Showing posts with label Westerns. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Westerns. Show all posts

Thursday, June 11, 2026

What lies beyond death in REH's eerie tale?

 "What a wonderful story this was about Bob Howard and his dog Patch," Novalyne Price Ellis wrote in her memoir of Robert E. Howard, One Who Walked Alone. "I should make a story out of it."

As Howard's father, Dr. Isaac Howard, told her, "Wherever Bob went, Patch went. Patch even shared Bob's food at the table and was a real companion. . . But there was something about Dr. Howard's story that bothered me. As soon as the dog got sick and they knew it was going to die, Bob went to (the nearby town of ) Brownwood, so that he wouldn't see his dog in his last few days on earth. . . "

And Novalyne wondered how Bob Howard "could write about horrible deaths and dying, yet be so afraid of a dog's death he could not even stay near? It didn't make sense somehow. But if Bob made sense, I probably wouldn't like the big ox."

Perhaps it was through wrestling with such contradictions within himself that Howard wrote the subject of today's post.

***


The Man on the Ground

by Robert E. Howard

Set in 19th century West Texas, this is the tale of a feud between Cal Reynolds and his deadly enemy, Esau Brill.

Reynolds is fast with fists and guns, with "instincts (that) rose sheer from the naked primitive," Howard wrote. "And from them crystallized an almost tangible abstraction -- a hate too strong for even death to destroy; a hate powerful enough to embody itself in itself, without the aid or the necessity of material substance."

Driven by this hatred, Reynolds and Brill fire at each other almost simultaneously. Brill's bullet apparently misses Reynolds, who suffers a scalp would. After a momentary unconsciously passes, Reynolds realizes Brill's bullet must have ricocheted off a stone, striking him only a passing blow.

However, it was a strong enough blow to knock Reynolds from behind the rocks where he had taken cover, striking his rifle from his hands and leaving  him in full view of Brill. As Reynolds leaps for his dropped gun, he is amazed that, instead of firing, Brill is walking directly toward him.

Reynolds doesn't stop to question either Brill's strange behavior or his own feelings. 

"Men who live by their hands have little time for self-analysis," unlike Howard himself, whose story is reminiscent of Ambrose Bierce's earlier tale of a near-death experience, An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. 

I've never seen any mention of Bierce's influence on Howard, although the older Bierce's eerie stories would have resonated with Howard's own sensibility. Was that because Bierce had been a Union officer during the Civil War? Howard, whose parents, born in a former Confederate state in the aftermath of that war, would probably have been among those who considered "damn Yankee" a single word, as Novalyne wryly quoted one of her sources.

Consider reading both Howard's and Bierce's stories, and decide for yourself. And while you're reading at the Howard site, notice another features writer of the July 1933 issue of Weird Tales magazine in which The Man on the Ground appeared -- Jack Williamson. A contemporary of Howard, Williamson lived to the age of 98, writing almost to the end and dying in 2006. By then, Howard had been dead for 70 years.

And what about Novalyne? Her memoir was the basis for a later movie, The Whole Wide World, (https://en.wikipedia.org), starring then screen newcomer Renee Zellweger.

Wednesday, June 10, 2026

What if Conan rode in with a gun?

 Strange though it may seem, it wasn’t his fantasy characters such as Conan the Cimmerian (aka Barbarian) or King Kull who Texas writer Robert E. Howard expected to make his reputation. It was his Westerns. He was adept at mixing Westerns with his other story genres – fantasy, horror, even his comic boxing tales. Still, I did a double take when Steve Corcoran, the antihero of today’s story proved to be a physical twin to Conan, “tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, lean-hipped … (whose) unruly black hair matched a face burned dark by the sun, but his eyes were a burning blue.”

Corcoran matches not only Howard's usual physical descriptions of Conan but his psyche as well, "too direct by nature, or too proud of (his) skill to resort to trickery when it was possible to meet enemies in the open. . . "

(It's also interesting to note the similarity between Corcoran's name and that of the two-fisted sailor Steve Costigan, hero of sone of the fight stories for which Howard was famous during his life.)

***

The Vultures of Whapeton

by Robert E. Howard

As the story opens, Corcoran is peacefully minding his own business – at least in as peaceful a way as he can manage, considering that he’s just shot another gunfighter – when John Middleton, sheriff of the embattled mining town of Whapeton Gulch, happens upon him. Strangely, Middleton is not in the least nonplussed to find Corcoran’s opponent, who he had hired as a deputy to help tame the lawless elements of his town, lying shot through the heart, and promptly offers the deceased employee’s job to his killer. Not that either Corcoran or the sheriff has any illusions about the character of the dead man, whose Colt’s stock is nicked with the record of those he had killed.

 The thing is, the sheriff says, Whapeton is overrun with a gang of outlaws who call themselves the Vultures. What sheriff Middleton wants is not good character but “. . . a man who can handle a gun like a streak of forked lightning . . . I’ll offer you the same terms I meant to offer him. . . You know what to do with the really bad men. We’re not bringing any more murderers into court to be acquitted through their friends’ lies!”

Image: wikimedia commons

 And before readers can say, gee, sheriff, that offer smells downright fishy, Corcoran is installed as the newest deputy of Whapeton. The Vulture gang, he soon learns, has spies all over the little town, giving them word of any shipment of gold or goods in or out of town. And the town’s newest lawman also begins to have serious doubts about the law-abiding nature of his fellow deputies.


He manages however, to gain the friendship of some of Whapeton’s citizens, including golden-haired Glory Bland, when he prevents her from braining one of her fellow bar girls in a saloon brawl that has left Glory’s dress suggestively torn and her bosom suggestively heaving. No matter what the other woman’s offenses, Corcoran tells Glory, “(t)hat wasn’t no excuse for makin’ a public show of yourself. . . If ladies have got to fight, they ought to do it in private.”

 In spite of his sententious words, readers have to believe it’s Glory’s fighting nature as much as her disheveled clothing that has caught Corcoran’s eye and heart. And if you’re wondering whether Glory’s friendship will be enough to ensure Corcoran’s survival in the rattlers’ nest of deceit and betrayal that is Whapeton Gulch, read it for yourself here.

 (Note that although the story’s original publication in Smashing Novels spelled the town’s name “Whapeton,” the notes of Howard and his agent use the spelling Wahpeton. You’ll find it listed both ways in the REH canon.)

Saturday, December 28, 2019

Countdown to readers' favorite posts for 2019

What – 2019 is almost over? No worries – for these final days of this year, I’m rerunning the top 10 readers’ favorite posts, starting with one first published February 13: 

Outlaws & outtakes – stories on the cutting room floor 

In all previous instances when I’ve posted any of my short stories on this blog, they’ve been stories that have been published (sometimes multiple times) in other, independent venues. But about a year and a half ago, I wrote a number of short-shorts as exercises for a class that never found a paying market. The class assignment was limited to 500 words. In some cases the three t stories presented here slightly exceed that word count, but they’re still so short I’m grouping three of them into a single post – ranging from a horror Western to a Valentine-flavored spoof of classical divinities, to a historical-themed vignette.  

***

THE GOLD AND THE GIRL

Luther Delbruck kneed his horse into place at the hitching post and dropped to the ground. He couldn’t be more than a few hours behind that lying claim jumper Harkness, the one who’d shot him and grabbed his bag of gold dust. But he’d plugged Harkness too. That slinking coyote couldn’t have more than a day left to live, not with the way he’d been bleeding. First, Luther would get his gold back. Then he’d teach Harkness a lesson. Him and any other son of a bitch that thought they could make a fool out of Luther Delbruck.

image: Pixabay
Then, and only then, he’d be able to see Maudie again. Take her the gold, see her one last time, prove to her that he was the man she knew he could be. Never mind the all the rest. He was the one she would love forever. All he had to do was live one day longer than Harkness. But for that to happen, he’d need some doctoring.

Dragging his wounded leg, Luther pushed through the door of the boarding house where Doc Faraday slept, drank, and sometimes even did a little doctoring. He tumbled into a heap in front of the old doctor.

“Delbruck! What the hell happened to you?”

“Leg. Shot.” Lying on the splintered floor, Luther tried to motion to his wounded left leg, to the trouser stiffened and black with old blood. A tug on his boot forced a scream of agony from him. Damn fool doctor. Damn fool. Shouldn’t ought to have come here, shouldn’t. . .

Through the fog of pain and fever, he was dimly aware of a clatter of shoes on the wooden floor, a creak of hinges from the direction of a cabinet at the far end of the room. Then a puff of dust as something thumped onto the floor at his side. Black. Black bag. Doc Faraday’s medical bag. Luther tried to raise his head to get a look at his injury, but he could only flop back limply.

Something in the doctor’s hand flashed for an instant in the lamplight. There was a jolt, then a languor laid hold of him, the mix of drowsiness and clarity that Luther remembered from the time he was wounded in the war. Morphia.

Time lost its meaning. Dimly, he felt Faraday loosen his clothes, remove his boot. Words like when and who floated past him meaninglessly.

Until something cold touched the fever-hot flesh of his leg. He grabbed a scrap of consciousness by the tail and held on.

 “Wha’ you doin’, doc?” His mouth was so thick he could hardly form words.

“Getting ready to take your leg off, you fool.”

The words were like cold water dashed in Luther’s face. “No.” He pushed himself up.

“You’ll be dead by this time tomorrow if I don’t.”

“Gotta fin’ m’ gold. Got to get it to Maudie. Don’ have time to wait for any damn leg.”

Maudie. And the kid. God, he wished he could live long enough to see the kid.

“Just patch me up, doc. I gotta find that thievin’ claim jumper, Harkness. Got to get my gold back.”

“You leave here and you’re a dead man.”

“Says you. I got to get it to Maudie. She’s…” But he couldn’t tell Faraday what Maudie said she would do if he didn’t help her. Help her and the kid.

Only what if Harkness got to Maudie first? What if her face lit up in the way he remembered so well, not at the sight of him, but at the sight of Harkness with the gold in his hands?

With an effort that left him reeling, Luther pushed himself upright, ignoring Doc Faraday’s protests. His leg didn’t feel so bad any more. Morphia was a wonderful thing. He’d need more of it if he was to catch up with Harkness. Catch up and kill him and get the gold back. He grabbed the handle of the medicine bag.

“You let go of that, Delbruck. Let go right now or I swear I’ll set the marshal on—”

Luther pulled his revolver from his belt. The shot left a red and black hole in the middle of the doc’s face, a look of surprise on what was left of that face. Damn noisy old fool. No time for fools. He had to catch Harkness.

Because if Harkness reached Maudie first, if she looked too happy to get the gold, too happy it was Harkness bringing it to her and not him, not Luther Delbruck, he had to know. And he would. He’d be right behind Harkness. And after he killed him, well, he could manage to live long enough to steal one last kiss from Maudie’s sweet, lying mouth before he joined her in hell.

THE END

***

EROS WALKS INTO A BAR

Eros walks into a bar and flops onto a stool. It feels as if he’s been wandering for hours, ever since leaving Psyche, ever since she had betrayed his trust so utterly.

“Beer and a chaser,” he says to the bartender. “Hades, make that three chasers.”

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

Outlaws & outtakes – stories on the cutting room floor

In all previous instances when I’ve posted any of my short stories on this blog, they’ve been stories that have been published (sometimes multiple times) in other, independent venues. But about a year and a half ago, I wrote a number of short-shorts as exercises for a class that never found a paying market. The class assignment was limited to 500 words. In some cases the three still very short stories presented here slightly exceed that word count, but they’re still so short I’m grouping three of them into a single post – ranging from a horror Western to a Valentine-flavored spoof of classical divinities, to a historical-themed vignette. 

 ***

THE GOLD AND THE GIRL

Luther Delbruck kneed his horse into place at the hitching post and dropped to the ground. He couldn’t be more than a few hours behind that lying claim jumper Harkness, the one who’d shot him and grabbed his bag of gold dust. But he’d plugged Harkness too. That slinking coyote couldn’t have more than a day left to live, not with the way he’d been bleeding. First, Luther would get his gold back. Then he’d teach Harkness a lesson. Him and any other son of a bitch that thought they could make a fool out of Luther Delbruck.
Then, and only then, he’d be able to see Maudie again. Take her the gold, see her one last time, prove to her that he was the man she knew he could be. Never mind the all the rest. He was the one she would love forever. All he had to do was live one day longer than Harkness. But for that to happen, he’d need some doctoring.
Dragging his wounded leg, Luther pushed through the door of the boarding house where Doc Faraday slept, drank, and sometimes even did a little doctoring. He tumbled into a heap in front of the old doctor. 
“Delbruck! What the hell happened to you?”
“Leg. Shot.” Lying on the splintered floor, Luther tried to motion to his wounded left leg, to the trouser stiffened and black with old blood. A tug on his boot forced a scream of agony from him. Damn fool doctor. Damn fool. Shouldn’t ought to have come here, shouldn’t. . . 
Through the fog of pain and fever, he was dimly aware of a clatter of shoes on the wooden floor, a creak of hinges from the direction of a cabinet at the far end of the room. Then a puff of dust as something thumped onto the floor at his side. Black. Black bag. Doc Faraday’s medical bag. Luther tried to raise his head to get a look at his injury, but he could only flop back limply. 
Something in the doctor’s hand flashed for an instant in the lamplight. There was a jolt, then a languor laid hold of him, the mix of drowsiness and clarity that Luther remembered from the time he was wounded in the war. Morphia.
Time lost its meaning. Dimly, he felt Faraday loosen his clothes, remove his boot. Words like when and who floated past him meaninglessly.
image: pixabay
Until something cold touched the fever-hot flesh of his leg. He grabbed a scrap of consciousness by the tail and held on.
 “Wha’ you doin’, doc?” His mouth was so thick he could hardly form words.
“Getting ready to take your leg off, you fool.”
The words were like cold water dashed in Luther’s face. “No.” He pushed himself up.
“You’ll be dead by this time tomorrow if I don’t.”
“Gotta fin’ m’ gold. Got to get it to Maudie. Don’ have time to wait for any damn leg.”
Maudie. And the kid. God, he wished he could live long enough to see the kid. 
“Just patch me up, doc. I gotta find that thievin’ claim jumper, Harkness. Got to get my gold back.”
“You leave here and you’re a dead man.”
“Says you. I got to get it to Maudie. She’s…” But he couldn’t tell Faraday what Maudie said she would do if he didn’t help her. Her and the kid.
Only what if Harkness got to Maudie first? What if her face lit up in the way he remembered so well, not at the sight of him, but at the sight of Harkness with the gold in his hands?
With an effort that left him reeling, Luther pushed himself upright, ignoring Doc Faraday’s protests. His leg didn’t feel so bad any more. Morphia was a wonderful thing. He’d need more of it if he was to catch up with Harkness. Catch up and kill him and get the gold back. He grabbed the handle of the medicine bag.
“You let go of that, Delbruck. Let go right now or I swear I’ll set the marshal on—” 
Luther pulled his revolver from his belt. The shot left a red and black hole in the middle of the doc’s face, a look of surprise on what was left of that face. Damn noisy old fool. No time for fools. He had to catch Harkness.
Because if Harkness reached Maudie first, if she looked too happy to get the gold, too happy it was Harkness bringing it to her and not him, not Luther Delbruck, he had to know. And he would. He’d be right behind Harkness. And after he killed him, well, he could manage to live long enough to steal one last kiss from Maudie’s sweet, lying mouth before he joined her in hell.
THE END
***
EROS WALKS INTO A BAR
Eros walks into a bar and flops onto a stool. It feels as if he’s been wandering for hours, ever since leaving Psyche, ever since she had betrayed his trust so utterly. 
“Beer and a chaser,” he says to the bartender. “Hades, make that three chasers.” 

Friday, June 24, 2011

Adventure classics -- Howard rides into the sunset

“The Dead Remember”
by Robert E. Howard

#

I wanted to include a Western for this final entry in Adventure classics’ “All Robert E. Howard month,” to indicate the breadth of Howard’s interests. After all, as he wrote to his friend August W. Derleth less than a year before his death, he was “seriously contemplating devoting all (his) time and efforts to western writing, abandoning all other forms of work entirely.”

But I labored under a handicap -- I don’t personally like the typical fast-shooting, slow-talking, happy-ending Western story. And Howard, although far from the typical writer of Westerns, studied his markets well enough to know what would sell and what wouldn’t. I also flinched at his often unthinking racism -- although it was normal, even moderate for his time. “The Dead Remember,” the first of the Western stories he sold to Argosy, is a tale of witchcraft and vengeance that would have fit right on the pages of Weird Tales, except that magazine already owed Howard more than a thousand dollars, and he was eager to try other markets.

“The Dead Remember,” in which a black witch’s ghost haunts her murderer, deals frankly with the mores of the times, both of the story, set soon after the end of the Civil War, and the time of writing in the Great Depression era South.

Howard’s genius, transcending his time, lies in treating neither the victims of violence -- a pair of ex-slaves -- nor their cowboy murderer as either purely good or evil. If anything, the victims are the more courageous and sensitive of their honor -- always pluses for Howard’s characters. As former slave Old Joel says when threatened, “You can’t eat my
beef and drink my licker and then call my dice crooked. No white man can do that. I’m just as tough as you are.”

So ponder Howard’s decisions for yourself in this widely-available tale. (I found it in Rusty Burke’s anthology entitled “The End of the Trail: Western Stories,” from the University of Nebraska Press.) It obeys the dictates of Anton Chekov, that anything mentioned must be pertinent. So what exactly was the color of the witch’s dress? And why will Jim Gordon never be able to get it out of his mind, even in death?

(Next month : Adventure classics explore science fiction, beginning with Frank Herbert‘s “Dune.”)

 

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

The envelope, please

Readers of this blog know that I love Duotrope’s Digest (www.duotrope.com/) as a source for market research.  But there’s one thing Duotrope doesn’t do.  Because of its reasonable bias against journals that require submission fees, it doesn’t list writing contests.  Contests usually charge fees; that’s how they sweeten their pots.  You’ve got to be the judge of whether the contest is worth the price.  Because I sometimes submit stories to contests, I subscribe to other journals and sites that list them.  My (so-far) only contest win was with Moonlight Mesa’s Cowboy Up contest, found on Ginny Wiehardt’s former About.com Fiction Writing guide.  Ginny recently left About.com, but if you like horses half as much as I do, here’s a chance to include them in a story.

The third annual Moonlight Mesa Cowboy Up Short Story Contest officially opens March 1, 2011, and closes September 1, 2011.  This year all entries must be a Western suspense, mystery, thriller, or cozy, etc.  The stories must be Western in nature but can be set in the “olden-days” or in “modern” times.  Wordage has been increased to 3500.  Submission guidelines for the contest can be found at the publisher’s website: www.moonlightmesaassociates.com/  First place wins $250; second place ropes in $150, and third place earns $75.  Award certificates are sent to all finalists.

Also recently appearing in my inbox:  a “people’s choice” request from a publication in which my writing has appeared (trying to sound modest) – Short-Story.Me.

“Please submit your favorite story that we published in 2010 to the storySouth Million Writer’s Award contest.  There are cash and fame for the winning authors and publicity for Short-Story.Me!  Prize money is over $500 for the winning writers.  Readers can nominate one story by going to this url:
http://www.jasonsanford.com/jason/2011/02/reader-nominations-for-2011-million-writers-award.html/  Writers may nominate their own story as long as it was published on Short-Story.Me! in 2010 and follows contest rules.”

This contest is fee-free.  Of course I’m going to submit my Short-Story.Me publication, “Shaman.”  (Did I mention there’s a horse in it?)  And I’m asking you to submit it also.  Please hurry -- submission deadline is March 15.