Word came down last week that Wallace McRae is dead.

He was among the handful of cowboy poets behind the rebirth of our art and craft in the mid-1980s, and his passing is a loss from which we will never recover.

The word “curmudgeon” was as firmly affixed to McRae as his bushy mustache, and it was a description I believe he carried with pride. To many, he came across as gruff. But underlying that gruffness were two simple facts: he had a low tolerance for bullshit, and he did not suffer fools gladly.

McRae was a poet. More than a mere rhymer, jokester, versifier, or entertainer, he wrangled words to create well-crafted poetry that spoke of the West in layers that plumbed the depths, asking questions and demanding thought. You will not find among his work the cheap emotion, the manufactured pride, the manipulative humor so often found in cowboy poetry.

I did not know McRae well. We were well enough acquainted to speak, but it’s not like we were drinking buddies. Back in 2016, he agreed to be interviewed for a magazine article I was working on, and we had a good, long talk at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada. I got what I needed for the story, and I got a lot more than I expected.

We talked about his early exposure to poetry, including his first public recitation at age four at a community Christmas celebration. And his exposure at an early age to one of the greatest cowboy poets of all time: “We got a livestock publication, my dad did, I don’t know what the title of it was, but it had a monthly Bruce Kiskaddon illustrated poem in it. . . . I knew Kiskaddon before I could read.”

I asked his opinion on what Kiskaddon and other early masters—Badger Clark, S. Omar Barker, and others—might think of today’s cowboy poetry. “My guess is, I think they would for the most part feel that we’re trying hard. But maybe not measuring up. Because so few people are trained now in writing. They haven’t read the classics. We haven’t studied the art enough. . . . I don’t think there’s enough of us that study poetry.”

McRae’s honors are too many to mention. But his legacy is one we should treasure—and we could all benefit from reading and rereading and studying his poetry. He was one of the best of us. And now he is gone.

Peacemaker Finalist!

Western Fictioneers—an organization formed in 2010 by professional Western writers to preserve, honor, and promote traditional Western writing in the 21st century—recently announced the annual Peacemaker (named for the iconic Colt revolver) Awards. My book, Hanging Man: The Hunting of Man Book 1, was a Finalist for Best Western Novel.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.”

That quotation seemed a good description for a bounty hunter, and Matt Crowder was born. A middle-aged former Deputy United States Marshal turned bounty hunter, Crowder is relentless in his pursuit of justice—although, at his age, he would rather not sleep on the ground anymore if he can help it.

In Hanging Man, Crowder comes upon a man hanging from a tree in an isolated area and pursues the mystery of who he is, why he died, and who killed him. He chases the two men he believes responsible, and along the way discovers graft and corruption involving the US Army, and in a chance encounter captures another wanted man.

In Running Man: The Hunting of Man Book 2, and Hiding Man: The Hunting of Man Book 3, Matt Crowder’s adventures lead him across the Old West on the trail of other outlaws.

History repeats itself.

Not long ago, while visiting the Long Barracks Museum at the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas, we came across this statue. It’s not a big statue, only 18 inches high or so, and displayed in a clear plastic box. There are other statues of a similar size throughout the short tour of the Long Barracks. This one depicts a padre—a priest or clergyman of some sort (we didn’t get his name) from the long-ago days before the Alamo became the Alamo and was known as the Mission San Antonio de Valero.

What intrigues me about the statue is that it proves beyond doubt that history repeats itself; that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Because what the statue clearly depicts is a padre with his handheld digital device. And he is doing, way back then, the same kind of thing you see happening everywhere, all the time, today.

Maybe he is engaged in a phone call on speaker. Perhaps he is sending (or reading) a text message. It could be that he is using the camera function to take a photograph—maybe even a selfie.

Could he have gotten an alert on one of his social media platforms? Is he responding to something on Facebook or Instagram or TikTok or the wreck formerly known as Twitter?

Since he is some kind of Catholic clergyman, it is probably a safe bet that he is not perusing a dating site or matchmaking service. I suppose he could be checking the weather forecast. Or he might be watching cute cat videos on YouTube.

By way of full disclosure, I don’t have any kind of handheld digital device myself, so this is only totally ignorant, wholly uninformed speculation on my part.

Trees and Indians.

Years ago, I lived on Oak Street. Living there always brought to mind the old joke that when real estate developers start a project, they cut down all the trees and then name the streets after them.

Something similar, only infinitely more tragic, has taken place since the first Europeans set foot on land that was to become the United States of America: our forefathers—government, military, business interests, and ordinary citizens—all but exterminated the Indian tribes that already lived here, then named things after them. States, counties, cities, towns, rivers, lakes, mountains, canyons, valleys, and more carry names derived from Native American languages.

Of our United States, 27 of them—27!—carry names that come from the languages of the tribes that occupied the land before being forced off by one nefarious means or another.

Here in my home state of Utah (named for the Ute Indians) there are five counties with Indian names, along with three cities and towns, at least one mountain and two mountain ranges, and a whole lot of other stuff. And Utah is not unusual—in fact, there are many, many states whose maps are marked with many, many more names borrowed from Indian words.

I suppose in some sense it is a sign of respect. But it is impossible to believe that whatever smidgen of honor is involved in any way scratches the surface of the damage we have done—and still do—to the people who lived here when our ancestors arrived.

(ABOVE: The Indian riding through the trees is a work of art by Bev Dolittle)

 

The Anti-Western?

Social media, I am told, is all abuzz these days with Larry McMurtry’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, Lonesome Dove. While I lack even a passing acquaintance with the online exchanges, I have it on good authority that the book is experiencing a resurgence, heaped with praise all the way up to and including being christened the greatest book of all time.

Much of the discussion revolves around Lonesome Dove being declared by some the “anti-Western.” I’m not sure what that means. It may have to do with the idea that McMurtry attempts to present a realistic portrayal of the Old West, warts and all—a departure from the romanticized, glorified version popularized by Owen Wister, Zane Grey, Louis Lamour, and others, continuing right up to our time. (Not that those good-versus-evil tales with their necessary triumph of the good-guy hero are unusual in literature. The same pattern holds true at least as far back as Homer and the legends of King Arthur, and continues in cozy mysteries, thrillers, fantasies, private-eye novels, Westerns, and even much of literary fiction.) But somehow, calling Lonesome Dove the “anti-Western” gives supercilious readers permission to read a Western novel—something their refined, sophisticated tastes would not allow otherwise.

But there is nothing new in Lonesome Dove’s attempt to present a raw, unvarnished version of the Old West. It has been done before and since, many times. Andy Adams tried it in 1903 in The Log of a Cowboy, a trail drive novel that, unlike Lonesome Dove, grew out of the author’s personal experiences.
Paso Por Aqui, penned by Eugene Manlove Rhodes in 1925, cannot be written off as glamorizing its subject. Nor can The Ox-Bow Incident by Walter Van Tilburg Clark, which has been turning the mythical Old West on its head since 1940. Glendon Swarthout’s The Shootist (not the movie, which pulls Swarthout’s punches) breaks all the expectations of the triumph of good over evil. True Grit by Charles Portis also represents a departure.

A previous Pulitzer Prize-winning novel set in the Old West, Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner, presents a realistic view borrowed from the experiences of real-life Western transplant Mary Hallock Foote.

It would be difficult to depart from the romantic view further than Cormac McCarthy does in Blood Meridian and The Crossing, or E.L. Doctorow in Welcome to Hard Times. Loren D. Estleman’s Bloody Season demonstrates the dubious distinctions between heroes and villains. And while a glamorized view of the Old West peeks through in Ivan Doig’s Dancing at the Rascal Fair and The Meadow by James Galvin, it is portrayed through the eyes of some characters, and is countered by the notions of other characters.

Are these examples—and others out there—“anti-Westerns,” or are they merely Western literature, sharing the stage with the broad range of plots, points of view, and approaches that make reading good books of any genre a joy? I cast my vote for the latter. To me, Lonesome Dove is not “anti-Western” at all, but “pro” good reading and a great Western novel.

Catching up.

Not long ago, I dusted off a favorite LP record album from the past and gave it a listen. It’s still good. The record, by legendary country singer and songwriter Roger Miller (no relation), is titled, “Dear Folks Sorry I Haven’t Written Lately.” Well, folks, I haven’t written lately here either, although I doubt I have been missed.

The last few months on the writing front have been tied up with a lot of busy work. Here’s a rundown.

And the River Ran Red, my historical novel about the Massacre at Bear River, is now available in paperback and eBook from publisher Speaking Volumes at all the online booksellers. Find it in paperback at Amazon US  and Barnes & Noble; and in eBook at Amazon US, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Google Play, and Kobo Books.

Also just released is an anthology of Western short stories that, so far as anyone can determine, is the first crowd-funded Western ever. It’s the result of a lot of hard work by editor Jeff Mariotte and Kickstarter. It’s now available online everywhere in paperback and eBook. My story, “The Incident Above Mentioned” is the lead story in Silverado Press Presents Western Stories by Today’s Top Writers.

Another collection of short stories is due in large print from Thorndike Publishing in late July. This one is a collaboration with friend and fellow author Michael Norman. Shiny Spurs and Gold Medallions features our award-winning Western stories (Western Writers of America Spur Awards, Will Rogers Medallion Awards, and elsewhere), along with some new offerings.

Then there’s Buckoffs and Broken Barriers: Rodeo Poems, a new collection of poetry in the works at publisher Speaking Volumes. The book, as the title suggests, is all about rodeo, and includes poems both serious and silly. Some have appeared in magazines long ago, some in other collections and anthologies, and many are published here for the first time.

Speaking Volumes also has the manuscript for a new novel featuring Rawhide Robinson,  ordinary cowboy and extraordinary spinner of tall tales. This adventure, titled Rawhide Robinson Rides with Old Blue, has our raconteur in the employ of Charlie Goodnight, trailing cattle northward led by Goodnight’s legendary lead steer, Old Blue. But Old Blue keeps walking even after reaching Ogallala, and Rawhide Robinson follows the big steer into the great white north to fetch him back to Texas.

And, amidst all that, I have been writing short articles from Western history for the online publication Cowboy State Daily. Of late they have published my pieces about Charlie Siringo; the 1896 Montpelier, Idaho bank robbery; the Parcel Post Bank in Vernal, Utah; and Wild Bill Hickok’s gunfight in Springdale, Missouri.

Also on the horizon is a new novel from Speaking Volumes that will see the light of day later this year. Where the Long Trail Ends is set on a cattle drive on the Chisholm Trail. The title is a line from a poem by George Rhoades, an old college professor of mine, who is also an award-winning poet. Then there’s a new novel about the Pony Express, The Mail Must Get Through, as well as paperback and eBook editions of my previous hardcover books This Thy Brother and Black Joe and Other Selected Stories.

After all that, who knows what else the future holds?

Sorry to fill your day with so much chin music, but I wanted to make up for lost time.

Stupid words.

For years, decades, I earned my daily bread in the advertising trade, working in advertising agencies. My job was on the creative side, developing strategies that would most effectively lure customers, then turning them into ads in whatever media was required. The goal was always to use ideas and words and pictures and music to arouse interest and keep viewers or readers or listeners watching or reading or listening long enough to absorb whatever message we wished to convey. We always believed the audience deserved some level of respect in exchange for our intrusion into their lives.

But most people in the advertising business, like most people in most businesses, do not care all that much. They don't care if the advertising is creative or entertaining or inventive or unexpected. They are just putting in the time, putting their emphasis on looking and sounding good in the endless supply of meetings, both within the agency and with clients. They do not want to rock the boat; “give the clients what they want,” is the force that motivates them.

And that is why most advertising falls somewhere between invisible and inane.

That is why some guy in a tie somewhere decided that holding a “sale” is no longer good enough. That the public is no longer interested in discounted prices. That calling a sale a “sales event” would excite the audience (for whom they have little respect) into showing up in frenzied droves and parting with their money. After all, isn’t the very idea of an “event” exciting? Wouldn’t it deserve three—no, four—exclamation points in social media?

While this earth-shattering development has little effect on audiences, it somehow resonates with advertisers. So it’s, so long to a “sale,” and hello to a “sales event.” Car companies, in particular, have made adding “event” to a “sale” mandatory, it seems. And “sales event” has disseminated, propagated, and circulated until it is ubiquitous.

Most people probably don’t even notice it, just as they don’t notice most of the dumbed-down, simple-minded advertising messages that interrupt every aspect of their lives. But no one, I daresay, is so excited, so electrified, so hypnotized by a “sales event” as opposed to a mere “sale” that they rush right out and gleefully part with their money.

I could be wrong. I haven’t been in a client meeting in years. But one thing’s for sure—somebody is stupid when it comes to “sales events.” It could be me.