ANCIENT VOICES AT SCOTTS BLUFF By Vonn McKee

"MITCHELL PASS" by William Henry Jackson

At the end of a recent trip to Wyoming, I decided to ramble over to western Nebraska and investigate Scotts Bluff National Monument. I have a couple of short works in progress set in the area and needed to see and smell it for authenticity’s sake.

     Scotts Bluff, named for a fur trader who died at its base, is actually a chain of sandstone/limestone rock formations covering 3,000 acres and towering 800 feet above the North Platte River. It’s a spot rich in history. From 1860 to 1861, Pony Express riders thundered by every ten days or so. 

     Between 1841 and 1869, some 350,000 people traveling the Oregon Trail squeezed through Mitchell Pass–with only sixty feet of clearance– in the shadow of majestic Eagle Rock, the southernmost peak of the bluffs. Westbound pioneers would have seen the pale hulk of Scotts Bluff for days before they reached it. It was an important landmark; it meant that they were a third of the way to Oregon and the prairie was about to give way to mountain ranges.

     It’s interesting to note that Mormon emigrants traveled and camped on the opposite, northern bank of the Platte, to avoid unpleasant encounters with those who opposed them. For that reason, the Mormon Pioneer Trail parallels the Oregon Trail for much of its length.

'THE HILL THAT IS HARD TO GO AROUND"

     Of course, the Native American tribes in the area had known about Scotts Bluff for a long time, although they may have had mixed feelings about its significance. Their name for it was “Me-a-pa-te,” or “hill that is hard to go around!”

     Scotts Bluff has been managed by the National Parks Service since 1919. The Civilian Conservation Corps constructed an access road during the 1930s. The drive to the top of the bluffs is dramatic, beginning with a lazy arc across the plains, then rising steeply through outcroppings and passing through three tunnels carved in the sandstone cliffs. (I recommend that you postpone enjoying the breathtaking view of the plains until after you’ve negotiated the switchbacks and are safely parked at the top!)

     Hiking trails allow visitors a closer look at geological features and vegetation. Numerous overlooks afford sweeping views of the plains and another rocky area known as the Badlands, lesser to those located in South Dakota. The Oregon Trail Museum and Visitor Center, located at the park entrance, provides a wealth of historical and scientific resources, along with some gorgeous oil paintings by noted Western artist William Henry Jackson.

     While it’s always fascinating to walk in the footsteps of our pioneer forefathers, sometimes the line between present and past feels mysteriously blurred. As I hiked up the rocky trail to the overlook, I stopped to take pictures of a determined little pine tree that had contorted itself into existence in the rocky ground. As its branches swayed in the wind, I heard what sounded like a faraway song…but only for a few seconds. As the breeze ebbed, I heard it again and, this time, it sounded like a chant––a Native American chant.

     I was sure I’d become weak-minded from altitude sickness, but just as I gave up on hearing the chants, they drifted by once more. I crawled up on a flat boulder and looked eastward down into the valley. I saw a grouping of buildings next to a large grassy park, roughly the shape of a baseball field. It was packed with people…and, even at that distance, I could see that most of them gathered in a circle. The chants drifted up again. A pow wow!

     Later, I drove past the Legacy of the Plains Museum and confirmed that my first visit to the summit of Scotts Bluff had coincided with the closing ceremonies of the Lakota tribe’s Circle the Bluffs Pow Wow, or wacipi, as the natives call it. How lucky can a writer girl be?

     Of course, I left with an overflowing well of inspiration. While I do all my writing from a converted bedroom office in the southeastern United States (at least, for now), I try to make the most of trips out west. Stories emanate from the land and the people of a place. I take hundreds of pictures, talk to locals, and drive down backroads. I have learned the hard way how to identify roads on the map that peter out into gravel. I’ve been known to sneak pine cones and bags of rocks into my carry-on bags. You do what you have do to make the West come alive in your writing!

MODEL OF AN OXEN-POWERED PRAIRIE SCHOONER (EAGLE ROCK)

 Learn more about Scotts Bluff National Monument at www.nps.gov/scbl.

                                                           

                                                           All the best,

                                                           Vonn

Vonn McKee
“Writing the Range”

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2015 WWA Spur Finalist (Short Fiction)
2015 Western Fictioneers Peacemaker Finalist (Short Fiction)

Announcing the release of FIRE CANOE FINNEGAN by Denis J. Harrington & Charlie Steel

Denis J. Harrington (1932 - 2015)

Charlie Steel

This is yet another book that I am especially proud of and part of the reason is because of the unusual circumstances that brought it to fruition.  In November 2014, I was asked by Condor Publishing, Inc. to help another author, Denis J. Harrington, complete and rewrite a book entitled FIRE CANOE FINNEGAN.  He needed a co-author.

How could I say no to a title like that?  Upon reading the work, I truly liked the way Harrington outlined the book.  The very concept of steamboats helping to supply the western movement was intriguing, as well as original.  Before reading his rough draft, I never really thought of steamships carrying passengers, or supplying pioneers as well as the army forts along the great Missouri River.

I began working on the book, researching and adding historical accuracy.  I corresponded with Harrington and was pleased to be told that I had cart blanche with the manuscript.  In working with my co-author, I discovered he was a sports writer and playwright but that he had never before written a Western.  At this point in his life, he just wanted to see the book in print.  In July of 2015, I was informed my co-author Denis J. Harrington died.  The project took on a more serious tone after that and I worked hard.  It did need a tremendous amount of work and many rewrites.

When finished with the final draft, I started the editing process.  With my editor, this took three heated oral readings of 250 pages.  With each reading there were more changes.  Then, after completion the manuscript was sent off for a technical edit.  Sad to say, it came back with more corrections.  Finally, the manuscript was ready (or so we thought).  It was sent to the computer layout person for digital and print formatting.  When the first printed proof came back, I discovered four typos and THOSE had to be corrected. 

Condor Publishing, Inc. has always insisted on quality over quantity.  From November 2014 to November 2015, it took a full twelve months to get this book rewritten, properly edited, and professionally formatted and published.

My publisher had the presumption to contact James Reasoner and ask for a possible review from this very busy writer.  I truly appreciate that he took the time to read and review the book.  This is what he had to say: 

“FIRE CANOE FINNEGAN is a historical adventure novel in the grand tradition, a rousing tale of the men who piloted steamboats up the Missouri River to the Western frontier during the turbulent days after the Civil War.  Authors Denis J. Harrington and Charlie Steel spin a fine yarn with plenty of action, romance, historical detail, and compelling characters.  This is historical fiction at its finest and highly recommended.”  James Reasoner, author of OUTLAW RANGER and New York Times bestselling author of The Civil War Battle Series.

Picking an excerpt from this book, I found to be somewhat difficult.  It would be easy to pick a battle scene between Indians and soldiers, or a fight scene between Finnegan and a Sioux Indian.  Instead, I picked a little snippet of dialogue between the main protagonist Clint Finnegan and a pioneer named Liver Eatin Mosely.

Found beginning on page, 133:

     “Then you were ambushed?” asked Finnegan.

     Mosely nodded his head. “Sioux attacked just south of Westport Landing in Kansas. Most everybody got burned out. The folks that survived headed for Fort Leavenworth.  All save me.  I was going to California or bust trying.  So we kept on moving, looking to hook up with another wagon train.  We wandered up this way when fever took hold of my wife.  She was awful weak so I stopped here, thinkin we’d stay till the fever quit her.  But she up and died, leavin me and the boy.”

     He closed his eyes in a prolonged silence.

     “I’m real sorry to hear that,” Finnegan said quietly.

     With a sigh, Mosely stared at the flames in the hearth.

     “I played the fool, and she done the paying,” he said at length.  “Little John wasn’t but five.  I took him everywhere, huntin, fishin, plantin.  Why, I fixed a tent from hides and set it up alongside the wagon.  We lived there.  Early one mornin a war party jumped us.  They cracked my head, stole the mules, and fired the tent.  My boy was killed in the doing.”

     Mosely’s face became an expressionless mask.

     “That night I tracked them Sioux,” he continued.  “I found their camp up the river.  They were butcherin one of my mules.  Gonna make a meal of him.  I killed them all and got my mules back.  I’ve been goin at it ever since.”

     “Did you…take any livers?”

     “Not directly.” Mosely appeared to be at ease with himself now.  “I commenced that later.”  He leaned across the table.  “I learned about Indians from trappers traveling the river to Omaha.  They told me what spooks them. And cuttin out their livers does that right proper.  Scalpin does too.”

     “How do you mean spooks them?”

     “Well, Indians don’t like to lose parts.  They believe you can’t go to the spirit world if you ain’t in one piece.”

     “So why do you hang those scalps on a pole?”

     “They’re hangin there for a purpose,” Mosely explained.

     “Aren’t you baiting them?”

     “That’s the idea,” Mosely said, his anger rising.  “Young fella, this is a hard country.  A man what don’t look after himself is gonna be dead in a hurry.”  He gestured toward the woman.  “She’s Pawnee.  Tells me her tribes been enemies with the plains Indians since the beginning of time.  I come onto some Sioux trying to cut her up.  Naturally I had to kill em.”

     “I see,” said Finnegan.

     “She’s been grateful and a good friend ever since.  I trust her more than I do myself.”

     “Do you mind telling me why you killed that Indian tonight?”

     “Nope.  It’s because he’s been trackin me for a spell.”

     “Tracking you?”

     “That’s a fact.”  Mosely paused to pluck a bit of gristle from between his teeth with a knife.  “Like I been sayin, I’ve killed me quite a few Sioux.  And they ain’t happy about that.  I got most of the warriors skeered of me.  One of their chiefs named Hump took to sending his best after my hair.  This fella I got tonight was one of them.”

     “Did you cut out his liver?”

     “I did.  And I tossed his body yonder over the fence.  They’ll drag it off come mornin.”

     “Wha…what did you do with the liver?”

     “I gave it to the wolf.  He eats them.”  Mosely grinned.  “You look a bit pale, Clint.  Off your feed, are you?”

     “You’re a hard man, Ab Mosely,” said Finnegan.  “So you cut their livers out just to spook them?”

     “Yup, that I do.  Hate those Indians that killed my son with a passion. Pacho feels the same.  That’s why I do it.  I hear they claim I’m an evil spirit. To sum it up, they ain’t real anxious to fret me none.”

     “I’m thinking you’re lucky you lived this long.”

     “Tell the truth, I don’t care one way or t’other.”

     “I have a question to ask you,” said Finnegan.

     “Go ahead.”

     “Did you happen to see the payroll thieves?”

     “Maybe I seen them,” said Mosely.

     “Really?” Finnegan stiffened.

     “I said maybe. Two men was they?”

     “Yes.”

     “And a woman?” Mosely’s eyes narrowed.  “She one of the robbers?”

     “No.  They kidnapped her.”

     “Pretty is she?”

     “Sure as the sun rises.”

     Mosely chuckled.  “Could be you want to find her more than you do that payroll?”

     Finnegan looked away and said nothing. 

Well, that’s one excerpt from the book that I hope you find somewhat interesting.  I also hope I did Mr. Denis J. Harrington a good deed and that he is looking down on me kindly.  It is my fervent desire that everyone will enjoy this book.

All my best to all readers and fellow writers.
Charlie Steel

Where Do You Write? by Richard Prosch

So, today as I sit down to write in a familiar environment, I'm curious about you, Fictioneers.

Where do you write?

Not the setting your fictional characters live in. 

I'm wondering about your physical environment. Home? Office? Patio? And how superstitious are you about that place?  Is it clean? Cluttered?

Several years ago, I realized that it was easier for me to more quickly get into (and out of) the zone at a local coffee shop than in my home office. With time always in short supply, sinking quickly into that place where all the distractions vanish, where the story runs crystal clear through your head like a cold-water stream, is vital.  

For me, it makes sense. No ringing phone. No email to check. No family distractions, and nobody driving up to knock on the door.  Hot coffee on hand. Pleasant music. 

One enjoyable aspect of writing in public is people watching. And listening. A couple years ago, a local PI used the corner table for a temporary office. I got a kick out of listening to him discuss cases  over his Bluetooth ear piece. His slogan should've been "We take the private out of private detective."

But the place is far from perfect.  Every now and then, a writing session gets dangerously interrupted by some loudmouth talking religion or politics. Or one of the friendly regulars (bless 'em)  stops past my table to chat. And there's ergonomics to consider. Even though I protect my wrists while typing, the chair isn't the best for long term work.

So it's great for quick sessions. Say an hour, or two with a break. A thousand words.

For longer sessions, my office chair at home offers great back support and arm rests. And my computer screen is bigger. Here too, I can get the coffee and music, but I have to be extra careful about the distractions. Cute as they may be, I don't type well with the cat on my lap. Or keyboard. You cat people know what I mean.

And for me, the neighbor situation is better now than it was. This is similar to the problem I mentioned above about well-meaning friends stopping by the coffee shop table. It's worse at home, when they park themselves on your doorstep or, if they get past your defenses, fall onto your couch. For about a year we had a gal who, upon finding out that we worked at home, just couldn't pass up the chance to unload her woe upon us two or three times a week. The only way to deal with that was a polite, but firm rebuff. Hard to do in a rural area where nobody's a stranger.

Author Kevin J. Anderson gave up the keyboard and dictates most of his work while walking or hiking. This seems ideal, and a fine solution to some of the health problems writers (and other sedentary workers) face. I've dabbled with Dragon speaking software in the office, but have never tried straight dictation while involved in another activity. You can read moreabout Kevin's process here. 

So what about it, Fictioneers? Where do you write? What props do you need? How do you avoid the distractions? Please share a comment below.

After growing up on a Nebraska farm, Richard Prosch worked as a professional writer, artist, and teacher in Wyoming, South Carolina, and Missouri. His western crime fiction captures the fleeting history and lonely frontier stories of his youth where characters aren’t always what they seem, and the windburned landscapes are filled with swift, deadly danger. Read more at www.RichardProsch.com