Barbara Neville's Blog - Posts Tagged "travel"
Apache Iron Horse
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.”
“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.”
National Novel Writing Month
Coming down to the wire with my entry in NaNoWriMo: Hell to Pay, which is free , in progress and updated about every other day, on Smashwords.com this month. I have 46,485 of the 50,000 words finished. It looks like; in editing that I will be splitting it into two books, one in each series because my introductory chapter now spans a third of the manuscript. It is firmly based in 1885 Arizona, so a Cha'a Many Horses entry, while the second two-thirds is set in 2617 on Old Earth and it's surrounds. In any case, writing 50,000 words in one month is not a stretch for me, other than this particular November has some extra real life drama which steals away the hours. Nothing bad or sad, in fact a trip around our little planet, which I have seen my fair share of in the distant past. But, this newest adventure comes without parents to do all the shit work of planning and packing and getting jabs (not as painful as all the ones I got at 9 and 23 for me. I didn't even cry this time. Anyhow, it's a big planet and we should all strive to see more than just our own cultural neighborhood. International travel is enlightening, especially if you go on the economy rather than stay where the other tourists stay. Enlightening beyond anything you can imagine. My advice? Leave your safe little world and explore. Like Annie does in the SPirit Animal Series (Okay, blatant pandering, but you can ignore it). Cheers, Barb
