What people are saying about
Christian writer of western
fiction
"In
--Mike Nappa, author of Who
Moved My Church?
"[To Keep A Promise] is
particularly excellent for young adults.
…easy to follow prose, the plot moves at a brisk pace and all strings are neatly tied up in the end. …exciting action…Burns is at his best when he
uses his descriptive talents to kernel the Christian message within this tale
of the old West."
--Meredith Campbell,
"The many messages of how to live a satisfying
Christian life permeate your Westerns.
You do not preach. You do not
proselytize. Your characters demonstrate
how life can be lived by Christian principles.
That, sir, is a literary gift."
Sally J. Walker,
Editorial Director, The Fiction Works
"Of all the books of Terry Burns I've read, I
would rate Brothers Keeper (available January 2006) to be his
best book to date. …filled with moments
of humor and action that will keep the reader going until the surprising
conclusion. Terry Burns has written
another great book."
Les Williams, Freelance
Reviewer
Terry Burns
This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are products of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Echelon Press
Publishing
9735 Country
Copyright © 2005 by
Terry Burns
ISBN: 1-59080-409-0
www.echelonpress.com
All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be
used or reproduced in any m
First Echelon Press
paperback printing: February 2005
Cover Art ©
Nathalie Moore
Embark and all its
logos are trademarks of Echelon Press.
Printed in
To the three cowboys
that help keep me young, my youngest grandchildren;
Bryce Burns, Alex Waters and Jaylen Gunter. I'm in no hurry for you boys to get old
enough to read this.
Finally, I dedicate the
book to Grandmother Tunnell, the Irish storyteller
who passed the love of words down through my mother to me, telling me the
stories several chapters were based on, and appearing as herself in the true
story in Chapter 18.
This
book is set in the late 1800s when a small publication existed, popularly known
as the dime novel. They were small books,
known for their florid language and generally wildly exaggerated tales. With a public starved for news from the West,
the little tomes achieved an unrivaled popularity.
This is the story of a delightfully naďve young man on a
quest to write the history of the West in this medium.
Some small latitude is taken with
the dates to permit the telling of the stories in this m
One:
The Daring Daylight Train Robbery
My name is no name for an adventure writer, Rick
Dayton thought. I need something strong, adventurous…manly. It has to be a name that sounds like action and excitement. It has to announce that I am someone who's
seen it all, done it all, and spits in the very face of danger.
He mulled it over for several
minutes as he waited for his train. Then
it hit him, "Texas Jack."
The lady
on the bench next to him jumped as if she had been poked with a sharp
stick. She turned wide eyes toward him
and said, "Pardon?"
Rick removed his hat. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle
you, ma'am. I merely said, I'm Texas
Jack, an author, and I'm on my way West to work on my new book."
She gave a small nod of
acknowledgement. "How
exciting."
He lifted his chin, basking in
the glow of her attention. "Yes, it
is, and dangerous, too, of course."
"Oh, my."
It suddenly occurred to him that
he needed a pipe. To present the right
image, an author should have a pipe. No,
that's not exactly right, a cigar. A
Western author should have an ever-present cigar. He thought it would make him look older, too.
Rick tipped his hat to the lady as he got up.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but as much as I'm enjoying your company, I find
I am quite without a cigar. I wouldn't
have smoked one in your presence without permission, of course, but even to be
able to have it in one's mouth, unlit or not, can be a comfort. I need to get over to the shop and stock up
before the train leaves."
Rick went to the tobacconists
and purchased a couple of boxes of good Cuban cigars. Unable to wait, he immediately bit the end
off one of the dark, tightly wrapped stogies, and lit it. The noxious smoke brought on a coughing fit
and his eyes filled with tears. Whew, these things are terrible. He stubbed it out and thought perhaps he
would simply chew on them in the corner of his mouth the way his city editor
used to do.
The conductor shouted, "Boooaaaaarrrrdddd!"
as Rick returned and found a seat. He
made himself as comfortable as the hard, upholstered, straight-backed bench
would allow, and opened the new leather-bound journal he had just
purchased. He had determined that the
slender volume would become his constant companion, diary, and repository of
all the facts that would make up the writing he would soon be doing.
Eager to get started, Rick
opened the letter that had made this trip possible. It was from his Uncle Edgar. He read it again:
Dear Nephew,
If you are reading this it means
I am dead. So be it. Don't waste time grieving for me, for I had a
good life. You are my only surviving
family, and as such, inherit my estate.
You will find my will has an interesting condition, however, and it was
my wish that you be given time alone to read this letter before the reading of
the will.
You see, I know your dreams and
your ambitions, but I also know you will never pursue them. You think you have a career going at that
newspaper, and that could be true, but you are capable of much more. I see the potential. I'm aware of the flowery phrases your editor
crosses out of the little stories he allows you write. I also know these phrases are the language of
the small paperback novels now becoming so popular. You are a natural for them.
So, I
leave you no choice. My will provides
for you to receive a monthly stipend to cover your expenses as you travel, but
to receive it you must write. If you
don't, you will not receive a nickel.
You might say I am reaching out from the great beyond to push the chick
from the nest.
Some might criticize me for
doing this to a twenty-two-year-old boy, but I think you are ready. After all, the West is full of young men your
age, driving cattle, in the Army, and exploring the new frontier. That's where your future
lies, I know it.
I wish you Godspeed, my young
nephew. You were my most cherished companion
while I was alive, and now that I am dead (you have no idea how it sounds to
say that about myself), rest assured I shall look down
on you to see how well my little plan succeeds.
Your Uncle
Edgar
Rick missed him terribly. Uncle Edgar's death made him the last of his
line, on his father's side. He still had
family on his mother's side, one headed by the reigning matriarch, his maternal
grandmother, but that was a different story entirely.
Rick could hardly overlook his
good fortune. He had $200 in his pocket,
which would normally represent several months of wages. The law firm of Daggett, Crockett, and Allen
had estimated such an amount would transport him West
and cover his expenses for the first month.
Future transactions would be handled through
the fine facilities of the
Before Rick left town, he had
exploited his newspaper connections, such as they were, to get in touch with a
publisher. Hungry for material for the
little adventure paperbacks, they were very interested
in an author willing to pay his own expenses, and only requiring compensation if they published his work. They considered it a fine arrangement,
indeed. Again, any further negotiations,
legal or financial, were to be handled by Daggett,
Crockett, and Allen.
He settled back in his seat,
wondering what Uncle Edgar would say of him now, about him adopting a new name,
even for the purpose of writing.
"Texas Jack Hammer,"
he said, intense satisfaction on his face.
"Who is that?"
Rick looked up to find a large
straw hat perched on a young girl's head.
Under the brim of the hat, between two long braided pigtails, peered a
pair of eyes that were a most remarkable shade of blue.
He straightened his backbone and
adopted a rather condescending tone.
"I beg your pardon?"
It didn't faze her in the least.
"Who is Texas Jack Hammer?"
Rick took hold of his coat lapel
with his left hand, sure it presented a very scholarly
pose. "I am
Both hands gripped the top of
the seat as she scrutinized him.
"What's an author?"
"An author is someone who
writes books."
The lady
next to the girl spoke sharply, "Kasey, turn around and leave the
gentleman alone."
Rick lifted his hat and turned
his attention to the lady. "It's all right, madam. One cannot begin cultivating fans at too
young an age."
Returning his attention to the
girl, he said, "Do you read adventure stories?"
She shook her head so hard that
it caused the pigtails to swing rapidly.
They continued after she stopped her head. "I don't read at all, I'm only
five."
"Well, perhaps when you
begin to read, you'll start with one of mine."
Kasey gave him an appraising
look, measuring him. "You don't
look like someone named Texas Jack."
"And what should a Texas
Jack look like?"
"He should have a big hat,
and a scarf, and spurs, and a big gun."
It was Rick's turn to shake his
head. "It's not a scarf, it's a
band
"What is?"
He waved the question
aside. "Never mind, what you
describe is a cowboy. I'm not a cowboy,
I merely write about them."
"How can you write about
them if you aren't one?"
"I'm not a horse either,
but I write about them, too."
"Do you ride horses?"
Rick smiled. He had her here. "Of course, there's nothing I enjoy more
than a good canter through the park."
"I don't think horses out
here canter."
The lady
spoke again. "Kasey, I said to turn
around and sit down. You're annoying the
gentleman." Reluctantly, the child
did as she was told.
Rick concurred with the lady; she was an annoying child, impertinent actually. Still, her questions kept nagging at
him. She was right, that was what
bothered him the most. He couldn't write
effectively about things without experiencing them, which was the reason for
the trip.
Then there was the matter of his
appearance. Perhaps the child had
something there as well. Maybe his fans
would expect a certain bravado in appearance, a
dashing, Western oriented style of dress.
He felt he shouldn't try to look like a cowboy, of course, but a Western
hat might be in order, and of course boots, Western boots. He determined to get them at the earliest
opportunity.
Yet, there was
something Rick could do now, and he did.
He removed his tie and threw it out the window. Acutely aware that he had a lot to learn
about cowboys, he still felt totally certain they didn't wear ties. He resolved from this point on, neither would
he…never again.
Rick watched the offending
garment flutter away from the speeding train.
He closed the window, and his reflection caught his eye. It held his attention. He looked like what he was, a bookworm. Tall and lean, ungainly at best, he was under
no illusions about himself. It would be
foolish to try and dress the part of a cowboy.
He looked over the top of his
wire frame glasses at the man reflected in the window. Let's
not be ridiculous.
Rick closed his eyes and sat
back. He pictured himself in a
flamboyant Western costume, riding a large black horse with fire in his
eyes. He saw himself…
"Mr.
The image disappeared. The blue eyes were back.
"Yes."
"Do you have a gun?"
"I do not."
"Aren't you gonna need a
gun where you're going?"
Rick pondered that one for a
minute. He liked the sound of it. He could easily picture himself with cold
steel swinging from his hip. He shook
his head and dismissed it from his mind.
Wearing a gun, without being proficient in its use, sounded like a good
way to get killed.
The condescending tone came back
into his voice. "One should only
wear a gun if they are prepared to use it.
I am not inclined to do so, so it would be foolish of me to put one
on."
"You were sure right."
"Right about what?"
"You're not a cowboy."
"Are you an authority on
the subject?"
"What's an authority?"
"Do you know about
cowboys?"
"We have cowboys on our
ranch."
"You have a ranch?"
"Not me, silly, but my
daddy does. My horse Patches is
there."
Oh, great. I've been lecturing
this young lady about cowboys and she lives on a
ranch. Rick
pulled out his journal and made his first entry:
Interview
Rule Number One: Find
out how knowledgeable any subject is before telling them your personal
thoughts.
Interview
Rule Number Two: Never
take ANYBODY for granted.
He underlined anybody three times.
Rick tucked the book back into
his coat pocket and returned his attention to the girl. "So, how big is this ranch of
yours?"
"Daddy says it isn't very
big."
"You raise cows on
it?"
"Yes."
"How many cows are on the
ranch?"
"I don't know, I can't count past ten."
"Let me try it this
way. Once you get back to the boundaries
of your ranch, how long will it take to get to your house?"
"Oh, we won't have to camp
out or anything, not if we get an early start."
Rick reached for the journal
again without comment, and wrote: Size in the West is relative.
He replaced the journal in his
pocket and continued what had now become an interview. "What do these cowboys do on your
ranch?"
"They rope the cows, and
brand the cows, and watch the cows, and kick the cows, and cuss the cows;
mostly they do things with the cows. I
guess that's why we call them cowboys."
"They cuss the cows in
front of you?"
"Not if they know I'm
there. If I'm there, they make talk with
big holes in it, like, 'You…I'm gonna…you dirty…I'd
like to…' They think I don't know what
goes in the holes, but I do."
Kasey's companion awoke from her
nap. "Kasey, are you bothering the
man again? I told you not to…"
Rick tipped his hat again and
leaned forward. "Your daughter
isn't bothering me, ma'am, really she isn't.
As a matter of fact, she opened my eyes on a couple of things."
"Oh, she isn't my daughter,
she's my sister, and I'm afraid she can be something of a pest if she puts her
mind to it."
"Certainly not the case
here. Ma'am, do you mind if I move to
the seat facing you? I am traveling West, and your sister has given me to understand you have a
ranch out there. As a writer, I would
enjoy finding out more about it."
"I don't mind if you sit
there. Ordinarily I would not engage in
a conversation with a stranger, but I suppose one must make allowances on a
public conveyance. It certainly would
help pass the time."
"It is not necessary for us
to remain strangers, ma'am." He
moved around to the facing seat, bowed, and offered his hand. "I am Rick Dayton."
She took the hand, but had a
puzzled expression on her face.
"Rick? But I thought…"
"A pen name, ma'am. Many writers use them."
She smoothed out her skirt,
obviously to keep from having to make eye contact. "I see.
I am Shanda James, and this is my sister Kasey."
Rick sat. "Your sister and I are old friends by
now." Rick pulled his glasses down
with his forefinger, and peered over the top as he looked at the
youngster. "Even if I am not a
cowboy."
He stored his valise under the
facing seat, then looked up, prepared to exchange some opening
pleasantries. The face he looked into
removed all thoughts from his mind.
Shanda was breathtaking.
Her beauty wasn't such that one
would encounter on the
"Mr. Dayton, are you all
right?"
He closed his mouth and tried to
regain his senses. "Yes, why do you
ask?"
"I don't know, you looked as if you had seen a ghost or something. You looked at me so…"
He cleared his throat, and
pushed his glasses up more firmly.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. You see, in order to write I have to be able
to describe the people I meet. Please
don't think me as trying to be familiar with you when I say this, but your
beauty will be hard to express with mere words."
"Oh my." Her eyes widened for an instant before her
gaze demurely dropped. "If you are
going to carry on in such a m
"No, I'm sorry, I'll behave
myself. Perhaps you'll understand what I
mean if you helped me describe some of the other passengers. How about the gentleman across the aisle?"
She glanced at the other
passenger. "A drummer. He's dressed like a banker, but doesn't wear
the clothes as comfortably as a man of wealth would. The redness of his face suggests a fondness
for drink. Yes, definitely in
sales."
"Say, you're pretty good at
this. How about the man across from him?" He recorded the description in his journal.
"A cowboy returning after
letting the badger loose in the city."
"Letting the badger
loose? What a delightful
expression. I can guess what it
means." He added the notation.
"Yes, I hear it used by the
hands on our ranch. The red on his neck
and hands made me think he might be a working hand, but when he removed his hat
to me getting on and I saw the white line on his forehead where his hat topped,
and that above his wrist under his cuff.
Besides, he wears those dress clothes as if they had a hair lining. He can barely keep them on."
Rick made constant notes. She went on to describe many of the
passengers, seeming to get enjoyment in the little diversion. She also told him a lot about their ranch,
and what it was like to live on one. The
ranch turned out to be in the hill country, northwest of
They dropped the formalities,
and were soon laughing and joking. Kasey
squealed as they were suddenly plunged into the darkness of a long tunnel. When they emerged, and Rick's eyes adjusted,
he had to blink to make sure what he saw was real.
Two men stood at the head of the
car with band
"You may find this
entertaining," Shanda said, "but these men certainly aren't doing it
for such a purpose. We're about to be
robbed."
"Robbed! Surely not!" Rick looked around. The other passengers sat with their hands
high in the air, the look of fear on each face unmistakable.
The hard-looking men wore
nice-looking clothes, and seemed to be comfortable in them. They commanded the attention of the
passengers, but at the same time weren't particularly aggressive or
threatening. They fascinated Rick.
The nearest man spoke. "Everybody just keep those hands where
we can see 'em. Jasper, you go skin
those pokes."
"Skin those pokes?" Rick whispered.
"It means to take your
wallet," Kasey answered.
Rick pulled out the journal to
write down the phrase.
"Hey, you," the
closest of the desperadoes said. "I
said to keep your hands where I can see them."
Rick looked up. "Who, me?"
"I ain't talking to your
Aunt Martha."
"Oh, that one's good! May I write it down?"
"What are you talking
about?"
"I'm a writer. Oh, by the way, here's my money. I'm afraid I only have about $160 left, but
you're welcome to it." He opened his
coat. "As you can see, I'm not
armed."
"You sure are happy about
this. When we rob folks, they generally
tend to resent it somewhat."
"Yeah," said the other
outlaw, "most of them get pretty testy."
"That's because they are
losing money, and I certainly understand how they feel. I, on the other hand, feel like I am making
an investment of the money in a story which will bring me back more money than
I am losing."
"You gonna write about us
in this here story?"
"Of course."
"You
fixin' to mention us by name?"
"That's up to you."
They looked at each other,
"Can't see how it'd hurt. Who reads
these books?"
"Most everybody," Rick
lied.
"Well, the plain fact is
you are being robbed by the famous James Gang.
I'm Jesse, and that there is my cousin Jasper. My brother Frank is doing business up at the
express car at the present time."
Rick looked at Shanda. "Is he related to you?"
"Not that I know of."
"What are you two jabbering
about?" Jesse asked.
"Her last name is
James. Her name is Shanda, and this is
her sister Kasey. We were wondering if
you might be related."
"Well, just in case you are
kin, you can hold on to your valuables.
I ain't robbing no kin-folks."
"If such is the case, may I
point out that I am traveling with
them?"
"Not on your life, dude,
you done said you're making money on this deal.
The way it sounds, you oughta be giving us more money than you
are."
"That's probably true,
maybe next time?"
A man burst in the door. "Jesse, what in blue blazes are you doing, having a tea party?"
"I'm getting my name in a
book, Frank. This here guy's a writer."
"Are you crazy? Then they'll know it was us that did
it."
"Now Frank, you know we get
blamed for it whether we do it or not."
"Well, that's true. While you're at it, you want to sit here and
talk to the Pinkerton Detectives, too?
I'll bet they'd be happy to put your name in a book."
Rick wrote so fast that his
pencil nearly started to smoke.
"Aw, ease up, Frank, maybe
this guy will write something nice about us for a change."
"You gentlemen have
certainly been most pleasant to me," he said.
Frank said, "I don't get
it. You ain't mad you've been
robbed?"
"I'll tell you about
that," Jesse said, "in fact, he says we got more coming
later."
"It's called
royalties," Rick nodded in affirmation.
"Yeah, well how about if we
give you our address so you can send it to us," Frank said. "Or better yet, maybe we can put you on
our mailing list along with the Pinkertons, and assorted sheriffs and
marshals."
"Oh, yes, I see the
problem. Well, perhaps we'll find a way
to square it up in the future."
"I gotta say that's a
first. I never robbed nobody
before who offered to send more money later."
The conductor arranged to send a
wire for Rick to Daggett, Crockett, and Allen with news of the robbery, and a
request to wire money to be waiting at a stop down the line. The wire also promised a manuscript for his
first book, tentatively entitled The
Daring Daylight Train Robbery, to follow by post.
It turned out Shanda had been
working as a public stenographer in
Rick dictated it in the heady
prose that was the style of the publications:
"Frank and Jesse James walked into the railroad car big as life,"
he started.
"Frank was in the express
car, remember?" Kasey volunteered.
"It's called artistic
license, Kasey. You can make changes in
a true situation in order to make a story read better."
"So, it's all right to lie
in a book?"
"It isn't a lie, it is within the spirit of what happened. It is merely packaging it for commercial
consumption."
"Oh, I see," but it
was clear she didn't.
Rick understood the rules for
the little tomes. Everything had to be
bigger than life. Men had to be of
heroic proportions, women had to be always in peril, but never harmed or
violated, and villains had to be magnificently evil with no redeeming
qualities.
"Where was I? Oh yes.
Their cold black eyes were hard as
the steel bars on the door as they glared from above the band
Kasey looked over at the
doors. No bars. She started to say something, but Shanda
said, "Shush."
"The barrels of the six guns in their hands looked as big as railroad
tunnels."
"They just had one gun, not
two…oh, yes, I know…shush."
"In a cold voice that brooked no interference, Jesse said, 'Everybody
put your hands up!', then had one of his men skin the pokes of the
passengers. A little girl said, 'Daddy,
what does skin a poke mean?' He told her
it meant he was going to have his wallet taken."
"I didn't say that, you
did. I know what skin a poke
means." Kasey said, indignant.
"It's only a story."
"Well, I don't like
it. You can lie if you want to and call
it something else, but I don't like you lying about me. It makes it sound like I didn't know what
skin a poke means. I know what it means."
"All right, all right! Make that a little boy asks his daddy."
Rick went on to dictate the
entire story, punctuated with substantial editing from the opposite seat, and
had a neatly handwritten manuscript to post when he stopped to pick up his
money.
He
stepped off the train and walked to the open window of the station. He sent the manuscript to his lawyers, who
would work with the publishers. He also
sent instructions for one of the first copies to be posted
to the James Sisters in care of general delivery at Round Rock,