Snippet from a New WIP

It's way past time for me to post here. I've had a long run of health adventures the last four months or so, and I'm still trying--unsuccessfully--to limit the usage of my left arm so it will heal from an injury. Good luck to me on that!

The short excerpt below is from a novel I began in the eighties and never finished. It's on my list of goals to be published in 2015, so I've been using my new Dragon NaturallySpeaking software to enter the typescript into my writing software. I've come to the end of the previously typed out work, so I have to start creating new stuff. However, I thought you might like a look at this scene fragment from The Zion Trail, for which I revealed the cover on this post. Warning: the tidbit includes mild swearing.

By the way, the narrator is Elijah Marshall, the younger brother of Sarah; and the name of the character called Henry will be changed before the novel is published. I only need to decide what I want to call him!
~~~

I was slopping our sow and her brood when I first became aware of the voices. The pigpen was built up next to the hen house, and Sarah must've come out to check for any late-laid eggs. But somebody had joined her in there, and from the words that wiggled through the cracks, that somebody's hands weren't gathering eggs.

Curious, I found a knot hole in the side of the coop, and took a sight around the interior.

Henry Stiles, the brawny blonde farmer from down the road a piece, had his arms around my sister, and she wasn't struggling any. In fact, from the look on her face, I figured she was mighty content.

"Then they started in telling Pa about their religion," she told Henry. "He's still sitting there, listening to every word they say."

"But they are not from around here?"

"They come from Illinois. Some place called Nauvoo."

"Ah hell!" Henry dropped his hands from Sarah's shoulders. "It's those damned Mormons!"
 ~~~

Yes, my friends of other faiths, this book is going to explore Elijah Marshall's trials and tribulations in getting to his Zion, that is, Deseret--more commonly known today as Utah--to join the other Saints. I hope I can count on you to be along for the journey.

Rulon Owen is a sentimental fellow

I wrote a paragraph on Monday that might find its way into Gone for A Soldier. As you can tell, it's part of a letter:

My heart hangs heavy in my bosom today. As I listened to the meloncholy music of a comrade playin’ the tune "Lorena" on his banjo, another fellow started in singin’ the words. My dear Mary, I about fell to weepin’. These days have been long and burdensome, and many of our comrades have fallen. I long for the day when I can return to your sweet embrace.

Rulon

It will have more to it, of course, but has possibilities. I'm just excited that it came to me and I wrote it down.

Rulon Owen is Not a Patient Man

I'm outside, slogging through the snow to the garbage can I've stashed on the other side of the road for the winter so I don't have to move it back and forth during periods when the half-dollar size granite rocks are covered ankle-deep with snow. Truth be told, I don't like to trundle the bin over the granite rocks, either. Good thing the cross-road neighbors don't visit very often, I think, hauling my plastic bags by their pull ties to the black monstrosity.

"Looks like you could use a hand," someone behind me says in a deep voice, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.

I whirl around the best I can with two heavy bags impeding my pirouette. My heart pounds as hard as it did the last time someone told me Sean Connery had fallen to his death from a crag in New Zealand.

A grey-hatted man sits astride a reddish horse that nickers softly, its breath streaming from its nostrils like steam escaping from a broken pipe. I back up as the man swings down from the saddle and drops the reins to ground-tie the animal.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice quavering ever so slightly. I don't tote a firearm with me when I take out the garbage. Maybe that should change.

"Mom," he says, relieving me of first one bag, then the other. "You've met me. You should know me by now."

I'm a bit rattled by his choice of words. My sons call me "Mom" in just that impatient tone of voice, making more than one syllable out of the word.

My mind is jumping from one compartment of my brain to another, rattling the filing cabinet drawers I jerk open as I search for clues to help me remember this man.

"I'm younger," he says, turning away from me to study the garbage bin.

Cole? Bob? John? Jim? No. He doesn't resemble the outlaw Younger brothers. My gosh, who is he? I'm beginning to slip into fear.

He sets the bags on the ground and bends his head sideways to examine the lip of the black lid. He raises an arm to test it. Discovering that it moves, he thrusts it upward, and the lid flies back. He chuckles. I'm moving backward, puzzled by his actions. He picks up the bags, chucks them in the bin, closes the lid, and turns to me, dusting his hands together.

"Them parcels have a slippery feel, but the keg is harder. What do you call that material?"

When he raises his hand to tilt back his hat, I finally know him.

"Rulon," I exhale. Rod Owen's oldest boy, and he's much more boyish looking than the man I'd met a couple of years ago. "Plastic. They are both made of plastic, but different types."

"Humph," he snorts. "Plastic."

"You'd best come inside," I tell him, glancing at the horse, and wondering if it's better to tie it to the rail of the back-door deck or the ramp's railing. The back door is locked, but I don't want the horse destroying my Heat Trak electric mat, so I settle for a third choice, the railing on the covered deck closest to the shed. That will hide the animal sufficiently that someone won't come along and elect to take a joy-ride.

Rulon ties the horse where I tell him to, then wipes off his boots before entering my living room.

"Sit down and take your ease," I say, lapsing into a genteel Civil War-era-matron persona. "May I get you a refreshment?" I mentally go over the contents of my refrigerator and cupboards. "I can offer you water, mint tea, pineapple juice...." I stop as his brow contorts in confusion. "Never mind the pineapple juice. How about hot chocolate?" I shiver. "That seems a good choice. I also have a loaf cake."

Rulon sits, perched uneasily on the edge of my chair. "I believe I've tasted that 'hot chocolate' somewhere. Don't it take quite a time to brew it?"

I think of the luxury we have in our time. Instant beverages from a foil package. "No, this is special," I say. "It won't take very long. Will you take cake, as well?"

"I reckon," he says. "Thank you, Mom."

I leave him alone, knowing he's not even going to offer to assist me in preparing the repast. That is a woman's work, and Rulon is decidedly not a woman.

He's more handsome than I had remembered, full of face and not worn down by privation. He wasn't cautious in moving his body. "He hasn't been hit by shrapnel yet," I whisper, the truth dawning on me. This is the pre-war Rulon.

When I enter the room again, carrying a tray with cups of hot chocolate and plates of cake, I notice he's fidgeting, flicking one thumbnail with the other and biting his lower lip. I set down the tray and serve him. 

He samples the chocolate, but it's hot and he blows on it.

"Tell me about the family," I say. I want to know the timeline I'm dealing with.

"Ma and Pa are well. Brother Ben's got himself a job at the mill." He grinned. "He's sparkin' Ella Ruth Meems. Figures to marry her right soon." He sips at the beverage.

My heart contracts, squeezing hard. I don't know Ella Ruth. I imagine I'll get to know her this year, probably too intimately for comfort.

"And you?" I manage to ask, forcing my lips into a smile. "You're getting long in the tooth and not wed yet."

"I am not," he sputters. "I mean, I aim to marry, just as soon..." His voice fades as his head drops. He tries to mask his chagrin by chugging the chocolate, but it's still hot, and he sputters anew, then coughs.

I hand him a tissue. He looks at it coldly, then sets his drink down on the table and wipes his mouth. He nibbles at the cake.

"Rulon, are you seeing someone?"

"Yes!" He barks the word. "Yes," he repeats, and breathes heavily. "I come to ask you to get on with writin' my tale." 

He's rushing his words now, spilling them out so fast I feel obliged to stop him, but I can't, not yet.

"I'm forbidden to wed her until you write out the words and make it real. I can scarcely stand this waiting, waiting, everlasting waiting. She won't let me--"

"Rulon!" I cut him off. "You can't do that."

He's breathing hard now, nearly gasping with pain. His yearning is almost palpable, his drive to possess filling my room with the musk of desire, and I won't tolerate the dark aspect of his need.

"Get yourself in hand! Of course she won't permit you taking liberties. She's only a bit of a girl, and doesn't realize how she's pushing you to your limit."

"You know that?" he groans and narrows his brows as he gazes at me. "You know her?" He moves one leg awkwardly.

I acknowledge his distress. "I think you'd best stay the night here. I'll call my neighbor about sheltering your horse."

He slumps forward, nerveless, and I am glad he has set down the chocolate. "I'm a cur," he whispers, then groans again.

"No, you're a young man full of yourself. It will do you good to be removed from Mary for a while."

He shuts his eyes and compresses his lips, then nods slowly. "I'll stop here for the night, on one condition." He looks up at me, his eyes full of challenge. "You have to start writin' down the words."

Now it's my turn to nod. "I'll begin inside of a month."

Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward


*This is a work of fiction. I don't really talk to time-traveling characters from my novels. I do like them a lot, though, and am glad they pass under the rainbow from time to time to visit me in my own time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com.

A Snippet from Spinster's Folly

Bill Henry reflects:

Bill thought of the first day he'd met Marie. Fresh from Texas, driving Rod Owen's herd of cattle, the crew had encountered the little sister, half-paralyzed with fear. She'd barely missed being abducted by an outlaw band. She was safe, but the miscreants had kidnapped Marie and the Bates girl--she who was now Carl Owen's bride.

The Owen men and their hired hands had tracked the party to a cave, and finally rescued the girls at great cost. His own cousin had paid the ultimate price.

For a moment, Bill let the barely abated grief of losing Bob wash over him, but his cheerful mood didn't want to go toward darkness just now, so he shook it off and went back to his more pleasant memories of that day.

On the way down the mountain after the shooting affair, they'd stumbled across a deep black pool of water shaded by trees and surrounded by protective boulders. Rulon Owen had called a brief halt to better bind up Carl's wounds so he wouldn't expire from loss of blood.

Marie reluctantly rested beside the pool, expressing her anxiety over Carl's dire condition and her desire to reach home. Be that as it may, Bill got the idea she had appreciated the beauty of the spot as she gazed around at the sheltered area. He'd brought her a tin cup to dip into the water. She'd looked up at him then, an intense gratitude in her dark eyes as she thanked him in a quavering voice for being one of her rescuers.

That was the moment when she had captured his interest. Even bedraggled as she was, with her shoulders and sleeves covered with dirt and her hair tangled and bedecked with twigs and leaves, she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Ever since that day, Bill had thought of the pool as their special spot. Not that they'd ever been back to it, but they would, someday.

I hope you enjoyed this look into Bill Henry's fond memory.

Sample Sunday: War Party

War Party is a story I wrote as my assignment when I took a correspondence course in short story writing several years ago. It has languished on my computer, unpublished (but not for lack of trying in those early days) until recently, when I put it on Amazon.com in the Kindle stores. It recounts a tragedy that led up to a fictional participation in an actual event, the Battle of Salt River Canyon at Skeleton Cave in Arizona Territory. Here's the first scene.

$0.99 at Smashwords and Amazon's US Kindle store.

War Party, Scene 1

 

Black smoke drew Rolla's eye, smoke where there should not be smoke. Then he heard the noise: high, piercing yips, and a woman's scream, and the flat report of gunshots.

A sand hill girdled with stunted mesquite trees blocked his view of the home place. The boy tongued the grass stem from his teeth as the dun-colored pack horse swung its head, nostrils wide, and the rope between the boy and horse tightened. Water in the barrels sloshed and splashed over the rims. Rolla smelled dank wetness as it cut through the dust on the sides of the casks.

He heard Pa's angry voice, and more shots, and the eternal yips, chilling his spine. Rolla started to run, pulling the dun behind, but the horse resisted, so he tied a fumbled knot around a mesquite branch. Then he scrambled and panted his way up the slope.

Rolla reached the top and flopped belly-down behind a tangle-branched creosote bush. He broke a stem so he could see through the shrub, and a tarry odor filled his lungs. Now he saw the source of the smoke. On the right, the dugout roof and door were ablaze, and to the left, hay stacks burned next to the corrals. The boy tried to count the dashing, milling figures with long black hair tied down by rolled bandanas, but because of the dust and smoke, he lost the total.

Apaches! he thought, remembering a neighbor's warning: "They's got hair down to here, boy, and them dirty white cloths to hide their nekkedness. And most often they's got a white band of paint clear acrost their faces, from ear to ear, nose and all."

One of the raiders knocked down the corral poles. The stock spilled out, chased by another Indian, and the rest of the band bunched behind, whooping, and drove the protesting animals onto the trail.

When the Apaches were a cloud of ocher dust, Rolla slid down the hill and, kicking the tree, snapped the spiny branch holding the horse's tether rope. He ran along the path, jerking the animal behind him, not caring about the water.

The boy came yelling into the yard between the overturned wagon and the stone fence surrounding the garden plot. "Pa!" he called, and saw a dark brown patch on the tan earth near the wagon. The boy dropped the horse's rope and followed scuff marks around the vehicle.

His father lay in a heap, and Rolla skidded to a halt beside him. "Pa," he cried, and knelt to shake the man. "Pa, wake up. They're gone." Then he recoiled, and held himself rigid at the sight of the stark white and crimson circle on the top of Pa's head. Rolla drew in a deep breath, and took in the dust and smoke, and the sweet-rank stench of blood.

The first, numbing shock passed, and the boy laid his hand inside his father's coat, checking for a heartbeat. There was none, and he stumbled to his feet.

"Ma?" he asked, looking around, swallowing hard, and he saw the splash of white petticoats behind the black wash kettle. "No, please," he prayed, feet dragging, as he approached the place where one shoe stuck out from in back of the boiling pot. He stopped, then peered around the column of rising steam.

Ma lay stretched out, eyes wide, mouth twisted, and the bodice of her gray dress was dark with blood. Her shawl looked like a yellow butterfly on the ground, and Rolla picked it up, fingering the soft wool. The threads caught on his chapped hands, and he clenched his fists over the wrap.

"Ma!" he yelled, and an echo returned from the hill as he draped the shawl over her terrified features. As he got up, he shook with restrained rage, and for a moment he stood, quivering, as though he were rooted between the two fallen figures. Then the youth dug one grave on the flat behind the corral: a large one beside the two small ones already there in the Arizona sand. After he rolled rocks atop the mounded earth, Rolla took his hat by the crown, pulled it forward off his head, and mumbled the Lord's Prayer before he stamped back to the yard.

The boy kicked through the rubble of the corral and found the riding saddle. He caught and tethered the dun, dumped the water barrels, loosened the pack saddle, and pushed it to the ground. Then he hoisted the riding saddle onto the horse's back.

Although the smoking roof poles had collapsed, and the front part of the house sagged, the fire had burned itself out, and Rolla wrestled the charred door aside and stepped into the dugout.

He found saddlebags, and stuffed them with whatever came first to hand: a loaf of bread; tins of tomatoes; his store-bought shirt; ammunition for the Winchester he had found under his father's body, brass dulled with blood. Then he rolled and tied a pair of quilts. Last, he picked up the photographic portrait of Matt and Kate Wood on their wedding day, and carried everything out into the daylight.

Rolla stared hard at the picture, as though by staring he could bring his parents to life. A dark sigh shook his body, and he pressed his lips together, shuddering at the contrast between this almost smiling couple and the mutilated corpses he had buried.

"I'll get 'em, Pa," he choked, his voice high, thin. "Those 'Paches killed their last white folks."

He shoved the portrait into his coat pocket, then hoisted the saddlebags behind the saddle, secured them, and tied on his bedroll. The rifle he jammed into the boot, then he loosed the horse, gathered the reins, and stepped onto the chopping stump to reach the stirrup. Mounted, he took one last, bitter look around, then bounced his heels off the mustang's ribs, and it skittered out of the yard and onto the trail.

 ~~~

Young Rolla has revenge in mind. Have you every been so provoked that you thought of killing someone? How could you defuse that strong emotion? What else might Rolla have done in these circumstances instead of vowing revenge upon a band of Indians?