A BRIEF SAMPLE OF REVIEWS of THE PEACEMAKER:
I’ve received 30+ reviews of THE PEACEMAKER on Amazon.com,
Amazon.co.uk. and Goodreads. I’m very humbled and flattered that they’re all
positive – a few 4 star, but the overwhelming majority 5 star, including
reviews from some of the most successful and acclaimed western authors in the
business, such as ROBERT VAUGHAN, RALPH COTTON and PETER BRANDVOLD. Here’s
brief sample:
Spur award-winning
and Pulitzer Prize-nominated author ROBERT VAUGHAN: ‘A great book’.
RALPH COTTON (also a Pulitzer-prize
nominated novelist): ‘For pure
writing style, McBride’s gritty prose nails the time and place of his story
with bold authority. …this relatively new author has thoroughly, and rightly
so, claimed his place among the top Old West storytellers.’
PETER BRANDVOLD (Winner of the
PEACEMAKER lifetime achievement award – please note, that’s a different
‘peacemaker’ than my book!): ‘Excellent, riveting western.’
I’m very grateful to those
writers (and others kind enough to review the novel) for their fantastic
support.
You can read FULL REVIEWS of THE PEACEMAKER here: https://andrewmcbrideauthor.blogspot.com/2021/08/the-peacemaker-reviews.html
Apache Indians
1886 (GERONIMO extreme right)
Meanwhile, here’s the BLURB for THE PEACEMAKER:
BLURB:
Eighteen-year-old scout Calvin
'Choctaw' Taylor believes he can handle whatever life throws his way. He’s been
on his own for several years, and he only wants to make his mark in the world.
When he is asked to guide peace emissary Sean Brennan and his adopted Apache
daughter, Nahlin, into a Chiricahua Apache stronghold, he agrees—but then has
second thoughts. He’s heard plenty about the many ways the Apache can kill a
man. But Mr. Brennan sways him, and they begin the long journey to find
Cochise—and to try to forge a peace and an end to the Indian Wars that have
raged for so long. During the journey, Choctaw begins to understand that there
are some things about himself he doesn’t like—but he’s not sure what to do
about it. Falling in love with Nahlin is something he never expected—and finds
hard to live with. The death and violence, love for Nahlin and respect for both
Cochise and Mr. Brennan, have a gradual effect on Choctaw that change him. But
is that change for the better? Can he live with the things he’s done to survive
in the name of peace?
And here’s CHAPTER ONE of THE PEACEMAKER:
CHAPTER ONE
The sun
hung, midway between noon and dusk. It was a blazing silver dollar, bleaching a
landscape that was bleached anyway.
He sat on
the earth in the only shade there was, his horse’s shadow, and drank from his
canteen. When the wind lifted it was hot against his flesh, spraying his skin
with warm motes of dust that scratched. When it fell, as it did now, the
breathless heat was sickening.
He
brushed pale sand from his pants and stood. Taking a pair of army field glasses
from his saddle bags, he trained them on the country to the east: the extreme
south-east corner of Arizona Territory.
Land
rippling in haze. A spine of salt-white sand dunes writhed like a snake, and,
beyond them, purple mountains flaunted against a blurred sky. The Peloncillos,
perhaps fifteen miles distant. Beyond this saw-toothed range lay New Mexico
Territory. There was another boundary only twenty or so miles south, the border
between the United States and Mexico.
He’d lost
track of time somewhat, but guessed it was about the first of August, this year
of 1871, which put him some five weeks past his eighteenth birthday.
His name
was Calvin Taylor, although everyone called him Choctaw.
You might
think his nick-name reflected Indian blood. He was dark haired and
dark-complexioned, his skin further darkened by months under this sun. But his
hair was tousled, not the straight blue-black of Indian hair, and his eyes were
a startling Nordic blue. A good-looking boy, with trail stubble around his
mouth and chin that hadn’t taken root yet as a man’s moustache and beard. He’d
made his full height but was only starting to fill out his six-foot frame.
His
clothing–denims, bandana, and flannel shield-front shirt—was largely colourless
with wear. He wore a battered plainsman’s hat. His only affectation was a
poncho over his shoulders. He wore a Colt .45 pistol, butt-forward in the
cross-draw holster on his left hip. There was a brass-faced Yellowboy
Winchester carbine in his saddle boot and a knife sheathed at his belt.
All this
weaponry was an encumbrance, but a necessary one.
This
country was a battleground.
For the
best part of a decade, the incoming white man had been at war with the
indigenous peoples of these mountains—the Apache Indians, mainly the Chiricahua
band. The reasons behind this particular conflict, who’d started it, the rights
and wrongs of it, had got lost in years of fighting and bloodshed. Now, it was
simple: if you saw Apaches, you got ready to kill them–or they killed you.
Choctaw
decided he'd got into a bad habit of travelling alone through dangerous
country. On top of that, his horse was a problem. He'd only owned the gelding a
few days, trading him for his old horse at the last place along the trail—Fort
Bowie. The animal, a handsome rosewood bay, was as skittish as hell. He still
needed some breaking in, but there wasn't the time...and this wasn't the place
to do it. A man had to be able to depend on his horse, and right now, Choctaw
couldn't.
Choctaw
blinked sweat and sunspots out of his eyes and began to lower the field glasses;
then he glimpsed movement.
He used
the glasses again, scanning nearer ground, the white sands. He saw nothing.
And then,
two black specks were there suddenly, framed against the dazzling white. They might
have dropped from the sky.
They grew
bigger. Two horsebackers coming this way, walking their mounts. As he watched,
they spurted into rapid movement, whipping their ponies into a hard run toward
him.
The
specks swelled to the size of horses and men. Men in faded smocks, maybe once
of bright colour, their long hair bound by rags at the temple. They had rifles
in their hands.
Breath
caught in Choctaw’s throat. Fear made him dizzy. His arms started to tremble.
He knew who was coming at him so fast.
Apaches.
And you killed
them—or they killed you.
This was
no place to stand and fight. He remembered his back trail; there was a place,
maybe three miles back.
He placed
his hands on the saddle, trying not to hurry. He knew a nervous rider made a
nervous horse. But, as he could have predicted, the bay turned skittish,
anyway. When he reached for the reins, the horse snorted and backed away.
Choctaw grabbed the reins and wrenched the bay's head down, trying not to think
about the two horsemen hammering down on him.
He got
his left foot into the near-side stirrup. The horse snorted and circled away
from him. Choctaw hopped after, trying to keep his balance. The horse backed,
shaking his head. Choctaw felt fear-sweat burst out all over him. He swore. He
grabbed the saddle horn, hauling himself into the saddle and swung his leg
over. In the tail of his eye, he glimpsed riders, coming closer.
Choctaw
wrenched brutally on the rein, spinning the horse about. Behind him, a rifle
cracked.
The horse
jumped. Choctaw spurred. And hit the bay with his quirt. And yelled.
The horse
broke into a run.
The first
stretch was across a salt flat, then upslope. Cresting the slope, Choctaw
risked a glance back over his shoulder. The Apaches were now where his run had
begun, maybe a quarter-of-a-mile back.
He used
the quirt once more. The bay answered, running full out.
Behind
him, an Apache yelled. Another rifle banged.
Choctaw
got his head down and rode. Now it was all down to which horses were strongest
and freshest, and his own horse not putting its foot in a hole...
Two miles
of that, hammering across the desert floor, while the horse wheezed under him.
The bay’s coat turned dark with sweat, foam flying from his lips. The Apaches
yelled once or twice, taking the occasional shot. But Choctaw kept his lead
over them.
Until he
crested a sand dune.
The sand
on the far side was soft; it broke suddenly under the bay's hooves.
The horse
fell. And screamed.
Choctaw
pitched from the saddle. Both man and horse tumbled down slope, driving a surf
of sand before them. At one point, Choctaw was sliding on his shoulders, upside
down.
At the
bottom of the slope they scrambled upright.
Dust
swallowed them. A gauzy shroud enveloped Choctaw, then thinned around him. He
coughed against dust and blinked it out of his eyes. He grabbed for the reins.
The horse shied away. He reared.
Choctaw
dodged flying hooves. He cried: “Keep still, goddammit!”
The bay
backed from him, but Choctaw flung himself across the saddle and floundered
there. The horse didn't care for being mounted in such fashion and began to
spin, chasing his tail. Choctaw swore furiously. He managed to get his feet
into the stirrups and swung upright in the saddle. He'd lost his quirt; he used
spurs and yelling to get the bay moving. He lashed the animal across the tail
with his hat.
The bay
ran.
Choctaw
glanced back. Both Apaches crested the dune. They'd cut the distance between
him and them to two hundred yards. If they hauled in their horses, they could
shoot him down while the range was so short. He saw they were doing just that,
sitting there, raising their rifles.
He ducked
his head, gritted his teeth and drove home the spurs.
Rifles
banged behind him, shockingly close. Something struck against the inside of his
left leg, a bullet yowled "Cousin!" in his right ear.
Ahead was
a belt of low cactus, saguaro and thick brush.
Choctaw
swerved the bay between giant saguaro. He found he was weaving through a cactus
forest. Vicious thorns slashed him like whips, but at least, there was cover
between him and his pursuers.
He broke
into open ground and struck a slope.
This was
the place he was looking for.
He
crested the slope. Heading down the far side, he hauled the reins, pulling the
bay up. Choctaw dropped from the saddle and let the reins trail. Dragging the
Winchester from its saddle scabbard, he ran upslope, flinging himself face down
just back of the crest. He aimed beyond it, tucking the butt of the carbine
into his shoulder.
Down
slope, the two horsemen issued from the cactus. They were maybe three hundred
yards distant.
Choctaw
had them cold. Now, if he could only control his nerves, which were jumping
like landed fish, and the fear blocking his throat...
He fired
at the nearest man.
And
missed. The rider veered aside. The second man came at him head-on, seeming to
impale himself on Choctaw’s front sights.
Choctaw
fired.
The man
flung up his arms. His pony plunged ahead, the rider rolling in dust at its
heels.
In the
corner of his eye, Choctaw glimpsed the other Apache swerving back in, crouched
over his pony's neck. The Apache yelled, firing his rifle. Choctaw tracked this
man and shot, too low. The pony went down. There was a lot of white dust—an
explosion of it—hiding both Apaches.
While
this dust was thinning, Choctaw ran over to his horse and mounted. He rode back
to the crest, his rifle in his hand, scanning the ground beyond, seeing the
dead pony but no dead Indian. Then he glimpsed both Apaches running away from
him, toward the belt of cactus. One ran Apache style, ducked low and zigzagging
from side to side, his rifle held across his body. The other runner was
stumble-footed, he had one hand pressed to his left shoulder.
Choctaw
gave them two more shots, kicking up dust at their heels, but both men reached
cover.
Choctaw
was pouring sweat, and his arms were shaking violently. His heart was pounding
hard enough to knock a hole in his chest. He felt so breathless he thought he
might faint. He ignored all that, spun his horse, and rode once more.
The bay
was making noises like he had no more run left in him. The foam he coughed up
splattered the rider’s legs, but Choctaw was merciless; he galloped the horse,
nonetheless.
But this
was Choctaw’s day for surprises and, after half-a-mile, he got another one.
*****
Arizona
I wanted
a story that combined tough action with an interracial love affair; that dealt
with Native American culture and the struggle of people to survive in a land
that was both mercilessly cruel and astonishingly beautiful. Out of such
elements THE PEACEMAKER was born. Should
you read it, I hope you enjoy it.
You can find THE PEACEMAKER here: https://www.amazon.com/Peacemaker-Andrew-McBride-ebook/dp/B099FL3PN1/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=
