October 16th, 2008

I’m heading to Arizona tomorrow. I look forward to visintg Linda’s Books in Tombstone where I’ll be signing copies of Frontier Teachers. I envy Linda. That seems like the life. Living in Tombstone and running an Old West bookstore. I’ve been working on the first chapter of a new western book for Bethany House Publishing. I thought I’d post it here to find out what visitors to the site think. Here goes…. A belt of timber green and vast hugged the banks of a swift river tumbling out of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Ward Hubert, a dusty, travel-worn miner in his early 20s, knelt beside the water’s edge and plunged his face into the icy liquid. After washing a layer of grime out of his eyes and ears he plopped himself down in a clump of grass. His tired mule gnawed on the vegetation near him then sauntered away to chew on a flowering oleander bush.
Many more hours beyond the dense pine and oak was a line of tall, craggy rocks sweeping the horizon. The prospector considered the patch of landscape he occupied then slowly began to gather chunks of wood for a fire. In a matter of moments wisps of smoke rose up from a pile of kindling and the smell of bacon frying in a skillet permeated the air.
Ward didn’t notice the four riders walking their horses into his camp until it was too late. The pounding of the rushing river drowned out the sound of the animals hooves. He pushed his meal aside and turned to face the unfriendly looking men. Rowe Jurgens, a tall man with intense black eyes and a boney face, halfway smiled at Ward and leaned forward in his saddle. “Where you headed,” he asked rhetorically? “Carson City,” Ward responded hesitantly. Rowe climbed off his horse and walked over to the fire. He picked up a coffee pot balanced over the hot embers and poured himself a cup. “What’s at Carson City?” he asked coolly. His eyes slowly scanned the possession in Ward’s small camp. They rested on a letter jutting out of the saddlebag lying near a bedroll. Rowe reached for the bags. Ward almost stopped him, but thought better once he caught a glimpse of the guns on the intruder’s hips.
Rowe opened the letter then began reading it aloud to his fellow riders. “Attention, Mr. Allen, owner of the Borat Stamp Mill in Carson City. Enclosed please find ore samples taken from the Mustard Seed Mine near Fairplay, California. My young partner in the venture and myself hope to transport the gold we pull out of the Mustard Seed to your mill for processing?.” Rowe’s voice trailed off as he carefully refolded the correspondence. Ward watched Rowe sit the letter aside and shove his scarred fist into the saddlebag. He lifted out four chunks of ore samples at the same time Ward spotted his gun on the other side of the camp.
Rowe shuffled the glittery rocks around in his hand, then grinned a big, toothy grin at Ward. He noticed the prospector’s gun as well and was taking great delight in watching Ward try to determine what to do next. “By all rights,” Rowe told him, “Otto Hackett is entitled to seize your mine now. He holds the mortgage on the property. Ward took a small step towards his gun. “A deal was struck between you and the others,” Rowe continued. “Hackett’s is the only stamp mill you’re to use.” Ward inched a little closer to his weapon. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had to remind you of that,” Rowe snapped. Ward made it to his gun and in one fast motion picked it up and leveled at the men. Rowe was quicker on the draw and aimed the barrel of his six-shooter at Ward’s head before the miner could pull the hammer back on his own gun. “And now things need to be handled differently,” Rowe announced.
Ward choked down his anger and with great resignation, lowered his weapon. He glanced over Rowe’s shoulder at the armed men pointing their rifles at him. “Well, if you’re planning on getting me back to Fairplay fast you better have a horse,” Ward warned. “My mule is strictly a pack animal and she’s tired at that. Rowe studied the scene then turned and smiled at the nervous prospector. “Looks like we’re one horse shy,” he announced. “Wonder how we’re going to fix that.” Suddenly, Rowe’s gun belched as it cleared leather and Ward flipped backward into the water as the slug hit his chest.
The rapid current carried the dead man’s body over an outcropping of rocks and pushed it into an embankment. Rowe’s riders watched the lifeless figure wash onto a shallow chaos of gravel and remain there. “What do we do with his body,” one of the men asked? “Nothing,” Rowe responded without remorse. “Leave it. Buzzards have got to have something to eat.”
After placing the gold ore back inside the saddlebag with the letter, Rowe mounted his horse and rode away from the site. His men eagerly followed along behind him.