No more tricks for the old dogs

Tonight, what was once one of my favourite tv shows, New Tricks, has its final episode, and I have mixed feelings about its demise. The cop show about retired policemen solving cold cases using old-fashioned methods has run for twelve years and it’s clearly long past its best.

For the first half of its run the stories were a fun mixture of murder mystery and comedy. I’ve watched some of the early episodes numerous times and still find them entertaining, but from around season 7 the show started to drop in quality. Each season was less fun than the previous one until season 11 where I found myself watching only because of that odd sense of duty you have with shows you once loved but which are now no longer entertaining. It was no surprise when the announcement came that the show would end, but then strangely, as sometimes happens with final seasons, the show has improved leaving me sadder to see it go than I thought I would be.

Many reasons are usually offered for its long decline with the most common being the changes in cast. The show started with the dream combination of great writing, great characters and the perfect actors to play those characters. All the replacement characters had less charm than the originals. So, as Jack, Brian, Sandra and Gerry were replaced by Steve, Danny, Sasha and Ted the show obviously lost something, but I think it had less to do with the actors and more to do with the writing. In the early days I found myself making mental notes about the writing. I often saw things that were such a perfect example of good writing that I tried to work out how it was done so I could use the technique myself.

So, for example, the show personified the old adage of how character is plot. Cop shows are often generic with the detectives running round picking up clues until they stumble upon the killer, and there’s little to distinguish them from any other cop show. You could probably put Lewis (which is starting a new season tonight) in a Midsomer murder and he’d solve the crime in exactly the same way because in those shows only the plot matters and not the characters.

With early New Tricks, that wasn’t the case. So Brian, with his photographic memory and psychological problems, could always be relied upon to go all obsessive over some detail in the case and delve ever deeper into something nobody else cares about until he finds the vital clue. Gerry, with his dubious past, would break every rule in the book in his attempts to pay off his debts, chat up any women involved in the case, and so get to a truth that conventional means would miss. Jack would use dogged police work to break down suspects and Sandra would have the impossible task of keeping everyone in line. In short, only that particular cast could have solved the murder because only they would investigate in that manner.

Sadly, later New Tricks failed to do that. Brian’s like-for-like replacement in Danny has a photographic memory, but aside from spouting trivia I can’t remember him ever using that knowledge to solve anything. Gerry’s effective replacement in Steve is apparently another maverick cop, but you’d only know that he was a rule-breaker because it was mentioned several times in his first episode. After four years he’s yet to do anything maverick. In her first episode Sasha was sold as a younger version of Sandra and aside from getting the same lines as Sandra did, she’s never once wrestled with the difficulties of keeping retired policemen and their antiquated methods in line. Ted hasn’t had long in the show, but aside from knocking on wood, I’m not sure he’s been given a character.

Then there’s the difficulty of mixing family life and work life. All cop shows try to detail the out-of-hours activities of the cast, and New Tricks managed that better than most. The key to making it work appeared to me to be that the show always ensured that an element in the home scenes helped to solve the murder. So, when Brian’s wife Esther is injured and in bed, all the scenes of Brian trying and failing to look after her came into focus when Esther spotted a vital clue that Brian had missed. The same was always true for Gerry’s tortured love life, Sandra’s even worse love life and Jack using his monologues with his deceased wife to work things out in his mind.

With the more recent series, that perfect mixture has been lacking simply because there’s no link between the home and work life meaning the home scenes come over as filler and soap-like. Steve has troubles with his son, but they have nothing to do with the cases. Danny had a daughter who looked promising, but she disappeared to be replaced by a girlfriend who is a pathologist, thereby ensuring that their home scenes ought to help the case, but they never do. Ted and Sasha both mention that they have a life outside of work, but that’s as far as it goes.

Then there’s the old adage about it being better to show rather than to tell. Any writer wanting to know how to do it could just watch an early New Tricks episode. For example, in the Ice Cream Wars episode, Jack doesn’t agree with the assumption that a motorbike rider seen fleeing the crime at speed had to be a young man. So he invites the rest of the cast down to the car park. They arrive and are nearly run over by a man on a motorbike riding around like an idiot. Just as they’re shouting at the rider, Jack whips off his helmet to show them that the rider they assumed was a young idiot is pushing eighty.

Then there’s Brian, who reckons the chemicals being delivered to the ice-cream factory could really be narcotics. So he buys the chemicals, mixes them up at home, blows up his kitchen, gets kicked out by his wife and chewed out by his boss for making drugs.

This is followed by Gerry who reckons the narcotics are being sold from the back of ice-cream vans. So he uses his young daughter’s enthusiasm for becoming a copper to persuade her to buy drugs. Then Sandra has to work out how to proceed when the case has been solved but only because one of her team has built a crystal-meth lab in his kitchen and the other has made his daughter buy drugs. Once that’s all been sorted out the hour running time is up and it’s been filled with entertaining scenes that are all show and no tell.

The same can’t be said of the later episodes. Recently, it’s been all telling. Nowadays, Ted would report that the rider didn’t have to be young, Danny would declare that the chemicals are a drug and Steve would respond that they're being sold from the back of the van. This method of relaying information gets the story told quickly, but it sure is dry.

Sadly, the less effective writing in the later years has often made me ponder on what doesn’t work rather than what does and I had something of a revelation recently about where the recent years have gone wrong. It’s something that I’ve never thought about before because it’s so fundamental, but I reckon it amounts to the fact that murder mysteries work best when there’s a murder. This sounds a bit daft, but it’s something that’s often been missing in recent years.

The standard solution to the mystery in the show’s later years has been that the killer and the victim argued. The victim tripped up, hit his head on an inconveniently-placed hard object, and died instantly. Then the killer ran away.

With this scenario, the killer has no motivation for the death so they don’t try to cover anything up and there are few clues. As a result, the cops can’t actually solve the mystery because there is no mystery. So the whole hour is flat and the plot doesn’t develop. Then, with five minutes to go, the killer realizes the episode is about to end and confesses. In other words, when the killer in a murder mystery has a strong motivation to kill, the plot will almost inevitably be strong, but when there is no motivation, everything will probably meander along aimlessly.

That scenario is one of many weak situations that have plagued the last few years. It’s also one of the reasons the show has been better in its final year as they’ve only once used the the-victim-fell-over-and-hit-his-head solution while in most of the stories the killer has actually had a strong motivation.

Anyhow, I’ll stop ruminating and say goodbye to the New Tricks team. Thanks for all the good times and no matter that I haven’t enjoyed it much recently, there’s always the early episodes to enjoy such as my favourite opening teaser here.

Left or Right

I’ve been scratching my head recently over a rather bizarre error I keep making when writing and I thought I’d ramble on about it. The error goes like this: although I don’t go in for excessive descriptions of the scenery, I do like to keep track of where objects and people are when my characters move around. I don’t draw maps or layouts of the scene, but the places exist in my mind and as I often re-use locations, I have a clear image of them.

Hence, at least on first draft, I’ll report that my hero leaves the law office and turns left to go to the saloon. He goes in and the bar is on the right. When he leans on the bar a truculent fellow standing to his left will pick an argument with him and so the hero swings round and thumps him with his right fist. The fellow has an accomplice who will come at him from the hero’s left hand side forcing him to slap his face with the back of his left hand. Then he’ll down his drink, step over the groaning bodies, and leave the saloon whereupon he’ll turn left to go to the bank.

All this exists clearly in my mind because the saloon is to the left of the law office and the bar is on the right hand side of the saloon. And when I picture the bar room brawl I can see where these guys are and so I can report on how the hero deals with them.

The scene will then go through several redrafts until I’ve got it into a state I like, and then I’ll move on to the proofreading stage of trying to make sure all the words say what I thought they said. It’s then that I hit a problem.

Although I know the saloon is to the left of the law office, it’ll suddenly occur to me that it’s actually on the right. Worse, the bar in the saloon is not on the right, it’s on the left hand side of the saloon. And when I envisaged that bad guy standing to the left of the hero, I was actually envisaging him being to the right. And so it goes on. That heap of boulders that was to the left of the entrance to the canyon where everyone holes up is really to the right, and the creek that’s to the right is really to the left.

The first dozen or so times I spotted myself making this error I just shrugged. Then I made a special effort to avoid doing it, but I still kept making the same error. I wondered if it was just one of those ‘I’m getting old and so I can’t remember why I went into the kitchen’ type of issues, or that maybe it was a left brain, right brain thing. Anyhow, the conclusion I’ve reached is this is an issue of me not quite doing what I think I’m doing when I’m writing.

My aim is to see the world through the viewpoint character’s eyes and report on what he sees and hears and smells, except maybe I’m not doing that. What I’m actually doing is seeing events unfold through the eyes of an omnipresent narrator who is standing back from the scene, so even when I’m looking through a character’s eyes, it’s like I’m looking in a mirror. So to me the saloon is to the left of the law office, but to the viewpoint character it’s to the right, and so on.

I’m not sure whether this theory will help me resolve the problem, but to be on the safe side I don’t reckon I’ll ever risk writing a story where the hero is called Lefty!

Woolly Maggots

One of the difficulties of living so far away from the place you write about is getting in the Wild West mood.


One small thing that helps me is that the local farmer usually puts cows in the field next to my house. After watching them waft at flies, belch, fart, and squirt vast streams of manure over each other for a few minutes I'm usually in the right frame of mind to, well, write about absolutely anything but cows. In fact, I've never felt an urge to write a cow drive story or a range war over cows story, and I blame it all on the smelly things outside my house.

But despite this the coming of the cows always cheers me as it says that spring is here. Except this year the farmer hasn't brought back the cows. Instead we have sheep and so I'm writing this with the window open and listening to a cacophony of baa, mer, meer, baaa, meerrr, meeerrr.


It's been only a few days, but already I'm disappointed in them. They do all the things that cows do, but so far none of them have behaved like my favourite sheep: Aardman's Shaun the Sheep. They've shown no inclination to build a light aircraft or to stand on top of each other to climb a tree. They just stand there looking gormless, falling into the brook and worrying passing dogs. On the other hand they're quite good at escaping overnight so perhaps when everyone goes to bed they form a sheepy pyramid to get over the fence.

Anyhow, I'm not sure yet if this'll affect my writing and whether I'll find it harder to get in the Wild West mood. Perhaps it'll make me want to write about cows.

So...… what is a story?

I was guest blogger for the day at the Avalon authors blog with my article on writing So... what is a story?

A graceful bow to the muse Calliope

I've posted a short and fairly pointless article on writing serendipity at Avalon Authors Blog.

Extract from The Treasure of Saint Woody

Joanne's series of daily book extracts continues today with an extract from The Treasure of Saint Woody.

Novel diary - #3

When I started this diary chronicling the writing of a story I said I thought it might be a fated project, and three weeks in that's now feeling possible. The welcome news I received last week that Avalon will be publishing my last Fergal O'Brien novel has meant I've spent most of my time thinking about Fergal might do next and not about this story. But I set out to chronicle a story through the good times and the ennui and so I'll soldier on. Either way this chronicle might become more intermittent if I spend more time with Fergal as I won't bother saying anything if I've written nothing.

Last time I had a few paragraphs in which an abandoned stage was found. I wrote the rest of that scene from the viewpoint of someone finding it and exploring the area searching for clues as to what had happened. He didn’t find any, sadly, as that would have helped the story develop. But when I read through what turned out to be a very flat scene afterwards to see if I could work out what might happen next I realized I'd got confused over names. The man had started out as just a name and then suddenly he'd become a sheriff halfway through. So I decided to make the stage be discovered by two people, one a lawman and one someone else.

This change enabled me to have some dialogue and so re-writing the scene made everything flow in a more interesting way. The two men, now provisionally called Sheriff Jameson and Nathan Wright, argued and had plenty of friction, although I don't know about what yet. The sheriff has a chip on his shoulder about something, and Nathan feels guilty and he wouldn’t meet the sheriff's eye. Best of all, the rewrite provided the one clue that should have been flaming obvious to me from the start bearing in mind the idea that had started me writing. So Nathan finds a book entitled Legend of the Six in the stage and he hides it from the sheriff. It has be Six rather than Seven, which is the title I started with as I now realize that Legend of the Seven sounds like a sequel to the Magnificent Seven. The scene ends with the lawman leaving Nathan in disgust and heading west and something about the book persuades Nathan to head east back the way the stage had come.

So I know have 1,500 words with some hints of various mysteries about some characters along with a potential next scene in which Nathan follows the stage route back to some location and he hopefully finds something interesting.

Novel diary - #2

I've still been working on another tale so I've made little progress with written down words this week, but some ideas are bubbling away happily. In a previous article I talked about how making connections is the important thing for me in writing. Although I wouldn't go so far as to call it a system, I usually need to connect at least three ideas before I have something that feels substantial enough to start writing. And usually those three ideas turn out to be a character idea, a plot idea and something real.

The real thing that came to mind is western dime novels and the way that real people who would later be viewed heroically lived at the same time as fictional heroes were being created. I used that idea for comic effect in The Treasure of Saint Woody, but that idea had started out with serious intent so I've felt it has more mileage even if I haven't been able to think of an angle. As it turned out I watched an old episode of the tv cop show Morse this week where tabloid reporters try to destroy Morse because of his bookish ways. It included a scene I've always liked where he solves the murder from the blurb of an old book, letting him deliver the proud line at the end that he got the answer from, "something I read in a book."

That made me think it'd be nice to get that line into a story somewhere. So I'm thinking now that my working title of The Legend of the Seven refers to an old book, but somewhere in it is the solution to a mystery. So that's two ideas of something a bit real with early western literature and a plot point of someone reading a book. I just need a hint of a character. And sometimes when nothing character based comes to mind I resort to the simple solution of having a bloke ride into town. I don't know who the bloke is or where the town is, but I hope I'll find out quickly.

I tried that and for variety I decided my bloke would be on a stage. So I wrote a stage, but I struggled when I came to think of who the colourful folk inside would be. I had a walk round the garden and when I came back I decided if I didn't know who was on the stage maybe I shouldn't try. Maybe nobody is on the stage. So that's what I have: about three paragraphs describing a stage standing alone and abandoned somewhere. How it got there, where it was going, what happened to it, and how that links in with a book and a legend involving the number seven I don't know yet. But it's a start and I'm intrigued enough now to carry on.

Novel diary #1

Since getting a blog I've occasionally wondered if I should maintain a writing progress report for a story project detailing all the ups and downs, plot changes, blind alleys etc. So far I've shied away from doing it. Such a diary felt as it'd be too self-indulgent and it probably would be of no interest to anyone but myself. Also, there's no assurance that the project I reported on would produce a story that's any good, ever get finished, or if it does get finished ever get published. In fact I can't help but think that if I did do one, I'd put some sort of curse on the project and end up writing lots of words about a story that never sees the light of day. But for better or worse I have a blog to fill with something and so I've decided to keep a record of the progress, or lack of it, of my next writing project.

I've just about finished a story so I'll do it for the next story. So far all I have is the title Legend of the Seven. That phrase has been bouncing around in my mind for a while, I think because I feel I'm the sort of writer who ought to have written lots of westerns with legend in the title. As I haven’t, I need to change that.

So that's all I have so far, a page with Legend of the Seven written at the top, oh and the two words Chapter One. Hopefully next time I'll have at least a whole sentence to talk about.

The art of making connections

Today I'm the guest blogger on the Avalon blog with my article about writing.

Black Horse Westerns are now more popular than Harry Potter

Article posted as part of the Black Horse Western weekend at The Tainted Archive

They say you can prove anything with statistics, so I intend to prove that the Black Horse Western series and its tales of gunslingers and their Peacemakers are more popular than the boy wizard and his magic wand. The amazing thing is, it's true!

The evidence comes from the UK's PLR system. British authors are lucky in having a scheme in which they receive a small payment every time a book is borrowed from a UK library. Currently this stands at around 6p per loan and when an author has several books out this mounts up to a worthwhile payment. The scheme though has a second advantage of letting authors see how many times their books have been borrowed. At the very least this provides welcome comfort that someone has actually read your books, but over time it provides interesting results to mull over about both the success of your own work and also the state of the western generally.

On a personal level my 1st IJ Parnham BHW The Outlawed Deputy was published in 2001 and my 18th Sharpshooter McClure is out this month. Nine years on the first book along with its Large Print Linford Western version is still being borrowed around 50 times a month. During those years the book that has been most popular with borrowers in terms of average loans per year is Dead by Sundown and the one that has been least popular is Mendosa's Gun-runners with the former attracting 75% more loans than the latter. I initially found this bemusing as I rate Mendosa's Gun-runners as being one of my better novels to the extent that when people ask me which of my books they should try it's one of the ones I usually mention. I never mention Dead by Sundown as it didn’t strike me as being particularly special. On the other hand Dead by Sundown is a good title for a western and it has the best cover I've ever had, one that has a great composition and which ties in perfectly with the title. Mendosa's Gun-runners has a dull title and the cover was fairly generic.

This theme continues. My second most successful book is The Last Rider from Hell, which has a good title and a nice cover, and my second least successful is Calloway's Crossing, which has a good cover but a dull title even though again it's one of my favourite books. Continuing down the list, also in the bottom half as regards average loans are Yates's Dilemma and Calhoun's Bounty, both of which have great covers, but perhaps their relative lack of success hints that titles with a named person aren’t so interesting to readers. Having said that my other titles that feature a name Devine's Law and Wanted: McBain have been popular, but then again their titles sound more dynamic than vague concepts such as a dilemma or a bounty. There could be many reasons for the spread of borrowing, but I'd offer the reasonable conclusion that the title is very important in giving a book a better chance of someone taking it off the shelf.

Totalling up these statistics I found that after nine years the title that has been borrowed the most is The Last Rider from Hell. That was my second book and it has now been borrowed 11,000 times. As at June 2009 an IJ Parnham western has been loaned 87,000 times and with someone taking out one of my books every 29.4 minutes I should reach 100,000 loans on March 17, 2010 (at 9.22am approximately). I'm also currently the 1498.3th most borrowed author. I find that all encouraging. But even more encouraging is that I can detect no sign of waning popularity no matter how I play around with the figures. Trends are in truth hard to work out as new BHWs are always the most popular. The first year after publication is when the most loans happen. Thereafter loans fade away so every year an individual title will be borrowed fewer times than it was the previous year, but if I compare the trend of my recent books to that of my earlier ones the conclusion is an interesting one.

The Gallows Gang in 2009 came out in January as did The Last Rider from Hell in 2002, but the recent book was borrowed more often in its first half year than the old book. Massacre at Bluff Point from 2007 hasn't tailed off as quickly as Bad Day in Dirtwood did from 2003. It's the same with the rest. But apparently library lending statistics show that library loans in total fell over the last decade by around 20%. If that decline was across the board the trend ought to show up, and yet my latest titles are doing as well now as my earlier ones did, if not better.

This health becomes even more apparent when considering the Large Print versions. Traditionally these are borrowed around 50% more often than the normal print versions, and my more recent Large Print titles are noticeably more popular than my earlier ones. Obviously I can't with assurance say that my figures, which PLR derive from a statistical sample and which next year could plummet as a different part of the country is sampled, prove the western generally is healthy, but I am certainly not getting a picture of a dying genre, declining readership, and budget-strapped libraries cutting back. The picture for me appears to be that BHWs are as popular as they ever were and Large Prints are growing in popularity, and as someone who has now accepted I'll never be able to see the small print on product labels again I understand why.

Taking this analysis to its logical conclusion, I looked at how many BHWs have been published since my first book. The answer is 874 and so I've provided about 2% of the series. I reckon I'm an average author being neither much more popular nor much less popular than others are and so I'd estimate that all BHWs and their Large Print reprints are loaned at least 1 million times annually. According to the PLR site only four authors are currently being loaned more than 1 million times headed by James Patterson. JK Rowling wasn't one of the four and therefore she was loaned less than 1 million times. Ergo Black Horse Westerns have more fans than Harry Potter... So, fellow BHW writers, the next time someone discovers you’re a writer and feels obliged to ask if you're doing as well as JK Rowling is, you can reply that you're not, but the series you write for is!

The Story With No Name

And so here's chapter 24, the final instalment of the Story With No Name.

Thanks to everyone who wrote a section and thanks to all the readers who have stuck with the tale for the last 6 months. It's been a lot of fun. Joanne Walpole (Terry James) suggested a serial story way back in the summer and it's been great to see how everyone has picked up the gauntlet and run with it.

Parts 1-16

Parts 17-23

'Get your ugly hides out here,' Walt said, 'and Bourbon gets to live for long enough to hang.'

Silence greeted him. So with a sideways glance at Sawtell to co-ordinate their approach, he moved on towards the crude shack. They had seen nobody on the way and Bourbon had become increasingly agitated adding weight to Walt's belief that his Apache helpers had abandoned him, but what awaited them here remained a mystery.

The shack had curved walls that met at an apex, appearing to have been constructed from timbers taken from the boat where they'd left the others. The door was a gap between two planks and Walt narrowed his eyes trying to discern what was within. Nothing was visible, but Sawtell still grabbed Bourbon's arm and swung him towards the gap, forcing him to enter first. Bourbon staggered on for two paces, then grabbed a plank to stop himself from tumbling inside. The timbers creaked ominously as he hung on.

Bourbon righted himself then turned to face them, one hand still holding the plank. He was smiling.

'There's nobody here,' he said. 'Just me.'

'Then why are you smiling?' Sawtell said.

'I was remembering how your brother Joe pleaded for his life, how he screamed when I ripped him in two. But most of all I'm remembering what I used to loop out his guts--"

Bourbon didn't get to complete his taunt as Sawtell roared with anger and leapt at him, his gun hand rising to pistol whip Bourbon's jaw. But goading him into being reckless had been Bourbon's plan. He jerked to the side, his hand coming into view. Steel flashed from the cutlass that had been hung inside. He ducked beneath Sawtell's blow then came up, slicing the cutlass into Sawtell's guts.

Walt was treated to the sickening sight of the cruel curved blade erupting from Sawtell's back. For long moments both men stood poised, the only motion being the steady drip of blood from the blade tip. Then Sawtell murmured something and he staggered away to leave Bourbon standing free. And in his right hand was Sawtell's silvery pistol.

Confident now, Bourbon delivered a kick to Sawtell's rump that sent the impaled man tumbling into the shack. Like Bourbon had done Sawtell grabbed a plank, but he succeeded only in dragging the plank down with him. He fell into the shack as one by one the planks toppled in on him.

The collapse of the shack didn't dampen Bourbon's smile. He raised the gun to sight Walt's chest.

'Before you kill me,' Walt said, 'are you going to tell me the secret you were hiding out here?'

Bourbon rocked his head from side to side as if considering then shrugged.

'Nope. You just get to die. Then I'll leave to enjoy myself killing the others.'

His eyes narrowed with a sign he was about to fire, but then a pained roar sounded behind him. Two planks parted. An avenging angel of death rose up, a blood-soaked cutlass held aloft.

'For Joe!' Sawtell screeched with his dying breath.

A gleaming red meteor streaked through the air, turning end over end, its unerring target Bourbon's back. Then the cutlass hit home... hilt first.

Bourbon fired, but the blow had nudged him forward. Walt felt an insect bite to the cheek as the slug scythed wide. He didn’t give Bourbon a second try. He threw his hand to his holster and in a moment his six-shooter cleared leather. He fired quick and low, catching Bourbon in the hip, making him stumble. A second shot to the chest made him keel over.

Walt paced forward keeping one eye on the downed man while he glanced at Sawtell. He was looking at Bourbon with dead eyes, but his last sight would have been his brother's killer dying. Walt knelt beside Bourbon, noting the spreading blood, the ragged breathing.

'Before you die,' he said, 'are you going to tell me the secret you were hiding out here?'

'It's yours now,' Bourbon murmured. 'May it give you the peace it gave me.'

Bourbon's back arched then flattened.

Walt paced over him. He dragged Sawtell aside then kicked and hurled the planks away. When he'd peeled the sections back like an orange, a casket remained sitting in what had been the centre of the shack, old and rusted enough to have been aboard the galleon and to contain secrets that men had died to protect.

Walt put a hand to the lid, but it wouldn’t move. He shot the lock, without success. Twilight redness was bathing the casket in hellish light when he tried the cutlass. He slipped the tip under the lid and worked a hole in the old wood giving him leverage. With a lurch the lid swung up.

Walt edged forward to look inside. The casket was empty, other than a book, lying at the bottom. He drew it out. The book lacked a cover, giving no hint of what lay within. He opened it. His right eye twitched.

'Does that end our quest?' a voice called out behind him.

He swirled round to find that while he'd been preoccupied Lola had followed him here. Flanking her were Zack and Choo.

'Yes,' Walt said raising the coverless book. 'But it also starts a new one.'

End

The Story With No Name - Parts 17-23

Part 17 - Peter Avarillo

The town of Bannon was quiet under the heat of the midday sun when Walt Arnside rode along the main street.

He was stiff and tired from the journey that had been punctuated with nights of fitful sleep.

All he wanted was to fill his aching belly and find a soft bed where he hoped to sleep without being plagued by the nightmares of his desert experience.

He had howled as the blood flowed back into his right hand causing painful spasms. Pain that was replaced by anger as he fought the knots that bound his left hand to the stake. Anger that was not spent when, with a rasping roar, he sent the Texas Ranger badge flying through the air to plop, in a spray of sand, close to Silas Bartlett’s feet.

And then more pain as blood rushed through his starved ankles into his feet. Rolling, cursing as each spasm surged up his legs.

Only when his body settled did he try to stand and staggered over to the remains of Silas Bartlett where he plucked the lance free. He paid no attention as the corpse crumpled to the ground. Instead he concentrated on plunging the tip into the sand to clean it. But even then his imagination played with his anger as each time the tip hit the sand so it was stabbing into the body of Zack Roden. Into the body of Silas Bartlett. And into that of a man named Bourbon.

Until exhaustion and tears of frustration drove him to his knees.

Slowly, sanity came back to him and with it an absolute priority. Using the lance as a support he pulled himself back to his feet, then hacked at the cactus. Holding the mashed flesh above his mouth squeezing precious drops of water onto his tongue. Groaning as the water moisted his tongue, mouth and throat.

It was nearly dusk by the time he felt strong enough to crawl to where Deuce Harmon’s body still lay stiff in death. Painfully, stretching taut burned skin he had stripped the clothes from the corpse and dressed himself before laying back in the sand waiting for his strength to return.

He stared long and hard at the mass of tracks that pointed south west and knew that he was in no fit state to go off in pursuit. He had to be stronger and better equipped before he could even think of going on the vengeance trail.

The galleon, even if it existed, was no longer the goal. He wished that he had never heard of the damned boat. Wished that he had not stopped that train nor heeded Silas Bartlett’s call. For from that point on he had been shot at, gutshot and left for dead and, been staked out to die in the desert. He had put his life on the line for people that he had looked upon as friends and each had turned out to be an enemy. Nor could he be certain where Lola stood in all this.

Where to go? Matlock would not be safe and he had no wish to head back to Lola’s cabin. Bannon seemed to beckon as the safest haven where he could work out what to do next.

Slowly, he climbed to his feet and crested a dune. He stopped dead, his mouth gaping as he saw Harmon’s horse tethered to a cactus. Looking cautiously around him he approached the animal.

“What the hell?” he croaked, sure that the animal had run off after Sawtell had emptied the saddle. Then allowed himself to grin. “Thanks, Sawtell. I do have a fighting chance – now.”

After leaving his horse in the livery, Walt strode across the hardpan to the cafe opposite. He felt a tad rich after he had discovered just over fifteen dollars in notes and loose change in Harmon’s denims. At least he could pay for his immediate needs.

Part 18 - Cap'n Bob Napier

Arnside washed the trail dust from his hands and face at a watering trough, beat the dirt from his clothes with his hat, and strode into Molly's Cafe with hunger tearing at his belly like cats in a sack.

"I'll have whatever's ready," he told the plump, smiling waitress, "and a pitcher of water, please."

She took one look at his red, chapped skin and peelings lips and hustled off, returning moments later with a large blue ewer and a tin tumbler. Walt filled the tumbler with shaking hands, drank deeply, and sighed.

"Appears like you haven't drunk nothin' in a month of Sundays, mister."

"Feels like it, too, darling. Are you Molly?"

"She's the owner, cook, and my ma. I'm Gretchen. I'll fetch that food now. I hope stew's okay."

Before Walt could answer she scurried away and was back in two shakes with a large bowl of steaming mulligan, napkin and utensils, and basket of bread.

"Anything interesting happen in these parts?" he asked around a mouthful of stew.

The juice burned the roof of his mouth but after what he'd been through a little heat was like an old friend.

"Interesting? Our marshal got his head busted and had to get shipped off to a home for the feeble-minded, our undertaker had a bunch of fingers broke, and an old prospector was in earlier swearin' he saw The Magi riding across the desert. Says it means the Second Coming is nigh and we'd all best prepare our souls."

Walt grinned at the girl's recitation and tucked back into his meal. When he finished he left a half dollar on the table, twice what the meal cost, and strode out to find a quiet saloon. A whiskey would satisfy right handsome about now, he allowed.

He took three steps down the boardwalk when the import of the girl's story slammed him like the board that sent Marshal Stryker to the drool academy. He ran back into Molly's and grabbed Gretchen by her shoulders.

"That sourdough, where can I find him?"

"Wha--?"

"Tell me!"

"Stop it, you're hurting me."

Walt loosened his grip. "Sorry, Gretchen. I need to find that prospector, right away."

She thought for a moment, tongue out. "He has a shack behind the saddle shop. If he ain't there try The Silver Palace saloon."

Arnside raced off.

He found the shack where Gretchen said it would be, but no one answered his knock. Should have tried the saloon first, he chided himself.

Walt stood at the bat wings of The Silver Palace and scanned the room before entering. Wouldn't pay to have some of Zack Roden's men inside. His glance fell on a table at the center of the room where a shabby old cuss was regaling the room with a story, much to their amusement.

"I tell ya', I seen 'em with my own eyes. Long-legged critters with necks long as stovepipes and backs like anthills, just a-lumbering across the sands like they owned the desert. I seen a picture once of the three magi when they come calling on baby Jesus and they was riding the same critters. If that don't prove it, I don't know what does."

"Sure, Gabe, sure. Have another drink. Maybe you'll tell us about seeing the Noah's Ark next."

The crowd burst out laughing. Gabe jumped to his feet and pushed through the men having a laugh at his expense. He nearly plowed Walt Arnside down as he crashed out of the saloon.

"Whoa, there, old timer. What the rush?"

"Dang-blasted fools. Wouldn't know the truth if it crawled up their dumb asses."

Walt laid a comforting arm on old Gabe's shoulder. "Why not tell me your story? I'm the believing kind."

"Can't talk on a dry throat, pardner. Let's mosey up the street and find a joint where we can dip a bill in peace."

With a bottle between them and each man holding a full shot glass, Gabe proposed a toast.

"Here's how."

"Now, about the magi. . ." Arnside prompted.

"Yesterday, I was coming back from digging in the Mohawk Mountains when I seen a passel of riders out in the Yuma Desert. Makes no sense. Nothin' there but sand and snakes. No water for a hundred miles. Even the A-patch go 'round it."

Gabe refilled his glass and continued. "They was maybe six or seven on horses, but the others were ridin' those Bible animals like I seen in the picture. Four of them, they was."

"Was one a woman?"

"Too far to tell, even with my spyglass."

"Any Indians?"

"Nope. Like I said, the A-patch got more sense than to go out there."

"Can you tell me how to find this place, Gabe?"

"Sure. Might as well. The world'll end soon enough anyway."

Armed with a detailed description of how to find the last place Roden, Lola and the others had been spotted--assuming Bourbon allowed them to live--Arnside stepped from the saloon and aimed himself toward the stable.

"You!" a voice cried. "You do this!"

He turned to see Choo How pointing at Walt with his bandaged hand. Behind the Chinaman, a crowd began to grow.

Part 19 - Richard Prosch

“You make this happen, Walt Arnside!” Again, Choo How drunkenly shook his injured hand, its dirty bandage all but unraveling. “You owe me something for it!” he slurred, tipping slightly toward the dusty street.

Walt grimaced at the memory of his visit to Choo How’s mortuary. He and the renegade sheriff Stryker had been looking for Bartlett’s map and Stryker broke the kid’s fingers. How long ago had it been? How many weeks? Walt carefully weighed the crowd, then shot a glance toward Gabe. The old prospector’s eyes sparkled in the sun, and Walt pinched the bridge of his nose, smiling at the little undertaker’s daring. That injured hand, plenty healed up by now, had earned Choo How many a sympathetic drink.

Walt stepped forward quickly then, telegraphed a wide right and swung in with a left. In the space of a breath, the undertaker blocked the punch and sent a hard jab to Walt’s ribs –with the injured hand. The crowd gasped as the bandage fell away. Walt clutched his middle, but the spasms that wracked his shoulders were laughter as Choo gazed at his naked fingers, then slowly at the crowd, his deception revealed.

“Looks like the game is up, Choo How!” he said as Gabe helped him to his feet. “But I’ll make it up to you,” he turned to the prospector, “to both of you.”

Walt knocked the dust from his britches and pitched his offer. “Ride with me into the desert, and if what I suspect is true, we’ll all be rich men come Friday.”

“Why trust you, Arnside?” asked Choo, all signs of his previous anebriation gone. “Especially after you betray me again?”

“The Chinaman can’t go with you,” came a voice from the glowering crowd. “We’re gonna be busy stringin’ him up.”

“Show him how we treat con men ‘round these parts!”

“Yeah!” Shouts went up, the gang surged immediately forward, and then with a thundering pistol crash —came just as quickly to a silent stand still.

With an easy lope Vic Sawtell emerged from the shadow of an alley on his chestnut gelding, the pearl handled .45 still smoking in his slim, gloved hand. The blonde outlaw led three horses behind him. “We ain’t got time for this, boys.” He smiled down at Walt. “And they ain’t riding with you. You all are riding with me.”

Arnside grinned. “What’s the story Sawtell?”

“Story? The story has no name, Arnside. We’re just gettin’ on with life…and death.”

“It’s wages for a job,” said Choo.

“And maybe…revenge?” said Walt. “As I recall, Bartlett was killed before you were paid. That’s gotta make you mad. Especially since you don’t believe in the boat. Or the gold.”

Sawtell spit a stream of tobacco into the dirt. “Yeah, I been studyin’ on what Bartlett owed me. Back pay for, shoot I don’t know…three, four…” Choo held up his palm and Sawtell nodded. “Five jobs he owed me for.”

“He was in debt to me and Choo How too,” said Gabe. “We all got us a stake in that boat o’ gold.”

“Whatever it turns out to be,” said Sawtell, “part of it’s mine. You still got that map memorized, Choo How?”

“I do indeed, Victor. I do indeed.”

Walt noted the undertaker’s forced Asian accent had vanished. “Old Silas had more friends…or should I say employees, than I imagined,” he said.

“Let’s just say the man had a secret society of his own,” said Sawtell.

“I just hope there’s enough for all of us,” said Choo How as he swung into the saddle.

“I just hope we find it before the rapture,” said Gabe.

—

Twenty miles to the northwest, a brief windstorm blew itself out as Lola Metivier awoke for the final time atop the camel she’d come to think of as her last real connection to Walt Arnside and the life she’d led before all this began.

Zack Roden rode his mount beside her, bobbing along, apparently still asleep. Bourbon and his Apache thugs had been riding them in circles. Time no longer had any meaning. Nothing did. The blowing, stinging sand was the cloud stuff of bad dreams.

A towering structure of shimmering gold danced directly in front of them just out of reach.

Lola’s eyes shut tight, and she drifted through a red haze. When she again looked ahead the air had cleared and a monstrosity of burnt timber and jumbled iron rigging lunged from the desert floor to hover against the backdrop of a sea blue sky.

“Damn me to hell,” whispered Roden, “there really is a boat.”

Again Lola took in the broken keel and charred capstan. “That’s as may be, but there sure as hell aint any gold.”

And before she could see any more, rough Apache hands drug her to the ground.

Part 20 - Evan Lewis

Lola lay on the ground, wrists straining against a strip of rawhide. Beside her, likewise bound, were her erstwhile lover Zack Roden and the camel driver Hassan.

Scowling down at them were six fierce-eyed Apaches armed with spears and buffalo rifles.

“Where,” Lola said, her tongue caked with sand, “where is your master?”

One of the warriors spoke a few guttural words. The others laughed.

“I demand,” she said, striving for a ring of command, “that we see Mr. Bourbon at once!”

An Apache grasped her leg, ran a hand up to her thigh as if judging horseflesh. He spoke, and the others nodded agreement.

“You demand it, do you?” The voice, accented with hints of both French and Spanish, came from outside the ring of Indians. Two warriors stood aside, allowing Esteban Escobar Bourbon to enter. His black hair and beard were flecked with sand, and the feather protruding from his broad-brimmed hat was wilted.

Lola felt the heat of Bourbon’s dark, glittering eyes upon her. So, she thought, he was a man like any other. “A gentleman should always cater to a lady’s demands.”

Bourbon bent, wrapped strong fingers about her arm and pulled her to her feet. “I have a fascinating tale to tell. Perhaps you would care to hear it.”

Through the swirling sands, Lola again saw the huge, charred skeleton of the ship rising up out of the desert.

“My grandfather,” Bourbon said, “was a famous man. Doubtless you have heard of him. His name was Jean Lafitte.”

“I have heard,” Lola said, “that he was also quite handsome.”

Bourbon smiled. “My grandfather captured many prizes, but richest of all was the Spanish galleon Contessa, captured with great damage to his own ship off the coast of Venezuela. He assigned one of his most trusted lieutenants, a man named Eastman, to captain a prize crew and follow him Cartagena, where he then had his headquarters. Instead, the rogue fled with the treasure south along the coast of South America. Lafitte’s ship was too damaged for immediate pursuit, but he was a man who never let betrayal go unavenged. He charged one of his own sons with punishing Eastman and reclaiming the treasure.”

Lola listened with interest. But as they neared the remains of the ship, she noticed piles of something white and gleaming at the base of each of the frame’s great ribs. It looked like ivory. Was this the treasure?

“The man Lafitte sent,” Bourbon said, “was my father. He followed Eastman clear around the tip of South America, and up the other side. The voyage took many years, and along the way the crew took wives and had children - such as myself” He thumped his chest. “But eventually they ran Eastman to earth, here, in this very desert.”

“But how did this ship come to be here, in the desert?”

“That is a tale for another time. Suffice it to say that Eastman and his followers paid dearly for their perfidy.”

“And you recovered the treasure. The ivory.”

Bourbon eyed her strangely. “The treasure, I am sad to say, has so far eluded us. But one day we shall find it. In the meantime, we have made certain no one beats us to it.”

Grunts and curses announced the approach of men from behind. Lola stared as Roden and Hassan were dragged past and thrown to the earth at the foot of two of the remaining ribs. Their bonds were cut and quickly retied, so that each was bound with his back to the blackened timber.

Bourbon led Lola steadily closer, until the mystery of the “ivory” was revealed. This was no treasure at all, but lengths of bone and skulls bleached white by the sun.

“Many have sought the treasure,” Bourbon said, “but none have returned.”

Lola pressed her body against Bourbon. “You would not do the same to me.”

“Not just yet,” Bourbon said, leering down at her.

The six Apaches, finished with Roden and Hassan, now formed a ring around them.

Lola felt faint. Then Bourbon’s broad-brimmed hat leapt from his head, and she heard the bark of a rifle shot.

Over a rise of sand came four figures on charging camels. Two of them she knew, and one brought a glad cry to her lips.

“Walt!”

Part 21 - Jack Martin

'They're scattering,' Arnside yelled, whooping and hollering. It wasn't like Apaches but they had turned tail and were running.

'Guess they know what's good for them,' Sawtell screamed with joy and let of a shot towards the retreating Indians. One of them threw his arms up and with a scream pitched forward into sand.

'I'm enjoying this,' Gabe yelled, holding onto his camel for grim death. He was jostled about on the beast and several times he always lost his grip but each time he managed to keep his balance.

'There's Lola.' Arnside yelled.

'We separate,' Choo How yelled. ' Sawtell and me we chase off the Indians. Don't need to kill them just make sure they run far enough away.'

'Sounds good to me,' Sawtell said and set off another shot but hit nothing. 'Just as long as I get my share of what's coming.'

'That's a certainty.' Arnside said and sped his own camel forward as the two men set off in pursuit of the fleeing Indians.

Below standing before the ship Lola felt Bourbon's grip loosen and then she was thrown to the ground, face down so that she didn't see which way Bourbon had run and when she managed to turn around she saw that he had vanished. She lay there, eyes directed at the magnificent wreck that was the ship. She was still staring when she felt an arm lifting her to her feet.

'Lola,' Arnside said and looked at her, his eyes never once leaving her face.

'The ship.' Lola said, dreamily as if her words had been uttered deep within a trance. 'There's the ship, Walt. It's real.'

Arnside nodded and only now did he look at the wreck before them. It sat there, as if it had been deposited in the desert. Its timbers were impossibly aged and most of its rigging had snapped so that planks of splintered wood, like dead fingers, reached for the sky. There was a gaping hole in the hull, looking almost like a rictus mouth, and through which could be seen the darkness within the nautical tomb.

'I say we go take us a look see.' Gabe had joined them and he stood looking at the ancient wreck.

'Shall we untie them?' Arnside asked, pointed back to Rodan and Hassen. Both men were rolling about in the sand, their hands still bound behind their backs and their feet tied together.

'Yes.' Lola said but she seemed to be answering some inner thoughts rather than Arnside's question. She walked towards the ship as if led by some ethereal force. Gabe followed just behind her and seemed to be in a somnolent state himself.

'Sorry fellas.' Arnside said and set off after them. Together the three of them entered the fractured hull of the ship.

Part 22 - Jim Griffin

“Hold up a bit, you three,” Vic Sawtell called before the trio could enter the bowels of the ruined ship. He and Choo How had chased Bourbon and the Apaches only a short distance, before they disappeared into a maze of dunes. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore that wreck. Right now, we’ve got other worries.”

“Like what?” Lola demanded.

“Bourbon and his Indians, for one. They’re not gonna go far from this ship, knowin’ we’re still here. They’ll be back, and we’d better be ready for them,” Sawtell warned.

“Victor’s telling it straight,” Choo How agreed.

“Sawtell’s right,” Arnside concurred. “This ship ain’t goin’ anywhere. What’s your thoughts, Vic?”

“First, this.”

Sawtell raised his Winchester and sent several shots just over the camels’ heads. The ungainly animals ran squalling into the desert.

“What’d you do that for?” Roden cried, still bound hand and foot.

“I’d rather walk forty miles than get on the back of one of those stinkin’ beasts again,” Sawtell replied. “Besides, if things go our way, Bourbon will provide us horses. And I’ve still got mine.”

Sawtell whistled, and his chestnut appeared from behind a dune. The gelding trotted up to Sawtell and nuzzled his hand.

“I’ll get you some water in a minute, Rojo,” Sawtell told the horse.

“You mind untying me and Hassan first?” Roden pleaded.

“Sure.”

Sawtell and Arnside cut the two men’s bonds, then gave them short drinks from their canteens. The entire group huddled in the scant shade of the ship’s skeleton.

Arnside dug in his pocket and removed the Ranger badge he’d picked up before leaving Bartlett’s corpse.

“What’s that?” Choo How asked.

“A Texas Ranger badge that was stuck in my chest. Can’t figure it. I’’ve never been a Ranger, and neither was Silas, Roden, or anyone else tied in with this,” Arnside replied.

“I’ll take that,” Sawtell said. The blonde outlaw plucked the badge from Arnside’s hand and pinned it to his shirt.

“What’s the meanin’ of that?” Roden demanded.

“My kid brother Joe was a Ranger. This was his badge. Joe was workin’ undercover, investigatin’ a smugglin’ ring led by Bourbon down in Galveston. Somehow they figured out who he was. Joe was strung up by his wrists, slit open from crotch to breastbone, and he was left hangin’ there with his belly ripped open and his guts pulled out and danglin’ like sausages hangin’ at a butcher’s. He must’ve hung there sufferin’ for hours before he died. I vowed to track down Bourbon for that. The badge stuck in your chest was a message to me, not you, Walt. Sorry I left it there when I cut you loose, but I couldn’t pull it out without givin’ myself away. I knew once you found Deuce’s horse you’d catch up to me.”

“You didn’t actually join the Rangers?” Arnside questioned.

“I wear the badge, and I draw pay from Austin every month,” Sawtell shrugged.

“What about the treasure?” Gabe asked.

“What treasure? I’ll believe that when I see it,” Sawtell retorted. He spat in the dust. “I’m not interested in gold in any event. I just want to see Bourbon dead, and with this badge I can do it legally. None of you will believe this, but I actually like workin’ on the side of the law. I’m figurin’ on makin’ the Rangers my new career.”

Lola snuggled against Sawtell’s side. She slipped her hand inside his jeans, to begin massaging his crotch.

“Vic, what about me and you?”

Sawtell pushed her away.

“Lola, you’ve had me and every other man here, plus some that aren’t, and you still haven’t decided which one you want. Take your pick, darlin’, but whoever you choose, it ain’t gonna be me.”

“Mebbe it’ll be him she’ll want.”

Zack Roden pointed to where Emilio Escobar Bourbon had reappeared on the horizon.

Part 23 - Paul Dellinger

Bourbon was again mounted on his magnificent Andalusian stallion, and he seemed to be alone as he rode toward the small group in the shadow of the ship’s wreckage.

“I ought to pop that son off his horse just for the hell of it,” Sawtell murmured, fingering the pearl handles of his holstered pistol.

“Let’s see what he wants,” Walt said. “There are still all those Apaches out there.”

Walt wondered how Bourbon managed to control the Apaches who had been with him. The Yavapai, or Apache Mohave, were known to be hostile and warlike. It seemed unlikely that they would follow a white man’s commands. It might be worth finding out how Bourbon managed that.

Something else occurred to Walt. “Why’d you think Bourbon might give the rest of us horses?”

Sawtell’s angel face broke into a beautific smile. “Wait and see.”

Bourbon had replaced the hat which had been shot off his head.. Its feather was no longer wilted, but stood as erect as an aroused peacock. He stepped down off his horse, shaking his head.

“Foolish, very foolish,” he said, looking around at the rag-tag group. “You must know you cannot hold out against all my Apaches.”

“Maybe not,” said Vic Sawtell, still fingering his holstered pistol. “But what’s to stop us from finishing you off right now?”

Bourbon spread his arms. “Finish me? That would be your finish as well, mon ami. My Apaches would attack in force, and wipe you out. That is why I came here alone, first, to give you a chance to surrender your arms.”

“Why would we do a fool thing like that?” Zack Roden demanded.

“As I said, overwhelming force. All I must do is raise one arm, and this desert will be swarming with my fighters. If you surrender now, I will consider leniency...”

“Go ahead,” Walt said. “Raise it.”

“Walt...” Lola began to protest.

“Are you mad? It will mean certain death for all of you.”

“I’m not so sure,” Walt said. “I don’t think you have any massive force of Apaches. I think you have maybe six, at best. Or just five, since one of them got dropped when we chased you off.”

Bourbon glared at him. “You are taking an awful chance, monsieur...”

“I don’t think he is,” Sawtell cut in. “Arnside’s right. An Apache doesn’t run off unless there’s no choice. Hell, we probably outnumber you now. You might have the goodies to hire yourself half-a-dozen Apaches, but you sure ain’t no tribal war chief.”

“Which puts you in rather a ticklish spot, mon ami,” Walt said, imitating Bourbon’s French. “You wouldn’t have ridden down here to try and bluff us unless there was no other way. My guess is your other five Apaches have left you.”

Beads of perspiration were forming on Bourbon’s forehead, even more than could be accounted for by the desert heat.

“I assure you...”

“Bourbon, do you know who I am?” Sawtell said quietly.

“I do not know any of you,” Bourbon protested. “I am trying to give you a way to escape with your lives...”

“You left me a message,” Sawtell told him. “Pinned to his bare chest,” he added, jerking a thumb toward Walt.

Bourbon’s eyes went to the little badge on Sawtell’s shirt for the first time. “Vic Sawtell,” he gasped.

Before he could draw, Sawtell’s silvery pistol was cocked under his nose. “That’s right,” Sawtell said in a whispery tone. “Sawtell. Brother to that ranger you gutted and tortured. Remember him?”

Bourbon waved his hands as though trying to ward off a bullet. “But no, you do not understand. I would not do such a thing...”

Sawtell took Bourbon’s pistol with his left hand, and stuck it in his belt. “Come on,” he said. “You and I are going for a little ride.”

“Want company?” asked Walt.

Sawtell hesitated. “Could be risky,” he said. “Don’t know how many men he has. And some of those Apaches could still be around. Why do you want to step in?”

“I owe you. Remember?”

After a brief stare, Sawtell nodded. “Okay. I could use some competent backup, at that.”

Walt turned to the others. “Any of the rest of you want to join this party?”

Zack Roden chuckled. “I don’t know what you owe him, but I don’t owe him anything.”
Hassan spat in the sand. “Or I. He run off my camels!”

Choo How simply shook his head. “I ain’t that anxious to see the rapture,” old Gabe added.

Lola said nothing, but stared wide-eyed at Walt.

“Okay,” Walt said. “Bourbon’s place shouldn’t be too far off. If we’re not back in a couple hours, you’re all on your own.”

He climbed onto Bourbon’s stallion as Sawtell mounted his own horse. “What of me?” demanded Bourbon.

“You can walk,” Sawtell said. “It can’t be that far to your ranch, or whatever headquarters you and your smugglers have.”

“You wish me to take you there?”

“That is exactly what I wish,” Sawtell said.

Walt caught the change of expression on Bourbon’s face, from terror back to confidence. There were probably a number of fast guns among his smugglers. But Walt had seen something else that Bourbon had not seen.

He had seen how fast Sawtell could draw.

Part #23 of the Story with No Name

New chapter from Paul Dellinger Spirit of the Snake.

2009, a writing year

And now the end is here
And so I face the final curtain
My friend I'll say it clear
Something do-dah, dum-de highway...

With the year about to become history it's time for some reflection, I guess, on the stuff what I wrote in 2009. I had two novels out this year. Riders of the Barren Plains came out in July and gathered a few positive comments, which was warming as I didn't think the book was very good, but perhaps with hindsight I was a bit hard on it. It told the action tale I set out to write, so I couldn't ask for much more. On the other hand The Treasure of Saint Woody came out to deafening silence. I don't know anyone who has even read it, so it might be gathering quiet approval or it might have missed the mark entirely. But the publisher reckoned I should enter it for a Spur Award and even though I thought my epic tale of pig rustlers might not be literate enough for the judges I've given it a whirl. I've written my acceptance speech and it starts, 'WTF...'

Early in 2010 Sharpshooter McClure comes out, although I actually wrote it in 2008. I still think it's a fairly decent story. It has some good action scenes and the plot twist at the halfway point was one that I agonized over a lot. Even if I didn't quite go the whole hog as I'd intended to on first draft, I think that makes it a slightly different tale, for me anyhow, with a good balance of character and good-natured plotting.

Of the novels I wrote in 2009, Railroad to Redemption is out in August. I thought this decent when I'd finished it, but then shortly afterwards I received the galleys to Riders of the Barren Plains and I realized that both stories had a similiar plotting point as well as some similiarities in structure. It might have been nice if that'd occurred to me while writing, but I guess it's hard to be completely original every time. Bleached Bones in the Dust will be out around next Xmas or perhaps into 2011. I've found no reason yet not to like that one, although that's mainly because I can't for the life of me remember what it was about. I also sent The Miracle of Santa Maria to Avalon early in the summer, but I have heard nothing yet. I have an idea for a follow-up book so if they accept Maria, I'll get writing that up, otherwise I won't.

On work-in-progress I have the usual collection of half-written efforts sitting all over the place at various stages of abject failure. The nearest to coming out of redrafting hell is The Prairie Man. I wrote this under the title of The Redemption Trail, but it was only when writing the final line of the third draft that a character said the words 'The Prairie Man' and suddenly the story came into focus and stopped being a tale of redemption and became a tale about The Prairie Man. Hopefully when I've neatened things up some more it'll make sense.

Less developed is The Secret of Devil's Canyon. I've written only the first draft of that and in the end the secret turned out to be really dull and it wasn't even found in Devil's Canyon. Also the murderer turned out not to be the man I thought did it, the dead person turned out to be someone else too, the hero changed half way through, the bad guy disappeared half way and a new one appeared then he got forgotten about and the sidekick turned out to be the evil genius behind all the events even though he wasn't about when everything happened. Oh and the leading lady changed her name at some stage and became someone else, which was doubly confusing as she was living under an alias anyway, except her secret alias was accidentally the name she'd started with. So that one's going well.

Also on the going well front is Devine! featuring the return of the cuddly lawman Marshal Jake T. Devine. This one had several false starts this year and in the end I just banged down words to complete a first draft that on reflection is as unpublishable as anything I've ever written. Devine solves a mystery that I didn't know the answer to until the final chapter by the simple process of killing off everyone in the cast until the one left standing did it. So on the way he kills all the bad guys, kills the person he was supposed to be rescuing, kills the hero, kills the sidekick, shoots up a horse, the mayor, the state governor, two monks, three nuns and a passing saloon owner who only came in to give him someone to talk to. I think in hindsight this might be a bit too cynical and violent for anyone to read, including myself, so I'll let it sit for a few months then set about reworking out its excesses.

Even less developed is the long delayed Bermuda Bi-angle a non-western that's stalled twice. First at 10,000 words because I had no idea what on earth I was writing and then the second time at 30,000 words because I couldn't decide if it was a romantic comedy, an action thriller, or a cosy murder mystery. I still don't know the answer, but after putting it aside for a while I don't care any more so I'll just write to amuse myself and get to an ending then worry later about how I can get it into a state that can get rejected.

Anyway, that's my writing year. Happy Hogmanay, everyone!

The Story with No Name - Part 22

The guest blogger today is Jim Griffin with part #22 of the Story with No Name:

Parts 1-16

Parts 17-21

“Hold up a bit, you three,” Vic Sawtell called before the trio could enter the bowels of the ruined ship. He and Choo How had chased Bourbon and the Apaches only a short distance, before they disappeared into a maze of dunes. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore that wreck. Right now, we’ve got other worries.”

“Like what?” Lola demanded.

“Bourbon and his Indians, for one. They’re not gonna go far from this ship, knowin’ we’re still here. They’ll be back, and we’d better be ready for them,” Sawtell warned.

“Victor’s telling it straight,” Choo How agreed.

“Sawtell’s right,” Arnside concurred. “This ship ain’t goin’ anywhere. What’s your thoughts, Vic?”

“First, this.”

Sawtell raised his Winchester and sent several shots just over the camels’ heads. The ungainly animals ran squalling into the desert.

“What’d you do that for?” Roden cried, still bound hand and foot.

“I’d rather walk forty miles than get on the back of one of those stinkin’ beasts again,” Sawtell replied. “Besides, if things go our way, Bourbon will provide us horses. And I’ve still got mine.”

Sawtell whistled, and his chestnut appeared from behind a dune. The gelding trotted up to Sawtell and nuzzled his hand.

“I’ll get you some water in a minute, Rojo,” Sawtell told the horse.

“You mind untying me and Hassan first?” Roden pleaded.

“Sure.”

Sawtell and Arnside cut the two men’s bonds, then gave them short drinks from their canteens. The entire group huddled in the scant shade of the ship’s skeleton.

Arnside dug in his pocket and removed the Ranger badge he’d picked up before leaving Bartlett’s corpse.

“What’s that?” Choo How asked.

“A Texas Ranger badge that was stuck in my chest. Can’t figure it. I’’ve never been a Ranger, and neither was Silas, Roden, or anyone else tied in with this,” Arnside replied.

“I’ll take that,” Sawtell said. The blonde outlaw plucked the badge from Arnside’s hand and pinned it to his shirt.

“What’s the meanin’ of that?” Roden demanded.

“My kid brother Joe was a Ranger. This was his badge. Joe was workin’ undercover, investigatin’ a smugglin’ ring led by Bourbon down in Galveston. Somehow they figured out who he was. Joe was strung up by his wrists, slit open from crotch to breastbone, and he was left hangin’ there with his belly ripped open and his guts pulled out and danglin’ like sausages hangin’ at a butcher’s. He must’ve hung there sufferin’ for hours before he died. I vowed to track down Bourbon for that. The badge stuck in your chest was a message to me, not you, Walt. Sorry I left it there when I cut you loose, but I couldn’t pull it out without givin’ myself away. I knew once you found Deuce’s horse you’d catch up to me.”

“You didn’t actually join the Rangers?” Arnside questioned.

“I wear the badge, and I draw pay from Austin every month,” Sawtell shrugged.

“What about the treasure?” Gabe asked.

“What treasure? I’ll believe that when I see it,” Sawtell retorted. He spat in the dust. “I’m not interested in gold in any event. I just want to see Bourbon dead, and with this badge I can do it legally. None of you will believe this, but I actually like workin’ on the side of the law. I’m figurin’ on makin’ the Rangers my new career.”

Lola snuggled against Sawtell’s side. She slipped her hand inside his jeans, to begin massaging his crotch.

“Vic, what about me and you?”

Sawtell pushed her away.

“Lola, you’ve had me and every other man here, plus some that aren’t, and you still haven’t decided which one you want. Take your pick, darlin’, but whoever you choose, it ain’t gonna be me.”

“Mebbe it’ll be him she’ll want.”

Zack Roden pointed to where Emilio Escobar Bourbon had reappeared on the horizon.

Next week's instalment will be written by Paul Dellinger...

The Story with No Name - Parts 17-21

I'll be posting the latest instalment of the Story with No Name tomorrow and so for ease of reading for new readers below are sections 17-21:

Part 1-16

Part 17 - Peter Avarillo

The town of Bannon was quiet under the heat of the midday sun when Walt Arnside rode along the main street.

He was stiff and tired from the journey that had been punctuated with nights of fitful sleep.

All he wanted was to fill his aching belly and find a soft bed where he hoped to sleep without being plagued by the nightmares of his desert experience.

He had howled as the blood flowed back into his right hand causing painful spasms. Pain that was replaced by anger as he fought the knots that bound his left hand to the stake. Anger that was not spent when, with a rasping roar, he sent the Texas Ranger badge flying through the air to plop, in a spray of sand, close to Silas Bartlett’s feet.

And then more pain as blood rushed through his starved ankles into his feet. Rolling, cursing as each spasm surged up his legs.

Only when his body settled did he try to stand and staggered over to the remains of Silas Bartlett where he plucked the lance free. He paid no attention as the corpse crumpled to the ground. Instead he concentrated on plunging the tip into the sand to clean it. But even then his imagination played with his anger as each time the tip hit the sand so it was stabbing into the body of Zack Roden. Into the body of Silas Bartlett. And into that of a man named Bourbon.

Until exhaustion and tears of frustration drove him to his knees.

Slowly, sanity came back to him and with it an absolute priority. Using the lance as a support he pulled himself back to his feet, then hacked at the cactus. Holding the mashed flesh above his mouth squeezing precious drops of water onto his tongue. Groaning as the water moisted his tongue, mouth and throat.

It was nearly dusk by the time he felt strong enough to crawl to where Deuce Harmon’s body still lay stiff in death. Painfully, stretching taut burned skin he had stripped the clothes from the corpse and dressed himself before laying back in the sand waiting for his strength to return.

He stared long and hard at the mass of tracks that pointed south west and knew that he was in no fit state to go off in pursuit. He had to be stronger and better equipped before he could even think of going on the vengeance trail.

The galleon, even if it existed, was no longer the goal. He wished that he had never heard of the damned boat. Wished that he had not stopped that train nor heeded Silas Bartlett’s call. For from that point on he had been shot at, gutshot and left for dead and, been staked out to die in the desert. He had put his life on the line for people that he had looked upon as friends and each had turned out to be an enemy. Nor could he be certain where Lola stood in all this.

Where to go? Matlock would not be safe and he had no wish to head back to Lola’s cabin. Bannon seemed to beckon as the safest haven where he could work out what to do next.

Slowly, he climbed to his feet and crested a dune. He stopped dead, his mouth gaping as he saw Harmon’s horse tethered to a cactus. Looking cautiously around him he approached the animal.

“What the hell?” he croaked, sure that the animal had run off after Sawtell had emptied the saddle. Then allowed himself to grin. “Thanks, Sawtell. I do have a fighting chance – now.”

After leaving his horse in the livery, Walt strode across the hardpan to the cafe opposite. He felt a tad rich after he had discovered just over fifteen dollars in notes and loose change in Harmon’s denims. At least he could pay for his immediate needs.

Part 18 - Cap'n Bob Napier

Arnside washed the trail dust from his hands and face at a watering trough, beat the dirt from his clothes with his hat, and strode into Molly's Cafe with hunger tearing at his belly like cats in a sack.

"I'll have whatever's ready," he told the plump, smiling waitress, "and a pitcher of water, please."

She took one look at his red, chapped skin and peelings lips and hustled off, returning moments later with a large blue ewer and a tin tumbler. Walt filled the tumbler with shaking hands, drank deeply, and sighed.

"Appears like you haven't drunk nothin' in a month of Sundays, mister."

"Feels like it, too, darling. Are you Molly?"

"She's the owner, cook, and my ma. I'm Gretchen. I'll fetch that food now. I hope stew's okay."

Before Walt could answer she scurried away and was back in two shakes with a large bowl of steaming mulligan, napkin and utensils, and basket of bread.

"Anything interesting happen in these parts?" he asked around a mouthful of stew.

The juice burned the roof of his mouth but after what he'd been through a little heat was like an old friend.

"Interesting? Our marshal got his head busted and had to get shipped off to a home for the feeble-minded, our undertaker had a bunch of fingers broke, and an old prospector was in earlier swearin' he saw The Magi riding across the desert. Says it means the Second Coming is nigh and we'd all best prepare our souls."

Walt grinned at the girl's recitation and tucked back into his meal. When he finished he left a half dollar on the table, twice what the meal cost, and strode out to find a quiet saloon. A whiskey would satisfy right handsome about now, he allowed.

He took three steps down the boardwalk when the import of the girl's story slammed him like the board that sent Marshal Stryker to the drool academy. He ran back into Molly's and grabbed Gretchen by her shoulders.

"That sourdough, where can I find him?"

"Wha--?"

"Tell me!"

"Stop it, you're hurting me."

Walt loosened his grip. "Sorry, Gretchen. I need to find that prospector, right away."

She thought for a moment, tongue out. "He has a shack behind the saddle shop. If he ain't there try The Silver Palace saloon."

Arnside raced off.

He found the shack where Gretchen said it would be, but no one answered his knock. Should have tried the saloon first, he chided himself.

Walt stood at the bat wings of The Silver Palace and scanned the room before entering. Wouldn't pay to have some of Zack Roden's men inside. His glance fell on a table at the center of the room where a shabby old cuss was regaling the room with a story, much to their amusement.

"I tell ya', I seen 'em with my own eyes. Long-legged critters with necks long as stovepipes and backs like anthills, just a-lumbering across the sands like they owned the desert. I seen a picture once of the three magi when they come calling on baby Jesus and they was riding the same critters. If that don't prove it, I don't know what does."

"Sure, Gabe, sure. Have another drink. Maybe you'll tell us about seeing the Noah's Ark next."

The crowd burst out laughing. Gabe jumped to his feet and pushed through the men having a laugh at his expense. He nearly plowed Walt Arnside down as he crashed out of the saloon.

"Whoa, there, old timer. What the rush?"

"Dang-blasted fools. Wouldn't know the truth if it crawled up their dumb asses."

Walt laid a comforting arm on old Gabe's shoulder. "Why not tell me your story? I'm the believing kind."

"Can't talk on a dry throat, pardner. Let's mosey up the street and find a joint where we can dip a bill in peace."

With a bottle between them and each man holding a full shot glass, Gabe proposed a toast.

"Here's how."

"Now, about the magi. . ." Arnside prompted.

"Yesterday, I was coming back from digging in the Mohawk Mountains when I seen a passel of riders out in the Yuma Desert. Makes no sense. Nothin' there but sand and snakes. No water for a hundred miles. Even the A-patch go 'round it."

Gabe refilled his glass and continued. "They was maybe six or seven on horses, but the others were ridin' those Bible animals like I seen in the picture. Four of them, they was."

"Was one a woman?"

"Too far to tell, even with my spyglass."

"Any Indians?"

"Nope. Like I said, the A-patch got more sense than to go out there."

"Can you tell me how to find this place, Gabe?"

"Sure. Might as well. The world'll end soon enough anyway."

Armed with a detailed description of how to find the last place Roden, Lola and the others had been spotted--assuming Bourbon allowed them to live--Arnside stepped from the saloon and aimed himself toward the stable.

"You!" a voice cried. "You do this!"

He turned to see Choo How pointing at Walt with his bandaged hand. Behind the Chinaman, a crowd began to grow.

Part 19 - Richard Prosch

“You make this happen, Walt Arnside!” Again, Choo How drunkenly shook his injured hand, its dirty bandage all but unraveling. “You owe me something for it!” he slurred, tipping slightly toward the dusty street.

Walt grimaced at the memory of his visit to Choo How’s mortuary. He and the renegade sheriff Stryker had been looking for Bartlett’s map and Stryker broke the kid’s fingers. How long ago had it been? How many weeks? Walt carefully weighed the crowd, then shot a glance toward Gabe. The old prospector’s eyes sparkled in the sun, and Walt pinched the bridge of his nose, smiling at the little undertaker’s daring. That injured hand, plenty healed up by now, had earned Choo How many a sympathetic drink.

Walt stepped forward quickly then, telegraphed a wide right and swung in with a left. In the space of a breath, the undertaker blocked the punch and sent a hard jab to Walt’s ribs –with the injured hand. The crowd gasped as the bandage fell away. Walt clutched his middle, but the spasms that wracked his shoulders were laughter as Choo gazed at his naked fingers, then slowly at the crowd, his deception revealed.

“Looks like the game is up, Choo How!” he said as Gabe helped him to his feet. “But I’ll make it up to you,” he turned to the prospector, “to both of you.”

Walt knocked the dust from his britches and pitched his offer. “Ride with me into the desert, and if what I suspect is true, we’ll all be rich men come Friday.”

“Why trust you, Arnside?” asked Choo, all signs of his previous anebriation gone. “Especially after you betray me again?”

“The Chinaman can’t go with you,” came a voice from the glowering crowd. “We’re gonna be busy stringin’ him up.”

“Show him how we treat con men ‘round these parts!”

“Yeah!” Shouts went up, the gang surged immediately forward, and then with a thundering pistol crash —came just as quickly to a silent stand still.

With an easy lope Vic Sawtell emerged from the shadow of an alley on his chestnut gelding, the pearl handled .45 still smoking in his slim, gloved hand. The blonde outlaw led three horses behind him. “We ain’t got time for this, boys.” He smiled down at Walt. “And they ain’t riding with you. You all are riding with me.”

Arnside grinned. “What’s the story Sawtell?”

“Story? The story has no name, Arnside. We’re just gettin’ on with life…and death.”

“It’s wages for a job,” said Choo.

“And maybe…revenge?” said Walt. “As I recall, Bartlett was killed before you were paid. That’s gotta make you mad. Especially since you don’t believe in the boat. Or the gold.”

Sawtell spit a stream of tobacco into the dirt. “Yeah, I been studyin’ on what Bartlett owed me. Back pay for, shoot I don’t know…three, four…” Choo held up his palm and Sawtell nodded. “Five jobs he owed me for.”

“He was in debt to me and Choo How too,” said Gabe. “We all got us a stake in that boat o’ gold.”

“Whatever it turns out to be,” said Sawtell, “part of it’s mine. You still got that map memorized, Choo How?”

“I do indeed, Victor. I do indeed.”

Walt noted the undertaker’s forced Asian accent had vanished. “Old Silas had more friends…or should I say employees, than I imagined,” he said.

“Let’s just say the man had a secret society of his own,” said Sawtell.

“I just hope there’s enough for all of us,” said Choo How as he swung into the saddle.

“I just hope we find it before the rapture,” said Gabe.

—

Twenty miles to the northwest, a brief windstorm blew itself out as Lola Metivier awoke for the final time atop the camel she’d come to think of as her last real connection to Walt Arnside and the life she’d led before all this began.

Zack Roden rode his mount beside her, bobbing along, apparently still asleep. Bourbon and his Apache thugs had been riding them in circles. Time no longer had any meaning. Nothing did. The blowing, stinging sand was the cloud stuff of bad dreams.

A towering structure of shimmering gold danced directly in front of them just out of reach.

Lola’s eyes shut tight, and she drifted through a red haze. When she again looked ahead the air had cleared and a monstrosity of burnt timber and jumbled iron rigging lunged from the desert floor to hover against the backdrop of a sea blue sky.

“Damn me to hell,” whispered Roden, “there really is a boat.”

Again Lola took in the broken keel and charred capstan. “That’s as may be, but there sure as hell aint any gold.”

And before she could see any more, rough Apache hands drug her to the ground.

Part 20 - Evan Lewis

Lola lay on the ground, wrists straining against a strip of rawhide. Beside her, likewise bound, were her erstwhile lover Zack Roden and the camel driver Hassan.

Scowling down at them were six fierce-eyed Apaches armed with spears and buffalo rifles.

“Where,” Lola said, her tongue caked with sand, “where is your master?”

One of the warriors spoke a few guttural words. The others laughed.

“I demand,” she said, striving for a ring of command, “that we see Mr. Bourbon at once!”

An Apache grasped her leg, ran a hand up to her thigh as if judging horseflesh. He spoke, and the others nodded agreement.

“You demand it, do you?” The voice, accented with hints of both French and Spanish, came from outside the ring of Indians. Two warriors stood aside, allowing Esteban Escobar Bourbon to enter. His black hair and beard were flecked with sand, and the feather protruding from his broad-brimmed hat was wilted.

Lola felt the heat of Bourbon’s dark, glittering eyes upon her. So, she thought, he was a man like any other. “A gentleman should always cater to a lady’s demands.”

Bourbon bent, wrapped strong fingers about her arm and pulled her to her feet. “I have a fascinating tale to tell. Perhaps you would care to hear it.”

Through the swirling sands, Lola again saw the huge, charred skeleton of the ship rising up out of the desert.

“My grandfather,” Bourbon said, “was a famous man. Doubtless you have heard of him. His name was Jean Lafitte.”

“I have heard,” Lola said, “that he was also quite handsome.”

Bourbon smiled. “My grandfather captured many prizes, but richest of all was the Spanish galleon Contessa, captured with great damage to his own ship off the coast of Venezuela. He assigned one of his most trusted lieutenants, a man named Eastman, to captain a prize crew and follow him Cartagena, where he then had his headquarters. Instead, the rogue fled with the treasure south along the coast of South America. Lafitte’s ship was too damaged for immediate pursuit, but he was a man who never let betrayal go unavenged. He charged one of his own sons with punishing Eastman and reclaiming the treasure.”

Lola listened with interest. But as they neared the remains of the ship, she noticed piles of something white and gleaming at the base of each of the frame’s great ribs. It looked like ivory. Was this the treasure?

“The man Lafitte sent,” Bourbon said, “was my father. He followed Eastman clear around the tip of South America, and up the other side. The voyage took many years, and along the way the crew took wives and had children - such as myself” He thumped his chest. “But eventually they ran Eastman to earth, here, in this very desert.”

“But how did this ship come to be here, in the desert?”

“That is a tale for another time. Suffice it to say that Eastman and his followers paid dearly for their perfidy.”

“And you recovered the treasure. The ivory.”

Bourbon eyed her strangely. “The treasure, I am sad to say, has so far eluded us. But one day we shall find it. In the meantime, we have made certain no one beats us to it.”

Grunts and curses announced the approach of men from behind. Lola stared as Roden and Hassan were dragged past and thrown to the earth at the foot of two of the remaining ribs. Their bonds were cut and quickly retied, so that each was bound with his back to the blackened timber.

Bourbon led Lola steadily closer, until the mystery of the “ivory” was revealed. This was no treasure at all, but lengths of bone and skulls bleached white by the sun.

“Many have sought the treasure,” Bourbon said, “but none have returned.”

Lola pressed her body against Bourbon. “You would not do the same to me.”

“Not just yet,” Bourbon said, leering down at her.

The six Apaches, finished with Roden and Hassan, now formed a ring around them.

Lola felt faint. Then Bourbon’s broad-brimmed hat leapt from his head, and she heard the bark of a rifle shot.

Over a rise of sand came four figures on charging camels. Two of them she knew, and one brought a glad cry to her lips.

“Walt!”

Part 21 - Jack Martin

'They're scattering,' Arnside yelled, whooping and hollering. It wasn't like Apaches but they had turned tail and were running.

'Guess they know what's good for them,' Sawtell screamed with joy and let of a shot towards the retreating Indians. One of them threw his arms up and with a scream pitched forward into sand.

'I'm enjoying this,' Gabe yelled, holding onto his camel for grim death. He was jostled about on the beast and several times he always lost his grip but each time he managed to keep his balance.

'There's Lola.' Arnside yelled.

'We separate,' Choo How yelled. ' Sawtell and me we chase off the Indians. Don't need to kill them just make sure they run far enough away.'

'Sounds good to me,' Sawtell said and set off another shot but hit nothing. 'Just as long as I get my share of what's coming.'

'That's a certainty.' Arnside said and sped his own camel forward as the two men set off in pursuit of the fleeing Indians.

Below standing before the ship Lola felt Bourbon's grip loosen and then she was thrown to the ground, face down so that she didn't see which way Bourbon had run and when she managed to turn around she saw that he had vanished. She lay there, eyes directed at the magnificent wreck that was the ship. She was still staring when she felt an arm lifting her to her feet.

'Lola,' Arnside said and looked at her, his eyes never once leaving her face.

'The ship.' Lola said, dreamily as if her words had been uttered deep within a trance. 'There's the ship, Walt. It's real.'

Arnside nodded and only now did he look at the wreck before them. It sat there, as if it had been deposited in the desert. Its timbers were impossibly aged and most of its rigging had snapped so that planks of splintered wood, like dead fingers, reached for the sky. There was a gaping hole in the hull, looking almost like a rictus mouth, and through which could be seen the darkness within the nautical tomb.

'I say we go take us a look see.' Gabe had joined them and he stood looking at the ancient wreck.

'Shall we untie them?' Arnside asked, pointed back to Rodan and Hassen. Both men were rolling about in the sand, their hands still bound behind their backs and their feet tied together.

'Yes.' Lola said but she seemed to be answering some inner thoughts rather than Arnside's question. She walked towards the ship as if led by some ethereal force. Gabe followed just behind her and seemed to be in a somnolent state himself.

'Sorry fellas.' Arnside said and set off after them. Together the three of them entered the fractured hull of the ship.

My three most annoying books of 2009

These are the three books that annoyed me the most this year. There were others that I started reading, found I didn’t enjoy, and stopped, but these are the ones that I had high hopes for and so I kept ploughing on, then wished I hadn't.


3. Best Served Cold by Joe Abercrombie

If I'd had a blog last year, the author's first trilogy would have been on my list of best books of 2008. His First Law series burst on to the scene from nowhere and proved there was still life left in Sword and Sorcery. The tale was a slight one and did nothing new, but the characters were excellent. Angst ridden barbarians and sympathetic torturers filled an action-packed story that was told with wit and a nice turn of phrase: 'Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he's a c***' has already gone to the top of my list of the greatest lines in literature.

Surely it could only get better, I thought, and yet it didn’t. Having created memorable characters who are on the face of it unpleasant but who have hidden depths, this story attempts to repeat the trick, but instead it forgets the hidden depths element. Everyone is repellent, the story is dreary, nothing matters much, and the wit is missing. I struggled with this one and only goodwill from the earlier books kept me going to an ending that had me rustling through the blank pages at the end wondering if that was it.


2. Iron Angel by Alan Campbell

This was the sequel to Scar Night, which despite this book I'd still rate as a classic novel. Scar Night was set in a city dangling over the bottomless pit of Hell. The story was fast-paced, contained numerous throwaway events that were highly original, had many fascinating characters and was written with a glorious gothic feel.

The sequel did one thing right: it continued the invention by taking the story in an unexpected direction. The bad thing was I had no interest in that direction to the extent that every element I'd enjoyed in the first book was ignored and every element I hadn't enjoyed was developed. Most of the book is set in Hell, and I felt I was in it trying to read through hundreds of pages describing odd things happening to characters' immortal souls, none of which I understood and in which anyone can transform into anything for no reason I could see. The whole story leads up to the ultimate battle to end all ultimate battles in which the soulless minions of Hell gather together somewhere or other to fight a really big robot with manic staring eyes for the eternal control of civilization as we know it, time, space, heaven, hell, every alternate reality, infinity and all the bits that lay beyond. It takes about two pages and I had no idea who won.


1. The Scarpetta Factor by Patricia Cornwell

This book set the bar too high on the annoying scale for me not to mention it, even if it was my own fault for reading something that was on the bestseller list. I loved the early Scarpetta books in the 90s, but gave up on them when the author became too famous to waste time on writing and listening to an editor. But the books kept on coming out and so I was tempted back. Big mistake. My other two choices for annoying books above were written by excellent writers and it's just that these two books weren't to my taste. I can happily accept that other readers will enjoy the stories and I'll certainly try any future books they write. I can't say that for this one. It's just bad. Period.

Oh and the movie version of Scarpetta provisionally entitled Scarpetta, the smuggest bint in the world is getting closer with Angelina Jolie on board so even more people will be tempted to read what has become a terribly written series filled with the most unpleasant set of main characters imaginable, who solve confusing and dull crimes in the most uninvolving way possible in their spare time when they are not living their depressing celebrity-obsessed perfect lives in what, as far as I can gather, is a bizarre psycho-analytical exercise by the author to create a wish fulfillment alter-ego, despite the fact that the perfect creature she's created in Scarpetta has you rooting for the bad guy to blast her away.