writing assignment evaluation ...

"this is paradise"-- lewis and clark

Hi Diallo,
I like your opening paragraph. The rest of it reads well, too. I have really taken to Waldo, his modesty—and how he bumbles into things. A great character.
There are just a few corrections [in these brackets], nothing much.
There is a lot of narrative and although it's interesting, just remember that sometimes a lot of narrative can cause a reader to skip read. Sometimes you can pare it a bit and then insert the information within dialogue elsewhere in the story. I like your characters' names. You describe all your characters well. Well-described action scene, too.
If you have mentioned real people after doing research on this, it might be an idea to mention your research sources at the end of the book. Some readers whose interest is piqued might like to read those research books themselves. Just an idea. Often I've read a historical novel and then searched for the books the author has used, wanting to read more about the historical events she or he has drawn from.

I like a lot about this and I have enjoyed reading your work these past weeks.

I wish you all the best with your writing, Diallo.

Ce

thankyou Ce for all you kindness and encourgement. the characters and names from these scenes are all of fictional people who just "popped into my head" from all the books , tv shows and films i've ingested as a kid .

young people don't believe me when i say it , but back when i was a kid it seemed that almost every night on prime time tv there was at least one show set in the old west ,or during world war two ,or was about some " private eye" .

this may be why the western / frontier genre has an appeal for me . thanks again ,

D

now, all i have to do is find something to write about that other people might actually want to read . ; 0 )

"the nature of valor "--part 2

buffalo hunt on the southern plains

1806 painting --lewis and clark marveled at the abundant game , wild life, plants and fruit trees of the region and wrote repeatedly in their journals "this is paradise." later explorers remarked, "the plains are a sea of grass and black with herds of bison"--estimates place buffalo populations at 30 to 60 million before the US civil war

1870 --man atop a mountain totally consisting of buffalo skulls

1870s pile of buffalo hides--by 1880s the herds had been reduced from 30 to 60 million to less than one hundred--almost extinction levels--the greatest animal kill off in human history

When I arrived in Bingham it was amazing how much the town had grown since I’d last seen it. Like the outskirts had been steadily rolling forward, farther away from the center of town, rushing out to greet you. The next amazing thing was that I’d forgotten my pockets were empty, completely neglecting the fact you really need some serious money in these towns.

For years I didn’t have to worry about money, I’d just bring in some furs to swap. Some deerskin, elk, mule deer, pronghorn antelope, or buffalo robes. Wolf, puma, lynx, bobcat, otter ,and beaver pelts. That, or just some fresh game meat to trade, but everything was different now. The bottom dropped out of the fur trade--first, as otter and beaver became more and more impossible to find and later, the slaughter of the bison herds caused a glut in buffalo robes that dropped prices down to almost zero and put the nail in the coffin for the fur trade.

I was scouting around town, sizing the place up before asking strangers about Major Carleton, and just when I was thinking I’d stop at one of the stables to see if I could shovel out the stalls for some pocket money and a bed later that night up in the straw loft--I saw a crowd gathering.

This tall gent in a frock coat was standing out in the street yelling he’s got 50 dollars in gold pieces--five Golden Eagles--for any man who can put up five dollars and last three rounds with the middleweight boxing champion of Dublin--“Irish Jimmy Doyle“. This little feller’s out there with his shirt off and jumping around showing off his footwork, boxing his shadow.

The tall gent looks at me and says, “What about you, Tex? You want a chance at this 50 in gold?“ he jingles the coins together to make it all sound more enticing.

‘Well, I wouldn’t mind having those Eagles jingling my pockets, but I don’t have five dollars. Fact is, I was looking for a little odd work around here, maybe for…”

“Never mind, Tex. No money, no chance. You couldn’t win anyway.”

Frock Coat dismissing me like that started to make me curious if I could take the little feller. He didn’t look that tough to me. And suddenly, this cowboy-- looking like he’d been ‘tying one on’ all night--starts waving his money in the air and hollering, “I got five on Tex !” Then a stout feller in a barkeep’s apron pulls out some money and says, ” I got ten on the little man. “

Before I can say anything, people are pulling out more money than I’ve seen in some banks and are making bets left and right--for me--against me.

I try again to tell them I don’t have five dollars, but a bunch of folks, throw in a nickel there, two bits here, a dollar there--until there’s more than five dollars. Now, everybody’s looking at me.
” Well, what are you gonna do? You gonna fight him, Tex?”

It was like I’d been down this trail before. Too many times. Everybody looking at me and expecting something. I could recall old faces, their voices still whispering inside my head .

“Sergeant Cantrell, they’ve fixed bayonets and they’re forming up skirmish lines--Do we fight or run? What are we gonna do? “

“Waldo, it looks like the Cheyenne are coming --What are we gonna do? Maybe we should run ?”

I figured that despite all of Jimmy Doyle’s fancy boxing, he wasn’t big enough to really hurt me. I could last the three rounds and win that fifty dollars. With five Golden Eagles I wouldn’t have to shovel manure and sleep in a hayloft near the animals--I could sleep in a bed like a human being. I could buy tobacco, cloth, a few sacks of flour, some beans and salt meat as gifts--I wouldn’t have to face the embarrassment of visiting my Kiowa in-laws empty handed. With 50 dollars, I wouldn’t seem so destitute when I found Major Carleton and asked him to help me get my army back pay. There seemed a lot more reasons to try my luck against skinny Irish Jimmy’s footwork and quick little fists, than not.

Once again as the crowd swarmed ,whooped and roared, the “great” Waldo Cantrell felt that same familiar helplessness that overwhelmed me so many times before, as the pull of events bigger than myself--were irresistibly drawing me forward.

After the first round, I have to admit I hadn’t landed one good punch--yet I was pretty well spent. My face felt like a swarm of hornets used it for target practice. My jaw was numb and the old legs had no spring left in them. Guess old Waldo may not be as young as he once was.

I was about to call it quits, when all of a sudden, it popped into my head to grab the little feller--which I did, and tossed him to the ground--on his head. He wasn’t hurt too bad--he was still breathing--but was knocked out cold. And Frock Coat was jumping up and down yelling that I had fouled Jimmy--calling for me to be disqualified.

“Disqualified how ?” yelled the drunken cowboy.

I was just glad it was over--too beat up and exhausted to speak.

Frock Coat continued to argue and the crowd--the ones betting on me as a long shot--started getting ugly. Finally, this ancient-looking clown in patched pants and run over shoes with an old Confederate nine-shot LeMat pistol strapped to his hip, intervened. He pointed to me and announced, “I rule in this man’s favor .”

“Who the hell are you?” Frock Coat asked .

“ The Honorable MacArthur T. Foley--acting 13th circuit court judge for these territories. “ The Judge pulled back his own coat revealing the considerable firepower in the holster he was wearing.

“ This man cheated!” Frock Coat yelled pointing at me. “He threw Jimmy on his head --violated Marquis of Queensberry Rules.“

“No sir, “ Foley replied, “You never stipulated what rules were in effect. Under London Prize Ring Rules, holds, throws and spiked shoes-within reason- are all legal. Your man had 30 seconds to rest after going down and eight seconds more to get back out there ready to fight. Your boy’s been out cold for more than a minute now. Rules say if a fighter fails to ‘come to scratch’ in 38 seconds--the fighter left standing at the ‘scratch line’ where the fight began--in this case, that pathetic-looking Texan over there--wins the bout. “

The judge had given his verdict--the crowd--the ones that bet on me--cheered. The five Golden Eagles felt good in my palm--even better in my pocket--but my hands told me my face was raw meat.

“ Thank you, your honor,” I said through swollen, bleeding lips .

“Go to hell, Tex. I lost five dollars on that imbecile. Personally, I thought he’d kill you.“

“Sorry for not dying, your honor,” sarcasm eased the pain of my swollen face.

“ You can at least buy me a drink--you Texas ingrate.“ Foley grumbled.

“Ain’t from Texas.”

The drunken cowboy staggered over, grabbed my arm and held it up in victory.
“We got the new middleweight champeen of Dublin, Ireland right here! Tex…uhhh…Tex…What‘s your surname, Tex?”

“Name ain’t Tex, It’s Waldo, ” I told him.

“ Tex Waldo--the new champ!“ the cowboy’s whiskey continued babbling. “We got the title--Dublin’s gotta come fight us, they want it back!“

“Waldo?“ Foley’s ears picked up like a curious mule. “Not Waldo Cantrell?”

I nodded my head.

“You’re Waldo Cantrell? THE Waldo Cantrell?” asked Foley.

“ Afraid so.”

“ MY GOD, Man! Why the hell didn’t you tell us?”

Foley pulled the LeMat from its holster pointed up into the air and fired three blasts. The noisy bunch of rowdies froze.

“Boys , we got a genuine American hero among us! Hero of the battles of Cero Gordo and Vera Cruz. Hero of Vicksburg and Chattanooga, hero of the battle of Adobe Plains--and now the undisputed middleweight champion of Dublin, Ireland--Ladies and Gentlemen--I give you Waldo Cantrell !

Before I could utter a word they snatched me up in the air on their shoulders. Hauled me like a sack of potatoes to the nearest saloon. The back patting and drink buying went ahead as scheduled. It smelled like wildfire again --best I could do was warm my feet. It was crazy.

the nature of valor

passengers shooting buffalo from a train for sport and abandoning the carcasses


The uninterrupted vainglory streams may be deceptive. Tom and I could joke about "sterling reputations" because we knew I viewed that "hero" stuff as loads of bull twaddle. He would sometimes pester me about it. "Waldo, how's it feel to be a hero?" He used to grate my nerves with it. "What's it like to be a hero?" My pat answer became, "Whenever I meet one, I'll ask."

Part of it was, I never set out to be heroic. Everything that was done made perfect sense at the time. Then afterwards, people ask you why you did it--like you planned it all out, or something. For a long time I couldn't explain it to anyone, and this grew to bother me-like looking at your own hands and unable to explain why you have fingers. But one day, Tom kept pestering me about it--finally an answer popped out .

"A hero doesn't stop to sort things out in order to figure what's right and wrong. A hero's mainly some poor fool thrown by fate into some god-awful quandary and before he drowns in what he's been thrown into, he somehow, does what's right before his better sense can stop him."

"Then, everybody pats him on the back, buys him drinks, tells and retells the story of his 'deeds' until even he doesn't recognize it anymore, and right, or wrong, his 'legend' is born. Once that legend's wildfire gets burning, there's nothing he can do to stop it. Not much he can do except maybe take off his moccasins and warm his feet."

"I've lent it lots of thought," Tom responded. "A hero inspires others--just by his presence--to heroic acts. If Dan Brady's about to throw lead with those crazy Spence boys, I like to think I'd ride to the midst of the fray, and help him out. But when I saw it was you against the Spences--alone--there was nothing to 'think'. I knew what needed doing and just, 'did'.

Sometimes Tom's reasoning couldn't be argued with. I hoped he wasn't catching my 'dreadful disease'.

I had some money due to me as pay from my days scouting for the army. The talk with Tom that night about us partnering on a horse ranch, gave that army money new importance. Months ago, I had put in a claim, but had heard nothing from them. It may have had something to do with those hearings I testified at.

Major Carleton, writing all those letters and giving all those interviews to the newspapers was the one who got the hearings called.

During the Cheyenne-Arapaho uprising, he was the officer I reported to. He named me his 'liaison' with the army's Indian scouts. Hell, I didn't even know what 'liaison' meant, but I acted as a go-between for the army and its Indian scouts. I lived with them and spent most of that campaign out in the field with them--usually deep in hostile territory. Those Indian scouts trusted me and kept their part of the bargain. Washington miserably failed in keeping its word to them after they had risked horrible death from the hostiles, by working for us..

Major Carleton was a decent man who shunned the luxuries of his position for the hardships of a field command. He ate what his men ate, lived as they lived, enduring every hardship and danger they faced. His men greatly respected him for this--they would have followed him anywhere. He battled both the enemies before him in the field and the ones above him--the incompetents issuing his orders. In my sight he was more hero than I ever was--or could be, but never got anywhere near the appreciation he deserved.

The Indians respected him too because he was a fair and decent man. Always kept his word. When the wars ended, the government didn't need his Indian scouts anymore. They fired us all. None of us ever got what was promised. We each got medals with fancy ribbons for dedicated service and bravery, but little else.

Washington promised our Indian scouts they could keep their homelands 'inperpetuity'
--the Major said that meant forever, but as soon as the wars ended--they were pushed off their lands--a 'new' treaty shoved down their throats by people who knew nothing about them and cared nothing for them.

The Major was as angry over this as I was. I had helped convince the Indians to work for us as scouts for the army during this war. Bloody Wolf, his sons, Touch the Stars, and Left Hand trusted me. Left Hand risked himself and saved my life when the Arapaho shot the horse out from under me. All they got for being our exemplary friends, was lied to.

The Major was riled enough that he left the army and applied for and got the job of Indian agent for the Kiowa. Of course he couldn't get their lands returned but as long as he was their agent they got every penny's worth of food and goods the treaty stipulated. All, quality merchandise, but still it was a pittance compared to the worth of the lands they were forced to give up.

Well, you probably know the rest. Somebody out here with friends back in Washington smelled money and couldn't live with the idea of Indians getting exactly what they had been promised. Washington recalled the Major as Indian agent due to 'conflict of interest' They didn't think he was impartial enough --too much of an advocate for the Kiowa over the interests and needs of his own government.

The feller they put in to replace the Major would kick the legs out from under his own Grandma to keep her from picking up a penny they both saw. First thing he did was cancel the old procurement contracts and switched to new contractors. Everybody out here knew the new contracts were issued to old cronies and pals of the new Indian agent. The flour and cornmeal being bought with government money for the Kiowa was soon full of weevils, the blankets and clothing--old moth-eaten rags, the livestock, diseased and the meats rotten. The Kiowa were dying like flies.

The Major wrote many more letters, talked to more newspaper reporters, got good people to sign petitions and finally stirred up enough fuss to get a congressman to come all the way out here and investigate.

The Major testified. He sent for me and others to tell what we knew--the public was appalled--things changed a little, but six months later--it was a forgotten issue. Times were getting harder--especially after the latest banking panic back east. The government was looking to save money. Congress cut the budget for Indian Affairs--reelection was coming up--they didn't want to seem too lavish spending taxpayers dollars on Indians with so many people back east outta work. Of course the railroads and mining companies seemed to get whatever federal monies and land concessions they asked for.

Some folks manage to always do well no matter how hard times get. They live well, they do well whether the rest of the world is flush or flat. The biggest problem for them is where to seek their daily entertainment. And they work hard to solve that problem. With the railroads making travel so quick, safe and reliable, we first heard and read about, and then actually saw, the "well-to-do" taking comfortable little entertainment excursions by train to see the west. As the railroads expanded, what the newspapers called "travel junkets" became the newest sign of progress.

But there was also a flood of new travelers that came west for a better life because of that particular banking collapse and panic--it was always like that. The west, the army, and the jails absorbed people there wasn't any work for back east. Treaty obligations with Indians got pushed to the wayside by other "more important matters". I wonder what'll happen in hard times, some day, when they are fresh out of west to expand into? No more 'new' lands out here to takeover and push into. What will they do then?

The Major warned me before he asked me to testify, that I'd likely be 'persona non grata'--unwelcome person as far as the army and the government were concerned. Was he right on the bull's eye with that! But I didn't care anymore about a job with the army as their scout. I just wanted the $1500 in back pay and war bonuses they owed me.

So then, next morning, after my business partnership with Tom Reed began--with thoughts of our horse ranch in my mind--I said 'so-long' to Tom and Dan Brady and left them to run their little 'errand' for Joss Seward. I headed over towards the direction of the Kansas border to see if the Major was still around and could help me with getting the government to pay me my money.

While I was in the vicinity, of course, it would be poor manners if I didn't stop in and pay my respects to my friend Bloody Wolf, and his sons. I figured they were the closest thing to family that I probably had remaining. I had been briefly married to Bloody Wolf's daughter. This still made him my father-in-law and Touch the Stars and Left Hand, my brothers in law. But my wife, Whispers Her Name, and our daughter, Peeka, were both deceased-- unfortunate victims of an inter-tribal raid by Arapaho warriors shortly before the Cheyenne-Arapaho wars with the US army began.