LAST CHANCE SALOON - Press Release

 

[#2 in the Bethesda Falls series - all self-contained stories!]

The Bethesda Falls stage is robbed and Ruth Monroe, the stage depot owner, is being coerced into selling up by local tycoon, Zachary Smith. Meanwhile, Daniel McAlister returns from gold prospecting to wed Virginia, the saloon’s wheel of fortune operator. Daniel hits a winning streak but is bushwhacked, his winnings stolen.

And newcomer to town, Horace Q. Marcy, seems to be playing a game close to his chest, too.

Virginia sees this romance with Daniel as her last chance of happiness and no matter what, she’s determined to stand by her man, ducking flying bullets if need be. Daniel and Virginia side with Ruth against Smith and his hired gunslingers.

Only a deadly showdown will end it, one way or another.

Amazon UK https://tinyurl.com/3sthcy8n

Amazon US https://tinyurl.com/aytn3cmu

***

The downhill swaying motion of the Bethesda coach dislodged Alfred Boddam and he fell forward, half-into the front boot, his arm crooked over the side-lantern, hand dangling and bashing against the flapping leather curtain.

‘What on earth’s happening?’ A passenger boldly peeled back the curtain and stared at Alfred’s limp hand. ‘Oh, dear Lord! Mr Boddam’s dead!’ he shrieked. ‘Nobody’s driving our coach!’

***

When Daniel McAlister entered The Gem saloon, Virginia Simone’s heart lurched against the fitted boned bodice of her red satin dress and she almost made a hash of triggering the concealed device under the roulette wheel.

Pulling her eyes away from the entrance with an effort, she turned back to her table and flicked the hidden lever to ensure that the House won. The ball bounced a few times and a couple of gamblers let out exclamations of surprise. But for Virginia it was no surprise at all. Yep, the House won when it mattered, when the stakes were high. She hated this part of her job, suckering the poor dupes just to line the pockets of owners Royce O’Keefe and Zachary Smith. Still your foolish pride, she told herself; it’s a job, and she was one of the best in the whole damned Dakota Territory.

***

Wading through the stream, Wolf Slayer came after him.

Daniel got to one knee, withdrew his knife and splashed water at the oncoming Indian’s face. As the Sioux warrior was deflected for a moment, Daniel sprang.

He grasped hold of the wrist of the Indian’s knife-hand and twisted harshly but the blade didn’t drop. Wolf Slayer grabbed Daniel’s wrist and simultaneously brought up a knee, thrusting it into Daniel’s belly. Daniel gasped, falling backwards, yet he managed to hold onto the Indian’s wrist and Wolf Slayer fell on top of him. The man’s breath was foul, but he imagined his own wasn’t much better.

The underwater rocks were smooth but unforgiving hard against his back. Spluttering, stream-water lapping round his face, Daniel felt his strength ebbing as Wolf Slayer thrust a knee on his chest, pressing down hard. It wouldn’t take long before his rib-cage broke under the pressure. Wolf Slayer’s free hand was clamped around Daniel’s throat, trying to force his head under water.

Review:  “This is one good read... not a typical western – it has character, humour and storylines with enough questions in the plot to maintain interest from beginning to end. Strongly recommended.”

Previously published by Robert Hale 2008 - now re-published as a paperback!

DEATH AT BETHESDA FALLS - Press Release

 

DEATH AT BETHESDA FALLS

[Bethesda Falls: 1 of 4]

“… is it open season on women all of a sudden?” 

Jim Thorp had killed plenty of men. They deserved to die. Thorp was a hard man, made so by a bloody Civil War. But he didn’t relish this visit to Bethesda Falls. His old sweetheart Anna worked there as a school-teacher and he was hunting her brother, Clyde, for armed robbery and other more terrible crimes. He didn’t want to hurt Anna but it looked like he would anyway. Clyde, the foreman of the M-bar-W ranch, is due to wed Ellen, the rancher’s daughter. He’s also poisoning the old man to hasten the inheritance. Thorp’s presence in town starts the downward slide to violence, when not only is Ellen’s life in danger, but also that of Anna and Thorp himself. It is destined to end in bloodshed and death.

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/4h7pw7em 

Amazon US: https://tinyurl.com/mv5t7dcc

***

Other books in the Bethesda Falls series (all self-contained stories):

Last Chance Saloon

Blind Justice at Wedlock

Old Guns

***

She flushed again but now steel had entered her eyes and the tone in her voice chilled his bones. “I am a fool. You didn’t come to see me, did you? It’s Clyde you want, is that it?”

Again he nodded and this time he sipped at the coffee; it scalded his throat, but he ignored the sharp discomfort as he really thought that he deserved that little amount of pain at least. Because that was nothing compared to the pain he was going to inflict on Anna.

Sure, she had a right to know, but how do you tell the only woman your heart had room for that you’re here to kill her brother?

*** 

Suddenly, a lariat looped over Anna’s head and it tightened round her chest and the wind was pulled out of her as it was tautened. Roughly, the rope dragged her backwards and she almost lost her balance. She staggered, trying not to fall to the ground.

“Nice ropin’, Ed!” Abe ran up to her.

***

But the rocks beneath the sorrel’s hooves were slimy and slippery and before she could control the critter they tipped over the edge of this pool and plummeted amidst a down-soaring stream of spray that soaked her. Worse, she found it difficult to breathe, taking in chilly water that made her cough and spasm.

Their descent seemed to last an age but must have been mere seconds.

Shockingly cold and hard, the roiling base of the waterfalls engulfed them. Here, it was very deep, where the water had pounded into the rock base for aeons. Even as she kicked herself free of the stirrups, her clothing threatened to drag her down. She was short of breath and terribly frightened because no matter how hard she tried to move her arms to pull herself up to the surface and blessed fresh air, she couldn’t muster the strength. Her corset and bodice were tight, constricting, and her lungs were bursting.

Originally published by Robert Hale 2007 - my first book sale - under the pen-name Ross Morton! Now re-published as a paperback.

HALO - Book review

 

HALO

John Loveday

A very good atmospheric novel set in the Old West, narrated by the boy Scrag who’s on the verge of manhood.  It’s 1859 when he joins the Oregon wagon train, making friends with the beautiful Lorelei, her daughter Justly, and Sylvester, a poet and pioneer photographer.  

Scrag discovers sex and the strange power that pictures and poems possess. We also meet a cast of well-drawn characters, not least the preacher they dubbed Thou-Wert, and Daniel, who had been to the town of Halo before, a town the wagon train hitches up at after being lost. Halo is a town that festers with hate and suspicion. The lightness of the first part is overshadowed by the cloud of impending doom that hovers in Halo.

An exceptional first novel, this won the David Higham Prize for Fiction. Readers who liked True Grit might like this.

 

The Lunatic Casino

History is filled with quirky characters, larger-than-life people, and the Old West has more than its fair share of them.

In the UK the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum was established in 1863. Nowadays, Broadmoor Hospital is a high-security psychiatric hospital with about 200 patients. What has this to do with the Old West? Only the name: the Broadmoor Casino was built by Count James Pourtales in 1891 near Pikes Peak in central Colorado. Many people thought he was mad to undertake the project!

The count, a German nobleman, was seeking good investments and bought into a huge dairy farm near Colorado Springs. Then the mad idea took hold. He decided to found a resort town on part of the property.

He built a pleasure palace to lure buyers of lots. This ‘palace’, the Broadmoor Casino was on the shores of a 15-acre artificial lake that was stocked with trout. There were 32 Corinthian columns gracing its exterior, and its rooftop terrace offered a splendid view of the mountains. Inside there was a grand foyer, a double staircase leading to a grand ballroom and a concert hall, three dining rooms and a salon for the ladies.

Pourtales sited gaming rooms on the first floor. He intended to make profits from the sale of the liquor he supplied to the gamblers; he didn’t risk house funds on the games themselves. Method in his madness: Colorado Springs was a dry town.

A resident orchestra comprising European musicians played regularly; food was provided by a French chef.

Incredibly, he hired a lady parachutist to promote the resort: she landed in the lake but survived.

The grand opening of the casino was on 1 July, 1891.

However, Pourtales’ mad dream of a new township, Broadmoor City, wasn’t realised, since few wealthy punters bought lots. The Panic of ’93 depressed Colorado’s silver mining industry, which didn’t help, and within a short time Pourtales, burdened by the immense expenses that the Casino incurred, was declared bankrupt. Four years later, the Broadmoor Casino was destroyed by fire.

***

Inspired by this fascinating snippet of history, I decided to incorporate certain elements in my noir novel Coffin for Cash.

My nobleman is Baron Hans von Kempelen, aged 55. He is the owner of the Lenore Casino, near Green River.

Here is an excerpt:

Long before they reached the entrance to the casino complex, Cash and Corman rode past dozens of white-painted wooden posts, all lined up neatly: “Setting out the lots for the baron’s town plan,” Corman explained.

            Finally, an entrance arch of Doric columns declared “The Lenore Casino”. From here curved a wide drive bordered with sagebrush flowering yellow, red, pink and orange; mixed with these were sego lily and larkspur. The drive led to a long two-storey building, its veranda graced with a series of Corinthian columns. A rooftop terrace commanded a view of the surrounding countryside, and above the entrance doors, rising from the centre, was a latticework tower with a huge clock-face showing Roman numerals; a big metal pendulum swung below, partly visible through a long narrow window above the entrance.

            They tethered the horses at a hitching rail at the front steps.

            A good distance away on their right was a marble edifice, with a life-size winged angel on top.

            “That’s the baron’s little mausoleum,” Corman explained, his voice thick and laced with gravel. “It’s where his wife’s buried – minus her heart.”

            Then without saying more he led Cash up the steps and through the double doors. To one side was a Chinese sentry dressed in black and gold livery, brass buttons to his throat. He carried a sword at his belt but made no move to challenge Cash, recognising Corman.

            They entered an atrium clad in dark oak panels, the floor tiled with patterned marble. A double staircase swept to a landing with a series of double doors. “Up there,” Corman pointed, “is a ballroom, a concert hall and a couple of dining-rooms, a salon for the ladies and the baron’s private rooms.” The landing was almost on a level with the clock’s metronomic pendulum.

            Smartly dressed men and women strolled through the atrium, arm in arm, none of them taking any notice of Cash and Corman’s trail-dusted attire. Several Chinese in black and gold costumes moved to and fro, carrying newspapers, documents, and silver trays of drinks and cakes.

            Cash peered up and could distinctly hear the pendulum as it scythed through air.

            He lowered his gaze and spotted a man striding purposefully towards them.

            “Meet the baron,” Corman said, removing his hat.

            Baron von Kempelen was virtually the same height as Cash. He wore a monocle in his left eye, possessed a scar down his left cheek, and sported a Van Dyke moustache, which was as blond as his short-cropped hair. He wore a grey suit of cavalry twill, with waistcoat, and shining black shoes. Cash noted a slight bulge in the vest pocket; doubtless a derringer snug in there.

            “Corman, who is this with you?” the baron asked curtly.

            “Baron, sir, this here is US Marshal Laramie.”

            Appraising his clothes, the baron said, “You are not here for leisure, Marshal.”

            Cash took off his hat. “No, Baron. I’m here in an official capacity.” He glanced around. “Can we talk in private?”

            Von Kempelen’s unencumbered grey-green eye danced erratically then settled again on Cash. “You have me intrigued.” With one hand he made a shooing gesture to Corman. “Thank you, you can go now.”

            Wiping a hand over his bristly chin, Corman nodded. “Sure, Baron. I need to clean up.” He put on his hat, swung on his heel and went out the entrance doorway.

            “I noticed your interest in my clock,” the baron said, gazing at the swinging pendulum.

            “Yeah, it’s unusual. I reckon I can feel the breeze it makes as it swings.”

            “I had it specially made for me by a family acquaintance, Sigmund Riefler. The firm of Clemens Riefler is situated in Munich, my home city and it is known for its precision pendulum clocks.”

            “I’m impressed, Baron.”

            “German engineering is the best in the world, Marshal. Now, my office is not far. We will talk there.”

            “Fine by me, Baron. Lead on.”

            He was led to the right, through a double door that was guarded by a huge Chinese man in a smart black and gold suit and a sword with belt. They trod on thick carpets that went through three gaming rooms where patrons played on a variety of roulette wheels or card tables. Chinese male and female staff darted between people, serving trays of liquor. A smoke mist hovered above their heads; the ceiling, where visible, appeared stained.

            “Quite an enterprise you have here, Baron.”

            Von Kempelen chuckled. “It is my honey to attract the flies.” He didn’t elaborate and pushed open a door into a large office. (pp70-73)

Coffin for Cash

Available as a paperback or an e-book at these Amazon sites here

Book review - Upstairs Girls

*** ADULT CONTENT ***

This non-fiction history of prostitution in the American West by Michael Rutter (2005) is fascinating and illuminating in its many revelations. Known as the ‘oldest profession’, prostitution is sadly with us even today in Europe, notably due to mass immigration and open borders that allow free transit of criminal gangs and people traffickers. It’s not only in Europe, of course; every culture has prostitution.

The Hollywood myth of the harlot with a heart of gold has some truth in it, judging by a handful of profiles related here. But for the majority of working girls, their lives were miserable, tragic, and short-lived.

The Victorian sensibilities had been transferred to the Old West. There were ‘decent’ women and there were ‘sporting’ women. And the latter were not welcome in polite society or even in that part of town. Inevitably, red-light districts sprang up almost as soon as any new town was created.

A wide range of distressing circumstances could contribute to a woman joining ‘the sisterhood’. There were the ‘camp followers’ who went where the gold strikes offered easy pickings, where the railroads offered plenty of eager men with money to spend. There were those women who were abandoned, widowed, or even escaping abusive relationships, or perhaps destitute and starving. Their recourse was to enter a bawdy house. Maybe it was considered a temporary measure, but often it became permanent.

The book is a frank appreciation of Western women for hire. Possibly this profession above all others has the biggest vocabulary to describe its work-force: alley cat, bawd, belladonna, black-eyed susan, celestial, crib girl, cyprian, daughter of joy, demi-monde, dove, ebony Jezebel, fair sister, fallen angel, haute couture, hooker, lady of the night, nymph de prairie, prairie flower, shady lady, soiled dove, streetwalker, and upstairs girl, among many others.

There were different sorts of bordellos. Usually run by a madam, they might have the backing of a local wealthy businessman, a silent partner. Top of the scale were parlor houses, the elite of their kind, such as the Cheyenne Social Club (Cheyenne, Wyoming) and The Brick House (Virginia City, Nevada). The girls in these establishments kept half their ‘earnings’ and were well fed and clothed in the finest dresses, even wearing garments from France. They had to be young and retain their appeal, however, or they might have to move to the next lower rung in the pleasure ladder, the high-end brothels. Most of these places were still desirable with decent furnishing but not as fine. ‘The fallen angels weren’t old, but they might look slightly worn. The food in the bordello was good, the liquor was acceptable, but the wine list wasn’t as deep.’ (p19)

The so-called common brothel was the working man’s whorehouse. Those of less attractive countenance, who had started to lose their charm or youth, might find themselves here. These brothels were often located in dancehalls, saloons, gambling halls or apartment buildings.

Next, the low-end brothels were shabby, where the women were not in their prime. ‘In smaller towns they might be friendly and personable, though in cities they tended to be drab.’ (p21)

A cottage girl was an independent contractor, who had no madam or pimp. This was a precarious route for many, yet a few were very successful and made their fortunes.

‘At the bottom of the prostitution hierarchy was the crib girl, who worked out of a crib house.’ (p22)  A crib girl had somewhere to trade, at least. Streetwalkers plied their business outdoors in the main, and in winter a good number would freeze to death.

The trade in California was diabolical, most especially for Chinese women and girls. Some of them were sold to pay family debts; when they were too old to be attractive to men they would serve as cook, maid or field worker. The notorious madam Ah Toy tricked or bought unsuspecting girls cheaply, most not yet in their teens. She was brutal and a cruel taskmaster. The tongs, corrupt police and officials made their fortunes off Chinatown’s prostitution, gambling and opium. Many members of charitable groups in San Francisco risked life and limb to steal girls from brothels and given them a proper education.

Historian Rutter doesn’t flinch from writing about the occupational hazards faced by the upstairs girls – physical abuse, pregnancy, drug and alcohol addiction, sexual diseases and, not surprisingly, murder and suicide.

Another group of women sometimes linked with the profession were not usually on the game at all, but simply danced and entertained. These were the hurdy gurdy girls, the dancehall and saloon girls. They’d either entertain on stage or charge men for a dance. Miners fresh from the fields would pay a small fortune simply to hold a woman and dance with her. Despite their ostensibly innocent occupation, these women were condemned by the local communities. Gradually, as towns became established, moral purity movements fought against the trade, effectively pushing it underground.

A significant part of the book relates the stories of significant ladies of the night, among them Fanny Porter, the madam with a heart of gold, Laura Bullion, a Wild Bunch camp follower, Mattie Silks, Big Nose Kate, who was Doc Holliday’s lover, Poker Alice, and Mary Ellen Pleasant, the mother of the civil rights movement. They’re heart-breaking tales, most of them, and yet a good number of these women used their dubious profession to gain rank and importance and even own property and wield considerable power in their communities, despite having no such thing as ‘women’s rights’.