John C. Horst's Blog, page 13

5.0 out of 5 stars Finally: A Great New Writer~ A humbling review.

5.0 out of 5 stars Finally: A Great New Writer, August 7, 2013 By D.B. Jackson - See all my reviews This review is from: Maria's Trail: The First Adventures of Senora Chica Walsh, Hero of The Mule Tamer Trilogy (Volume 1) (Paperback) Author John C. Horst demonstrates his ability to create great characters and to send them on a journey that cuts across literary lines in such a subtle way that the reader quickly loses sight of the book and becomes part of the experience. In Maria's Trail, Horst writes a story that, while it does take place in the historic West, it is not a typical Western by any measure. With a female protagonist, a child at that, and a multi-layered storyline that engages the reader with her adventures and her development as a person, the author delivers the goods with a voice that is disarming and charming as it draws you into a rhythmic cadence that makes the reading flow.
But, Horst's greatest accomplishment is his ability to write a story that has such universal appeal it will be enjoyed by young adults, women, and men, and anyone who likes Westerns, Romance, Adventure, or Literary Fiction.
Horst's voice is original. His characters are fresh. His stories are new. Read one of his books and you will be back for more--he's that good.

This was a thoroughly corrupt place.

William-Adolphe Bouguereau The little nun approached Marta as the girl sat close to the dying fire, smoking the last of a cigarette and working on her tatting. She was alone. She’d gotten a bad knot and was trying to work it out. She looked absurd; the little girl bent over her lace with a cigarette dangling from her lips. This was a thoroughly corrupt place.

Marta liked the little nun. The men were afraid of her. They said she was a leper. She did not know what a leper was but was glad to see the men afraid. She liked it when the men looked stupid or foolish or afraid and this nun’s making them this way pleased her. The little nun never looked up from the ground and spoke into her chest in a tiny, afraid voice. This amused Marta too.

“Where is the one named Jesus?” the little nun spoke into her chest.

“The fat one or the thin one or the tall one or the short one, or the very ugly one who stinks?”

The little nun was not certain which to choose. “The maestro said he was to guard the remuda.”

Marta breathed her smoke and her answer at the little nun. “That’s the thin one.” She pointed with her cigarette butt, “He is over there, in the blue vest.”

“Gracias.”

Marta went back to working on her tatting as the nun approached the thin Jesus. The group of men saw her and gestured for her to stop. “What do you want, bitch?”

“The maestro said that I was to tell Jesus to guard the remuda tonight.”

The men laughed at Jesus, who looked on forlornly. It would have been better for him to know this sooner, as he’d have gotten a little sleep and not had so much to drink. He looked at the nun and grunted, pulled himself up from his bed at the campfire, gathered up his saddle and blanket, and prepared for a long night. The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride

“You have each other and that is a good thing.”

William Robinson Leigh “You have each other and that is a good thing.”

They pulled themselves out of the water and sat down next to the assistant. She had something to tell them and they respected her. She was a kind young woman and they wanted to please her.

“What will you do?”

Maria spoke up, automatically, before Juana could open her mouth. She was not convinced that Juana had given up on the brothel idea and didn’t want her to tell the assistant about it. “We’re going to get goats.”

“I see.” She liked this idea. Maybe they’d go into a village and out of the path of the bad men. She continued. “I want you two to remember some things.”

“Yes?” She had their attention.

“You both have a big fortune now, much more than children should have. Guard it. Don’t flaunt what you have. Don’t buy fancy things: clothes, or jewelry or even guns. Don’t show the money you have when in public, don’t eat in fancy places.”

Juana thought this very silly. “Why have so much money if you can’t enjoy it?”

“Because it wasn’t really for you to have, little one. This is not your money, really. It is not money for a poor Indian to have, and you will be found out. You’ll be found out by the rurales or other bandits.” She looked at her hands and then out to the sea. “My girls, you’ve known many hard things, but the worst of all the hard things is not having enough to eat. You know this.”

Maria nodded solemnly.

“You now have enough money to ensure that you will eat well for many years. You have enough money to live in a comfortable home for many years. Do this, girls, and keep quiet. Be invisible.”

Juana looked up at her. “Be invisible?” Maria's Trail

...she was used to talking and listening to the bad men at the brothel, she wasn’t used to doing chores.

William Robinson Leigh By late day they arrived at the ruins and Maria was mesmerized. The ruins were high up in the side of the mountain and here and there walls and buildings could be seen peeking out from the honeycombed face. It was as if the people had just walked out the day before. Maria stood, jaw hanging. “Where are they?”

Juana chuckled. “Dead.”

“How? Were they attacked? Did they get sick?”

“No, Maria, they’ve been dead a long long time. Millennia.”

“What’s that?”

Juana shrugged. “I don’t know, the bad priest said it. It’s a long time.”

They wandered about and found an entrance. A little further on, they discovered a box canyon which would be a good corral for the burros. Maria put them there and cut some mesquite to make a fence to insure they stayed. She hobbled them for good measure. They were content; there was much for them to graze on. She found Juana and they went to the nearest cave.

“Whew. It stinks of bat shit in here.” Juana held her nose.

“It’s not so bad.” Maria peered at the walls which were still good. This would be a perfect home for them. She sat down and made a fire and soon had a good blaze going. Juana dug through their kit and prepared a meal. She wasn’t much good at helping because she was used to talking and listening to the bad men at the brothel, she wasn’t used to doing chores. Maria didn’t mind. She liked working and she enjoyed Juana’s company and constant banter as she watched her new partner work. Maria was always working it seemed, it is what made her happy.

They got their oil lamps and lit them. It was time to explore. Maria was enthralled and Juana bored. They found the place with the most guano and surmised that the bats used that part of the cave. The rest would be cleaner and smell better and it wouldn’t be bothersome when the bats flew in and out. This is where they’d make their home.

Further up, they found by walking a steep incline of narrow steps, a beautiful high fortress-like structure. It offered a commanding view of the entire valley below. They would be able to see any intruder for at least a mile away. This is where they’d sleep.

Next, they moved down another set of steps, a steep decline into a dark and narrow passage. Maria heard movement—water, and in short order they came upon a fairly swift moving stream, flowing from under a deep crevice in the rock. She tasted the water and it was good. It was clear and cold; they would be good here indefinitely as they’d never want for water.

Before Juana could say anything Maria had dropped down into the swift current and was wading her way across to the other side. She held her lamp up high to illuminate her way. She eventually reached the far side and was soon perched on a narrow ledge, up high and invisible from Juana’s side.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ll hide our money here. No one can see it and they won’t think to wade and carry a light like this. They won’t ever think to look here.” Maria's Trail

...at least now he was not speaking of the dead.

William-Adolphe Bouguereau They all settled down again and Francis kept guard. He watched scavengers pour over the dead men. They were stripping the corpses. He thought for a moment about it all. The Irishmen were off duty one night and it was going back to the old ways. He shrugged and looked at Rosario, lying next to him. He sniffed the air.

“That dog’s fartin’ Mama. You’ve not been givin’ him beans, I hope.”

Rosario yawned and shook her head no.

“I like dogs. Even when they fart. Most of the time it don’ smell near as bad as a man’s farts anyway. My Ma, she always was fond of cats. We had half dozen cats over the years. You like cats?” He didn’t wait for Rosario’s answer. “I like cats all right. They’re all right. Can’t be trained. We once had a cat, female, bitch, I guess. No, that ain’t right, a female dog’s a bitch, don’t know what you call a female cat. Anyways, she was good at catchin’ things. Used to bring in snakes she’d captured. Little bitch used to shit in my shoes.”

Rosario chuckled. “Francis, you tell funny stories.”  She loved him so. She now knew not to stop him from prattling on, at least now he was not speaking of the dead.

“Yep, my ma, she said, when a cat shits in yer shoes, means they especially like you. Said it’s good luck.” He grabbed his coffee and watched the last corpse lose his pants, his naked backside glowing in the moonlight. “I don’t know about that, but I tell you what, Mamacita. I’d rather that cat hate me.”

She felt him trembling next to her. She put her arm around his shoulders, pulling him tightly to her, trying to make the shaking stop.

“Rosario?”

“Yes, Francis?”

“I sure am glad we met. I sure am glad I got to know you.” He reached over and kissed her gently on the cheek.

“Me, too, Francis.” She choked back her tears. She did not want to cry in front of him now. “Me, too.” Allingham

"Abandon all hope ye who enter here."

William-Adolphe Bouguereau On the ride back to the captives, Marta thought about the old man. He taught her everything good. He was responsible for teaching her to read in both English and Spanish. One day, she was reading a tattered copy of a book the old man had in his collection. It had been written by an Italian man. It was called The Inferno. The old man took it from her, replacing it with the Bible which he liked to use for her lessons. He was funny. He didn’t want her to read The Inferno because he was afraid it would give her nightmares. Marta thought this was very funny because the fort was much worse than the world in the book.

She liked the story very much. She liked each circle of hell and she loved the man called Virgil. She imagined that she could go down to the deepest part of the dungeon and find the gates to hell. In fact, one day she did. She went to the deepest part and found a rock and scratched out a little doorway. Then she wrote over the doorway the words from the book, Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

 When she was finished, she liked to pretend that she could go down there and find Virgil standing under her sign. She’d ask him to come up and grab the maestro and his assistant and take them down to the deepest circle of hell where they would stay for all of eternity and would never be seen or heard from again.

She told the old man this and he really laughed. He loved the little bandit so much. She never understood why until one day he told her, before he’d become blind and worthless, that he could see a light in her. She remembered looking down at herself to try to find the light but there was nothing there. The old man laughed again and said that it wasn’t a light that was like a fire or a torch or a star, it was an invisible light and that Marta had the best mind of any creature he’d ever known. He told her that she needed to learn as much as she could so that one day, when she left the fort, she’d be able to live well in El Mundo.

He always called the area outside the fort El Mundo. One day, when she asked him why he said that, and why he didn’t call the fort and the ground that he stood on El Mundo, he gave a laugh and told her that this place was unnatural, evil, and it was the mouth of hell.  It was not El Mundo and she’d understand him one day.

As she rode north, she thought about Rebecca and wondered what it must be like to live like her. Maybe she lived in the El Mundo the old man referenced. She was excited now. She thought about the beautiful Señora and how she got the big flutter in her stomach when the lovely lady kissed her on the head. She loved that feeling more than the feeling she had when she shot the dark Jesus in the face or when she shot the two bandits. She loved it more than when she rode a good horse fast or when she made fun of the bandits and they would look at her with so much anger, when they wanted to beat her or kill her but dared not touch her.

She loved it more than when she and Rebecca helped the captives and gave them food and water when they were forbidden to do so. She loved it more than when she did the tatting and got all the knots right and didn’t have to tear her work apart because she’d blundered.

At one point she stopped her horse and wanted to wheel around and go back to the beautiful Señora so that she could be hugged and kissed by her again. Then she remembered that the Señora had given her the task of getting the captives and Rebecca and the old nun back to Bisbee.

Bisbee, it was fun to say. It sounded funny, like the buzzing of a bee. She thought that maybe Bisbee was El Mundo, too, and she could not wait to get there.

She tapped her mount’s sides and got him into a canter, then a full gallop. She tapped him from side to side on his neck with her reins; not painfully, just to urge him on. They were galloping and galloping. In short order, she could see the prisoners and they were all happy. She felt good. She felt the best she’d ever felt in her entire life. The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride

...if we keep carrying on this way, we’re sure to have a baby.

William-Adolphe Bouguereau “Not so hard.”

She pushed him away from her breasts and lay back in the hot sun. She loved him. But sometimes he was just too rough. She was secretly delighted that she could arouse him to the point that he forgot himself and acted so aggressively. He’d learn soon enough what made her happy and what was going too far. They were both learning about lovemaking and what it meant to pleasure each other.

“Sorry Mags.” He grinned and lay back in the cool water washing over them. He smiled at his little beauty and kissed her again. He loved her more than he thought he’d ever love another person in the world. Now and again he’d just look at her and have difficulty believing that she was all his; his woman, soon to be his wife.

“I’m going to have a baby.”

His heart raced. “Really, Mags? Really?” He was pleased. He wanted a baby, thought a baby would seal the deal, make her his for the rest of their days.

“No, not really, not yet. But if we keep carrying on this way, we’re sure to have a baby.” She pulled him onto her and for the third time that day, they again made love. Allingham

Rosario made it back to their little camp, dropping fresh shells into her scattergun as she walked.

María Félix He pointed his rifle and waited for a clear shot. Suddenly, two blasts of the ten gauge erupted. Two men cried out in pain as the buckshot found its mark. Pistol firing could be heard and he knew Rosario was using her six shooter, preferring it to reloading the shotgun. Bad men were popping up like dandelions in a field, and Hobbs and Old Pop took careful aim. In short order, four men lay dying or dead.

When no more bad men offered resistance, Rosario made it back to their little camp, dropping fresh shells into her scattergun as she walked. She looked Hobbs over carefully, then Old Pop, and finally Pierce, who’d stood frozen the entire time, unable to either run or fight. It was all over in less than a minute.

Hobbs kissed his wife on the forehead. “Thanks, darling.”

“Da nada.” Allingham: Desperate Ride

"When you are doing things that please God, danger and the potential for death does not matter."

Guru Gobind Singh They rested awhile and Hobbs worried more about the Scotsman. He looked at Mr. Singh who seemed to never have a care in the world. But Hobbs was an old man and not a fighter and he needed to chat and make it right in his mind.

“Are there many of your kind—you Sikhs—in India, Mr. Singh?”

“No, not so many.” The Sikh considered the question. “Perhaps about as many Jews as there are in the land of the Pharaohs.” He smiled and Hobbs understood his meaning. But Hobbs was not a devout Jew and did his best to not even look the part. He preferred anonymity, especially in the Western territory.

“Well, I salute you, sir. To be a man who stands out in the crowd, to stand out in the crowd in a land that is hard enough without such encumbrances, is something to respect.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hobbs.” He stood up and poured Hobbs the rest of the coffee and cleaned the pot and put it away in his pack. He sat back down and poked a little at their campfire. “It has been our way for many hundreds of years. The Guru said that we must show the world what we are, who we are. That is why we wear it, among other reasons.”

“This Scotsman. He’s, he’s, do you think, my God, Mr. Singh, I’m all tongue—tied, I’m speechless.”

“He is a profane and ignorant man, but he is just a man. We are doing God’s work and the work of law, the law of the land, and the absolute law of morality. We will achieve our goal, Mr.  Hobbs. We will make it right.”

“Yes, well, that’s not my worry so much as it might be the very last thing we do.” He grinned sheepishly and had to look away. Hobbs was fairly working himself up into a terrible fright.

“When you are doing things that please God, danger and the potential for death does not matter. Remember that, Mr. Hobbs.” He smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Remember that, and you will never know fear because you will always be ready to face God.” Allingham; Desperate Ride

The captain warned us ‘bout you, Mr. Singh.

Mr. Singh appeared next to Francis on the rooftop of the livery stable, the highest building in Canyon Diablo. They picked their targets carefully, dropping man after man.

“How you doin’, Mr. Singh?” Francis smiled at the Sikh and saw the Indian had blood on his clothes. “How many’d ya get?”

“Two, Francis.” He fired his Winchester and put a bullet through a bad man’s eye. “Now three.”

“I’ll be go to hell. The captain warned us ‘bout you, Mr. Singh. Said you could cut our throats before we cleared leather.” Mr. Singh gave a just discernible smile. He did not like to be proud, or bragged about, but could not help feeling a little pleased. Allingham.