Where once I avoided reading Westerns, I now enjoy them, thanks to Louis L’Amour. Here is another one of his tough-man/strong-woman romps, all set in the blistering heat of the old American southwest, where men drift like tumbleweed and women do not age like fine wine.
Conn Conagher is a loner dude. He works his way across the West, doing any job that’s needed, but he keeps to himself and has no emotional ties with anyone. When he signs up to work a range for an aging rancher, Conagher’s strong ethics soon make him the worst enemy of the local rustling outlaws, who have been stealing cattle from the old rancher for far too long. Conagher is going make sure they won’t get any more stolen steers. There is also a woman in this tale, one who didn’t imagine this type of life for herself when she was younger. When her father dies, she realizes she is alone without any support and must find a new life. When an older widow with two young children appears, she marries him, more for hope than for love. But as with most L’Amour characters, she is a woman of strength who will travel with her new husband out to a desolate corner of the West, come what may.
He died alone, as men in the West so often died, died trying to accomplish something, to build something, to go somewhere. Sometimes the sand buried those men’s bodies, sometimes the coyotes scattered their bones, leaving a few buttons, a sun-dried boot heel, a rusted pistol. Some of them were found and buried, but some dried up and turned to dust and the wind took the dust away.
The book begins with the death of a character and it is a lonesome death. It sets the tone for what will be happening, but it also imprints an image of how hard it was to live as an outsider in a land that endures drought almost every year. How do you feed your livestock? How do you stop Apache attacks? If you die, would anyone even care? Children must mature quicker and take on responsibilities before they should, but that is the best they can do. And when you’re lonely and there’s no other adult around, you may end up writing poetic messages on scraps of paper and attach them to the tumbleweed that rolls by your homestead in the forlorn hope that someone, somewhere, will know that you once existed.
The land was a living thing, breathing with the wind, weeping with the rain, growing somber with clouds or gay with sunlight. One had to learn to live with it, to belong to it, to fit into its seasons and find its ways.
L’Amour books are short and well structured. While the reader can anticipate what may happen, one never really knows, and the descriptions of the land are always spot-on. Louis L’Amour must have walked or ridden through the West to have that feel of how the wind blows or how the tumbleweeds sound when they gently roll past your feet. I live in the low desert and every year we await, “The Dying Season”. This is when tourists arrive in summer, usually Europeans, who believe they can hike a trail in 118° Fahrenheit. They don't take long to die, the first death notices hitting around mid-June. Others walk off into Joshua Tree and simply vanish, their bones sometimes found months or years later. Even those travellers who feel safe lounging by a pool do not understand the symptoms of heat stroke. We just had one Brit keel over after sitting in the sun for several hours, downing cocktails. He collapsed on the sidewalk, stone cold dead. We try to tell people, explain to them that they don’t see any of us sitting by the pools or walking hot trails. But humans don’t listen, because the West appears to them as some sort of adventure, a place of hope and possibilities, a land far away from their crowded streets and polluted air. I think L’Amour understood that also, which is why I enjoy reading his works.
Book Season = Summer (run for the shadows)