Barbara Neville's Blog - Posts Tagged "cowboy"

I reached 15,000 words (into the sequel) yesterday! Still typing...

I have dipped my toe into the idea or releasing the next book in chapter form, for reading participation. I decided to give it a try with the newest book, which is a fork in the series road, but not a complete departure. It's based on history (but fictional) travel guide into a, more or less, real world. Anyway, comments and advice are welcome, this is a rough draft. None of the chapters are complete until the book is, I do ongoing editing and expansion. Here we go:
“After seventeen days of travel, I came upon a 'rancheria' of the Indians who follow these cattle (bison). These natives are called Querechos (Apaches). They do not cultivate the land, but eat raw meat and drink the blood of the cattle (bison) they kill. They dress in the skins of the cattle, with which all the people in this land clothe themselves, and they have very well-constructed tents, made with tanned and greased cowhides, in which they live and which they take along as they follow the cattle. They have dogs which they load to carry their tents, poles, and belongings.”-Francisco Coronado, 1541.

1 Amigos

They fire three warning shots.
We hit the dirt.
“Olle, amigos,” someone behind us says. “Levantanses. Y manos arriba.”
I hear the click of a hammer engaging and rolling the cylinder of his gun.
We stand up.
“They said hands up,” I say, raising mine.
“I think we got that from their tone, darlin’,” says Crazy, hands already in the air.
The rest are at hand high attention, too.
“Que pasa?” I ask, peering over my shoulder at them. One is dishwater blond, in a light colored suit, pale and pasty all ‘round. The other two are dark brown with black hair, dressed in white, campesino style.
“Son Indios,” says one of them.
“No. Hablan Ingles,” says the other.
“Mebbe some of ‘em do,” says the white eyes.
“I got English and blue eyes,” I say.
“You ain’t Injin?” he asks.
“Am I wearin’ moccasins?” I ask, looking pointedly at my cowboy boots.
“Okay,” says the white eyes. “What’s you're business here?”
“None of yores,” I say.
“Watch it, cowboy,” he says.
“Do you need glasses?” I ask. “I’m a cowgirl.”
“Shut up,” he says. “Them others is Injins.”
Three of us are dressed cowboy. The other three are in beaded buckskins.
“I got a badge,” says Crazy, dressed cowboy today.
“Huh?”
“Let me explain,” I say. “Okay?”
“Por favor,” says the other guy.
“Good, but partly in English. My Spanish is rusty. Okay?”
White eyes nods.
I turn around, see the ends of their gun barrels still pointing at us, and say, “We’re not wild Injins. We’re lookin’ fer renegade Apache. These here are our scouts.”
Hey, on the spot story invention. Woo tah.
“Ain’t no Apache down south here,” says the white eye.
“No, we come down by ship from Frisco, goin’ ta catch the train north,” I say.
“I see,” says the white eye.
“I’m a deputy U. S. marshal,” says Crazy. “Badge is in my pocket. Can you lower them guns?”
“I reckon I’ll think about it,” he says.
“We’re in a hurry, boss,” I say to Crazy Horse. “Don’t wanna miss our train.”
“We’re lookin’ fer a place to buy some ridin’ horses,” says Crazy.
“Ranch down that next road, on the end, ask there,” says white eyes, finally lowering his six shooter. “Sorry about the misunderstanding. Good luck.”
“Thank ya kindly, gents, ” says Crazy, shaking their hands.
They walk on down the main road.
We turn into the ranch road.
Once they’re out of sight, I say, “Well, that’s a fine introduction to Mexico,” I say. “Barely arrived and we’ve already been waylaid.”

https://www.facebook.com/events/14863...
A new series:
The second box of new books arrived today. They are historic Western fiction. Set in 1885 Arizona and environs. I will have them and all the others with me at the Desert Legacy book signing this Saturday from 11 to 2. Just west of the old Fuel Stop in Sonoita.
I'll have to take a break from NaNoWriMo
I will also be Tucson at Bookmans Speedway on the 19th:
https://www.facebook.com/events/10979...

Hell to Pay comes out February 9th on Amazon and Smashwords
Tomahawk Trail: A Journey to Apacheria in 1885 by Barbara Neville

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


The exciting first book of the Cha'a Many Horses series.



View all my reviews

I read a lot of writing advice. Have been reading it for years. My opinion is take it all with a grain of salt. The latest round of up-to-the-minute writers fashion seems to be dialogue tags and character action.
They say to never use anything but said (or says, in present tense). Not even ask/asked. Because, you can say a question, too. True, Robert B. Parker would say a question, even leaving off the question mark. By his own admission, he wrote fast and scrappy; leaving the editing to his publisher's editing crew. So, intentional? (Pardon the question mark).
Another writer, Paul Loh, published a list of said/says alternatives on FB recently. There are tons. He uses them. Someone commented that he shouldn't. It's out of fashion, apparently.
There it is: dogma. If we all follow all the 'rules' because the fictional reader, who we all love to stereotype, hasn't the brains to read: 'she grumbled, chanted, implied or abjured' without being drawn out of the book. Only use any unusual tags twice in your book. Like fuck. Only use it twice. Well, fuck that.
Just how stupid is 'fictional reader'? To hell with that. Challenge my reading ass. Stretch my brain muscle.
I usually do use say/said. It's easy, but there is ambiguous language, sometimes, I'm not sure if the speaker is serious or ironic. Tags help. The other thing is after tags. As in: "Wait," she said, reaching for a cookie. "Let's think this over.
In addition to only 'said/says' as a dialogue tag, now we can't have our characters do anything while talking. Our characters have to give up cookies!
My examples here are Craig Johnson (of Longmire fame) and, once again Robert B Parker and the heir to Parker's Spenser series, Ace Atkins. Their character's fix meals in dialogue tags. Okay, exaggeration, but the movements they perform, often explained in some detail; set the scene. These are not random. They display each character's social standing, self worth, political beliefs, whatever. Their soul.
They, and smartass dialogue, are the key to the books. The guts that suck us in and keep us coming back for more. The mystery is an aside. A book without character is a book with no readers. My last bit of advice? Be a rebel. Ignore my advice. Do your own thing. Fuck 'em all.

I write in first person, because that's what I prefer to read. But some of my other characters cry out to be heard. Sure they can speak in dialogue. But some, like Ma'cho, seldom speak. We only see him through the protagonist's (Cha'a) eyes. And, while Ma'cho seldom speaks, he thinks in broad strokes. In Hell to Pay he added a new point of view (POV) to the book. I especially liked where he described Cha'a. He has a much deeper passion, a passion that Cha'a herself doesn't realize exists. And, he sees her very differently than she sees herself.
My favorite POV, though, is the antagonists. I use tiny slices. Simple peeks into their progress throughout a book, to add suspense. And to make them more three dimensional, usually through thought, because, in the last couple of books the bad guys (if that's what they are, my good guys aren't white knights either) work alone. And most of the time are out in the wilderness tracking my horseback Apache main characters. There's literally no one to talk to but themselves.
I don't know where I first ran into this technique, but I have seen it in James Patterson's work or co-writings. And done very well.
And, of course, this gives one the ability to include scenes where the main character isn't present. This can add dimension to the plot. And provide important back story or side story without having to create a way for the protagonist to be in two places at once. In my latest book, working title "Badass Sons a Bitches", the antagonist has a lot of chapters, which take some intent screwing (cutting and pasting) around with to keep things timely. So that we aren't jumping back and forth in time (pun intended). Just to make for an easier flow in our minds.
I like the feel of that, since the book is present tense, it seems to me to be a good way to build the tension as I read. Plus, the antagonist's motives can be revealed along the way. After all, antagonists need love, too. A driven, seething protagonist can make a good story great.
Also, with every character, I have backstory ongoing; because everyone has history which affects their present actions. It's where three-dimensional characters are born.
Anyhow, give it a try. Have Ben take a walk. And Sally talk behind his back to Shirley while he's gone. Or whatever. Go fucking crazy!

"Fire & Rain" is the third installment in the Cha'a Many Horses series. Which is an offshoot of the Spirit Animal series. It comes after "Hell to Pay"
(Cha'a Many Horses #2).If you're reading both series, "Against the Wind" (Spirit Animal #11) falls between the two chronologically.
Both series share commonality, like Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, which has Lord John Grey books and Jamie Fraser books. My Spirit Animal series has time travel, whereas the Cha'a many Horses books are historical western fiction that take place in the mid-1880's.
Here it is in 1886:
“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”-Ralph Waldo Emerson

1 Sounds of Silence

The stunning sound of silence beats in his ears like an ancient drum that has lost its skin; one whose wooden shell has rotted away to dust. The silence of the ages.
Sure, the bugs and the birds still work away at their days. And the prairie dogs. And many others. Busy living their lives.
He watches and listens. Waiting for what’s missing.
It’s hot. Sweltering hot here. Humid, too. Sultry. He’s dripping sweat just sitting his horse. Only an hour has passed since he swam in the river to cool off.
Thor, the Viking god of thunder, strikes hammer to anvil, sending a distant warning of what’s to come. Mjölnir, his hammer, eking out justice for all.
Thunder and lightning heat up the distant eastern horizon, warming up their lungs for later, ramping up to an earth-wrenching storm.
Hoping to subject the vast prairie to a thunderous hell on wheels. Tornado's east, anvil clouds here; hence, Thor. The clouds are the anvil. The humidity feels like the sound wave from the hammer. Sparks fly when they collide.
He sniffs the air, waiting, watching. The ozone is already burning up his nose into his brain. Electric. The hallmark of summer days past and future.
A golden eagle soars above; a songbird chirps to her hatchlings. Meadowlark.
A skinny wolf skulks by, nosing at some old dried chips. Inhaling the aroma of the past. Likely remembering the times of plenty himself. Remembering that other thunder.
The big sound. The constant, ever moving herd. The snuffling and stomping, the tearing at the succulent blades of the vast grass sod. The rolling, the humping. The occasional playful runs of the young. Endless herds moving endlessly. Following the sun and moon, the changing seasons.
But, now, they have been quelled. Maybe forever.
The mammoths of the plains are almost all gone. Killed by a tiny gnat on the planet.
A gnat who in its wisdom, or lack thereof, picked up the first sparking stone and started a fire. Who ran the longest miles. Invented the spear, the bow, the gun, and greed, and trade, and money. And all the strange things that go hand in hand with humankind.
Because of man, the monarch of the plains, the owner of all he surveyed and trod across, has been laid to waste.
Sure, there are a few scattered herds still grazing, roaming, following the seasons. Enduring the unending wind. Their thick curly-haired robes still warm him at night. And shelter his son. But, not forever. They too will pass.
He mourns the buffalo.
They are all guilty. Even his people and the people of his brothers, all are guilty of this slaughter. They have lived off the herds for untold generations. Mostly a luxurious life. Spotted with a few starving times, sure. But, all in all a good life. A noble life.
Then, when the horse arrived, life became a thrill that knew no end. Travel was an adventure. The hunt, more exhilarating than ever before.
Life was easy. And hard. The hunt became a joy. The competition between the peoples for space and bounty, an unending war.
“Easy, Magpie,” he says, drawn back to the here and now by the sudden pricking of her ears, the raising of her head. A flinch of her back muscles. A waft of horse sweat fills the air like sweet perfume.
He pets her neck, soothing the young mare’s nerves. Seeing and smelling nothing new himself.
The sponge grasses, where her hoofs mashed them, are a promise of life renewed.
He flicks the end of the reins against his bare leg merely to make a noise, to fill the silence left by their deaths. Millions and millions of deaths. The noble buffalo, giver of life.
And the wars, the tribes, the peoples had lost so many and so much. Now, their very lives were unutterably changed by the loss.
And the encroachment of the strange new people. Those who brought the horse. They came and came, in unending waves. From the south first, and now the east. More powerful than the buffalo themselves.
Along with their new contraption, inching it’s way across the land. Splitting it in two.
He can see the endless rails from his outlook, shimmering silver in the staggering afternoon sun. Sleeping now. But, when they do come alive, and tremble with fear themselves at the coming; the big engines honk and bellow and race across the plains, not unlike, but also nothing like the buffalo.
Only the roar brings old memories. Ancient tales of a midnight stampede. A crushing weight as they trampled everything in some forgotten ancestor’s camp. Changing history with the deaths.
An errant tear slides down his cheekbone. Intent on sharing its moisture with the grass.
No more would die from stampedes, they're are too few stampeders left. And, today, it feels like they will never return.
Not unlike the dung beetles working so hard on the ground near his mare’s hooves. Working at a fresh pile of turds that the mare has dropped while he waits. Could the buffalo dung beetle survive now, he wondered? Without the buffalo pies? Or were their ranks dwindling, too? And, what of the wolves? The foxes. Even the bear. Where would their next meals come from?
He turns back to watching the plains, Magpie knows something or someone is there. He sights between her ears and waits for it to appear. The land looks flat and endless, as if one could spot every speck of life moving out there.
It’s a lie. The minute dips can hide an army. And, too often, had.
His knotted reins are testament to that. The reminder of war and its senselessness.
Many braves would speak of the glory of battle, the coups counted, the scalps taken. But, he thought that, in their minds, each of them carried the horror, too. Hidden deep inside. Under the gruffness.
He is here because of a dream. Ironic, because the dream told him where to find the true dreamer. Cha’a Many Horses. His woman.
She was lost. As was his son, Góshé. And the dream told him that it was here that he should seek them. In the valley where the ancients walked. Here on the Purgatory River in a state called Colorado. A new state. Only ten years old. A big rectangle. Cut from the lands of his ancestors as if with a knife. To the heart.
His mare flinches, raising her head even higher.
“Easy, babe.” Bigan Dalaá, Apache for One Hand, raises the knotted reins with his hook and eases her down the switchback trail. Raising his remaining hand high above his head and sweeping it across the air in a grand wave of greeting.
The newcomers are Nemene, known to the white eyes as Comanche. They must have had the dream also. And come to help.
His moccasined feet dangle below the mare’s belly. His long bare legs feel the warmth of her body through her shedding fur. His bare chest is tanning, darker with each passing minute. Time edges ever forward. He brushes at his long auburn hair, almost dislodging the feathers.
Then, he starts. There’s a yell. His yell. He’s shouting her name. He’s in a panic.
Sitting up abruptly, he looks around the room. Disoriented. The dream is gone. The prairie, Thor, the Comanche.
He needs to go back into the dream to find them. To blaze a trail through to its end. To find Cha’a. And little Góshé.Hell to Pay

Welcome new fans! I am hard at work on the next book, Fire & Rain, which will be the third in the Cha'a Many Horses series. In the global view, because both series include the same family, this book falls after Against the Wind which is book 11 in the Spirit Animal series. Against the Wind falls chronologically (If the concept of chronology even makes sense in a cosmos with time travel) between Hell to Pay and Fire & Rain. Just a few minor detail like tying up loose plot ends and taking cover photos and editing ad nauseum remain.Cheers!