The Lobster That Wouldn’t Sleep by Tom Sheehan

It had happened again and bright-eyed, thick chested Judd Farro, half clad in the yellow foul weather gear of his trade, couldn’t remember how many times it had happened over the years. The sea, obviously, has its own rules and regulations, he thought, its own machinations, and you don’t really count on them. But here, in its own great mystery, the lobster with the bold X on its backside was caught anew in one of his traps, big as life, healthy, and as if daring to say Here I am again. The X was indelible, unmistakable, and struck him with an awed intensity.


Judd Farro, lobsterman, knew the sea in his knees and in his heart: the endless rock that caressed him in the shift of tides and the swells at play, either out on the broad expanse or lodged in port softly bumping in that slow time dance against the dockside. And there was too the endless ache in his heart when he was not out on it. That he didn’t know the sea as well as he should in his mind was completely acceptable, for with the sea came the immutable laws governing it and all those who toiled on it, like he and his kind, and the absolute idiosyncrasies that played with those same laws. But even so, Judd was comfortable with his lot in life, skipper, owner, husband, father, a man who celebrated the vast sea itself; who was iron-fisted, muscled, beaten brown by sun and wind and salt.


Much of his lot in life he had gotten from his father, a lobsterman before him, who had plied his way in and out of the small estuary that was the Saugus River, just north of Boston, to gather his crop from the great Atlantic, to do his great battle of survival out there on the Father of All Oceans. It was his father, Ivan Farro, an oak slab of a man, legendary on the river and in the trade, whose words were very early carved into young Judd’s mind, along with the great guffawing laughter that came with his introductions: We’re the Farros, lately of Egypt, now of Saugus. People warmed to the genial and hardworking giant, and the father’s ethics and strains passed clearly to the son.


It was Ivan Farro, at a party one evening at his home when Judd was just a boy, who first lined up a dozen lobsters and declared, “I am going to put all these lobsters to sleep in the middle of the kitchen floor.” The heart and soul and meat of his trade, and most undoubtedly of all there with him, inched about on the old birch flooring with the clumsy gait of elephants, dark little out-of-this-world creatures with their claws tied back by broad-banded elastics. Some were bigger than others, but all were keepers to this hardy band of men who fought the sea for these ungainly treasures.
Some of the lobsters appeared as if they could just drill their way down through the floor, so rambunctious they were in their actions. Others appeared not so boisterous, perhaps a bit weaker, having less desire for survival.


“Hey, Ivan,” came one strong but gargled voice, “Those ‘uns on the end ain’t weaks is they? You could told if you gave un a hotfoot!” His own laughter preceded all other responses. Judd couldn’t see who said it, but he guessed at Herb Comeau. Because of his line of site, he couldn’t see Herb in the kitchen, but a hazy flavor of him crept into his mind, small, cigar-y, white-toothed all the time in that part of his mouth where the cigar wasn’t clutched, all of the sea on him the way it was on his father, the signature of the river and the sea and the salt and the lifetime under the sun, and the smell of the boats, the unmistakable mix of diesel and salt that brands some men for life.


Ivan shot back. “Should I take their boots off before I light them up, or do you just want me to put the whole dozen of them to sleep like I promised?” He held a lobster out as if it were a token of his promise.
Judd, watching from the second floor landing of the old colonial keeping room of the house they lived in, almost leaped to attention again at his father’s words. He craned his young neck to see into the kitchen from his place between the balusters.


The broad back of his father bent over as he knelt on the floor. Judd shifted his position a few balusters and saw his father pick up one of the lobsters, still struggling for the open sea, for the sea bottom and its myriad food, its claws trying to menace the grip that was on it. Slowly he began to rub the back of the lobster, riding the knuckles of one hand up and down the dark green but splotched back of the deep crustacean, the ugly grasper of sorts, the clawed menace the likes of which had once gotten desperate hold of Judd’s little finger and almost kept it. Perhaps a full minute his father rubbed, all the time keeping up a constant run of chatter that Judd could make no sense of: The sea is full, but the pan is clean. The waves are rough, but the butter’s keen. You’ve been done in by baits and chums, now sleep, me Buck, until eternity comes.


All the while he rubbed, he repeated the words, sometimes changing his delivery, sometimes bringing them almost to a tune, now and then a lilt, now and then like a deathbed vow in a voice as serious as Judd had ever heard, chambered, dark, resonant, the echo of the sea somewhere in it, bottom talk that Judd could only sense but knew was real. Much later in life he’d think of the words mystical and mythical and all they conveyed and how either seemed for that time to be the most fitting, for he was watching his very own father in this strange rite, his very own father taming the terror of the deep. The once-vicious grip on his little finger came back in clear recall and he could feel it all the way up his arm as he knelt on his elbows. He loved that giant of a man as he loved nothing else in life, except, of course, his mother.


“Now sleep, Bucko,” said his father, “until the pots aboil’, and he placed the lobster on his head and the two points of his claws, like the Tricorn, an even and balanced position which Judd had never before seen a lobster in, upside down in this crazy world. He remembered riding the swing in the Ballard School playground that way and how the blood had rushed into his head and made him so dizzy he had fallen off the swing and had taken a good whack on the back of his head. Now here this lobster remained perfectly still and there was no sound from the kitchen except the claws of the other eleven lobsters trying to find their way home. Judd’s mouth hung open and he was afraid that he’d have to hold his breath as long as the lobster stood on its head. It was almost as if an enjoyable panic was toying with him. He was certain that he could breathe if he wanted to. Well, almost certain. He took a quick breath to prove himself right.


The lobster stayed in that clumsy position, not one claw moving, the thick tail motionless, and his father reached for a second creature at his knees, and began the words again: The sea is full, but the pan is clean.....and before Judd could believe it there were eleven lobsters standing on their heads on the kitchen floor, and not a word from Herb Comeau or Lance Kujawski or Dave Penney or any of that intrepid band, or from their women, suddenly drilled to silence by the still parade. Judd could smell rising up to him the salt and the diesel and the acrid edge of whiskey and tired beer in the mix. And the mass of clams in the buckets and the oatmeal his mother had fed to them the night before to clean them out. And the exciting newness and freshness of sugar and butter corn he knew would be his on the next afternoon, corn all the way down from Middleton or Danvers or from a little stand his mother had found way out in Georgetown, a nice ride’s worth on a Sunday morning.


To Judd the array of motionless lobsters looked like sentinels on guard duty, for his father had arranged them in a perfect row, using the edge line of one piece of birch flooring as the crown point, a place where lobster heads bent at neatness and sleep. And mystery.


But the last lobster was a rebel, a far more desperate creature than its companions, something of a different order or a different breed, resistant, stoical, culled for this very one and special moment, for even as Ivan Farro carried on for the fortieth or so time the ritual of his words, singing them, praying them, uttering them almost as oaths, cajoling, entrancing, the last lobster did not do his bidding. Even when his father’s voice came as an old sea ditty, rollicking in its words, full of creaking beams and sounds that were never port sounds, that last-stand lobster waved its claws in the air, snapped its tail at Ivan’s hand, called the sea onto itself, failed to buckle under.


At length the other lobsters had fallen over, Herb said he was hungry, Ethel Bridgeman had turned the heat up under the big pots on the stove, and Lance and Dave began to gather the other lobsters from the floor.


“Not this one,” said Ivan, ‘Not this Bucko! This Bucko’s going back in tomorrow.” His voice was strictly serious. He held the lobster over his head. “No quitter, this one. No siree! I’m going to mark him and if any of you guys bring him up in your traps, do him and me the honor of chucking him back. This guy’s a tiger!”


He took a knife from one of the drawers and scratched a large X on its backside. Then he took an indelible marker off the shelf and drew the X right over the etched mark. “See here, guys.” He held the lobster out toward them. “See my mark. If you bring him up, toss him back in. He’s earned his time. Do me that favor.” He found each of their eyes with his own eyes, and the promises were silent, and absolute.


And the party had continued and the pot had boiled and young Judd Farro had fallen asleep at the head of the stairs.


All of it he remembered again as he looked at the marked lobster, the X as plain and as bold as the night of the party so long ago. Whether it was the same one was doubtful, but you never knew when it came to the sea, rules or no rules. Perhaps a new breed had been uncovered, or set in motion by his father, perhaps a new Genus Exus Homarus abroad on the deep. He remembered so clearly the night of the party and the alignment of sleeping lobsters. And the strange one who wouldn’t sleep like the others, and the storm that beat at the coast very suddenly a few cold months later and his father going down into the depths forever, and the smiling little Herb Comeau from Moncton or Memramcook or wherever he was from with his now eternal cigar, and Josh Billings and his son Peter, and Eddie LeBlanc and the Fewers and the Donovans and the Capeccis and the Savios and the Gallivans and others from the Saugus fleet. If he said all of their names any more it would hurt him, so he cut some of them off, but an ache as big as the sea itself had settled on him once more.


Judd Farro held the lobster over his head and yelled to Yancey Dewey off his port bow. “Hey, Yance. I got that big old sucker again!” The old mythic lobster, a dark green and splotched character swept up from the drama of the sea, serious as a clutch of dark bones, was waved in the air, a semaphore of impractical sorts. When Judd, at length, heaved him over the side, the splash was gone quickly.


Suddenly Judd was in the middle of a grand reverie. This hard-working man, who fought against the hard sea, all things around him buffeted by the fishing laws and the Maritime Laws and the low catches of the times and the often bare scratching for survival that colored every moment of his days, was caught in a reverie. But the reverie he enjoyed. It said it had captured him up as if scooped by a great fist. It said that someone was standing right beside him. It said someone was sharing the deck with him, sharing the slight cut of the breeze on his skin and the roll of the deck marking its meter at his knees and his hips; and sharing the wide expanse flattening out beyond everything just the way Kansas grass or Iowa grass surely must go on forever, or the void out past all the stars. And the soft and hollow ache coming anew in his chest.


Yancey Dewey, pulling and yanking at his own traps, yelled, his voice carrying cleanly over the water. “The sleepless monster takes the bait again! You can bet one thing on it, Judd.” He stood straight up from his task on the deck of his boat, a mark of punctuation for his words. “Your old man’s got a hand in this. Said he’d never let go and he sure hasn’t.”


The endless roll of the sea was yet broadcasting itself at Judd Farro’s knees, at his hips, swinging its mythical and timeless magic, and far over the small white caps running under the most patient of winds, from a distance without measure, from either that far not-so-illuminated point of reference on the horizon or from the confines of his own mind, he heard the chant his father had sung: The sea is full, but the pan is clean. The waves may be rough, but the butter’s keen. You’ve been done in by baits and chums, now sleep, me Bucko, until eternity comes.


Judd Farro, deep within himself, as far down as he could go, knew that the sleepless lobster would come again into his trap, that the indelible marking would endure, until the time came when he would be stretching out for it himself, the sea all around him.


The sea had its laws and regulations.

A Greater Kingdom and a Lesser Court by Tom Sheehan

“Hey, Ward,” said the livery man, “did you see that new dude in town, looks like he got dressed up in New York for fun and was kicked out here on the stage to give us all a laugh. Sure is a funny lookin’ dude. I almost laughed aloud when he near fell off’n the stage with them funny boots he’s awearin’, never mind the flummery shirt with ruffles a girl can’t get enough of.”

“Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that gent,” Ward Hagler said, running the oil swab over his gun again for the hundredth time in the afternoon. “Man don’t mean nothin’ to me dressed like that. Could be a drummer drummin’ up business by his looks ‘fore he tells us who he is. Guess is as good as mine.”

The livery man knew Hagler, a gun polisher, had been in town for more than a week and seemed to know just about everybody, at least by name. And Hagler was a customer, so there were no more questions. About anything.

Reverend John Sloan Whitaker, leaving his one bag of property on the boardwalk, walked from the stage stop and stood in front of his new assignment, the small Church of the Western Star sitting on the main road passing through Jitney Falls, Colorado Territory. His gaze swept the skies looking for the first cloud in weeks, and a sign of blessing on his new position. Nothing appeared in the sky, not cloud or sign. He settled on watching a whirl of dust rise in the middle of the road and saw it disappear as it thinned out. “The sins collected in Jitney Falls can also be dissipated,” he said to nobody around him, “as long as I stay dedicated to my vow.”

The old fear was hanging on. Perhaps a reminder, he was thinking, not to stray afield. Then someone spoke from inside the open door of the church. “I suspect you’re the new minister assigned here. We’ve been waiting on you. Glad you arrived before Sunday’s on us again without a sermon to mull over during the week.”

A comely woman in her mid twenties, lips ablaze, teeth shining like stars, in riding garb, a wide-brimmed hat hanging on a leather string around her neck, wearing a pale green blouse that almost leaped up into her eyes, stepped from the interior of the church. He saw neatness, trimness, each quality adding to the basic beauty about the woman. He affirmed that she was lovely, even at first glance.

She spoke again, her voice still warm, hosting, “I’m Pamela Hanks. The congregation appointed me as a welcome committee of one because they all have things to do and we’ve been waiting for weeks, really.”

The softness of her voice grabbed Whitaker swift as a lasso. “Whoa, Lord,” he said under his breath, “don’t rush me now, I beg you.” The woman was most beautiful, with the pearls of pale green eyes sitting on a lovely face, a complexion clear as a spring rain, and a subtle motion crowded with grace as she offered her hand. Neither her work-worn riding pants, nor a pair of work gloves idly tucked into her belt, changed any mark of grace.

Nor did the touch of her hand.

As swiftly as he could, Whitaker collected himself, knew the indescribable softness of the extended hand, and said, “I’m John Whitaker, at this new assignment. Sorry I’m late, but there were a few problems on the way. I am sincerely pleased to be here, to serve the community, and to meet such a pleasant member of the congregation.” Both of them were aware that the handshake lasted at least a second longer than either had expected.

Her gaze was full of immediate concern, as were her words. “I hope nothing happened on the road. There’s been an indecent amount of trouble on the run between here and the capital. Anything serious?”

“We were held up. The shotgun rider was killed by one of the bandits. There were three of them and they were mean as they come. But two of them, by the hand of one of the passengers, were fully dispatched and are now in the hands of the good Lord.”

“Oh, my goodness. You didn’t get hurt, did you?” “

“Not a bit. Good fortune and the good Lord were willingly on my side.” A look crossed his face that she understood immediately, when he said, “But I am hungry. Perhaps famished is the word. Where’s the best meal served in town?”

“It isn’t served in town,” she said quickly. “It’s served at my parents’ ranch not too far out of town. You get squared away on your lodgings across the street there at Mrs. MacGregor’s. She has a small place for the minister of the church. It’s part of her tithing, and she’s quite proud of it. Pretend that you’re not hungry and can’t eat right now, for she’ll try to insist on it. You’ll love her like your grandmother, I promise. And I’ll meet you here in about an hour. That sound okay to you?”

“I’d be delighted.”

Pamela Hanks understood the message passing between them, and enjoyed again the nimble hand and fingers of the new minister as they shook hands again. She couldn’t wait until she told her mother about the new minister in Jitney Falls, Reverend John Sloan Whitaker who could outshine the outlandish clothes he wore. She wondered where he had come by them. His shirt was about the stuffiest and most overdressed ever seen in Jitney Falls. Why, she thought, hadn’t she noticed it the first thing.

In the saloon that night, Dumper Squalls, a part-time everything including being a talker of known proportions, held the fort at the bar, trying to describe the new visitor in town. “I saw this guy get off the stage and talk to fancy-pants herself, Pam Hanks. They looked like a pair, the kind that get dressed up when they only got to buy some trinket at the store. Looks like he’s right out of St. Louis or Chicago with them duds he’s got on, then I hear he’s the new minister. An odd lot if you ask me. Ain’t they supposed to be the salt of the earth? Regular as they can be without doing too much about it, them ministers of the church?” He shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands over his head as if all was lost. “Leaves me plain all-out wondering. All I got to say.”

Of course, it wasn’t.

On the edge of town, out where the trail leads off to the Hanks’ ranch, a rider in the deep evening shadows of a cottonwood copse, a slim rider, moving cautiously, watched another man on horseback leave the Hanks’ ranch and head down the trail to Jitney Falls. The rider in the shadows gently touched his spurs to his mount and the horse snickered, one snicker in the growing darkness. When the rider looked up, the other horse, hardly visible, was rushing down the trail, away from him.

The shadow rider spurred his horse, ran him for half a mile and came across the other horse standing in the trail, his rider nowhere to be seen. He approached the stilled horse cautiously until the reins were in his hand. The saddle bag, sitting in place, appeared stuffed, and he put out his hand to touch it. It was too soft to be the money he was looking for.

“Mister,” he muttered, “whoever you are, and wherever you fell off your horse, I’ll find you and the money.”

About to turn around to go looking for the other rider, now afoot, he heard the gun click off the side of the trail.

“You move a muscle, Sherick,” a voice said from the darkness, “and you’re dead.” The tone was calm though serious, but had no edge on it. “Get off your horse real slow. Drop the reins over the muzzle and onto the ground. Let go the other reins. All of it easy, all of it slow and sure. The shotgun rider on the stage is dead, his two sons are out there now looking for you, as well as every sheriff and marshal from here to the state lines any direction you want to look.”

The tone changed a bit: “The promise, what I hear, is they’ll be meaner than you and a lot quicker.”

Sherick said, “You took the money we aimed to get. You’re a thief too.”

“Dead wrong about that, Sherick. The money was wrapped in the window curtains of the stage. Someone somewhere let on that you boys were going to give it a try, but west of Jitney Falls, not where you tried it. You surprised the stage driver and he surprised you. He wasn’t counting on anybody getting killed.”

“So what are you going to do now? I don’t think I ever saw you before the robbery. I know you from someplace that won’t come back to me yet, but I’ll get it. What’s next? You could kill me here and you’d be clear. Anyway, how’d you know my name?”

“I heard the gent who gave the word said ‘Sherick’s the boss,’ so that’s you from what I saw. Besides, Kripps the shotgun was a good guy. I’ll let his kin do the joy work. You start walking down the road after you drop your guns and I’ll give you a chance to get your horse and come back here, after I’m gone, to get your weapons. That’s all I’ll do this time. It’s about all the goodness I have left for you. It’s just enough to get it done this way. Now move out.”

The sudden hardness in his voice seemed generated on the spot.

Sherick said, “Yeh, like that first time wasn’t enough.” He dropped his gun belt and started down the road. The darkness swept him up as he listened, hoping to hear the hoof beats retreating the other way.

Rev. John Sloan Whitaker, moving back towards the Hanks’ spread, recalled his evening with Pamela and her folks, overhearing her father say to his wife that “the minister sure dresses mighty peculiar for my taste. Looks like he’s more for the stage than the pulpit.”

Other than that summation of his appearance, the evening was thoroughly pleasant, and the reverend knew he was in love for the first time in his life.

At the door, parting, she said, “Don’t worry about my folks and their ideas about your clothes. As for me, clothes don’t make the man.” She held his hand tightly, sent a message or two, and kissed him lightly before he knew what was happening. Like a wispy shadow, she slipped back into the house, leaving him stunned on the porch.

A short way from the ranch, he stripped his outer garments and put on a shirt and pants from his saddle bag, strapped on a gun belt with a single revolver. He was disappointed that he had to wear the same boots, but his regular boots were with his gear at Mrs. MacGregor’s place.

It felt good to get his regular clothes on, even as he felt unsettled in his new role. He felt like he was pinning the tail on the donkey, a kids’ game he had played once as a boy. He knew he was trying to figure out how best to play his role … he had no idea of what lay in front of him. Jake Stoddard himself was ignorant of that also … though dedicated to find the problem and solve it.

Even before he heard Sherick’s horse in the darkness, he continued to scour his past for what had brought him to Jitney Falls in the first place.

It was an unnerving drama that had sent him this way, and in the manner he had arrived.

All that came back to him too, as he rode away from the Hanks’ spread, the shadows deep, him as deep, wonder and question riding his saddle as though they belonged there.

Only a week earlier, 100 miles down the trail in Linden, he had been simply walking past the bank when gunfire erupted and all hell broke loose, inside the bank as well as outside. Three men, with a woman hostage, emerged from the bank with bags of money. A man in a strange looking outfit, but wearing two guns on his belt, walked across the street and said, “Hold on there, gents. Let the lady go and you can go on your way. No more shooting. Is that a good deal?”

“Listen, Fancypants,” one of the robbers said, “We keep her. We keep the money. You keep still and drop your guns right there.”

Fancypants, a complete novelty in his garb for a town of the west, kept walking toward the robbers, now trying to mount their horses and the hostage trying desperately to get out of the clutches of one of the men.

Whitaker watched the whole show from his spot against the wall, his hands at his sides. He appeared useless, harmless, and almost invisible against the bank wall.

“Don’t come any closer,” one robber yelled at Fancypants, aiming his gun at him, and Whitaker, standing still long enough, took that moment to go for his guns.

Fancypants, in the middle of the road, ducked as the bullets began to fly. Whitaker fired. The robbers fired. Whitaker went down and Fancypants stood over him until a bullet took him down, sprawling across Whitaker, still protecting him.

Action continued in a hasty manner as the town erupted.

The woman hostage got loose, the robbers fled with the loot, and Fancypants whispered to Whitaker, not letting anybody else hear him, “I’m U.S. Marshal Jake Stoddard heading to Jitney Falls disguised as the new minister of the church there. Some big doings up there where a lot of people are going to get hurt. We got to find out what’s going on. Please take my place. All my gear is up in the back of the livery, under some hay. Way in the back it is. Please do my job for me. I know you tried here. I think you owe me that much.”

His pause was sincere and necessary.

He coughed, gagged, spit some blood and said, “Until you get this done for me, bury me on Boot Hill as J.S. Noone.” He laughed. “My pa will love the humor in it when he realizes what we can pull off when we want. He always wanted me to be a lawman. I’ve tried my best. Later you can take care of things. My folks’ll understand. They’re in Clamitch Hills, Texas.” He spit again, coughed again, and said, “Swear you’ll do it.”

Whitaker swore an oath.

Jake Stoddard, a real marshal and a fake minister, died in the arms of a fake minister and a fake marshal whose real name was John Sloan Whitaker, good gun-hand, sometimes drover and dreamer, especially for a real woman in his life, coming actor pretending to be a minister, but a marshal for real in his own mind.

Whitaker took care of things in Linden, retrieving the marshal’s gear, taking care of the burial, locking things in his mind.

The next morning he took a stage headed west. He went as plain John Whitaker, changed en route in a small settlement, took another stage, heading for Jitney Falls, as Reverend John Sloan Whitaker, in clothes he had never worn before … and he hoped he wouldn’t have to wear them for long. He was especially upset at the boots, too pretty, too fluffy on his feet, no horse command in them.

Even by accident, things progress around us, happen to us. He remembered his mother saying that, too. “When you hitch a wagon, John, you best ride it no matter what happens. Make your decisions count.”

In Jitney Falls, within his first hour, he met Pamela Hanks, whom he fell in love with in an instant, got rooms at Mrs. MacGregor’s establishment, was invited to dinner at the Hanks’ ranch, fell deeper in love with the woman he thought he must have been looking for his whole adult life, and was nearly accosted on the road by a bandit he had seen at work one time earlier.

On a small rise looking over the Hanks’ spread, he watched for half the night, worried that Sherick would try to enact some measure of revenge. He wondered what had made him let Sherick go, as if he had not done anything illegal. Perhaps the role of the minister, seeking goodness in all things, was working on him already.

Sherick did not show and before dawn, Whitaker slipped back into his small cabin at the rear of Mrs. MacGregor’s place.

He slept until noon when Mrs. MacGregor woke him for lunch. “Up and at ‘em, Mr. Sloan. The day’s near done. I know you came back late and I know you were invited to Hanks’ house. But this is your real home while you’re in Jitney Falls. At least, I’ll try to make it so. Lunch is about.”

At the table they gabbed for a short time, before Whitaker asked his first question. “What’s going on behind the shades in this town, Mrs. MacGregor?” he said with a half laugh, “and I’m not talking about family matters, if you know what I mean.”

“I sure hope you don’t speak twisted like that from the pulpit. Mr. Whitaker. Folks won’t take well to it. They’re looking for plain talk all the way. That’s what they need, just all-out plain talk. They’ve been fed so much mush these days you have to wonder how dumb or how smart they really are.”

“So what’s behind the scenes?” His gaze was steady on her.

“I’m no country bumpkin, Mr. Whitaker. You didn’t light here one day and the next day be full up of questions like that. I suspect that you’re not all the collar man that you try to be.” She stopped, thought it over and said, “Or what looks to be.” Then came again, saying, “I bet your horse likes those boots you’re awearing, though, soft as duck mush, kind as kisses.” She laughed long and loud and cut him another piece of pie.

They talked well into the afternoon, before he sauntered over to the church, his suspicions correct, because Pamela Hanks was doing a serious job of housekeeping, dust occasionally rising from her broom, a hand wiping her brow. She looked as elegant as ever, he decided, and recalled instantly that she looked just as good in work pants with a pair of work gloves folded in the belt line.

As she came to the front of the church, she said, “Well, how did you like Mrs. MacGregor? Isn’t she refreshing?”

“She really is,” Whitaker replied, “and we had a long and serious conversation about things in general?”

“And nothing in particular?”

“Oh, we did that side of things too.”
*

He recalled a good part of the conversation when it had turned quite serious, hitting on the interesting spots.

“Listen,” Mrs. MacGregor had said at one point, “what’s going on hereabouts has nothing to do with rustling cattle or water rights of the river or the stream or the spring up there in Calamity Hills, or fenced property or mine claims. That stuff is as old as the hills, as the Old Kentuckian says.”

“That about eliminates everything possible, doesn’t it?” His look was serious, yet still held a question in it as if he readily agreed that he did not know as much as her. She had another option to present, he suddenly realized.

“That’s easy, son, though the problem won’t be coming along just yet.” The light was in her eyes when she said, “It’s statehood, plain and simple. People gathering momentum for the changeover. Power plays will be coming because controlled power comes with statehood, not the sporadic power of the territory.”
She watched for the reaction, measured it.

“Are you political? she continued. “Are you for statehood or a territory? You can’t have both. If you want to be piece of a bigger pie, go for statehood, but in statehood hungers have to be tempered. That’s all the caution I can provide for you at this time.”

She leaned forward and gave him another thought to fret over; “Because I cringe in the face of stubborn formality, stop calling me Mrs. MacGregor and call me Kate. Kate it is, plain and simple.”

She measured the impact, smiled the way only a woman can smile in such a situation, and added, “And I’ll call you Reverend or John or whatever pleases you for the duration.” Her eyes were lit like flares.

Full of wonder and more mystery, laughing at their sort of understood stations, Whitaker laughed and said, “You’re not just a lady living here, running rooming services, getting mellower with age, and more beautiful, if I may add, are you?”

Perhaps, he thought, a mask is being taken off.

Mystery and wonder coming together.

She had another piece of advice that definitely touched on inside knowledge of the statehood situation. “If they hired a gunman, keep your eye on a gent named Ward Hagler.” Her mouth sat as firm as her jaw.

She was tying things together, slowly but surely he figured.

The mystery almost asked another question on his part, but Kate MacGregor came up first: “Years ago my husband was killed … by a man who’s now a big shot in politics. I could never prove anything beyond my husband’s dying words, and the killer had too much clout for decency’s sake, so I was lost in the morass. I have been waiting for years to get him, praying for the day of justice. It’s coming, believe me.”

“What side is he on?”

“Believe me,” she said, “it makes no difference. He will pay. George MacGregor was shot in the back but he was the light of my life. The eternal light.” The glow in her eyes set like a memorable evening going downhill.

It touched him as deeply as he’d ever been touched. John Sloan Whitaker realized, in a hurry, that he now had two women in his life.

And Pamela Hanks, in her own ways, had called the shot on both of them.

He felt as lucky as a race winner, running ahead of the pack.

When he said, “Who are the dealers and the players in this?” she answered, “That just makes me figure the collar you wear isn’t the soft and holy stuff we think it is.”

Kate MacGregor went right to her backbone when she said, “Are you going to tell me who you are, or what you are, or what you’re supposed to be? It’s only fair from where I stand, and you know where I stand.”

Oh, she had a way with her, he thought. If she were 30 or so years younger … then he thought, that’s just where Pamela Hanks is right now, 30 or so years young. None of that could be denied.

*

Pamela stood at the door of the church, looking at Whitaker with a leveling stare, and said, “I hope you have a sermon ready for Sunday; people will be expecting the good word to ring again, as loud and as true as the bell above. Her eyes shifted to the small steeple and the small bell overhead, he bell carried west by a now forgotten family who had brought also their hopes with them. Names were lost, the transfer of the bell forgotten and lost forever, only the good intentions might echo with the ringing of the bell.

Whitaker was stunned by his predicament; he had to carry off this accepted assignment, the promise made to the real ranger, the vow that he had settled on himself, the hope he had for Pamela Hanks in a whole new life for him, the belief he had that Kate MacGregor was going to finally get her long-awaited justice.

The predicament would turn on him, solely on him, as his vow had secured. The law of the land and the law of the good Lord overhead, and everywhere one wanted or could believe it to be, would have a meeting ground. He had to provide that meeting ground. What could he say that would touch on all things? It was not his best feature, he knew, the summation of ideas, the joining and the casting of words. He’d have to run anything he came up with past Pamela, let her be his judge in the matter.

She was right at hand. What could he say?

It blurted out: “What do you think about statehood for the territory? Do you have a preference? Has anything been going on that bothers you or your parents about this?” He wanted to tell her what Kate had said, but he held it back. Also, he wanted to bring up Ward Hagler’s name because of Kate MacGregor’s warning, but thought he’d hold that alarm from her. No sense throwing too much at her at one time.

“Oh, I’m for statehood,” she declared, “as long as we don’t let in too many politicians who have learned on the job how to cheat the people of rights and property. We’ve had some strange things going on around here, and across the territory from things I’ve heard.”

Her brow squeezed tightly above her eye line as she further declared, “And we’ve drawn a few strange faces here that look to be up to no common good. One of them, Hagler by name, with the out and out look of a gunman, has been nosing around for more than a week. I fully suspect that he’s nothing more than a hired gun. My father has the same opinion, and he believes these things all tie into the statehood question. There is apparently too much to be gained, or lost or misappropriated from loose ends during the transition.”

Whitaker almost roared in glee as he realized Pamela was so much more like Kate MacGregor than he had initially thought. He could have kissed her, or both of them, at that moment. Life also held some dear things in its arms.

And the vow he’d made welled up in him as if balancing all the goodness coming at him, happening to him.

“Well, Miss Hanks,” he decided to say, “I’m not sure where I stand on statehood, but I am firm on a few other things … I have a sermon in my mind, Kate is as much like you as you are like her, and I am getting fonder of both of you by the day if not the hour.”

Having said too much, he sensed, he hastened to explain. “I will work on the details of the sermon, first word to last word, and will acquaint myself with Mr. Hagler. That will be coming up pretty quickly.”

Pamela said, “Do I need to add a note of caution here, or is it fully understood?”

Her smile broadened his heart; the expansion ran clear through him.

With the sun slanting out over the mountains, the foothills beyond Jitney Falls already into minor shade, Whitaker approached the livery where he heard that Ward Hagler kept watch on the town … who came and who went, who needed horses tended, who else had a new face in town.

The play-acting marshal play acting at ministry saw Hagler sitting in front of the livery, one of his guns just being rubbed clean, the scent of oil carried on a breeze.

Hagler looked up to see the minister, in the funny clothes and the funny boots, walking toward him, and wearing side arms that sat too comfortable on his belt. He tried to understand the message that was coming at him but never got the full grasp. Instead, he said, “Hey, Minister, I see you still got the funny boots on. That mean you’re not going any place soon, at least not on horseback?”

Whitaker said, “I’m not going to be chasing any hired punk gunman out of town, because he won’t even get to his saddle.”

The alert was in more focus as Hagler said, “And who says so?”

“The man who says it owns the hands that got Diamond Dick Reddly and Poor Soul Jack Simmons on the same day in that little settlement down the river, at which you might have been a visitor.”

The alert was all the way home, and Ward Hagler, nothing more than a hired gun, suddenly measuring all his opponents of late, realized he was out-matched. “Not me, Minister. I’m out of here.” He turned to the livery man and said, “Saddle up my horse. I’m leaving town.” He added, in a hard voice, “Now.”

He turned to Whitaker and said, “Who are you, Mister?

Whitaker, finding words leaping up for his use, said, “I am the judge of the lesser court.” It sounded so good to him that he repeated it; “Just the lesser court. All the rest has another judge.” Oh, would it be this way for his sermon.

It felt like a working charm coming off his lips, coming out of his mouth, as Hagler, his guns swinging when he hustled to his horse, mounted up and rode out of town.

The livery man said, “You know who he is, Minister?”

“What he was he no longer is,” a smiling Whitaker replied, his tongue most comfortable in his mouth. He thought he could feel the sermon gaining full headway in the back of his mind.

The play-acting minister being a play-actor marshal walked about town for almost a whole week, getting to know people, talking, listening to glad stories and stories of woe. He discovered that a lot of activity was taking place in the town, some of it all hidden in the folds of the community. Some of it was so overt it was never conceived to be connected.

He also understood that an undertone of discussions was taking place, with him as the center. It was determined that he was different as ministers go, and some of that came from the livery man who mentioned a number of times how Ward Hagler had ridden out of town on his own.

From that, of course, other points were noted; his interest in Pamela Hanks, his connection with Kate MacGregor, his surfacing at odd hours in the oddest place, like a fisherman looking for a good pool to drop his bait in.

A freighter at the saloon said, “If he’s a proper minister, why’s he wear guns some day? I swear I saw him out of town and not wearin’ them stupid clothes a his. And wearin’ real boots, too, ‘cause he was on horseback.”

But it was Kate MacGregor who broke the big piece of news to him. “Listen to what I’m going to tell you. There’s a big man coming in to town tomorrow who has stolen some huge tracts of land by legal thievery, and he’s looking for more. He wants to have the biggest ranch in the west and he’s well on his way to get it. He wants nothing to do with statehood until his claims are all fixed legal like so the transition can be made legal when Colorado becomes a state. It’s coming down to that.”

“What’s his name?” Whitaker said. “How do you know so much?”

“My sister’s boy works for him. Has been in his camp for years. He lets me know certain tidbits of information, but has to be very careful. I worry about him a great deal.” She told him the name of the thieving politician, pretending to be against statehood for Colorado, but down the road, all for it.

The politician’s troupe entered town in the morning, with the tragic news that one of their party had been killed on the trip, at night, by an unknown killer who fled with no gain for his act.

Kate MacGregor was beside herself with hate and anger, feeling the victim was her nephew. It wasn’t, as it turned out, but one member of the troupe who had borrowed her nephew’s horse to ride into a small settlement, supposedly to mail a letter back to his sweetheart. Kate knew what the real scenario was supposed to look like … the rider slipping off to mail a letter was leaking information, and was doomed.

It all fell in the lap of the play-acting marshal play-acting at being a minister.

The next day, Sunday, broke clear out over the far hills and ran on the grass it seemed for a hundred miles. The Church of the Western Star was full to capacity before services started, including the political shiners ready to work their end of things in the town. A few children sat stock-still in their seats. Two elderly people, both crippled, sat at the back door. A mix of middle age and senior age citizens made up most of the congregation. Kate MacGregor’s long-sought enemy was there surrounded by his entourage, and when Reverend John Sloan Whitaker stepped to the pulpit, Kate nodded towards her sworn foe. Almost at the same second, Pamela Hanks shifted her eyes to identify him to Whitaker.

Though a sham at what he was doing, the man in the pulpit felt absolutely lucky in having two grand women in his corner. All he had to do was carry it all off the way he figured Marshal Jake Stoddard would do it.

He began: “All of you, or most of you I will say to correct myself, have come here to please yourself and the Good Lord who watches over you. You will ask for things that seem impossible to come to you, or thank Him above for what has come to you in the past. That is all standard stuff from the pulpit. It will be said today a thousand times in this spreading land, and indeed it is spreading. Many of us at the same time are bound to atone for sins we have committed against each other and against the Good Lord who provides for us.”

“Those transgressions, to use a polite word, range from horse stealing, rustling, thievery, abuse upon our weaker brethren, and range all the way from bushwhacking murderers who have long thought their deeds are behind them, to those who currently are proposing not what they believe in but trying to throw those beliefs falsely to the wayside, the liars that they are.”

“All these transgressions, these foul deeds, these rotten-to-the-core acts, these deadly sins, are passed through a Lesser Court in this life. Sometimes that Lesser Court works well and sometimes it doesn’t even scratch the surface. The guilty may be forgiven, chastised, let go or, indeed, possibly honored for their misdeeds. What a sham it is in many cases, this Lesser Court of ours.”

He scanned the congregation, looking into eyes, measuring his delivery. “It only stands in the way of the Greater Kingdom that waits beyond. Some of us will not get there. That is what I am preaching today. Those killers among us, those bushwhackers, those who have pulled the wool over the eyes of too many people for too long are coming to the Gates of the Greater Kingdom, after eluding the Lesser Court that serves us.”

Whitaker caught his breath, looked into a few pair of eyes as intently as had ever done, and continued. “Much of what I say has roots in the politics of the land. The territory has been the subject of statehood on a number of occasions and a number or referendums, none yet accepted, but be sure to know that statehood is coming upon us. Those who deny it or misrepresent their aims in the matter will not prevail.”

“If you want something to think about during the coming week, the coming month, the coming year until we enter statehood, remember who stood up for you.

“If I pulled my pistol now and pointed it at you, waved it around, how many guilty ones among you would run for their lives?

With a sudden move he dropped his hand below the pulpit. Benches creaked. Chairs squeaked. Boot soles and heels suddenly twitched on the course wooden floor. Some of the congregation heard their hearts pump, the pounding in their chests, pumping up into their necks.

Kate MacGregor, standing like the avenging angel, had dropped her hand on the shoulder of her husband’s killer who thought he had died. She stood in place, nodding at the preacher, then raised her free hand over her head and yelled out so that the words bounced off the walls of the little church, “Lord, strike us down.”

There came pandemonium in the Church of the Western Star as the political and moral adversary of Kate MacGregor fled the scene with his cohorts. They said later that he was dead out on the street of Jitney Falls before he hit the dust.

All the pretenses were revealed, some accepted and some not.

Whitaker married Pamela Hanks in the same church. Kate MacGregor was the matron of honor. On their honeymoon the newly married couple went to Clamitch Hills, Texas to tell Jake Stoddard’s parents how his last duty had been most honorably discharged in the new state of Colorado.

The Aztec Raiders by Tom Sheehan

It was, all of them would agree later, as if they had passed through a sense of time. And few of their countrymen, and few occupants of the first saloon they’d go to singe their thirst, would believe where they had been and what they had accomplished … gone deep into Mexico and brought home a chunk of the Aztec treasury, right out of one of Montezuma II’s formidable Holy Caissons dug for eternity. Where many historians attested to the grand structures the Aztecs had raised in the midst of jungles, Pappy Dyk, in his own right, knew about the secret caissons the Aztecs had dug and chiseled into Mother Earth herself. No one in Hidalgo but Pappy Dyk knew from what tribe he had come on the land, coming a whole year earlier to Hidalgo to plan the expedition, now coming back from Mexico.
Time after time, on their way home, on the way to get across the final river, they traversed death-borne areas covered with bones and burial markers, ravines and canyons and mountains that put heavy strain on their horses and spirits, thick jungles crawling with threats, and then, in one canyon after another, wild rivers claiming some of their more timid horses. The remade had been good size at the start, with pack animals a necessity for the expedition, as Pappy Dyk called it. It was, from beginning to end, fraught with physical perils from all corners and all comers, as well as the insidious likes of dysentery and scratching hints of morbidity.
But, all in all, it was the biggest heist in the west, led by the renowned Pappy Dyk, surname never revealed, who, in spite of his appearance, his language and his morals, always knew that history sat on his lap every time out of the corral, so his aspirations were always monumental. This time he had not ignored the summons at all, for Mexico had called him, the Aztecs had called, and Montezuma II himself had called, from beyond the void, from his unique place in history’s queue, atop a holy mountain of wealth.
His voice had come loud and wide and rocking with vibrations into too many of Pappy Dyk’s deep sleeps, too loud to be ignored, too rocking with dare and challenge, too mystic to call it a dream. It shook him awake on those many nights, a simple message waiting for a reply.
Pappy Dyk, with a faint prophecy of a tribal shaman, heard of the Holy Caissons of the Aztecs, the deep sanctuaries where the wealth of the emperor was distributed into parcels of value so that each caisson was unique in its own contents, deep, virginal, pure of insurmountable wealth. It was told him that a single yellow-breasted Verdun had gained entrance to the secret caissons and came away with the knowledge of all therein, and sang of it to those who could hear the music in the magical places of Mexico and southwest America, calling with its sweet song … tswee-swee, tswee … tswee-swee, tswee … tswee-swee, tswee. Pappy Dyk heard the music calling, heard the song it sang, knew the words it spoke.
Pappy Dyk could, in some inscrutable way unknown to the rest of the party, measure history and his impact on its pages, knowing he was born for great things. Did not the Shaman and the sachem say at his birth, in a cave in the Tetons, at the bottom of the earth where the tremor fires kept them warm all their first winter, that he was born to move men and the time of men? That he was born at the very foot of Earth was a sign in itself. He did not feel at all squeamish about taking any of the Aztec treasure; they had hidden enough to light up the continent, he was sure, though the blood of thousands of slaughtered, sacrificial innocents had stained the emperor’s hands and in turn had tinted gold and jewels in the hidden treasuries. The payoff would transcend many levels of recompense.
Thus, as the stories tell it, the expedition came back from the border beaten to a pulp, every one of them. But if not whole as men, for in truth most of them were shot up or carrying arrow wounds, one hand missing, a few fingers, one big toe still under a huge rock back down the trail, they were still whole as a gang of adventurers. And Pappy Dyk was still out front, the leader, his saddle bags full. When they crossed the tough rivers, he made sure his saddle bags were set on maneuverable log rafts and not placed within the peril of frantic horses caught in an awful stream.
As they entered the quiet town of Hidalgo, latest part-time home to most of the men, hoof beats setting a musical tone and touching his mind, Pappy Dyk was remembering, to the last detail, how the Indians had come out of a wadi as if they were cavalry horsemen, in skirmish lines, bare feet apart, headlong in their run, feathers and spears and all colored ornaments waving like streamers in the awful sunset. It was the way Custer would have trained them. Or some old line officer now sleeping with a squaw in a teepee village or, more likely, in a cave of Mexico’s high mountains.
Shaking his head in admiration, he was still thinking about that charge as they rode into town, looking for a bath, a shot of whiskey, a woman, and a bank where they could do business.
It had been a perilous adventure. Now, on entrance, coming home to a new depository, he reflected on the men who had made the journey with him, whom he called the Redoubtable Nine, him included. They still rode with him and had never faltered in their quest, not in the face of steepest odds, gallant warriors, or geography so harsh they’d have a hard time describing it to people. Yet here they came with the hoof beats and he looked slowly at each man, marking him, measuring him, wishing he could mend him: Quincy, Tanker, Yancy Joe, Berlingswell the Brit, Black Dan’l, Volkstaj, One Big Water they called OBW and the Comanche named Sheep Peril who had the finest eyesight and the keenest ears of any man yet born of woman.
In turn Pappy Dyk smiled, laughed inwardly, shook with pride, felt the pains of bodily loss, and knew courage and valor had ridden with him on every foot of the journey. The hoof beats continued their music, their cadence, like a line of marchers was sounding out. Indeed, he had moved men to a world away from their natural confines, and had moved them into another time, all as prophesied, all part of history moving within his vision. He imagined Quincy’s thumb under the rock he had pushed Pappy Dyk away from, only to have the rock smash and obliterate his thumb. They had cut it off, the straggly remnants, even as Quincy had said, bowing to accolades, “We ain’t getting’ there without you, Pappy Dyk, and we sure as hell ain’t getting’ back home without you leadin’ the way.”
In one visionary leap he caught Tanker, as the line of Indian infantry came in on their flank from the defiled wadi and what they had seen in passing the day before as a blind canyon, take down with his rifle nine of them abreast in the front line of the charge, not sweating, not rushing, barely breathing, his rifle smoking, him talking pause and patience all the while: That’s a one … that’s a two … that’s a three … that’s a four … until the whole of the line was down, half the horses down and broken too, his mouth never closed, his voice a soft hunk of security with every word he uttered. Pappy Dyk remembered another incident as he sat by a stream soaking his feet in the rushing water, and Tanker, from the shadows, saying, “Don’t you move none, Pappy Dyk, when I squeeze off this trigger ‘cause there’s a mean lookin’ snake comin’ up on you from the backside and I aim to cut off his head.”
“Don’t talk,” Pappy Dyk had said, holding perfectly still, not even swishing his hot feet in the cool water, “just shoot.”
Shoot Tanker did and the head of the snake, having left the main body, popped in the air like a jack rabbit had jumped in place and fell right beside Pappy Dyk ’s hand.
“How long did you have your eye on him, Tanker?”
“Oh, a bit. If he went away I would have saved a bullet. Never know when we’ll need the last one.”
“No other options?”
“Not for the livin’. Only for the near dead, and you was it.”
The hoof beats, like drums at a tattoo, came again, dust rising in the road, the images leaping, as OBW loped into his vision, and the restful night, deep in the jungles after a perilous river crossing had been accomplished, and Berlingswell the Brit, just putting a fresh log on the fire, asked One Big Water where his name had come from. “Were you pointing at a massive lake or a wide river or the very blue Pacific Ocean itself? Is that how you received your name? I understand that is how names get assigned, the signatory act of the individual.” His head was cocked in its professorial angle, curiosity a familiar scamp on the face of the deadliest knife fighter Pappy Dyk had ever seen in action, like a Whitehall’s Jack the Ripper in a southwestern costume.
“Oh, no,” OBW said, “in my Nation we have no names other than a papoose name until we reach the age of 20 moons.”
“Well, what came about then? What should I surmise from that, if there is no forthcoming explanation?”
“It is a simple tale. I was with my elder brother and my father on the appointed day of naming and we had been fishing on a wide river and woke after spending the night beside a great waterfall, and they were both taking a leak, and crossing swords as you say it, off the high cliff edge down into the deep ravine and I simply said, when pointing at them, ‘One Big Water.’”
Pappy Dyk shook again with the laughter that had exploded in the jungle that night, which somehow softened the entire jungle, setting leaf and frond and blossom at grateful ease, their sleep the first solid sleep in a month, their guard down one time and one time only. That is the one night, the one moment of relapse, he believed, that they could have been set upon with little recourse to saving their butts, but laugh again he did, a muted laugh, a pleasurable laugh, as if all good things were at hand after the completion of the perilous expedition, and Hidalgo coming to wrap its arms around the troupe of them.
He added a soft “perhaps” to that last thought.
He felt good, extremely grateful, saved. His senses warmed him all over, and in one look, warned him.
It was at that moment, when he saw the sheriff who had long professed his disdain for black people, that Black Dan’l rode into Pappy Dyk ’s vision. “I hope,” Pappy Dyk said in another whisper, “that that mean son of a bitch doesn’t open his mouth about Dan’l because I’ll be the one to shut it first. We all know he’s got some of the blood in him, and that makes his life a whole rotten lie.”
Black Dan’l, handsome as a sunset, singer and hummer of innumerable songs, wayfarer of pleasantness, deadly with fist, knuckle, knee, elbow, head, and now and then a knife or a bow or a machete in a perilous swath, rode beside Pappy Dyk in some kind of a salute. He harrumphed loudly, a personal knock at a known adversary, the sheriff, letting the sheriff know that he was on the aft end of a great journey, that he had carried his weight as well as any man, that Black Dan’l was a man entirely accountable in a match, a scrape, an invasion into the heart of the old Aztec Empire. The sheriff should know that half a mountain in Tennessee was waiting on his return, a mountain begging to be bought by a promising son.
If there was one act that Pappy Dyk would see commissioned before all this was over, it was Black Dan'l’s purchase of healthy land for his parents, for his family.
“See him?” Dan’l said, riding up closer beside him, “setting back like a lavender toad, the sun a lie all around him, squeezing what he can before he finally tempts the good Lord with persuasion.”
“He tried riling last time, Dan’l, and you put him solid in his place, and I know you’ll do it again before this day is out, the way he’s wearing that tin of his, all shined like he was the real luster.”
“No luster about him, Pappy Dyk,” Dan’l said. “That man’s more coward than sheriff.”
“Don’t let him stand in the way of that half of a mountain back there in Tennessee, Dan’l. He sure isn’t worth it.”
“Only if he goes for a weapon, Pappy Dyk. I’ll take anything for my folks, but not a weapon. He’s dead then.”
The finality of that expression socked home with Pappy Dyk as if the old shaman had made another prophecy and Dan’l dropped back in the line of march into Hidalgo as if he had been dismissed.
Djon Volstaj, on the same horse he had left Hidalgo on three months earlier, a huge and long-legged roan stallion, chest thick as a tree trunk, two searing scars across his chest from gunfire on a riverbank fight that Volstaj had treated with devotion, wearing white stockings on three legs, came up beside Pappy Dyk.
“Is Dan’l worried about that rat ass, Pappy Dyk? Set me on him tonight and I’ll clear it all the way back to Tennessee for Dan’l. That night in the big cave, when he caught those rabbits of sneaky knife wielders, is due a lifetime of payback as far as I’m concerned. If anything happens to me, tonight or ever, I want my share to go to Dan’l and no chances otherwise. Every dollar of it when it gets to be counted that way, or my lump of everything else coming my due. If Dan’l gets messed up, see that his folks get that whole damned mountain for their own. It’s the least I can do for a man who stuck his butt in the way of death for me.”
“The man knows a knife, doesn’t he, Djon?”
“Slicker’n butchers afore a shivaree, Pappy Dyk. I bet some of them gents ain’t felt the slice of that blade yet.”
He shook his head as he looked back at the sheriff sitting back on the small porch of the general store like he was the clerk taking a break from work. Sunlight glinted off his badge and shone like a ray into Volkstaj’s eyes.
“Man’s a pretender from the starting line. Nothing lower than that. Playing games, making believe. Makes me throw up when I think about him, ashamed of the woman brought him into the world. That’s a horror story I would have ended in a damned hurry if I was on that drive. I can’t imagine them cowpokes taking a black woman on the trail, tying her up during the day and letting her loose at night for favors. I’d a shot them all. Maybe it’s him just hating anybody rides horses, herders or not.” He paused, bouncing in the saddle, looking around, seeing a woman now and then on a boardwalk or at a building’s doorway, his head keening with pleasant memories almost half a lifetime ago. “Where was them drovers from? How’d she ever get away?”
“Some Shawnees set on them,” Pappy Dyk said. “Dropped all the riders, and the father of her baby, I’d guess, but she was tied up in the bed of the wagon and the Shawnees wouldn’t go near her. Afraid of some spirit hanging around. Just rode on and left her there in the wagon, to her own being or whatever god might come her way. Run off with the entire herd, they did, enough to feed a whole Nation, but wouldn’t go near her. Some other wagon driver came by and freed her. Some months later, not back in town but at the ranch of a widow, she gave birth to the baby. Before they knew it, he became sheriff.”
Volkstaj slowed his horse, looked back again at the sheriff, nodded at Pappy Dyk and said, “I was always counting on you, Pappy Dyk. No different now, or tonight, rich or broke to the last dollar.” With that said, he slipped back in the line still advancing into the heart of Hidalgo.
In a matter of seconds, Yancy Joe was at his side. “I guess this is my turn in the turn of goodbyes, or how you’ll have it Pappy Dyk. We sure are going on from here in short order. I know you’re headed up river and somewhat overland, and Dan’l will be hightailing it for that damned mountain he’s been dreaming about for years. Blessed be a man who carries a decent dream that long in his tote bag. Speaks well of him, he’s man enough for any mountain Tennessee has.”
“Yancy, don’t get me crying after all this time. I had a good laugh back on this road about The Brit and OBW’s name day.”
“Well,” Yancy Joe said, shifting the conversation, “I can’t stop thinking how Sheep smelled out those bandits that night on the river. They had to be a mile away and he said he got them on the wind. I swear, Pappy Dyk, I wouldn’t want him chasing me even in the dark. He said it was no more than ten men and it was nine of them. I don’t know whether he smelled them or heard them or saw them, but none of any way would surprise me.”
He held his hand out, touching Pappy Dyk on the sleeve. “You’re the best man I ever rode with, Pappy Dyk, and they’re the best damned bunch of hoot owls ever skinned half a continent. Glory be, Pappy Dyk, we did it.” He let out a victorious, unabated howl that went right on down the street and was bound to wake up any girl who was still sleeping behind shades. Pappy Dyk was positive more than one of those girls would recognize that yell and would be scrambling already.
He was sure that his men, before the liquor got to them after the long ride, before a woman took hold of any one of them to her own covers, before a sack of gold and a diamond or two dropped into their hands, had arranged among themselves to pay personal tribute to the man who took them into the heart of Mexico and brought them back, onto the main street of their part-time hometown, and most of them soon to leave it behind.
It touched him deeply, and it was not yet over. Sheep Peril, dressed in solid black, a warrior of the night, a tell-tale black band still circling his forehead like a tattoo, a formidable foe by eyesight and hearing, sidled up beside Pappy Dyk. He was somewhat of a chameleon, whether afoot or on horseback, and in his turn at accolades and thanks came forward cautiously. Though he rarely spoke, much of his communication coming from hand signals, a shushing was at his mouth as he tested his senses, or expressed something he had discovered, behind them or ahead of them on the street.
Looking like an Indian deacon rather than the full-blooded Comanche he was, Sheep Peril said, giving his warning in short words, his voice little more than a whisper, “Two man leave chair back there. Go behind big barn, I think come up ahead of you. Before you get to bank. One is tin man.”
Pappy Dyk whistled lightly and the rank of horsemen stopped. He told them, in a huddled group, “Sheep saw the sheriff, and another gent, duck behind the livery and he thinks they’ll come out in front of us, with some more men hidden, before we get to the bank and divvy up the goods. That’s not about to happen now. Brit and Yancy go on ahead, making noise like we’re all coming. The rest of us are going to follow trail. If they aim to bushwhack us and grab the goodies, we‘re giving them a similar dose. We have to cover both sides of the street, because it smells like those two have it all planned and they sure aren’t doing it alone. Let’s split up and do it our way. Now let’s trot.”
The two smaller parties, well schooled in such tactics, slipped in between building on the street and were out of sight in seconds. Only the trail dust moved in the road, and very few innocent people.
Berlingswell the Brit, in his fancy hat still in one piece though it wore a few holes, and Yancy Joe, looking twice the size of his horse, took to hollering and setting claims on the world and all its worldly women. Yancy Joe yelled as loud as he had ever yelled. “Maxine, Maxine, darling, are you out of bed yet or ready to get back in it?” He said it three times, loud and noisily, as if he was on a weekend bender; and the professorial-look-alike and sound-alike Berlingswell started shooting his Peacemaker revolver in the air, emptying it, and making his horse rear up and paw the air for balance.
They came on as hellions, but had reduced their approach to a slow saunter as they beamed in celebration and good causes.
“Maxine,” Berlingswell the Brit, yelled in his turn at sociality, “There’s a man out here waiting to see you, darling.” He laughed and roared and stood his horse again on its rear legs.
It came off as a fair and noisy disruption, and only that, and the commotion was duly noted by hidden parties who were ready to pounce on them and relieve them of their burdens. The sheriff, leading the men, had posted half a dozen men out of general sight from the road. None of them had any idea they were, in their turn, about to be set upon, despite the disruptive but harmless noise bouncing in from the road.
Not a shot was fired at anybody in desperation or in the act of attempted murder, by either function, as Pappy Dyk, putting one harmless round between the legs of the sheriff, ceased all clandestine activities with the one shot. “Tell them all to put down their guns, sheriff, or you’re going to be hanged first from the tree out front, as a plain old bushwhacker, and the others will follow in turn, each one of them.”
He then yelled across the road, “You got them covered over there, Comanche?” Pappy Dyk knew the word would stick right in the guts of all cowards who dared sit in wait.
“All on knees,” the Comanche Sheep Peril answered, a guttural exclamation, but one loaded with quick disgust. “All on knees,” he said again, and the pain of embarrassment was worn on a half dozen faces.
The council sat uneasy as Pappy Dyk consigned the sheriff and six other men never to set foot in the town again. They rode off in a bunch, not to be seen again. The town grew quiet, but fully curious, as the Redoubtable Nine entered the bank.
Proceedings went quickly. The bank president called a carpenter and the wagon maker into his office and gave instructions on how to further protect the bank. Even as the meeting proceeded, lasting well over three hours, men were making changes suggested by Pappy Dyk to the building entrances, covering up the back door, blocking off two windows with solid boards taken right off a building next door. A barkeep brought pitchers of beer, with a sidekick carrying meals that sat uneaten until the beer was replenished.
Pappy Dyk made further demands. All were signed and legalized. A lawyer was summoned to assure all the promises of the meeting would be legally written down and witnessed.
A few of the Redoubtables began to get uneasy. Pappy Dyk kept them in place. “We are one group and we act as one.” It was a dictate that none would disobey.
As the meeting began to draw to a close, Pappy Dyk had visions of them scrambling down into the Holy Caisson, guns blazing, knives flashing, yells and screams of horror coming from their mouths as they released more horror than banshees were ever capable of issuing. He looked around the room, at the last gathering they would ever have, and saw them in their redoubtable actions. The Indians, honored guards for all the years, from a tribe that still demanded sacrifices on every new moon, finally had met their match. The song of the verdin had told Pappy Dyk everything he wanted to know, and what the Indians feared most, dreaded to the roots of their souls, was the spirits of the sacrificial lambs coming back to haunt them in return visits. They had dressed as women, every one of the Redoubtable, like the lambs that had been tortured for the gods. They had screamed in higher octaves, like women shrieking in their death knells. The Holy Caisson ached and echoed with their screams, their gunshots, their knives slashing in the air and at tender bodily parts. The lambs, indeed, had returned with a vengeance.
Pappy Dyk, almost in a trance, finally stood up. “Beware of your travels. Men will be looking for you, seeking you out. The story will travel far and fast, so keep your eyes open, your nose clear, like Sheep Peril, and your hand on your weapon. Remember, that you are, from this minute, marked men, at least in this locality, in all of Texas I would fear.” He paused, as if taking his last look at them, and said, “We must know where each other is, at all times. Lay out your plans and destinations now, so we will know each other’s whereabouts, just in case. We went too far, did too much, and came back almost whole.” He laughed as he looked down at the remnant of Quincy’s thumb, “Mark of a man, sir,” he said. Quincy blushed. The room was silent again, waiting for Pappy Dyk to send them on their way.
He said to Dan’l, “We all know where you’re going to be, Dan’l. Say hello to that mountain for us, and your good folk.”
Dan’l simply nodded, though the dream sat in his eyes, like it had always been. He patted his saddle bag, and then his hidden money belt.
Pappy Dyk said to Djon Volstaj, “How about you, sir, where are you bound?”
But all in the room knew what his answer would be except Dan’l. “Hell, captain, he said, standing as if in the ranks, “I ain’t got any place to go, so I’m hitching along with Dan’l to see that mountain he’s been dreaming about, to say hello to those who been waiting on him all this time, and to those who might be along the way planning on no mountain for Dan’l or his folks. That just drives me crazy, and I almost been there a few times already.”
Dan’l stood again in a solemn salute, though no words were exchanged.
“Hell,” Berlingswell the Brit said, “I haven’t any idea of destination for my own purposes, so I might as well plan a Tennessee itinerary.” He smiled at his own sense of humor.”
Dan’l stood again.
Quincy stood and said, “I’m sorry I can’t keep you gents company on the way to Tennessee because I am going to Montana and am going to have the biggest cattle ranch up there. It’s been my own secret dream.” His nods were a decided affirmation of promise; he kept nodding, as did the others.
Tanker, sitting in place, said, “I’m off to Chicago, Pappy Dyk. I’ve had my share of horses, campsites, cold meals, hot fights, and no woman to give my life to. I will find her in Chicago, or New York. I think she’s a singer or an actress. I hope her name is Genevieve or something like that. Maybe Justine or Christine or plain old Molly, but she’ll have dreams that I will fit into.” He closed his eyes and nodded into infinity. “When you gents get to that mountain in Tennessee, or wherever you’ll be, send me wires or mail in Chicago. I’ll tell you what her real name is.” He laughed and said, “When I find out for sure.”
There was significant banging on walls of the building. More beer came in pitchers. Pappy Dyk, waiting on Sheep Peril and One Big Water to advance their own plans in their own time, sat back with a whole pitcher of his own. He heard the verdin singing to him, heard the prophecies on the air and the secrets that had come unto him, and marveled where he had been in the company of these men. There was no other group like them and he had taken them elsewhere, to another time, and brought them back, but with all their prodigious help. He felt the marveling of it really beginning to unfold itself, flicking through his mind in innumerable images that moved onto each other in smooth succession.
Knowing where Pappy Dyk was at that moment, Sheep Peril waited for visions to subside, songs to fall away into far corners, satisfaction to sit down in its place, before he finally said, “I go into the Nations. To my mountain. It waits for me. The papoose I left will ride with me. I go now.”
As slick as a greased skid, Sheep Peril, in black, the fearsome head band in place as a sign for all, was gone. Pappy Dyk knew only another Comanche would stand up to him, threaten him. The future for his chief scout was assured. He could see it.
One Big Water, smiling all the while, seeing old visions come anew, said, “I go to see my father and my brother, to make three swords of water, to fish the big stream for the big fish I lost as a boy.”
The Brit laughed again, and then they all laughed and the banker sat in another room hearing them laugh and contemplating the promising future.
In an hour all the men but Pappy Dyk were gone from the room, some of them en route to their wherever, some to their whomever. He went to the banker’s office, closed the door behind him, and said, “You shoot off your mouth, mister bank president, and I will personally rob this bank of all it contains. If I did the Holy Caisson, I can do this place, and there’s no doubt about that. Not a single doubt in my mind. You are going to make some good money here. Don’t spoil it. And, if I’m hearing it right, there may be more. Much more.”
He looked out the banker’s window, saw the setting sun, heard a bird sing and, cocking his head as if listening, held up one finger for silence.
The sunrays and the song settled into the room. The bank president felt like rubbing his hands together, but dared not.
The song continued.

Author Interview: Melissa de la Cruz

Scott: Thank you very much for taking time out of your busy schedule to have a chat to us about you latest book and writing in general.

In your Blue Bloods series there are fallen angels reincarnated repeatedly as vampires, trying to work off their sins from when they fell with Lucifer in Heaven. How did you think readers would react to this very unique and original rewriting of the vampire lore?

Melissa: I didn't really think about reader reaction, because there's no way to predict it. I hoped they would think it was cool, since I certainly did! It was a "lightbulb" moment creating fallen angel vampires, and I was really, really excited about it. I hoped it would resonate, but you never know.

Scott: What is your favourite vampire book and movie?

Melissa: My favorite vampire book is Lestat by Anne Rice. MMM. Lestat. Tragic, cruel, beautiful, monstrous! Love! Vampire movies are way too scary for me, but I'd have to say Let The Right One In is high up there.

Scott: So what’s your favourite type of music to listen to? Favourite musical artists? Do you listen to music while you’re writing?

Melissa: I am completely stuck in the 80s and 90s new wave, alterno, goth, punk. So I still listen to the Smiths, New Order, Echo and the Bunnymen, Bauhaus, the Sex Pistols and the Clash, which is the music I used to listen to as a teen. My favorite band growing up was Duran Duran and the Cure. I don't listen to music while writing, I have to have complete silence. But I do listen to music during breaks. I dance around to old Madonna or new Lady Gaga and the Scissor Sisters.

Scott: What is a typical day of writing for you? Do you try and achieve a set number of pages or words and how many hours would you spend on a normal day or writing?

Melissa: I usually try to work from about 10AM-5PM and then work at night when the deadlines are very near, again at 8PM - midnight. For a first draft I try to get about 2000-3000 words a day. In rewrites I don't count words anymore, just trying to shape the story then.

Scott: Who are your five favourite authors?

Melissa: Too many to mention, for fantasy, JRR Tolkien, JK Rowling, Frank Herbert, George RR Martin. Stephen King and Anne Rice when I was younger. My favorite book ever is Tolstoy's War and Peace. I also like Dawn Powell for her New York stories. These days I read a lot of lady fiction, I love Lionel Shriver, Kate Christensen, Cherly Mendelsohn. Oh wait, you asked for five. Okay: JK Rowling, JRR Tolkien, Frank Herbert, Leo Tolstoy and Stephen King.

Scott: What are you reading at the moment?

Melissa: The Scorch Trials by James Dashner. I have not read a lot of YA fantasy since I began writing Blue Bloods and I'm excited to get back into it, I missed it. I have Melissa Marr, Kelley Armstrong, Holly Black, Cassie Clare, Alyson Noel, Margie Stohl & Kami Garcia's books on my TBR shelf! I can't wait to dive back into the genre.

Issue 1 Online Now

Issue 1 of the Fringe is now available to download for free from this link;

http://www.freespace.com.au/filehosting/371807

Author Interview: Michael McKernan

Hi Michael

Scott: Thank you very much for taking time out of your busy schedule to have a chat to us at The Fringe Magazine about you latest book and writing in general. I've just finished reading Gallipoli? and thoroughly enjoyed it.

Michael: Thank you Scott. I'm so pleased you like the book. It is getting a very good response from readers.

Scott: The details of how the Australian participation at Gallipoli has long term effects on the families of soldier killed was very moving. What made you so interested in this part of Australia's history and how hard was it to find more intimate details as outlined in your book?

Michael: I have always thought of myself as a social historian interested in the details of the lives of ordinary people. War, I discovered through my PhD and two early books on the homefront gave me the opportunity of following that interest. it gives such immediately accessible information about a range of people who otherwise would never be in history. I suppose one the advantages I bring to the study of Gallipoli is that I have been reading and thinking about it for a very long time. I worked at the Australian War Memorial for about 16 years and Gallipoli, of course, was high on our permanent agenda. In August 1984 we opened a new Gallipoli gallery at the Memorial and invited as many surviving Gallipoli veterans to Canberra as possible. More than 200 came and to sit down with some of these men and hear their stories was a great privilege. That got me interested in the personal and family stories and gave me an awareness that these men had come home and had somehow lived full and fulfilling lives. It was a remarkable experience and shaped the way I thought of history thereafter.

Scott: What was it like the first time you travelled to Gallipoli with Anzac Veterans?

Michael: To travel with veterans back to Gallipoli in 1990 for the 75th anniversary was one of the great highlights of my life. They were very old men by then, of course. But we were together for about ten days all up and the men were very generous with their memories. To hear first hand from a man who had served at Quinn's Post was simply extraordinary and the clarity of his recall was remarkable. I use his first hand account, as told to me, in the book. I must be one of the last Australian historians who can claim that. I spoke to, and included in the book, an account of a British veteran who landed at Suvla in August 1915 and was made blind that first morning. I'll never forget him taking both my hands in his and saying how he wished he had been born Australian because we looked after our victims of war. He was such a lovely old man with awful memories which he had been living with for 75 years. I felt so humble to be with him on his first return visit. There were so many highlights on that trip, such a sense of history, and such a sense of privilege to be there.

Scott: What is it like for an Aussie to visit Gallipoli in the present day? Is there much ill feeling towards Australians because of our part in the war?

Michael: Prime Minister Hawke said on our veterans trip in 1990 that he hoped that every Australian would have the opportunity of visiting Gallipoli. Many have done so in the years since then. But I tell the travellers I take there something a little different. Get away by yourself I tell them and take some time in private and personal reflection. Then you will allow the real spirit of Gallipoli to work on you. For it is a unique place. Sit, for example, in Ari Burnu cemetery looking out to sea and envisage the first Anzacs coming ashore at this very place on 25 April. If you are quiet enough, you can almost hear them. I have very rarely come across any ill-will from the Turkish people. Quite the reverse in fact. They very generously open their country to us. But last year, at the Nek, four or five teenage boys in school uniform started heckling me as I told the story of the awful carnage there. Other Turks told them to shut up, but it was a first for me.

Scott: How did you come to know the story of Jack Fothergill?

Michael: I was asked to write a history of the War Memorial for the 50th anniversary of its opening in November 1991. My own grandfather had lost his two older brothers in France in 1918 and he never had the opportunity of visiting their graves. The War Memorial was meant to be the place where people like my grandfather could come to the AIF's resting place at home, to where their spirit was. The book was called 'Here Is Their Spirit'. I was looking for a quote that would best encapsulate that and a colleague drew my attention to an In Memorian notice in the Melbourne Argus of 25 April 1923: 'if only I could see your grave I would die happy'. It was precisely what I wanted. Years later I thought to myself, 'but if they put a notice in in 1923 they must have had one in in 1922, 1921, etc' So I went over to the National Library and looked at the Argus for 25 April each year since 1916. I was absolutely astonished to find the story of love and devotion, and the record of grief, which I outline in the book. Since then I have tried hard to find out as much about Jack Fothergill as I possibly could and I tell what I have so far learnt. But there is still more to be discovered. It is such a sad story, isn't it? But so deeply moving.

Scott: What is a typical day of writing for you? Do you try and achieve a set number of pages or words and how many hours would you spend on a normal day or writing?

Michael: Manning Clark said to me when I was doing my doctoral thesis that if you wrote 1000 words every day you would end up learning how to write and you would write a great many books. I have tried to write up to 1500 words since I became a full-time writer and researcher in 1996. Never more than 1500 because over that limit I find I can't write much the next day. We all have to know our limits. I write first thing in the morning and sometimes I might be finished by 10 – 10.30. That's a very good day (like today in fact). Other times it takes longer. Then I have a break, review what I have written until lunch time or thereabouts and then spend some time in the afternoon plotting the next day's writing or looking up facts. I'm happiest when I'm writing and find its a superb way of passing the time. Sometimes when I come back to review that day's writing I say to myself 'I didn't know that, where did that come from?' But there are periods where you can't be writing because you haven't got anything to say. That's when you might need to spend months in libraries and archives working on the coming writing project. As I grow older I find I'm less able to spend long hours in libraries so I need to chop my day up quite carefully.

Scott: Who are your five favourite authors?

Michael: Tough question. Alan Bennett for the voice that comes from the page in such clarity. Evelyn Waugh. If I could ever write with such sense of place and person as he does in the prologue to Brideshead Revisited I'd be a very happy man. Tony Judt, whom I've only just discovered, so that's cheating a bit. Charles Bean particularly in his more personal writings, journal and letters, but part of his history too and for his majestic conclusion to the official history which I always read aloud to my travellers at the end of a battlefield tour. Anthony Powell for the range and achievement of A Dance to the Music of Time which I try to reread every other year or so and always find new things in it.

Scott: What are you reading at the moment?

Michael: Chris Hammer The River, Tony Judt Post War, just finished Alex Miller Lovesong.

Interview with Graeme Hague

Scott Wilson recently caught up with Australian author Graeme Hague to chat about his writing and why he dropped off the radar in Australian bookstores.

Scott: Hi Graeme, thanks for taking some time out from your busy schedule to have a chat to us. I am a big fan of yours and really enjoyed your first 4 novels, Ghost Beyond Earth, A Place to Fear, Voices of Evil and The Devil’s Numbers. After The Devil’s Numbers you seemed to fall off the radar. Can you tell us what happened,(I was disappointed at the sudden loss of your books on the shelves in Australian bookstores).

Graeme: It was one of those odd, almost inexplicable industry things… but my second book “A Place to Fear” (APF) didn’t sell well due to- as we all seemed to agree in hindsight –a really bad cover, plus the publisher didn’t promote it very much at all expecting it would look after itself on the back of Ghost BE’s successful sales. My third and fourth novels continued to get no support from booksellers, because they based their stock levels on APF figures, too. Pan Macmillan tried several solutions to remedy the problem, but in the end decided they couldn’t justify publishing more Graeme Hague horror. It was a business decision by them and I always regret (and I got quite angry at the time) they didn’t persevere since I’m still enjoying recognition for my horror writing now. It’s strange, but most of my reputation has been built from subsequent “discount” publisher’s releases and overseas exposure. I’m hoping the Ebooks releases will continue that trend, because although I say it myself- they were great stories. Still, the original sales from the original releases weren’t brilliant.

Scott: In The Morning was a very different book from your novels, can you tell us about this and how hard it was to get it published after writing five pieces of fiction prior to this.

Graeme: And In The Morning came from a passion for war stories and writers like Derek Robinson and Herman Wouk (who I’ll admit are poles apart in style). Also, with my horror writing in hiatus, it was an opportunity to write something I really wanted to write and I never expected AITM to see the bookshelves- it was a labour of love. But my agent was instantly very impressed with the early chapters and Jody Lee at Simon and Schuster agreed.

Scott: Out of every book you have written, who is your favourite character and why?

Graeme: It’s a toss-up between Rose from AITM and John Maiden in Missing Pieces, because they’re both characters that needed strong characterization rather than getting by with being a little less “deep” by riding on the wave of the story, if that makes sense (and it probably outrages the ethics of some writers).

Scott: How much time would you spend writing on a typical day, (if a typical day exists for a writer that is)?

Graeme: Hmm… tricky one. I’m still putting beer in the refrigerator by writing freelance articles on recording studio equipment, software, music… so I do a lot of writing every week- maybe five or six hours a day. Which makes it hard to switch into “fiction mode” for other projects. And because I’m so involved in lots of different things being disciplined about novel writing can be difficult. So generally I try to put aside a full day for writing fiction each week and meet a weekly “quota” like that. Having said that, right now I’m not writing anything new at all… I’m editing my previous novels into Ebooks.

Scott: What made you interested in writing and what was the first short story you had published?

Graeme: I always wrote short stories well from early in school. I was never “interested”- writing was something I’d inevitably do, albeit once I got a few other rash ideas like playing in rock bands out the way. Like, I never thought, “I’m interested in being a writer and I’ll give it a try”. It never occurred to me that one day I wouldn’t be doing it. I guess that’s what they call “in the blood”. I wrote several short stories that were never published (and shouldn’t be!) but they showed me how to start, work upon and finish a story. It’s probably worth mentioning that my short stories were written in an era where the market for such fiction was non-existent. Magazines and publishers didn’t touch them and the internet was a myth. Short stories now have a better, if devoted, audience.

Scott: How do you think ebooks have changed the market (if at all) and when can we expect to see your back catalogue of novels released in this format?

Graeme: As I’ve said earlier, I’m working hard to transform all my novels, including several previously-unpublished works, into Ebooks right now. Some new GM Hague horror will be available- books I wrote that publishers didn’t like, because of marketing and publishing policies… not because (I hope!) the stories were poor. Ebooks will radically change the whole industry and much sooner than we all think. Ebooks will be cheaper, more accessible and not have content or availability dictated by publishing “trends” of the like of the Twilight series, etc when suddenly every damned story had to be a teenage vampire tale. The down-side is a quality control issue. Any writer, regardless of their talent (or lack thereof) will be able to release an Ebook on the web, even if it absolutely sucks. The challenge for all good writers, either established or new, will be to create some credibility and a reputation that rises clearly above the crap. It won’t be easy.

Scott: What are you reading at the moment?

Graeme: Sadly, I just gave up on a recent James Herbert novel. I just couldn’t get excited enough about it and finally, after many years, I’ve learned the trick of putting down novels that don’t keep my attention rather than reading them all the way through because of some odd “principle”. Otherwise, I just finished Greg Bears’s “Forge of God”. Love GB’s writing, but I was kind of hoping for something a little more clever than the obvious apocalyptic ending…

Scott: Can you tell us about your musical career? What sort of music do you play and have you released any albums?

Graeme: I’ve written and recorded a lot of original material and I’m going to make it available from my website as the Ebook distribution is put in place, but my main “claim to (musical) fame” is like thousands of other musicians… I play “covers” in pubs and restaurants and basically enjoy the chance to play guitar loud- or soft -, sing my favourite songs, drink beers and get paid for it! Music is like writing- you have to be enormously motivated and blind to all the obstacles to really have a chance at genuine success. I’m fortunate that my writing will allow some exposure for my music- for what that’s worth!

Scott: What advice would you offer to unpublished writers in approaching publishers for the first time?

Graeme: Be extremely business-like. Offer them a “product”- something they can sell, including yourself (look at Tara Moss as an example- much as she’ll deny it and argue otherwise, she is as much a marketable product as her books). Research the art of presenting synopsis and story ideas, rather than the manuscript itself. It’s like a “pitch” to the publishers. Of course, you have to follow all that up with an excellent manuscript- and I mean excellent. Getting your MS worked on by a good freelance editor is money well spent, assuming your writing isn’t beyond help in the first place, because a positive “Reader’s Report” from such an editor submitted to a publishing house will be a huge advantage.

Scott: If you were only allowed to own 5 novels, what would they be and why?

Graeme: Now we’re getting tricky… okay- “A Piece of Cake” by Derek Robinson, “Haunted” by James Herbert, “War Cry” by Leon Uris (which I must read again), “Goshawk Squadron” by Derek Robinson (again- sorry) and “Birdsong” by Sebastian Faulks. Not much horror? Horror has to be very, very good to suffer a second reading. Early Stephen King stuff would rate and Koontz’s “Koko” was great, but looking at the tattered copies of long-kept books in my bookshelf…
Scott: Thank you for your time Graeme. Look forward to reading your collection of short stories when it’s released.

Graeme: That collection is in the pipeline to be released as an Ebook very soon. It’s got a great story called “Footprints in the Snow” which at 60,000 words is hardly “short”, but it’s a beauty. Lots of gothic abbeys, ghostly nuns and walking corpses…

Thanks very much for you time Graeme, good luck with your future books. You can find more about Graeme's books here http://www.graemehague.com.au/Published%20Books.html

The Bundle by Ron Koppelberger

Hay bales and ragweed chocked fray, pumpkin smiles and orange twilight repose, wisdom and understanding autumn stead, the typical screams of trick or treat and candy corn, Carmel chew chaw, managed misty acclaim and the boundaries of a porcelain treasure. There were two minds concealed in domain, a mind to cry in throes of exasperation and a mind to celebrate the sanctity of beauty and requited wishes, fulfilled quantum’s………a dream in the dress of fortune and fate.

The shiny porcelain face blinked at Niamey Friendly with happy bubbling purpose. She had found the bundle on her front porch wrapped in a dirty shammie, a doll, a baby doll. The local children had left the doll on Niamey’s porch as a Halloween prank. “That old hag will go crazy!” Bobby Perkins had laughed. “Crazy morning, crazy day crazy, crazy all the way!” they had sung on her front walk. Niamey had repeated a prayer and sang to herself, “Little baby coddle coo, little baby what shall I do? A means to an end and angels that send the souls of babies to waiting mothers and kneeling lovers.” She sang and by dawn’s break , all saints day, she extended her arthritic fingers and stroked the cooing, suspiring baby with tender affection and love. The thanksgiving grace of god had touched the soul of a sleepy inhalation and the wish of a solitary dream as the trick became the gift of life

Beloved by Ron Koppelberger

The discretion of veiled love and conception, the birth of an allure sworn, captured by the embrace of agreeable affections went beyond the boundaries of life. A love in declared, attested fervor and temperaments of abundant balance. The love of a man and an essential spirit of nature. Laughter, admitted in waves of green grass and sylvan boughs of nubulent weave. The wedded vagueness of phantasms in forest nooks of cascading charge, blazing, bursting minds of spicy sanctity, the love of a ghost and an ethereal force of passage unto the heavens of imbued rapture. It was a resplendent yield of feminine passage. Betrothal to the menagerie of sprite mystery and benevolent merger with mossy vistas of summons, the concealed wife he loved so dearly. A mist, a smokey vaporous ghost dressed in blossoms of dandelion yellow and alabaster daisy petal silk.

She renewed him with a whisper, “Sweet devotions of freedom and eternity, tomorrow and fanfare in spring.”

Villain Vast by Ron Koppelberger

The reservation established the topsey turvey allegiance of great obscene feasts in scarlet row and vast evil burned to the bone. Day by day in scandalous slaughter the château’ de la vernal catered to the elite vivacity of rich affected patrons. They advanced the fortune of magnificent wealth for the delicacies of forbidden fare and forage. Felonious Giraffe tongues and neck steaks a la hummingbird bones, crushed and charred like a demon garnish. Kangaroo eyes summoned to the table in diseased intrigue, acquired through illicit foundries of carnage and finally, the animate breath of human vaunt.

Cannibal succinct, the diners waited for the rare savor of human delight. The sermon of solicited flame incited the cheers of hungry ghouls and fashionable demons as the host announced, “Dinner is served.”

The waiters proceeded to roll out a table with a young woman strapped by harness and braided rope. They rolled the table to the center of the dinning room and in homage to the wriggling woman they bowed and disappeared from the room.

She began praying out loud as the cannibals moved back in to surround her. Her eyes blinked in fluttering supplication as splashes of wine were poured onto her legs. “Our father who art in heaven…..” she prayed. Fields of endless eternal wheat in saffron glow filled her mind as she continued to pray. The tongs of a serving fork prodded her leg as she prepared to die.

In a dramatic turn the room went silent and a whoosh of air filled the empty spaces above their heads. There was a hollow saintly assonance in the air above her as a gentle wave carried the grim receipt of payment to the evil parishioners of death and gibbering slavering hunger.

In unison they fell to the floor, dead, drained of life they lay in heaped tatters about the room. Devoured by the glare of god’s touch.

She lay there in meditative thought as the bonds disappeared. She sighed in relief and set her sights on the vision that had engulfed her. An endless sea of saffron and wheat.