It’s only been over the last two years that I have really started reading Westerns. They never appealed to me before, but then I latched on to a Louis L’Amour book and that was the end of my hesitation. The man was a troubadour of the written word. Nothing fancy, nothing baroque, nothing trendy. He just wrote old-fashioned stories of hard men living in desolate places and with a quickness that makes one turn the page with the dread that the story is going to end far too soon. No weighty tomes for Mr. L’Amour and that seems just perfect for reading Western fiction.
This tale centers on a place called High Lonesome, somewhere in the blistering hot American Southwest area. A group of men are readying to rob a bank, men who could easily be on the other side of the law. Their leader is Considine, a rugged man who holds a grudge against the sheriff of the bank’s town, because of a quarrel over a woman. By robbing the bank, Considine will extract a bit of pride, a bit of justice, although his heart isn’t fully in it. The town is proud of its bank never being robbed because the locals have taken shotguns to any who have attempted the feat. But Considine is different as he is a local himself.
Into the picture rides an old man and his daughter. He is an aging outlaw who just wants to get to California in order to provide his only child with a better chance in life. She is getting older quickly, as they do in the land of heat, but her upbeat personality and experience living near the Apaches have made her an attractive catch and Considine finds his attention diverted. But there are smoke signals all around the land and everyone knows the war parties are coming. Will the old outlaw and his daughter make it through? Or will the harsh scrub lands and flying arrows bring an end to their manifest destiny?
There are no dawns like the dawns that come to desert lands, nor are there colors anywhere like the pastels of the wastelands. There is no atmosphere anywhere with half the sharp clarity of the desert air following a rain ---- and no land holds death so close, so ready, so waiting.
L’Amour knew his settings because he had lived in the Southwest and his description of the rising sun is simply spot-on. Rain comes to the desert infrequently, but when it does, the smell of the creosote is stunning, a wake-up to the senses. My home faces East, so I can watch the sun rise like thunder from my front yard, a reminder of either the summer heat on its way or the kaleidoscope of color due to us during the autumn and winter seasons. I really enjoyed this book but L’Amour’s books are short, so I had to parse out my reading, as I didn’t want to get to the end too quickly. It’s also fun to have an old drugstore paperback in one’s hands, worn out by previous readers, pages marked by old coffee stains and dreams of adventure.
Book Season = Winter (creosote rain)