MY BOOKS --

Here are all my books to date, from my very first effort, published in 2005, to my latest, from 2011.
If you wish to comment, I would be happy to hear from you. Comments, criticisms, questions -- have at it! (See just below here.)

KYE BAY
A Novel
Adventure/Romance
by Brian F Turner

Josie and Danny couldn't be more different when they meet. They first see each other in a Montreal train station. Josie is a shy, intelligent girl from small-town Quebec, just new in the Air Force. Danny is a street-wise, free-spirited kid from the West Coast.
It is 1955; the Cold War is at its peak as the two fall in love and try to make a life together. They work hard and party hard with their friends and crew-mates. Their Air Force duties and many other forces combine to make this a rich, realistic story of young adults striving to find some meaning in their lives.

THE BRASS CHRONICLE
A Novel
Frontier Western
by Brian F Turner

Fifteen-year-old Francois Brassard escapes from the law after avenging the murder of his brother. He changes his name and, as "Frank Brass," finds adventure and danger on the northern plains. Eventually, after scrapes with the law and the Sioux, young Frank finds himself in the Canadian border country. As a hunter for the Northwest Mounted Police, he meets and befriends the Blackfeet Indians.
With his Blackfeet friends, he hunts buffalo, raids other tribes for ponies and marries a beatiful Piegan girl. He sees firsthand the Indians' confusion and anger as their way of life gives way to a new order, and he is eventually forced to deal with the brutality of his own race.

THE BRASS STAR
A Novel
Frontier Western
By Brian F Turner

After taking terrible vengeance on the murderers of his wife and baby, twenty-eight-year-old Frank Brass follows up on an invitation to become a lawman.
He makes his way to wild Ellsworth, Kansas, where he establishes a reputation as a Deputy Marshal. Later, in Laramie, Wyoming, he becomes the County Sheriff and deals with thieves and murderers. As a Deputy U.S. Marshal, he contends with organized big ranchers that declare war on smaller outfits, shooting and lynching throughout Wyoming.
Brass eventually has to avenge the murder of one of his own deputies and his young fiance. Along the way, he falls in love with the widow of a man he is forced to gun down.

SHORTY AND SLIM
A Collection of Short Stories
Western Humor
by Brian f Turner

WHERE ARE MY BOOKS AVAILABLE?

Where are my books available? I thought you would never ask! All of my books are available for purchase at Amazon.com as Kindle e-books. Just go to Amazon.com, select "Books" and type in "Brian F Turner." My books will be displayed. Amazon offers a free "Kindle for PC" which you can download to you PC and it will enable you to purchase and read Kindle e-books on your monitor or you can purchase a Kindle reader to carry around with you.

Book Talk

Here are some "teasers" from my novels.
I welcome your comments and questions about my books or any related topic.

KYE BAY
a Novel
by Brian F Turner

A story about young people who join the Canadian Air Force in the 1950s. Josie and Danny couldn't be more different when they meet; Josie is a beautiful, sensitive girl from small town Quebec and Danny is a street-wise kid from the West Coast.

In the first sample, Josie and Danny meet for the first time in a Montreal train station:

MONTREAL—MARCH 5^th, 1955

A bitterly cold breeze blew down Dorchester Street outside Montreal’s Windsor Station. Wind-blown grains of dry snow skittered along the pavement, pristine whiteness turning to gray city snow, grimy and icy-hard where it gathered low along curbs and at the base of buildings. Danny shivered at the sight from inside the overheated taxi as it stopped in front of the station.

Leading Aircraftman Danny Tanner was catching a train on that morning only because he couldn’t get tickets to a hockey game. Had the Canadiens’ game at the Forum against Detroit not been sold out he would have stayed over one more night in Montreal. He wasn’t due in Vancouver for six days, leaving him two to spare, but he felt pressed now to get away from the cold Quebec winter, to the warmer clime of the Pacific Coast.

He climbed from the cab, paid the fare and waited as the driver retrieved his luggage from the trunk; a nylon flight bag and small leather Gladstone. Before he headed for the entrance he set his bags down on the sidewalk to grope through his uniform pockets for his ticket; he knew he had brought it but couldn’t remember where he put it. After much searching and some mild frustration he felt the chill through his light Air Force raincoat, so he picked up the bags and made his way through the early morning crowd into the station. Inside, he searched again and found the ticket in a side pocket of the flight bag. He transferred the ticket to his tunic and headed for the reservation desk.

Halfway across the huge waiting room he looked up at a clock on the far wall. The only wristwatch he ever owned had been left in a pawnshop in Moncton, New Brunswick, having helped to finance a return trip from Halifax to Sept Isles, Quebec. The big clock said twenty to eight—0740 hours Air Force, meaning he had fifty minutes before his train to Vancouver was scheduled to depart. He stopped, made a decision and, lugging his two bags, headed toward the washrooms at one end of the station.

In the washroom he used the urinal, and then set his bags down next to an unused basin. Stuffing his service cap in the front of his uniform tunic, he splashed cold water over his face and head, then carefully combed his straw-blond hair, taking three tries to get it just right. He wore his hair slightly longer than regulation, about as long as he could get away with. As he pondered his reflection he muttered, “You look like hell, Danny-boy.” He looked like hell this morning for the same reason he felt like hell—he was nursing a truly nasty hangover. Danny had just completed a two-week training course at nearby St. Hubert and on their last night in Montreal he and some classmates tried to drink their way from one end of Ste. Catherines Street to the other. They didn’t complete the mission but it was the second best attempt Danny had ever participated in. Finished at the wash basin, he set his “yankee-ized” wedge cap firmly on his head just above the brow line.

He left the washroom and was strolling in no great haste toward the ticket windows when he saw her for the first time.

Her Air Force dress blue uniform caught his eye. She walked at an angle away from him, thirty feet distant. He managed only a three-quarter-rear view but he could see she sported a nice figure and good legs, slim ankles evident even through the Air Force issue “bullet-proof” nylons. Before he could get a closer look she disappeared around a corner in the direction of the ladies’ washrooms and his interest passed to other things.

He continued on to the ticket windows where he spent five minutes successfully convincing a woman behind the counter to change his sleeping car berth, from the upper his travel warrant allowed, to a lower. His charm was such that the woman declined his offer of five dollars for the favor. From there he went to the baggage counter to check the larger flight bag through to Vancouver, keeping the Gladstone with him for the trip.

As he turned from the counter he got a second look at her. She stood fifteen feet away reading a schedule board; a small girl, no taller than five-one or two, and well distributed. Even in her uniform she showed a remarkably narrow waist and shapely bust. It was her face that caught and held Danny’s attention; he was sure he had never seen a prettier girl. As he stared, she turned and directed a rather formal smile at him, and in return, he flashed the always captivating Number-One-Tanner-Smile and approached her.

He said, “Hello, there…”

She hesitated for a second, then turned without a word and walked away toward the washrooms again.

What’s this? As an Alpha Male of the species, he was not accustomed to such a reaction! His best effort had never before been received with such haughty indifference. The usual reaction to the pit-lamp brilliance of The-Tanner-Smile was for the intended prey to freeze in place, his for the taking; and he had just flashed the Number-One. He handled the unfamiliar setback bravely, Okay, little doll, there’s plenty more in this wide world. Won’t it be interesting if we’re both catching the same train! Could you be heading west? He went to find a seat at the benches near the track stairs.

When he found an unoccupied seat, he put his bag on the bench beside him, fished out a copy of Time and was soon submerged in yet another crisis in the Middle East.

He had been sitting for ten minutes when he heard a small voice say, “L.A.C.?”

He looked up and there she stood, right in front of his seat. Risking sending her running for the washrooms again, he mustered up The-Tanner-Smile and said, “Well, hello!”

She stayed put this time. Close up, her beauty was confirmed—short blonde hair, lighter than his, oval face featuring a small turned-up nose, big gray eyes slanting slightly upward, long lashes, and lips that looked impossibly soft.

As he gaped, he somehow managed to keep The-Number-One-Tanner-Smile from turning into The-Number-One-Tanner-Stupid-Grin. She smiled, too, and he knew it was the loveliest thing he would ever see. Then her smile faded and a troubled look took its place.

She said, “L.A.C., I-I am sorry to bother you…I’m ’oping you could ’elp me?”

She’s French, he thought, and she’s worried or scared about something.

“I’ll sure give it a try,” he said. “You look awful serious—what can I do to help?”

She seemed encouraged. “L.A.C., there are two, um, Army guys…they are giving me a ’ard time … since I came ‘ere this morning. You know, saying bad things, swearing and…”

“I understand. Where are these guys now?”

She pointed to an exit door. “That’s them, those two by the door. They keep following me around.” Danny thought he saw the shine of beginning tears. There were two army Privates standing in an archway leading to the exit.

He said, “Listen, you sit down here and watch my bag. I’ll see what I can do.”

She grabbed his sleeve. “You won’t ‘ave trouble? I wouldn’t want you …”

“No. It’s no sweat. Stay here, I’ll be right back.” As he started toward the two men in khaki, he thought, Man! This couldn’t be better. As long as I don’t end up taking a shit-kicking. Oh, baby, please be on my train!  

As he neared the two men they started to stroll away.

He shouted, “HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, SOLDIER! I WANT A WORD WITH YOU!”

They turned. The taller of the two said, “You talkin’ to us?”

“I sure as hell am, Private!” said Danny. He could see by their uniforms and demeanor that they were green recruits. He figured they would be afraid of any authority and not familiar with Air Force ranks and insignia; wouldn’t know that his rank only equaled that of an army Lance Corporal. The hard part might be convincing them he wasn’t a bus driver or something. He ran his bluff. “That’s an Air Force Nursing Sister over there.” He gestured toward his seat and the little Airwoman, “In case you didn’t know it, a nurse is an officer! She tells me you two have been disrespectful. Now you listen up! If you so much as go near her again…”

The tall soldier interrupted him, “We weren’t doing …”

Danny cut him off. He was in the man’s face now—and into his role. “I AM DOING THE TALKING HERE, SOLDIER! YOU ARE LISTENING! IS THAT CLEAR?”

The same man sneered. “Who the hell are you, the King of England?” he asked.

“AS FAR AS YOU’RE CONCERNED, PRIVATE SMART MOUTH, I AM JUST THAT!” He lowered his voice for emphasis. “Now, unless you want to spend a month or two polishing garbage cans in some Detention Barracks, you’ll listen and listen good.” He raised his voice again; “I WANT YOU TWO OUT OF MY SIGHT AND NOWHERE NEAR THE NURSE! NOW—HAVE YOU GOT IT?”

Smart-mouth started to speak again, then suddenly both soldiers snapped to attention and the shorter one saluted smartly. Danny didn’t notice his “nurse” arrive behind him. She had approached to see what was taking place, fearing there might be trouble. When he realized she was there, he stepped in front of her and spoke quickly, before she could blow the operation.

He used the Air Force term for addressing a Nursing Sister; “Everything’s under control, Sister, these men are moving-along now.” He turned back to the soldiers, “Carry-on, Privates. Quick now!” As they hurried away he took her by the arm and led her back to his seat.

“But, L.A.C., I’m not a nurse.” she exclaimed.

“Of course you’re not. Jesus Chr…I thought you were supposed to be watching my bag?” When they got back to the seat he was relieved to see his Gladstone still there.

“Oh,” she said, “I think you were tricking those guys!”

“No kidding,” he said dryly.

She said, “I was, um, afraid you might ‘ave trouble…”

“Not a chance; they’re just punks. Typical Army. As long as I’m around they won’t give you any more trouble.” Just me, now, sweetheart, he didn’t say. He flashed The Smile again, “Why don’t you sit here until your train time.”

She sat beside him, saying, “Thank you, L.A.C.”

“My name’s Danny—you don’t call an L.A.C. by his rank.”

“I want to thank you for your ‘elp, L.A.C., um, I mean … Danny? Me, I’m Josie. Connor. My name I mean. It’s Josie Connor.” She paused. “At training we ‘ad to call an L.A.C. by his rank. I am sorry I forgot about your suitcase, Danny.”

He was amused and enchanted by the way she jumbled her topics.

“Aw, don’t worry about it. It’s just that you gotta watch your stuff in these places.”

“I guess there is so much to remember when you travel. Have you traveled a lot? You’ve been a long time in the Air Force I think. Me, I’m just new from training, at Aylmer, in Ontario. I ‘ad one week of leave after my course finished so I came to my father’s. It’s ‘ere in Quebec, at Sherbrooke. I left two days early…to make sure I…you know…” She blushed at the admission of travelers’ anxiety.

He would let her believe he was an old veteran. “So, where’re you headed now?”

“I’m posted to Comox. It’s in British Columbia. I’m not sure what part. At Vancouver, I think.”

He grinned and shook his head. “Not quite, Josie. Comox is nowhere near Vancouver.”

“They said it’s at Vancouver Island, so it’s Vancouver…no…?” She finished lamely when she saw him still shaking his head.

He chuckled. “It’s a real big island. You’ll be taking a ferry—a boat—across part of the ocean.” He paused. “Josie, eh? You have a nice name, it’s different.”

Showing her lovely smile, she said, “Thank you. It’s French…” The giggle that followed was music. “I think you could tell I’m French by the way I…by my accent.” Then she frowned. “Danny, will my ticket get me to that big island?”

“Let me have a look at it.” She took the ticket from her purse and handed it to him. He looked it over and said, “Looks okay. It’s to Courtenay… about five miles from Comox. I guess you’ll get a taxi from there, or phone the base for transport.”

“Oh. Good.” She sighed.

“Y’know what? We’re going west on the same train. I’m on my way back to Jericho. It’s a base, by the way, that is in Vancouver. So we can have company…at least somebody to talk to. It’s four days to the coast, and three nights.” He started to return her ticket, then pulled it back and looked again. “Whoa. Gotta see what we can do about this, though. Come with me.” He picked up his bag and led her by the hand toward the ticket windows. Ten feet from the windows, he stopped her and said, “Wait here, Josie. Don’t move and don’t say a word!” He went up to a man at the window.

Danny said, “I’d like to speak to that lady over there, please.” He pointed to the woman who changed his berth earlier. She looked up and came over to the counter. He gave her The Tanner Smile.

“How may I help y…oh, it’s you again. Don’t tell me—you want to ride with the Engineer now, right?”

He said, “Good one. You’re really funny!” The Smile turned up, then down. “Seriously, though, as much as I hate to bother you—it seems the Air Force has made a mistake…” It had worked once. “That nurse over there.” He pointed to Josie. “Well, I’m officially escorting her. Nurses are officers and I know they’re entitled to a lower berth and they gave her an upper.” As he pushed Josie’s ticket to her he said, “By the way, I like the way you do your hair, it reminds me of my mom. Anyway…if you have any lowers left…?”

The woman laughed. “You never give up, eh? Give me a minute, flyboy.” She turned away, sighed, whispered, “His mom, yet.” She took a list from a slot and looked it over for a few seconds. “Well, it looks like your nurse is in luck. Give me the ticket.” She made the change and handed him the new ticket. “She’s not in the same car as you but I kind of think that won’t slow you down.”

You better believe it won’t! “Thanks, ma’am. I love ya.” As he turned, he didn’t hear her mutter something about his loving anything in a skirt.

When he got back to Josie he gave her the ticket, saying, “There. You’re all fixed up.”

She asked, “What were you doing there?”

He replied, “Oh, just getting you a lower berth for the trip. Those uppers are a real pain in the…”

She interrupted. “Oh, oh. I think maybe I’m a nurse again?”

“Hey, you’re pretty sharp. You don’t have to thank me. I’d do the same for any good-looking babe. By the way, don’t you have any luggage?”

“I sent most of my things ahead; I ‘ave just one case for the train. I put it in one of those lockers.” She looked at him sternly. “Danny, I don’t think I like to be called ‘babe’ ─ the same as you don’t like L.A.C., I guess.”

“Fair enough. It’s just a figure of speech.” Not exactly an apology. “We’d better get your bag, we’ll be boarding soon.”

She led the way to a bank of gray metal lockers, found the key in her purse, located her locker and took a suitcase out.

When they got back to the seats they heard their train announced by the impersonal, metallic voice of the public address:

“Passengers for Canadian Pacific Train Number One…Vistadome Service…for Ottawa…Sudbury…Winnipeg…Regina…Calgary…and Vancouver! Now boarding…on track three.”

“That’s us,” said Danny.

Hundreds of people were instantly on their feet, all headed for the wide stairway leading down to track level. Danny and Josie joined the throng. As they moved along with the other passengers, she nervously checked to see if she left anything behind, mentally ticking-off items. Suitcase in hand. Purse on shoulder strap. Ticket…in purse. She even unconsciously touched her cap, as if to verify its presence on her head.

Watching her, he couldn’t suppress a grin. “Got everything? How about your shoes? You didn’t check them yet.”

With an embarrassed smile, she said, “Shut up, you. You’re mean. We’re going so far, it’s best to check before…”

“Don’t sweat it. If you forgot anything I’ll just tell the engineer he has to back up to Montreal I’m sure he won’t mind for you!”

She looked at him askance. “Not even you, I think.”

At the bottom of the stairs they paused. In the comparative gloom under the station, she took in the sounds and sights. To her right the big diesel engine that would pull their train wheezed, grunted and hissed—as if impatient to be on the move.

Danny wanted to stand aside and wait for the crush of humanity on the platform to thin out. But Josie was far too anxious to wait. After a minute she said, “See? People are getting on now. Shouldn’t we ‘urry?”

“Okay, Nervous Nelly. Stick close to me. Check your ticket and see what car you’re on.”

He led her through the crowd toward the sleeper cars. At her car they waited in line to board, getting bumped from behind by other anxious passengers.

Holding her hat, she said, “Perhaps you were right, Danny. We should have waited.” She had to half-shout to be heard.

He answered with an I-told-you-so shrug.

They came to an elderly black Porter standing by the portable step to Josie’s car. Taking her arm, the Porter helped her up into the car.

She said, “Thank you. I’m in number fourteen…” Then with a sly grin over her shoulder at Danny, “That is fourteen lower, please.”

Danny hopped up beside her.

She said, “Are you in this car too, Danny?”

“No. I think I’m a couple of cars ahead. Can you spot your berth?”

She looked past other passengers. “There it is. Number fourteen.” A couple of steps farther then, “Right…here. Shouldn’t you get on at your own car?”

“I’ll go through the train. Before I go…I wanted to ask you…could we get together for lunch? You have to go through my car to get to the diner.” He nodded at the front of the car. “It’s forward from here. Come and get me when they call for lunch. I’ll watch for you.”

“I would love that, Danny.”

“Okay! I’ll see you later, then.” On his way to the end of the car he stopped and spoke to the Porter who was now inside. He waved to her before he went through the door to the next car.

Josie sat down in the forward facing of the two seats. The other seat in number fourteen wasn’t occupied. As she watched the bustle on the platform outside her car, and her fellow passengers settling in, the Porter came with a pillow for her.

“The young gen’man says I got to look after you real good ‘cause this is y’first trip. Anything y’need, just give me a shout.”

She said, “You are so kind.” Then, with a sharp intake of breath, “Oh, I feel so stupid! I forgot to give you a tip when I got on…” She reached for her purse.

Holding up a hand to stop her, he whispered, “No, Ma’am. You’re most kind but it’s customary to give a little something at the end of my trip in Win’peg, Ma’am.”

Her face reddened. “Oh. I see. I’ll make sure I do that. I ‘ave not traveled much…yet.”

“That’s quite all right. Don’t forget ─ anything y’be needin’ you just give ol’ Will a shout.” As he walked away, he fingered Danny’s five dollar bill in his pocket.  

It was ten minutes before the train started to slowly move out of the station. Like most of the other passengers, Josie was looking out the window. As they rolled through Montreal’s West End the view was of sooty industrial buildings and grimy tenement backyards. She relaxed and sighed. She was at last leaving Quebec; her training completed, and on her way to her first field posting.

She looked forward to the future with excitement—and anxiety.

                                                        ****

 In the next sample, Josie and Danny have been separated and just decided that they still love each other and want to be back together. First, however, Josie has to break off a relationship with Gordon Schaefer, a man she has been dating. She tries for several days to get him to meet so she can tell him. She finally talks with him and he promises to meet her at his car:

        "Josie waited by his car in the cold drizzle. She had changed into civilian clothes, a light jacket, sweater and slacks. She wasn’t dressed for the weather but didn’t expect to be outside for long ─ just long enough to tell him they were finished. The rain came a little harder and her flimsy shoes were starting to soak through. At seven o’clock he still hadn’t shown up, so she moved to the rear door of her barracks and stood just inside, where she could see him approach. When he arrived at seven fifteen, she walked quickly across the lot to meet him at the car. He pulled her close and tried to kiss her but she turned her head and pulled away. His breath smelled of beer.

She was anxious to get it over with. “Gordon, we have to talk…”

He said, “Get in. We’ll talk in the car, out of the rain.” When she got in he asked, “Where to?” He started the car.

“We don’t ‘ave to go anywhere, Gord, we can talk here. It won’t take long.”

He engaged the clutch and they started moving. “I gotta go into town for some gas anyway. We’ll talk on the way.”

“I guess that’s okay…”

“I have to see a guy, too…” He was vague. He drove through the gate and turned right onto Little River Road. It was not the way to town.

“Where are we going?”

“Just down here a little ways. There’s a place we can talk.”

“Oh…okay… I ‘ave to get back. We won’t be long?”

He passed the corner of Kilmorley road, turned to the right onto a gravel road and then left onto a narrow, rutted track, where he stopped the car. In the near total darkness, she could just make out thick underbrush and small evergreens on both sides of the road. Colors were changing from green and brown and yellow, to gray and black.

“How’s this?”

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“So, what’s up?”

She took a breath. “Okay. This is nothing against you, Gord…but I don’t want to go with you any more. I hope you understand…”

“No. I don’t understand. Hell, Josie, we were just really starting to get to know each other. I realize I was kind of mean the last time we went out, I was scared you’d go back to that Tanner guy, so I was a little pushy…but I do really like you.”

“Well, the truth is, I ‘aven’t got over Danny. We are going to be…back together.” Another deep breath.  “Also, you ‘ave been saying things about us…”

“Saying what things? I told you what the creep did! Who are you going to believe, Josie, him or me?”

“It’s not important any more who I believe. I want to be with him. I don’t know how these things happen…or why. He’s the only one I want to be with. I’m trying to be honest with you.” She put a hand on his before she continued, “We can’t see each other anymore. I’m sorry for this…”

He shook her hand away. “Just what I thought.” He was staring straight ahead.

“What?”

“I said it’s just what I fuckin’ thought!”

“Please don’t swear. What did you think?”

“You’re Tanner’s slut! Just a damn pig.

She could hardly breathe. “Who…who do you think you are? You can’t talk like that to me!”

“Bullshit. You’re a slut and you likely always were and always will be.”

She felt the tears start. “You take me back…right now!”

“Fuck you.” He pulled her to him, not gently. “Come on, sweets, you know you like it. Quit playing around.” He put one hand on her breasts and tried to push the other inside her slacks at the waist. She pulled his hand away from her slacks and turned so he couldn’t touch her breasts.

He turned her roughly, yanked her sweater up to her chin and forced both hands inside her brassiere.

She pulled at his hands but he was too strong. “Gordon! Don’t.” 

“Shut up and come to Gordy.” He pulled one hand out of her sweater and tried to unzip her slacks.

Now she was angry. “Gord—I said NO!” she moved as far right as she could on the seat, reached for the door handle. He grabbed her jacket and used it to jerk her back to his side.

“Gord, stop it! Right now!”

He didn’t stop, so she slapped his face. 

His return slap was immediate and violent!

In all her life she had never been struck—by anyone. Her ears rang. Her eyes watered. “D-don’t you dare ‘it me!” She went to slap him again and he grabbed her wrists. She cried, “You ‘urt me…take me back to the barracks, right now!”

“You don’t want to go back to the barracks.” He took her face in both hands and kissed her, mashing her lips painfully against her teeth. She turned her head and moved away. She scrabbled to the right and reached for the door handle. He took a handful of her hair this time and used it to haul her back to him and mashed his mouth to hers again.

“Mmm—mmm.” She swung weakly at him with her little fists. He released her from the kiss. “GORDON! I said stop—and I mean it! You ‘ad better take me back now. I don’t like this.”

“Gee, that’s too bad, because I like it a lot.” He jerked her slacks with a hand under each side of the waistband, causing her to fall hard onto her back on the seat and hitting her head on the door handle. He ripped the side zipper open and started to pull the slacks down; he managed to get them halfway off when she kicked out with both feet, making him pause. The look on his face turned her cold with fear. She reached behind her and opened the door but she couldn’t pull free from him.

“STOP! STOP THIS!” She screamed out the open door. “HELP! HELP ME! EEEE!” Oh God, somebody please hear me. She screamed again. “HELP! HELP!”

“Shut up!” He slapped her hard, dazing her for a moment. He managed to get her slacks down to her ankles.

Pulling herself up by gripping his jacket, she half sat up and clawed at his face, scratching him enough to draw blood. He frantically grabbed for her hands, catching only one. With her free hand she clawed him some more. He drew back a fist and drove it into her face, breaking her nose and splitting her lip. He then drove three more punches to her face and chest.

“Jesus!” He yelled. “Fucking little bitch!” He punched again, this time the blow glanced off her forehead. “BITCH!”

Blood ran down her lips and chin. She was dazed, felt herself losing consciousness. The will to fight was leaving her. Oh, Danny…Mama…He’s going to do it! I can’t fight him.

She whimpered, “Please d-don’t hit me anymore.”

He pulled her slacks past her feet and off. Then he jerked at her panties but they wouldn’t come off. With two hands he ripped the crotch and one side seam apart and threw slacks and panties aside. He unzipped his fly, pulled his pants down and forced his knees between her thighs. He was over her, penis in hand.

At the sight of it her will returned. She thrashed her lower body right and left, trying to prevent his entry. She didn’t scream again. It became a silent struggle. She clawed at his face, drew more blood

You might kill me but I will never stop fighting…you pig!

He drove a fist into her face, hitting her mouth and jaw and dazing her and then punched her again. She went limp. He planted his forearm across her throat and held it there, keeping his face against her shoulder to prevent her scratching it. Her fists beat weakly at his head and back. She made choking sounds as he lay on her and entered. Because of her frantic struggles, the penetration was awkward and painful. He leaned his full weight on his arm, jamming it into her throat, choking her. His breath came in snorts as he thrust violently into her.

She tried to scream again. The only sound she could make was “Gghh, Gghh…” She ceased her struggle. She could get no air. “Gghh…” Her eyes bulged and her face was purple. She saw flashing, varicolored lights. “Gghh, gghh.” Her arms waved feebly. I can’t breathe! I’m going to die. Oh, God. Oh, God. Help me please. He wants to kill me… Danny? Danny help me?  “Gghh.”

Then it was over.

He lifted his arm off her throat as he climaxed. He rolled off her and rose to his knees, still between her legs. He was panting. She felt his semen drip onto her belly. She heard her own breath—hoarse, ragged gasps. She realized her head was hanging outside the open door. She closed her eyes and lay still, terrified he would hurt her again. She waited.

He sat up. She heard him say, “Here, Josie my love—here, you stuck-up pig!” He threw her panties at her. They landed on her face. She didn’t move.

“So, you don’t want to see me anymore? So get outta here!” He grabbed the panties and threw them out the open door. He pushed at her with a foot. “There! Go get your panties. Go and see your precious Danny, stupid bitch. Get out and walk!” He gave her a last vicious kick, catching her in the ribs.

She half fell half crawled out onto the road. The car sped away, showering her with mud and gravel. She knelt in the mud, picked up the panties and held them to her breast. She remained there on her knees in the darkness for fifteen minutes, rocking slowly back and forth. Her scream, when it came, was feral, the scream of a mortally wounded animal. “AUGHHH! DANNEE, DANNEEEE, DANNEEEAUGHHH!” She retched and vomited down the already bloody front of her jacket.

After another fifteen minutes, her body started to feel the pain. Her head throbbed from the blows. Her nose felt as if it had been ripped from her face. Her jaw hung slackly. There was not a part of her that didn’t screech with the pain. She trembled uncontrollably. When she tried to stand, her head spun and her vision blurred and she staggered drunkenly. She had to sit down. She lost track of the passage of time before she struggled to her feet and started limping along the dark road, wearing only her sweater and light jacket, naked from the waist down. After twenty steps, she stopped and tried to pull her ruined panties on. They were too tattered to stay up so she let them fall to the ground. Her flimsy indoor shoes were soaked. She staggered back to where he had parked, searching in vain for her slacks but they were still in the car. She turned back and started out again, still trembling violently.

When she reached a paved road, she stopped and looked around dazedly, unsure of the direction back to the station. She staggered on. Two cars passed, both coming toward her. At first sight of the approaching headlights she lurched off the road and hid—the first time in wet shrubs, the second in a muddy roadside ditch. She feared the lights meant he was coming back to hurt her some more.

She didn’t see the next lights when they approached." 

                                                               *** 

THE BRASS CHRONICLE
a novel
By Brian F Turner

Here's a glimpse of my second book. In this story, fifteen-year-old Francois Brassard leaves his Louisiana farm with his brother, in search of their estranged father. As "Frank Brass," the young man eventually ends up on the northern plains, where he battles the Sioux, becomes a hunter for the NWMP, befriends the Blackfeet and marries a Piegan girl named Fawn. 


In this scene, Francois has fled from an Arkansas posse after shooting a sheriff:

CAPE GIRARDEAU, MISSOURI ─ JUNE 1871

"LOOK OUT! YOU CRAZY SON OF A BITCH!"

The big bay stallion raced along the Cape Girardeau riverfront as stevedores, passengers and bystanders hurried to get out of the way.

Several well-dressed men, local captains of commerce, had gathered in a group on the levee near the water's edge. They scattered at the sight and sound of horse and rider bearing down at full gallop.

"WATCH IT! Look at that damn fool!" bellowed one of them as he jumped aside. His leap for life sent him stumbling into the mud of the riverbank to the top of his fine leather boots. "DAMN YOU! MANIAC!"

"Slow down!" shouted another as he ran to safety, clutching his hat. "Crazy fool!"

The rider of the bay steered his horse around men, wagons, cotton bales and lumber piles. The horse jumped from the embankment onto the landing stage of a moored riverboat, almost fell before righting itself, and then clattered up the wooden planking to the top of the ramp.

Albert Arbuckle was listing names and numbers in a manifest book. At the sight of the big stallion bearing down, he sprang up from the table, tipping over the chair and losing his cap, certain that the horse was about to ride right onto his boat. The boat was the stern-wheeler, Natchez Enterprise and Arbuckle was her cargo master and purser.

The bay finally slowed to a walk halfway up the ramp however, and Arbuckle could see the rider was a young man, a boy really, no more than seventeen or eighteen years, tall and well-built. It was apparent that horse and man had endured a long hard ride; both wore a coating of road dust and the horse was badly sweated. The boy reined in at the top of the ramp and sat slouched in the saddle, arms crossed on the pommel. Through the fatigue and dust, Arbuckle could feel the dark, piercing eyes under a wide-brimmed campaign hat. The horse hung its head, frothy sweat mixing with the dust on its flanks.

"Is this boat heading up river?" asked the young man, oblivious to the chaos he created.

"Yessir," answered Arbuckle, "she's headed up to St. Paul with stops at St. Louis, Hannibal, Burlington and Dubuque. We're all loaded up and we sail in the morning, seven o'clock sharp." He retrieved his cap and the overturned chair and sat back at his table, regaining his dignity. "There's no place on board for a horse though, son, especially one as wild as yours."

"Any boats leaving before then?"

"Afraid not that I know of. Look around and you'll see we're the only boat loaded and ready to sail."

"Have you a berth for a passenger to Dubuque?" He had no idea where the place was. He planned to get off in St. Louis ─ anything to throw off his pursuers.

"I do. Would you want a stateroom, sir? I still have two available. Fourteen dollars, cash in advance. I repeat, though, we cannot accommodate your horse."

"Fine," said Francois Brassard. He dismounted, reached into his jacket and removed some bills. "I'll be stabling the horse in town."

Arbuckle took a passenger list from the table and dipped his pen into an ink jar.

"What's the name, sir?"

"Does the name matter?" He laid a few bills on the table.

Arbuckle counted out the change. "It does if you want the stateroom."

"I'm Fra…Frank. Frank Brass. Just down from St. Louis. Been visiting my brother…over in Kentucky."

The lie came easily.

"That's B-R-A-S-S?"

"Uh…yes. That's it."

"Okay, Mister Brass, you'll be in number 8A. It's on the main dack portside…that's to the left if you're looking forward. We'll be a wwek and a half to Dubuque, depending on the river."

"That's fine. I'll see you in the morning," said Frank Brass. Leading the  bay now, he started down the ramp. He stopped half way to the bottom to ask, "Can you recommend a decent hotel?"

"Yessir, the Riverside; along the street to the north."

"Good. I'll see you in the morning then."

He led the tired horse past the staring, still cursing crowd on the levee and along the road to a livery stable, where he arranged to lodge it. He sold the saddle and bridle to the liveryman and kept the saddlebag. He paid a week in advance for stabling the bay, without mentioning that the horse was stolen from an Arkansas sheriff. Then, finding a store open, he bought a change of clothes and a suitcase.

He found the hotel, rented a room for the night and then, after paying fifty cents for a bath, soaked in the tepid water for a half hour, removing several layers of road grime.

After his bath he immediately stretched out on the bed. He was worn out after traveling almost non-stop through a good part of two states but, tired as he was, he couldn't get to sleep. It was the first chance he had to stop and think since fleeing the posse five days earlier. He went over the events of the past week in his tired mind and for the hundredth time tears came to his eyes as he remembered. Back to a time before he was Frank Brass ─ and before he was a wanted man.

                                                             ***

In this scene, Frank Brass and his companions are attacked by a party of Sioux Indians:

“Damn,” James said, “you’ve stirred them up now.”

“Yessuh. They’s gonna try to kill us anyway…be best if they start before dark…that way we can mebbe get a couple of them. If we can knock some of them down, they mebbe will decide we ain’t worth the trouble and move on.”

When the spokesman got back to the other Indians, Brass watched them through the sight. He saw lances and rifles waved above heads and even heard their warlike whoops and haiees across the plain. The braves started toward the wagon at a slow trot. When they were at a thousand yards, they stopped, continuing to chant and wave weapons in the air. He felt the familiar tingle of fear in his gut and groin. I could die in this place today, by this unnamed creek in the middle of Dakota-be-damned Territory.

“I counted eleven ─ I think they all have rifles. Are they going to attack?”

“Not sure, Mistuh Frank.”

“They often bluff and then ride off. We’ll soon know; we just have to wait and see,” said James.

Brass looked through the sight again. “Would a hit on a horse chase them off? If this sight is right, I think I can get a hit. They can’t expect a shot like that.”

James said, “What do you think, Duff?”

“I believe we in for a fight anyway, so it would be worth a try.”

“Take the shot,” said James.

Without answering, he adjusted the sight, took aim and squeezed off a shot. He chose as his target the brave that spoke to Duff, figuring him as the leader. He felt the terrific kick as his first round fell short, kicking up dust. The intended target reared, causing its puzzled rider to fight to get it under control. His second shot scored a neck hit on the pony, buckling its forelegs suddenly and throwing the rider sprawling to the ground. The animal rolled on its side, obviously killed. The Indians milled about, pointing one way and another, confused. They turned and fell back another two hundred yards with the leader running after them.

“Good shootin’ Mistuh Frank! They not so sure about comin’ after us now!”

“Not only that,” James added, “if there’s anyone else within fifteen miles, they’re sure to hear that bloody great cannon!”

“Christ! This things as powerful as it is ugly,” Brass exclaimed, “That horse is dead and it was a half a mile away!”

“They’ll either attack now or leave us alone,” James said, “If it’s attack let’s hope they’re mad enough to come after us while it’s still daylight. If they do charge, Frank, try to pick off a couple and then we’ll let them get in range of our carbines. If we can each get one or two, the battle will be half won.”

“I hear you, James.” He scrambled down the embankment and took his Winchester from the wagon.

Back at the rim, he heard Big Duff, “They talkin’ it over sure enough, decidin’ if we worth dyin’ for.”

James chuckled. “If these lads only knew what’s in this wagon!”

Brass set his carbine beside the sod rest, and used the Sharp’s telescope to watch the Indians.

“Here they come!”

The Indians started forward, fanned out this time in a broad front. They started at a trot and then gradually gained speed until, at five hundred yards, they were coming at full gallop. He could hear the war chants clearly now.

The three defenders were spaced about twenty yards apart on the gully rim.

He sighted the Sharps on the lead rider. He fired and watched the brave topple off his mount. “Got him!”

The rest of the Indians, determined now and reckless, urged their ponies forward.

His second shot missed, as the rapidly changing range made the telescopic sight useless. He exchanged the Sharps for his Winchester.

“Hold your fire,” James cautioned, “Get a target in front of you. I’ve got the center. We’ll hit them with a volley.”

“You call it, James.” Brass picked a brave on the right and lined his sights on him. He had difficulty steadying the carbine. His gut churned, his testes tightened in fear and he forced himself to ignore the overwhelming need to urinate. Dammit, he thought, these two men are depending on me. I cannot let them down! He got his weapon steadied and glanced at James beside him. That old man isn’t afraid, or at least isn’t showing it if he is. If he can be calm, so can you, Francois Brassard!

James allowed the charging Indians to get to two hundred yards, then coolly barked, “Now! Fire!”

Brass squeezed off a round, saw his target fall out of sight in the tall grass. The repeated roar of James and Big Duff’s carbines and the swirling smoke from the gunpowder momentarily mesmerized him as he stared at the spot where the brave fell and detected no movement.

James shouted, “Frank! Keep firing, lad! Snap out of it ─ keep firing!”

He came out of his funk and saw the Indians were still charging, now just fifty yards out. He scored a hit but not a kill on his next target; the brave wobbled on his pony for a moment and then righted himself.

The attackers began riding back and forth in front of them, parallel to the gully and firing with each pass. A riderless pony galloped by from left to right in front of him and he ignored it ─ till he realized a rider was clinging to its far side and firing at him under its neck! Dust and grit sprayed his face as a round ricocheted close in front. He snapped off a shot, hitting the pony in the flank. The rider steered his wounded mount away, dismounted at the gallop, and disappeared into the grass just as the animal staggered and fell. Thick blue smoke was making it difficult to see in front, as he searched for more targets. He saw that the attackers had retreated and, over the sound of gunfire, he heard Big Duff’s calm voice, “They’s turned back.”

The Indians were out of effective range before he could get another shot off. He was amazed to discover that in the heat of battle, his earlier fear was replaced by cool purpose. He grabbed up the Sharps, aimed and fired. His shot downed another horse, its rider leaping free and disappearing into the grass.

“I count five still standing,” said James.

“Me too, Mistuh James, just five left.”

“Six,” Brass said, “One in the grass, I got his horse but he’s not hurt.”

“So, we’ve hit five altogether. Now we’ll see how determined these lads are!”

“We hit two or three horses, too,” said Duff.

The Indians abandoned the frontal attack and tried a new strategy; they dismounted as one and were instantly out of sight in the tall grass, leaving one brave to drive their remaining ponies out of range.

A half hour passed with no sign or movement ─ the longest thirty minutes in Francois Brassard’s young life.

Unexpectedly, just fifty yards in front of Big Duff’s position, a brave popped up from the grass and fired. At the sight and sound, Brass leapt almost out of his skin. Duff jumped, too, causing him to lose purchase and slide half way down the bank. James coolly returned fire but the brave was already out of sight. They heard Duff’s baritone voice, as if from the bottom of a barrel, his words preceded by a merry shout, “Wahoo! That was close…he hit my rifle butt!” Another chuckle and then, “Watch it now! He ain’t gonna show up at the same spot!” He scrambled back up the bank.

With a chuckle of his own, James said, “We’d better keep our heads down, boys, and our eyes open.”

Frank said to himself, My God, those two are having a fine old time!

He detected movement in the grass in front of him and reacted. He took a shot and heard a grunt of pain, so he fired again, this time getting a scream.

“Another one down,” shouted James.

Once again, it was quiet. Time dragged until the sun began its descent in the west.

Frank was puzzled and disconcerted when he became overwhelmed by fatigue. His eyelids, straining to see movement in the grass, began to droop and he yawned involuntarily. It was the after effect of the adrenaline that had been pumping through his body for hours.

Seeing this, James came close and poked him. “Move around, lad…it’ll keep you alert. Walk a bit in the gully, Duff and I can keep watch.”

“I will. I don’t understand how I can be sleepy…” He slid down the bank. At the creek he splashed water on his face and head and stretched his back. He was soon back at his post on the rim, determined that he not show fatigue again.

The fight continued sporadically, with only occasional shots fired by the Indians, each followed by answering fire from the riverbank. It was as if the braves had calculated the odds and were not as willing to die as so many of their comrades had this day. It appeared more and more that they would be facing a night attack. The darkness would greatly alter the odds in the enemy’s favor.

The afternoon stretched toward evening.

                                                                 ***


THE BRASS STAR
a novel
by Brian F Turner

In this, the second book of the Brass chronicle, Frank Brass (Francois Brassard) moves on after avenging the murder of his young wife and child. We see how he is affected by his environment and by events in his life. In spite of his earlier disdain and fear of lawmen, he becomes a respected officer of the law, gaining skill and wisdom as he matures. He takes up gambling, which was a respectable profession at the time.

In this first sample,  Brass is a Deputy Marshal in Ellsworth, Kansas:

Dan and Frank heard the shots from where they sat in the Royale and hurried up the street to see what the shooting was about.

As they approached the Drovers, O’Rourke said, “Easy, Frank, let’s see what’s goin’ on before we go chargin’ in there!” He eased up to the door and peered in. “Jesus H Christ! All hell’s broke loose in there!”

Frank felt for the medicine bag hanging around his neck and felt the familiar tingle of fear. He took a cautious look. “Dan, there’s a bunch of them down!” He pulled his Colt and stepped into the saloon. O’Rourke was right behind him.

They both fired their guns in the air.

The Marshal hollered, hoping to be heard over the din, “STOP THE SHOOTING!” He again fired in the air. “ALL RIGHT! THAT’S ENOUGH!”

A cowboy, crouched at the side of the bar, took aim, fired at O’Rourke and missed. Brass fired back, hitting the man in the chest. Then he and O’Rourke took cover behind an overturned table.

“Fucking Christ!” said O’Rourke. “We gotta stop this, Frank!”

 “Any ideas?”

“Yeah. We hit any man holding iron ─ aim to wing em. That should slow things down.”

“Right. You take the left; I got the right. We stand up and start blasting…NOW!”

They stood, pistols blazing. Dan hit a man in the leg and he went down screaming. Another man took point blank aim at Dan from the side. His weapon misfired and Dan spun around and shot him in the shoulder. Brass saw men who had flattened themselves on the floor and more who were attempting to crawl to safety through the gore. Two others were cringing behind the potbelly stove in the middle of the room.

Brass fired at a young cowboy who was taking aim at another and hit him in the leg, knocking him back into the stove. The chimney pipe came apart, spraying everyone below it with hot soot and sparks and causing all the shooters to take pause.

Deafened by the crash of gunfire, angry curses, and the screams of the wounded; blinded by flying soot from the stovepipe and the smoke from guns, Frank was having trouble keeping track of things.

He felt the sting of a bullet ripping into his thigh and heard O’Rourke shout, “ALL RIGHT NOW! EVERYBODY JUST CALM DOWN! NO MORE GUNPLAY!”

The shooting became sporadic and then stopped.

Dan, followed by a limping Frank, quickly started gathering guns from the combatants. The bartender, brandishing a shotgun, and another man joined in to help disarm the room. Then Deputies Ed Banks and Billy Braxton arrived and trained six-guns on the crowd.

“That’s better!” said Dan, pointing with his pistol. “Now, you, you…you…and you ─ you’re all under arrest! Get up against that bar.” He looked around. “You…and you, too, get over here!” He looked around again. “Anyone else, Frank?”

Brass had just twisted a Colt from the hand of a stubborn cowboy. “Yeah, this one,” he said, as he threw the man toward the bar. “And you with the big Stetson, you shot me, bastard. Get over there.”

“Somebody get the doctor in here! We got us some wounded fools,” said Dan.

Brass sat in a chair, stripped off his belt, and tied it around his leg as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. He was wincing with pain.

When all the casualties were counted up, there were four dead men, including the trail boss that started the melee. There were also five wounded, one with a serious chest wound.

Soon, there were four Deputies present, two of them armed with shotguns. The cowboys were standing around, subdued and shaken. The wounded, except for Brass, were under the doctor’s care, and the prisoners, all but the chest wound, were marched to the jail by the shotgun-wielding Deputies. There were eight in all.
                             
                                                                              ***
*


 In a later scene, Brass has moved to Laramie, Wyoming. He is confronted by a man with a shotgun:

 

“Frank, am I glad you happened along!” she handed over the cartons. “April’s gone up ahead with a package. I thought I would be able to handle these, but the door’s heavier than I…”

“It’s no trouble, Olivia,” he said, “just stack them on my arms and hold the door for me.”

The boarding house was a two-story building. The foyer at the front opened to a hall that had a row of doors to downstairs rooms and an open stairway on the right that led to a second-story landing and the upper rooms. The landing was open to the foyer and could be seen from the front door. The six upper rooms were situated along a wall opposite a long banister railing. Frank’s room was the second from the top of the stairs and the Osgood’s forty feet away at the end of the landing. When Frank delivered the parcels and set them on the table, Olivia invited him to stay for coffee.

“Coffee sounds great,” he said, “but I can only stay for a short time.” He grinned, “Need my beauty sleep.” As was his habit, he removed his gun belt and hung it on the back of a chair.

April, now thirteen, was filling the coffee pot. She said, “Can I borrow that book, Frank…the one about Abraham Lincoln?” She added, “I’ll come over and get it before you go to bed if that’s all right.”

“You can come with me and get it right after I have my coffee.”

After coffee, served with biscuits and jam, Frank and April went to his room and he unlocked his door, leaving it open.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” he said as he rummaged through clothes and papers looking for the book. “Yes, here it is. And here’s another one you might enjoy; ‘A Tale of Two Cities’…it’s about the French Revolution.” It belongs to Mister Easter, so be careful with it, Honey.

As the girl was leaving, he realized he had left his gun belt back at the Osgood’s apartment. “Hell, I’m getting forgetful. I’ll walk back with you and get my gun.”

They were on the landing, just outside his door when George Cartwright burst through the front door downstairs, carrying a double-barrelled shotgun. He was drunk and looked around wild-eyed. Looking up, he spotted Brass.

“There you are, you bastard!” He fired. The blast was deafening in the confined space. His shot hit the wooden railing, shredding it and showering Frank and April with splinters.

Frank threw the girl to the floor and lay on top of her just as Cartwright fired the second barrel. This time his aim was high and blew a hole in the wall near the ceiling. While he fumbled to reload the shotgun, Frank dragged the girl bodily along the landing and saw her mother opening the door to their suite. He threw April at her mother and shouted, “Get in! And lock that door!”

He wanted to draw fire away from the mother and child, so he crawled back toward his room, keeping to the inside of the landing where he couldn’t be seen from below. He saw a door open and dove into the room. It was the room immediately next to his, and belonged to old Sam Barker, who had opened his door to see what all the noise was. Frank heard Cartwright starting up the stairs and realized once more he didn’t have his gun and knew Sam wouldn’t have one. He ran to the window and, without hesitating, kicked out the glass and leapt. He landed on the ground twelve feet below and slightly twisted an ankle, glass cascading down around him. Ignoring the ankle, he leapt to his feet and looked around him.

A small crowd had gathered outside at the sound of the shotgun blasts; a couple of men and some of the shoppers from across the street were gaping at him.

Brass knew he had to stop Cartwright before someone got hurt. “Give me a weapon! Somebody give me a Goddamn weapon!” He screamed, “Anybody! Give me a damn…”

He spotted a cowboy wearing a Colt and ran up to him.

“Give me that gun!”

The cowboy hesitated, so Brass grabbed the revolver from its holster and ran back toward the front door of the boarding house, checking the gun’s chambers as he ran.

He peered around the doorjamb and saw that Cartwright had gone upstairs. He removed his  boots and ran silently up the stairs and looked into his room, seeing no one. Then he went to Sam’s room and looked in. Sam was cowering in a corner and Cartwright was waving the shotgun around and shouting at the old man, “Where is that bastard? I saw him come in here. Tell me or I’ll blow your head off!” He was too drunk to see the broken window.

Brass levelled the pistol at him and yelled, “Drop the gun, Cartwright!”

As he spun around, Cartwright cried, “Never!” He started to bring his shotgun to bear.

Brass shot him twice, both rounds hitting his head. He was thankful the borrowed gun didn’t misfire. Blood and gore sprayed poor Sam as Cartwright flopped back against the wall.

As he checked the body, he asked, “You all right, Sam?” Cartwright was dead.

“Yep…I’m a might messed up, though. And I got a broke window, too.”

Limping a little, Frank went along the landing to see if April was hurt. He retrieved the two books from the floor and called through the door, “It’s me, Olivia. It’s all over now.”

April had a nasty scrape on her knee and a sprained wrist, but was otherwise unhurt. She clung tightly to her mother.

To the girl, Frank said, “It’s all over, Sweetheart, he can’t hurt you now.”

“Who is he?” asked Mrs. Osgood.

“He is…was, a man who thought he had a dispute with me. Sorry you had to be at risk.”

“April is terrified, Frank.”

“Yes. I should have looked after the matter before it came to this ─ but I thought it was ended.” He took his gun belt from the chair where it had been hanging. “I am sorry. Here are your books, April.” He went downstairs to return the cowboy’s pistol, thinking, I’ll have to pay Creed for old Sam’s broken window.

                                                                             ***


SHORTY AND SLIM
A Collection of Short Stories
by Brian F Turner

Shorty is a very tall cowboy and a real character. Her's a sample of Shorty:


Most folks call me Shorty.

You see, out here in the West people tend to take a direct approach to things ─ everything that is, except names ─ large men are often called ‘Tiny,’ and bald men ‘Curly.’ So it should come as no surprise that people call me Shorty; I stand six feet nine and one half inches tall. There are some, too, that call me Slim, which I also am not; I carry about two hundred and forty pounds on my tall frame. Two hundred and forty pounds distributed, as it is, on a six foot nine and one half inch body likely does look slim, but believe me, I am not skinny. As you can imagine I have also been called ‘String Bean,’ ‘Stretch,’ ‘Bean Pole,’ ‘Long Drink of Water,’ and such.

 You might ask why don’t folks just use my real given name ─ well, that’s because I seldom ever give it out. Now I could feed you some tall droppings about the “code of the west,” meaning out here nobody asks for or offers a name, but it’s really just because my parents gave me the sissiest couple of appellations you ever heard. Further, since you surely aren’t planning to be sending me any mail, the surname can remain untold too and we can stick with just Shorty or just Slim.

Now there are advantages and disadvantages to being six foot nine and a half inches top to bottom. One advantage is that curious men tend to lose their curiosity and look away sudden-like when I return their stares. Another is that in the same circumstance women keep right on being curious. Also, if I’m in the back of the crowd at a parade I can look right over all those heads and see just fine. In fact, since I was thirteen, I have never missed one second of any parade I ever watched and that’s just fine because I love parades. Hell, I’d be entertained watching a herd of cattle go by if they had a brass band up front. I don’t want to flog the parade thing too much, but another thing about that is I can be polite as hell to the ladies without sacrificing much. I just step back gracious as heck and say something like, “Here, pretty lady, why don’t you stand here in front of me so you can see the goings-on and I’ll move to the rear.” Being polite don’t sound like much, but on more than one occasion politeness has got me into a bed that wasn’t my own. (And on a couple of other occasions, it’s got me into serious trouble with husbands, fathers and fiancés!)

If you want me to talk about dis-advantages, well, there’s quite a few of them, too. Your average chair, for instance, just isn’t built for four-foot long legs, so whenever I sit down I spend some time trying to figure out just where to put my feet so they’re out of the way, and that can be a might embarrassing. Let’s not even mention beds! On second thought I will at that; on normal sized beds I always end up with about one quarter of me hanging off one end or the other, even when I remove my boots and hat. Then there’s doorways, which just aren’t built for anyone over about six feet-two. Being of the forgetful sort, I’m always neglecting to duck going through a door, especially if I’m doing any deep concentrating at the time, and I often end up bonking my head. It’s difficult to maintain much aplomb when that happens. I swear, if the lumps were permanent I’d look like some kind of dang gourd; you know, those lumpy, blue kind.

Of course your average size horse isn’t much good to me either. I have to get a mount three or four hands higher than most; else my knees would be dragging through the cactuses all the time, and that can get to be painful.

Clothing is another problem; any coats I can buy off a rack leave six inches of my forearms sticking out of the sleeves. Similar with the pants, making me look as if I am always preparing for a flood. Consequently I generally buy tailor-made whenever I’m flush enough to do so. My size nineteen boots are a problem too. I get them made special and always carry a spare pair in my saddlebag in case I break a heel. There are other disadvantages, but I’m a positive sort of person that don’t like to dwell on negatives, so I’ll let your imagination figure them out.

There are other tall men in the West of course, but the only place I ever saw one taller than me was in the circus, which I love almost as much as parades. Old Charlie Goodnight down in the Panhandle once told me the circus is where I belong, but when he made that suggestion he was mad as hell at me because I roped and rode one of his favorite cutting horses before he could get to it during a roundup. Goodnight could be a mean and miserable man with little sense of humor.

Now look what’s happened ─ I got to rambling on about my dang length and width, instead of getting started on the stories I set out to tell you in the first place! It’s a thing I tend to do a lot, so be patient with me if you would. One time, it’s a fact, Ed Masterson tossed me out of the Dodge City jail when I was arrested for something or other, just because I rambled on so, saying my stories were driving him and his deputies and the other prisoners crazy. I considered that action to be downright rude, and I told him so. That was before I realized I was let go. He forgot even to tell me to get out of town. So I hung around for another month, and all Ed ever did about it was to shake his head and look at me all disgusted-like every time we passed each other.

Dang it, there I go again! I’ll get back to the story of my adventures in the West…
                           
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