Tuesday 27 October 2009

The 100 greatest crime novels ever written

A couple of months back I posted an item about the 100 greatest novels ever written, and today I came across another 100 greatest list. Apparently the following was voted on by the great and the good as being the greatest crime novels ever written. It's a bit old, but how many have you read? I've managed 25.

1. Arthur Conan Doyle: The Complete Sherlock Holmes (1887-1927)
2. Dashiell Hammett: The Maltese Falcon (1930)
3. Edgar Allan Poe: Tales of Mystery and Imagination (1852)
4. Josephine Tey: The Daughter of Time (1951)
5. Scott Turow: Presumed Innocent (1987)
6. John le Carré: The Spy Who Came In From the Cold (1963)
7. Wilkie Collins: The Moonstone (1868)
8. Raymond Chandler: The Big Sleep (1939)
9. Daphne du Maurier: Rebecca (1938)
10. Agatha Christie: And Then There Were None (1939)
11. Robert Traver: Anatomy of a Murder (1958)
12. Agatha Christie: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926)
13. Raymond Chandler: The Long Goodbye (1953)
14. James M. Cain: The Postman Always Rings Twice (1934)
15. Mario Puzo: The Godfather (1969)
16. Thomas Harris: The Silence of the Lambs (1988)
17. Eric Ambler: A Coffin for Dimitrios (1939)
18. Dorothy L. Sayers: Gaudy Night (1935)
19. Agatha Christie: Witness for the Prosecution (1948)
20. Frederick Forsyth: The Day of the Jackal (1971)
21. Raymond Chandler: Farewell My Lovely (1940)
22. John Buchan: The Thirty-Nine Steps (1915)
23. Umberto Eco: The Name of the Rose (1980)

24. Fyodor Dostoevski: Crime and Punishment (1866)
25. Ken Follett: Eye of the Needle (1978)
26. John Mortimer: Rumpole of the Bailey (1978)
27. Thomas Harris: Red Dragon (1981)
28. Dorothy L. Sayers: The Nine Tailors (1934)
29. Gregory Mcdonald: Fletch (1974)
30. John Le Carré: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (1974)
31. Dashiell Hammett: The Thin Man (1934)
32. Wilkie Collins: The Woman in White (1860)
33. E. C. Bentley: Trent's Last Case (1913)
34. James M. Cain: Double Indemnity (1943)
35. Martin Cruz Smith: Gorky Park (1981)
36. Dorothy L. Sayers: Strong Poison (1930)
37. Tony Hillerman: Dance Hall of the Dead (1973)
38. Donald E. Westlake: The Hot Rock (1970)
39. Dashiell Hammett: Red Harvest (1929)
40. Mary Roberts Rinehart: The Circular Staircase (1908)
41. Agatha Christie: Murder on the Orient Express (1934)
42. John Grisham: The Firm (1991)
43. Len Deighton: The IPCRESS File (1962)
44. Vera Caspary: Laura (1942)
45. Mickey Spillane: I, the Jury (1947)
46. Maj Sjöwall & Per Wahlöö: The Laughing Policeman (1968)
47. Donald E. Westlake: Bank Shot (1972)
48. Graham Greene: The Third Man (1950)
49. Jim Thompson: The Killer Inside Me (1952)
50. Mary Higgins Clark: Where Are the Children? (1975)
51. Sue Grafton: "A" is for Alibi (1982)
52. Lawrence Sanders: The First Deadly Sin (1973)
53. Tony Hillerman: A Thief of Time (1989)
54. Truman Capote: In Cold Blood (1966)
55. Geoffrey Household: Rogue Male (1939)
56. Dorothy L. Sayers: Murder Must Advertise (1933)
57. G. K. Chesterton: The Innocence of Father Brown (1911)2
58. John le Carré: Smiley's People (1979)
59. Raymond Chandler: The Lady in the Lake (1943)
60. Harper Lee: To Kill a Mockingbird (1960)
61. Graham Greene: Our Man in Havana (1958)
62. Charles Dickens: The Mystery of Edwin Drood (1870)
63. Peter Lovesey: Wobble to Death (1970)
64. W. Somerset Maugham: Ashenden (1928)
65. Nicholas Meyer: The Seven Per-Cent Solution (1974)
66. Rex Stout: The Doorbell Rang (1965)
67. Elmore Leonard: Stick (1983)
68. John le Carré: The Little Drummer Girl (1983)

69. Graham Greene: Brighton Rock (1938)
70. Bram Stoker: Dracula (1897)

71. Patricia Highsmith: The Talented Mr. Ripley (1955)
72. Edmund Crispin: The Moving Toyshop (1946)
73. John Grisham: A Time to Kill (1989)
74. Hillary Waugh: Last Seen Wearing ... (1952)
75. W. R. Burnett: Little Caesar (1929)
76. George V. Higgins: The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1972)
77. Dorothy L. Sayers: Clouds of Witness (1927)
78. Ian Fleming: From Russia, with Love (1957)
79. Margaret Millar: Beast in View (1955)
80. Michael Gilbert: Smallbone Deceased (1950)
81. Josephine Tey: The Franchise Affair (1948)
82. Elizabeth Peters: Crocodile on the Sandbank (1975)
83. P. D. James: Shroud for a Nightingale (1971)
84. Tom Clancy: The Hunt for Red October (1984)
85. Ross Thomas: Chinaman's Chance (1978)
86. Joseph Conrad: The Secret Agent (1907)
87. John D. MacDonald: The Dreadful Lemon Sky (1975)
88. Dashiell Hammett: The Glass Key (1931)
89. Ruth Rendell: Judgement in Stone (1977)
90. Josephine Tey: Brat Farrar (1950)
91. Ross Macdonald: The Chill (1963)
92. Walter Mosley: Devil in a Blue Dress (1990)
93. Joseph Wambaugh: The Choirboys (1975)
94. Donald E. Westlake: God Save the Mark (1967)
95. Craig Rice: Home Sweet Homicide (1944)
96. John Dickson Carr: The Three Coffins (1935)
97. Richard Condon: Prizzi's Honor (1982)
98. James McClure: The Steam Pig (1974)
99. Jack Finney: Time and Again (1970)
100. Ellis Peters: A Morbid Taste for Bones (1977) and Ira Levin: Rosemary's Baby (1967) (tie)

Friday 23 October 2009

Who invented the flaming Internet?

I've been a bit quiet here recently due to Internet connection problems. My router expired quietly and the new one works based on some logic known only to itself, but which seems to require me to not look at it and to hold my breath while standing on one leg in the hall. Certainly any complex Internet activity such as adjusting my chair or feeding the cat makes the connection start working using the flashes of lightning principle.

During the brief periods of connection I learnt that apparently someone else on this planet had the same problem and resolved it by amending something I've never heard of before that has lots of p's in it. I just love the Internet! But the really great thing is: a few years back I could take it or leave it. I picked up my emails most days, but if I didn't, the world didn't end. Now being unconnected is just plain hell. Everything I want to know, from phone numbers to computer advice, is all on there and nowhere else. Not having access is weirdly isolating, not helped of course by the postal strike.

Anyhow, I'm failing at the moment to keep up regular blog updates, but hopefully some time soon when I've tried the pPpppoappp solution, normal service will resume. Although as I'm also on call to go on Jury service that might not be for a while. I suppose the great thing about the lack of Internet is that I should get more writing done, and with that in mind...

Thursday 15 October 2009

Review of The Finest Frontier Town in the West

A very kind review of my Avalon Western can be found at Davy Crockett's Almanack

Thanks, Dave, and as you say, who can forget Warty Bill? Sadly I had!

Wednesday 14 October 2009

A Fistful of Legends - an early look

I'm the guest blogger today at Dark Bits with an article that provides an early look at the forthcoming Western Anthology A Fistful of Legends.

The western with no name - Part 11

Peter Avarillo has written this week's instalment at Jack's Open Range

Parts 1 to 10 are here

Monday 12 October 2009

The Western With No Name - The story so far

The 11th part of the weekly serial western tale will be available on Wednesday. Each week a different author adds to the story. Here in one place are the first ten parts of this rip-roaring, action-packed adventure :

Part 1 - I.J. Parnham

"Come and see this," Merrill Wyman said. "Some fool is standing on the tracks."

Jerome Meeker stopped shovelling wood to join Merrill in peering over the side of the engine. Impossible as it had sounded, Merrill was right. A man was standing on the tracks, around 300 yards ahead. From such a distance and with the evening light fading fast Jerome couldn't be sure what he was doing but he appeared to be just standing there looking down at the ground.

Jerome dragged on the brake lever, tearing a desperate screech from the wheels. The reek of tortured metal overpowered the engine smell. It was a futile gesture as the train would require a quarter-mile to stop, but at least using the brakes would give the fool more time to move.

"Get off the tracks!" Jerome yelled although it was unlikely the man would be able to hear him while Merrill clanged the bell.

The sound would be loud enough to be heard in Matlock, four miles further on, but this didn't alert the man who remained hunched and staring downwards.

They were now 200 yards away and the man had around twenty seconds in which to move or die. Still he didn't react although the brake shoe was locking the wheels and the bell was tolling its insistent plea.

Now Jerome could see that the man was grey-haired and so stooped with age. There was also something familiar about him... But it was almost too late.

Then he looked up, but the train was only seconds away from hitting him. His gaze alighted on the engine looming over him. If its appearance shocked him, he didn't show it. Instead, he raised his arm and clutched in his outstretched hand was a six-shooter. He fired at the approaching train, his mouth opening wide. Blazing hatred contorted his face as he shouted something that Jerome couldn't hear.

Merrill and Jerome both jerked backwards. Lead cannoned off the engine. A stray bullet tore through the small window and ricocheted around before departing.

Then the gunfire stopped.

Merrill and Jerome looked at each other, sighing as they both wondered if the man had got his wits about him at the last moment and saved himself.

Jerome glanced over the right-hand side then backwards while Merrill took the other side. To his dismay Jerome saw a hunched shape lying beside the tracks. The cowcatcher would have tossed him aside but even so the pained look each man gave the other said they didn't think he could have survived the impact.

The train had now slowed sufficiently for one of them to jump down, yet both men stood frozen in place, reluctant to go back and find out what state the man was in.

"You check on him," Merrill said finally. "I'll see if there's a doctor amongst the passengers who can help him."

"I don't think he'd want that help," Jerome said. "He just let the train hit him."

Merrill provided a sorry shake of the head. "He sure did, but why would a man do that?"

Jerome shrugged. Then, with a heavy heart, he jumped down from the train.

Part 2 - Jack Giles

“What’s the hold up?” this curt question came from the portly conductor, Henry Cox, as he eased himself down the steps from the front of the first carriage. This as heads began to appear through the carriage windows behind him. He paused long enough to slip a fob from the pocket of a vest that was stretched, tightly, across his paunch and examined the watch face before glancing in Jerome’s direction.

“Better be good,” Henry snapped, shoving the watch back,as he turned to glare at Merrill who had halted with one foot on the footplate while gripping on to the brass handrail to maintain his balance. “We have a schedule to keep.”

Henry pounded towards them with a hiss of serge upon serge as his thick thighs collided with each other but neither man paid him much attention for they were watching the old man rise from the ground.

“Well, I guess, that’s my fault,” the old man told the trio of gaping men as he approached them brushing dust from his clothes with his hands. “Sorry if I’ve disrupted your schedule but you see I – yes, I needed to stop the train.” As he spoke his eyes wandered along the line of carriages until he spotted a red and white one at the end. Suddenly, he swung up an arm to point downline. “Hey, isn’t that Silas Bartlett’s private carriage?”

“It certainly is,” the conductor responded, pompously, finding it easier to answer the question rather than follow the oldster’s rambling drawl.

“Thought it was,” the old man nodded. “Good. I wasn’t sure if I’d stopped the right train.”

“And what if we hadn’t’ve stopped?” Merrill bellowed dropping to the ground. “God, by rights you should be dead.”

“But, don’t you see, you did stop,” the old man said, sagely.

“But if we hadn’t?” Merrill persisted.

All three stood there mesmerised as the old man reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stick of dynamite. As a man they took a few quick paces backwards.

“I’d’ve had to use this,” the old man mentioned. “Last resort – but the train would’ve stopped.”

“Just who the hell are you?” the conductor demanded, his eyes watchful as the old man slid the dynamite, carefully, back into his pocket.

“Didn’t I say?” the old man looked confused. “Walt Arnside.”

“You can’t be,” the Jerome gasped. “I knew Arnside and he’s dead.”

“Heard that rumour myself,” Walt nodded. “All the time I was in Yuma I had people telling me I was dead. But as you can see I’m very much alive.”

“Whoa! Whoa!” the conductor called out. “All this may be interesting but I don’t hear you saying why you stopped the train.”

“I didn’t, did I,” Walt nodded, scratching at the hairs at the side of his neck and glancing downline before facing the conductor. “Well, I’d’ve thought that was a mite obvious. I mean why would anyone try to stop a train, huh?” he glanced at each man expecting an answer and when none came stated the obvious. “To get on board.”

Part 3 - Chuck Tyrell

As Walt Arnside walked toward Silas Bartlett’s private car, his back seemed to straighten and his shoulders grow broader. His iron gray hair and close-cropped beard no longer marked him as a weak old man. Instead, his strides were firm and steady. A slight smile appeared on his face.

“Wait. Wait,” Cox cried. “You can’t just barge into Mr. Bartlett’s private car.”

Arnside never broke stride. “I can,” he said. “And I will. Get your crew back on that iron horse. In two minutes this train’d better be making up lost time, or if I know Silas Bartlett, you all will be looking for new jobs down the line.”

Merrell and Jerome jogged for the engine, and Henry Cox struggled across the sandy ground toward the passenger cars. Walt Arnside stepped up into the vestibule of the red-and-white Bartlett car. Less than a minute later, the steam whistle blew and the four-foot driver wheels of the locomotive began to turn.

Arnside stopped a moment outside the door to Bartlett’s car. The train moved out and each car clunked against its couplings in protest. He drew his .45 Peacemaker, turned the gilded knob, and pushed the door open as he stepped to the left, behind the door frame.

“That you, Straight? Come on in. Just me and the ghosts in here.”

A little smile showed on Arnside’s lips again. He shoved the Colt back into the well-worn holster that rode his right hip, and entered the well-lit Pullman.

“Put ‘er there,” Barlett said, his hand held out.

Arnside reached across the mahogany desk and firmly grasped his friend’s hand. “Long time no see, Scoot,” he said.

“Much too long, Straight. You still packing a star?”

“Nah. Too old for hard work. Never was as quick as you, Scoot.”


“Don’t mind if I do.” Arnside knew Bartlett would get around to telling him the reason for this strange visit when he was good and ready, and not before. Besides, he had no owlhoots to run down, no rustlers to catch, no wife to tie him down . . . no nothing. Waiting weighed easy on a man with nothing.

Bartlett poured four fingers of Jim Beam’s good whiskey into two of his fine glasses, all sparkles and facets. He handed one to Arnside, took one himself. He lifted the glass. “To memories past,” he said, “and adventures to come.”

“Hear, Hear,” said Arnside, one eyebrow raised. He clicked glasses with Bartlett and sipped the whiskey. It was real. The aroma filled his head and the heat of 80 proof Kaintuck lightning worked its way down his throat and into his guts. Fine stuff.

For a while, the two old friends tippled Jim Beam and communicated with the ghosts of times past. “Whatcha got up your sleeve, Scoot?” Arnside asked at last.

Bartlett leaned forward as if he wanted no one else to hear. “I know where there’s a Spanish treasure ship,” he said. “On dry land.”

Part 4 - Evan Lewis

Walt Arnside downed the last of his whiskey and placed the glass on the japanned table next to his chair. Bartlett’s remark buzzed about in his head, finding no place to light.

“Ever wonder how I made my fortune, Straight?” Bartlett hooked thumbs in the pockets of his silk waistcoat. A gold coin fixed to his watch chain caught the light and shone like a small sun.

Arnside dodged the question. “Ain’t a thing a man asks.”

“Or tells, unless he’s a damned fool. But I need your help. And your trust.”

Arnside’s eyes wandered about the private railcar. The plush carpet, velvet drapes and canopied bed looked like something out of The Arabian Nights. Bartlett had done well for himself, no mistake.

“I was raised by my grandfather," Bartlett said. "He was a queer old cuss, and more than half-mad. Claimed he’d once sailed with Jean Lafitte, but everyone knew that was hogwash.”

Arnside’s gaze settled on a painting hung between two windows. The subject was a high-prowed galleon, belled sails straining as she plowed a heavy sea. The ship’s side bristled with guns, and atop her mast flew the red and yellow flag of Spain. A treasure ship. Arnside’s pulse quickened.

Bartlett grinned. “The old fellow would sit for hours in his rocker, swilling rum and staring at that very painting. ‘A treasure ship,’ he’d mutter, ‘on dry land!’ Then he’d slap his knee and cackle, enjoying a private joke. After he died, I found an iron box under the floorboards. A box half-full of these.” Bartlett fingered the gold coin on his watch chain. “I kept one for luck, and I kept that painting, hoping to learn its secret.”

Arnside felt deflated. “But you said you knew…”

Bartlett rose and strode to the painting. “A month ago, the train hit rough track and the frame jumped from the wall, cracking free of the canvas. And what do you think I found?” He gave Arnside an owlish look.

A window exploded inward, showering Bartlett with glass. Bullets smashed into the opposite wall. More windows burst. The air was alive with singing lead, flying shards and acrid engine smoke. Bartlett gasped, clutched his shoulder and crumpled to the floor.

Arnside sprang from his chair, flattened next to a broken window. Five masked horsemen raced alongside the car, sixguns spitting fire. In one fluid motion, he drew his .45 and sent the nearest rider spinning from the saddle.

Bartlett lay on his side, his breathing ragged. A crimson stain spread over his fancy waistcoat.

Arnside’s gun crashed again, and a second rider pitched into the dirt. “Is there something you forgot to tell me?”

“I hate to say it, Straight, but you’re not the first man I asked for help.”

“Who was?” Arnside winced as a slug tore a chunk from his arm.

“You’re not going to like it.”

Arnside drew a bead on a third man, but the car lurched, spoiling his aim. Steel screeched on steel as the train began to slow.

“Damn it, Scoot! Who?”

A gas lamp shattered, raining hot oil over Bartlett’s bed. The comforter whooshed into flame. In moments the car would be an inferno.

Bartlett grimaced. “Zack Roden.”

A bullet scorched Arnside’s cheek, but he barely noticed. He felt like he’d swallowed a rattlesnake.

“If we survive this,” he said, “I’ll shoot you myself.”

Part 5 - Jack Martin

Arnside, back against the wall, looked out of the smashed window, hoping to spot Zack Rodin among the riders but a slug tore into the window frame, splintering wood and sending him once again ducking for cover.

‘We’re sitting ducks.’ Arnside yelled and turned to look at Bartlett but his old friend had succumbed to the gut wound. He lay there, a curious, contented look upon his face. Arnside crawled across the floor and made his way to the rear of the private car.

He groaned as he stood upright and opened the door. The train was still chugging alone, a few miles per hour at the most, the engine yet to build up pressure and get the wheels turning. He jumped down onto the ground and hugging the wall of the private car he made his way behind the train. He suddenly felt his age. He was in the autumn of his life and as he cautiously made his way to the rear of the train he felt November with each step.

The train started to pick up speed and Arnside cursed. The damn thing was providing his only cover and he fell to the ground, laying flat, trying to make himself invisible.

Luck was with him and he grinned as he saw the riders chasing after the train, which was now picking up considerable speed and easily outdistancing them. He lay there until both train and riders had vanished into the distance and then and only then did he get to his feet. He scanned the desert landscape, knowing that he had gotten at least one of the riders. At first he didn’t see anything but then perhaps three hundred yards away he spotted the crumpled figure of what could only be a man.

There was no sign of the riders returning even though they must have given up their pursuit of the train by now and Arnside withdrew his .45 and he made his way towards the fallen man, all the while his eyes scanned the horizon for the return on the riders.

He reached the man and after a final look around, spotting the the fallen man’s horse in the far distance, he knelt and examined the dead man. It had been a good shot that had brought him down – without aim, slung in his general direction, the slug had struck home right between the eyes and exited from the rear his of head, taking a sizeable chunk of skull with. A sponge of gore clung to a nearby rock.

Won’t take long for the flies to get at him, Arnside thought and wiped his brow. He removed the man’s rig and slung it one side and then went into each of the man’s pockets. There was nothing to identify the man but he did find three bucks and a tobacco pouch.

Arnside sat back with the makings and quickly put together a quirly. He sucked it to life and allowed the smoke to escape between his teeth while he regained some breath.

God he felt old.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Arnside asked the dead man and then raised a hand as if fending off any reply.

He thought about Bartlett. What was it the man had wanted to tell him? What was it he had discovered behind the painting he spoke of? He had mentioned a treasure ship so Arnside figured a map would come into it somewhere. Was that what the armed riders had been after? A map? A map leading to a ship filled with treasure?

He got to his feet and looked across the desert to the dead man’s horse. There was nothing for it; he would have to trail the riders if he was to find out what all this was about. Suddenly he didn’t feel so old and he started out across the desert to the waiting horse….

Part 6 - Jim Griffin

Luck was with Walt. The horse didn’t shy from him, but snuffed Walt curiously. He reassured the black and white tobiano with a pat.

“Easy,” he said. “We’ve got some hard ridin’ ahead.”

Walt’s good fortune continued. A Winchester rode in the saddle boot. The saddlebags contained spare cartridges, along with some beef jerky. A half-full canteen hung from the saddlehorn. Walt shoved a strip of jerky in his mouth, checked the cinches, and swung into the saddle. He put the pinto into a long-reaching lope. The powerful horse responded eagerly.

Dark had fallen, but the bushwhackers’ trail was visible under the light of a waxing gibbous moon. Walt expected them to veer off, but they kept alongside the tracks.

“We’ll be comin’ upon Bannon before long,” Walt murmured to the pinto. “Seems kinda odd those renegades’d ride straight into town.”

He slowed the horse to a walk. A mile later, the outlaws’ trail turned into the brush.

“That makes more sense. They’ll be sneakin’ through the back alleys.”

Walt avoided the railroad depot when he rode into Bannon. The train had already pulled out. Bartlett’s burnt-out car had been shunted onto a siding. Walt used an alleyway to reach the livery stable. He unsaddled the pinto and turned him into a corral. Walt took the rifle and extra ammunition. He headed for the nearest saloon, certain that was where he’d find Bartlett’s killers.
Just as Walt reached the street, two men emerged from the saloon.

“Arnside!” one shouted. He clawed for his gun. Walt put a bullet in his chest. The second man fired, his slug smashing the Winchester from Walt’s grip. Walt ducked behind a trough and pulled his sixgun.

More men were boiling out of the saloon.

“It’s Walt Arnside!” the second man called. Walt shot him through the gut. The gunman screamed in pain.

“I’m hit in the belly, Zack! Help me!”

“I’ll take care of you, Billy!” Roden shouted. He leveled his Colt at his partner’s back and fired twice. Billy pitched to the road.

“That way you can’t talk,” Roden muttered.

The gunmen concentrated their fire on Walt. He ran for the cover of an open doorway. He had almost made it when a horrific pain ripped through his middle. Walt clamped a hand to his right side and sat down, hard. He hunched over, unconscious.

“Let’s get outta here,” Roden ordered. His men gathered their horses and galloped out of town.

Several bystanders carried the gravely wounded Arnside to the physician’s office.

“He’s in rough shape,” the doctor muttered. “Dunno what I can do.”


Walt awoke to find the doctor and marshal staring at him.

“Must’ve died and gone to Hell,” he said.

“Not yet, but you still might,” the doctor observed. “You could be one of the few men who survive bein’ gut-shot. I believe that bullet missed your intestines. It did nick your liver. You’ll be laid up for quite a spell.”

“Then you’ll be tried for killin’ two men,” the marshal added.

“They were doin’ their best to kill me,” Walt protested.

“Not the way the townsfolk saw it,” the lawman answered. He was interrupted by a feminine voice.

“Marshal, I’d like to see your prisoner, if I might.”

“Lola!” The name escaped Walt’s lips. He’d last seen Lola Metivier years ago, in New Orleans… and she’d left him with far more pain than the slug which had just been dug out of his gut.

Part 7 - Joseph A. West

“It’s been a long time, Lola,” Walt said. He reopened the old wound. “Since you ran out on me in New Orleans.”

The woman smiled, white teeth in a pink mouth. “A gambler and a whore ain’t exactly a match made in heaven, Walt.”

“What did you want from me?”


Lola read the question on Walt’s face. She didn’t answer it. Not directly.

“I’m getting older, Walt. My tits and ass are sagging and I discover a new line in my face every morning. More than ever, I need what I tried to find with you, a man to stand by me, steady like, and give me his support.”

She shrugged. “Either that or I end up a dollar-a-bang slut on a hog ranch.”

“You’ve found that man, Lola?” Walt asked.

A rising wind off the Mohawk Mountains to the east rattled the wood shingles on the jail roof and somewhere a screen door slammed open and shut.

Defiance in her eyes, Lola said, “Yes I have. His name is Zack Roden.”

Walt felt like he’d been slapped.

“Roden is nothing but a two-bit killer-for-hire. He murdered Silas Bartlett, Lola. Hell, you recollect ol’ Silas.”

The woman nodded. “He wasn’t much.”

“And he tried to kill me,” Walt said, as though he hadn’t heard.

You! Shut your goddamned trap!”

Town marshal Heck Stryker, a big-bellied man with purple cheeks and pig eyes, crossed the cell floor and thudded a kick into Walt’s cot.

“Mr. Roden told us what happened. Him and his men saw it all. Bartlett told you where to find the big treasure boat, then you killed him to keep his mouth shut. During your getaway, you killed one of Mr. Roden’s men, then you tried to murder Mr. Roden himself in town tonight.”

“Why did Roden run, Stryker?’

“Because you scared him. You’re as guilty as hell, Arnside, and I aim to hang you.”

“Walt, it doesn’t have to happen this way, Lola said. “Zack is well-respected in this town, Walt. He can save you.”

“What does he want in return, Lola?”

“Tell him where he can find the big boat.”

“Go to hell,” Walt said.

“Want me to beat it out of him, Miss Lola?” Stryker asked.

The woman shook her head. “No, not now.” She glanced at the big lawman. “Maybe later.”


The cell smelled of piss and stale vomit and the pain in Walt’s belly was a living thing that clawed at him.

He stared at the cobwebbed ceiling, his mind working.

There was no big boat. A Spanish galleon hadn’t been left high and dry by Noah’s flood, and nobody had dragged it…wherever they’d dragged it.


Suppose it was an itty-bitty boat?

Maybe a golden galleon the old Spanish men had made for their king. Apaches could have stolen it and stashed it somewhere.

A boat like that could be worth a fortune, and the clue to its whereabouts could still be in Bartlett’s private rail car.

Despite his pain, Walt sat up. He would need help to find out.


“What the hell do you want?”

“I want to make you rich,” Walt yelled.

He had baited his hook. Now, could he catch a purple-jowled pig?

Part 8 - Bob Napier

Marshal Heck Stryker grunted.

“I’ll get rich charging folks four bits a head to watch you hang.”

“Chicken feed,” Walt said. “I’m talking about millions in Spanish gold. You’ll live like the Duke of Prussia.”


Arnside sighed. “No matter. What matters is I can find that treasure ship. Throw in with me and you share the bounty.”

Stryker screwed his face into a contemplative mask, which made him look dumber than usual.

“If you’re worried about Zack Roden,” Walt said, “we can sneak away tonight. By the time he learns we’re gone he’ll be picking breakfast from his teeth. Besides, he won’t know where we’re headed.”

Stryker smiled like a bullfrog who’d speared a fly. “It’s a deal, but heed me. I’ll tote your gun. If you even think about crossing me I’ll sink you with your own lead.”

“Done. Now, loose me from this stink hole.”

Stryker led Walt to the rear of Choo How’s Mortuary, cutting through back alleys in order not to be seen. They entered the unlocked rear entrance. Choo was in the room where he built caskets, laughing .

“Evening, Choo,” the burly marshal said.

Choo jumped up. The laughter ceased. An expression of wide-eyed shock replaced his normally inscrutable countenance. Choo quickly pasted on a smile and kowtowed to the occidentals.

“Ah, marshal, you scare Choo.”

Walt stepped forward. “Where’s the body of Silas Bartlett. He was killed in the attack on the train, burned up pretty bad.”

Choo’s smile widened. “Poor man. Back side all black. Front not so bad.”

“Where’s is he?” Stryker demanded.

Choo indicated a plank coffin, nothing like the opulence Bartlett enjoyed in life. Stryker and Arnside pried the lid off. Bartlett was sunk deeply into rough batting obviously arranged to hide charred flesh. He wore a broadcloth suit, white shirt with celluloid collar, and red vest. Shined boots covered his feet.

Stryker rifled Bartlett’s pockets. Nothing.

“Where’s his goods, Choo?”

Choo fetched a small wooden box.

Walt went through this. Empty wallet, turnip watch, insignificant papers.

“Something wrong?” Stryker asked.

“There’s no map.”

Stryker turned on Choo. “Well, Chinaman?”

“Choo no see.”

Stryker grabbed Choo’s left hand and bent the pinkie finger back. A sharp snap brought an agonized scream from the smaller man.

“The map?”

Give Choo credit, he didn’t surrender the map easily. Stryker broke three of Choo’s fingers and a thumb first.

Outside, Stryker and Arnside made their way to the livery stable. The dead drunk hostler was deaf to the sounds of the men saddling their horses.

“We’ll tie the horses behind the jail. I got supplies in there I keep handy,” Stryker said.

Ten minutes later, with a sack of provisions tied to Walt’s saddle, Stryker turned to his new partner and smiled his ugly smile. “No use waiting,” he said. “Time to dissolve the partnership.”

Walt looked at the .44 aimed at his gut. “Knew you’d show your colors, just didn’t expect it so soon. Go ahead and shoot. Wake Roden.”

Stryker held the revolver steady as he slid a Green River knife from a sheath on his belt.

“Reckon this’ll take you out quieter.”

He took a step towards Walt. The leering lawman’s advance stopped when he heard a wet splat. Then he felt what caused it. His knees buckled and a moment later he was face down in the dust.

Walt looked at the marshal’s recumbent form, then beyond it. There stood Lola, a length of lumber in her hands dripping goo.

“Okay, cowboy, let’s ride.”

Walt gathered Stryker’s weapons and mounted up. Lola climbed aboard Stryker’s horse.

“Like you said, lady, let’s ride.”

Part 9 - Richard Prosch

They put some distance then between themselves and Zack Roden’s town, Arnside’s pinto kicking dust across the ashen landscape, Lola on Stryker’s steeldust close behind. Neither spoke until the low lights of Bannon disappeared around a bend and they skirted the sage covered troughs and sharp granite ridges of the Mohawk foothills. Though the night was fair, Arnside was shivering with cold one minute, burning up the next, the bullet wound in his gut ripe and festering. He slowed his horse and Lola reined in close.

“We’ll head for Matlock,” he said, hoping not to show sick, “I have friends there.” Walt turned his ride in the direction of the barren water hole he’d left just before all this began. From Matlock he’d gone to meet the train…

How long ago it now seemed, sharing a drink with Silas Bartlett, a friend from his gambling days in New Orleans, and meeting up with Lola, the girl they both loved then. Weren’t they all dandies, twenty years past: the gambler, the businessman, and the whore. And the lawman Zack Roden, who also loved Lola from afar. And then Walt, always roaming far from home, always after a new game, took up as Marshall in Yuma, and it was Sheriff Zack Roden himself that shook his hand and pinned the star to his shirt, the same Zack Roden who joined the Vigilantes and became nothing more than a hired killer.

The man who had planted in him the hot slug of death. Arnside’s head spun and he started to weave.

“Walt?” Lola’s voice from far away. “Walt? What is it?” A query from the bottom of a canyon; a cry from the deep, black abyss.

When Arsnide woke, he wasn’t in Matlock. “Where? Where are we?” he managed.

“My place,” said Lola.

“Your place? Not Matlock…?” His vision cleared and he saw Lola tying the horses to a hitch. The shack behind was surrounded by moonlit rock and sand.

“You’re sick Walt. You need rest.”

Then black.

When he opened his eyes, they were inside and he was covered in buffalo skins, a nearby lamp burning low and warm. He shook with the fever, determined not to nod off again.

Lola had Bartlet’s map in her hand, or rather, a booklet of folded paper. “It’s part of a journal by Bartlett’s grandfather. It’s about the big boat and the Secret Society that guards it.”

He shook his head, “No big boat…”

“According to this, there is. It’s in the Colorado desert, a dozen miles out of Dos Palmas.”

“A Spanish captain looking for a northwest passage to California,” said a familiar voice from behind. “Lost in temperamental flood waters, he thought he was still in the gulf.”

Arnside saw the gold coin and watch chain first as they caught the light. Silas Bartlett stepped from the dark.

“Scoot, thank God…”

Then he saw Bartlett’s pistol pointed at him, the same little Derringer he’d always carried in New Orleans.

Walt rolled in his blanket, clutched at his holster, found empty air.

“You said it yourself back on the train,” said Bartlett, pulling the trigger. “You never were quick as me.”

Part 10 - Paul Dellinger

The little pistol spat flame. But the bullet, instead of smacking into Walt, drilled a neat little hole into the roof of the shack.

“No!” Lola screamed, as she pushed Bartlett’s arm upward.

Before Bartlett could bring it back down to fire the second barrel, Walt sat up and flung one of the heavy buffalo skins at him. Bartlett staggered back and Walt, ignoring the burning in his stomach, was on him.

With a grunt which reflected both effort and pain, Walt wrested the weapon from his old friend’s hand and promptly sat, or staggered, back down into a sitting position. But he kept the Derringer steady on the gold coin which hung around Bartlett’s middle.

“Saving my bacon is getting to be a habit with you, Lola,” Walt said through gritted teeth to the woman who now stood watching the two of them. “Scoot, you want to tell me why you want me dead, all of a sudden? As a matter of fact, why aren’t you dead yourself?”

Bartlett pushed the odorous hide away distastefully, but his cockiness was gone and seemed to have left him deflated.

“I told you,” he replied sullenly. “Back on the train. You weren’t the first man I asked for help.” He hesitated. “You were insurance.”

“Against Zack Roden double-crossing you? Hell, you should’ve figured that as a given.”

“Yeah, I should have. But I never expected him and his gang to hit that train. I thought they’d wait until it stopped in Bannon, at least. But I had some friends there, and figured I could lose him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“A slug in the shoulder, as you might remember.”

“I remember. I thought you were dead. That smirk on your face when you were lying there making like a corpse should’ve told me different.”

A trace of that contented look had returned to Bartlett’s face. “I’m a good actor, Straight. You should’ve remembered that.”

“But I saw your burned body in that mortuary back in Bannon...”

“Yeah, burned body. There were some other casualties aboard that train, and at least one body burned beyond recognition. Poor old Henry. He was a good conductor. And what was left of him fit into one of my extra suits of clothing just fine. Choo How, the undertaker, is one of those friends of mine I mentioned. Although he never bargained for three broken fingers and a thumb from your friend, the late marshal.”

“Stryker was no friend of mine,” Walt said.

“Don’t try to fool me, Straight. You and Stryker cost me a good deal more than I paid Choo How originally. I had to pay his doctor bills, too, after what you’d put him through. Loyalty has its limits.”

“That was Stryker, not me. He had the guns. In fact, after he got those papers of yours, he figured he didn’t need me anymore. If it weren’t for Lola here, I’d be lying back in Bannon with a knife in my gizzard.”

“Lola is Zack Roden’s girl!” Bartlett almost shouted. “Don’t you think I can see that you and Roden have joined together in the double-cross?”

Walt’s mouth dropped open, and then he laughed. “So that’s it. You figured I’d partnered up with Roden.”

“You mean you haven’t?” Bartlett said, staring at him.

In reply, Walt turned the Derringer over in his hand and tossed it back to Bartlett. “No, Scoot, I haven’t. But I can see how you might have thought so.”

Bartlett shook his head, hefted the Derringer, and pocketed it. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“You may well be,” Lola spoke up. Both men turned to where she was standing, holding Walt’s pistol covering them both.

Saturday 10 October 2009

Large Print sale

I received the welcome news that Riders of the Barren Plains has gone to Large Print and will be re-published as a Linford Western, presumably late in 2010.

I haven't posted much on my blog recently. For the last couple of weeks any spare time I've had has gone on helping out with the proof-reading for Express Westerns' next anthology of Western short stories A Fistful of Legends. I'll post soon on the book with some tasty hints of what's to be found within the covers...

Wednesday 7 October 2009

Short Story - Part 10

Paul Dellinger has written part 10 of the western with no name at Laurie Powers Wild West

The story so far:

Parts 1-6
Part 7 (Joseph A. West)
Part 8 (Bob Napier)
Part 9 (Richard Prosch)

The first person to volunteer gets to write Part 11.