Novel Serialization: Courage on the Mountain Chapter One

Happy Monday!!

After a conversation with my writing partner, Carolyn, I decided to begin posting a serialization of my novel, Courage on the Mountain.

I began writing this novel in 2008, the year before I moved to Wyoming, because I had so much rattling around in my head and my heart that I had to get it out somewhere. This story was the place to get it out into words.

Since then, Courage on the Mountain has been through half a dozen rewrites, edits, and reshaping. This final product is one that I feel pretty darn good about, and while I am aware of the fact that I may never manage to sell this novel to a publisher, I still really love this novel. It's the novel that helped me find my words, and find myself as a writer.

It's my hope that you might love this novel too. Plus, I've dropped my notes into the chapter as well (my narrative intrusions are marked by a different color) to tell you a little bit about the writing process, inspiration, and other cool stuff :-)

Happy reading!

Chapter One

I had long since lost track of the hours I had spent in this boxcar with my horse as my only companion. There had been little to do to pass the time except peek through the slats and watch the hills roll by. The summer air was warm, making the livestock car uncomfortably hot, the pungent odor of manure and urine pervasive. When the train finally slowed to a stop, the wheels screeched against the tracks and steam escaped the locked brakes, hissing and spitting at the depot platform.

Pressing my face to the slats, I could see the large red brick depot, a neat sign above a door reading Sheridan, Wyoming. Along the station platform a colorful parade of people passed, disembarking from the passenger cars. A few women were clad in rich fabrics, wearing colorful hats on their heads, and they were accompanied by men that were nattily turned-out in suits with bowlers hats and shoes polished to a shine. There were the poorer among the crowd as well; women dressed in plain skirts towing along children with sooty faces. A few cowpunchers also mingled among the crowd, easy to spot in their beat up hats and tall boots.

The sight of so many people set my nerves tingling, my heartbeat quickening. When I stepped onto the platform, I would be doing so with every worldly possession I owned in tow. Worrying my bottom lip, I wondered if perhaps this was a terrible mistake rather than a clever idea.  

The sliding door of the stock car opened suddenly, and a porter pulled the ramp over the space between the edge of the car and the platform.

“Git movin’,” he ordered.

Stepping from the dark interior of the boxcar, I had to stop and let my eyes adjust to the light for a moment. My blue roan, Ranger, followed me out, more prancing than walking, shoes clanking against the bolts of the ramp. A loud crash issued from farther down the platform, causing Ranger to jump sideways and nearly knock the porter into the deep gap between the platform and the train. I held fast to Ranger’s reins, not close enough to help the porter in his struggle for balance. He spit several expletives at me before I mumbled an apology and moved off the platform.

Gunny and I riding along Bad Water Creek in summer of 2012

I am completely obsessed with blue roans, and I have been for years. Ranger is based on my own horse, Gunny, who was a grulla. He was feisty and spirited just like Ranger, and I miss him all the time, as he died from a serious bout of colic in the summer of 2014.

After tying Ranger’s reins to a hitching post, I stopped to look around again. The depor was at the edge of town, with sprawling hills to the north and the town to the south. The railroad tracks and the road ran parallel to one another to my left, sitting between the depot and the rest of the town. A beautiful, unique building stood opposite of the depot, and I squinted to read the sign. The Sheridan Inn was sided in white clapboard, with a long front porch that sat below a row of gabled windows.

The Sheridan Inn
Photo from http://downtownsheridan.org/explore/walking-tour/sheridan-inn/

The Sheridan Inn, pictured above, is one of my favorite places in Wyoming. It's such a fascinating and historical building! I have been in love with it since I was taken on a date to the steak house that used to rent the space. At the moment, it's vacant, though in the past, it's been an inn, a restaurant, and even a place people could rent for events. 

It was like nothing I had ever seen before. People were pouring in and out of it, and I could see a doorway at the north side of the building outfitted with a set of swinging gates that met in the middle. 

I turned back to my horse and rigged my saddle. I tied my slicker behind the cantle, buckled the rifle scabbard under the right stirrup fender and the flaps of my saddlebags closed, then slung my belt holster around my hips, settling it on top of the leather of my chaps. I leaned against the side of the saddle, elbows resting on the seat.

Ranger stood still, watching his surroundings with his ears pricked forward. I pulled my hat off and ran a hand over my close-cropped hair, fraught with insecurity. I told myself to get moving. Putting my hat back on my head, I summoned my courage and tried to decide my next move. A wave of heat came over me, and I realized how thirsty I was. Taking a canteen from my saddle, I spotted a water pump at the corner of the depot platform; it was set up to fill a large water trough that sat next below a hitching rail.

I walked over to it, moving the handle up and down several times, priming the pipe with water. When fresh water poured from the pump, I put my hands under the stream and brought cupped palms full of water up to splash my face. It felt so good that I sipped gulped some of it up from hands before rubbing a wet palm over the back of my neck.

Feeling less hot than I had a few minutes ago, I sipped some more water and then filled my canteen. It wasn’t until I twisted the cap back in place that I realized someone on the above platform was speaking to me. Momentarily confused, I looked around, my eyes settling on a woman, her painted lips curled into a smile. She was dressed in bright red satin, a tight bodice barely containing her voluptuousness. Blonde hair was piled loosely atop her head, a few tendrils brushing against her rouged cheeks.

            “What about it?” she asked, as though repeating herself.

            I felt as though I was struck dumb, simply staring at her.  

            “Are you slow or somethin’?”

            “N-no, ma’am,” I stuttered. Embarrassment crept up on my cheeks as I saw several people around the depot take notice of our exchange.

            “Then why ain’t you answerin’ me?”

            “I didn’t hear your question.” My voice caught in my throat. The woman’s laugh was grating, its tone full of mockery.

            “You are green around the gills, ain’t ya?” she giggled. “I asked if’n you were interested in a turn around my little place in the world.”

            All at once it was clear to me what she meant, and I sputtered indignantly, trying to phrase a response. This made her laugh even more, and she made her way down the steps to me. Before I could utter a word, she was upon me, one hand upon my shoulder and the other on my waist. She was close enough that I could smell the rose water behind her ears, see the lines on her face in which her powder had settled. Up close, I could see that her ministrations aged her. She was far younger than I expected.

            “It would be fun, darlin’,” she purred. “I’ll teach you all about things you ain’t learned about yet.”

            The hand on my shoulder began to trail down toward my collarbone. I jerked back sharply, no longer worried about who was watching. Once out of her reach, I sputtered, “I-I ain’t interested in learnin’ anything from the likes of you.”

            My words had a bite to them, much more so than I had intended. Something flickered across that painted face, before it was hidden away and her eyes turned cold. Suddenly, I felt a wave of pity for her.

            “Ain’t man enough to even try. Your loss, darlin’. Perhaps ya ought to go back to your mama.” With a swish of those skirts and a click of her heel, she was gone.

            My heart was pounding, and I heard several chuckles from around me, calls of “atta boy!” as well. I kept my head down, cheeks burning. Surely I ought to take a proposition as a good thing, shouldn’t I? The thought didn’t comfort me. I could still feel where her hands had been. I shuddered. That could have ruined everything.

I returned my canteen to my saddle, and lead Ranger across the tracks and the road, eager to put some distance between myself and what just happened. I tied him at the hitching rail just down the porch from the saloon door at the Sheridan Inn.

My breath caught in my chest as I mounted the steps and approached the swinging doors. Never before in my life had I ever stepped foot in such a place. I pushed through the dividers, pausing to survey the room. It was large, with an expansive space populated by tables and chairs, filling the space between the door and the long bar on the far wall. The few men sitting around turned in my direction, glancing me over before returning to whatever pursuits had occupied them before my entrance.

            But one man at the bar didn’t turn back to his drink. He stared at me, as though he could hardly believe what he saw. I tipped my chin to him as I got to the bar, about to ask the man behind it if he knew whom I could ask about the Little Noll Ranch.

            “Well, I always knew you was a jackass, but I never knew you was a fool too,” said the man to my right, slamming his glass down on the counter. Surprised, I turned to him when he stepped toward me. He was scrappy, dressed in a fancy, if not well-worn suit. A thick scar marred his left cheek and ended just below his small, dark eye. A dandy bowler hat was perched on his head.

            “Excuse me?”

            “You heard me,” he replied, pointing a thin finger at me. “You got some nerve to just walk back in here.”

            My chest tightened with fear as he stepped closer. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I think ya got me confused with someone els—“

            He interrupted me by shoving me backwards. “I ain’t got you confused, Grey Michaels! You owe me that money, and I ain’t about let you walk outta here without payin’ it, one way or the other!”

            He advanced on me again, and I moved backwards, crouching slightly. I tried to say that it was my brother he was lookin’ for, but the man opened his jacket, revealing a pistol strapped at his belt. I held out my hands, palms up in a gesture of surrender. “I don’t see why we got to go fightin’ about this,” I said. “If you’ll just listen to me, I think we can—“

            I never got the chance to finish my sentence. The man threw a right hook at my jaw, and I ducked down and shuffled back, avoiding the blow completely. Having been prepared to make contact, the wild swing sent the man crashing past me, and I swung around, pushing a boot into his back, toppling him over. “I really think I can set this straight, mister,” I started again, but he rounded on me, driving himself into my gut, head first. The impact sent us both toppling back, and with his frame atop me, I found my strength didn’t match his, and I floundered, trying to land a blow that would buy me the time to get up.

            My opponent threw both his fists at my face in a frenzy, and I barely managed to get my hands up to block the majority of it. I threw my knee up and into the man’s groin in an effort to put him off, and the move slowed him just enough. I scrambled away from him and to my feet.

“I really don’t think this is worth all the fuss!” I said, ready for the man to redouble his efforts at beating the shit out of me. When he got off the floor and to his feet, he had his gun drawn. I pulled my own .44 Smith & Wesson Schofield revolver, realizing for the first time that the entire bar had fallen silent, everyone watching to see what would unfold between us.

            “Look here, mister,” I said carefully, trying to keep my voice from quavering. “I understand you’re mighty put out. But I’m not who ya think I am, and if you’ll let me explain, I think you’ll understand too.”

            “You’re full of shit, Michaels!” he exclaimed, his grip tightening around the pistol. I was practically holding my breath, trying to read his body language. Could I be fast enough to pull the trigger first, if it came to that?

            “You’re pretty full of shit yourself,” came a voice from over my right shoulder. I could see someone at the end of the bar in my peripheral vision, but I didn’t look. I kept my gaze glued to my opponent, unsure about how I felt about this interloper. My attention needed to remain on the man that might try to shoot me in the next few minutes.

            “Stay out of this, Fullman,” growled the little man.

            “You’re bein’ right hard to talk to today, White. I don’t see why you got to get yourself shot over this,” Fullman replied.

            “Who says I’m gettin’ shot?” White demanded.

            “Well, there’s two ways you can look at it,” Fullman said calmly. “The first is that this is Greyson Michaels, and he’s lyin’ to ya. And he’s a faster draw than you, so I figure he’ll shoot ya first. Or,” he continued, “he’s related to Greyson Michaels, and I’d still put my money on him bein’ a faster draw than you.”

            White scowled at the man behind me. I heard boots against the floor, and when Fullman spoke again, his voice came from behind my left shoulder. “Why don’t you hear the man out?”

            Perfect, I thought, ten minutes and I already have someone nosin’ into my business.  

            Both men were looking at me.

“Put yours down and I will too,” I said to White. He eyed me suspiciously but slowly let his arm drop.

I did the same and said, “My name is Gabriel Michaels. Grey’s my brother. I’m not surprised he’s gone and done somethin’ like owin’ ya money, but I ain’t Grey.”

            “If you’re a Michaels, then that’s good enough for me,” White spat out. “One brother is good as the next. I want my money.”

            “What’s he owe ya?” I asked.

            “Ten dollars.”

            I nearly bit my tongue in an effort to keep from gasping. Ten dollars? I cussed my brother silently and swore I’d throttle him when I got the chance. Then I tried to think of what my oldest brother, Gideon, would do in this situation. “I ain’t got ten dollars, mister. I’ll give ya what I do have, but you’ll have to wait for Grey to collect the rest.”

            “How much you got?”

            I thought about the two dollars in my trouser pocket, and the two in my vest pocket, as well as the two hidden in my boot. It was all the money I had to my name. “Two dollars.”

            White exploded, cursing loudly. I stepped back but when he brought his pistol up, the intentions on his face pretty clear. I pulled my hand up and fired, the sound of the shot cracking the air before the room fell into silence. The only sound after that was White’s bowler hat hitting the ground. He stood, dumbfounded, staring upward. With one bony hand, he felt the top of his head, where his hat was no longer perched.

            I took the two dollars from my pocket and held it out to him. “Grey will make good when he can.”

            White took the money, snatched up his hat, and hurried from the bar without another word. The room was still silent as I looked around, holstered my weapon, and wondered if I could manage this plan after all. This didn’t seem like a very promising beginning.

            “I’m real sorry, sir,” I said to the barkeep, who looked fairly amused by the whole situation.

            “Ain’t your fault, son. He was askin’ for trouble. I appreciate you not shootin’ him though. Blood is harder to clean up.”

            I smiled awkwardly at him, then turned to my left. Fullman was a tall cowboy with a wild rag tied loosely around his neck, black like the hat atop his head. He wore a button-down with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows and tucked into dark trousers. A holster was slung comfortably around his hips, sitting just below the belt on his waist, and he wore a pair of well-worn chaps that hung just above a pair of scuffed up boots. A small blue dog sat at his heels.

Blue Heeler
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:AustrCattleDogBlue_wb.jpg

You might notice that I love blue animals, maybe because they are rare in nature. That being said, this little dog is based on a blue heeler I came across once while working for a ranch outside Sheridan, Wyoming, who was a fierce little working cow dog.

 Fullman's character began as an amalgam of men and cowboys I had known, all squished together, though I gave him the blue eyes of one in particular that captured my heart one summer. What's humored me now is how many people who have read this book since I got married have assumed that Fullman is really Hubster. And while Fullman and Hubster share some great qualities (like beautiful blue eyes, dark hair, and a reserved nature), Fullman has become his own person within the pages of this novel. 

            “I suppose I should say thank you,” I said.

            “You can if you like. But I think you’d have handled it with or without my help.”

            I bristled a little. “So you just enjoy steppin’ into other people’s affairs?”

            His forehead crinkled as he searched my face. His eyes were the most brilliant color blue I had ever seen. With them focused on me, I felt my annoyance giving way to discomfort. “I apologize,” he said. “I wouldn’t normally have said anything. But when ya walked in, I made the same mistake Mr. White did.”

            Hope surged through me. “You thought I was Grey?”

            “You do look a bit a like,” he answered, irony in his tone.

            “We’re twins.”

            Fullman looked unsurprised by this news. I tried to think of what to say next. “You work with my brothers?”

            “I did,” he answered. 

“Did?”

“They worked with me at the Little Noll ‘til last fall.”

            I thought back to the last letter I had received from Gid—the middle of September last year. “They ain’t workin’ there now?”

            Fullman looked at me strangely and said, “No.” I must have looked disappointed because he continued, “I take it they didn’t go back home then.”

            I shook my head. Disappointment spread through my body like the chill of blown snow down a person’s collar. “No. I ain’t heard from ‘em since September.”

            “I reckon that was about when they left.”

             “You know if anyone would know where they took off to?”

            He shrugged. “They mostly kept to themselves. If they told anyone where they were headed, none of the boys ever mentioned it.”

            Reeling on the inside, I nodded. What was I going to do now? “Thanks,” I said absently. “Appreciate the help back there.”

            I was halfway to the door when Fullman called out, “Hold up, Michaels.” He strode across the bar room floor to catch up with me, walking with me out the door. Once on the boardwalk, he surveyed the street, his gaze falling on Ranger. “That your ride?”

            “Yah.”

            “You can handle a gun. Can you handle livestock?”

            “Sure.”

            “You lookin’ for work?”

            Startled, it took me a moment to answer. “I suppose I am.”

            “We’re short-handed and I need another cowboy. If you got enough to sand to make it, that is.”

            I stared at the train depot, considering my options. My brothers were gone, I had no home and this man was the only person I knew in Wyoming. If I left to search for my brothers, I didn’t even know where I would go. Finally I said, “Sounds fair.”

            My companion stuck out his hand and said, “Asher Fullman. Line foreman for the Little Noll.” I shook his hand. “Let’s ride, kid.”

            As he headed for a spotted horse tied at the corner of the building, I watched him go, something like triumph warming me from the inside. If I had fooled everyone thus far, I thought, then I might just be able to continue to do so.