REVIEWS
CIMARRÓN has
been piling up reviews on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Goodreads – ALL FIVE
STAR! I’m flattered and humbled that my novel has been getting such a positive
response. Even more flattering, these initial reviews have all come from
acclaimed (and sometimes award-winning) authors W. MICHAEL FARMER, LORRIE
FARRELLY, JOHN LINDERMUTH, JEFF MARIOTTE, STEVE HOCKENSMITH and THOMAS CLAGETT. Accordingly I’ve created a blog as
an ongoing scrapbook of my reviews as they accumulate.
Here’s a quick
sample:
W. MICHAEL
FARMER
‘Superlative… a classic western.’
LORRIE FARRELLY:
‘Fast-paced, authentic, breath-taking.’
JOHN LINDERMUTH:
‘Action-filled story with its sympathetic
characters, a plot full of riveting twists and a true-to-life setting.’
JEFF MARIOTTE:
‘McBride writes about the old West like he
lived then, and he writes about Arizona like he lives there (which he doesn't,
but I do.)’
REVIEWS BLOG HERE:
https://andrewmcbrideauthor.blogspot.com/2022/08/reviews-of-cimarron-by-andrew-mcbride.html
SAMPLE CHAPTER
To give you a flavour of the
novel, a SAMPLE CHAPTER - CHAPTER FIVE
- follows.
THE SETTING: Arizona Territory
1873. The central character of the novel is 20-year-old CALVIN TAYLOR. Even
though he’s a white man, he’s been nicknamed ‘Choctaw’ as he was born and
raised on the Choctaw Agency in what is now Oklahoma, where his father was an
army contractor. Choctaw has gone into partnership with DECLAN FLYNN, a young
man born in Ireland but raised in Texas. The pair are working as mustangers,
breaking wild horses in lonely Mormons’ Basin. Declan has ridden off on a task,
leaving Choctaw alone when two mysterious strangers ride up…
CIMARRÓN
Chapter Five
Choctaw strode over to his horse and slid his
Winchester from his saddle scabbard, watching the riders all the while.
They looked like Anglos.
He considered playing this
hard from the start, pointing his rifle at the newcomers and calling out,
“That’s close enough!” But before he could speak the riders reined in, maybe
twenty yards off. Which is still closer than he should have let them get.
He took a quick glance at the
country to the west, hoping Declan might show. But there was no sign of him.
Choctaw lowered his rifle,
resting it against his right leg, his finger light on the trigger. He called,
“Afternoon.”
One of the newcomers touched
his hat briefly. “You can call me Ike.” He gestured towards the rider on his
left. “This here’s Kyle.”
“Calvin Taylor.”
“Mustanger huh?”
“That’s right.”
“All by yourself?”
At the question Choctaw felt
the cold clay of fear in his belly. He told himself: This is going to be bad.
Ike was in his forties, lank,
long-faced and raw-boned. He wasn’t carrying much fat on his six foot frame.
Under his wide-brimmed slouch hat long brown hair showed, shot with grey. His
handlebar mustache was also grey. The most striking feature about him was his
paleness. He hadn’t been out in the Arizona sun much of late. And his eyes were
pale blue and cold, without one glimmer of friendliness.
Kyle was another tall, lean
man, but much younger, maybe twenty-five. He had shoulder-length fair hair,
mustache and trail beard. There was a slight wildness to his eyes that was
unsettling.
At first Choctaw hadn’t taken
these two for kin, but now he saw they both had the same long, sharp nose and
long-jawed face. Kyle could be nephew or son to the older man.
They dressed like any
nondescript cowboys or travelers. They wore pistols on their hips and also had
rifles in saddle-boots.
The horses they rode looked
pretty ganted. But the men looked hard-worn too. Scuffed leather and patches
were in evidence. A layer of dust lay over them. They had a hungry look, maybe
not just the product of hard travelling in desert country. If he was being
uncharitable, Choctaw might have marked them as rawhiders.
He found he was being
uncharitable anyway. He didn’t take to these men. He didn’t like the slow,
deliberate way they inspected what was before them: the horses in the corrals,
Choctaw’s horse, the camp gear strewn about. Their eyes lingered on each item
like they were doing a tally, then moved on. Most particularly he didn’t like
the way their scrutiny ended with the stallion. Both men gazed at the horse
like a drunk looking at a bottle after a long dry, or a man long without a
woman with his eyes on one.
He thought about Ike’s
paleness. He’d once seen another fellow like that. He’d been told this man had prison pallor, the hue of skin you got
from years out of the sun, penned in a prison cell.
Choctaw chewed his lower lip.
He wondered where Declan was. How come
there ain’t never a crazy Irishman around when you need one?
Until Dec showed, he decided
to keep playing this friendly. He asked Ike, “What can I do for you?”
But Ike ignored the question
and spoke instead to Kyle. “What you think, boy?”
Kyle scratched his trail beard.
“About a hundred and fifty for the stallion, maybe forty for the stringer.”
Ike nodded. “Close to two
hundred dollars.”
Choctaw felt a smile working
at his lips, although he couldn’t imagine what he’d found to smile about.
“Yeah, that’s sort of what I figured to sell ’em for.”
Now Ike smiled, genial as all
hell. His teeth were bad though, yellow and brown with a few gaps showing.
“Don’t worry about that, boy. We’ll sell
’em for you!” He gave a short laugh. “Only question is . . . ” He rested his
right hand on his left hip, close to his pistol in its crossdraw holster. “ . .
. you gonna be nice about it, and let it happen, or are you gonna be stupid?”
Kyle’s hands had been resting
on his saddle horn. Now he moved them so they hovered at his side, the right
one just a few inches away from the grip of his pistol.
Choctaw felt more fear, tight
in his mouth and throat. He started to tremble slightly. He was still smiling
like a damn fool, but the smile was fixed on his face as if it was nailed
there.
Ike went on, “We ain’t after
trouble. We just wanna trade. Kyle’s plug here for that buckskin of yourn. My
old Spencer for your fancy Winchester.” He nodded towards the corrals. “Your
camp gear, them horses, for . . . ”
“For what?”
Ike smiled, showing his bad teeth again. “Your
life, boy.”
Kyle laughed, making a noise
half way between a whinny and a bray. His laugh was as crazy as his eyes. “Or
do you fancy two-on-one?”
That wild laugh jangled
Choctaw’s nerves, which were stretched taut as an Apache bowstring anyway. But
he had been given an opportunity to
back out of this. To let these rawhiders clean him out, and just hope Ike kept
his word, about not killing him . . . Later, he and Dec could go after them,
and get back what they’d lost. Sure it would be humbling, eating crow right
now, but it was the sensible thing to do. The better part of valor and all
that.
The stallion whickered.
Choctaw glanced at the horse,
prowling restless in the corral. He thought of this animal in the hands of Kyle
and Ike . . . Suddenly, he forgot fear
and knew only a hot rush of temper.
“No trade!”
Kyle blinked, and his lips
pursed in anger. His hands started to move.
Ike said, “No, boy.”
Kyle froze, his hands where
they were. He glared some more, then darted a questioning look at the older
man.
Ike gazed at Choctaw. His face
showed disappointment, maybe even sadness. “Looky here, younker.” He spoke
slowly, like a man long practiced at keeping patient with foolish youth. “Like
I said, we don’t want trouble. This can all be settled peaceable.”
Choctaw thought it over.
Another chance to back away. But that would be backing away from keeping the
stallion too.
He tried to put a curb on his
temper. And failed. Before he knew it, the words were out of his mouth. “Get
your thieving hides out of here!” He lifted his rifle, pointing it at the
horsebackers.
Ike reared back slightly, like
he’d just caught a bad, sharp stink in his nostrils. High color touched his
weathered cheeks. Kyle flinched.
Choctaw seemed to be two
people. The one talking and acting, and the other watching him do so. The
second version of himself felt some dismay. He’d had two chances to back out of
this. Instead he’d spat in the eyes of two armed men. Was he crazy? Did he
think he could take both of them?
These last few years he’d
developed a nasty habit of jumping into things without thinking them over
first. A number of times it had landed him in spots like this. Eyeball to
eyeball with dangerous men. Would he ever learn?
Would he live long enough to
learn?
Kyle glanced across at Ike, as
if he was waiting for orders.
Ike nodded slightly. Like
maybe he was signaling something. Signaling what?
Choctaw tensed, bending his
knees. He braced himself, ready to be ridden down by these men, to go down
shooting.
But neither rider moved. The
anger faded from Ike’s face. He started to turn his horse away. Still keeping a
hold on his temper, he said, “You got no respect for your elders, boy.” Over
his shoulder he added, “Somebody ought to teach you that.”
Kyle wheeled his horse about
too. Choctaw was surprised to find himself watching the rider’s backs as they
moved away from him.
He sighed with heavy relief,
blowing out his cheeks. He felt almost dazed with it. He took his eyes off the
horsemen and looked to the west, for any sign of Declan.
Which was a mistake.
Because the riders moved
simultaneously, spurring their horses into sudden movement. Ike swung his horse
to the left and Kyle to the right, cutting their horses around, circling back
towards the man afoot. They came at him at the full gallop, pistols in their
hands.
They yelled.
Choctaw jammed the butt of his
rifle into his shoulder. He aimed at Ike as the man fired.
And missed.
Choctaw fired.
Ike came loose of his horse.
He pitched sideways and hit the earth in a burst of dust.
Choctaw swung towards Kyle.
The rider was almost upon him. Choctaw didn’t have time to get to get his rifle
back to his shoulder. He took the gun by the barrel, got a two-handed grip and
swung.
The butt hooked into Kyle’s
stomach. The blow scooped him out of the saddle. His horse plunged ahead, its
shoulder catching Choctaw broadside on, knocking him from his feet.
Choctaw struck the earth on
his back. Hard.
All the wind seemed to be
driven out of him.
He didn’t know how long he lay
there, dazed, trying to pull air into seared lungs.
But eventually he did move.
Kneeling up and then finally climbing to his feet.
Ike and Kyle were both down.
But as Choctaw reached full height, Kyle stirred too. He sat up.
Choctaw glimpsed the butt of
his rifle at his feet. He ducked down, grabbed it, lifted it . . . and then he
realized all he held was the stock, the barrel lay in the dust nearby. Striking Kyle, he’d broken the Winchester in
half.
Kyle rose slowly and painfully to his feet,
left hand pressed to his side. In his right hand he held a pistol, which he
pointed at the other man’s chest.
Choctaw stared stupidly. There
was death, a dozen yards and a finger-squeeze away. But he was too dazed to
feel fear, or anything . . .
He could only watch.
Kyle squinted, taking better
aim.
And then he seemed to fling
himself backwards, as if yanked by an invisible rope from behind.
Kyle hit on his back. Dust
rose.
There was the sound of a shot.
Choctaw stared at him a
minute, not understanding.
In the tail of his eye he saw
movement. There was a boil of dust, off to the west, growing bigger as it came
closer, and a rider inside it. It rolled nearer and thinned, revealing Declan
on his paint, leading the claybank on a trailing line.
Choctaw walked over to Ike. He
was dead, his face showing a faint surprise, his eyes wide open and a hole in
his forehead. The back and top of his head was scattered all over the trail.
Moving to Kyle, Choctaw felt
relief when he saw the man was still alive, eyes open and trying hard to
breathe. There was blood all over his shirt and the top of his pants, pooling
on the earth around him. There was a small hole in his shirt front, almost dead
center in his chest.
Kyle groaned and said, “Ma.”
It was a small, weak voice, almost that of a child.
Choctaw said, “You’ll be all
right.” His words mocked him, like that was maybe the stupidest thing he’d ever
said. He followed up with something nearly as lame. “We’ll fix you up.”
Kyle tried to speak again and
blood came out of his mouth and nose, washing over his chin. Choctaw remembered
there was a canteen hanging on one of the corral fences and moved towards it.
Kyle screamed. That stopped
Choctaw in his tracks. The scream went right through him, even into his teeth.
He hurried over to the
canteen, took it from its hanging place and returned to Kyle. He unstoppered
the canteen, kneeling over the fallen man. Then he saw Kyle was dead, eyes and
mouth wide.
Choctaw glanced up at the
sound of hooves. Declan reined in a dozen yards away. The Irishman had his
Henry rifle in his hand; he rested the weapon across his horse’s withers.
Choctaw expected him to ask
questions. When he didn’t, Choctaw said, “Rawhiders. They wanted to clean out
the camp.” His voice shook slightly. His arms shook too, which was how he
always reacted to violence.
Declan remained silent.
Choctaw tried to give his
friend a rueful smile, but doubted he made anything but a poor job of it. “Gracias, amigo.”
The Irishman took a long, slow
look around, turning in the saddle. When finally he did speak, it was to
observe, “Looks like you busted your nice Winchester!”
The Mogollon Rim/ red rock area of Arizona:
