, though the tracks in the loose sand were mad by soft padded feet of
predators, not the hard hoofs of prey.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Takishim slipped into
a crevice and turned to beckon Stryker and Carpenter in. The two men
dismounted, hooked their stirrups on their saddle horns, and carefully led
their mounts into the crevice. A few feet in, the crevice widened so man and
horse could walk easily. In a few more yards, the mother cliff became an
overhang that offered shade from the boiling sun of Hell’s Trail.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You rest here,”
Takishim said. “Tomorrow we get the woman from Miller’s Well.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Dents were in the
labyrinth of Hell’s Trail, and were not making good time. Lester was taking the
trail for the first time, and his sons were worthless as pathfinders. What’s
more, Finn got one glass too much kerosene in the form of rotgut whiskey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical union suit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Gotta go,” Finn said.
He piled off his horse and left the reins hanging. He didn’t make it out of
sight. There, no more than a dozen paces off the trail, he fought at the
buttons on his trousers, let them drop down around his ankles, then let down the flap of his union suit to bare his backside.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Hardly had he pushed
his butt through the flap when his gut erupted, sending a red-brown stream of
feces and blood out onto the ground. “Ungh, ungh, ungh.” Even after the gush
slowed to a drip, Finn groaned and squeezed and tried to rid his system of
whatever the rotgut from Alamo put in it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Lester Dent sidled his
horse over to where he could see the splotch Finn had spread on the sand. Finn
still squatted and grunted and little spurts of blood made their way out his
anus to drip onto the sandy ground. “Geez, boy. You gotta be bleeding a bunch
inside your guts to push stuff out the back like that. What in Hell’s got
into you anyway?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Getting through Hell’s
Trail is going to cost the Dents more than perhaps they are willing to pay. We’ll
just have to wait a day or two to see. Tomorrow’s Sunday here, a day of rest. See
you all next week.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word count: 24,760<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-49886448693867879462013-08-23T17:20:00.000+09:002013-08-23T17:20:45.241+09:00Interrim<span style="font-size: x-large;">B</span>een some time since the last post. Chaos at home in the form of one visiting daughter and two visiting hellions in the form of grandson and granddaughter. At least the final few days leading up to their departure for Los Angeles were chaos. They are fun and loud and colorful and dynamic (plus any other good words you writers can think up).<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hellion in form of angel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then, as my deadline for a short story on gambling approached, I started madly typing, seeking a story to put down before Bob Randisi sent the Gunsmith after me.<br />
<br />
Do you remember this line?<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Russ Taklin dug
in his pocket and came up with a gold eagle. He tossed it to me. “Rent on your
horse,” he said. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>I tossed it
right back. “Keep it. Or, if you want to double it, put it down on me and my
filly. We’re set on winning the Fourth of July race in Holbrook this year.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Russ smiled and
raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to win that big race with your little filly?”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;">“She’s plenty big enough,” I
said, “and so am I.” and we tore off down the valley at a dead run.</span><!--EndFragment-->
</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;">That's how the story of Big Enough ended. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge62SD1HZl6QndmFrYuRdXiH7sFfOZxg9_E2EUbLBkTBSpPQ2qdgC3wcLkMTbXB89hD9ME5pLI1p_VfTHOP3wbDGVKVeyk750YhxD-kiFNENiIXiTg1zkFnL9iqMxNxj0wOxmBg808eL0/s1600/WTB_Big+Enough_CS_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge62SD1HZl6QndmFrYuRdXiH7sFfOZxg9_E2EUbLBkTBSpPQ2qdgC3wcLkMTbXB89hD9ME5pLI1p_VfTHOP3wbDGVKVeyk750YhxD-kiFNENiIXiTg1zkFnL9iqMxNxj0wOxmBg808eL0/s400/WTB_Big+Enough_CS_cover.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Now. The male pro/antagonist in<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Big-Enough-collection-stories-ebook/dp/B0072SUIFA"> Big Enough</a></i> is a man named Russell Taklin. And as Kimberly challenged him to gamble on her filly at the big race in Holbrook, he was natural as the protagonist in the upcoming gambling story that will go into the upcoming anthology edited by Robert Randisi.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Just to give you a teaser about what may happen, here's where Russell Tacklin gets set up to take his first big gamble.</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
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<i>Me and big Sam Kilridge liked to sit under the overhang at
the edge of the Big Muddy, only it wasn’t so big or muddy way up there in
Montana. As we sat, we liked to trade swigs on some good corn whiskey that Sam
got from relatives in Kentucky. He put it on the </i>Benjamin Franklin<i> with the cottonwood chunks we fed the furnaces.
That corn whiskey sure made for a friendly gathering, even if it was only a
gathering of two.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I heared me a rumor,” Sam said. He lifted the jug up with
his elbow and settled in for a good slug. He smacked his lips after a couple of
swallows. “Damn fine corn likker,” he said. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“What kind of rumor, Big Sam?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I heared from the stoking crew over to the </i>North Alabama<i> that they Cap’n Hoover
done threw down the glove at our own Old Jack.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Threw down the glove?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Thas right. Done challenged </i>Poor Richard<i> here to race down stream, all the way to St. Louie.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“But that boat’s bigger’n us. How we gonna out run her?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yo’right. She be bigger and she be deeper. She haul lots, but
she have to creep around them Big Muddy bends else the snags is gonna rip the
bottom right outta her. We kin beat her.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Big Sam named the fire-stoking crew of the </i>Poor Richard<i>. “They’s you and they’s me
and they’s Kin an’ Dave an’ Austin an’ Thumb. We’s the best on the Big Muddy,
bar none, as Old Jack say, and I says we can beat the </i>North Alabama<i>. Yes, we can.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Word got around Fort Benton quick as chained lightning. </i>North Alabama<i>, a steamboat 160 feet long
and 32 feet wide, challenged the </i>Benjamin
Franklin<i>, which was 154 feet long and 28 feet wide. Close, as riverboats
ran, but the </i>North Alabama<i> drew three
feet more water than Poor Richard,
and her stern wheel was nearly two feet bigger in diameter. Some saw the size
of the </i>North Alabama<i> an advantage, but
Big Sam Kilridge figured it was a drawback. “You want to make some money,
chile, you put ever half dime you got on the </i>Benjamin Franklin<i> to beat the </i>North
Alabama<i> to St. Louis by no less than twelve hours. You do that.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you want to find out what gambling does to a good boy from Missouri, you'll have to pick up the anthology.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a moment, back to the 30-day Western.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-4918390600237403392013-08-16T19:12:00.001+09:002013-08-16T19:14:14.426+09:00Writing a Western in 30 Working Days -- thirteen and fourteen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit49RJAlJ2pNIIwZdn-FRceYaJQCPASwIVoveSuxBVXEvQAVp_CKctmmom5E4_uej5TyWvy3vORqifXP7m-1ORmkboZS0sTPvkQD1prk-REaFq1fCeM-z4WR_P-aD_wbUMwgAyJ3mvfdg/s1600/CharlieAug2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit49RJAlJ2pNIIwZdn-FRceYaJQCPASwIVoveSuxBVXEvQAVp_CKctmmom5E4_uej5TyWvy3vORqifXP7m-1ORmkboZS0sTPvkQD1prk-REaFq1fCeM-z4WR_P-aD_wbUMwgAyJ3mvfdg/s200/CharlieAug2013.jpg" width="189" /></a></div>
Please pardon the tardiness of this report. First, the problem with Endeavor's outboard was hardly a problem. I thought it was condensation in the fuel tank. But no. If I had been more cool headed and not just sitting there jerking on a starter pull rod, I would have noticed that the stop switch lanyard was lying on the bottom of the cockpit. Of course the outboard would not start. The stop switch was engaged. All I had to do was slip the stop switch gap thingy into place and the trusty outboard started up like it had never caused me all those new wrinkles. When emergency calls, remember to be calm, and remember to tick off all the reasons why such an emergency should or could happen. Lesson for life.<br />
<br />
Now. Back to the Western--Stryker's Bounty.<br />
<br />
When Matt Stryker goes after a man (professional that he is), he's prepared. Look at this.<br />
<br />
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<i>Matt Stryker rode after a man much like drovers on the
Goodnight-Loving rode after beeves. No ground cloth other than his saddle
blanket, no cover other than his black oilskin slicker. An octagonal barreled
long ’76 Winchester in the saddle boot, chambered for .45-70 center-fire
cartridges. At his side, a Remington Army ’76 in .45 caliber. His onside
saddlebag held hardtack and jerked beef as trail rations, a pound bag of
Arbuckle’s coffee, a little four-cup coffee pot, and a pair of handmade
moccasins. In the offside saddlebag, ammunition—five boxes of twenty heavy ones
for the Winchester, three boxes of smaller ones for the Remington, and fifty
12-guage shotgun shells, loaded with buckshot. Where a Texas drover would have
a rawhide lariat coiled and tied to the saddle horn, Stryker carried a
double-barreled Parker 12-gauge with its barrel shortened by six inches,
hanging by a strap in the same place. He’d changed his wear, too. Instead of
the usual gray Stetson, he wore a sand-colored kepi with a neck protector flap
that hung to his shoulders. His shirt fit loosely with bloused long sleeves.
It, too, was the color of desert sand. Instead of Saif, his big black Arabian
stud, Stryker rode a palomino paint pony no more than fifteen hands high. Its
white and tan coat gave the pony a near-perfect desert camouflage. Stryker wore
round-toed rough-out Wellington boots with no spurs. Once his canvas trousers
had been brown, but now showed faded spots and irregular patterns that would be
nearly invisible among desert brush and cacti.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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And he's not afraid to call for help.</div>
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<i>Two hours outside Tucson, Stryker stopped on a hogback and
built a fire. When it was going well, he added greasewood to make smoke. The
fire was small and the smoke rose almost vertically in the hot still air.
Stryker used his big bandana, stretching it out with both hands, to create a
series of five breaks in the column of smoke. He let the little fire burn for
another five minutes or so, then snuffed it out, scattering the greasewood and
stomping the embers until no spark showed. Just to make sure, he covered
everything with a layer of dry sandy soil.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Who you bringing in?” Carpenter asked.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“We’ll see.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Heard about that sashay down into Mexico.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yeah.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Carpenter said no more. Stryker remounted the palomino paint
and rode east. Carpenter followed.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Norrosso showed up just before sundown. One minute Stryker
and Carpenter rode across the flanks of the Rincons toward Sierra Colorado, the
next minute an Apache with a thick dirty white headband and a faded blue
cavalry shirt with sergeant’s stripes stood in their path. There was no sign of
a horse.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“His name’s Norrosso,” Stryker said. “No better scout around,
unless it’s Wolf Wilder, and he’s retired to that ranch in Lone Pine Canyon.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“What?” Norrosso said when Stryker and Carpenter reined
their horses to a halt some dozen feet away.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, things are not all right with the Dents. Remember that Finn went to Alamo and he had a good full glass of rotgut, which often contains significant amounts of kerosene. That can kill a man over time.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During prohibition, rotgut and<br />
other kinds of whiskey got<br />
poured down the drain.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Finn’s guts cramped and he made for a bush to get behind. He
hardly had time to lower his pants and squat before the contents of his large
intestine splattered on the ground. Even after he’d voided everything, Finn’s body
kept trying to get something out of his system.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Century;"><i>At last he was able to close his sphincter, and
bumbling around with one hand, found a rock that would do to wipe with. When he
stood to pull his pants up, he staggered a step and nearly put a foot in what
he left behind. He didn’t look at his stool, but if he had’ve examined it, the
amount of blood, fresh blood, would have shocked him.</i></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Century;">Old man Dent, though, had his own problems. See if you can feel his frustration. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Century;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<i>Lester Dent watched. The boys’d never been to war. They
didn’t really understand the need to watch. Oh, they stayed awake during their
shifts, believe the Good Lord, they stayed awake. But they didn’t watch. Lester
Dent watched. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWd6LheBVEC9UYRbHoL5zG9TGLI7SDJwuh-qqc0mKCxAX2fyKZ3FW1LagrFc7thsyU8GPtFZcLzwFX_uobh5pkfCir2kiBQo6rF8fN6bWEtFxiVT9BpIkh6se3LQrEnEixmIcgNUC112E/s1600/inbred18b76b5ik1_answer_2_xlarge.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWd6LheBVEC9UYRbHoL5zG9TGLI7SDJwuh-qqc0mKCxAX2fyKZ3FW1LagrFc7thsyU8GPtFZcLzwFX_uobh5pkfCir2kiBQo6rF8fN6bWEtFxiVT9BpIkh6se3LQrEnEixmIcgNUC112E/s200/inbred18b76b5ik1_answer_2_xlarge.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These could be the Dent boys. <br />
Probably not, but could be.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He heard Finn get up and go off behind that tree. He heard
the boy voiding his guts on the dry ground. He heard the little groans Finn
made as he tried and tried but nothing came. He heard the night sounds of
crickets and katydids resume after Finn lay back down.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The woman never moved. It was hard for Lester to tell if she
was sleeping or awake, but it didn’t matter. She never moved. She did the
cooking and she cleaned up. She never said a thing, and when one of the boys
wanted to hump, she bent over like a bitch in heat. Lester didn’t watch the
boys hump but it ded seem that they got the urge a little too often. Finn got
the supplies. Tomorrow they’d pony up and move out through Hell’s Gate and east
on Hell’s Trail. Wouldn’t no one follow them on Hell’s Trail. Not many, anyway.
A line of gray showed atop the Chiricauas to the east, and cactus wrens began
to twitter. Lester Dent kept watching.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word Count 22,888</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-58717678467640051452013-08-10T00:01:00.000+09:002013-08-10T00:01:02.424+09:00A Western in 30 Working Days -- Twelve<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU21SfOmWejAExnAd3928eG-1iy1s9aXPbCqJyEuOAXbScNTdiDWh4SqIWHYZVgNeJ55avPVyw6j9dphyBlXYJyVYJMIoErnvOsgb1O4fRy7X8gx7ceGDE-eLcngqzlLoZfukE_gK1YVY/s1600/VegasDragoonCharlie7-72closeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU21SfOmWejAExnAd3928eG-1iy1s9aXPbCqJyEuOAXbScNTdiDWh4SqIWHYZVgNeJ55avPVyw6j9dphyBlXYJyVYJMIoErnvOsgb1O4fRy7X8gx7ceGDE-eLcngqzlLoZfukE_gK1YVY/s200/VegasDragoonCharlie7-72closeup.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Curiouser and curiouser, as someone once wrote. Matt Stryker started off looking for a wanted man. Then he ran into a burnt out stage way station full of dead bodies--men, a woman, and horses. But one man, the station master, was shot and left for dead. He hid in the outhouse. The killers raped his wife and took her with them.<br />
<br />
That gave Matt Stryker a new objective. Get Dodge Miller's wife Molly back from the killers, a family of father and three sons called the Dents.<br />
<br />
Sounds simple.<br />
<br />
But Matt has to take the wounded Dodge Miller in to Tucson to get treatment for his wounds. He's shot up enough that he'll not be really back on his feet for a month or so. But Molly's getting farther away.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stage arrivals can be a big event</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Matt reports to the county sheriff, Bob Paul (a real historical character) and to McCabe at the stage line's Tucson office. There he finds out that a man who's part owner in the Old Dominion Mine at Globe City's been in asking about the missing stagecoach.<br />
<br />
But that man gets killed (made to look like a suicide by hanging).<br />
<br />
And, where that looks like a lead gone dead, Stryker and his new partner, Elijah Carpenter, find out a lot more about what's going on. Listen to this:<br />
<br />
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<i>Stryker took the conversation to the subject at hand. “Tell
me, Lige. You know anyone called Rick Cavanaugh?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Heard the name, why?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqS8jcH5rz_dfO8Pa8e6hKRmKjpm0M3YqlZ_CffVK-tCBsDviDC-Fil9tIrV63cQgFAVJwvMOVYPJpHxsMUgHkeELRZ5JpCey8IWDi6gDrYeTDApruo77LWWpcUuVk7UpOEAz3eSNTZ8g/s1600/103073111_jesse-frank-james-bob-cole-younger-gang-outlaws-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqS8jcH5rz_dfO8Pa8e6hKRmKjpm0M3YqlZ_CffVK-tCBsDviDC-Fil9tIrV63cQgFAVJwvMOVYPJpHxsMUgHkeELRZ5JpCey8IWDi6gDrYeTDApruo77LWWpcUuVk7UpOEAz3eSNTZ8g/s1600/103073111_jesse-frank-james-bob-cole-younger-gang-outlaws-.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Youngers were part of the <br />Kansas outlaw bunch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“When I was at Rimrock, a gent called Rick Cavanaugh was trying
to become king of the mountain at Diablo. Someone that knows said Rick Cavanaugh
was just a moniker that a bushwhacker from Kansas took out here in the west.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You taking about Nate Cousins?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker’s ice blue eyes held Carpenter’s brown ones for more
than a long moment. “Know him? He was on the Kansas border to the Nations, I hear.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“He’s here now,” Carpenter said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I know. He stayed on the second floor of the Royal the night
Elrowe Hershey got killed. Signed in as Richard Cavanaugh.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Carpenter nodded. “He’s riding with four gunsharps,” he said.
“Ben Kilgallen, Marty Henshaw, Art Rennick, and . . . you’re not gonna like this
. . . Garth Upton.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Why the army? And Upton ain’t no gunsharp.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“That stage was carrying more than two hunnert fifty pounds of
gold. The Dents got it, but Nate Cousins and all them gunsharps . . . and Upton
. . . are gonna take that gold away from the Dents.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Why’d they kill Hershey?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Maybe to keep word of the gold from getting out? Secret shipment.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Could be. Could be.” Stryker wiped his cheek with one hand
and lifted the porcelain cup with the other. “Anyway, that’s Bob Paul’s worry.”
He poured more oolong tea and sipped. “How they planning on catching up to the
Dents, do you know?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Carpenter shook his head. “Nate Cousins is no dummy. But I don’t
know how.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Guess we’ll just have to find the Dents and Molly Miller first,
then.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“How we gonna do that?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker grimaced a smile. “Who knows this country best?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Apaches?” Carpenter said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yeah. Apaches.”</i></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />
Word Count: 20,445ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-70505851150504439112013-08-07T22:16:00.000+09:002013-08-07T22:16:19.696+09:00Western Novel in 30 Working Days--Eleven<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-4m-I0Vxj13YkMsRgshTGjqUco4J-Pu9BZ6iiP-a46N4H0JW1B_ctOT5Wk8QF8VO3fjDMgxDzZ9QymLUJ_wgiNuCmqHx3_LAfyLKG0yk14VBuRwajChNwi0YflhE0AlUr72Gmjixawg0/s1600/CruisePhoto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-4m-I0Vxj13YkMsRgshTGjqUco4J-Pu9BZ6iiP-a46N4H0JW1B_ctOT5Wk8QF8VO3fjDMgxDzZ9QymLUJ_wgiNuCmqHx3_LAfyLKG0yk14VBuRwajChNwi0YflhE0AlUr72Gmjixawg0/s200/CruisePhoto.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On a cruise boat in Tokyo Bay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Y</span>ou start off with a cut and dried concept. In the case of Stryker's Bounty, the current project, the concept was for Stryker to rescue a battered woman, wife of an acquaintance, from her captors. Well, as we get deeper and deeper into the story, things happen to add depth. The objective goes from trying to find four misfits who burned a stage station, killed four people, killed four horses, nearly killed the man who ran the station, raped the man's wife in front of him (not knowing he was still alive), so something more. Gold.<br />
<br />
We get a whiff of that gold when Finn is drinking in Alamo. Talking to the bartender Todd, he says:<br />
<br />
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Supplies.<i> Pa said
the Dent column’d be going through Hell’s Gate and east over Hell’s Trail to a
place where they could hunker down until people’d kinda forgot about Miller’s
Well. Not that Miller’s Well was connected to the Dents and the Dents to
Miller’s Well, but there was the missus. Finn liked poking the missus. And she
looked good. But she knew the Dents and what they’d done at Miller’s Well. Finn
shook his head and grabbed another mouthful of coffee. Prolly be best to just
conk her on the head and toss her down a canyon. Plenty of those around. Finn
was surprised when something wet splatted on the back of his hand. Then he
realized tears ran down his cheeks. What for? If she had to hit bottom in a
canyon, so what? He swiped at the tears with the back of his hand. </i>Supplies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Todd came back. “Nother whiskey, Finn?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Finn shook his head. “More coffee.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Todd didn’t look happy, but he got the pot and filled Finn’s
cup. “You could have another whiskey with what’s left a that cartwheel,” he
said. “Prime whiskey.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Finn stared down into the coffee cup. Another whiskey
sounded downright good. Awful good. And that prime whiskey carried a powerful
punch. He shook his head. “Cain’t,” he said. “The whole Dent column’s depending
on me to being supplies. Gotta get through Hell’s Gate. Gotta get through
Hell’s Trail. The column’s waiting.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Todd’s ears pricked up. “Column?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Finn nodded, his face as solemn as the prime whiskey he’d
imbibed would allow. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Lots a soldiers?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Finn straightened. This man was asking questions about the
column. Better be careful. “Nough,” he said. “Nough to handle just about any
situation,” he said. “Don’t matter who’s looking for our gold, they ain’t gonna
find it.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>If Todd’s ears pricked up before, they fairly wagged in the
air around his head now. “Gold? Your column’s guarding gold?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rim country, where the town<br />of Rimrock is, looks like this</td></tr>
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Whenever you read a Stryker book, you gotta know that things ain't all as they seem. Remember Road to Rimrock, the Stryker novel published by Black Horse Westerns? Well, listen to this little turnabout, then. </div>
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<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“No way we could just ride up on you,
Marshal. Not with Wildman tagging along. Had to sneak up, get the drop on you,
make you promise to listen.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“I’m listening.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Squirly stirred the coals of the little fire
they’d used to brew the coffee. “Not looking for money, Marshal,” he said in a
small voice.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Stryker heaved a sigh. “Then what in hell
are you doing here?”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“You go, and there ain’t no reason for me to
stay in Rimrock no longer,” Squirly said. “And Injun Jake bet me a dollar I
couldn’t get the drop on you.” The boy-man smiled, a tentative look in his
eyes. “I won,” he said.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“What’s that got to do with someone paying
to have me killed?”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Good reason to catch up with you. Good
reason for you to listen. We’uns got something to say after all.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“I wonder what it is.” Stryker’s tone was
flat and hard.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Well, it’s something, we’uns figure. It
surely is.” Squirly looked up at Stryker, his little eyes wide and his broad
smile showing small, pointed teeth.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Stryker’s face could have been made of
stone. He said nothing.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Tell you what, Marshal. Me and Injun Jake
was up in the loft at the livery, you know. It’s a good place to catch a wink
or two without we’re in someone’s way.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Stryker nodded, showing Squirly he was
listening.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Ruben went over to Goldfinch’s store or
somewhere so it was real quiet. I could even hear horses chewing their oats, it
was so quiet.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Stryker folded his arms, his face still
stern.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Then two peoples come back.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Come back?”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Yeah. Come back. It was the big one’s horse
what was chewing the oats. They was talking. Well, one of them was talking. He
handed a pile of clothes to the big one and told him to put ‘em on. I could see
‘em over the edge of the hayloft. The one that were talking were just a little
fellow, not much bigger’n me. And he were saying to the big one that new stuff
would keep people in town from telling him apart. Yeah, that’s what he said.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Get to the point, Squirly.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Well, the little one gives the big one a
piece of paper and some gold. I seen it shine. It were gold. And he said it
were half what the big one would get for doing Matt Stryker in. Said you was
worth five hundred dollars dead.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“I know that, Squirly.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Here’s what’s funny, Marshal. After the big
one left, the little one went back under the loft wheres we couldn’t see. And
he never come out.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Where’d he go?”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“God only knows,” Squirly said in his
deepest voice.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“You don’t have to imitate the parson.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>“Anyway, we’uns, me and Injun Jake, we
climbed down from the loft after a while, but the little one was gone. And the
carriage that were parked out back were gone, too. Then Ruben come back and we
asked him who the young feller driving the carriage were and he said, what
young feller. He said Miss Melanie Powers were the only one driving that
carriage. That’s what he said, and we’uns figured you’d want to know about a
little man who turns into a woman, and here we is.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">See? Women who dress like men. Now we have four men, man and sons, pretending to be a column, a column with enough men to guard a lot of gold. But wait. Four dead people in the way station. Driver and shotgun. Man. Woman. Dead horses. Burnt buildings. Burnt stagecoach. Why go to all that trouble?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuJOO9pQhJxVNbYdWSf9rBM8evx-LamTy5EhV4Eas0RWFR4SGrwuBbK11YUvCQeiHW6cywykM3Juz1AqTfw29dI0BeIpQGJI8FUDtZbVFdFqPqfGfEoYtTlxnMm3lAwqHrhfRqse6Snc/s1600/old-tucson-studios.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuJOO9pQhJxVNbYdWSf9rBM8evx-LamTy5EhV4Eas0RWFR4SGrwuBbK11YUvCQeiHW6cywykM3Juz1AqTfw29dI0BeIpQGJI8FUDtZbVFdFqPqfGfEoYtTlxnMm3lAwqHrhfRqse6Snc/s200/old-tucson-studios.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo is of Old Tucson studios,<br />but the hotel could well be the<br />Royal, where Stryker and Paul<br />are talking over Hershey's body</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">In Tucson, Stryker finds there's a man named Elrowe Hershey, part owner of a big copper mine that also produced gold and silver. But before Stryker can talk to Hershey, he turns up dead. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Cochise County Sheriff Bob Paul (a historical person) and Matt Stryker talk about the body.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">
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</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Bob Paul scrubbed at the carpet with a shiny boot toe. “You
don’t figure Hershey done himself in, then.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><o:p> </o:p><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36pt;">“Don’t reckon so.”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Why’d he get killed?”<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36pt;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker shrugged. “No can tell. You know as well as me, Bob.
Reasons to kill a person can range from adultery to jealousy to punishment.”<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36pt;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yeah. But how’d you know it wasn’t himself?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Take a good look, Bob. You’ve been around more than one
dead man. You’ve been to more than one hanging, too, I reckon. Even notice how
the rope marks are after a hanging?” Stryker didn’t wait for an answer. “Rope
usually comes across the hanged man’s throat above his Adam’s Apple and up
behind the ear on one side or the other.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He stepped over and put a finger on the rope burn that ran
horizontally around Hershey’s neck. “Somebody got Hershey from behind,” he
said. “Choked him to death. And the burn goes below his Adam’s Apple, see?”
Then Stryker pointed at a torn nail on Hershey’s middle finger. “Looks like he
hurt his own finger trying to get it under whatever they was choking him with.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Hmm. Makes a man think,” said Paul.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reckon there's a lot of gold concerned here. And I reckon that's going to bring a really bad bunch of men looking for it. Which means Stryker might find himself in a pincher between two sets of baddies who want to be sole owner of all that gold. How much gold to you think that burned up stagecoach was carrying?</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Word Count: 19, 305</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-char-indent-count: 3.0; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-14148935923359895112013-08-04T23:36:00.000+09:002013-08-04T23:36:25.005+09:00A Western in 30 Working Days -- Ten (late report)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtuUyf9_MHo4hzyegKYrBcfV_YfMReWkOwa19CgABQhrJVnZIzcb-h_R2NRCCy7TIkZKksZfqhfAVG0npn552vrPJFb_zCKUEr8nYalt0LlHX05o0_PZO_pu3JvdO0wawLr_0Hp9bi8A/s1600/Charlie1B&W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtuUyf9_MHo4hzyegKYrBcfV_YfMReWkOwa19CgABQhrJVnZIzcb-h_R2NRCCy7TIkZKksZfqhfAVG0npn552vrPJFb_zCKUEr8nYalt0LlHX05o0_PZO_pu3JvdO0wawLr_0Hp9bi8A/s200/Charlie1B&W.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">W</span>eekends for a working writer in Japan are not days off. Typically, a client will call for a meeting late on Friday and ask for the work to be done by Monday morning, first thing. It's expected and commonly demanded. That's how I spent my weekend.<br />
<br />
Stryker's Bounty, in the meantime, passed it's tenth working day--a day spent with Molly Miller and the Dents, Finn Dent in particular.<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<i>White men figured there were only two ways to get through or
around the Chiricahuas—go south through Apache Pass, or go north through the
foothills of Dos Cabezas. Anyone who wanted to go up into the Chiricahuas from
the west had to go through Hell’s Gate and up Hell’s Trail. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGnuW7nDvtK69GIx8NUVG0FJ14a1HCtp1KdDtg8Z8MXv1EKZ1WzMXIc7AFOallIRs5QiYRmEgS0iICPetJ-X4WRRg3UPZS1lsBCkiV-Cb3XV6YbaadLjZTI2tOmxBYopq36maURB78RU/s1600/Pres3a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGnuW7nDvtK69GIx8NUVG0FJ14a1HCtp1KdDtg8Z8MXv1EKZ1WzMXIc7AFOallIRs5QiYRmEgS0iICPetJ-X4WRRg3UPZS1lsBCkiV-Cb3XV6YbaadLjZTI2tOmxBYopq36maURB78RU/s200/Pres3a.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bit of Hell Hole Trail as it is today</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>As usual, Lester Dent headed the Dent column. That’s what he
called it, the Dent column. He grinned inside, but outside, he was a stern
patriarch, the guiding light to a coming generation of Dent sons. Finn and Lee Roy
showed promise, although they needed upbraiding of a time. And Wee Willy.
T’would never do to send him off by himself. He was good at hefting and
carrying around camp or on a ranch or somewhere, but not quick enough in the
head to be sent off by himself.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And the woman, Molly. Might have to change her name. Molly.
She had her good points. Not many women able to cook good grub on an open fire.
Molly could and Molly did. Molly did a lot of things. True, the boys used her a
lot, but young men were bound to want to hump. Couldn’t let them pound on her
too much. She needed to be able to do for the Dents and she couldn’t do that
all bruised and broken. Yeah. Humping and hitting had to be separated. For
sure.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's not unusual in my books to have chapters or scenes in third-person POV of perps or other people who have roles to play in the story. For example. In Return to Silver Creek, protagonist Garet Havelock's wife Laura comes up missing. She's been brutally raped. (OK, so I'm hard on women) A friend gives her shelter. So for many chapters of the book, the beginning is in Laura's 3rd person POV, and the remainder is in Garet's 3rd person POV. Here's a sample. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mexican Hacienda, but maybe like the Pilar's</td></tr>
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<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">Laura Havelock
opened her eyes to dim surroundings. A fragrance of old leather and juniper
smoke filled the air. She felt it was morning, though the room was dark.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">She had not left
the room since Rita Pilar and Ramon Javez, the Pilar ranch segundo, brought her
to the hacienda. Her bruised ribs didn’t hurt as much, and scabs had formed on
the two vertical slits beneath her eyes. They looked like dark purple tears. Her
young body was recovering quickly from the brutal attack. Her body was healing,
but her heart remained deeply scarred.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">Laura knew no man
before her husband and now she had been violated in every way imaginable –
brutalized, heart, body, and soul.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">That man didn’t
want a woman. He wanted to hurt. To wound me, to humiliate me, to make me feel
like dirt fit only to be trod upon.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">A light tap sounded
on the oak door.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">“Yes.” Laura forced
herself to get up and remove the bar.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">Rita Pilar entered
with a platter of bacon, eggs, fresh salsa, and flour tortillas. “We have no
sourdough biscuits, mi amiga,” she said. “Tortillas will have to do.” Rita
smiled. “I did bring the crock of sourdough starter from your rancho, however.
Later, perhaps, you can show me how it works.”</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">“Thank you, Rita.
You and yours have been so kind. You saved my life, you know. Now you want me
to show you how to make sourdough bread. And you already have such delicious
tortillas.”</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">Rita smiled again.
“My people came from Spain many generations ago, and from Mexico to Arizona,
though we called it Nuevo Mexico then. We are also Americanos, you see. And I
think we should learn everything we can about you Anglos.”</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">For the first time
in days, Laura Havelock laughed. “Good thing my father is not here to hear you
call me an Anglo,” she said. She switched to an Irish brogue, imitating her
father. “Sure and it’s Irish Celts we are and we hail from Erin, the emerald
isle, that we do.” </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">Rita laughed with
delight.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">“Come, sit at the
table, Laura. Let’s eat. Here.” The Mexican woman handed Laura a blouse and
skirt. “You’re bigger than I am,” she said, “but Paloma is a wizard with her
needle. Try these on. I wager they fit.”</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">“Thank you. You are
a friend.” Laura used the tips of her little fingers to brush the tears away
from the corners of her eyes. But it was no use. They overflowed anyway, and
silently streamed down her face. She turned away from Rita, but she caught
Laura’s arm and turned her back.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">“Let the tears
come, my friend. Let them come. When you try to hold them back, the hole in
your heart just gets bigger. Let them come. So the inner wounds can heal,” she
said.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;">“Oh, Rita.” Laura
sobbed. “You bring me to your home. You clean me up and give me clothes to
wear. But inside I’m so dirty. So dirty. So awfully dirty.”</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-align: left; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-family: Century; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Century;"><i>Rita put her arms
around Laura, pulled her close, and held her as she wept.</i></span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7YGjtF-m-PcP7wycVPBldV8pECQngr7IIx6SW3xr2899AB_QhknatJbC1VkliKfaK9kVL3am6pSZbjqM8GBFPl-_87NO5PKkR1iw4QklRsxjqMZqIYjcxBIlu57LM4_7jBYWyxM1T8E/s1600/Cascabel+Post+Office+2nd+View.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7YGjtF-m-PcP7wycVPBldV8pECQngr7IIx6SW3xr2899AB_QhknatJbC1VkliKfaK9kVL3am6pSZbjqM8GBFPl-_87NO5PKkR1iw4QklRsxjqMZqIYjcxBIlu57LM4_7jBYWyxM1T8E/s1600/Cascabel+Post+Office+2nd+View.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not Alamo, as that town no longer exists,<br />but Cascabel, a town not far away from Alamo</td></tr>
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<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Part way through the chapter, I make a scene change to look in on the oldest Dent son, Finn. He's been sent to Alamo for supplies to take them through Hell's Gate and Hell's Trail.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Howdy, stranger.” The man behind the bar wore a big smile,
a walrus moustache, and mutton chop sideburns that extended up the sides of his
face until they disappeared into his bald pate, just above his ears. “What’ll
ya have? I’m Todd. First one’s on Charley Wainwright, I might add.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Whiskey’d be good,” Finn said. “Really good shot of
whiskey.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Coming up.” Todd reached for a long-necked bottle with no
label and poured a generous three fingers of amber liquid into a slightly foggy
glass. “Like I said, the first one’s on ol’ Charley Wainwright.” Todd put the
glass on the plank bar right in front of Finn.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Saliva filled Finn’s mouth at the thought of drinking the
hefty shot of whiskey sitting right there before him. Free for the drinking,
too. He took the glass in his strong untrembling grasp and knocked it back.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good. Lord. Good.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The whiskey went down in three swallows, but the sledgehammer
of fire hit all at once.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Then the burning gradually settled down to stoked furnace
level. Finn wiled his watering eyes. “Whew. Prime. By the almighty, prime. How
much you getting for a shot of that fine whiskey?”</i></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word count: 17,810</div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-15477313093245538672013-07-31T23:22:00.000+09:002013-07-31T23:22:47.580+09:00Western Novel in 30 Working Days -- Nine<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MM2UjBcHE4eIRg-83LgHjDU0nXM-xYirIgpZjd5HZYylTQNAL4t6I7fIZpnO16mEa-nT-UUw0Xbn8JXmFwyTCjWqovxeETvAAS3wIAHfHe-Wi-1GveOexGpVcelmqceZ9ltIxf7B3MY/s1600/charlie2+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MM2UjBcHE4eIRg-83LgHjDU0nXM-xYirIgpZjd5HZYylTQNAL4t6I7fIZpnO16mEa-nT-UUw0Xbn8JXmFwyTCjWqovxeETvAAS3wIAHfHe-Wi-1GveOexGpVcelmqceZ9ltIxf7B3MY/s1600/charlie2+copy.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was once a little boy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Things always happen. That's the way a novel goes. Sometimes the things are dangerous to the protagonist, sometimes they are puzzling, and sometimes it's what you might expect.<br />
<br />
Naturally, in writing my western in 30 working days, things happen. Like, I had no idea that Elijah Carpenter, who showed up while Matt Stryker was eating breakfast, was related to Molly Miller. I didn't even know that her maiden name was Carpenter. Things happen.<br />
<br />
Matt Stryker is nothing is not pragmatic. That doesn't mean he has no feelings, not at all. But he IS a manhunter, and that means gathering information, which sometimes makes things happen.<br />
<br />
He went to the Ridges & Hale stage line office in Tucson to see what he could find out. Any good private eye would do the same.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I went to Sheriff Paul and told him what I found at
Miller’s Well,” Stryker said. “I’d like to know if there’s any more to it.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When McCabe didn’t answer, Stryker went on. “Seems unusual
for robbers to burn the station, kill the driver and shotgun, kill the passengers,
then shoot the horses. Is there anything about that stage that doesn’t meet the
eye?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Sheriff Paul let us know of the problem only a few hours
ago,” McCabe said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“But you had a stage late, late more than a few hours, too,”
Stryker said. “How long do you wait before sending a rider up the line?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“A day. Maybe two.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“So someone is on the way right now?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“They are.” McCabe adjusted his weight in his chair. He
looked unhappy at the direction talk was going.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I saw four burnt bodies, McCabe. Couldn’t tell no more than
that three were men and one was a woman. Like I told Sheriff Paul, I found
Dodge Miller alive in the outhouse. They’d left him for dead. He heard ‘em say
they was Dents. Sheriff had a flyer on the Dents.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>Carpenter broke in. “Mr.
McCabe, has anyone else come asking about Miller’s Well?”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>“Someone else?” McCabe
said. “Anyone?”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>Carpenter nodded.</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>“Well. Elrowe Hershey,
you know, he’s a partner in the Old Dominion mine in the Globe City area.</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>“Heard that mine was
copper,” Carpenter said.</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>“So it is. Along with
traces of gold and silver, and some lead,” McCabe said.</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>“What’d Hershey want?”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>“Well. The stage was long
overdue, and Mr. Hershey was inquiring as to any news about when it would
arrive.”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>“Wonder why.”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>“Mr. Hershey was not specific,
but I got the impression that he was waiting for someone called Neil Bascomb.”
McCabe settled back in his chair, dug a stubby pipe from a coat pocket and
began filling it from a pouch.</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Questioning McCabe further, they found that the man called Hershey was at the Royal Hotel. Which naturally meant that Stryker would go there to shake the tree. </div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg51JZF3vm58jH5xD7YKyMwDW8DG3gtqmPuS6BhdpYzmnWLJ_RN86gos8NtkZSNtT-tm_0Uc-_-8kU7nhin1S440pBRJ7H4GRvBN-CxMOTHkA46gJEOu3DLQxBw1sWBCbtyexxBiWij0Z0/s1600/Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg51JZF3vm58jH5xD7YKyMwDW8DG3gtqmPuS6BhdpYzmnWLJ_RN86gos8NtkZSNtT-tm_0Uc-_-8kU7nhin1S440pBRJ7H4GRvBN-CxMOTHkA46gJEOu3DLQxBw1sWBCbtyexxBiWij0Z0/s320/Cover.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
In my Black Horse Western novel <i><a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/Road-Rimrock-Chuck-Tyrell/9780709096320">Road to Rimrock</a></i>, Matt Stryker is a younger man and the marshal of a town on the edge of the Mogollon Rim called, unsurprisingly, Rimrock.</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
He made a promise to the town drunk that he spent the whole book fulfilling. Here's how the story starts:</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span><i>The shot came as Marshal Matt Stryker started his midnight </i><i>rounds of Rimrock. He drew his six-gun and trotted down </i><i>Washington Way. As he passed the President saloon, he saw </i><i>a crumpled shape in the shadow of the dilapidated boardwalk </i><i>in front of what was once Rimrock Mercantile. No more </i><i>shots.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Stryker knelt by the fallen man. He grasped a shoulder </i><i>and shook it. No response. Keeping his gun ready, he </i><i>levered the body over. It smelled of whiskey, and he recognized </i><i>Stan Ruggart.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Lying face up now, Ruggart began to snore.</i><br />
<br />
Then:<br />
<br />
<br />
<i> Like the street, the lobby of the Rimrock Hotel was empty. A coal-oil lamp burned low at one end of the counter. The register lay open. Keys hung from pegs within easy reach. ‘Sign the book and take a key,’ said a sign next to the guest register. Stryker checked the signatures. Ruggart’s was last. No one else had checked in since. Stan Ruggart lived in an empty hotel and had done for nearly three months. Stryker picked up the lamp and climbed the stairs. Once the ground floor had housed a restaurant. Now it lay silent like the rest of the town.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Ruggart often said his room number brought him good fortune. Lucky Seven, he called it. Stryker raised the lamp to check the brass number over the door. No mistake – 7. He tapped on the door. Silence. He knocked. No sound. He banged. No response. He tried the knob, and the door</i><br />
<i>opened. A step into the room, Stryker raised the lamp high. Ruggart lay on his bed, fully clothed, his eyes wide as if in shock, his mouth open as if crying for help, his throat cut so deep the wound looked like a second mouth. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>‘Ah shit. Too late.’ Stryker covered the body with the spare blanket folded at the foot of the bed and went to look for Tom Hall.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Hotels are deadly. Maybe you readers should think twice before checking in to one. Especially if its full of Western authors. Matt Stryker seems to find that things happen in hotels.<br />
<br />
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<i>Stryker and Carpenter rode side by side down Toole to where
the road branched into Arizona Avenue. They followed Arizona to Congress
Street, where they turned west. The Royal Hotel stood on the corner of Congress
and Granada. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A group of men milled around the entrance to the Royal,
talking in subdued tones. Stryker dismounted Saif at the side of the hotel
where hitching rails allowed horses to stand for a while. Carpenter got off the
dun and checked his Lightning. They pushed through the crowd, making their way
in the front door. The first thing Stryker noticed was the huge form of Sheriff
Bob Paul. From the looks of things, the sheriff wanted answers, not questions.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Now’s not the time,” Stryker said to Carpenter. Whatever’s
happened, Bob Paul don’t like it.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Carpenter faded back into the crowd outside and Stryker
waited the chance to talk to the sheriff. He sidled closer, hoping to catch
some of the conversation.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Why do you figure so, Mason?” Sheriff Paul asked.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I have no idea, sheriff, honest to God.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Hmmm. Ain’t too often a man turns up dead like that. Not
one like him.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I have no idea, sheriff,” the man called Mason repeated.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Hanging,” Carpenter said at Stryker’s shoulder. “Man hanged
himself up in Room 214. That’s what they say.”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<i>“A man don’t usually hang
himself,” Stryker said. “Usually eats his gun.”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Lots of townies don’t
carry a gun these days,” Carpenter said. “Maybe he had no gun barrel to eat.”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Could be. Any word as to
who it is hanging up there?”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yeah.”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker gave Carpenter a
sidelong glance. “Well?”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You ain’t gonna like
this.”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Try me.”</i></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<i>“</i><i>Them outside said the
maid found a man hanging dead in his room. They say it was Elrowe Hershey.”</i></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />
You see? Things happen.<br />
<br />
Word count: 13,514<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-11904954667016636422013-07-29T22:45:00.002+09:002013-07-29T22:45:40.365+09:00A Western in 30 working days--Eight<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbKyaIMA_aokQ0O-Za2vMp0x8hDYjQF0CtN0ZfzwhUAOa6wGfcZ-dP_mVGN5iIPsjYwhyphenhyphen3-h6-tug2RcYfCxtWUwTh6ieeqMCz3QR8uP3-jzUWap7WumGKlt6jBlIVK-hUQRhTcU5hjUk/s1600/CTWNeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbKyaIMA_aokQ0O-Za2vMp0x8hDYjQF0CtN0ZfzwhUAOa6wGfcZ-dP_mVGN5iIPsjYwhyphenhyphen3-h6-tug2RcYfCxtWUwTh6ieeqMCz3QR8uP3-jzUWap7WumGKlt6jBlIVK-hUQRhTcU5hjUk/s200/CTWNeg.jpg" width="145" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dapper at the age of 19 or so</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was once a young and dapper man. But the years have added wrinkles and splotches and several feet around the waist. But still, it is good to have a challenge.<br />
<br />
The eighth day of the Write a Western in 30 Working Days marathon is almost finished. So close, in fact, that I have decided to go ahead and do this blog entry.<br />
<br />
A new character came upon the scene as Stryker was eating breakfast. But what happens when he meets Dodge Miller, wounded husband of poor Molly?<br />
<br />
Let's see.<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<i>After a long minute, Miller said, “Lige Carpenter? Lige
Carpenter from Higgins Bottom?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“The same.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I heard you went wild,” Miller said. “Before we come west,
I heard you rode with James Danby’s boys.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“I did, but I quit. Them Dents what got my cousin Molly,
they was once with Danby, too. Well, at least Lester and the two older boys
was.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“You </i>know<i> them
bastards!”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Stryker stood to one side, interested in seeing what Dodge
Miller made of Lige Carpenter. </i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Not that I’m proud to say it,” Carpenter said. “Don’t like
to admit it at all. To anyone but you, I’d say I didn’t know no Dents.”</i></div>
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<i>“I’m here to go with Matt Stryker to get Molly back for you.
If he’ll let me, that is. You can’t. Not right now. Molly deserves kin to get
her away from them Dents.” Carpenter stuck out a hand. “Dodge. I figure you’re
kin, too.”</i></div>
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In Westerns, you'll find that families mean a lot. How many Sackett novels did Louis L'Amour write? A bunch. And if you've taken the time to read my <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pitchfork-Justice-ebook/dp/B009QV3WKY">Pitchfork Justice</a></i> book, you'd know how older brother Garet Havelock comes to help his younger brother Ness. At the end of Chapter 30:</div>
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<span style="font-family: Century; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>"Wilson
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<span style="font-family: Century; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>"I'd
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Then, in Chapter 31:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Century; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>"What's
this about you killing Roland Prince," Garet demanded. He'd rode too long
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<span style="font-family: Century; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>"Hubbell,
you want to deputize me? I'd stand against those rowdies," Garet said. And
he would, too. He'd stopped a mob of miners cold in Vulture City when he was
marshal there.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Century; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>"I'll
stand, too, Sheriff," Sid Lyle said from where he stood outside the door.
"And I got four good men. Ain't nobody gonna take Ness Havelock outta that
cell while we're here."<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Century; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>I grinned at
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And on, until Garet and the men who stand with him are able to keep the mob from lynching Ness. Now, we have family coming together to rescue Molly Miller, if there's anything left of her body and mind to rescue when the time comes.<br />
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<i>Miller reached for Carpenter’s hand. “Dear God, it feels
good to have kin.” His eyes glittered with unshed tears.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Carpenter clapped his left hand over his handshake with
Miller. “Dodge, Matt Stryker’s about the best man you could have going after
your Molly. And I’ll be right with him. All the way, I’ll be there.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“I thank you, Lige. I truly do.” He swiped at his eyes with
the heels of his hands. “And you, Matt, what takes you out after my Molly?”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Men like the Dents don’t deserve to run wild, Dodge. I’ll
bring them in, like I said, and if they won’t come, I’ll bring them in anyway.
Belly down, if that’s how it’s got to be.”</i></div>
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<i>Keeping his grip on Lige Carpenter’s hand, Miller stretched
his other one toward Stryker. “I’d have your hand on that,” he said.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Stryker gripped Miller’s hand.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Kin and good friends. Sometimes that’s all that gets a man
through,” he said.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word Count: 12,224</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-19205010733812703042013-07-27T22:28:00.000+09:002013-07-27T22:28:12.281+09:00A Western in 30 Working Days--Day Seven<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO17jcTWcB5PiNXmIFF1EWPZH5zSDTV-KmiUhiUZppddmeKw5pCqcamydE3ZBDHadNubazMttACRiwMzzXGTr6PoM06MrSRaQLAj_Tboc4SMDcnQ-KuYznYRV4Z2X2X1he57RvjNzf0Yo/s1600/CharlieWhipple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO17jcTWcB5PiNXmIFF1EWPZH5zSDTV-KmiUhiUZppddmeKw5pCqcamydE3ZBDHadNubazMttACRiwMzzXGTr6PoM06MrSRaQLAj_Tboc4SMDcnQ-KuYznYRV4Z2X2X1he57RvjNzf0Yo/s1600/CharlieWhipple.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in an earlier day. Could be a Dent, though</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I KNOW. The days in the title and those in the calendar don't jibe. Still, that's what time I've been able to put in as of right now. Two days on the road didn't give me any time, and a half day reporting today evened out the time to seven working days on the novel. My count.<br />
<br />
We know Molly Miller's in trouble. And she is. Read this.<br />
<br />
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<i>Molly squatted not far from Wee Willy, but in the shade of a
boulder. She was thirstier than she’d ever been in her life, but she refused to
drink or even look at the canteens, unless told to fetch one.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“You all’ll die if’n you don’t take some water,” Wee Willy
said. He spoke only loud enough for his voice to carry to Molly’s ears.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly shook her head. “I don’t
care,” she whispered. “I just don’t care.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You gotta care, missus.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<i>“I’m just a bitch. A bitch’s an
animal. No use living.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Question: will Molly survive until someone can rescue her? Could any woman survive the sadistic treatment they'd receive from the Dents?</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Move’ut,” Leroy hollered.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>She dogtrotted across the sunburnt patch of ground and
halted in front of Leroy, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed. Her ratty
hair fell in snarls around her face.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<i>Leroy took a roundhouse swing at her that sent his right
hand splatting against the side of her face. “Bitch. When I call ya, come
running.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly dropped to her knees
without a sound.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You hear me, bitch?” Leroy’s
voice nearly screeched.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly toppled forward, but caught herself with hands spread
wide, elbows locked and fingers splayed. She panted. </i>Ung. Ung. Ung. Ung.<i> Like a child who has been told to shut up, but
can’t hold the sobs back completely. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Stryker has his problems, too. But Tucson's a populous town so privacy or not being recognized is an iffy situation. </div>
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<i>“Hold up, Saif,” Stryker said. The black Arabian stopped.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Carpenter pulled the dun up beside Saif. “Damn. That’s
some horse you’ve got, Stryker. Never seen the like. Like he knows everything
you say.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“He hears me when he likes what I say,” Stryker said.
“Where’s your friend?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Upton ain’t no friend of mine.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You don’t say.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“He had a foot on the rail over to the Red Garter,”
Carpenter said. “I stood alongside, and he bought me a drink. That’s about it.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Red Garter’s a ways away from Chez Bennie.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“A man’ll go all the way across town for good food. Ever
been to El Paso?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Passing through.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Ever hear of Rosa’s? Just across the bridge into Mexico? Now
that’s a place men ride halfway across Texas for. Good, dark Mexican brew and
the best machaca this side of San Lucas.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Why are you following me, Elijah?”</i></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why would Elijah Carpenter follow after Matt Stryker? Well, I'm not going to tell you. In fact, I may not tell you next report either. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until we meet again, then. <i>Hasta la vista.</i></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-69747450983483575342013-07-23T13:30:00.000+09:002013-07-23T13:30:13.098+09:00A Western in 30 Working Days--Midday Six<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Qlnr6Z8U_tvOVPPZ4xBrCf4_845m4XtZsAsoHKRvc68KguNsCMAiuSTA2kR-RsAe1DPcuhiCtf3ka9UbdxwW2yalUOweFYXcGk6SINbjVsH2hXjSheC_Dws6MNtJcZpxCczH-7y1_I4/s1600/Charlie2B&W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Qlnr6Z8U_tvOVPPZ4xBrCf4_845m4XtZsAsoHKRvc68KguNsCMAiuSTA2kR-RsAe1DPcuhiCtf3ka9UbdxwW2yalUOweFYXcGk6SINbjVsH2hXjSheC_Dws6MNtJcZpxCczH-7y1_I4/s200/Charlie2B&W.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Church work kept me pretty busy over the weekend, but I'm back in the groove now. Talked with artist daughter last night. We've decided to take new photos of me. Look forward, or cover your eyes, whichever suits you best.<br />
<br />
Off for a hospital checkup in the afternoon, but let's see some of what's happening with Matt Stryker and those crazy Dents.<br />
<br />
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<i>“Hmmm.” Stryker scowled. Dodge Miller’s account of what happened
to Molly seemed to make her assailants the Dents, no mistake. “The station
master at Miller’s Well said there were four Dents who burned down his
station,” Stryker said. “Who do you think would be riding with Dent?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Him and his three boys. They’re about as nasty a bunch as
you’ll ever run into.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Tell me.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“The oldest is Phineas. Finn for short. Mean as a bobcat.
Sneaky as a coyote.” Carpentered emptied his coffee cup and held it up until
Marie noticed. “Second is Leroy. Cut from the same mold as Finn. Then there’s
Wee Willy.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Wee Willy?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yep. Big giant of a man, he is. Bigger even than Bob Paul.
But he’s never growed in his head past about seven or eight years old. His pa
beats on him a lot, too. Wee Willy. Always trying to do things right, but never
quite making it, and always getting beat for his mistakes, real or imagined.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Marie came with the coffee pot and filled their cups.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You seem to know the Dents right intimate.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I rode with Danby. We were right upset about Suthrun
cecesh. But more ‘n more, raids got to be about money, not revenge. After we
got shot to pieces by Sheriff Slaterlee’s posse from Wolf Creek, I left. Told
Canby to keep my share. I left. Quit being a raider.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><i>“Good choice,” Stryker said. “But I’m gonna have
to ride them Dents down.”</i></span><!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;">The Dents themselves are headed for Hell's Gate, and from there to Skeleton Canyon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;">Word Count: 9004</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span>ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-47706964716496009122013-07-20T17:32:00.001+09:002013-07-20T17:32:38.324+09:00Blacksmith sceneMarc Cameron wrote a blog on <a href="http://westernfictioneers.blogspot.jp/2013/07/anvils-and-nails-and-mean-molly-mules.html">Western Fictioneers</a> about shoeing horses. Some time ago, in Pitchfork Justice, I wrote of the meeting of two blacksmiths. I wonder if Marc thinks it rings true.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> I climbed off the buckskin and looped his reins over the hitching rail. I motioned for the Norway men to do the same. We strode to Swede's forge, me being the smallest of the three. Swede just kept working that hot iron while we stood there. But I saw a gleam in Bjornsen's eye. He saw that the Swede worked the iron well. </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> I'd noticed Swede laboring alone before. No one worked the bellows for him and no one helped him beat out a rhythm on the anvil. </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> At last, he shoved the piece in a bucket of water. A cloud of steam arose, along with the wet smell of hot iron. He laid the work back on the anvil and looked at us. </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> "Well?" </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> "My name's Ness Havelock," I said, "brother to Garet Havelock of the H-Cross ranch on Silver Creek." </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> Swede nodded that he knew Garet. </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> "I seen you working by yourself the other day, and Bjornsen here says he's a journeyman smith. Thought you might have a few day's work for him." </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> Swede motioned to Bjornsen. The big Norwegian went to the bellows without a word and started pumping them with a pair of arms as thick as a grown man's thigh. Swede took some tongs and turned the work in the coals, making sure it heated to a uniform cherry red. </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> As he pulled the work from the forge, Swede nodded toward the other hammer on the bench. Bjornsen took it up in a ham-like fist and stepped to the far side of the anvil. Swede hit the anvil twice with his hammer to set the rhythm, then those two big men took to pounding that piece of iron one after the other in perfect time. Each time he turned the work, Swede would hit the anvil twice and they'd take up their rhythm again. Before you'd know it, Swede was holding a perfect buggy spring in his tongs. The two had not said a single word to each other. </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> "Good," Swede pronounced. "A dollar a day." </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia;">
<i> Bjornsen looked at Roald, who spoke to him in Norwegian. The big man grinned. He stuck out a huge hand to Swede, who gripped it, sealing the deal. </i></div>
ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-53205394077791819852013-07-19T18:31:00.001+09:002013-07-19T18:31:06.484+09:00A Western in 30 Working Days--midday 5Things happen. A man like Matt Stryker goes into a restaurant to eat a belated breakfast, and things happen.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOQ7r3lDUD90kSPdoywCDWenpxGi91qd35g-Hxkzj7VtWUzqHm8sIJliWQrsYwUHGyuXP_3I_kc3e98joV7oiRQkgXEd2MGVx1DeXbIlAZlgoBJ_it1IjIO7aftHV1u3nNiXyMXiEa9M/s1600/FrenchWaitress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOQ7r3lDUD90kSPdoywCDWenpxGi91qd35g-Hxkzj7VtWUzqHm8sIJliWQrsYwUHGyuXP_3I_kc3e98joV7oiRQkgXEd2MGVx1DeXbIlAZlgoBJ_it1IjIO7aftHV1u3nNiXyMXiEa9M/s1600/FrenchWaitress.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe her name is Marie.</td></tr>
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<i>“Thank you, Marie,” he said. “Mighty good omelet. You can
tell Marcel I said that.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Why thank you. Merci beau coup. Coming from Matt Stryker,
that is high praise indeed.” She turned to the other men. “Moment, Messieurs.”
She’d noticed that Stryker’s coffee cup was nearly empty and needed refreshing.
“More coffee in a moment, Matt,” she said, and hustled into the kitchen for the
coffee pot.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Scuse me,” said the broad man. “Did the waitress say you
were Matt Stryker?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“She did,” Stryker said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“No shit?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I’ll thank you not to use such language in a public place,”
Stryker said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Ah. Sorry. Just kinda slipped out.” The thick man said,
“I’m Garth Upton and this here’s Elijah Carpenter.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker nodded. He’d never heard of either name. He took
another bite of omelet.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You’re that man what gunned down King Rennick up to
Ponderosa, ain’t ya?” the thick man said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“And took on the Nogales Guards all by hisself,” Carpenter
said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“If you will let M’sieur Stryker finish his meal in peace,
messieurs,” Marie said. She poured coffee for Stryker.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Just being friendly.” Upton’s voice had a pout in it.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Thank you, gentlemen,” Stryker said. “Now. If I could
finishing my breakfast, I’ll be on my way.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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The man at the left is probably not Upton. But he's a ringer. This is the kind of man I saw when writing the restaurant scene. </div>
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<i>Stryker didn’t wait. Once again he picked up the fork, and
this time he attacked the omelet. Outside, it was golden egg, not over done,
not runny. His fork gouged a large portion from the near end. Chopped ham,
sausage, melted cheese, and diced onion oozed from inside. Stryker leaned over
the plate and devoured the portion on his fork. As the robust flavors of the
omelet and its filling invaded his senses, two men entered Chez Bennie. They
glanced at Stryker, their eyes pausing briefly on his scarred face. Stryker
seemed to ignore them, but his peripheral vision catalogued their
peculiarities.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>One was tall and gangly, dressed in a brown sack coat and
California pants that seemed at least a size too big. He wore a bowler that he
didn’t remove when he came into the restaurant. The other was shorter by half a
foot, but broad-shouldered and thick bodied. They took a table close to the
door and sat facing the windows that looked out on 12<sup>th</sup> Street.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Nevertheless. Regardless of who they are, Matt Stryker seems to attract trouble. Please note that the snippets from the scene are not in order.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Why thank you. Merci beau coup. Coming from Matt Stryker,
that is high praise indeed.” She turned to the other men. “Moment, Messieurs.”
She’d noticed that Stryker’s coffee cup was nearly empty and needed refreshing.
“More coffee in a moment, Matt,” she said, and hustled into the kitchen for the
coffee pot.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Scuse me,” said the broad man. “Did the waitress say you
were Matt Stryker?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“She did,” Stryker said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“No shit?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I’ll thank you not to use such language in a public place,”
Stryker said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Ah. Sorry. Just kinda slipped out.” The thick man said,
“I’m Garth Upton and this here’s Elijah Carpenter.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker nodded. He’d never heard of either name. He took
another bite of omelet.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You’re than man what gunned down King Rennick up to
Ponderosa, ain’t ya?” the thick man said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“And took on the Nogales Guards all by hisself,” Carpenter
said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“If you will let M’sieur Stryker finish his meal in peace,
messieurs,” Marie said. She poured coffee for Stryker.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Just being friendly.” Upton’s voice had a pout in it.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Thank you, gentlemen,” Stryker said. “Now. If I could
finishing my breakfast, I’ll be on my way.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjblT-2Z68qOtQ-xMHmIscZa3gH6V9V-JuIkxyeva-jIK-Jh2wCQLWFElsd_bDGp7DcLVd2KhMzOHVMshUnjMBtW366Sz2c-3O6v7JOcUDr6mU54ZdAFTzrCOoIfYnxupqs4CBGc2oe3r0/s1600/ScarFaceStrykerFix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjblT-2Z68qOtQ-xMHmIscZa3gH6V9V-JuIkxyeva-jIK-Jh2wCQLWFElsd_bDGp7DcLVd2KhMzOHVMshUnjMBtW366Sz2c-3O6v7JOcUDr6mU54ZdAFTzrCOoIfYnxupqs4CBGc2oe3r0/s1600/ScarFaceStrykerFix.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, Matt Stryker had a face that had been terribly deformed and scarred by a man named Jake Cahill, who slugged him with lead-filled fists while his henchmen held Stryker pinned. He'll never look the same again.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Perhaps an order of cinnamon toast to complement the coffee,
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<i>“Coffee,” Upton said, an edge of sharpness in his voice. “You
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<br /></div>
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<i>“I’ll have one more cup of coffee, too, Marie,” Stryker said.
“Marcel have any cinnamon rolls left?”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Perhaps, Matt. I will look.” As Marie took a step away from
Upton’s table, he grabber her wrist. “Where you going? We ain’t finished yet.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Upton.” Stryker spoke in a hard low voice, but it carried the
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woman by force. No one. Let go of the lady’s arm.” Stryker stood.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Century;"><i>Upton pulled Marie around in front of him. “You
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<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-32347125868304427962013-07-18T23:51:00.001+09:002013-07-18T23:51:54.975+09:00A Western in 30 working days--kinda 4<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9W-Eobf66sNwM_hGGPjHiqcEzn_FqRczmZxA8C0XOUN-E_zBcyFH_gP0WEi3H75djj_oP3rYw8VnXPMqhZ8qEDmd6QmM1pucBpCptvsFaMIC7cEiV-XxPS1p9t5nctDCHkvUIMNDR4Y/s1600/MyGrandfathersHouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9W-Eobf66sNwM_hGGPjHiqcEzn_FqRczmZxA8C0XOUN-E_zBcyFH_gP0WEi3H75djj_oP3rYw8VnXPMqhZ8qEDmd6QmM1pucBpCptvsFaMIC7cEiV-XxPS1p9t5nctDCHkvUIMNDR4Y/s320/MyGrandfathersHouse.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My great grandfather put roots down in Joseph City, AZ.<br />He kilned 40,000+ bricks to build this house, which my grandfather<br />later purchased from him. The house still stands, an important historical property.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr>
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Today, just little part of Chapter Three. Something Stryker is thinking about.</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Roots.<i> Stryker
stared at the celadon cup. Roots.
Almost everyone he knew and trusted had roots. Ness Havelock at the RP
Connected. Garet Havelock at the H Cross on Silver Creek. Wolf Wilder had the
Flying W in Long Pine Canyon. Real Lee and Lilywhite seemed settled down in
Payson. Laurel Baker and Finn McBride were married and their Rafter P supplied
Ponderosa with good beef and better horses. The McCulloughs had their place in
the Blues.</i></div>
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Roots.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Stryker’s thoughts returned to Catherine de Merode, as they
so often did. “Wire me, send me a letter, use one of those new telephones to
talk to me, it doesn’t matter how you contact me, Matt, but when you’re ready
to put down some roots, as soon as I can find transportation to wherever you
are, I will come.”</i></div>
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Roots.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Word count: 6435</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-19525631036918647082013-07-16T23:40:00.000+09:002013-07-16T23:40:03.480+09:00A Western in 30 Days -- Full Day Three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9k0P-qO8Xx7ZQpCBQr595Je72P_8suFKOL4D3ta-QWxyT4dRFpD9jrHkdU1z0a2jwKZsilxX0A8UWewYe9r-4lFcr6JbkDAnwZ_ob_xW1fWcBYk2qUo56OOOzHJfrRi9oLT1Z-hewyQ/s1600/Dentwantedposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9k0P-qO8Xx7ZQpCBQr595Je72P_8suFKOL4D3ta-QWxyT4dRFpD9jrHkdU1z0a2jwKZsilxX0A8UWewYe9r-4lFcr6JbkDAnwZ_ob_xW1fWcBYk2qUo56OOOzHJfrRi9oLT1Z-hewyQ/s320/Dentwantedposter.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>
Two chapters done. Pretty good rate for someone as slow at the typewriter as I am. Some excerpts:<br />
<br />
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<i>Only one structure stood. A small outhouse located behind
the ashes of the station. Small, but probably at least three holes. Stryker
moved toward it with careful steps, his eyes sweeping the ground, then the
horizon, then the far hills, then the nearby desert growth. Dark splotches led
to the outhouse door. Blood.</i></div>
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<i>“You touch that door, mister, and you’ve got a .56 caliber
slug through your guts.” The voice cracked, like its owner’d not had a drink in
days.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“I’ve got water,” Stryker said. “I’m Matt Stryker.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“You following someone?”</i></div>
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<i>“Who’s in there? Dodge? That you?”</i></div>
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<i>“It is, and I got a goldam hole in me. All the way through.”</i></div>
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<i>“I’m gonna open the door, Dodge. Don’t you shoot me with
that Creedmoor.”</i></div>
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<i>Dodge Miller didn’t answer, he just groaned. Stryker tried
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toggle, Dodge. Can you do that?”</i></div>
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<i>“Cain’t move, Matt. Bust the damn thing.”</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mountain that might be called Signal Butte, but its real name is Picketpost Mountain.</td></tr>
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<i>“Four of ‘em, Matt. Old man and three younger ones. The old
man sent one of the youngsters over to check me. ‘Wee Willy’ he called the boy.
Big. Really big. He come. Shoved me with the toe of his brogan. I flopped. He
stood there looking for a long time, then he want back. ‘Dead’ I heard him say.
But I figure he knew I was still breathing. Wee Willy. That’s what they called
him.”</i></div>
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<i>“Wee Willy.” Stryker stored the name in his head. “You hang
on, now. I’ll get stuff for your shot places.” A clump of prickly pear grew
across the stage road and halfway up the hill from Miller’s Well. Stryker
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Lots goes on between now and Tucson. But you can read that when you get the book. So what about Tucson?</div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Tucson looks like this today, and Tucson may have looked like this in the mid 1880s.</td></tr>
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<i>Stryker left Miller at Doc Singleton’s place. “I’ll be back
as soon as I’ve talked to Bob Paul,” he said. “Then we can go see Gil Steiner.
He’s the best horse trader in these parts.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>He rode Saif down Pennington, past the courthouse to North
Court. He looped Saif’s reins over the hitching rack and went into the
courthouse looking for Pima Sheriff Robert Paul’s office. He heard Paul long
before he saw him. Standing six foot six inches in his sock feet and weighing
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<i>“Listen. You’d better hear what I’m saying.” Paul folded his
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and for the moment, that’s all there is to it. Now shove off. Let me be.”</i></div>
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<i>Stryker raised his voice. “Hey Bob. You getting in over your
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<br /></div>
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<i>Paul pushed his way through the newsmen. “Matt Stryker. What
in heaven’s name are you doing in Tucson. Thought you’d have had enough of this
country after that little fiasco down in Sonora.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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After niceties, Stryker gets down to business. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Bob, you got any wanted flyers on anybody named Dent?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Gol. Who knows? Pile of them damn things over there,” Paul
waved at a card table on the far side of the big office. “I shuffle through
them once in a while, but never pay much attention. Help yourself.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Obliged.” Stryker hitched his chair over to the card table
and started sorting through the dodgers. Some he knew had been apprehended, so
he put them aside. He had a three-inch stack of wanted flyers before he found a
Dent. The flyer was out of Kansas, of all places.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<i>Wanted for murder and robbery. Lester Dent. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The flyer showed a drawing of a gangly oldish man with
straggly whiskers that might or might not look like the real Lester Dent.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Still, according to the wanted dodger, he’d held up trains
and stagecoaches and done his share of killing. The reward was set at five
hundred dollars. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“They’re here,” Stryker said. “Reward’s five hundred.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Doesn’t sound like enough for you to mess with,” Paul said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Knowing they’re wanted is enough, Bob. Plenty enough. Me
and Dodge’ll ride after them soon as he’s able.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“If the stage was carrying enough, the reward might be
jacked up.” </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Don’t matter. We gotta get Molly. If we can bring the Dents
back alive, we will. If not, they’ll come back belly down over their saddles.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word Count: 5494</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-12415813916920140922013-07-15T23:21:00.000+09:002013-07-15T23:58:33.982+09:00A Western in 30 Working Days--a national holiday<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5mtYgwF-fNgA4_Mc6e4yg5AkbpsiMKw1ijWl5WbLyVQVyJRD0HebTe0weyDfwUGF1FCU_7TeoUSCQ8H9qPNbHbKLDafIQPg7-2dR7RHohHerl2DbrR6HpSUdel14IKxEdLKur-rCnaQ/s1600/Urayasufromboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5mtYgwF-fNgA4_Mc6e4yg5AkbpsiMKw1ijWl5WbLyVQVyJRD0HebTe0weyDfwUGF1FCU_7TeoUSCQ8H9qPNbHbKLDafIQPg7-2dR7RHohHerl2DbrR6HpSUdel14IKxEdLKur-rCnaQ/s320/Urayasufromboat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The town of Urayasu (where Disneyland is) from across the Bay.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
July 15, a public holiday in Japan. A day when the western writer who built his own yacht and started out to sail solo around the world goes to his little 21-foot sloop and sails out onto Tokyo Bay for the first time in two months. Aaaaaaah.<br />
<br />
Still, Stryker #3--Stryker's Bounty--pushes ahead. Word count 4332 words.<br />
<br />
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<i>The view through his field glasses showed nothing hopeful.
The station house had one wall standing. Molly’s Royal stove stood among the
smoldering remains of the house. Stryker focused on the mounds in front of the
station. Dead horses. Looked to be still in their traces. Steel rims showed
where wheels once were. The body of the stagecoach was little more than a pile
of ashes. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Nothing moved but the zopilote vultures tearing at the dead
horses with hooked beaks. Stryker scanned along the path to the granary and
tack room. Curls of smoke from the ashes said the barley was still smoldering.
The barn and its hay loft also lay in ashes, but the pole corral still stood.
Stryker studied it carefully. No tack hung from the top poles. No horses waited
to be harnessed to the next stage. No movement of any kind, except for the
buzzards.</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzGkGxFO-FSSRROY6nQlnKXIW833B6DsMLka3IXcR3ThXZymhkHcVi9mhCoN_7785TYULbYN8CirfOTtgOm1jsYmTBlK7dpfxFTxwSd8VKPitHsrW1xmyir8X2I4dFeHACJFeT_ZrQ64/s1600/zopilote.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzGkGxFO-FSSRROY6nQlnKXIW833B6DsMLka3IXcR3ThXZymhkHcVi9mhCoN_7785TYULbYN8CirfOTtgOm1jsYmTBlK7dpfxFTxwSd8VKPitHsrW1xmyir8X2I4dFeHACJFeT_ZrQ64/s320/zopilote.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">zopilote </td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A wash gouged through the land behind the corral. A man
might could use it to get close without being seen—a man like Matt Stryker. He
tethered Saif to a mesquite bush and made his way to the bottom of the wash.
The sun was just about at its meridian. The heat burned into the land around
Miller’s Well, only those with something bigger to do than just filling their
bellies moved. A small striped lizard moved, else Stryker would have stepped on
it. A redtailed hawk moved, his pinions spread to catch the thermal rising from
the heat of the land. A man moved, Matt Stryker, as he worked his way up the
wash to the granary that smoldered in the heat. Maybe he’d find something,
maybe not. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He lay against the lip of the wash for a long time. Too much
hurry can get a man killed. Little left standing. The corral. A wall of the
house. The outhouse. Stryker came up and over the bank of the wash, keeping a
paloverde between himself and the burned out buildings. Nothing moved. He
couldn’t see the zopilote. He held his Winchester ’73 cocked and ready. The
Roper, he left in its saddle scabbard on Saif. The redtail screeched. </i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Stryker slowly turned a full three-sixty as he walked
carefully to the burnt-out station. Molly’s Royal stove still had a pot on it. The
zopilote buzzards flapped away as Stryker approached, landed no more than ten
yards away, and stood watching, wings held high and ready to carry them back to
the dead horses. In the ashes of the house, Stryker found four bodies. Burned
and shriveled, they showed teeth in macabre smiles through burnt away lips.
Three men and a woman. Driver and shotgunner? Passengers? Molly? Dodge Miller?
The bodies were so badly burned that Stryker couldn’t tell who they were.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-31972904678112918232013-07-14T23:05:00.000+09:002013-07-14T23:05:20.480+09:00A Western in 30 Days -- ZilchSaturday--Sunday--Monday, a long holiday in Japan, and a busy weekend with church activities. Results on Western. Nil. I'm not counting these days. But rather than leave you with nothing to read, here's something from a few years ago. Needless to say, I was not feeling up to snuff on that particular day.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6GYRFg5tTbBGtjNHZ4L_abeFfH25wLjWVIIMN8CHn4V7vfcYMjxnXQMHGMdR-gR7EhdtZaj-ddy_C-TnDRaiYkcTLorACnGGxdHnfbkDcW3mNEihT0O7UTHUDYcRr6P7ATqomemuY6U/s1600/charlie2+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6GYRFg5tTbBGtjNHZ4L_abeFfH25wLjWVIIMN8CHn4V7vfcYMjxnXQMHGMdR-gR7EhdtZaj-ddy_C-TnDRaiYkcTLorACnGGxdHnfbkDcW3mNEihT0O7UTHUDYcRr6P7ATqomemuY6U/s1600/charlie2+copy.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The face, in a former day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The face<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The road, paved with
intentions; the face fresh, with unwrinkled brow and forthright blue-eyed gaze.
He decided to be an electrical engineer, but flunked calculus and organic
chemistry in the same semester; played baseball instead. He joined the Marines,
thought he'd make the Corps a career. Two years later, he was back in school
aiming for a degree in history. He learned Japanese, went to grad school,
fought with his advisor, quit. Worked to support a wife and son. Gave marketing
a whirl, became export manager in Hong Kong. Fooled around. Sailed to the
Chinese border and got turned back by CHICOM gunboats. Worked with Vietnamese
refugees. Philandered, divorced; threw away two sons; wept, and gladly paid
support. He jumped into the ad game, met that girl; eloped despite her parents'
rage. He dreamed of sailing endlessly from bay to bay. She had a baby girl. He
spun records until midnight, hawked ads by day, and tried to learn to write.
Voyaging remained a dream. Two years of rejections, then an article to Dog
Fancy, another to Scholastics, and a third to Highlights for Children. He wrote
a novel. No one was interested. Scripps League Newspapers hired him as a
reporter. He covered the voyage of the Hokulea, from Oahu to Tahiti and back.
He won prizes. She was an only child and her parents were aging; they returned
to Japan. They both wrote copy. She won prizes, and bore another daughter. He
did more copy, and a TV series for a cable channel. He wrote short stories. No
one was interested. Newsweek bought his advertorials, Japan Intersect ran his
profiles, Tokyo Journal did his crime articles, Photonics International hired
him to write on high-tech solutions, the International Herald Tribune came to
him for news. He wrote poems and senryu. No one was interested. Another
daughter came, and another. PHP took his book on business letters; Jitsugyo
published the one on English loan words; he edited a series on Living in Japan;
he wrote a book on English for Japanese scuba divers. He wrote a novel; no one
was interested, so he wrote another. Same result. The face in the mirror,
wrinkled and splotched, grew extra chins; the blue eyes now rheumy, myopic,
squinty -- not the face for a book jacket. But the paved road remains, and he
still tries. Still.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5yfBrvSz0WkWO8XrCY1NBThdzl0lBGPeyLvdn6ReoGv1f0luqvRVWIxGm6l7eKI9-CKw0JNPvf7A5xg025s99Jc0NrkE4D3SW4tGyRO48P-cDvuMxERZCjX2DkPIivMrOvjouX_J4ed8/s1600/tengu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5yfBrvSz0WkWO8XrCY1NBThdzl0lBGPeyLvdn6ReoGv1f0luqvRVWIxGm6l7eKI9-CKw0JNPvf7A5xg025s99Jc0NrkE4D3SW4tGyRO48P-cDvuMxERZCjX2DkPIivMrOvjouX_J4ed8/s400/tengu.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An artist's conception of what The Face may look like now.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"># # #</span><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">(c) Charles T. Whipple</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-35611415272251998582013-07-12T20:02:00.000+09:002013-07-12T22:06:48.600+09:00A Western in 30 Days -- Day Two<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9bs7se1ayv7gMfjDedpdjVGUN7VRUkksQLNd-0T4hBP_7QEYeAIB2WlPFXd6Or2vmp5E82pyW5jeXh2FWX6BxSRAiIEoz9hQOrzoIjqqmZBfAbbg7vhWZa2zffbMVsn7TDB6eXqpS99c/s1600/VegasDragoonCharlie7-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9bs7se1ayv7gMfjDedpdjVGUN7VRUkksQLNd-0T4hBP_7QEYeAIB2WlPFXd6Or2vmp5E82pyW5jeXh2FWX6BxSRAiIEoz9hQOrzoIjqqmZBfAbbg7vhWZa2zffbMVsn7TDB6eXqpS99c/s320/VegasDragoonCharlie7-72.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie shoots a Colt Dragoon sixgun</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When you write, things happen. I had it all planned out. How the Dents were going to arrive at Miller's Well, do in everyone but Molly, make off with the strongbox while dragging Molly by her hair (or some such cruel way).<br />
<br />
Didn't work out that way, so far. Because one of Dent's boys wouldn't play along.<br />
<br />
Here's a bit to show you why.<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<i>“Missus?”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Oh!” Molly fairly jumped at Wee Willy Dent’s voice. “You
startled me, young man. It’s not good to sneak up on people, you know.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Beans, please, missus, and some bread, if ya’ve got it. And
I never snuk. My pa says we gotta walk quiet-like, so he makes me wear
moccasins. I clomp in boots. Cain’t help but clomp.” He held out the empty bowl
Molly had left at his place at the table. “Beans? ‘N bread?”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly took the bowl and emptied the bean pot into it, but
the beans came nowhere near filling the bowl. “Sorry,” she said, and handed him
the bowl.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wee Willy had to stoop to stand in the doorway. He looked at
the half-full bowl and then turned tear-filled eyes to Molly. “I gets hungry
most ever’day,” he said. “But pa makes me eat last, after him and Finn and Rob.
Ain’t never enough.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now we get the idea that maybe one of the Dent boys is not all bad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Here's some more.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>The big man turned into a little boy right before Molly
Miller. He filled the doorway, but still seemed hardly old enough to wear
shoes. “Come in here to eat,” she said. “Stand over there and use the
cupboard.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wee Willy came in, nearly filling the room. Molly handed him
a spoon. “Go ahead and eat the beans, Willy,” she said gently.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A half loaf of sourdough bread remained in the breadbox, so
she swiftly cut a two-inch slice and slathered it with a thick layer of apple
butter. “Eat this, too,” she said, and set the bread beside the beans.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Wee Willy!”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Yeah, pa.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You leave missus alone now, ya hear?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly went to the doorway. The other three Dents sat with
their elbows on the table, empty bowls before them, along with the empty bread
plate. “Lester Dent,” she said. “You should be ashamed of yourselves. You hog
down beans like you’ll never get another meal, and your youngest hardly gets a
full bowl. And you call yourselves a family? Families share and share alike.”
She turned her back on them and went back to the stove.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Wee Willy, you hear me?”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wee Willy swallowed the last of the sourdough. “I’m hearing
ya, pa.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Get’chor ass back in here with the rest of us. Now.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wee Willy flashed a frightened look at Molly. “Coming, pa,”
he said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remember that Dodge Miller is in the Catalinas, hunting.</td></tr>
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Further on, Molly finds out how ruthless Lester Dent can be.<br />
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<br /></div>
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<i>She didn’t realize Wee Willy had returned until she heard
the splat of wood on flesh. Willy didn’t cry out, but Molly could tell by the
little grunts that came with the smacking sound of whatever stick he’d found
was used to beat him for whatever imagined shame he’d brought to the Dent
family. The two Dent boys giggled at Wee Willy’s beating, then laughed out
loud.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Finn. Rob. Shut up. Just shut up,” Lester Dent hissed.
Molly decided that if a rattlesnake could talk, it would sound like Lester
Dent. She wondered how Wee Willy could accept the kind of beating she heard.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Thwacks of wood against flesh and little grunts of pain
continued. Molly realized she was holding her breath and the lack of air made
her dizzy. She sucked great gulps of dry air into her lungs, and still the
beating went on. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear God<i>, she
prayed,</i> please help that poor simple boy<i>.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The stick broke. Molly heard it break. She held her breath
again.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Now Wee Willy. Can you hear me when I speak? Huh?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wee Willy’s answer was hardly more than a whisper. “I hear
ya, pa,” he said.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“We do not bring shame upon our family. Never. Never. Never.
Do you hear what I’m saying?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I hear ya, pa.” The answer was still hardly above a
whisper.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Good. Now take that poor excuse for a stick—it broke in
two—so take it and burn it in the stove.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I hear ya, pa,” Wee Willy said, his voice a little
stronger.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly breathed again. She had her back to the door when Wee
Willy came in. He said nothing. She didn’t look. He found the handle to the burner
lid and Molly heard him grunt as he lifted one of the lids out and stuffed the “stick”
into the stove. “There,” he said softly. He put the handle back in its place and
retraced his steps to the door.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Molly turned her head to catch a glimpse of Wee Willy as he
entered the common room. She took a huge breath to keep from gasping. How could
any father beat his own offspring like that?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Lester Dent appeared in the doorway. “Now ya see, missus. Now
ya see what happens to them as don’t listen to what I say, don’cha?”</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I must tend to the beans and wash the dirty dishes,” she said,
and whirled away.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Century; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><i>Lester Dent’s horn-hard left hand caught hold of
her right arm. He jerked, spinning her around. As she turned, his doubled fist
broke her nose and splattered blood down her dress. “Ye’d best listen to me,” he
said, and smashed his fist into her face again.</i></span><!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-18428097580466496472013-07-11T23:02:00.000+09:002013-07-11T23:02:00.195+09:00A Western in 30 Days--non-Day<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpERxOhVe5XM4ETM6rj9RW4Uq6gMylO5e-16tDtqSVoSYSD47Fu5MGrKnap0rhf8tBFSCQ8VJJrDLpzO0DojDikGiHPVGuq0m4Ah52fDsDbJ1sAYU9uKV1gNdQv1v0L4hFs9nCBdxNrrI/s1600/%E5%86%99%E7%9C%9F.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpERxOhVe5XM4ETM6rj9RW4Uq6gMylO5e-16tDtqSVoSYSD47Fu5MGrKnap0rhf8tBFSCQ8VJJrDLpzO0DojDikGiHPVGuq0m4Ah52fDsDbJ1sAYU9uKV1gNdQv1v0L4hFs9nCBdxNrrI/s320/%E5%86%99%E7%9C%9F.JPG" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not a photo of the author</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today was a client day, with little time left for working on the novel. The first chapter is nearly finished, however, with close to 2500 words on the clock. Tomorrow, if I'm lucky and I don't succumb to heat prostration, I'll give you the beginning of Chapter Two, but not the conclusion. Can't give away any secrets, can we?<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For your entertainment, here's a little story.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A Wish</span></h2>
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<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Exercise, Dr. Motoyama says, lose weight or your family will lose you. Walk, she says (Dr. Motoyama's a woman), walk every day. So I don
my Nikes and walk down twenty-three steps to the roadway. It's eleven at night.
The neighborhood is silent, but not dark. Streetlights
illuminate the tarmac, the tiny yards, the front doors. There are no sidewalks.
Concrete utility poles stick up from asphalt streets like dead trees. Geraniums
and pansies hang from fences in planter boxes. Wisteria arc over gateway
frames. A dog voices his irritation at my late-night passage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">summer night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> with no moon<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">fresh-cut grass<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I dodge the barriers and walk beside by the creek. I say
creek, but I cannot see it. Brick-paved pathways run down either side, and the
water trickles toward the bay, bordered by iron sheet piles. What once was a
swampy creek bed is now a suburban residential neighborhood, and, deep within
an iron-bound canyon, the gummy water of the creek, full of detergents and
waste and filth, rarely sees the sun.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A man, with all his possessions strapped to an aged bicycle,
spreads cardboard on a creekside bench, his bed tonight. He pulls the brim of
his hat low to shade his eyes from the glare of the streetlights that keep the
pathways safe at night. I walk past as if he is not there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Farther on, a housewife huddles over her cell phone. I
wonder why she's come outside to talk. Illicit conversation? She speaks so low
that I can hear none of what she says as I pass. I turn the corner, circle
back, and the same dog barks again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">deep-fried ginger pork<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
open kitchen windows --<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
midnight stroll<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I wish I could see the stars, but streetlights get in the
way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"># # #</span><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">(c) Charles T. Whipple</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-31218917056035560532013-07-10T22:41:00.000+09:002013-07-10T22:47:26.793+09:00A Western in 30 days -- Chapter One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3gR_lV3CqvnnU2QbPwCRj5JVDt7WG1qMF72BOAcJ6C4trmuPJi_4P5N5qASw2-lJS6FV0gCD1e375ZKLeIvEzWeoovWocwvkQDgFkcz7XIJeDm2RkaKIi-bRpw3AMaEFrV-BbWuYhKOA/s1600/wantedposter-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3gR_lV3CqvnnU2QbPwCRj5JVDt7WG1qMF72BOAcJ6C4trmuPJi_4P5N5qASw2-lJS6FV0gCD1e375ZKLeIvEzWeoovWocwvkQDgFkcz7XIJeDm2RkaKIi-bRpw3AMaEFrV-BbWuYhKOA/s200/wantedposter-1.jpg" width="165" /></a></div>
Lots of other things to do today. Nik says 1800 words a day will get your book finished in 30 working days. Today I did about 1500, in and around all the other stuff I was doing. Here's a segment. What do you think?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Stryker's Bounty</i></span><br />
<br />
<b>Chapter One</b><br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lester Dent and his three boys rode up to Miller’s Well a good
two days before the stage was due. But then, they had no intention of riding that
stage at all. They just wanted its strongbox, and Molly Miller.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miller’s Well supplied Ridges and Hale stages with fresh
horses and the driver, shotgun, and passengers with alkali-tinged water and
Molly Miller’s good cooking. Molly and Dodge Miller operated the station from
the time the company set up its run from Globe City to Tucson by way of Camp
Grant. At first, the stages came once a week, then the silver strike in
Tombstone put two stages a week on the run.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Molly kept a truck garden year round, watered from Miller’s
deep well. Dodge kept a shotgun on a rack and a long-shooting Creedmore for
taking pronghorns, whitetail deer, and sometimes an elk, to put meat on the
table at Miller’s Well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the stage not due for two days, Dodge took the
Creedmore off up in the craggy foothills of the Santa Catalina mountains just
south of the stage station. With luck, he’d have fresh meat by nightfall. Molly
weeded the truck garden, her calico dress’s hem brushing the ground as she
hoed. A bonnet tied securely under her chin shaded her face from the vicious
Arizona sun, but it still got to Molly’s skin enough to raise a rash of
freckles that she didn’t like but men thought made her look like a girl. A tiny
frown of concentration showed that Molly Miller was dead serious about keeping
unwanted weeds from stealing precious moisture from her vegetables. In fact,
she was so focused on the weeds that she failed to notice until four men reined
their tired horses to a stop near the well and hollered, “Hey, missus.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Molly’s head came up and she turned to see who called.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, missus!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I hear you,” Molly called. “Be right there.” She patted the
Pocket Colt in her apron and let the hoe fall between rows of string beans. She
lifted her skirts a mite in front and walked quickly out of the garden patch
and across the stage road to her home, which doubled as the stage station.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Missus.” The same man called. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Coming.” Molly rounded the corner of the house. “What can I
do for you?” she asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Awright to water our hosses?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Help yourself,” she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Bite to eat?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Beans and sourdough,” Molly said. “Two bits a head.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sounds good.” The man doing the talking put a finger to the
brim of his hat. “I’ll be Lester Dent,” he said, “ and these’uns’re muh boys.”
He pointed at each as he intoned their names. “Finn, Rob, n’ Wee Willy. Ya’d do
good to watch out for Willy. He’s a bit crazy some say.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re welcome, gentlemen,” Molly said. “Water your horses.
Beans are on the stove and I’ll pop a loaf of sourdough into the oven to warm
up.” She turned her back on the horsemen and went into the house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lester looked at his brothers. “Reckon she’s the one?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“More’n likely,” Finn said, standing in his stirrups so he
could scratch his butt. “Don’t see no other woman around.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Then she’s the one what knows. Water the hosses, Willy.
Then come in ‘n’ eat.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How come I gotta do all the work?” The youngster called Wee
Willy Dent pouted. He was big, bigger as any of the other Dents, but somehow
looked younger, naïve, kinda like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Make yerseff useful, boy. Cut out the bitchin’.” Lester
Dent swung off his black-legged bay and dropped the reins to the ground. The
bay stood obediently ground-tied. Finn and Rob followed suit. They’d been
riding with Lester long enough to know he was always a step ahead of them when
it came to planning and getting things done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The overgrown boy they called Wee Willy clambered off the
three-color paint he rode, dropped the reins to ground-tie the paint, and fairly
stomped over to the well. He took the wooden bucket off its hook and dropped it
down the well. Seconds later, a faint splash came, telling Willy that the
bucket had hit water and was probably full. The rope ran over a pulley that
helped hoist the bucket full of water up out of the well. Willy poured it into
the horse trough. It hardly covered an inch of the bottom. “Goldam,” Willy
muttered. “I’ll be here all day just pulling up enough water for the damn
hosses.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finn threw a comment over his shoulder. “Get a move on, kid,
else you’ll miss out on the grub.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Willy tossed the bucket back down the well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lester led the rest of the Dents through the door into the
main room of the Miller’s Well stage stop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Missus?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Molly stuck her head out the kitchen door. “Won’t be more’n
a minute or so,” she said. “Sit yourselves down at the table there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Reckon we might as well eat,” Lester said. He waved the
other Dents to places around the big table. “Smells right tasty, missus,” he
called.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Molly’s voice came from the kitchen. “Some says my beans’s
good. Ain’t been nobody died of them yet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lester leered at Finn, then winked at Rob. “We’re a
waiting,” he called. “Hungry as we can get.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Molly came in with an armload of bowls and spoons. She
plonked one down in front of each Dent and one where the one called Wee Willy
would sit. “I can load them bowls up with beans soon as you’re ready to eat,”
she said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Any time’s fine,” Lester said, drawling out his words.
“Say, missus, you heard of a woman called Sharon Sue?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Molly’s hand paused for the barest second before she said,
“Sharon Sue? Nope. No one here at Miller’s Well but me, and my name’s Molly.”
As she disappeared into the kitchen, she said over her shoulder, “Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Kinda wanted to talk to Sharon Sue,” Lester called. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Molly came back with a steaming kettle of beans held between
two hot pot pads. She set it on the table, took up the ladle, and began filling
the bowls. “Sourdough’ll be good and warmed up,” she said. “Sorry we’ve got no
butter for you. Don’t have a milk cow.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lester grabbed a spoon and dug into the beans. “Damn good,”
he said. “Oh, ‘scuse me, missus.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Molly grinned. “Glad you like ‘em.” She went again to the
kitchen and came back with good warm sourdough bread, sliced an inch thick,
piled on a platter, and ready to eat. She put the platter in the middle of the
table. “Help yourselves,” she said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finn and Rob reached for the same slice of bread. Finn
glared at Rob, who drew back. “Yours,” he said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Damn right,” Finn said. He was soon dipping hot sourdough
into the beef and beans Molly had served them. He said nothing, but the speed
of his eating said a great deal about what he thought of the food. The men
settled down to serious eating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lester called toward the kitchen. “Any more of them beans
left, missus?”</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />
<br />ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-8563470901883138112013-07-09T23:09:00.001+09:002013-07-09T23:09:28.301+09:00A Western in 30 days, Day One (.5)In the little time I had today, between client meetings and dinner appointments and so on, I bashed out the protagonist's profile.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Matthew Stryker</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Tall.</b> 6’2”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Well built.</b> Broad shoulders, thick body, muscular legs,
walks leaning slightly forward as if pushing against fate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Scarred face.</b> Left eye socket crushed by Jake Cahill’s
lead-filled fist. Tears leak from the damaged socket continually.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Clothing. </b>Wears gray, clothes and hat. Tends to blend with any
background. Flat-heeled boots in the Hessian style made popular by the Duke of
Wellington. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Judgment </b>of good and evil tends to be black and white,
although Stryker is fully aware of human frailties.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Love interest. </b>Catherine de Merode, born to a prince’s
family in Belgium, now a thoroughly capable Western woman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Weapons.</b> Stryker carries a .44 Colt SAA, a Winchester ’73,
and a 4-shot Roper 12-gauge shotgun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>History:</b> Like Abe Lincoln, Matthew Stryker was from
Illinois. His was not an easy life, and he left home to make his own way in the
world when he was fourteen. There were just too many mouths to feed and the
Stryker farm could be run well by his partially crippled father (war wounded)
and his two younger brothers. The girls would not be old enough to marry for
another ten years or more, so Matt’s ma slipped him ten dollars from her
hideaway stash and pointed him downriver, saying she had a cousin named Dick
Hunt who worked at a ranch owned by Montford Johnson in the Indian Nations.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stryker never found Dick Hunt, but he found a job with Ed
Mott’s freight train, one of the last to use the Santa Fe Trail. At first, he
helped herd the extra oxen, then he began riding out in front of the train as
it moved onward. A mountain man named Ned Gump taught Stryker how to hunt and
how to scout, and soon Stryker was Bump’s partner. They ranged far from the
painfully slow train, but always came home with meat for the cooks to serve the
hundred and more men who walked Mott’s Murphy wagons from Independence to Santa
Fe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But railroads came in the ‘70s, and the era of the long haul
came to an end. Ned Bump retired to a little cabin high above the Uinta Basin.
Matt Stryker, pushing 20, joined his friend Fletcher Comstock in Virginia City.
Prospecting didn’t work well for Stryker, but his comportment during a standoff
between town marshal Tom Easter and a group of outlaws headed up by Roy Bob
Jenks earned him a job as Easter’s deputy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From that time on, Matt Stryker began to build a reputation
as a no-nonsense lawman/gunman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Reputation:</b> Tenacious. Dangerous. Straight-laced. Fair. No
give. Tough. Smart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(more to be added as characteristics become visible)</div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064947183228358805.post-11725724958419068112013-07-08T13:59:00.000+09:002013-07-08T13:59:16.731+09:00A Western in 30 days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSY31TdemeUBp2TcB64bazdx_eyXa0DHPfN1mIwtTdNy53XQ42Ndfl2vs2vc9vYlK5wv7bpoj288HGGKUq7-7b1YH2tlIM1MyTiw2PAKrGgWblcVOX_psgMXVv_nrxgVwBnsj-ooZuqsk/s1600/30DaysBook72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSY31TdemeUBp2TcB64bazdx_eyXa0DHPfN1mIwtTdNy53XQ42Ndfl2vs2vc9vYlK5wv7bpoj288HGGKUq7-7b1YH2tlIM1MyTiw2PAKrGgWblcVOX_psgMXVv_nrxgVwBnsj-ooZuqsk/s320/30DaysBook72.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Day 1</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, I’m supposed to be getting what Nik calls a
“plot-plan” constructed. Whew. I usually get an image of the first scene and an
idea of the last scene and then sit down and write from the seat of my pants.
But the ongoing exercise is profitable. Here’s what I found out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Desired emotion</b> (from the reader)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Abhorrence for violence and brutality to women.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Theme</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reward for some kinds of evil can only be death.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Main character’s emotional drive</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt Stryker is a professional who does whatever is
necessary to bring criminals with a bounty on their heads to justice, dead or
alive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Main character’s purpose</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To do the job he’s been hired for, or must pursue due to circumstances, because it’s the right thing to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Possible causes of conflict</b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 11.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -11.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;">- </span><!--[endif]-->weather</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 11.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -11.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;">- </span><!--[endif]-->geography</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;">- </span><!--[endif]-->opponents’ skills and/or cunning</div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;">- </span><!--[endif]-->wounds</div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;">- </span><!--[endif]-->terrain</div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;">- </span><!--[endif]-->the job</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 11.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -11.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;">- </span><!--[endif]-->the situation</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Initial clash</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Stage station at Miller’s Well burned</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Stagecoach burned, horses, driver, shotgun rider, passengers
killed</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Molly Miller missing</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Stryker must decide whether to pursue the perpetrators in
hopes of rescuing Molly or to continue on his hunt for jailbreaker Loren
Blake.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Dramatic high point</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Standoff/shootout with three Dent sons (Stryker has killed
the father)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Additional conflicts</b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 7.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -7.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->- <!--[endif]-->Getting
Molly Miller back to her husband</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 7.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -7.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->- <!--[endif]-->Quarrel
with Sheriff Bucknell in Tombstone, March 1883</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 7.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -7.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->- <!--[endif]-->Face
off with Dirty Bill Cronen, a man always looking for a test</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 7.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -7.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->- <!--[endif]-->Figuring
out the reasons for the Dents’ continual abuse of certain women</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What the antagonists want</b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 7.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -7.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->- <!--[endif]-->Money</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 7.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -7.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->- <!--[endif]-->Sex</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 7.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -7.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->- <!--[endif]-->The
ability to “pull it off”</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 7.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -7.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->- <!--[endif]-->Major
objective: abuse and disfigure every Yankee woman possible, leaving them breathing
and alive in a living hell (revenge for what happened to their own women when Sherman
marched to Georgia during the Civil War).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Final conflict</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stryker caught by Dents. Disarmed. Must watch as the Dents have
their way with another woman. Must find a way to get loose. Must use unusual
weapons to kill Dents one at a time. (Perhaps he kills the woman to put her out
of her misery, I don’t know yet. Or he allows her to kill herself.)</div>
<!--EndFragment-->ChuckTyrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02609200010767178944noreply@blogger.com1