David Blixt's Blog, page 16
March 18, 2013
GUNSMOKE - Welcome To Dodge - Chapter 1
Gunsmoke – the story of the violence that went west with young America, and the story of a man that moved with it.
I’m that man – Matt Dillon, United States Marshall. The first man they look for and the last they want to meet. It’s a chancy job, and it makes a man watchful.
And a little lonely…
CHAPTER ONE
“Wanted for murder…”
“Wanted for murder.”
“Clay Richards…”
“Clay Richards.”
“Aged thirty-one…”
“Mmmm.”
“Height, six feet…”
“Six feet…”
“Eyes Brown, hair red.”
“Brown, Red…” Hightower looked up from his pencil. “Hey, how’d you like me to print his picture on these notices! I got a woodcut – let me show you. Ernie!”
From the back of the shop Ernie poked his head out. “Yep?”
“Fetch the Marshal a copy of that front page.” Hightower twisted his fancy swivel chair back to face me. “Interviewin’ Clay’s wife yesterday, I noticed a tin-type settin’ up on the mantle – their wedding photograph. So, first thing you know, I snipped it.”
“Very thoughtful,” I said.
“Yeah,” agreed Hightower with a bald grin. “Oh, I’ll take that, Ern. And then I propped it up in front of me and carved up this woodcut. Ain’t she prime? Ain’t she just elegant?”
“Real elegant,” I said.
“Good likeness, don’t you think? Of course, he was seven or eight years younger then. Had his hair cut shorter…”
The short newspaperman prattled on as I studied the photograph. Yeah, it was a good likeness. It didn’t show what makes a law-abiding man suddenly rob a bank. And he didn’t look like a man who killed an old cashier and a Chinese cook who just happened to be there. But it was a good likeness.
Hightower lifted his latest edition. “A picture like this sure dresses up the front page, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a little masterpiece, Mr. Hightower. A notable contribution to the culture of our city.”
“Well, thank you, Marshal. Does fetch the eye, don’t it? I’m printing an extra five hundred copies of the weekly, and I bet I’ll sell ‘em all. Too bad the cashier’s shot went wide. If he’d managed to kill Clay, or even wing him, why I bet I could sell a thousand extra copies!”
“We must be thankful for the blessings we do receive, Mr. Hightower,” I said.
“Oh, I am, Marshal, I am! Why, just before it happened yesterday afternoon, I didn’t know what I was going to fill my columns with, and then, like manna from heaven, two murders and a bank-robbery.”
“Attempted bank-robbery, Mr. Hightower,” I said, correcting him. “He turned and ran before he got his hands on so much as a dollar. Still, as you say, like manna.”
My new deputy walked in then. Short and lean, you could almost look the Texan over without seeing a thing. He wore his fine black hair long - though not in any kind of fashionable way, just to keep the sun off his neck - and his eyes were always half-lidded, unless he was squinting at you. No, Chester Proudfoot wasn’t much to look at. But I liked the way he walked. And I’d seen him shoot.
“Mr. Dillon, I –”
“I’m talking business,” I said, with a little snap to it. I hadn’t meant to, but ten minutes with Hightower in a good mood will do that. A little softer, I said, “What is it, Chester?”
Chester looked put out. “It can wait, I guess, Mr. Dillon.”
Deciding Chester would be all right for the moment, I turned back to the town’s publisher. “Yeah, print Clay’s picture on those notices, Mr. Hightower. Where was I?”
“Eyes brown, hair red,” said Hightower helpfully.
“Oh yeah. Also known as Red, Brick-Top, and Sorrel. He didn’t answer to any other nick-names, did he?”
“No,” said Hightower, “that’s what they called him.”
“All right, then in big letters, four hundred dollars reward – dead or alive. And at the bottom, apply Matt Dillon, Marshal, Dodge City. Print, ah – two hundred copies. How soon can I send Chester over for them?”
“This afternoon,” said Hightower, touching the nub of his pencil to his tongue.
I tugged the brim of my hat down, said, “Good morning, Mr. Hightower. Chester,” and my deputy and I left the news-office.
Outside the heat was coming up off the street, making waves over the wooden sidewalks. The water troughs looked like they were boiling. The county was suffering the worst drought anybody could remember. Under my vest my shirt was soaked with sweat. It’s not a bad feeling, and if you’re on horseback it even feels pretty good. But walking down a dusty street with a few hours to go before the first beer, it felt pretty lousy. I was wearing my dark vest and a dark shirt – the better for the night’s ride. I don’t often wear a coat, although Doc thought it was pretty funny when he gave me one just like his at Christmas. Long and black, it came down to my knees. I’d just killed my first man since taking up my office in Dodge. I guess Doc thought it was a good joke.
I walked slowly towards my office, looking up and down the street. People were looking at me, wondering what I was going to do about Clay. It was kind of a test. And any day now the cowboys would be coming in to Dodge. My first round-up, and they’d be watching me to see how I handled things. That’s the thing about a badge – there’s always another test.
Chester was ranged alongside me with a couple feet between us. We’d already talked about walking too close. He said, “Think those posters’ll do any good? Richards is probably over the line to Oklahoma or Colorado by now. That strawberry roan of his is the fastest in the county.”
“He’s got no money,” I said. “He panicked and ran out of the bank before he got a penny. I think he’ll try to get help from his wife or brother or some friend the first chance he has, maybe tonight. I say he’s around here somewhere.”
It was bothering me, why Clay had turned thief and murderer. But I couldn’t do anything about that, at the moment. It would have to wait until I caught up to him.
There was something else bothering me. “I, ah – I’m sorry I turned on you like that, Chester,” I said.
Chester ducked his head, shrugged. “Why, that’s all right, Mr. Dillon. Out all night with a posse, no sleep, a man’s bound to get touchy.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s the way – it’s the way men use a thing like this. The men out riding last night enjoyed it, as if they were hunting fox or possum. Hightower back there, he acts like it’s a birthday treat specially gotten up for him. Everybody finds a way to use it.” I shook my head, blinked away the sweat gathering on my eyebrows. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Hm? Oh! I got a kid, a little boy, locked up in a cell. Looks like he run away from home. Ed Slade turned him over to me when he come through on the stagecoach just now. Kid about twelve years old.”
“Whose is he?”
“Ed doesn’t know. Not from around here. He flagged Ed down for a ride on the road halfway between there and here. Soon as Ed seen him standing there with a bundle on his shoulder he knew what he was up to, so he told the kid he’d help him, and then turned him over to us when he got here.”
We reached my office, a little two-room affair bought with government money. The door wasn’t locked, though the gun-cabinet behind the desk was. That was a lesson a fellow I knew had learned the hard way. “All right,” I said, “we’ll start sending out telegrams to see if anyone around here is claiming him. Well, come on in, Chester, and shut the door.”
Chester had stopped by in the doorway and was looking up the street, back the way we had come. “Mr. Dillon?
I stepped over to a trunk and pulled out a clean shirt. A white shirt. “You’re letting in every horsefly in Kansas,” I said.
“Mr. Dillon?” said Chester again. “I think you better cancel the order for them notices.”
“What?” I just had my old shirt off and as I buttoned up the new one I walked to the door. Chester made way, and I saw Pete Ziegler, known around town as the Dutchman, coming up the street on his sad little mare. He was fair and tall, but not imposing in any way, with his slack shoulders and awkward, shambling walk. Pretty harmless to look at.
Tied to his saddlehorn was the lead for the horse that trailed along behind him. A strawberry roan. There was a body draped across the roan’s back. I could tell from where I stood it was Clay Richards. Like a sack of wheat across his saddle. Last time I saw him, two days ago, he was standing at the bar in the Texas Trail, laughing his head off. And now he was a sack of wheat across his saddle.
The Dutchman kept right on towards us, keeping a painfully slow pace. His poor old horse was feeling the heat and was too tired to even swat the flies at her hindquarters. They were followed by half the saloon-bums and loafers in town.
“All right, Chester,” I said, “make ‘em keep back.”
Chester walked forward with that light step I’d hired him for. “All right now, you fellers, stand back now! Stand back!” His hand was nowhere near his gun.
“Ziegler!” I called when the Dutchman was close enough. “How’d it happen, Ziegler?”
Ziegler dismounted and took off his hat – a ten-gallon looks silly on most men, and he was no exception. He pulled out an old handkerchief and mopped his face from brow to chin. “My goat, my old billy-goat, he pushes open the pens last night and runs away.”
“Forget your goat, now,” I said. I was still feeling a little mulish. And I hated those bums watching. “What about Clay?”
“I – I tell you,” said Ziegler, a little less certain now. “This morning I go look for the goat. I walk here, and there. Near the river I see Clay. He sits there. I say, Hello Clay, vie geits?”
From out of the crowd someone shouted, “You dirty dutchman! You no good dog!”
Then someone else was picking up the mood. “Clay was your best friend! He helped you buy your farm, so you kill him for it!” The crowd was growing, and they were all shouting. Chester was looking at me.
“All right,” I said, “all of you, keep back, everybody.”
The Dutchman was looking out at the crowd in confusion. “Clay? No no. My brother he was like!” There were some derisive sounds from the bums. “We was in the war together. Listen…”
He didn’t know it, but he was making things worse. “You killed him for the reward!”
“Not so!” shouted Ziegler, mopping his face. “I kill nobody – not since Gettesburg. Clay is dead when I find him.” He turned to me. “I don’t even own a pistol.”
The crowd was getting bigger, louder, and uglier. “Ziegler – get inside, quick,” I said, stepping out of the doorway and into the street.
“Ja.” The Dutchman ducked inside quickly.
I must’ve looked a poor peace officer, no coat, no vest, and my shirt-tails hanging out. The crowd wasn’t just bums and drifters anymore. Real citizens were coming to see what was up. And what I was going to do about it. “Chester, give me a hand with Clay.” I walked around the strawberry roan and didn’t look at Clay’s face – there’d be time enough for that inside. But before I got a handle on him I decided to do something about the crowd.
“All right, all of you. Listen.”
They didn’t.
“Shut up!”
They did.
“I will not tolerate a disturbance,” I told them. “You know me.”
No, they didn’t. Eight months, and easy ones at that. They didn’t know me from Adam. And they trusted me even less.
“All right, Chester, take his legs.”
We carried the body inside.
March 16, 2013
A Western Adventure - Starting Monday
In Dodge City and the territories on west, there's just one way to handle the killers and the spoilers, and that's with a U.S. Marshall and the smell of Gunsmoke...
Starting here on Monday, I'll be releasing a chapter a day of a Western novel based on the old Gunsmoke series. 34 chapters, 34 days, and 1 man trying to bring order to the wild violence of the West.
This novel was something I wrote several years back as a gift for my father. He raised me on Old Time Radio - the Shadow, the Lone Ranger, the Green Hornet. And as I got old enough, I became a huge fan of the radio version of Gunsmoke. (I have to confess, I've never watched the TV series, as William Conrad will always be my Marshall Dillon.)
Listening to the series, I was struck by how much the gruff tone of Conrad's narration felt like a Robert B. Parker novel. As a huge Spenser fan (and also a fan of Parker's handful of Westerns), I decided to try an experiment. Taking five episodes of the radio series by Norman MacDonnell, John Meston, and Walter Newman, I interwove them into a single novel. I originally called it HOMECOMING, but here I've renamed it WELCOME TO DODGE. The notion is that Matt Dillon has returned to Dodge City, his youthful home, to take up the job of Marshall for the first time. He's spent years traveling, working on both sides of the law. But now he's back, and trying to be the man Dodge needs.
I have to say, it was a lot of fun, and I was very pleased by the result. It's not something I could ever publish - I don't have the rights, and wouldn't know who to talk to about getting them. But I can post it here, as nothing more than Fan Fiction.
So when you're done with THE FOUR EMPERORS and are feverishly waiting the next chapter in the life of Pietro and Cesco, take a few minutes out of each day to enjoy GUNSMOKE: WELCOME TO DODGE.
March 15, 2013
March 12, 2013
Now in Print - Her Majesty's Will!
For the first time in print - HER MAJESTY'S WILL!
Buy it today at Amazon.com. Click here!
Before he was famous, he was a fugitive.
Before he wrote of humanity, he lived it.
Before he was the Bard of Avon, he was a spy.
A very poor spy.
England, 1586. Swept up in the skirts of a mysterious stranger, Will Shakespeare becomes entangled in a deadly and hilarious misadventure as he accidentally uncovers an attempt to murder Queen Elizabeth herself. Aided by the mercurial wit of Kit Marlowe, Will enters London for the first time, chased by rebels, spies, his own government, his past, and a bear.
Through it all he demonstrates his loyalty and genius, proving himself to be - HER MAJESTY'S WILL.
'I LOVE this book! I'm laughing and on the edge of my seat and turning e-pages so fast, I'm gonna fry my iPad.' - C.W. Gortner, author of THE QUEEN'S VOW and THE TUDOR CONSPIRACY
March 5, 2013
Presenting COLOSSUS: THE FOUR EMPERORS
Now Available! The second novel of the Colossus, a series exploring the fall of Jerusalem, the building of the Colosseum, and the rise of Christianity. This novel deals with the last days of the Emperor Nero and the tumultuous year that followed, known ever after as The Year Of The Four Emperors!
Available exclusively on Amazon Kindle!
Rome
under Nero is a dangerous place. His cruel artistic whims border on
madness, and any man who dares rise too high has his wings clipped, with
fatal results.
For
one family, Nero means either promotion or destruction. While his uncle
Vespasian goes off to put down a rebellion in Judea, Titus Flavius
Sabinus struggles to walk the perilous line between success and
notoriety as he climbs Rome's ladder.
When
Nero is impaled on his own artistry, the whole world is thrown into
chaos and Sabinus must navigate shifting allegiances and murderous
alliances as his family tries to survive the year of the Four Emperors.
As the Historical Novel Society says of David Blixt, "Be prepared to burn the midnight oil!"
February 23, 2013
Colossus: Map of Rome
Here's the map of the area around the Forum Romanum in Rome, around 66-69 AD. It covers many of the places mentioned in the course of the novel. For this map, we took an existing one in the public domain and overhauled it completely. The Fish Market and the Produce Market are taken from Colleen McCullough, and the 100 Steps are taken from another map entirely (I'm glad I was able to find that map, as I thought I had made them up during the writing!). Most of the other buildings are fairly well established.
Getting close now, kids!
February 19, 2013
Cover Art for THE FOUR EMPERORS
Cover art is a tricky business. It can make or break a book. And it's always dangerous for authors to have too much say in their covers. But, as with other Sordelet Ink books, I get final say.
It was bad from the start. I walked into this art design thinking I knew what I wanted, and at the same time not liking the idea. Because I am often quite literal-minded, I was thinking of representing each of the five emperors in this novel - floating coins of each usurper, centered around Nero's coin/bust/face. Then I realized I was unconsiously stealing from one of my sourcebooks, Gwyn Morgan's excellent 69 A.D. - THE YEAR OF THE FOUR EMPERORS.
So I discarded that, but was still hung up on coins. I thought about coins spilled from a vase, with each of the emperor's faces upwards from a bloody ground, and even found some art that I almost liked.
But still, I was being far too literal minded. Besides, these are going to be Amazon thumbnails for the most part. To havesomething as subtle as coin faces on a bloody ground would mean very little to the average Amazon Kindle shopper.
So I returned to the image for the first Colossus novel, designed by Rob McLean, and decided I much preferred something along those lines. I looked at all the faces of the emperors in question, and decided against them all. Instead I chose a Rome legionary to be my stand-in for Sabinus, just as we used Bernini's David to stand in for Judah (and Asher, his twin).
So allow me to present the cover for my upcoming Roman novel, COLOSSUS: THE FOUR EMPERORS.
February 18, 2013
Roman Legions - Terms and Definitions
A Roman Legion was
made up of about 5,500 men. The core unit of a legion is the century.
Originally a century, as its name suggests, was made up of 100 men. But by the
late Republic and early Empire it was actually 80 soldiers and their support
staff.
Eighty men make a century. Six centuries make a cohort. Ten cohorts make a legion, with the lead cohort being
double-sized. That’s 5,280 men. Add 120 cavalry men and around 100
noncombatants – engineers, cooks, etc. – and you reach 5,500.
Each legion had a golden
eagle, the aquila, carried by the aquilifer. They also had a flag with
their symbol on it. The flag was called a signum,
or a vexillum, and was carried by the
vexillifer. Sometimes a legion would
detatch a smaller unit. When this happened, the main legion would keep the
eagle, while the detatchment marched out under the vexillum. Thus the name for
the detatchment became a vexillation.
Legionaries were
supposed to be citizens, but by this time recruiting standards were winked at.
Many locals were recruited with the promise that if they served Rome well for between
sixteen and twenty-five years, they would retire as full Roman citizens.
Some common terms to
do with legions:
Legate
(legatus) – Either the legion’s
commander-in-chief, or else senior commanders under a specific general. For
example, Titus is senior legate of the Fifteenth Legion, under the command of
his father Vespasian, who oversees several legions. A legate was usually a
senator or from a senatorial family, as leading a legion was often a large part
of climbing the cursus honorum, the 'path of honour'.
Tribune of the
Soliders (tribunus
militum) – Not to be confused with Tribune of the Plebs, whose veto power
had by this point been absorbed by the Princeps. A military tribune was a staff
officer, often in his twenties. The term originates from Rome’s earliest days,
when each of Rome’s tribes would send a representative to be a junior officer
in the army. Usually 6 tribunes to a legion, the most senior of whom was second
in command to the legate.
Centurion
(centurio) – Professional, career
officer, the backbone of the Roman army. He could be elected, appointed, or
promoted from the ranks. Caesar promoted men of valour, and many historians
record centurions as being the first over a wall. The most wounded, most
decorated, most valuable element in a legion. A general would think nothing of
losing all his tribunes, but weep outright if he lost a centurion. 60-66
centurions in any legion (depending on the breakdown of the extra men in the
first cohort).
Optio
- A centurion’s right-hand, carrying out orders and enforcing discipline.
Basically a centurion in training. 60-66 optios to a legion.
Decurian
- Cavalry commanders. A legion’s cavalry was divided into four units of 40
horsemen, so 4 decurians to every legion.
February 13, 2013
Vatican, Vatican't - Blessed and Cursed
Given the news of the Pope's retirement, this feels like the perfect time to share this story. You see, I have the
dubious distinction of having been both thrown out of the Vatican, and also blessed
by the Pope. Though not on the same day.
The Vatican
Incident (a good Robert Ludlum title) happened while I was on a semester abroad
with Eastern Michigan University’s European Cultural History Tour – 14
countries in 4 months. We’d just arrived in Rome, and were doing a Vatican day.
Now, I’m a huge
fan of Roman history, especially the latter days of the Republic. Recently,
when naming all the Romans who interested me, a friend said, “You like all the
butchers!” That’s not strictly true, but I am certainly fascinated by several
of the more, shall we say, colorful of the Romans. One of them I have a special
interest in is Lucius Cornelius Sulla. He carved the path that Caesar would
later follow, using his army to take the city of Rome itself and give victory
to his political faction. He was made Dictator, and rewrote Rome’s
constitution – which worked out so well that Caesar had to do it again 25 years
later.
Anyway, I’ve
always wanted to get a glimpse of Sulla. There are two busts in existence. One
I’d seen in Germany. It portrayed him old, toothless, and decrepit, with a
clever (if insulting) detail from the sculptor of showing Sulla’s real hair
sticking out of the curly wig he wore.
But I’d heard
there was another bust. One of him as a young man, of him so impossibly
handsome that the wives of important senators were throwing themselves at him,
and thus earning him the enmity of many great men. That bust was in the
Vatican. That was the bust I wanted to see.
But it was my
first time there, and there was so much else to see. The Loacoon, the Prima
Porta Augustus, and more, and more. I was amused to see how many of the
statues had had their wangs whacked off, and wondered if there was a room
somewhere in the Vatican filled floor to ceiling with tiny stone penises. I imagined
the job of trying to match them up again. I was in my early 20s.
Despite so
much to appreciate, my goal was to see Sulla. So I slipped away from the bulk
of the group and went hunting for the busts. A frustrating search. Not that
there weren’t busts, there were plenty. But not from the right period. Not of him.
The hourglass
was draining, it would soon be closing time, and yet, no Sulla. Then I saw a
sign with the right dates! But it led to a closed room, with a red velvet rope
across the door. Apparently the Vatican closes off some of their collections at
different times of day so as to not have to staff them all. Damn! So close!
I looked around.
No one. Well then… I stepped over the velvet rope and tried the door. It was
unlocked.
(Aside – when my
wife tells this story, she adds guns and dogs and barbed wire. She says she
tells it so much better than I do. And she’s right. But I’m telling it like it
happened.)
So I slipped in,
and was confounded – I was on a second floor looking down at the busts! This
was a balcony level with a few busts on it. But Sulla wasn’t here – he had to
be down on the main floor. And there was no way down! Who doesn’t build a
stairway?
I walked around the
balcony, staring down at the busts, trying to discern which was which by the
hairstyles. Then I spotted one that could – could
– be him. But I was too far away to tell.
Then I realized
that my cheap camera had a zoom function. Not a very good one, but a zoom
nonetheless. I whipped it out and pointed it at the bust in question. Not good
enough. I needed to get closer. I leaned over the balcony rail. Still not close enough! So I put one leg
over…
When the guards
found me, I was hanging upside-down off the balcony, my knees wrapped around
the rail. I was hauled up and escorted out of the building.
I got the
photo. It would be awesome to say it was him. But I don't think so.
Flash forward
six years. Jan and I are on our honeymoon, a three-month tour of Europe (we
didn’t have a wedding. We dress up in front of people for a living, so we
didn’t feel the need. And we spent all the money we would have put into a
wedding into our honeymoon). We’re in Rome, and I’m taking her to St. Peter’s.
She’s never been, and we’re excited. Only it’s more crowded than I’ve ever seen
it. It’s a Wednesday, so I can’t figure out what’s going on. Suddenly we’re
being funneled through metal detectors and we can hear a voice droning in Latin
over a PA system. A very familiar voice…
We see his face
on the giant Popeatron they’ve set up before we actually see him. Pope John
Paul II is holding a Wednesday Mass in St. Peter’s Square. How utterly cool.
We make to sit
down, but someone asks if we are newlyweds. We admit we are, and we’re led to
the front with a bunch of other couples. And during his mass, the Pope blesses
our union.
Kicked out of
the Vatican. Blessed by the Pope. I figure it’s a wash.
(This is us on our second trip to St. Peter's - with a camera, this time)
February 6, 2013
A Community Loss
Last night the Historical Fiction community lost a great voice in Margaret Frazer. The author of two dozen historical mysteries, she was writing and promoting right up to the end.
I only knew her as Margaret, her pen name, not as Gail, in life, so I'll leave it to others to eulogize her better. But our literary world is dimmer for the lack of her humor and curiosity.
The wonderful thing about being an author is the legacy you leave. And I can think of no finer way to honor Margaret Frazer is to dive into one of her books. There are plenty to choose from! If I can turn one reader of mine into a reader of hers, that's a day well spent. You can find her books here.
