Barbara Neville's Blog - Posts Tagged "craig-johnson"
Outlaws & Lawdogs
Who is your favorite character? I especially like Vic in Craig Johnson's Longmire series. I like Walt too. And Henry.
And Craig himself is, not surprisingly, very entertaining. I just saw him speak, along with A. Martinez another well spoken man (he plays Jacob Nighthorse in the Longmire series on Netflix) at the Tucson Festival of Books.
I aspire to write as well as Craig, give me another few decades...
When asked how many more books would there be in the Longmire series; Craig said something that rang true for me. He might just go at his desk, like Robert Parker. Type "The end" then keel over.
He loves the world he's written and it shows in the books. I have the same problem, I wrote two spinoff books which stand alone and are western historical fiction, but they tied into the first series and sure enough, the next book in the first series ties the spinoff duo right back into the action. Hey, I tried my damndest (or darndest if you don't like cussing) to escape. But it's love. I love my characters. Especially the bad guys. Now, in my books it can, at times, be hard to tell who is who (whom?). My good guys skate along the ragged edge because they disagree with the powers that be. They are outlaws and lawmen, both.
Someone suggested I should share bit about myself:
Besides writing I raise goats, chickens, guineas, and peacocks, along with Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dogs. They keep the predators away from my fowl and livestock. I have a couple of horses, too. And one female pup left. She is for sale.
I live next to the border wall. Everyone knows which border has the wall, don't we? Yikes.
Okay, enough about me. Who in my books is your favorite? Honestly, my favorite is whichever of the guys I am writing about at the moment. It's hard to look beyond that. In one book, I was only gonna have Spud and Wolf. Them other guys? They snuck in when I wasn't lookin'. I swear. I'm gonna try again in the next book. But, damned if I can decide which one or two to let ride. I started with the big guy, then thought maybe the twins... or Buzz and Wolf, or Buzz and Spud? And that damn Hammer is always wanting to say something smartass to Annie. Ay yi yi, fellas. Give a gal a break.
Also, look at the great photo I took for my latest book cover, Against the Wind is available to preorder now.
Happy trails.
And Craig himself is, not surprisingly, very entertaining. I just saw him speak, along with A. Martinez another well spoken man (he plays Jacob Nighthorse in the Longmire series on Netflix) at the Tucson Festival of Books.
I aspire to write as well as Craig, give me another few decades...
When asked how many more books would there be in the Longmire series; Craig said something that rang true for me. He might just go at his desk, like Robert Parker. Type "The end" then keel over.
He loves the world he's written and it shows in the books. I have the same problem, I wrote two spinoff books which stand alone and are western historical fiction, but they tied into the first series and sure enough, the next book in the first series ties the spinoff duo right back into the action. Hey, I tried my damndest (or darndest if you don't like cussing) to escape. But it's love. I love my characters. Especially the bad guys. Now, in my books it can, at times, be hard to tell who is who (whom?). My good guys skate along the ragged edge because they disagree with the powers that be. They are outlaws and lawmen, both.
Someone suggested I should share bit about myself:
Besides writing I raise goats, chickens, guineas, and peacocks, along with Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dogs. They keep the predators away from my fowl and livestock. I have a couple of horses, too. And one female pup left. She is for sale.
I live next to the border wall. Everyone knows which border has the wall, don't we? Yikes.
Okay, enough about me. Who in my books is your favorite? Honestly, my favorite is whichever of the guys I am writing about at the moment. It's hard to look beyond that. In one book, I was only gonna have Spud and Wolf. Them other guys? They snuck in when I wasn't lookin'. I swear. I'm gonna try again in the next book. But, damned if I can decide which one or two to let ride. I started with the big guy, then thought maybe the twins... or Buzz and Wolf, or Buzz and Spud? And that damn Hammer is always wanting to say something smartass to Annie. Ay yi yi, fellas. Give a gal a break.
Also, look at the great photo I took for my latest book cover, Against the Wind is available to preorder now.
Happy trails.
Free chapter: Fire & Rain
"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
(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
