Posts tagged ‘Ernest Haycox’

January 11, 2009

Shoot-Out at the Viral Corral

by cowboylands

If I’m going to battle a cold, I would want Ernest Haycox to write the story. 

The Whispering Range, by Ernest Haycox. Wherever the hell that mountain chain is, it also exists in my throat, which is as raw as the dark borderlands and filled with rustlers herding my healthy cells through secret byways.  

Night time: Coughs explode like the pound of six-guns. Sneezes erupt like the hiss and pop of whips cracking over mule teams. Sighs rise as mournful as a woman’s, left behind for a horse. 

Whispering Range, by Ernest Haycox
cover illustrator unknown but Robert Stanley-ish
Popular Library/ Eagle Books 1953
from the collection of ES

I was dry-gulched by some varmint bug, before I could even draw my Airborne from my holster. I just wasn’t fast enough. I’d like to think, paraphrasing the back cover of Whispering Range, that after the first surprise my battle cry shattered the tense silence and my men burst from hiding to follow their fighting leader in a desperate but courageous charge against the outlaws. A lifetime feud would be settled at long last–settled by thundering six-guns! Alas, I’d be the one left behind to on a pioneer wagon train, or forced to chop wood for Cookie on a cattle drive. I can’t even cross the narrow straits of my railroad apartment without complaining bitterly. 

It’s the Haycox mood that settles over me when the phlegm is high. Moody, dark, and full of people feeling sorry for themselves and getting over it, Ernest “Erny” Haycox’s stories still rock my world, a full seventy years after they were first published. He crafted the ambience in his stories meticulously, rising each morning to don business attire, and sitting at his desk to write in the morning, and to revise and edit in the afternoon. About 300,000 words per year arose from his diligence, including the short story that became Stagecoach, an epic-in-a-handbasket, 

Haycox’s characters hold sorrow in their eyes, old hurts in their stoop, ferocity in their stance, and–I have to admit–the only time they get sick is when there is a beautiful woman to lay a cool hand on a forehead, silently offering more. 

Wish I could say I deserved to be a protagonist in one of his novels. I’ll dream about it, though, if the coughing lets me sleep. 

For my reading pleasure, and yours, an excerpt from “Stage to Lordsburg,” which originally appeared in the April 10, 1937 issue of Collier’s. The rest is here, with thanks to Bob Gay. 

This was one of those years in the Territory when Apache smoke signals spiraled up from the stony mountain summits and many a ranch cabin lay as a square of blackened ashes on the ground and the departure of a stage from Tonto was the beginning of an adventure that had no certain happy ending….

The stage and its six horses wafted in front of Weilner’s store on the north side of Tonto’s square. Happy Stuart was on the box, the ribbons between his fingers and one foot teetering on the brake. John Strang rode shotgun guard and an escort of ten cavalrymen waited behind the coach, half asleep in their saddles.

At four-thirty in the morning this high air was quite cold, though the sun had begun to flush the sky eastward. A small crowd stood in the square, presenting their final messages to the passengers now entering the coach. There was a girl going down to marry an infantry officer, a whisky drummer from St. Louis, an Englishman all length and bony corners and bearing with him an enormous sporting rifle, a gambler, a solid-shouldered cattleman on his way to New Mexico and a blond young man upon whom both Happy Stuart and the shotgun guard placed a narrow-eyed interest.

This seemed all until the blond man drew back from the coach door; and then a girl known commonly throughout the Territory as Henriette came quietly from the crowd. She was small and quiet, with a touch of paleness in her cheeks and her quite dark eyes lifted at the blond man’s unexpected courtesy, showing surprise. There was this moment of delay and then the girl caught up her dress and stepped into the coach.

Men in the crowd were smiling but the blond one turned, his motion like the swift cut of a knife, and his attention covered that group until the smiling quit. He was tail, hollow-flanked, and definitely stamped by the guns slung low on his hips. But it wasn’t the guns alone; something in his face, so watchful and so smooth, also showed his trade. Afterwards he got into the coach and slammed the door.

Happy Stuart kicked off the brakes and yelled, “Hi!” Tonto’s people were calling out -their last farewells and the six horses broke into a trot and the stage lunged on its fore and aft springs and rolled from town with dust dripping off its wheels like water the cavalrymen trotting briskly behind. So they tipped down the long grade, bound on a journey no stage had attempted during the last forty-five days. Out below in the desert’s distance stood the relay stations they hoped to reach and pass. Between lay a country swept empty by the quick raids of Geronimo’s men.

 

 

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April 22, 2008

Best Western

by cowboylands

A writing buddy of mine had a few e-questions when he saw Owen Wister in the last post. Then he had a few more e-thoughts and a few more e-thoughts, and then by the end of the day he had a list. And what a list it is! I’m proud that this list will be inaugurating the
CowboyLands Best Western Lists.

What Western authors do you like? was his question. I mentioned Owen Wister in the last post, but I can’t say he’s a favorite or even in the stable of favorites. I’ll corral all my likes and just saddle the ones whose job is to tell a story and nothing but the story. Three come to the fore:

Luke Short: (Not the historic gunfighter.) Short’s prose is as laconic as one of his heroes. His gunslingers have eyes like gimlets, his women have mouths shaped for kissing, his landscapes are bleak, and his words are hard and muscular. A title like Ramrod says it all. Blood on the Moon was made into a movie, starring Robert Mitchum.

Ernest Haycox: As voluble as Short is taciturn. His gunfighters nurse secret sorrows, his women turn away so no one will see their tears, and his landscapes are as literally and figuratively furrowed and convoluted as Einstein’s brain. If that makes sense. The Far Country and Stagecoach were based on his stories.

Elmore Leonard is the master of the Western short story. Words are cheap in the land of the cowboy; Leonard’s are spare and worth gold. His words are chosen with such care that one short story can create a visual epic like 3:10 to Yuma.

So here is my writing buddy’s list gleaned from “various e-sources,” which is rather coy of him, and I hope it doesn’t get me into trouble. Interestingly, no McMurtry. What’s up with that? He also recommends, apart from the list, The Last Cowboy by Jane Kramer and The Last American Man by Elizabeth Gilbert. Looks like I have some reading to do in my bedroll tonight….Any additions? Subtractions?

BEST WESTERN NOVELS
1. The Virginian by Owen Wister
2. The Ox-Bow Incident by Walter van Tilburg Clark
3. Shane by Jack Schaefer
4. The Big Sky by A. B. Guthrie, Jr.
5. The Searchers by Alan Le May
6. Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey
7. Paso por Aqui by Eugene Manlove Rhodes
8. Bugles in the Afternoon by Ernest Haycox
9. The Long Rifle by Stewart Edward White
10. Vengeance Valley by Luke Short
11. The Hell Bent Kid by Charles O. Locke
12. Cheyenne Autumn by Mari Sandoz
13. Destry Rides Again by Max Brand
14. Hondo by Louis L’Amour
15. The Sea of Grass by Conrad Richter
16. Ride the Man Down by Luke Short
17. The Day the Cowboys Quit by Elmer Kelton
18. Stay Away, Joe by Dan Cushman
19. The Time It Never Rained by Elmer Kelton
20. True Grit by Charles Portis
21. Monte Walsh by Jack Schaefer
22. Flint by Louis L’Amour
23. From Where the Sun Now Stands by Will Henry
24. Hombre by Elmore Leonard
25. The Wonderful Country by Tom Lea
26. The Homesman by Glendon Swarthout
27. The Shootist by Glendon Swarthout
28. Valdez is Coming by Elmore Leonard
29. The Rounders by Max Evans
30. The Hi-Lo Country by Max Evans