Charles Hoffman: Essays and Fiction

Remembering Wolfshead

2011-06-22T16:43:00.000-07:00

[Originally published in The Dark Man: The Journal of Robert E. Howard Studies, Vol. 5, No. 1, March 2010. Copyright 2010 by The Dark Man.]

Robert E. Howard has been a huge part of my life. Amazing to think that I have been reading, enjoying, studying, reflecting on, and commenting on writings by and about Howard for a little over four decades. Today I am recalling a major milestone in my development as a Howard enthusiast --the 1968 Lancer Books paperback Wolfshead (ISBN: 0-447-73721-060).

Like many Howard readers of my generation, my first exposure to the author's work was with my discovery of the Lancer Conan series. Marc Cerasini introduced me to the Lancer series when I was twelve. To this day, every time I hear The Doors' "Light My Fire" I flash back to when I was lying on my couch in my old house reading Conan the Warrior while the song was playing on the radio. I am not kidding when I say this happens every time I hear that song. That's the sort of impact the Conan books had on me --it was a formative, transcendental, life-altering experience. At the time I was introduced to them, four Conan volumes had already appeared: Adventurer, Warrior, Conqueror, and Usurper. These were soon followed by King Kull and the volume simply entitled Conan. I vividly recall my first sight of these on the book racks of various drug stores and 5&10 stores of that vanished era.

I was no less excited when I first beheld the cover of Wolfshead displayed on the book rack. My eyes were drawn right to it, for here was another glorious, eye-popping cover painting by Frank Frazetta. The cover depicts a barbarian swordsman, this one a Nordic blond, grappling with a monstrous green serpent in some ancient temple. In the background lurks a mysterious robed figure. Now please remember that I was only thirteen at the time, and Howard was being marketed as the master of "sword and sorcery" fiction. But my initial reaction was like, wow, here's another cool barbarian character --some guy named Wolfshead!

The other feature of that cover that immediately caught my eye was something that doesn't embarrass me now. That was the author line: Robert E. Howard. It just said "Robert E. Howard" --no "and L. Sprague de Camp," no "and Lin Carter," no "edited by L. Sprague de Camp." I grabbed the book like a junkie seizing a package of unadulterated heroin.

When I got home I was able to examine the book more closely. I soon realized that I had embarked on a voyage of discovery. As I looked over the back-cover copy, it began to dawn on me that this was not a collection of stories about a single character like the previous Howard volumes. Opening the cover to the teaser page, I found the opening of the story "Wolfshead" quoted. Okay: "Wolfshead" was the name of a story and not a character. Silly me. But what hit me was that, unlike the previous Howard stories I had read, this one was written in the first person. And it was a horror story, not a heroic fantasy. In his Conan introductions, de Camp had made passing mention of the fact that Howard had written in a variety of genres. At that time, for some reason, I hadn't expected to read any of these other works. But now, I was getting my first indication that Howard was also a noteworthy author of horror stories.

On to the introduction: The back-cover copy had promised "a special introduction by the author." I was looking forward to reading it. Finally, an introduction that did not consist of some editor's or "posthumous collaborator's" evaluation of Howard's fiction --just Howard's own take on his writing. I read what Howard had to say with interest, but in the back of my mind, I wondered when and why he had written these words. Then I reached the end of the piece, where I was startled to learn that it was an excerpt from a letter to H.P. Lovecraft. I had not read Lovecraft at this point, but was aware of him. I could not fail to recall the peculiar name I knew by reputation as that of a great horror writer. So, here was another major discovery: the Lovecraft-Howard correspondence.

In the days that followed, I devoured the collected stories and was not disappointed. First up, "The Black Stone." This was the first Howard story that I read in a genre other than heroic fantasy, and the genre was horror. The first-person narrative was different from the third-person action tales I had read previously, but no less compelling. I savored this eerie story of mystery and menace, and it remains a favorite to this day.

The second story in the collection was "The Valley of the Worm." I was pleased to find that heroic fantasy was by no means absent from Wolfshead. What do I need to say about "The Valley of the Worm"? It's a top-of-his-game Howard story, and a top-ten favorite on everybody's list. And I first read it in Wolfshead.

After "Valley," we come to the story that gives the collection its title. Here was Howard's non-traditional take on a traditional icon of Gothic horror, the werewolf. "Wolfshead" is more interesting to me now in retrospect than it was upon first reading. The story, with its colorful cast gathered at a remote outpost and stalked by a demonic figure, can be seen as a precursor to a much later tale, "The Black Stranger." I'm still not quite sure why "Wolfshead" was chosen to serve as the title story for the collection when there were more impressive stories to choose from. My guess is that the title is both brief and very distinctive. And if some kid was fooled into thinking this was a collection about a new series character, that probably didn't hurt either.

The following story, "The Fire of Asshurbanipal," contained some more notable firsts. Since I read Wolfshead long before any of Howard's westerns, I was thrilling to his depiction of gunfights for the first time. Until now it had all been swords, battle axes, and the like. And it would be years before a specialty publisher issued the tales of El Borak. "The Fire of Asshurpanipal" provided my first encounter with one of Howard's Middle Eastern adventurers.

"The House of Arabu" was the second story in the collection to feature a blond barbarian, so the Frazetta cover wasn't totally misleading. Although the cover does not depict an actual scene from either "The Valley of the Worm" or "The House of Arabu," it captures the mood of the latter quite nicely.

"The Horror from the Mound" was the first story I read in which the author utilized a regional Southwestern setting based on his first-hand knowledge. (Little did I then know that this story was actually Howard's first attempt to use the Southwest in his fiction.) In any case, Howard was on to something. The descriptions of the protagonist's hardscrabble existence lingered with me long after the story's vampire menace had faded.

Rounding out the collection was "The Cairn on the Headland." This remains one of my favorite Howard horror stories. In this tale, the narrator glimpses the horrific metaphysical reality underlying the myths of old. Here also was the first reference to the battle of Clontarf that I encountered in a Howard story --or anywhere else for that matter.

Such are my memores of Wolfshead, all those years ago. Hopefully, they might shed a little light on Howard's literary reemergence after decades of obscurity. Certainly that old paperback, now crumbling with age, holds a pivotal place in my own development as a Howard reader. "The Black Stone," "The Valley of the Worm," "Wolfshead," "The Fire of Asshurbanipal," "The House of Arabu," "The Horror from the Mound," and "The Cairn on the Headland" --all these are Robert E. Howard stories I read before I read Bran Mak Morn and Solomon Kane. The Dell paperback Bran Mak Morn was issued in 1969, and three paperbacks collecting the Solomon Kane stories appeared soon afterwards. I consider it fortuitous that publishers did not wait until all the fantasy series characters were in paperback before issuing Howard stories from other genres. Had this been so, Howard would have been pigeon-holed as a "sword and sorcery guy" that much longer.

That is why I consider the publication of Wolfshead something of a milestone. In the beginning there was just Conan, King Kull, and "sword and sorcery." Wolfshead took me to the next level.

Guns of the Border Region -- Chapter Eight

2010-10-28T20:06:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER EIGHT -- HOMECOMING

[Here it is at last, the wrap-up. And, of course, all the previous installments can be read by scrolling down. What I've tried to do here was to create a pulp adventure novel that wasn't retro, ala Indiana Jones. And the novel is autobiographical in the sense that it concerns my homeland of Southwestern Pennsylvania --not as it is, or was, but as it pleases me to imagine it. Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman.]

The following afternoon a small group gathered for Arthur’s funeral. Pops, Shadow, Leon, Christian, and Cathy Gorman were in attendance, along with some allies from the previous day’s faction fight who wished to pay their respects. They were assembled in the small forest glade on Pops’ property where Pops had buried Steffy.

“Room enough here for a few more graves,” Pops told Leon, “Steffy and I never had a son. Arthur is more than welcome here. I guess I’ll be joinin’ `em ere long.” He paused and looked about. Sunlight parted the clouds and slanted through the mostly-bare trees. A passing breeze rattled the boughs. A few brown leaves drifted down. “Yep,” Pops said thoughtfully, “This will be a nice little cemetery.”

In the glade a fresh grave had been dug. A simple pine coffin had been lowered into it. Arthur rested within the coffin with the Arkansas toothpick he had borne in battle.

Pops gave the eulogy.

“We lay to rest a man of the Border Region. The compass of his soul guided him here, to his home. This land will be stronger with his bones in the ground.”

Afterwards Christian led Leon, Cathy and some of the others in a prayer. Pops and Shadow stood nearby with bowed heads.

When all was said, Pops and Leon picked up shovels and began to fill in the grave. Cathy Gorman burst into tears as the first damp clods struck the coffin lid. She sobbed more loudly as each shovelful of dirt fell. Shadow remained silent, her face as immobile as a stoic Indian’s, but tears streamed freely down her cheeks.

Shadow lingered after the others had departed. The last words uttered at Arthur’s graveside that day were hers.

“Fare thee well, friend. Your love was not wasted.”

#

Shadow found Pops seated before his fireplace. Pain dozed at his feet. Shadow took a seat on the floor next to the dog.

Pops contemplated the flames for a moment before saying, “I guess you’re pissed at me for not letting old Pain here tear that boy’s throat out.”

It was the first time they had spoken of it. Shadow looked up and said, “No. Not actually. I just wish I understood things better.”

“I had to put an end to it,” Pops explained. “You dealt Mad Dog two terrible hurts. You took away his favorite son and crippled him for life. Now he’s physically handicapped and doesn’t have Sailor to back him up. His power is broken and so is he. I saw the fire go out of him, which is sad in a way, but it took the bitterness with it. He became a changed man before my eyes. Yes, it can come over a man just like that. I’ve lived a long time. I’ve seen it happen before more than once.

“But Clanton has friends. They wouldn’t look on it too kindly if I had taken Joel from him after he had begged and pleaded with me for his life. It would be seen as an act of cruelty, me tearing the last pitiful remnants from weak grasping fingers. It would have prolonged the feud, whatever the outcome of the faction fight.

“As it is, Clanton is forever in my debt. Everyone sees him as beholden to me. No one would back him in a move against me. Not that he would attempt such a thing now. He is not without honor in his fashion. And he may be hobbling on a stick from now on, but at least he can rightfully boast that he once used it to best Connor O’Rourke in single combat. No one can take that away from him.

“Arthur sacrificed his life to save you,” Pops concluded, “And by dying in your stead he bought us the peace.”

#

After hearing Pops’ explanation, Shadow went in search of Christian. She found him out back by the still.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she told him, “We need to talk.”

“About what?” Christian asked.

“About what you’re doing here. I want to know why you really came to the Border Region. And don’t give me that lame routine about looking for the girl. Anyone with more than two brain cells would have to know how futile that was. I didn’t care because I was getting paid. But now I want the real story.”

“I was going to tell you anyway,” Christian said as he began his tale, “I’m an accountant from North Carolina, like I said. I was working in Liberty’s City as a low-level bean counter for the Confederate government. And I really was engaged to Angel. That much was true. But I did deceive you about her whereabouts. I’ve always been pretty sure she’s in New York. I didn’t lie when I said she left me. She ran off with a Muslim from the Islamic States.”

“I suspected something of the sort,” Shadow informed him, “Go on.”

The whole story came out. The other man was an ISA diplomat who came to Liberty’s City on a state visit. Angel met him at a party and had been swept off her feet by his debonair charm. When he returned home, she went with him. Christian had been left heartbroken and humiliated. He was plunged into a deep depression and his work suffered. At this point he was approached by a government intelligence agency, the heir to the Old Union’s CIA.

High government officials were concerned about the possibility of a growing Muslim presence in the Border Region. The New American Confederacy, the Free Republic of Alaska, and the Border Region all formed a loose-knit confederation. In addition to utilizing a common currency, Alaskans and Border Regioners could serve in what was referred to as the American Military. The main purpose of the alliance was mutual defense. Though not a part of the New American Confederacy, the Border Region remained connected to it in certain respects. Therefore any encroachment upon the Border Region on the part of the Islamic States of America could be viewed as an indirect threat to the Confederacy. Muslims from the Islamic States might emigrate to certain areas of the Border Region and in time achieve majority status there. Then, theoretically, sections of the northern and eastern Border Region could be subsumed into the ISA county by county. For this reason, the number and location of Muslims residing in the Border Region was of concern to the Confederate government.

Unfortunately, Confederate intelligence resources were meager compared to those of the Old Union. This was where Christian came in. He was tapped to play the jilted lover wandering the Border Region in search of his runaway sweetheart. Enough of the story was true that he could act the part convincingly. The plan was for him to get far into the rural reaches of the Border Region to scout out Muslim enclaves, if any. The Confederate spy masters had little doubt that Christian would agree to take the mission. Assuming the role of a daring secret agent would act as a balm to his injured male pride. And if he helped thwart the designs of the Islamic Federation, he would gain a measure of revenge. He was the perfect cat’s-paw.

“You Border Regioners are suspicious of outsiders,” Christian told Shadow, “A trained agent attempting to infiltrate would be spotted a mile off. But a rank amateur like me just might be able to get away with it. Anyway, that’s what the people who recruited me thought. And that’s the whole story.”

Shadow punched Christian in the mouth. “And that’s for lying to me in the first place,” she said as she stormed off.

Christian rubbed his jaw and watched her ass sway as she walked away from him. He grinned sheepishly. He knew full well that if Shadow had nailed him with her best shot, he’d be flat on his back, out cold. Still, it was probably best to stay out of her way until she cooled off. That evening he unrolled his sleeping bag on Pops’ porch and slept outdoors.

#

Christian awoke early the next morning to the smell of venison sausage cooking inside the cabin. Shadow came out with some breakfast.

“Rise and shine, Churchy,” she said cheerfully, “I brought you sausage and eggs.”

“Uh, so you’re not still upset with me?” he asked.

“We’re good,” she replied. “I just needed to be mad for a little bit.”

They sat on the steps and ate breakfast together. When they finished she informed him, “I’m pulling out of here this morning. Have you had enough of the New Settlements?”

Merciful Lord, yes! he thought. “Where are you headed?” he said.

“Tionesta. That’s up north. Northwest, actually. It’s a couple days’ ride. I have family up there. I think you’d like it. It’s in the middle of some real nice country. And the community there is thriving. It’s a little city-state, almost. They have solar and wind electricity, and a lot of modern conveniences. It’s not like here at all.”

“Then I’m for Tionesta!”

After breakfast they said their goodbyes to Pops. Not long afterwards they were on the road again. Shadow rode Incitatus. Christian was astride the horse formerly owned by the late Sailor Clanton.

Their route took them down from the mountains and back onto the main roads. The trip proved uneventful. They passed the time in conversation. Shadow mentioned looking forward to the big Halloween festival in Tionesta.

“Halloween is not that widely celebrated in the Confederacy,” Christian informed her, “Most people tend to look on it as a pagan celebration. It’s not unheard of, but it’s sort of frowned upon.”

“Well, Halloween is the biggest holiday in the Border Region. Hands down,” Shadow said. She went on to explain its historical and cultural significance in the Region.

The Pennsylvania Uprising that ultimately led to the formation of the Border Region had its beginning in the Pittsburgh area. The Westsylvania secession movement started small, with a series of peaceful demonstrations. However, when a local congresswoman disparaged movement leaders as losers and misfits, things turned ugly. On the night of October 31, 2081, secession sympathizers retaliated by firebombing the congresswoman’s upscale home. This became known as the “Halloween Hellfire” incident. It was the first documented episode of violence associated with the Westsylvania secession movement. Things snowballed from there. Cities and counties erupted in rioting, open rebellion, and finally armed insurrection.

“And today Halloween is celebrated with wild partying all over the Border Region,” Shadow concluded, “I’ve been to some really big blow-outs in Wheeling and Pittsburgh. And, as you might expect, they do it up big in Transylvania. But usually I enjoy getting back to Tionesta for the celebration.”

It was also during the journey that Shadow filled Christian in concerning the Muslim population of the Border Region.

“I’ve traveled all over the Region. I’ve probably wandered over more of it than most. And I really haven’t encountered all that many Muslims. You probably have just as many, or more, still residing in the Confederacy. There are no Muslim ‘enclaves’ that I know of. Just a family here and there. And these tend to be free thinkers looking to practice a less strict form of their religion. As long as they just want to live in peace and do their own thing, they’re welcome. But if they were to try and proselytize and gain converts, they would be made to feel most unwelcome. That sort of thing doesn’t go over well here.”

Christian questioned Shadow concerning the specifics of where and when she had encountered Muslims in the Region. Finally he felt satisfied that he had enough information to put in his report when he got back to the Confederacy.

“Why even go back?” Shadow asked, “You should stay here. You belong here. Think about it. You killed your first man before you fucked your first woman. That makes you Border Region in my book, son.”

Christian didn’t have an answer for that one. He rode on in silence. But he did think about it.

#

Tionesta was an isolated community up north in Forest County. Throughout the 20th and 21st Centuries the town had been frequented by visitors. Surrounded by woodlands teeming with game and adjacent to a large lake suitable for fishing and boating, it was a popular getaway destination. Many of the residences were hunting cabins and vacation homes unoccupied for most of the year. A small permanent population provided various goods and services.

Following the Westsylvania secession, the character of the town began to change. Counties to the north including Erie, Crawford, and Warren remained in the Pennsylvania commonwealth by treaty so as to furnish a corridor linking the Northeastern and Midwestern Islamic states. Non-Muslim residents of those areas faced the choice of abiding by Islamic authority or relocating. Many displaced residents came to resettle in and around Tionesta, swelling the population. By the early 22nd Century, Tionesta had become the model of a vital self-sufficient community. It was the northernmost outpost of the Border Region.

Shadow and Christian arrived in Tionesta at about noon on the 31st. They headed for the center of town. There holiday festivities were already underway. The whole downtown area had been transformed into an enormous street fair. Lively crowds milled about everywhere. Handcrafted items and food of every sort was being sold at open stalls. Smoke from the grills scented the air.

“It goes on all day and well into the night,” Shadow informed her companion, “Right now there’s feasting and dancing. After dark there’ll be masquerades.”

After stabling the horses they joined the crowds. Before long Shadow was greeted by an old friend. At the sound of a melodic voice calling her name, she and Christian turned to see a stunning blonde coming their way. The newcomer looked to be a year or so older than Shadow and was roughly the same height and build. Christian watched the two women embrace. Then Shadow made the introductions.

“Christian, this is Anime, or Anna Mae if you prefer. She was my partner in crime during my younger, wilder days. We used to perform in Pittsburgh clubs as a trash dance combo called Filth.”

Christian didn’t ask what a trash dance combo was. Anime warmed him with a smile that would make any man do her bidding. “Pleased to meet you, Chris.”

“She used to be cool,” Shadow said tartly, “Then she settled down and married my blockhead brother.” To Anime, “Where is Hondo, anyway?”

“He’s down in Clarion visiting your parents and your kid sister Penny,” Anime replied, “Any plans to go see them?”

“Maybe at Thanksgiving. I’ve been thinking of going down to Pittsburgh. I could book some sessions at Madame Irene’s and be back up here in time for deer season.”

Shadow noticed the look of sick horror on Christian’s face. She set him straight. “Will you fucking relax, already? I just do domination.”

Turning back to Anime, she asked, “So where are the kiddies?”

“I left them with my friend Sophie to watch while I came over to see you.”

As if on cue two little girls, perhaps four and five, came scampering out of the crowd. They ran straight to Shadow.

“Aunt Tam!” they squealed in unison.

Shadow cast a sidelong glance at Christian. “Not a word out of you, Church-boy.”

Shadow knelt and hugged the children. Straightening she said to Christian, “These are my little nieces that I told you about, Lois and Margo.”

The kids were clearly excited by a visit from their aunt. One of the tots looked up and asked, “Can we ride Incitatus?”

“You sure can!” Shadow promised.

Christian was moved to inquire, “Will Incitatus like giving pony rides to children?”

“I’ll bust him in the snoot if he doesn’t,” Shadow said, then added meaningfully, “You have to show big dumb animals who’s boss.”

Sensing something unspoken between the man and woman, Anime laughed. “You guys must be hungry,” she said.

The group left the street fair and strolled over to a nearby park. There were more crowds of people, and more stalls selling food. Beer, wine, moonshine and cider were sold and consumed in great quantities. From a central pavilion, a band entertained the crowd. Christian remarked that the Halloween celebration seemed to have incorporated elements of Oktoberfest.

For lunch the companions dined on pierogis at one of the picnic tables. The adults drank 33 while the kids enjoyed draft root beer. Following the meal the women got caught up. Shadow narrated her recent adventures, glossing over some of the gorier details. Anime wiped away a tear when told of Arthur’s sacrifice.

Christian proposed a toast --”To Arthur.” He and the women raised their drinks.

The adults sat in respectful silence for awhile. The children played nearby. The youngsters’ laughter proved infectious and the mood at the picnic table began to lighten once more.

“You have to come up to the house and get your vampire costume,” Anime said to Shadow, “You can change before it gets dark.”

“Great,” Shadow replied, “What about you? Are you wearing yours? It’ll be the return of the toothsome twosome.”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve agreed to play Sandy this year.”

Shadow laughed loudly and raised her beer in salute. “Halloween Hellfire!” she declared.

From the context Christian assumed this to be a popular toast for the occasion. The reference to “Sandy” puzzled him, however. Anime filled him in.

Sandra Popplevich was the name of the congresswoman whose home had been burned in the Halloween Hellfire episode back in `81. Over the years she became the basis for “Sandy,” an evil witch character in tales told to children. Now on Halloween in communities throughout the Border Region a local woman would dress as Sandy. The children would chase her around and she would pretend to hide. A dummy in similar attire would then be brought forth and set ablaze.

“It’s become a big tradition,” Anime concluded, “And all the kids love it.”

Later that afternoon the group adjourned to Anime’s home. It was located in a semi-rural area not far from the center of town. Shadow and Christian rode there on horseback. Anime and the kids drove in the family horse-and-buggy.

Upon arrival Shadow treated Lois and Margo to the promised pony rides on Incitatus. She then stabled her horse with the others in a small barn to the rear of Anime’s property. After providing the horses with some feed, she rejoined her companions in the house.

Anime was entertaining Christian in the living room. As Shadow came in she was telling him more about life in Tionesta; “As far as essentials are concerned, we’re totally self-sufficient. If we were cut off from the outside, we’d be okay. All of our power is wind and solar. People have been experimenting with wind and solar energy since the late 20th and early 21st Centuries, but it wasn’t produced on a large scale. Advances in the technology finally made it feasible. With communities that are energy self-sufficient, the power doesn’t have to be transmitted over long distance. So you don’t have this vast complicated infrastructure that can collapse like a house of cards.”

Shadow yawned loudly to get their attention. “Glad to see you’re fascinating our guest. If either of want me, I’ll be upstairs getting changed.” So saying, she disappeared up the stairs.

She came down a short time later. Christian turned at the sound of her footstep on the stair and actually caught his breath at the sight of her. Time seemed to slow and she appeared to drift down the stairs in slow motion.

Shadow was dressed to impress. She wore a tight black merry widow corselet. Its heavily-wired cups lifted the ivory globes of her breasts, thrusting them out. Garters from the corselet extended past black panties to uphold stockings woven in an intricate spider-web pattern. On her slender feet she wore open-toed shoes with high stiletto heels. Long satin opera gloves of a deep burgundy hue extended past her elbows. Draped about her shoulders was a black velvet hooded cloak with a red satin lining.

When Christian found his tongue he stammered, “I-I thought you were supposed to be a vampire.”

“I’m a sexy vampire!” she said playfully.

“You look great,” he admitted.

“Thanks. But I still have some bruises on my face make-up won’t cover. So I’m wearing this.”

Shadow produced a mask from somewhere. It was a grotesque affair constructed of several segments of stiff molded leather fastened together with small brass rivets. The segments --smooth domed forehead, cheekbones, upper jaw-- fitted together seamlessly to form the face of a glossy black leather skull. Christian watched uneasily as Shadow slipped the mask on. An elastic band encircling her head held it in place. Most of her face was covered by the skull mask. Only her eyes, nose and chin remained visible. She raised the hood of the cloak.

“I can’t see your face,” Christian objected.

“So look at my tits.”

#

After dusk they all headed back to town for the Halloween masquerade. The whole group managed to fit in Anime’s buggy for the ride down. Christian thought the kids looked cute in their costumes; Lois as a ghost and Margo as a black cat. Anime wore no costume, but a bag at her side contained her Sandy outfit for later. Shadow rode in silence. It was as though in donning cloak, hood and mask she had adopted a more somber, mysterious demeanor.

The center of town was closed to vehicular traffic due to the street fair. Anime dropped Christian and Shadow off at the outskirts of the festivities, then drove away to corral the horse and buggy. The children waved goodbye as they departed.

Night had fallen and most people at the fair were now cavorting in costume. Shadow said nothing but took Christian by the hand and led him deep into the crowds of revelers, Here there was food and drink, music and merriment. The only thing resembling this anywhere in the Confederacy was the New Orleans Mardi Gras. This seemed different and darker, however. Christian noticed that there were no funny costumes, but all the familiar figures of folklore and Gothic horror were present. And then there were the women, flaunting themselves in all manner of provocative attire. Christian, accustomed as he was to women modestly dressed, was soon sporting an erection. With an effort he avoided looking at them, and gradually it subsided.

Shadow led Christian to the town square. Here a stage had been set up and the community’s children, including Lois and Margo, were being entertained by a puppet show. In the middle of the performance a strange costumed figure came skulking onto the stage. Christian recognized Anime despite her ragged robes, pointed witch’s hat and fake hook nose. She now began to lurch about making menacing gestures. The puppet master reacted in mock horror. “Oh no, it’s Sandy!” he cried, “Help me, kids, help me!”

Dozens of laughing, screaming, jumping children rose up en masse and stormed the stage. “Sandy” was forced to retreat. The crowds parted to allow the youngsters to pursue the robed figure through the streets. She eventually took refuge in one of the shops along the main drag. The door locked behind her and she vanished into one of the back rooms.

Presently two large men in devil costumes emerged bearing a dummy garbed as Sandy on pitchforks. They went forth into the streets brandishing the dummy aloft. The children followed them through the cheering, jeering throngs as they returned to the town square. There a noose had been thrown over a lamppost. The neck of the dummy was placed in the noose and the mannequin was hoisted upwards. A third man in a devil costume stepped forward holding an upraised torch and set the dummy afire. Cries of “Halloween Hellfire” echoed through the crowd.

“A bit gruesome,” Christian observed.

“Let’s take a walk through Pumpkin-Land,” Shadow said in response, “It might calm your nerves.”

He did not question her as she took his hand once more and led him away. The din of the crowd faded behind them as they entered the park where they had eaten lunch that afternoon. In a meadow and along the slope of a hill the townsfolk had placed hundreds of glowing jack-o-lanterns. Pumpkins large and small had been carved into an assortment of frightful and mournful visages. The candles flickering within them cast a pale unsteady illumination, like that produced by scores of winking fireflies. Shadow and Christian were not alone. Other couples sauntered about. The total effect of the scene was one of strange, eerie, peaceful beauty.

Christian was deep in thought. This land, this Border Region, was a land a man like Arthur had watered with his blood. Christian now felt that he could make a home here. He thought of Anime. Had she not once been as wild as Shadow? Now she was wife to some lucky man.

When he was ready, he spoke.

“Shadow, will you take off your mask?”

“Why?”

“I want to kiss you.”

“Okay.”

She lowered her hood and removed the mask. The couple embraced and kissed passionately. Shadow was impressed; the boy was learning.

After they disengaged he said softly, “I’m planning on moving to the Border Region. I could probably make a good living in one of the city-states. I still have to go back and make my report, but then I’ll be free of obligations.”

He paused, hesitated, and then continued, “And there’s another thing. I want to marry you.”

Shadow was a little surprised, but only a little. I’ll bet you do, she thought, We screwed out of wedlock, and that would give it a kind of retroactive legitimacy. Nice try, Church-boy.

“Not so fast,” she replied. She preferred doing things her way and she wanted to test him, so she said, “You can start off being my personal fuck-toy and we’ll work it from there. How’s that?’

He had to think about it, but not for long. “That’ll be fine.”

“Good. So when do you think you’ll be heading home?

“I’ll be heading down the to the Confederacy in a day or two. Once there I can give my report and get my affairs in order. Then I’ll be back.

“But as to when I’m heading home, I’m already home. Home is here. In the Border Region. With you.”

Guns of the Border Region -- Chapter Seven

2010-10-13T18:40:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER SEVEN -- THUNDER OF THE FEUD

[Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman]

This isn’t over by a long shot. Such was Pops’ assessment of the situation when informed of the gory details of Shadow’s encounters with Karla and Sailor Clanton. He kept his thoughts to himself for the time being, however. There would be time enough to deal with matters and make future plans on the morrow. For this evening, he busied himself preparing a hearty supper. He knew Shadow and Christian would sleep better with a good hot meal in their bellies. He wanted them to be refreshed and rested when they drew their plans for the trouble that lay ahead.

Shadow and Christian retired to Pop’s bedroom once again. There Christian unrolled his sleeping bag by the bed. So we’re back to that, Shadow thought.

“It’s better this way, at least for now,” Christian said by way of explanation, “I know I let you down.”

At first light, Pops set out for Leon’s cabin. Leon and Arthur had returned there on the same day Shadow and Christian had gone to Eden. Pops needed to inform them of recent developments and to learn if they had caught wind of any news that might have come drifting down the trails from the north.

Back at Pops’ cabin Shadow and Christian took turns freshening up in the bathhouse. Shadow went first.

While Christian made use of the facility, Shadow selected a change of clothes from a trunk of her belongings left in Pops’ keeping. Standing before a mirror she admired her reflection clad in the late Sailor Clanton’s red mesh tank top. This thing shows pretty much everything I got, she mused, It would look just hot enough if I wore it over one of Steffy’s black bras. But there’s no way I could fill one of those out. Upon further reflection, she just decided to get rid of it. She really didn’t need any reminders of Sailor Clanton after all.

She also decided that it was getting a little chilly for crotch-huggers. She switched those for a pair of waist-high leather pants. The top she selected was a simple black sleeveless t-shirt with a scoop neck. Shadow completed her ensemble with a new pair of unadorned wrist gauntlets that covered half the length of her forearms, furnishing protection and stability for her gun and knife hands. Now she felt ready for business.

#

It was late afternoon when Pops returned with Leon and Arthur. Pain’s bark alerted Shadow as they rode up. She greeted Leon and Arthur with warm hugs. Christian couldn’t help but notice that she seemed especially glad to see the latter. Presently they all gathered around Pops’ table to discuss matters. Leon and Arthur had already been given a summary of events. Now Shadow related a fuller account.

“This touches us all,” she told the group, “So you have a right to know everything, and that means the ugly stuff.” She then proceeded to narrate her recent misadventures, omitting only the tryst with Christian. As she told of her abduction and rape by Clanton, she felt the mood in the room grow grim. She noted the firm set of Leon’s jaw and the outrage blazing in Arthur’s eyes. Most of all, she was acutely aware of the tremor of Pops’ tightly clenched fists. It was as though he was fighting to control their independent urge to rend and smash. Shadow hastened to the part of her tale that concerned her bloody revenge. She sensed the group’s mood shift again in light of that revelation and their growing awareness of her ability to give payback with liberal interest. All the men, except for Pops, grew very quiet and still after glimpsing this frightening side of her.

“Anyway,” she concluded, “There’s more trouble on the way. Sorry, guys. The shit-storm about to come down is all my fault.”

“That’s bullshit,” Leon objected, “This started when Clanton trespassed on my property, shot up my home and wrecked our still. He might not have actually been trying to kill Arthur and me, but it could have happened real easy.”

“Maybe so,” Shadow admitted, “But there was no actual bloodshed until I got into the act. I went up the trail and left five bodies on the ground before I came back down.”

Christian didn’t hesitate to correct her, “That’s just four bodies, actually. One of them was my doing, God forgive me.”

Shadow favored him with a warm smile, “Thanks, Quick Draw.”

“And Karla got dead by her own choice,” Leon added, eager to offer encouragement, “We heard about that the next day. You didn’t go for a weapon until she did. There were any number of people there who saw it and will swear to it.”

“That’s all well and good, Leon. But what I did to Sailor Clanton’s boys was sheer murder.”

Christian spoke up again, his voice uncharacteristically stern, “Shadow, I was there and didn’t lift a finger to stop you. If you’re guilty of something, so am I. But I’ll never forget how I found you.” He vividly recalled the sight of her bound, raped, flogged and pistol-whipped. The others could see the gun barrel-shaped bruise that marred her face. “They would hang in any state in the Confederacy,” Christian concluded.

Now it was Pops’ turn. “Sailor Clanton has been running amok for years. There was bound to be a bullet with his name on it sooner or later. I say good riddance. The world becomes a little more like Hell every time an asshole gets his way.”

“Who actually knows that you killed Clanton?” Arthur asked Shadow.

“Just you guys,” she said, “But everyone in Eden knows I was looking for him. And somebody would have investigated the burnt cabin. The smoke could be seen for miles.”

“So what kind of trouble are we looking at now?” asked Christian.

“Feud,” Pops said simply. And to Leon and Shadow, that one word spoke volumes. It told of bloody ambushes, of furtive shapes skulking through the night, shots in the dark fired at silhouetted figures in cabin windows, men treading softly and looking ever over their shoulders. It told of creeping paranoia, fear, suspicion and death.
Once started a feud could drag on for years, even decades. Many people could be drawn into it before it was all over. People in isolated frontier regions grew to depend on one another in ways inconceivable to those dwelling in a more civilized milieu. Ties between members of large extended families remained strong. Bonds of friendship were forged of steel. Therefore, if someone on the periphery of a feud --say, the friend of a relative of one of the main combatants-- were to fall, then one of his friends could take up the vendetta and the whole bloody business would ripple outwards. Pops, Leon and Shadow had all spent enough time in the New Settlements to be familiar with such strife, but none of them had actually become embroiled in a feud. Until now.

Pops explained the grim nature of mountain feuds to Christian and Arthur. They both sat silently and absorbed it all. After digesting it all for a moment, Christian asked, “So who’s going to be on the warpath?”

“Mad Dog Clanton,” Pops grunted. The words seemed to hang in the air like the rumble of distant thunder. “That’s Sailor’s old man,” he added after a meaningful pause, “And he is one nasty son of a bitch.”

This was an understatement. Mad Dog Clanton was a veritable devil. He had been likened to a walking mass of muscle and rage. The elder Clanton was not quite as tall as Pops, but more broadly built and decades younger. Though powerful, his physique was not comely and symmetrical like that of his son Sailor or his rival, Pops O’Rourke. In places he looked almost grotesquely overdeveloped, his terrible thews bunched and knotted like those of a gorilla. Adding to his bestial appearance was the unkempt shock of thick black hair and a bristling black beard. Wiry black hair covered his massive chest, broad back and wide shoulders as well. When his face was contorted by rage, as it frequently was, it was enough to make demons take fright. Mad Dog Clanton would not have looked out of place lurking in a cave and wielding a stone axe.

Pops thought of Mad Dog Clanton as an atavism, a throwback to some dark lost age. He was an outcast from civilization. Even in the wilder towns such as Weirton he would have been shot dead had he chosen to linger there. The more organized criminal elements would have scant tolerance for such a loose cannon rolling around on their deck. In areas and communities still struggling to rebuild atop the ruins of war, he would be even less welcome. But the New Settlements were home to those who, for whatever reason, had chosen to turn their backs on everything that had come before and hew out a rude new world in the midst of virgin forest.

It was in this backwoods setting that Mad Dog Clanton had made his home. A grim, towering figure, he could win a dominant position in such a society. He assumed the mantle of a lord and raised his eldest son, Sailor, in the manner of a prince. Sailor’s Adonis-like good looks had been an immense source of pride to his brutish father. Mad Dog especially enjoyed basking in the reflected glory of his son’s sexual conquests. He had egged Sailor on, had urged him to take what he wanted, had fostered a sense of entitlement in his son by asserting his “God-given right” to this or that. Mad Dog had no small hand in making Sailor Clanton the monster he became.

Pops said little of this to the others, but was careful to emphasize just how tough and dangerous the elder Clanton was. “They don’t call him Mad Dog for nothing.”

“So how much trouble is this guy going to be?” Arthur asked, “I mean, who would side with someone like that? Who’s backing him up?”

“The bad elements mostly. The McCleans, the Martenses, the Wolanskis.”

“Anybody on our side?” It was an innocent enough question, but it evoked a strong response from Pops.

“I’ll be damned if there ain’t!” Pops replied testily, as though his integrity had been impugned, “I’ll walk right out of here and head straight into Hell if my name doesn’t carry more weight in these settlements than some piece of psycho scum like Mad Dog Clanton.”

“So who can we count on for certain?”

“The Woods, the Nixons, the Parkers. The Gormans for sure.”

The latter were distant kin of Shadow’s. Centuries earlier the Gormans had drifted south and west and finally settled in West Texas. After the War, most of the Southwest seceded from the Old Union and rejoined Mexico. The Gormans then relocated once again, this time to the Border Region.

“So what do we do now?” Christian asked.

“We assemble our allies,” Pops told him, “I expect that’s what Mad Dog Clanton is doing even as we speak. So there’s no time to lose. I’ll be on the road first thing tomorrow. I’m going to travel through the Settlements and talk with those people I mentioned, and some others. There are plenty who are spoiling for a fight with Clanton and his ilk. Others will offer support and backup. I intend to bring as many as possible into the fold. Leon and Arthur will accompany me. Christian and Shadow will stay here with Pain to guard the cabin. I suggest we all turn in early. It’s going to be a busy day.”

#

Pops slept in his own bed that night. The others bedded down in their sleeping bags. Before retiring, Pops took a moment to reflect.

I swear I don’t know if the New Settlements will ever amount to anything, he thought. What have we wrought here? A log-walled, dirt floor hell? Why did we do it? There was plenty of challenging work to be done in the years after the War. Most anywhere in the Border Region, in the city-states, in the rural areas, a man could carve out a niche for himself in any number of new societies springing up from the ashes. Why take to the deep woods with axes? Why take it all the way back to frontier days?

“A clean break with the past” was an expression that had been bandied about often. But Pops had been well aware, even at the outset, that Americans had always tended to romanticize the frontier life of the early pioneers. Yet such a life must have entailed no small measure of dark, grim, primitive squalor. Perhaps that was why the New Settlements drew dark, grim, primitive men like Mad Dog Clanton. As for Pops, he had been a restless giant seeking to grapple with the greatest challenge a brave new world had to offer.

Still had plenty of juice back then, even though it was only twenty-odd years ago, he recalled. Can’t believe Steffy went along with it, considering the world she came from. Still, she had that adventurous spirit.

The trouble was, Pops mused, that the New Settlements may have started as crude clusters of log cabins, but they shouldn’t remain as such. Maybe if certain undesirable elements --for instance, Mad Dog Clanton-- were taken down, the Settlements might yet amount to something. But a bloody protracted feud in these hills would only make matters worse. Pops did have a plan for ending the feud before it really got rolling. The only problem was that it probably wasn’t going to be pretty.

#

Pops arose during the darkness that foreruns the dawn. He, Leon and Arthur set out shortly after the first glimmer of daylight.

Christian and Shadow remained behind with Pain. At first a tense awkward silence hung between the man and woman. Christian attempted to engage in idle conversation. Shadow remained sullen. Gradually, however, she warmed to his boyish charm. She relaxed and began to engage in some small talk. It still seemed like something was bothering her, but he didn’t ask what it was. Following a lull in the conversation, she let him know.

“Christian, I want you out of here,” she said bluntly, “This is no place for you. Bad shit is about to go down. It could make the trouble you’ve seen so far look like a church picnic. You can get yourself killed or really, really messed up.”

Christian paused for a moment to digest this before raising any objection. At length he said, “But I’m a part of this too. The blood isn’t only on your hands. I killed that guy Chester.”

“Chester was a nobody. No one will give a shit about him. The riff-raff around here shoot and stab each other all the time. You saved my life. You’ve done more than enough.”

Another pause. Christian seemed to choose his words carefully before he spoke. “That may very well be true. But I can’t leave you. I cast my lot with you when I came to the New Settlements. I would not have left you before, and now, well…honor demands that I stay.”

Shadow rolled her eyes at the last part. “Okay Galahad, have it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

#

It was early afternoon when Pops and the others came riding back at the head of a dozen men on horseback, all heavily armed. Shadow recognized members of the Nixon and Gorman clans. The men dismounted. The newcomers began to unload gear from some spare horses and to pitch tents here and there on Pops’ property.

Pops briefed Shadow and Christian concerning recent developments. “These men are solidly in our camp. Still others are out on the roads spreading the word. I’m hoping to herd as many as possible on our side, packing as much heat as possible. It’s not that I’m preparing for slaughter. On the contrary, I hope to avoid or minimize bloodshed. But it’s advisable to negotiate from a position of strength. It’s the only thing a man like Clanton understands. I mean to confront him with a really formidable show of force. My plan is to set up a meeting with Clanton. Douglas Parker is riding up to his territory under a flag of truce, with some tough hombres to watch his back. Doug’s a good man, respected by all. Leave it to him to arrange the meeting. Once it’s set, we’ll ride up in force. These men will go with us, and our other allies will muster at the location point.”

“And where might that be?” asked Christian.

“Jericho. That’s in the place we around here call Heaven. Neither side will hold any special advantage.”

For Christian’s benefit, Pops explained the significance of those place names. Jericho was a log cabin settlement similar to Eden, only bigger. Its largest structure was sufficient to serve as a meeting hall. Because of its central location, Jericho was utilized as a gathering place for residents from throughout the settlements to address common concerns.

Both Jericho and Eden lay within the area locals referred to as “Heaven.” When Westsylvania seceded from Pennsylvania, the old Commonwealth fractured along county lines. Heaven was a notable exception. It was carved out of the southwestern corner of Centre County by mountaineers who refused to abide by the county’s Islamic majority and refused to locate further west. Authorities in the sparsely-settled county eventually abandoned the area. One mountaineer referred to their new domain as “a little piece of Heaven” and the name stuck. The New Settlements were lawless enough, but Heaven was wholly without legal authority.

Christian was incredulous. “And this is where you hope to avoid a bloodbath? I’m sorry, Mr. O’Rourke, but this all sounds like a blueprint for disaster.”

Pops chuckled in spite of the gravity of the situation. The lad had a point. There might have been a very slim microscopic chance that Mad Dog Clanton could be persuaded to reason had both sides suffered casualties. But the bloodshed had been one-sided --thus far. The best Pops could hope for would be to get Clanton to agree to settle the matter by single combat or one pitched battle between groups of chosen warriors. At least that way the strife would remain small and short-lived.

Pops admitted as much to Shadow and Christian. The latter remained skeptical. “I still don’t think this meeting or council or whatever you care to call it is a good idea. You’ll have all these angry men waving guns around. One shot and the whole thing turns into a massacre. I mean, what’s to stop it?”

“The Amish,” Pops replied, smiling once more at Christian’s look of astonishment. “We’ll be arranging for some of the Amish Elders to preside over the meeting. This is customary when arbitrating disputes. The Amish are held in high esteem in rural Westsylvania. They were instrumental in teaching folks to become self-sufficient during those horrible years just after the War. You’re too young to remember. A good bit of the eastern part of the Old Union was buried in rubble back then. Just ruin and utter devastation. But it was the Amish that helped survivors get back on their feet. Today, they’re untouchable. None will raise a hand against the least of them; the person who did so would be totally ostracized, even by family members. Now by tradition the counsel of their Elders is sought. Even a fiend like Mad Dog Clanton will respect that tradition.”

#

A messenger came riding into the O’Rourke camp at daybreak the following morn. The rider dismounted. Pops strode forth to greet him. The men clasped hands.

“Good to see you, Doug,” Pops said warmly. He introduced the man, Douglas Parker, to Christian and Arthur. “So what’s the good word?” Pops asked.

“It’s all been set up,” the man replied, “The meeting will convene in Jericho as soon as everybody’s there. The Amish have agreed to send a couple of emissaries.”

After breakfast, the O’Rourke faction broke camp and prepared for the trek to Jericho. Leon and Arthur loaded the wagon with provisions and some items Pops supplied. The dog Pain rode in the wagon. When everything was in readiness they all moved out. Pops rode at the head of the column.

They rode north to Jericho passing through Eden. In Eden the sullen residents peered silently from cabins or stood about on the unpaved streets to watch the horsemen go by. Along the way the column was joined by others who had come up separate trails.

The O’Rourke party arrived in Jericho early in the afternoon. Unlike Eden, where dark woodlands pressed in ominously on all sides, Jericho stood in the midst of a wide clearing. Its rough-hewn buildings were more numerous and better constructed than those of the smaller communities. There were several corrals for horses. Pops led his riders towards one of these. He saw another group assembling at a corral on the other side of the settlement.

“Those would be Clanton’s men,” Pops informed Christian and Arthur, “But I don’t see Clanton himself.”

Before long O’Rourke’s group was joined by other allies who had come down from the north. These included members of the Wood and Nixon clans and their kin. Still others had come to Jericho. These were of old Pennsylvania German extraction like the Huffmans and the Holcrofts. They were sympathetic to O’Rourke or neutral, but definitely no friends of the Clantons. When all were assembled, the O’Rourke faction numbered almost a hundred men and a few women. All were heavily armed, toting M-16s, Uzis, AK-47s and various other assault weapons including some very advanced models that had seen service in the War. This was in addition to the sidearms that all wore on their belts. The Clanton group was similarly outfitted. To Christian it seemed like half the guns of the Border Region were in the hands of these men.

By Pops’ reckoning his group outnumbered Clanton’s people about three to one. Well, that’s good, he thought, Makes it less likely that Clanton will try to turn this into a gun battle.

Pain leapt down from Leon’s wagon and trotted over to Pops. The beast growled as Pops forced it to submit to wearing a chain and collar. “Easy, boy,” Pops said soothingly while stroking the animal, “We just don’t want anyone around her getting antsy.”

Elsewhere in the corral Shadow was introducing Christian and Arthur to a young girl of perhaps nineteen years. This was an attractive redhead named Cathy Gorman. Though not quite in Shadow or Karla’s league, Cathy could hold her own in most any kind of a brawl.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Cathy said cheerfully, “Keeping all these handsome men to yourself.” Cathy seemed especially attracted to Arthur, but he was uncertain of how to respond to the girl’s flirtation. “I hope to see you again soon,“ she told him, offering encouragement when they parted. It was the only light moment of a very grim day.

Pops’ conversation with other of the newcomers was of an altogether more somber nature. As he had suspected, Chester, Mike and Lyle were as completely forgotten as though they had never existed. On the other hand, the popular Sailor Clanton and Karla were already being accorded the near-mythological status of Tristan and Isolde, Antony and Cleopatra, and other such star-crossed lovers. This did not bode well.

“Still no sign of Mad Dog,” Pops muttered as he scanned the enemy camp. Probably waiting to make an entrance when things gets started. And he’s probably been told that I’ve arrived. It was then that he noticed some activity. The man had started to file out of the corral and head towards the settlement’s large central structure.

“It’s on,” Pops informed his allies, “Let’s go.”

The O’Rourke contingent now left the area about the corral where they had been congregating. A few men were left behind to guard the horses. Pops left Pain behind with Cathy Gorman, who had known the dog since he was a puppy. Everybody else began to make their way towards the central building. They moved slowly and warily, keeping pace with the men approaching from the opposite direction.
Jericho’s central building was a massive structure solidly built of sturdy timbers. Even from the outside it was apparent that the structure housed a single large room intended to serve as a gathering place for meetings, celebrations and other communal events. The building was rectangular in shape, with sets of double doors on either of the longer sides. It could hold about a hundred people. That meant that a number of those who had arrived in Jericho today would have to wait outside and observe the proceedings through windows and open doorways.

Clanton’s men had already begun to enter the hall by the time O’Rourke’s group reached it. Douglas Parker insisted on going in first accompanied by some formidable companions to make sure that none lie in wait to bushwhack Pops or Shadow. Pops saw the wisdom of deferring to his friend’s prudent judgment. A large number of his party preceded Pops into the hall.

Inside the hall local residents had made arrangements for the meeting. Two rows of benches had been set up with an aisle running between them. Clanton’s group had already taken seats on one side of the aisle and O’Rourke’s people were now filling the opposite row. Locals and other neutral parties occupied standing room in the rear. At the front of the hall a table had been placed on a raised platform along with two chairs reserved for the Amish Elders.

Pops O’Rourke entered the hall flanked by Leon and Arthur, followed by Christian and Shadow. Muttering in the Clanton section died down as the giant O’Rourke strode in, but started anew when Shadow glided in after him, clad all in black, her duster billowing out behind her. A slender man rose and pointed an accusing finger.

“That’s her!” he cried. It was Danny Martense, a high-strung youth with a reputation for being a hothead. “That’s the witch! That’s the witch that slew Sailor and Karla! Devil spawn! Devil spawn!”

This was bad. It was just the sort of thing that could turn an already irate crowd into a howling mob shrieking for blood. One spark in that tinderbox could ignite a conflagration. This had to be stopped, and fast.

In the space of a second O’Rourke stepped up to confront the youth, covering the distance with a few long strides. A single mild blow from Pops’ sledge-like fist was sufficient to knock Danny Martense back onto his seat with a fractured jaw.

“Sit down and shut up!” Pops roared. He raised his clenched fists high. The gesture was a signal, understood by all, both that he held no weapon and that he would take on any of them mano a mano. He transfixed the crowd with his volcanic gaze. Pops didn’t know what to expect, but at least he had shifted the focus from Shadow back to himself. For a tense moment the tableau held. Then another spoke.

“Let everyone settle down and be seated.” It was a rich, clear solemn voice laden with calm authority.

All heads, including Pops’, turned toward the speaker. Two tall old men clad in the somber garb of the Amish stood framed in the doorway. Both were ancient, with long white beards reaching to their waists, but stood as straight and sturdy as oaks. They assumed their appointed place behind the table on the platform. The Elders had arrived.

Pops and his companions seated themselves in the front row of their section. “My God,” Pops said in a hushed tone, “That’s Abner and Ebenezer.”

Catching the note of awe in his voice, Arthur asked, “So are they, like, pretty big?”

“There are none bigger.”

Pops knew whereof he spoke. Yet his simple statement to Arthur failed to do justice to the true stature of Abner and Ebenezer among the Amish of Westsylvania. They were much more than community elders; they were patriarchs and living legends. Each had taken on the mantle of Moses during a latter-day Exodus.

After the War, the Special Election of ‘81 established Islamic law in Pennsylvania. This in turn sparked the Pennsylvania Uprising that led to the secession of Westsylvania. However, the Amish of Lancaster County and environs remained isolated in the midst of what had been the eastern half of the old Commonwealth. If they remained there they would be obliged to accept Islamic rule. Abner had taken the initiative in planning and successfully orchestrating their relocation. He led his people westward into the mountains.

Ebenezer had assumed a similar role, only in his case the circumstances were more complicated. In addition to those in Lancaster and the eastern part of the state, there were Amish enclaves in northwestern Pennsylvania as well. Most were centered around Spartansburg in Crawford County. Had Westsylvania come to include all the western counties of Pennsylvania the Amish there would have been able to continue to dwell there as before. Their brethren from Lancaster might even have joined them there. But as fate would have it, the northwestern counties became the subject of controversy.

Westsylvania secession was ultimately achieved without bloodshed, but not without compromise. Secession leaders met with government officials in the state capital of Harrisburg to hammer out an agreement allowing for a peaceful separation. A major point of contention concerned the northwestern counties of Erie, Crawford, Warren and McKean. Political and religious leaders were already looking to the day when the Islamic States would achieve full independence. It was important to them that those four counties remain part of Pennsylvania to form a corridor linking the eastern Islamic states with those in the Midwest. In this way the future nation would encompass a single geographically contiguous area. Secession leaders agreed to this compromise in order to settle the matter while they still held a strong position.

This development did not go over well in some quarters. Although the secession movement originated in the southwestern portion of the state, it had ardent supporters in the northwestern counties. The most militant resided in the town of North East, located in the northeastern portion of the state’s small panhandle that extended to Lake Erie. Secessionists there complained that the movement’s leaders had betrayed them. Both state officials and movement leaders pointed out that the majority of Western Pennsylvania’s Muslims resided in or near Erie; therefore the compromise made sense. In any event the disgruntled numbered too few to mount an effective counter-movement. They ultimately had little choice but to relocate. A number of them opted for the hardy frontier life of the New Settlements.

Thus the Amish of Crawford County faced the same dilemma as their brethren far to the east in Lancaster County. Ebenezer took on the leadership role in their subsequent migration. During the following years Ebenezer and Abner worked together to establish new Amish enclaves along the eastern fringe of the Border Region. As patriarchs they became the stuff of legend. It was as though Pharaoh’s daughter had plucked twins from the bulrushes.

The significance of their presence here and now at this meeting was not lost on Pops. It meant that the Amish Elders were taking the recent turn of events very seriously indeed. They knew as well as he did the potential of a protracted feud to rob the Settlements of some of their best blood, leaving women and orphans to wail for their dead.

When all were seated Abner said, “Let the proceedings begin.”

Already there was an objection. “But they cain’t begin,” someone shouted from the Clanton section, “Mad Dog …I mean, Mr. Clanton… ain’t here yet.”

As if on cue a ruckus suddenly arose in the rear of the meeting hall. Heads turned towards the source of the commotion. A small group of newcomers was making its loud way through the rear entrance. At the group’s center was a massive bear-like man clad in buckskins. A wild tangle of thick black hair hung to his shoulders and his heavy beard was split by teeth bared in a perpetual snarl. His small bloodshot eyes darted about, habitually scanning for enemies. The man bellowed curses as he strode down the center aisle. Mad Dog Clanton, for this could be none other, had arrived.

“Where be the bitch that murdered my boy?” he demanded.

Shadow shot to her feet; she hid from no man. “Right here, asshole!” she spat back, “Your ‘boy’ kidnapped me and raped me.”

“Is this true?” Ebenezer the Elder asked sternly.

Clanton growled but held his temper. He was outnumbered and outgunned by his foes, and the authority of the Elders was almost tangible. “We have only her word for that!” he snarled.

“Not so!” A new voice rang out. It was Christian. He rose and took his place alongside Shadow. “I saw Sailor Clanton take her away. I found her tied to his bed after he violated her. I swear to it by God and my Lord Jesus Christ, and I do not make such an oath in vain!”

Christian’s voice carried the ring of truth. His tone of righteous sincerity evoked nods among the listeners, including some in the Clanton camp. Even Mad Dog himself was taken aback slightly. He was far from mollified, however. He switched to a different tact. Grasping the first thing that came to mind, he stabbed an accusing finger at Shadow.

“You took the law into your own hands!”

Some of Mad Dog’s supporters had to stifle cynical laughter. Shadow grew visibly angry. She seemed ready to launch herself at Mad Dog Clanton despite being physically outmatched.

“There is no law in Heaven!” she roared, “And what passes for it in the rest of the Settlements is a joke. And you know it.”

“What I know is that you’re a mass murderer. You murdered that fine woman Karla as well as my boy!”

“That’s a lie!” This was shouted from one the neutral factions standing in the rear of the hall. “It was a fair fight!” exclaimed one of the men, “I was there and saw the whole thing. Shadow didn’t go for her bowie until Karla did.”

“Enough of this.” Now it was Abner who spoke. At the sound of his voice the others fell silent. He turned to Pops. “Mr. O’Rourke, it was you who arranged this meeting. What is it you hope to accomplish?”

Shadow and Christian took their seats. Pops rose and addressed the Elders. “I hope to forestall further bloodshed,” he told them, “It seems insane to me that this began as a dispute over whiskey. As all know, there are no laws pertaining to the home manufacture and sale of spirits in these parts. Sailor Clanton wrecked a still on the property of my good friend Leon Jackson and fired shots into his home. His goal was to eliminate competition in the moonshine trade. He admitted all this to Miss Lane while she was his captive. Miss Lane was Mr. Jackson’s partner. She went in search of Sailor Clanton in the hopes of talking things out. For her pains she had to defend herself in a fight to the death, then was kidnapped and raped.”

The Elders mulled this over. Ebenezer addressed Mad Dog, “Mr. Clanton, death is harsh but so is the outrage of a woman. Would ye be willing to forego vengeance?”

“I’ll be damned if I will!” Clanton thundered, “Beware, Connor O’Rourke! I mean to have your hide and that of your girl.”

Pops face betrayed no emotion, but inwardly he felt relief. Had Clanton readily agreed to a truce, the situation would have been decidedly more dangerous. There was no chance whatsoever that Mad Dog Clanton would keep such a promise. O’Rourke and his friends would be in constant peril. Their lives would be spent looking over their shoulders. None would know when shots would be fired from the dark. Blood would call for blood, and on it would drag. The feud would cast its gloomy pall over all. No, it was better that Clanton declared his intentions openly. This gave O’Rourke the chance he had been hoping for all along. As he saw it, his best option lie in settling his differences with Clanton with one quick, decisive bloodletting.
In response to Mad Dog Clanton’s wild oath, Pops said simply, “I’ll not have my people dragged into endless feuding. I propose we settle this once and for all, the way our ancestors in the old country did.”

Clanton eyed Pops warily. “Are ye callin’ for a faction fight?”

“I am.”

Faction fights were common in 19th Century Ireland. These were pitched battles between rival clans, gangs or communities. A faction fight could erupt over property disputes, debts or various sorts of grudges. Weapons usually consisted of sticks, stones and similar primitive implements, although the use of swords and even guns was not unheard of. There was a certain structure to the battle, the main rule being that the sides be evenly numbered. Hundreds or even thousands of combatants could be involved. The largest faction fight on record took place in County Kerry in June 1834. Three thousand fought that day. When it was all over two hundred of them lie dead. Irish immigrants to America were known to engage in faction fighting. In old New York the Dead Rabbits and rival gangs fought for turf in the Five Points section.

Mad Dog Clanton readily agreed to a faction fight. Ever the schemer, he saw a rare opportunity to utterly crush his rival O’Rourke. Then, unopposed, he could pretty much call the shots in the New Settlements. He would be a king ruling from a palace of logs.

Pops addressed the Elders once more. “There can be no peace between me and Clanton. I see long years of feuding ahead. That’s something to be avoided. I propose to settle it once and for all in a day. Clanton’s people will fight mine. All will abide by the outcome.”

Abner conferred briefly with Ebenezer. It was Ebenezer who spoke. “It would be a vain hope for you to forsake your blood-mad ways. If violence there must be, let it be as a summer storm that passes swiftly. Better that than unending feud.”

Pops turned back to Clanton. “We will have our battle. How many can you field?”

“There be only thirty I can count on for sure.”

“Then I’ll meet you with thirty of my best. Weapons?”

“Blades and bludgeons!”

“Very well. I call time and place. Bender’s Field. Noon, the day after tomorrow.” Bender’s Field was a central location not far from Jericho. Both parties would travel an equal distance to reach it. A full day would give them plenty of time to prepare.

“I will meet you on Bender’s Field,” Mad Dog Clanton growled, “And then I will see you in Hell!”

#

Two days later the factions gathered on Bender’s Field. A fog hung over the field as the hosts assembled throughout the morning. As the noon hour approached the fog cleared and the clouds parted. The day was warm and fine.

The factions had formed staging areas at opposite ends of the field. In O’Rourke’s camp, Christian found Shadow practicing with a curious looking weapon. It consisted of two hardwood sticks just over a foot long joined by a short length of cord. Apparently it was designed to be used as a flail. Shadow held one of the sticks and used it to whirl the other about. She whipped the sticks around faster and faster, switching from hand to hand. Christian asked her what the weapon was called.

“This? It’s a nunchaku,” she said, “It’s an Asian weapon like the manriki-gusari I gave you. Haven’t you ever seen old Bruce Lee movies?”

Christian explained that in the Christian South the Asian martial arts were associated with pagan religions like Buddhism and therefore not widely taught. As for movies, his parents had frowned upon violent entertainment.

“What in God’s name are you doing here, Church-boy?” Shadow exclaimed in exasperation, “I told you before to stay the hell out of this.”

“I don’t recall you asking Arthur to leave,” Christian replied.

“Arthur’s Border Region. He lives in the Settlements. He has a stake in what goes on here.”

“Well, so do I,” Christian said. He looked at her meaningfully.

Shadow rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right. Go see Pops and get outfitted with a weapon. And if you get your head bashed in, don’t come crying to me.”

Christian wandered over to a wagon where Pops was standing with some of the Gormans and the Woods. O’Rourke was clad as Christian had first seen him --grey tank top, jeans, knee-high leather moccasins. With his massive physique and long white hair, he once again reminded Christian of some pagan god of mythology.

“Good morning, Mr. O’Rourke,” Christian said casually, as though they were meeting for breakfast, “I guess I’ll be needing a weapon.”

“Glad to have you with us, son.” Unlike Shadow, Pops made no attempt to dissuade Christian. That meant a lot to the younger man. “We’ll try to make short work of this.”

Pops rummaged through an assortment of weapons he had in his wagon. He presented Christian with an axe handle.

“The axe handle is a more versatile weapon than the axe itself,” Pops explained, “Better balance. Much easier to wield. You can strike with either end. Also, you can thrust with it as well as swing it.”

Christian practiced with the axe handle for a few minutes and seemed to get the hang of it. Curious, he asked, “What sort of weapon will you be carrying, Mr. O’Rourke?”

Pops showed him a stout black walking stick with a knobby head.

“This is a shillelagh, cut from an Irish blackthorn stem. It’s light, but hard as iron. I actually have several. Originally a shillelagh was a short cudgel about the length of a police baton. It was the traditional weapon of rural Ireland. In time it evolved into the blackthorn walking stick, which was socially more acceptable. Be that as it may, taking a hit from one of these is like getting hit with a piece of pipe.”

Christian watched as Pops hefted the stick and whipped it about as though striking at imaginary foes. Satisfied, Pops turned to the younger man and said, “Come. I’ll introduce you to some of the others who will be joining us today.”

#

Across the field, Mad Dog Clanton observed his enemies making their preparations. Near him stood a sallow youth of medium height and nondescript appearance. This was Mad Dog’s second son Joel, upon whom no one had bothered to bestow a nickname. Dull, timid, and sad, Joel had withered in the shadow of his adored older brother.

“Do you think we can whip ‘em, Pa?” Joel asked.

“Shet up!” Mad Dog growled, “To think that Sailor’s gone and you’re still here. Just do your part when it comes to avenging your brother.”

“I will, Pa,” Joel said meekly.

Mad Dog wasn’t listening. He was focused on the battle looming ahead. He had stripped to the waist, exposing chest and arms as hairy as those of a gorilla. In his eager hand he gripped his weapon of choice. This was a tomahawk cut in one piece from a sheet of steel, the handle wrapped in strips of leather. Mad Dog customarily carried it on his belt in place of the bowie knife usually worn in those parts. Now he practiced smiting blows with it.

“Today will be a day of reckoning!” he vowed, “I kill O’Rourke and that girl of his loses a man who was like a father to her. Or I kill her and O’Rourke loses a daughter. Either way one suffers a loss like the one I’ve suffered. But not for long. No, not for long. Before the day is done I’ll see both of ‘em dead!”

#

As the sun neared its zenith the battle lines began to form. Each faction fielded thirty combatants chosen from volunteers. Other allies of either faction retained their firearms and formed a loose perimeter about the field. Beyond the perimeter some of the frontier physicians had set up a triage unit using military field hospital equipment. Here the wounded would be received and treated.

Christian noticed Arthur standing in the O’Rourke lines, but Arthur did not seem to notice him. Arthur had a far-away look in his eyes, as though fixated on something no one else could see. He was prepared for the battle ahead. His clothing looked padded, the better to absorb the shock of blunt instruments. He wore a heavy leather jacket with metal strips attached to the left sleeve to afford him some protection against edged weapons. In his right hand he gripped a broad-bladed knife as big as a bowie, but double-edged like a dagger. The blade tapered to a diamond-sharp point. Christian had heard such a weapon referred to as an “Arkansas toothpick.”

The dog Pain remained behind with those who formed O’Rourke’s part of the perimeter. Cathy Gorman held the dog’s leash. The slim girl had no trouble keeping the beast in check even though the great hound outweighed her; she had doted on the animal since it was a puppy. Just before the battle commenced, Pops told her, “If anyone pulls a gun or does anything dirty…unleash Pain.”

#

At high noon the thing got underway. There was no pre-arranged signal; everyone just knew it was time. The lines advanced towards one another slowly at first, stalking grimly forward, then began to pick up speed as they closed distance. There was no yelling yet. The factions closed on one another in stony silence.

It was Arthur who drew first blood. He abruptly broke from the pack and ran to the nearest foeman as though rushing to a long-separated sweetheart. Arthur collided with the man, who rebounded roughly from him. As the man staggered off-balance, Arthur drove the deadly Arkansas toothpick home. The man groaned and pitched headlong. Before he had even struck the ground, Arthur was already lusting for a fresh kill. Demons drove him. He now sought to drown a lifetime of repressions in blood.

When the first man fell, the field erupted in a dreadful cacophony of screams and shrill battle cries that chilled the blood of those on the perimeter. The lines crashed together like waves and broke into small clumps of combatants.

Christian found himself in the midst of a swirling chaos, but did not lose his bearings. When a foe leapt to confront him, knife in hand, Christian struck first with the axe handle. A glancing blow to the head stunned the attacker. Christian followed through with a hard smash to the thigh that sent the man down, his nerves screaming in pain. He was relieved to have put the man down without doing him grievous harm. But any such relief was short-lived.

Another foe instantly sprang to the attack. Christian recognized him as Danny Martense from the Jericho meeting. Martense came right at him swinging what looked like a small aluminum bat. Christian raised the axe handle to block. Stung to fury, Martense struck at the axe handle again and again. Christian felt his arm growing numb under the repeated impact. An especially hard blow broke his grip. The axe handle flew spinning from his hand.

Fortunately Christian had spent too much time with Shadow to dumbly watch his weapon fly away. His eyes never left his opponent. Thus he was able to avoid the follow-up swing of the bat with a desperate backward leap. Hard-pressed, he was at a loss as to how to counter. Then he remembered the ninja chain.

With a practiced motion his hand flashed down and yanked free the manriki-gusari. As Martense chambered the bat for another swipe, Christian surprised him by suddenly rushing in and closing distance. Swinging the manriki-gusari up and about, Christian struck Martense a vicious blow across the face with both weighted ends of the chain. Martense was momentarily stunned, enabling Christian to grab the arm that held the bat with his free hand and hold it immobile.

With a flick of his wrist Christian wrapped the ninja chain about his hand and used it like brass knuckles as he punched Martense repeatedly in the face. A blow to the jaw previously fractured by Pops caused Martense to howl and drop the bat. With an audible sigh of relief, Christian kicked it away. A few more stout blows caused Martense to sag and drop to the ground. Christian kicked and stomped him to make sure he stayed there.

Christian stepped free of his fallen foe. Gripping one weighted end tightly in his palm, he let the ninja chain play out at full length as he spun it to generate centrifugal force. Then, with the manriki-gusari whirling in a deadly gyre, he waded back into the fray. Enemies on the receiving end of a head blow from the chain went down as though struck by a bullet, or were rendered easy pickings for Christian’s comrades. Christian was now part of the madness that swirled about him. When one of the Nixons went down yowling, Christian instantly stepped into take his place.

Christian and Arthur were both fighting on fringe areas of the battle. Pops O’Rourke was in the thick of it. He held a blackthorn stick in either hand, wielding them simultaneously in the Filipino style. Pops moved through the enemy host like a juggernaut, striking down foes like a reaper cutting grain. He was working his way inexorably towards Mad Dog Clanton.

Clanton awaited him. He stood to the rear with his son Joel. Mad Dog was hanging back deliberately. He knew O’Rourke was coming for him and was positioning himself as bait. He wanted to draw O’Rourke into his own lines where he’d be surrounded. However, surrounding O’Rourke proved to be no simple task. Shadow guarded his back with a flailing nunchaku.

Mad Dog Clanton saw that there would be no trapping O’Rourke. That was fine; he was loath to leave the work of dispatching his rival to minions in any event. Hefting his tomahawk, Clanton strode forth to meet his foe half-way. An O’Rourke ally who tried to bar his way went down with a split skull.

Pops battered his way through a final group of foemen to stand face-to-face with Mad Dog Clanton, who awaited him with dripping tomahawk. He threw back his head and roared, “Let the fighting cease! This is now between me and Clanton!”

The booming voice of Connor O’Rourke swept across the field like a thunderclap. Even the most frenzied combatants were arrested by its power. Struggle ended within moments. All eyes turned to the two giants in the center of the field.

“Single combat, Clanton,” came Pops’ challenge, “No more need shed their blood this day. All this can be settled between you and me.”

It was a challenge Clanton could not ignore even if he had wanted to. And he didn’t want to. He felt certain he could best O’Rourke in any form of single combat.

“I accept,” Clanton snarled.

“Let these be the weapons!” Pops declared. He brandished both blackthorn sticks aloft in one mighty fist. With his free hand he unbuckled the belt that held the big Alaskan bowie and let it drop to the ground.

Mad Dog Clanton cast his tomahawk aside. “Shillelaghs it is!”

Bataireacht, or Irish stick fighting, was the first martial art Pops had ever trained in. He had learned it from his father when only a lad. He knew that Clanton was versed in the art as well. He also knew that Clanton would be caught up in the drama of moment.

Pops tossed one of the blackthorn sticks to Clanton, who gripped it in eager hands. Oh, this will be epic, Mad Dog thought. They will tell of my vanquishing of O’Rourke for a hundred years!

Pops and Clanton squared off. The others stepped back to give them room to maneuver. Each man held his stick horizontally in front of him, gripping it with both hands spaced shoulder-width apart. Held in this manner the ends of the stick could be used as extensions of the fists to deliver sharp blows while infighting. Or one end of the stick could be released and snapped out to strike at greater range.

To the stunned spectators it seemed that less than the space of a heartbeat had elapsed from the time the fighters squared off before they erupted into violent action. There was no circling about to take each other’s measure. The fight was on in an instant.

Mad Dog Clanton launched himself at Pops, swinging and snapping his stick in a blinding blur. He came in fast and furious, hoping to smother his opponent and force him into a defensive posture from the outset. His aim was to overwhelm Pops’ superior technique. Mad Dog laughed maniacally as he came on, but there was method to his madness. That laughter was meant to rattle Pops and psych him out. Nor was Clanton by any means lacking in technical skill and discipline. Despite the fury of his attack, he was always in control.

Though not exactly caught off guard, Pops was forced to give ground before the suddenness of Clanton’s assault. He backed up a few steps. Emboldened, Clanton sought to press his advantage and redoubled his exertions.

Pops wielded his own stick to fend off Clanton’s swings and thrusts with icy precision. Clanton was unable to penetrate his defenses. And when Clanton left an opening, Pops instantly went on the offensive to exploit it. Clanton dared not let himself grow reckless.

Clanton realized that he had lost the initiative. Now he and Pops were fighting on more or less equal footing. The sticks flashed out and back, cracking against one another. They were driven by sinewy arms that never seemed to tire or falter. Thrust, parry, riposte; so it went for many long minutes. Those closest to the battle noticed a slight scent of burnt wood hanging in the air. It was from the friction caused by the rapid, repeated contact of the two blackthorn sticks.

There was no laughter now as Clanton strove against O’Rourke in deadly earnest. Each sought some way to break the stalemate. Pops tried lulling his opponent into a pattern, but Clanton proved too wary. Clanton offered what appeared to be a convenient opening in order to tempt O’Rourke into a trap. However Pops refused to take the bait.

Clanton felt his energy begin to flag, but could detect no loss of precision in O’Rourke’s technique. He sensed victory slipping from him. Desperate, he threw caution to the wind and staked everything on a bold gambit. God help him if it backfired.

Clanton feinted a low blow, as though striking at his opponent’s thigh, then abruptly went high with it. O’Rourke caught the move and raised his weapon in time to check Clanton’s stick as it came humming at his head. He got his guard up a split-second too late to deflect the stick cleanly away, however. Instead Clanton’s stick merely slid past O’Rourke’s. Owing as much to luck as skill, Clanton managed to angle his stick towards his rival’s face. The point of the stick struck O’Rourke’s chin with enough concentrated force to dislocate the jaw of a lesser man.

O’Rourke reeled back, momentarily stunned. It was all the break his enemy needed. An instant later a white flash exploded inside Pop’s skull as the knobby end of Mad Dog Clanton’s shillelagh crashed sickeningly into his temple.

Dazed and semi-conscious, Pops struggled to remain on his feet. He saw the ground rushing up at him and dropped to his knees to avoid crashing headlong to the earth. He raised his stick to ward off further blows, but a brutal hand-smash caused the weapon to slip from his fingers.

Mad Dog Clanton now began to rain heavy blows about O’Rourke’s unprotected head, back and shoulders. He struck gleefully as though attempting to pound his enemy into the ground like a tent peg.

Pops saw the world spinning and growing black. He knew he was about to go under.

“Too old,” he muttered, “Too old…”

With those words Pops slumped to the ground in defeat. Darkness overcame him.

Mad Dog Clanton howled in savage glee. With both hands he raised his shillelagh on high like some angry god’s war club. He stood poised to bring it down on his fallen enemy’s skull with bone-crunching impact.

He was but a second from delivering his coup de grace when Shadow flung herself across Pops’ prostrate form. Clanton stayed his hand due to stunned amazement rather than any impulse to mercy. He stood bewildered as Shadow dropped her nunchaku and looked up at him. She raised her open hands in a wordless plea for a time-out. Curious, Clanton lowered his stick. He glared down at the pale upturned oval of her face, but said nothing. It was her move.

Around them, the ring of spectators awaited the next development in the same tense silence they had borne witness to the battle between Clanton and O’Rourke. The crowd seemed to hold its breath.

With slow deliberate movements, Shadow picked up the blackthorn stick Pops had dropped. Just as slowly she rose and backed away from Pops’ fallen form. As she did so she looked Clanton in the eye, holding his gaze, and issued a challenge.

“Finish the single combat with me!” she said boldly, “I’m the one you want. I killed Sailor. I killed him, then I cut his balls off!” Her bearing was deliberately haughty. She was going all out to provoke him.

Mad Dog Clanton snarled as though livid with venomous rage. But in his black heart there surged a savage joy. His most blasphemous prayers were being answered.

Already he had decisively beaten Connor O’Rourke in single combat, for all to see. Now he would kill his girl and avenge Sailor. She would lie dead at his feet and O’Rourke would be a broken man.

Clanton brandished his stick in a menacing fashion, swiping at empty air to put the scare into his new opponent. Then he began advancing on the girl.

Shadow backed away, but not in fear. She was ready for the fight and just needed more room to maneuver. Shadow had only a little training in Irish stick fighting, but was thoroughly versed in the Filipino stick fighting art of kali. She knew she was physically outmatched by the hairy giant who now stalked bellowing towards her. Her plan involved delivering a hand-smash to Clanton’s weapon hand, using a snake disarm to pluck the weapon from his loosened grip, then wielding both sticks to batter him down as she had done to that guy in Wheeling.

Mad Dog Clanton did not know what skill the girl possessed, and did not much care. He was confident that his greater size and strength would easily vanquish her. He aimed to smite her down with one blow, just like swatting a fly.

Clanton swung his stick up and over in a great swooping arc with the intention of bringing the knobby end right down on the girl’s head. Shadow instinctively raised her own stick in a roof block to defect it. The impact of his stick on hers nearly broke her grip and tore her weapon from her grasp. Clanton’s stick barely glanced off hers and went whistling past her head, missing it by inches.

Shadow had nearly lost the fight right then and there. Even so, Clanton’s reckless move provided her with an opening that she was quick to exploit. Swinging her stick out and back, she delivered a swift solid blow to Clanton’s unprotected side. Clanton winced as the hard stick impacted against his ribs.

Now it was his turn to back up. Not even Mad Dog Clanton could take too many clouts like that. Adjusting his strategy, he now strove to match his opponent’s technique while bringing his superior strength to bear.

Clanton went right back on the offensive with a speed belying his massive bulk. Shadow found herself hard-pressed to counter his moves. He came in and out so fast that there was no opportunity to strike his hand and secure his weapon. Clanton knew he held the advantage. He taunted his smaller foe.

“Ha ha, girly! O’Rourke himself could not stand before me. What chance have you?”

Shadow was all too aware of her imminent peril. She could not withstand Mad Dog Clanton’s power and ferocity for long. She had to find some way to take him down, and fast.

In the back of her mind there flashed the old maxim, “The bigger they are the harder they fall.” That was the plain truth of the matter. One could not afford to play games with a bigger, stronger enemy. Physically outmatched in a life-or-death struggle, one had few options. The most viable was to attack the enemy’s most vulnerable spots --eyes, throat, groin, knees. As Pops had once told her, “It doesn’t matter what kind of badass some joker is if he can’t walk, see or breathe.”

Shadow got her chance when Clanton took a swing at her head. Instead of blocking with her stick she ducked under it. As she did so she lashed out with a side thrust kick aimed at Clanton’s knee. The unexpected move worked. The kick connected right on target. There was a sickening crack of splintering bone as Clanton’s knee bent opposite the way it was designed. Clanton toppled like a dead tree blasted by lightning.

Clanton hit the ground with a heavy thud. There he writhed helplessly on his back and howled in pain. Shadow strode over to him and raised her blackthorn stick. She stood poised to bring it down in the center of Clanton’s face.

Before she could do so, Clanton raised his hand. “Quarter!” he cried.

Shadow looked down at her fallen foe. She had dealt him a terrible injury. A break like that could never fully heal. Clanton was going to be permanently disabled. He would never fight again.

“All this ends now,” Shadow said sternly.

But before Clanton could respond, the harsh voice of another grated in her ears.

“You witch!”

Shadow whirled to confront what could only be a new source of danger. She found herself looking down the barrel of a revolver held by Joel Clanton, Mad Dog’s forgotten son. The spindly youth’s body trembled with rage and tension, but his gun hand held steady. There were tears in his eyes as he said, “You killed my brother. You crippled my father. Now you’re going to hell.”

Shadow saw his finger tighten on the trigger, saw the chamber of the revolver begin to turn, saw her death upon her. But then, as the hammer fell and the gun boomed, there was a blur of motion as another hurled himself into the space between Joel and Shadow. It was Arthur. Shadow could only watch in sick horror as Arthur fell, stuck by the bullet meant for her.

Joel had no chance to try a second shot. Before the echo of the first one died, a huge dark canine shape came hurtling through the air and struck him like a cannonball. Joel was bowled over and borne to the ground by a great black hound. He dropped the gun, freeing his hands to fend off the slavering jaws that came a mere instant from tearing out his throat. Following Pops’ instructions, Cathy Gorman had unleashed Pain.

Shadow ran to Arthur and knelt beside him. Joel strove with all his desperate strength to keep the dog from his throat. And at the sound of the gunshot, Pops had begun to stir. He shook his head, lion-like, and began to rise. Onlookers could only marvel at his toughness and resilience. Pops straightened and stood erect. He was a little wobbly, but his fierce blue eyes were clear. He took in the situation at a glance.

Pops had barely gained his feet when he heard someone calling out to him. It was Mad Dog Clanton, writhing on the ground and clutching his ruined leg. “O’Rourke… O’Rourke,” he croaked, “Call off your dog. Please, O’Rourke! Spare my boy!”

Pops glowered down at him, his face grim. “It looks like your boy shot down a good man.”

“To both our everlasting shame!” Mad Dog wailed passionately, tears flowing from his eyes, “But he’s all I have left! Spare him.”

Joel was now shrieking as though he were being chased by devils. The dog’s fangs had already mangled one of his arms.

Mad Dog continued his impassioned entreaty, “I beg of you, O’Rourke. I’m going to be a cripple. I can trouble ye no more. For the loss of your man I forgo vengeance for Sailor. It’s over. I swear it on my dead wife’s grave.”

Pops took a somber moment to reflect, then said, “Pain. Heel.”

Instantly, as though a switch had been thrown, the great hound broke off its attack and glided over to its master.

Shadow looked up from where she knelt cradling Arthur’s head in her lap. Her face was an expressionless white mask. “Pops…” she hissed.

O’Rourke shook his head sadly. “This must end somewhere.”

Joel rose unsteadily and staggered over to his father. One arm hung uselessly at his side dripping blood. He raised his father into a sitting position. With no little difficulty, Joel gradually managed to help his father to stand. Mad Dog placed one arm about his son’s shoulder for support. With his other hand he gripped the blackthorn stick he had so recently fought with. Now he used it as a cane.

Together Mad Dog and Joel made their slow painful way off the field. They headed towards the triage center where other participants in the day’s big fight had already gone for treatment.

“Lean on me, Pa,” Joel said, “I’ll take care of you. We’ll be okay.”

Watching them go, Pops mused, “This could be the best thing for both of them.”

Shadow paid them no heed. All of her attention was on Arthur. She cradled his head in her lap and stroked his hair. Shadow had seen enough gunshot wounds to know he was done for and sinking fast.

Arthur looked up at Shadow and spoke softly. “I don’t regret a thing,” he told her, “Couldn’t stand to lose you. Shadow, you are… I found a world where someone like you can be…” With an effort, he focused his thoughts. “This is where I truly lived, finally. Glad to die here. Become a part of it.”

His eyes closed but his lips continued to move, whispering now. Shadow realized he wasn’t talking to her anymore. He had gone somewhere else.

“Sabrina. Oh Sabrina. You’re a good woman. Don’t listen to those assholes. You help people. They don’t…”

And then he died.

[Next: "Homecoming" --the conclusion!]

Elements of Sadomasochism in the Fiction and Poetry of Robert E. Howard

2010-07-11T10:06:00.000-07:00

[The following was originally published in The Dark Man: The Journal of Robert E. Howard Studies, Volume 4, No. 2 (June 2009), The Department of English, University of La Verne.]

From time to time, mention is made of a “homoerotic” aspect to Robert E. Howard’s work. A critic may cite the many descriptions of powerful, muscular warriors and boxers that abound in Howard’s writings. Of course, it would hardly have been plausible for Howard to describe weak, puny warriors and boxers. To my mind, Howard was not intending to describe what he desired, but rather what he and most of his male readers desired to be. I have no wish to censure the critiquing of Howard’s work from a homoerotic perspective, and feel that such criticism does have its place in Howard studies. Still, it seems to me that this homoerotic perspective lies mainly in the eye of the beholder. The same cannot be said, however, of sadomasochism in Howard’s work. The purpose of this essay is to cite explicit instances of sadomasochism to be found throughout the Howard canon, and then review the evidence that this did indeed represent a personal interest of REH.

Sadomasochism, of course, is an erotic passion that involves the melding of pleasure and pain in order to achieve a heightening of sensation. It finds expression both in actual practice and in art. Real life practitioners indulge in bondage, flagellation, and similar activities as an erotic pastime, utilizing costumes and other theatrical trappings to enhance drama. Sadomasochism is commonly abbreviated as “S&M,” but actual practitioners prefer “S/m.” Most lifestyle sadomasochists adhere to the “safe, sane, and consensual” rule.

In art, however, we find a different story. Since the reader of a literary work is engaging vicariously in a wholly imaginary experience, the fictional adventure is apt to be more extreme than anything the reader is likely to encounter in the course of everyday living, so as to make a more memorable impression. Thus sadomasochistic episodes in fiction tend not to be consensual, so that the erotic aspect is mingled with other extreme sensations such as fear and suspense. Moreover, since sadomasochism has long been disdained as deviant behavior, these episodes are likely to be conservatively cloaked in standard villain / victim scenarios.

Robert E. Howard was a visionary artist who endeavored to transcend his drab, small town life by creating larger-than-life spectacles in his fiction. His work is characterized by violent action, bizarre situations, brooding menace, and unrelenting emotional intensity. The erotic aspects of his work also tend towards the extreme or edgy. Elements of sadomasochism, or dominance and submission, are noticeable in Howard’s fiction from the very dawn of his career. They are particularly prominent in one of his earliest stories, “The Hyena.”

“The Hyena” was written in 1924 when Howard was just eighteen, and was the second story he sold to Weird Tales. However, editor Farnsworth Wright held onto the story for four years before publishing it. It did not appear until the March 1928 issue. Given the number of notable tales Howard would compose over the next dozen years, it is no surprise that “The Hyena” is regarded as a minor, fledgling effort. It has been underappreciated because Howard had yet to fully develop his distinctive artistic voice, but more so because of its deceptively simple plot. Set on a ranch on the East Coast of Africa, the story concerns a native witch doctor who can assume the form of a hyena. The witch doctor attempts to incite a native uprising and wipe out the local whites. This plot element, plus the story’s undercurrent of racial and sexual tension, would be utilized more memorably in a classic tale from much later in Howard’s career, the controversial “Black Canaan.”

“The Hyena” is narrated by a young man from the American South named Steve. Many “Steves” appear in Howard’s writings, among them his fictional alter ego in the semi-autobiographical Post Oaks and Sand Roughs. The narrator of “The Hyena” describes himself as “a stocky youth of medium height” (“The Hyena” 70) much like REH himself.

Steve’s nemesis is “Senecoza, the fetish-man.” (67) Howard uses the term “fetish-man” to describe Senecoza throughout the story, rather than referring to him as a witch doctor or, more typically for Howard, “conjure-man.” Used in a different context, of course, the term “fetish” refers to an erotic fixation, a subtle irony given the story’s subtext.

As a narrator, Steve displays remarkable candor. He is quick to admit his inherited racist bias: “Because I came from Virginia, race instinct and prejudice was strong in me.” (67) But even more remarkable is his unabashed disclosure of personality traits that S/m practitioners would recognize as characteristic of a male submissive, making Steve an unlikely protagonist from the future creator of Conan.

Steve frankly confesses that “doubtless the feeling of inferiority which Senecoza constantly inspired in me had a great deal to do with my antipathy for him.” (67) At “Six inches above six feet,” Senecoza towers over Steve, who wistfully notes, “he was all muscle — a lean, black giant.” (67) Similarly, Steve describes how, on a visit to the ranch, Senecoza “would stand before us, a naked bronze giant” whom he felt was “mocking us.” (67) Of course, the supposed virility of the black man has long been a source of anxiety for insecure white males.

Even as he extols the attributes of Senecoza, Steve berates himself throughout the story. On safari, he admits that “I was an execrable marksman; I could hardly hit an elephant at close range.” (68) Moreover, he expresses a reluctance to kill animals for sport. In this respect Steve resembles Howard himself, who could abruptly launch into searing misanthropic diatribes but remained more kindly disposed towards the animal kingdom. Steve tells how the “native boy who served as my gun-bearer began to suspect that I was deliberately refraining from shooting, and he began in a covert way to throw sneering hints about my womanishness.” (68) Steve beats up the bearer to reestablish dominance, but immediately after admits that “still I felt inferior when in the presence of the fetish-man.” (68)

Steve has several encounters with a strange hyena lurking about the area that reminds him of Senecoza. However, the story really gets interesting with the arrival of Ellen Farel, a New York socialite who vacations at the ranch for some undisclosed reason. Steve describes her in glowing terms while dismissing himself as “an ordinary, unhandsome youth.” (70) In the course of their conversations, Ellen laughs at Steve and mocks him with quips like, “`I guess you’re my boss, mister man?’” (72) Steve is moved to confess, “I was her slave from the first. Somehow the idea of becoming a lover never entered my mind…Simply, I worshipped her; her presence intoxicated me, and I could think of no more enjoyable existence than serving her as a devoted slave.” (71)

Ellen, on the other hand, is less interested in Steve than in Senecoza, whom she prattles about as “`the most romantic looking savage’” (71) and “`a fine specimen of a savage.’” (72) When Ellen places a friendly arm around Steve, he describes how he was “maddened by the touch of her soft body –such mad devotion as a slave feels. I wanted to grovel in the dust at her feet and kiss her dainty shoes.” (72) To show his devotion, Steve timidly kisses her hand (rather than her feet), but within minutes Ellen is asking him to “`Tell me more about this Senecoza.’” (73)

Steve finds himself in a submissive position not only to Ellen, but to Senecoza as well. Making eye contact with the fetish-man, Steve steps back involuntarily. Later, Steve is outraged to find Senecoza scrutinizing Ellen with a lustful gaze. He draws his gun to shoot Senecoza into a “shredded heap.” (71) (Unfortunately, many white Southerners in 1924 would not have considered this an overreaction.) However, Steve finds himself paralyzed by Senecoza’s penetrating stare. It is hinted that this is due to some hypnotic power, rather than simply personal charisma. Still, Steve seems humiliated by his admission that Senecoza then “turned and strode away, a magnificent figure, while I glared after him and snarled in helpless fury.” (72)

Events reach their climax when Steve and Ellen are out riding—“she challenged me to a race. Her horse easily distanced mine, and she stopped and waited, laughing.” (73) Suddenly, Senecoza and twenty native warriors attack and begin their uprising. Senecoza captures Ellen, ripping her clothes into strips and using them to tie her up. Steve battles Senecoza in both human and hyena form. A good marksman when it counts, Steve sends a bullet through the hyena. Ellen is rescued and the uprising is put down. Steve and the other whites track the hyena to Senecoza’s hut where they learn the secret Howard telegraphed to the reader pages earlier—that the black man Steve found so threatening was a beast in a literal as well as a figurative sense.

On the surface, “The Hyena” is an unremarkable supernatural vignette, just another story in the March 1928 Weird Tales. Yet to a reader even a little knowledgeable about such things, the sadomasochistic subtext is very obvious. Steve’s referring to himself as Ellen’s “slave” three times is a dead giveaway, and his brief but feverish fantasizing about himself in that role leaves no doubt. This undercurrent of sexual yearning and anxiety makes “The Hyena” worth a second look.

The period between 1924, which saw Howard’s first professional fiction sales, and 1929, when his career kicked into high gear, was his most prolific era as a poet. Naturally enough for a youthful poet, some of Howard’s verse contained erotic themes. A portion his erotic poetry dealt with so-called deviant sexuality, or to use a less judgmental term, kinky sex. Howard’s treatment of such topics ranged from light and playful to dark and passionate.

The spanking of adult women seems to have been of special interest to him. He wrote several naughty limericks collected under the heading “Limericks to Spank By.” Longer poems such as “Good Mistress Brown” and “The Harlot” also describe corporal punishment applied to women by both men and other women. The spankings are administered as a comeuppance to some uppity wife or rebellious young “flapper.”

In tone, the spanking verses are lightweight and amusing. The spanking of a headstrong woman often figures in “taming of the shrew” scenarios found in various works of fiction. In the movie “McLintock!” John Wayne spanks Maureen O’Hara, who is clad in soaking wet undergarments, in front of the entire town, and the film is regarded as wholesome family entertainment. I also seem to recall an episode of “I Love Lucy” in which Desi spanks Lucy. So these spanking verses of Howard’s would seem to be fairly innocuous; pretty tame stuff.

However, they are just part of a larger picture. Other poems by Howard that make use of related themes are darker and more compelling. “Lesbia” is a lengthy poem of fourteen stanzas in which a hot-blooded woman narrates her sexual yearnings for other women. The encounters she describes are both consensual and forced. In “Altars and Jesters,” alternately titled “An Opium Dream,” we find an instance of mild female domination.

A dark girl came from the mists and silence,
Her eyes were oceans, dusky and slow,
And her hands were ice as with still cold violence
She stripped me naked and let me go. (“Altars and Jesters” 28)

Elsewhere, Howard is more explicit. The revealingly titled “Strange Passion” recounts episodes of sadomasochism, bisexuality, and exhibitionism. These encounters take place among the “black queens” of darkest Africa. Howard’s erotic attraction to black women has generally been acknowledged, and in his day distant places like the Congo were all the more remote and mysterious. The narrator of “Strange Passion” describes himself spanking women, and also being spanked by them:

I lay across her slim, brown knees,
My firm young buttocks bare upturned.

Each time she shook in passion’s hap
With greater strength she gripped and held,
Stretched me stark naked o’er her lap
And beat me till I fairly yelled. (“Strange Passion” 20)

In addition to working in the more traditional poetic formats, Howard also dabbled in a more obscure form, the prose poem. Prose poetry, as the term suggests, fuses elements of prose, such as narrative structure and discourse, with elements of poetry, such as metaphorical and florid language. It was originated in 19th Century France by poets such as Baudelaire and Rimbaud, and adopted by British Decadents such as Oscar Wilde. In America, prose poetry was composed by George Sterling and his protégé, Clark Ashton Smith. Smith, of course, is better remembered today as a colleague of Howard who contributed many fantasy stories to Weird Tales.

Howard composed a cycle of five prose poems, plus a preamble, that he grouped under the heading, Etchings in Ivory. One of the poems, “Skulls and Orchids,” deals directly with male homosexuality. Howard is able to broach the subject tactfully by setting his vignette in ancient Greece. “Skulls and Orchids” is narrated by a young Athenian woman whose Spartan lover has jilted her in favor of a comely boy. Trouble ensues.

Another “etching” is titled “Flaming Marble” and depicts a sadomasochistic encounter. The opening informs us that, “This is a dream that comes to me often. Not in the lazy, illusive haze of day-dreaming, but clear and vivid to my sleeping soul.” (“Flaming Marble” 5) If we take Howard’s words at face value, he is describing an actual recurring sex dream. Another possibility is that he is revealing a sexual fantasy he has indulged in at more than once and is embellishing here.

The dream takes place in some ancient metropolis that the dreamer’s waking self is unable to specifically identify. The dreamer’s ancient alter ego is, not surprisingly for REH, a powerfully muscled barbarian. The scene unfolds:

…Save for the sandals on my feet and a loincloth of silk, I was naked.

A woman reclined on a luxurious couch before me…lounging like a slim and supple leopardess on the furs and silks…

And in my waking hours I wonder –in what lost empire, in what ancient city was that room in which I stood? Who was I? And who was this woman? Was it Athens or Rome? Was it Aspasia, Thais, Messalina or Lais who lay before me? (5)

The dreamer describes how the woman “lashed me with words like silver daggers” (5) and that she looked “like a goddess in her wrath.” (6) He then reveals that “I was her slave…” (6) When he displays a defiant attitude, things take an interesting turn:
The cold eyes flashed with a fiercer light, and suddenly, with the lithe volcanic suddenness of a leaping tigress, my mistress was on her feet and her round white arm swept on high a slender whip with a jade hilt. But before its stinging lash ever touched my great shoulders, I tore it from her hand with a laugh that roared like the singing salt sea, and crushed her to my breast.

She fought like a wild woman as I swept her off the floor and held her, cursing and helpless…A moment she fought against her fate, and then the marble limbs caught fire from my passion, and the round arms went around my massive neck…(6)

There are a number of highly charged elements at play here. A man is being subjected to verbal abuse by a beautiful woman. Verbal humiliation of this sort is frequently a component of sadomasochistic activities. The mistress wields a whip to administer a flogging to the slave (even though the flogging is prevented). The rape of an aristocratic woman is attempted by a man of a much lower caste. The aristocratic woman yields herself sexually to a social inferior. The dreamer several times refers to his past self as “slave” and the woman as “mistress.” The most striking aspect of “Flaming Marble” is that it portrays one of Howard’s brawny barbarians and one of his sultry sex goddesses in a mistress/slave relationship.

Howard’s poetry and prose poetry were written primarily for private self-expression; a mere fraction of it saw publication during his lifetime. However, Howard also incorporated sadomasochistic motifs into his commercial fiction throughout his professional career.

Such motifs are evident in the longest of his Solomon Kane stories, “The Moon of Skulls.” In this adventure, the Puritan swordsman journeys to the heart of 16th Century Africa in search of a kidnapped English girl named Marylin. His quest leads him to the lost city of Negari. The city is ruled by its resident femme fatale, Nakari, who could be one of the “black queens” alluded to in “Strange Passion.”

From a hidden vantage point, Kane first glimpses the queen in her throne room:

…There, dwarfed by the ponderous splendor about her, a woman reclined. A black woman she was, young and of a tigerish comeliness. She was naked except for a beplumed helmet, armbands, anklets and a girdle of ostrich feathers and she sprawled upon the silken cushions with her limbs thrown about in voluptuous abandon.

Even at that distance, Kane could make out that her features were regal yet barbaric, haughty and imperious, yet sensual, and with a touch of ruthless cruelty about the curl of her full red lips. Kane felt his pulse quicken…(“The Moon of Skulls” 114-115)

Kane soon gets a closer look while spying on Nakari as she visits her white slave, Marylin:

…The black woman was clad as she had been when he had seen her on the throne, and the colored armlets and anklets clanked as she closed the door… She moved with the easy sinuousness of a she-leopard and in spite of himself the watcher was struck with admiration for her lithe beauty. Yet at the same time a shudder of revulsion shook him, for her eyes gleamed with vibrant and magnetic evil, older than the world…

…Nakari halted by the couch, stood looking down upon her captive for a moment, then with an enigmatic smile, bent and shook her. Marylin opened her eyes, sat up, then slipped from her couch and knelt before her black mistress—an act which caused Kane to curse beneath his breath. The queen laughed and seating herself upon the couch, motioned the girl to rise, and then put an arm about her waist and drew her upon her lap. Kane watched, puzzled, while Nakari caressed the white girl in a lazy, amused manner. This might be affection, but to Kane it seemed more like a sated leopard teasing its victim…(128-129)

Kane is repelled by Nakari, but also aroused by her. In addition to this hint of interracial lust, an element of female homoeroticism is introduced as Nakari toys with Marylin. This was all very provocative for a story published in 1930. In fact, “The Moon of Skulls” was bowdlerized when first reprinted for book publication in the racially conscious 1960s.

The story’s undercurrent of sadomasochism reaches its peak when Kane himself becomes the queen’s prisoner. Captured, Kane is chained hand-and-foot in Nakari’s dungeon. Kane is kept in helpless bondage as he is interrogated by the queen. Nakari attempts to entice Kane into joining her by offering him her kingdom and her own voluptuous body.

In this scene, Howard treats his reader to a most lurid tableau. Solomon Kane is a religious fanatic whose life is dedicated to stamping out evil. He is not merely a puritan in some figurative sense; he is an actual 16th Century English Puritan. In his world, women are customarily clothed from neck to foot. Totally committed to working God’s will, Kane is presumably celibate. Now he is bound in a dungeon while a luscious, semi-nude black vixen attempts to ensnare and seduce him. It is hard to imagine a situation more fraught with sexual tension. And when the iron-willed Kane rebukes her, Nakari tells him that Marylin “shall be punished as I have punished her before – hung up by her wrists, naked, and whipped until she swoons!” (137)

Such a scene of girl-on-girl whipping is not actually depicted in “The Moon of Skulls.” Howard corrected this oversight a few years later when writing the adventures of his most famous character, Conan. Women are flogged by other women in two of the Conan stories. Interestingly, both of these stories are, like “The Moon of Skulls,” set in lost cities. Howard believed that civilizations carry the seeds of their own destructions, and was moved to portray decaying societies in his fiction. The occurrence of lurid sadomasochistic episodes in such stories serves to heighten an atmosphere of sinful decadence. Metaphorically, the lost cities are shadow realms removed from the everyday experience of the protagonist, and twice removed from that of the reader. The reader follows the hero into a dream world where anything can happen.

In “Xuthal of the Dusk” (originally published in Weird Tales as “The Slithering Shadow”), Conan and his female companion Natala discover a lost city where they meet another beautiful but deadly woman, Thalis. One of the most striking aspects of the story is the contrast between the two women. Natala is a slave girl who has been liberated by Conan, while Thalis is the most powerful woman in the city of Xuthal. The blonde Natala is meek and demure, but good-hearted. The black-haired Thalis is bold, haughty and sensuous, a she-cat who has been steeped in vice. Reminiscent of De Sade’s virtuous Justine and her depraved sister Juliette, they represent two sides of the same coin; top and bottom, dominant and submissive. In due course, they are joined in a highly charged sadomasochistic encounter:

…As in a nightmare Natala felt her tunic being stripped from her, and the next instant Thalis had jerked up her wrists and bound them to the ring, where she hung, naked as the day she was born, her feet barely touching the floor. Twisting her head, Natala saw Thalis unhook a jewel-handled whip from where it hung on the wall, near the ring. The lashes consisted of seven round silk cords, harder yet more pliant than leather thongs.

With a hiss of vindictive gratification, Thalis drew back her arm, and Natala shrieked as the cords curled across her loins. The tortured girl writhed, twisted and tore agonizedly at the thongs which imprisoned her wrists…Every stroke evoked screams of anguish. The whippings Natala had received in the Shemite slave-markets paled to insignificance before this. (“Xuthal of the Dusk” 237)

Howard later reworked elements of “Xuthal of the Dusk” to create his masterpiece, “Red Nails.’ In contrast to the demure Natala of “Xuthal,” the heroine of “Red Nails” is the dynamic Valeria of the Red Brotherhood. Natala and Valeria are both fair-skinned blondes, but there the comparison ends. The pirate Valeria is a formidable and renowned warrior. And in the whipping scene in “Red Nails,” Valeria is the dominant female who administers the flogging. When a serving woman of the lost city of Xuchotl attempts to drug her, Valeria demands to know whom the woman is working for:

Yasala made no reply. She crouched, watching her captor with eyes baleful as those of a basilisk. Stubborn silence always fans anger. Valeria turned and tore a handful of cords from a nearby hanging.

“You sulky slut!” she said between her teeth. “I’m going to strip you stark naked and tie you across that couch and whip you until you tell me what you were doing here, and who sent you!”

Yasala made no verbal protest, nor did she offer any resistance, as Valeria carried out the first part of her threat with a fury that her captive’s obstinacy only sharpened. Then for a space there was no sound in the chamber except the whistle and crackle of hard-woven silken cords on naked flesh. Yasala could not move her fast-bound hands or feet. Her body writhed and quivered under the chastisement, her head swayed from side to side in rhythm with the blows. Her teeth were sunk into her lower lip and a trickle of blood began as the punishment continued. But she did not cry out.

The pliant cords made no great sound as they encountered the quivering body of the captive; only a sharp crackling snap, but each cord left a red streak across Yasala’s dark flesh. Valeria inflicted the punishment with all the strength of her war-hardened arm, with all the mercilessness acquired during a life where pain and torment were daily happenings, and with all the cynical ingenuity which only a woman displays toward a woman. Yasala suffered more, physically and mentally, than she would have suffered under a lash wielded by a man, however strong. (“Red Nails” 254)

In addition to the flagellation and bondage, this scene contains a hint of the humiliation that is also frequently a component of sadomasochistic erotica and activities. The element of humiliation becomes more pronounced when the proud Valeria herself is dominated by both a man and a woman. Valeria, accustomed to holding her own in a world of men, is physically overpowered by the abnormal strength of one of the city’s rulers, the bull-like Olmec. However, she is quickly appropriated by Tascela, a black-haired sorceress possessed of preternatural strength and hypnotic powers:

[Valeria] turned and sprang toward the door, but with a movement that would have shamed a leaping panther, Tascela was before her. Valeria struck at her with her clenched fist, and all the power of her supple body behind the blow. It would have stretched a man senseless on the floor. But with a lithe twist of her torso, Tascela avoided the blow and caught the pirate’s wrist. The next instant Valeria’s left hand was imprisoned, and holding her wrists together with one hand, Tascela calmly bound them with a cord she drew from her girdle. Valeria thought she had tasted the ultimate in humiliation already that night, but her shame at being manhandled by Olmec was nothing to the sensations that now shook her supple frame. Valeria had always been inclined to despise the other members of her sex; and it was overwhelming to encounter another woman who could handle her like a child. She scarcely resisted at all when Tascela forced her into a chair and drawing her bound wrists down between her knees, fastened them to the chair. (270-271)

Valeria is subsequently stripped naked and pinned to a sacrificial alter. In “Red Nails,” Howard treats his reader to the spectacle of a dominant woman being dominated herself.

A briefer passage hinting at sadistic sexual abuse occurs during this exchange between Olivia and Shah Amurath in “Iron Shadows in the Moon:”

“Let me go!” begged the girl, tears of despair staining her face. “Have I not suffered enough? Is there any humiliation, pain or degradation you have not heaped on me? How long must my torment last?”

“As long as I find pleasure in your whimperings, your pleas, tears and writhings,” he answered with a smile that would have seemed gentle to a stranger. “You are strangely virile, Olivia. I wonder if I shall ever weary of you, as I have always wearied of women before. You are ever fresh and unsullied, in spite of me…” (“Iron Shadows in the Moon” 187-178)

Olivia is a slave girl strong enough to take what her master dishes out, but gleans no pleasure from it. She is tough enough to survive where Natala, in “Xuthal of the Dusk,” would have perished, but does not allow herself to become jaded like Thalis.

It is also in the Conan series that we find a depiction of sheer sadism so extreme that were it to be adapted faithfully to film, the filmmakers might well find themselves facing jail time. This scene occurs in the brooding Gothic tale, “The Black Stranger.” In the story, the fear-haunted Count Valenso has retreated with retainers and entourage to an isolated fortress on a desolate coastline. The Count lives in mortal terror of a mysterious demonic black man who pursues him, and has fled to the most remote area he could reach. Among Count Valenso’s entourage is a girl child named Tina, first seen running naked along a beach. When Tina mentions having seen the black stranger, Valenso erupts in an insane fury of enraged horror:
Valenso reeled as if he had received a mortal blow. He clutched at his throat, snapping the gold chain in his violence. With the face of a madman he lurched about the table and tore the child screaming from Belesa’s arms.

“You little slut!” he panted. “You lie! You have heard me mumbling in my sleep and told this lie to torment me! Say that you lie before I tear the skin from your back!”

“Uncle!” cried Belesa, in outraged bewilderment, trying to free Tina from his grasp. “Are you mad? What are you about?”

With a snarl he tore her hand from his arm and spun her staggering into the arms of Galbro who received her with a leer he made little effort to disguise.

“Mercy, my lord!” sobbed Tina. “I did not lie!”

“I said you lied!” roared Valenso. “Gebbrelo!”

The stolid serving man seized the trembling youngster and stripped her with one brutal wrench that tore her scanty garments from her body. Wheeling, he drew her slender arms over his shoulders, lifting her writhing feet clear of the floor.

“Uncle!” shrieked Belesa, writhing vainly in Galbro’s lustful grasp. “You are mad! You can not –oh, you can not--!” The voice choked in her throat as Valenso caught up a jewel-hilted riding whip and brought it down across the child’s frail body with a savage force that left a red weal across her naked shoulders.

Belesa moaned, sick with the anguish of Tina’s shriek. The world had suddenly gone mad. As in a nightmare she saw the stolid faces of the soldiers and servants, beast-faces, the faces of oxen, reflecting neither pity nor sympathy. Zarono’s faintly sneering face was part of the nightmare. Nothing in that crimson haze was real except Tina’s naked white body, criss-crossed with red welts from shoulders to knees; no sound real except the child’s sharp cries of agony, and the panting gasps of Valenso as he lashed away with the staring eyes of a madman, shrieking, “You lie! You lie! Curse you, you lie! Admit your guilt, or I will flay your stubborn body! He could not have followed me here—”

“Oh, have mercy, my lord!” screamed the child, writhing vainly on the brawny servant’s back, too frantic with fear and pain to have the wit to save herself by a lie. Blood trickled in crimson beads down her quivering thighs…(“The Black Stranger” 127-128)

“The Black Stranger” was the only Conan story to be rejected by Weird Tales after the series had become popular with the readers. However, this was most likely due to the fact that Conan himself is offstage for much of the lengthy tale. The story was not published in its original form until 1987. Interestingly enough, even in the version of the story heavily edited by L. Sprague de Camp (“The Treasure of Tranicos”), the whipping of Tina by Count Valenso is presented as Howard wrote it, except for name changes for some of the characters. The sequence is horrific in the extreme, rather than evocative of erotic sadomasochism. I do not believe that Howard intended it to be in any way titillating or expected his readers to view it as such. Its placement in the story was more likely meant to emphasize the depravity of his unsavory characters. Even so, it must be admitted that a passage in which a crazed aristocrat whips a naked prepubescent girl with a riding crop hard enough to draw blood, in front of other leering men, is an episode that would be right at home in the works of the Marquis de Sade himself. While I would not care to meet the sort of person who would be aroused by Tina’s whipping, such people do exist.

Between the Solomon Kane and the Conan stories, Howard tried his hand at writing Lovecraftian horror. “The Black Stone” has long been considered his best story in this vein. The narrator of “The Black Stone” travels to a remote area of Eastern Europe to examine a mysterious monolith of unknown ancient origin. There he has a vision of the dark rites that had been performed at the site centuries earlier by the strange people who once inhabited the region:

The rhythm of the swaying bodies grew faster and into the space between the people and the monolith sprang a naked young woman, her eyes blazing, her long black hair flying loose. Spinning dizzily on her toes, she whirled across the open space and fell prostrate before the Stone, where she lay motionless. The next instant a fantastic figure followed her –a man from whose waist hung a goatskin, and whose features were entirely hidden by a sort of mask made from a huge wolf’s head…In his hand he held a bunch of long fir switches bound together at the larger ends…

…Coming to the woman who lay before the monolith, he began to lash her with the switches he bore, and she leaped up and spun into the wild mazes of the most incredible dance I have ever seen. And her tormentor danced with her…while incessantly raining cruel blows on her naked body…

Blood trickled down the dancer’s limbs but she seemed not to feel the lashing save as a stimulus for further enormities of outrageous motion…she dropped suddenly to the sward, quivering and panting as if completely overcome by her frenzied exertions. The lashing continued with unabated violence and intensity and she began to wriggle toward the monolith on her belly. The priest –or such I will call him—followed, lashing her unprotected body with all the power of his arm as she writhed along, leaving a heavy track of blood on the trampled earth. She reached the monolith, and gasping and panting, flung both arms about it and covered the cold stone with fierce hot kisses, as in frenzied and unholy adoration. (“The Black Stone” 130-131)

The purpose of the ritual is to summon a monster the people worship. The monster is possessed of evil intelligence, and is presented with “a young girl, stark naked and bound hand and foot” (130) to ravish. This “unhallowed ritual of cruelty and sadism” (132), with its frenzied flagellation, causes the naked dancer to collapse in orgasmic ecstasy and then embrace and kiss a phallic monolith jutting from the earth. In “The Black Stone,” Howard takes Lovecraftian horror to a realm where H. P. Lovecraft himself never tread.

Another notable instance of sadomasochism can be found in one of Howard’s regional “piney woods” horror stories, “Pigeons from Hell.” Set at an old abandoned Southern plantation, the story tells of the curse that destroyed the once-illustrious Blassenville family. At the root of the curse was the cruelty displayed be Miss Celia Blassenville toward her mulatto maid, Joan. (“Joan,” like “Steve,” was a name Howard employed with some frequency. Joan is the name of several of his beguiling heroines, and also occurs in his erotic poetry.) Decades later, a character recalls how Miss Celia “used to whip her mulatto maid just like she was a slave” and would “tie this girl up to a tree, stark naked, and whip her with a horsewhip.” (“Pigeons from Hell” 278) Though it is somewhat muted by being a secondhand account, this is yet another episode of woman-on-woman flagellation such as we found in “Red Nails” and “Xuthal of the Dusk.” This account of a haughty Southern belle whipping her servant also brings to mind the numerous scenarios involving aristocratic women and their maids that abound in S/m erotica.

Both the supernatural and sadomasochistic elements in “Pigeons from Hell” can be traced back to a childhood acquaintance of Howard. As a boy living in the “piney woods” area of East Texas, Howard heard many African-American ghost stories from an elderly former slave named Aunt Mary Bohannon. Nor were those the only tales she told. Howard informed H. P. Lovecraft that, “old Aunt Mary had had the misfortune, in her youth, to belong to a man whose wife was a fiend from Hell. The young slave women were fine young animals and barbarically handsome; her mistress was frenziedly jealous. You understand. Aunt Mary told tales of torture and unmistakable sadism that sicken me to this day when I think of them.” (Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 9/30, 58)

In the final phase of his career, Howard entered the lucrative “spicy stories” market. Magazines like Spicy-Adventure Stories and Spicy Detective Stories published fairly standard genre fiction with an added erotic element that was considered quite racy for the time. In a letter to Novalyne Price, Howard explained some of the editorial requirements:

…A nice balance must be maintained—the stuff must be hot enough to make the readers bat their eyes, but not too hot to get the censors on them. They have some definite taboos. No degeneracy, for instance. No sadism or masochism…(Ellis, One Who Walked Alone 262)

Nevertheless, Howard did occasionally succumb to the temptation to include sadomasochistic elements in stories written for the spicy pulps.

“Ship in Mutiny” is one of a series of tales about the roguish adventurer, Wild Bill Clanton. In it, the villain describes his plans for Clanton and the story’s heroine: “We’ll find the girl and make her watch while I skin him alive! I’ll make a garment of his hide and force her to wear it always about her loins to remind her how her lover died!” (“Ship in Mutiny” 34) This brief passage is the extent of the sadomasochism in the story, but once again it embodies a sadistic fantasy worthy of the Marquis de Sade.

Howard indulges in lurid S/m fantasy at greater length in another spicy story, “Daughters of Feud.” As the title indicates, the story concerns feuding hillbilly families. The hero is Braxton Brent, the new schoolteacher. Brunette bad girl Ann and blonde good girl Joan engage in a catfight in the middle of class. To maintain discipline, Brent must administer corporal punishment to his nubile nineteen-year-old students. Howard returns to a familiar theme of his erotic poetry, spanking, in a scene too good not to quote in full:

…She was strong and supple as only a mountain girl can be, and she fought like a wildcat, but Brent was an athletic young man, and he was mad clear through. There was a brief whirl of struggle, and then his superior strength made itself evident. Crushing her resistance, he sat down on the bench and imprisoned her, cursing and kicking, across his knee, and pulled up her skirt. He had already learned that the girls of Whiskey Run wore no underwear. Ann was no exception.

“Now, you little devil,” he swore grimly, “I’m going to show you who’s the boss here!”

And firmly grasping his raging captive, he employed the strap on her bare, squirming, upturned hips with a vigor inspired by his determination to assert his authority once and for all. He didn’t want to have to repeat this scene. At each resounding smack, a broad crimson weal appeared on her olive-tinted hips, and before he had completed his discipline, the entire surface was reddened, and Ann’s curses and threats had changed to shrieks of pain and frantic pleas for mercy. When he released her, she slipped to the floor and groveled at his feet, weeping stormily and contorting her supple body ludicrously with the smarting of her crimson hips. (“Daughters of Feud” 151-152)

Things get complicated when Brent suddenly falls for Joan. (The name of the hero’s love interest is another indication that “Joan” was a feminine name REH was especially fond of.) Joan is spared a spanking when she and Brent make love instead. Later, to protect Brent from charges of favoritism, she displays self-inflicted whip marks on her bared buttocks. The story ends on a cheery note of love and romance. Brent spanks Ann only reluctantly; he is no more a dominant “top” than Solomon Kane, languishing in Nakari’s dungeon, was a submissive. The sadomasochism in this story, as in the others, is an undercurrent flowing beneath the surface.

Another interesting motif is the recurrence of a blonde heroine and a brunette bad girl in “Daughters of Feud,” as in “Xuthal of the Dusk” and “Red Nails.” It serves as a clear simple physical representation of the light and the dark, and is by no means limited to Howard. In Chapter 7 of Love and Death in the American Novel, Leslie A. Fiedler explores the symbolism of the light and dark sisters, Alice and Cora Munro, in James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans.

Neither “Ship in Mutiny” nor “Daughters of Feud” were published in Howard’s lifetime. “Ship in Mutiny” was the only story in the Wild Bill Clanton series to be rejected by Spicy-Adventure. This probably owed little to the story’s sole sadistic passage, but rather to editorial preference for stories with an upbeat tone as opposed to the somewhat grim atmosphere that prevails in “Ship in Mutiny.” In “Daughters of Feud,” however, the kinky aspect is very pronounced and went well beyond what the editors would have found acceptable.

So what, then, are we to make of all this? Howard’s use of sadomasochistic elements ranges from mildly titillating spanking limericks to instances of horrific cruelty. A mad count whipping a naked, crying ten year old girl, or a villain planning to make a woman wear Wild Bill Clanton’s skin, exceed the limits of erotic S/m and take us into a realm of sheer nightmare and madness. I personally do not believe that Howard viewed the whipping of Tina as arousing. The imagination is unruly, however, and sometimes takes us to darker places than we meant to go. Therefore, in pondering to what extent Howard’s use of sadomasochism is indicative of creative self-expression, or contrived, or representative of his sexual interests, we have to accept a certain amount of ambiguity.

In the past, commentators have dismissed instances of flagellation and bondage in the Conan stories as a purely commercial contrivance, examples of Howard “pandering” to his readers. Possibly, some commentators arrived at this conclusion because of the many lurid depictions of torture to be found in the “weird menace” magazines, or “shudder pulps,” that became popular late in Howard’s career. Publications like Terror Tales and Horror Stories offered “chamber of horrors” torture scenarios inspired by the Grand Guignol Theatre of Paris. In 1935, Weird Tales inaugurated the “Doctor Satan” series in a bid to remain competitive.

Howard did indeed dabble in the weird menace genre, contributing “Graveyard Rats” and “Black Wind Blowing” to Thrilling Mystery. Additionally, the horror stories “Black Hound of Death” and “Moon of Zambebwei,” published in Weird Tales, were originally intended for the shudder pulps. “Black Wind Blowing,” “Black Hound of Death,” and the posthumously published “The Devils of Dark Lake” all feature scenes depicting nude women in bondage, two of whom are named Joan.

However, “Xuthal of the Dusk,” with its girl-on-girl sadomasochism, was published (as “The Slithering Shadow”) in the September 1933 issue of Weird Tales –one month before the first shudder pulp, Dime Mystery Magazine, adopted the weird menace format with its October 1933 issue. In weird menace stories, villains typically indulge in outré forms of murder such as covering women in gold to create incredibly lifelike statues or freezing them into “corpse-sicles.” This is a far cry from an erotic S/m fantasy such as the dominatrix-like Thalis whipping the naked, writhing Natala in “Xuthal.” Moreover, to the best of my knowledge none of the star contributors to the shudder pulps like Hugh B. Cave or Wyatt Blassingame ever wrote any poetry concerning sadistic practices. Howard’s S/m themed poetry, as well as “The Moon of Skulls” and the horror stories “The Hyena” and “The Black Stone,” predate the weird menace pulps by several years.

A stronger case can be made that Howard was following the lead of Seabury Quinn, a fan favorite of Weird Tales readers since the mid-1920s. Howard complained bitterly to Lovecraft, “I don’t know how much slaughter and butchery the readers will endure. Their capacity for grisly details seems unlimited, when the cruelty is the torturing of some naked girl, such as Seabury Quinn’s stories abound in --no reflection on Quinn; he knows what they want and gives it to them” (Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 8/9/32, 52).

At the time of Howard’s remarks, Quinn had been chronicling the adventures of the occult investigator Jules de Grandin for seven years, to the exclusion of other work. I have recently read all of the De Grandin stories available to me that Howard would have also read, over thirty tales, and have found them to be, for the most part, not nearly as lurid as Howard’s comments would lead one to believe. No naked girls are tortured onstage, much less in “grisly detail.”

The roughest of the De Grandin stories I read was “The House of Horror” (Weird Tales, July 1926), which concerns a mad doctor’s hideous experiments on kidnapped women. The experiments are done offstage, but the results are depicted. In “The House of Golden Masks” (June 1929), girls are forced into white slavery, adorned with golden masks attached to their faces by piercings, and compelled to participate in degrading performances for the benefit of wealthy degenerates. The other stories with prurient elements are: “Children of Ubasti” (12/29) -- ghouls kidnap girls and eat their flesh, and feed them human flesh; “The Dust of Egypt” (4/30) -- threat of flagellation; “The Brain Thief” (5/30) -- forced nudity; “Bride of Dewer” (7/30) -- attempted rape by demon; “Daughter of the Moonlight” (8/30) -- man’s face mutilated by witch. That’s seven stories out of thirty-two. The sadistic elements, which far from “abound,” are more than balanced by the cheerfulness and good deeds of the kindly Dr. De Grandin. Both De Grandin and his sidekick Dr. Trowbridge are middle-aged bachelors with lost loves in their pasts; their adventures frequently center on their efforts to aid a young couple. This lends the stories a sort of bittersweet quality.

On the other hand, Seabury Quinn’s only novel-length tale of Jules de Grandin, The Devil’s Bride, is much stronger than the typical De Grandin short story. In it, infants are sacrificed by Satanists, a nude woman is found crucified, and an innocent girl is blinded and mortally wounded. Again, most of the atrocities occur offstage. The Devil’s Bride was serialized in six issues of Weird Tales, concluding in the July 1932 issue. Therefore it would have been fresh in Howard’s mind when he made his remarks to Lovecraft in early August. Even so, I think, in bashing Quinn, Howard protests too much.

Howard made passing mention of sadism and masochism in other correspondence, to Novalyne Price as well as to Lovecraft. The former was a proper young woman of the era and the latter was virtually asexual, but both were important figures in Howard’s life. Concerning sadism, he told Lovecraft, “I’ve read what Havelock Ellis and other leading psychologists have had to say about it, and have in my possession a very good work on sadism and masochism by a noted German scholar” (Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 5/12/35, 68). This appears to be in reference to Algolagnia: The Psychology, Neurology and Physiology of Sadistic Love and Masochism by Albert Eulenburg.

Howard also owned several books of flagellation erotica, specifically A History of the Rod, Curiosa of Flagellants and History of Flagellation, and Experiences of Flagellation (Eng, Robert E. Howard’s Library 189, 198). Glenn Lord expressed the notion that the presence of these books in Howard’s library may reflect his interest in writing for the weird menace magazines. The amount of research essential for writing for the shudder pulps notwithstanding, the sort of Grand Guignol torture depicted in magazines like Terror Tales bears little resemblance to actual S/m erotica. I suspect that Glenn Lord may have wished to avoid confronting the possibility that REH harbored any “pervert” tendencies. However, Howard’s possession of such books does suggest that he knew what he was doing when he included the whipping scene in “Xuthal of the Dusk,” for example.

A list of erotic titles available for purchase was found among Howard’s papers. The titles listed were: A History of the Rod, The Merry Order of St. Bridget, Curiosa of Flagellants & History of Flagellation, Painful Pleasures, Nell in Bridewell, The Misfortunes of Colette, The Strap Returns, Tracts of Flagellation, The Rodiad, Tender Bottoms, Sadism and Masochism (Eulenburg), Presented in Leather, and Girdles of Chastity. The prices of the titles are included, and notes indicate that most were illustrated and privately printed for subscribers.

Need I add that it was extremely rare for someone to simply stumble upon material of this type back in the 1930s? It may have been more widely available during the Roaring Twenties, but one would have still needed to go out of one‘s way to obtain it. The extent to which Howard pursued this interest way back then –long before John Norman, before Penthouse Forum, before Eric Stanton, before John Willie’s Bizarre, before Irving Klaw, before Bettie Page—is revealing. Most people in Howard’s day were only dimly aware of erotic sadomasochism. Prior to the composition of “Red Nails,” Howard remarked to Novalyne Price that he planned to make it one of his “sexiest, goriest” tales. In reaction to this, Novalyne noted in her diary, “…I couldn’t see that the Conan yarns Bob had brought me to read had any sex in them. Gore, yes. Sex, no.” (Ellis, 201) Frankly, this statement had me puzzled. Then it dawned on me that, in 1935, Novalyne would probably have not even recognized the flagellation, bondage, and assorted sadomasochistic trappings in stories like “Xuthal of the Dusk” and “Red Nails” as “sex.”

The presence of sadomasochistic elements in Howard’s poetry and fiction, viewed in light of the S/m erotica in his collection, does seem to indicate that Howard’s sexual interests extended beyond a simple taste for vanilla. REH was a physically vigorous young male with no regular sexual outlet, and possessed of one of the most vivid imaginations on the planet. It would actually be surprising if he had no kinks whatsoever.

A common thread running through all of Robert E. Howard’s work is a craving for more intense experience than there is to be found in ordinary, everyday life. The sadomasochistic elements in Howard’s writings are a reflection of this, as far as his libido is concerned. Hearts and flowers and Cupid and the moon in June weren’t enough for him. Or as Howard himself put it:

“Mine are the lusts of hoofs and horns,
“Of the he-goat and the loon
“And the naked witches that demons deflower
“On the dark side of the moon.

“No common sin may fire my eyes,
“Glutted with excesses fell—
“My lust is stained with the dung that stirs
“On the stinking streets of Hell. (Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith 61-62)

References:

Robert E. Howard works cited:

“Altars and Jesters,” in Night Images (The Morning Star Press, 1976), pp. 28-31.

“The Black Stone,” in The Best of Robert E Howard Volume I: Crimson Shadows (Del Rey Books, 2007), pp. 121-136.

“The Black Stranger,” in The Conquering Sword of Conan (Del Rey Books, 2005), pp. 103-173.

“Daughters of Feud,” in The She Devil (Ace Fantasy Books, 1983), pp. 147-167.

“Flaming Marble,” in Etchings in Ivory (Hall Publications, 1975), pp. 5-6.

“The Hyena,” in Shadow Kingdoms: The Weird Works of Robert E. Howard, Volume 1 (Wildside Press, 2004), pp. 67-78.

Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, ca. September 1930, in Selected Letters 1923-1930 (Necronomicon Press, 1989), p. 58.

Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 9 August 1932, in The Last Celt (ed. Glenn Lord, Donald M. Grant, 1976), p. 51.

Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 5 December 1935, in Selected Letters 1931-1936 (Necronomicon Press, 1991), pp. 65-73.

Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith, ca. September 1930, in Selected Letters 1923-1930 (Necronomicon Press, 1989), pp. 60-62.

“Iron Shadows in the Moon,” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (Del Rey Books, 2003), pp. 187-216.

“The Moon of Skulls,” in The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane (Del Rey Books, 2004), pp. 99-170.

“Pigeons from Hell,” in The Black Stranger and Other American Tales (University of Nebraska Press, 2005), pp. 264-292.

“Red Nails,” in The Conquering Sword of Conan (Del Rey Books, 2005), pp. 211-281.

“Strange Passion,” in Risqué Stories 1, March 1984, p. 20.

“Ship in Mutiny,” in The She Devil (Ace Fantasy Books, 1983), pp. 22-42.

“Xuthal of the Dusk,” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (Del Rey Books, 2003), pp. 219-247.

Other works cited:

Novalyne Price Ellis, One Who Walked Alone: Robert E. Howard, The Final Years (Donald M. Grant, 1986).

Leslie A. Fieldler, Love and Death in the American Novel (Scarborough Books, 1982).

Steve Eng, Robert E. Howard’s Library in Don Herron, ed., The Dark Barbarian: The Writings of Robert E. Howard, A Critical Anthology (Greenwood Press, 1984), pp. 183-200.

Guns of the Border Region - Chapter Six

2010-05-09T16:23:00.000-07:00

[It's been awhile since I posted last. Here's the latest installment of GOTBR. There's heaps of hard sex and violence here, so I felt moved to try to give it all a sweet center. Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman.]

CHAPTER SIX -- SHADOW’S REVENGE

Having gotten the drop on Sailor Clanton, Shadow quickly disarmed him and tossed his gun into a corner. Then she ordered him to strip. She turned the oil lamp back up while Clanton removed his clothes. When he was naked she noticed that his privates had shriveled to a small knot of goose-pimpled flesh. A loaded gun held inches from a man’s head will have that effect.

Shadow couldn’t resist some sort of cutting remark, “Not such a big man now, are we?”

“Screw you, bitch,” muttered Clanton. There was fear in his voice, tinged by helpless rage. Clanton enjoyed dishing out humiliation a lot more than he did taking it. He didn’t much like what happened next, either.

Shadow smashed him across the face with the barrel of the Glock, then struck him across the other cheek with the backstroke. It was payback for the pistol-whipping he had given her earlier. Clanton was rocked but managed to stay on his feet. He winced at the pain.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Shadow asked. Then, to Clanton’s utter astonishment, she put her gun aside. “Clanton, I’m going to give you more of a chance than you gave me,” she told him, “Let’s see if you can take me when I’m not tied up, without your gun and your boyfriends.”

It took a few seconds for it to dawn on Clanton that he had been granted a reprieve from a situation that had promised certain death. But once the realization took hold, he wasted no time to comment or mentally thank fate. Instead, he bored right in, lunging at Shadow and hoping to wrestle her to the floor.

Shadow had been expecting some such move and side-stepped it easily. She booted Clanton in the ass as he went stumbling by. Clanton went sprawling face-first onto the cabin’s dirt floor.

At this point it would have been easy for Shadow to pile on top of him and grind his face into the dirt. She was sorely tempted to force him face-down into the dirt until he asphyxiated. It was her plan not just to beat him up, but bust him up. She fully intended to leave him dead or permanently disabled. But she didn’t want to end it too quickly.

“Get up!” she snarled.

There were many who would have considered Shadow’s giving Sailor Clanton a second crack at her to be a reckless, foolhardy move. Clanton was bigger than she was, and stronger. Yet Shadow had put aside her anger long enough to weigh her course of action before committing to it. Clanton was no pushover in a fight, but he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. His penchant for taking on lesser opponents had given him an inflated reputation, in his own mind as well as others’. In terms of overall skill, he was Shadow’s inferior. Moreover, his physique, though impressive, was mainly for show. He looked pumped-up, even a little muscle-bound. He lacked the trim lines of a true fighter. And he would not be fighting in top form. He had been forced to strip naked at gunpoint, which rendered him more vulnerable in addition to being psychologically debilitating. Ending up face-down on the floor mere seconds into a fight also tended to undermine one’s confidence. Two cracks on the head from a gun barrel weren’t likely to help Clanton’s form either.

Clanton rose unsteadily and turned to face his former prisoner. Shadow shifted into her fighting stance. Clanton came at her, enraged, still seeking to overpower her by sheer force. He cocked back a clenched fist as he closed distance. Then he hooked his heavily-muscled arm at her as though determined to tear her head from her shoulders with a single blow.

Clanton’s hook to the head was poorly timed and executed, however. Shadow ducked under it with a supple weave of her body. She sprang up inside his guard, stung his face with a couple of quick jabs, then danced back out of range.

Clanton realized that he had a real fight on his hands and he wasn’t going to end this with one punch. He got down to serious business, assuming a boxing stance opposite his opponent.

Shadow was instantly aware that Clanton had sobered up and was now fighting with a clear head. She wasn’t about to let him get up to speed. Clanton moved in, flicking his jab. Shadow shifted to karate mode and deflected the blows with swats of her open hands. When her foe was close enough, she brought her booted heel down hard on his naked instep. She felt some of the bones crack as she counterpunched, then moved back out of range. Clanton wobbled unsteadily on his broken foot. Lame, he was a sitting duck.

Even so, Shadow remained wary about moving in on him. Unable to maneuver, his best bet would be to try to grapple. The smart move would be to soak up a few more of her licks in exchange for an opportunity to place her in some sort of hold or, failing that, simply seize her and hurl her to the ground --anything that enabled him to bring his greater strength to bear.

Given these considerations, Shadow refrained from rushing in. Instead she took this opportunity to taunt Clanton in the hopes of rattling him. She assumed a haughty demeanor, flaunting her naked breasts. “This is twice tonight you’ve come up short,” she said coldly, “Karla gave me a better fight.”

“You lousy bitch,” he grated, “Just let me get my hands on you.” His open hands trembled, betraying his urge to grab.

Stupid of him to telegraph that he’s going for the grapple, Shadow thought, What if I hadn’t figured it out already?

Stung to fury, Clanton hobbled forward despite the pain of his injured foot. Shadow let out a loud “Ki-yi!” and raised her hands to deliver karate strikes. Clanton raised his own guard in response. However, Shadow’s move was merely a feint. When Sailor Clanton was in range she kicked him in the balls.

Clanton folded instantly, crashing to his knees. Shadow’s kick had been dead on. Since he was nude, Clanton’s testes were totally exposed. His injured foot made his stance awkward, leaving him wide open for a ball-shot. Shadow saw the opening and took the shot. “Accept what is offered,” Pops had told her long ago during training.

Shadow laughed at the sight of Clanton on his knees, clutching his groin and clenching his teeth against the urge to retch. Clanton flopped onto his side and curled into a fetal position.

After a few moments passed and he made no effort to rise, Shadow ordered him to get up. She suspected he was “taking the count,” faking the extent of his incapacity and stalling for time. In this way he could recover more fully while planning his next move. Shadow wasn’t having any of that shit. “Get up,” she repeated harshly, “Get up or I will kick and stomp you to death where you lay!”

After waiting as long as he dared, Clanton began to stir. He rose slowly and unsteadily. Before he was fully erect, Shadow knocked him back down with a side thrust kick. This almost proved to be her undoing. Instead of dropping, Clanton rolled with the kick and allowed it to propel him backwards --right into the corner where Shadow had tossed his gun. He managed to land face-down on top of it.

Within the space of a heartbeat Clanton was rolling onto his back, aiming the weapon. But Shadow had caught the move. With a speed borne of desperate urgency, she reached her own weapon, snatched it up, swung it towards Clanton, fired.

Both guns roared in the same instant. Clanton was still rolling his body as he fired. His shot went wild. Shadow’s struck Clanton squarely. She continued to squeeze the trigger. Three more of the heavy .40 slugs slammed into Clanton. His body jerked spasmodically, the automatic dropping from his twitching fingers. When Shadow stopped firing he slumped back and sprawled lifeless before her.

She pumped three more bullets into him for good measure. For several minutes she glared down at the bullet-riddled corpse. He bare breasts rose and fell as her breath hissed through her nostrils and clenched teeth. Her anger remained unabated. It was as though Clanton had escaped her in some way. She kicked the corpse savagely, again and again. She stomped down hard on it until she felt ribs crack. Then she unsheathed her knife…

#

The moon was setting by the time Mike and Lyle made it back to the cabin. Both were so drunk they could barely remain in their saddles. Lyle’s foot got caught in the stirrup as he attempted to dismount, and Mike had to free him. Eventually they managed to get the horses tied up. They headed around to front of the cabin.

Even through their booze haze, both instantly sensed that something was amiss. The door to the cabin was ajar. The wan yellowish lantern light spilled out through the opening. No sound could be heard from within save for a faint rustling and squeaking.

Mike and Lyle were gripped by a sense of foreboding as they approached the threshold. Lyle touched the door with a trembling hand. He pulled it slowly open on creaking hinges. Abruptly two large grey rats shot from within the doorway and vanished into the night.

Lyle flung the door open all the way. He and Mike stepped warily into the cabin. They stood aghast at what they saw within. The woman was gone, but they took scant notice of this. Before them in front of the fireplace a man’s nude body lay sprawled in a pool of blood. It had been mutilated and decapitated. Several more of the big grey rats feasted on the cooling flesh. On the mantel above them rested a human head -- the head of Sailor Clanton.

Mike screamed some incoherent blasphemy. Lyle pissed himself. They beheld a scene of nightmare and madness. It would have been horrific enough had they been stone cold sober. Seen through the distorted lens of their drunkenness, the gruesome tableau took on a genuinely hellish aspect.

Lyle felt his knees buckling. Then the floor came rushing up at him. He crashed to earth inches from the headless cadaver. The rats gnawing at the corpse hissed and backed up but did not scurry away. For a terror-filled moment Lyle was assailed by the sick certainty that he was about to pass out, knowing that the beasts would then be upon him.

To Lyle’s relief, Mike grabbed a poker and swung at the rats. He managed to drive them away and chase them out the door. He returned and helped Lyle to his feet.

“Oh dear God,” Lyle rasped, “Could she have done this? Bitch. Goddamn she-devil…”

Lyle rambled on but Mike wasn’t listening. He was gazing in horror at Sailor Clanton’s severed head with its oddly distorted face. It was then that he noticed something on the mantelpiece near the head. It was a folded piece of paper that looked to be a note of some sort. Mike picked it up and read the following:

DEAR ASSHOLES,

IF THE LATE SAILOR CLANTON LOOKS LIKE A CHIPMUNK, IT’S BECAUSE HE’S GOT HIS NUTS STUFFED IN HIS CHEEKS. YOU’LL BE JOINING HIM IN HELL VERY SOON. YOU SHOULD BE FEELING WARMER ALREADY.

LOVE, TAMAR

“What’s it say?” Lyle demanded.

Mike read it aloud, crumpled it, and cast it away. He was puzzling over what that last part meant when he smelled the smoke. Turning, he noticed a flickering hellish red glare outside the cabin’s sole window.

“Shit!” he cried, “She’s set the fuckin’ cabin on fire. Let’s get out of here.”

Mike made straight for the door, Lyle a step behind him. As he opened the door to step out, he was deafened by loud rifle fire. He was struck in the face by splinters and chunks of wood torn from the doorframe as bullets slammed into it.

Mike took a quick step back, colliding with Lyle and sending them both sprawling to the floor. They quickly shuffled over to the protection provided by the thick walls on either side of the doorway.

By now flames had sprung up around other parts of the cabin. The interior was starting to fill with smoke.

“We can’t stay in here,” Lyle said, his voice edged with panic, “And if we go out she’ll shoot us. Can you see anything out the window?”

“I can’t see nuthin’, but I think I heard the horses run off.”

The flames were growing higher by the minute and starting to eat through the walls. The heat was becoming unbearable. Both men realized the peril of their situation. The front door was the only exit. Attempting to escape through it they would be silhouetted against the light within. Even if they doused the lantern they would still be visible against the flames --sitting ducks for the shooter. But the alternative was being roasted alive.

Once again they tried the door. Once again they were driven back by a hail of lead that zinged inches past their heads.

“That was close,” muttered Mike, “Close enough to hit us if she wanted to. She wants us to burn in here.”

Mike doused the lantern, leaving only the unsteady flickering glare of the flames. “Stay low,” he told Lyle as they made another dash for the door. He hoped that the smoke now pouring from the cabin would furnish concealment.

Mike rushed to the door in a crouch, then pitched backwards as hot lead tore through his chest. Another crack of the rifle and Lyle fell as though struck by a thunderbolt.

#

Shadow arose from her chosen position on the fringe of the woods. From there she had gunned down her prey. The cabin was now fully engulfed in flame. She looked upon the inferno in grim satisfaction. Setting the fire had been easy. Heaps of rags and kindling soaked in kerosene had been set in strategic locations. Twists of paper served as simple fuses to be lit when the time came --once her marks were in place.

After Lyle and Mike entered the cabin, she had appropriated the rifles and Clanton’s horse, and set the other horses loose. Then she lit the fuses and waited for the fun to begin. Those in the cabin had no chance. Clanton’s rifle was designed for hunting, but its scope was state-of-the-art military issue. She had no problem placing each round exactly where she wished. Lyle had gone down with a bullet in the heart. The round she sent through Mike’s chest tore through both his lungs. He would probably drown in his own blood before he burned to death.

Shadow had no compunctions about her actions. Clanton and his crew were a nasty bunch. By reputation and by Clanton’s own boasts, they were known to have wronged many a man and woman. Such persons had now been avenged. But more importantly, Clanton and crew had fucked with her royally. There was no way she could let that shit slide.

Christian stood nearby, holding the horses. He passed no judgment on Shadow’s vengeance. He had followed Shadow into her world of his own free will, and was obliged to accept that world’s grim unwritten laws. Here, it seemed, people settled their own problems. Any qualms he might have felt had been eased by the sight of the black bruise the barrel of Clanton’s automatic had left on Shadow’s face.

Together they watched the cabin burn. Christian said, “I hope the fire doesn’t set these whole woods ablaze.”

“I don’t care if it does!” Shadow spat bitterly. Then the last of her anger abated like a storm blowing itself out. The cabin collapsed upon itself, sending up a huge cloud of sparks and embers. But the clearing was fairly large and the fire did not spread.

The fire had burned down by daybreak. A thick column of black smoke drifted skyward from the blackened smoldering ruins. Fog had come in with the dawn. The clearing looked like some misty realm of the dead. Shadow turned away from the smoking heap of cinders that formed a cairn over the remains of her enemies. “Let’s go,” she said.

They saddled up. Christian placed a rifle in the long saddle holster and slung another over his shoulder. Shadow likewise slung the rifle she had used over her shoulder. She also had Clanton’s automatic. It was chambered for .45 ammo. She briefly considered re-arming Christian with it; he was big enough to handle the more powerful round. But she quickly thought better of it. Automatics had slides and safeties to work. These could prove difficult for a novice shooter, especially under stress. Better he stick with his revolver.

#

They headed south along a narrow trail, avoiding the more traveled roads. The pair rode in silence for awhile. Christian finally spoke up.

“Uh, listen, I’m sorry about last night. I mean, I didn’t mean to stare at you like that when I came in and found you. It’s just that…” he paused before taking the plunge, “…well, I’ve never actually seen a totally naked lady before.”

Shadow was stunned by the revelation. She almost laughed but managed to stifle it so as not to embarrass him. Then she thought of something.

“What are you talking about? You saw me at the Go-Go Lounge back in Wheeling.”

“I averted my eyes, actually.”

This time she did laugh. “You are something else, Churchy.”

Christian made no reply. He didn’t want her to know the whole truth. He had been sorely tempted to gaze upon her nakedness. However, due to his repressive Victorian upbringing, he was very easily aroused. If he had actually watched the strippers, he ran the risk of becoming tumescent. He would have been mortified had any of the rough Border Region crowd call attention to a visible erection in his pants.

Shadow wondered if she had hurt Christian’s feelings by laughing at him, even good-naturedly. She said, “And besides, you did just fine. You saved me from that Chester guy. If not for you, I’d still be tied up in Sailor Clanton’s unburnt cabin.” And, she thought to herself, You are going to be seeing a whole lot more of me real soon, you lucky bastard.

#

Further down the road, Shadow informed Christian, “I’m looking for a place to hole up. I’ve had a rough night. I need some place to fall back, rest up and lick my wounds. And I could really use a bath.”

Shadow knew where to find what she needed. They left the road they were traveling and headed west along one of the east-west routes that led to and from the New Settlements. It was almost noon when they arrived at a rustic inn located along the trail. The inn consisted of several primitive log structures in keeping with the frontier environs. A large main building housed a bar and grill. Surrounding it were some small cabins.

The travelers tied up their horses in the rear of the main building. They entered the tavern and ordered lunch. The meal was simple fare: chicken-flavored foodpaste fried in a skillet and served with some garden greens.

Shadow paid for the meal and a cabin for the night. She requested one with a tub as well as a bed. The innkeeper gave her the key. She and Christian went over to stow their gear.

The cabin was small and dark, but the bed was big. It was common for travelers to share a bed in those parts, as in former times. Shadow removed her duster and hung it up. She now wore Sailor Clanton’s red mesh tank top in place of the one that had gotten torn off in the fight with Karla. Her nipples were plainly visible through the nylon garment, which did more to emphasize than conceal the ivory globes of her breasts. It was a sight that caused Christian to catch his breath. Shadow noticed and thought, Just wait, boy. You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.

In the meantime they had their work cut out for them. The tub was just a simple metal affair that had been placed in the middle of the floor. They had to get a fire going in the fireplace, draw water from a pump outside, bring it in and boil it in a cauldron over the fire.

When the tub was full of hot steaming water, Shadow told Christian, “I’ll go first. After last night I need a bath more than you. Don’t worry; the water will still be plenty hot when you get back.”

She gave Christian the key. He went out to feed and water the horses. When he was gone, Shadow undressed. She did not bolt the door from the inside, but kept her Glock close at hand.

When she was naked, she slowly lowered herself into the bath. The water was piping hot. She had to lower herself into it gradually, letting it creep up over her body inch by inch.

When she was fully immersed, Shadow relaxed and allowed the heat to ease away the aches and hurts of the past two nights. She luxuriated in the warm water smiling contentedly, in no hurry to leave the tub. At length there was a knock at the door and Christian’s voice from without; “Are you decent?”

With a wicked little grin, Shadow said, “Yeah, sure. Come on in.”

Christian entered the cabin and stopped short when he saw that Shadow was still lolling naked in the tub.

“Close the damn door!” she said sharply, “You’re letting cold air in.”

Christian, by now accustomed to instantly obeying her commands, shut the door behind her without further thought. The flames from the fire in the hearth lit the room redly. Shadow rose from the tub, wisps of steam curling about her. She stood before him, her lovely nude body dripping wet. “Besides,” she said coyly, “Do I look indecent to you?”

Christian did not answer. His mouth had gone dry and his tongue seemed to have swollen. He stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by the incredible sight of her.

As on the previous evening, Shadow had to snap him out of it. “Well, make yourself useful,” she commanded, “Fetch that towel on the bed. Get over here. Dry me. Chop chop, Churchy!”

He came to her as though drawn by the pull of gravity. Unfolding the large bath towel, he stepped behind her and draped it about her shoulders. Then Christian got to work. He started by patting dry her shoulders, then her upper arms. Lifting her damp hair, he dried the back of her neck. After drying her upper and lower back, he stopped.

“Lower,” Shadow instructed in a husky voice.

Christian patted dry her backside, thrilling to the touch of her firm rounded buttocks through the towel. He bent to work on her thighs and upper calves. Straightening up, he reached around her to towel off the front of her body. He avoided touching her breasts until she took hold of his hands and pressed them there.

“That’s good,” she whispered as she stepped out of the tub. She wrapped the towel about her, tucking in a corner of the damp cloth to hold it in place. Seating herself on the bed, she reached for a smaller towel to dry her calves and feet.

“Permit me,” Christian said somewhat meekly as he picked up the towel. Without being told, he kneeled before her and dried off her feet.

When he finished, she bid him to rise and led him over to the fireplace. The flames and the steam from tub and cauldron had made the small cabin interior quite warm.

“Time for you to get a bath,” she informed him. So saying she removed his vest.

Christian objected feebly; “Aren’t you…”

“Hush,” she whispered as she began to unbutton his shirt. Her fingertips lightly caressed the bare skin underneath, sending thrills along his nerves. She peeled off his shirt and cast it aside with his vest. He remained passive as she unbuckled his belt. She unzipped his pants and let them drop to the floor.

“Tidy whities,” she muttered disapprovingly, more to herself than to him, “Have to get you sexier underwear, Church-boy.”

As in a dream, Christian felt himself being swept along as she helped him step out of his pants and shoes. Finally Shadow yanked down his underpants to reveal the erection the bulge in his shorts had so blatantly indicated.

“My, you are a big boy,” she cooed teasingly as his stiffened member sprang free.

Christian was breathing heavily. His erection was red and throbbing. It seemed like he was ready to explode. That would never do. Once things started rolling, she didn’t want him to come too quickly.

Shadow reached down and took hold of his penis. Christian started to squirm.

“Now just relax,” she said soothingly, entrancingly, “Just trust me. Believe me, I know what I’m doing. Nothing is your fault. It’s that bad girl Shadow…”

After quieting him down, she began to gently masturbate him. It didn’t take long to bring him off. He groaned loudly as though in actual pain as he ejaculated into the fire.

Christian staggered, weak in the knees. Shadow placed his arm around her shoulders to support him as he leaned against her.

“That one was medicinal,” she informed him, “The next one will be more fun, and you’ll last longer.”

She guided him to the tub and helped him as he got in. The water was still nice and warm. Shadow picked up a washcloth and began to bathe Christian.

When he was all clean, she helped him out of the tub. She removed the towel she had been wearing like a sarong, and used it to dry him off. Now they were both naked. When he was dry, she took him by the hand and led him to the bed.

Christian allowed himself to be led. He was still a bit wobbly as he walked. He seemed dazed, almost like he was on drugs. Shadow knew that she was rocking his world. She was very understanding and patient with him.

When they reached the bed, she pressed lightly on his shoulders with her fingertips to ease him into a sitting position. “Just relax, Christian sweetie,” she said soothingly, “Just trust me, okay?”

She lifted his legs onto the bed. Another light touch of her fingers got him to recline. When he was resting against the pillows, Shadow climbed into bed alongside him. She smiled warmly at him.

Shadow leaned in to kiss Christian. He responded clumsily. “Don’t pucker your lips,” she told him, “I’m not your mother.” Or that little tight-ass you dragged me around looking for.

Shadow now proceeded to teach Christian how to kiss. He was a fast learner and quickly got the hang of it. When she sensed he was ready, she threw in a little playful tongue action. Before long they were locked in a passionate embrace..

Shadow felt well pleased with herself. Church-boy was coming to life. She had broken the shackles of his “moral” inhibitions and gotten his young red blood boiling. Now he rained hot kisses on her lips, face and neck. His hands roamed freely over her. He cupped her breasts, marveling at their warmth, their smooth roundness.

She was groping him as well. Her fingers lightly caressed his ball sac and felt it grow tight. Moving on, she was delighted to discover that his member was as rigid as an iron spike.

He was ready. She was ready. It was time. She rolled him gently onto his back once more. “Just relax,” she whispered, “And let me do all the work.”

She mounted him then. Straddling his body, she lowered herself onto him and guided him in. She began to ride him, slowly at first, gradually building to a more vigorous tempo.

Christian surrendered to her and let the experience wash over him. He felt himself responding, thrusting upwards to meet her downward plunges. He looked up in awe at her superb young body as she rode atop him. It was like a thousand forbidden fantasies come to life. His blood roared madly in his ears as he gave in completely and reveled in the sheer physical delight. Was he not a man, after all? And here was a woman who could tempt a saint.

Shadow could sense his climax nearing and timed her moves to his. That way she would be able to get off just as he did. She felt his body beneath her begin to shudder and convulse.

“Jesus Chri--” Christian blurted, biting his lower lip to keep from taking the Lord’s name in vain.

Shadow came then as well. Her body tensed as her orgasm rocked her. Then she collapsed on top of Christian. They lay together gulping air for a few moments. When their breathing returned to normal, she kissed him softly. Christian had bitten into his lip hard enough to draw blood. He now saw that blood smeared across Shadow’s lips like lipstick.

They disengaged and lay curled in each other’s arms for a long time. Later, Shadow left his side momentarily to add wood to the fire. Watching Shadow’s nude form cross the cabin, Christian felt a warm glow of manly pride. To think that he had possessed such a woman!

After awhile they coupled again, feverishly. Finally spent, Shadow smiled contentedly. She snuggled against Christian. The door was locked and bolted. The crackling logs in the fireplace shed a cheery warmth. Shadow drifted into a blissful slumber.

#

It was well past daybreak when Shadow awoke. There were only ashes in the fireplace now. Daylight filtered through the one small window, filling the cabin with a sickly grey half-light.

Shadow was startled to discover that Christian was already up. He had gotten dressed and was now seated in the room’s sole rickety chair. And he was crying. He wasn’t racked by anguished sobs or anything. He just sniffled and wiped away tears as though remorseful about something.

“What’s with the waterworks?” Shadow demanded, perplexed, “It wasn’t that bad, was it?” Like he would know.

“No, no, of course not,” Christian answered wistfully, “It’s not that. It’s just that my first time was supposed to be on my wedding night.”

Shadow was utterly bewildered and not a little angry. She had really thought she had made a man out of him. But now it looked as though the grey shades of his stultifying upbringing had reclaimed him.

“What is your friggin’ problem?” she said scornfully, “I can’t believe after a night with me you would still be mooning over some little candy-ass.”

“Oh, you don’t understand,” he replied in a hurt voice, “I was saving myself for marriage. When I was in school I took a purity pledge. No sex before marriage. I gave my word before God. I swore in Jesus’ name.”

Shadow glowered at him as she began to hurriedly dress. “And here I thought you were a man,” she said bitterly, hoping to hurt him, “And you go and start with this sissy shit. You are a real piece of work, Church-boy.”

When she finished dressing she pulled on her duster. She went out, slamming the door behind her.

#

Outside, Shadow mounted Incitatus. She rode off, galloping into the hills. She pressed the horse hard and did not stop until she reached the crest of a high summit. From this vantage point she could see mountains, hills and valleys spreading out below and rolling off into the distance. There was a large outcropping of flat rock. The day was clear for once. The sun was well up and warmed the rock with its rays. The outcropping furnished an excellent seat for taking in the view.

Shadow tied the pinto to a tree branch at the fringe of the woods. She began to rummage through one of the saddle bags. Presently she drew forth a small bag of marijuana and some rolling papers. Shadow was not an habitual pot smoker, even though she grew and sold the stuff. But from time to time she would use it if she wanted to relax and think something through.

After taking a seat on the outcropping, Shadow rolled herself a joint. She lit it and inhaled deeply. After a few hits on the joint her tension had mostly vanished. A few more and she was feeling really mellow. The sun shining on her and the sun-washed rock beneath her felt warm and pleasant. She relaxed and let her mind drift. Before long she was thinking of her last lover.

#

It was almost a year ago now, during the last deer season. By tradition, Westsylvanians observed the hunting seasons of the old Commonwealth so as not to deplete the wild game. That season she had been staying by herself in a tiny cabin near Tionesta. On the fateful day she had been hunting alone in the forest. There was about two inches of new snow on the ground. It was bitter cold, and she had seen little game afoot. Presumably most of the deer were bedded down. Finally, she discovered some fresh tracks. She trailed the deer for miles. At last she found it standing in a clearing. She had a nice clean shot at it.

She raised her rifle, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The shot crashed loudly and the deer dropped to the snow. Right away, Shadow sensed something amiss. The gunshot had reverberated too loudly to be an echo. The deer had jerked as though struck twice before falling.

Shadow stepped cautiously into the clearing. She was not surprised to see another hunter emerge from the woods. She raised a hand in greeting. The two approached each other and met over the fallen deer.

“I think I hit it first,” Shadow said, “But we--”

“You’re a woman!” the other exclaimed, almost incredulous.

Shadow’s heavy winter garb had concealed her gender until she and the man were very close. “Thanks for noticing,” she said, “Is there a problem with that?”

“I never thought to see a woman carrying a gun for deer. You must be Westsylvanian.”

“Naturally enough, since we’re in Westsylvania.”

“I think not,” he said as he consulted an electronic device strapped to his wrist, “This is Pennsylvania. You crossed the border awhile back.”

Show-off, Shadow thought, You and your fancy satellite tracking. All the satellites of the Old Union had been blown out of the sky during the opening days of the War. To this day none had been replaced.

“I am afraid you have entered the Islamic States illegally,” the man said bluntly.

Screw you, pal. “Well, I hope you’re not going to be a dick about it. Look, I’ll just head back.”

Abruptly the man’s tone changed and became more friendly. “Please forgive my appalling lack of manners. It is easy to lose one’s way in this wilderness. And the afternoon grows late. Were you to start back now, you may well find yourself still some distance from shelter when night falls. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my hunting lodge. It is not far from here. And we can share the deer.”

“Fair enough. Let’s lighten our load a bit.”

Shadow unsheathed her bowie knife and impressed her fellow hunter with her skill in field-dressing a deer. Together they placed the gutted carcass on a sling the man provided.

Between the two of them, dragging the deer through the snow proved easy work. Along the way they introduced themselves. “You are very handy with a gun and a knife,” said the man, “Muslim women do not possess such skills. Of course, I should have expected different from a woman of the Border Region. I’ve visited Tionesta and some of the other border communities. My name is Yusef Davis.”

“Tamar Lane.”

“I’m so very charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Tamar Lane.”

Pretty smooth, Yusef, Shadow thought, “Likewise.”

They did not have far to travel. Less than thirty minutes of hiking brought them to Yusef’s hunting lodge. It was located along a winding dirt road, and similar structures belonging to others could be glimpsed further up the road. Yusef’s cabin was fairly large, with several outbuildings adjacent. Before entering his cabin, Yusef knelt in the snow for his evening prayers. Shadow thought he looked very serene.

After he arose, they hung the deer in a shed. This task completed, Yusef escorted Shadow into the lodge. The interior was spacious with ample room for four beds and other comfortable furnishings. “Sometimes companions join me,” Yusef explained, “But this year I was hunting alone. Or so I thought.”

Inside the warm cabin, the pair removed their heavy outerwear. Beneath his cold weather garb, Yusef was dressed simply in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. Shadow was pleased to note that he was trimly built and ruggedly handsome. He sported a thick head of tousled brown hair and a short beard that masked a strong chin. He looked more Nordic than Middle-Eastern.

Shadow pulled off her headgear and shook loose her hair. She removed her orange hunting coat, brown outer pants, heavy boots and thick woolen socks. Her remaining garments were her customary black. She wore very tight pants and a turtleneck sweater. Barefoot and clad thus, she resembled nothing so much as a mid-20th Century beatnik.

The cabin was furnished with electricity from a wind and solar powered generator. There was ample power for lighting and small appliances. After getting a blaze going in the fireplace, Yusef prepared coffee. He and Shadow relaxed in comfortable chairs.

“You brew an excellent cup of coffee,” Shadow told her host, “That’s high praise from me.”

“And you are most enchanting,” Yusef replied graciously, “And Tamar Lane is a lovely name, very poetic. It brings to mind Tamerlane, the great Muslim conqueror of Asia.”

“That’s what my dad thought. What about you? You don’t look Mid-Eastern. I mean, I know you have to be Muslim to be a citizen of the ISA, but how far back do you go?”

“My maternal grandfather was Syrian,” Yusef said with a smile, “But the rest of my forebears have lived in central Pennsylvania since before the Flood, or so it would seem. I’m a mix of German, Scots-Irish, English, supposedly some Delaware Indian if you go back far enough.”

“Our family backgrounds are sort of similar,” Shadow replied, “Except for the Syrian, of course. I’m descended from the original settlers of Westsylvania. But tell me more about you. Do you have a wife? Girlfriend?”

“No and no. My mother would like me to settle down, but I’m not really much of a ladies’ man.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

As they spoke, Shadow noticed his eyes straying to the soft mounds of her breasts, so inviting beneath the sweater. She got up to pour more coffee. Her ass was admirably displayed by her tight black pants as she walked. She could feel Yusef’s burning gaze.

“How about a refill?” she asked as she poured herself a fresh cup.

“None for me, thanks. It’ll keep me up, and I like to turn in early.” As though that were a cue, Yusef rose from his chair. He busied himself stringing a rope across the cabin like a clothesline and hung blankets over it to create a screen.

“That should afford us both some privacy,” he told Shadow, “Take one of the beds over there. Just turn the light off when you’re ready.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Shadow chided, “Is there anywhere a girl can freshen up?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. The small building next to the shed where we hung the deer is a sauna. I built it myself and am rather proud of it. It’s just the thing to relax you and ease away tension. I usually unwind there before retiring. By all means feel free to make use of it.”

“You first,” Shadow said, “You’re the one who wanted to turn in early. I’ll just sit and enjoy some more of the coffee until you’re finished.”

“Very well.”

Yusef disappeared behind the makeshift screen and undressed. He emerged wearing a heavy robe and slippers, carrying some towels. He exited the cabin quietly.

Shadow sat alone for awhile and sipped her coffee. She smiled. She had taken quite a liking to the handsome stranger. He seemed very manly, yet gentle and good-natured. He was certainly worth getting to know better, especially now. The cold winter months had come. The days grew short. It was going to be a long cold night. And she had been too long without a man.

Shadow was not normally quite so impetuous, but this time it seemed right. With a sudden firm sense of resolve, she rose from her chair. She undressed and wrapped a large towel about her. Then she slipped out the cabin door.

Outside, night had fallen. Shadow stepped out into the frosty air. She was traveling no great distance, and so ignored the bitter cold and the snow beneath her bare feet. She approached the nearby outbuilding that housed the sauna.

Shadow entered the sauna and shut the door behind her, cutting off an icy blast of wind that tried to follow her in. She took a seat on a bench opposite a startled Yusef. “Thought you could use some company,” she said.

Yusef was taken aback. He was nude, with only a small towel draped over his loins. He glanced about to see where he had dropped his robe. It was out of reach. To retrieve it he would have to rise and in doing so expose himself. He could only fidget nervously.

“Why don’t you just relax?” Shadow asked, her voice soothing. “It’s so nice in here.” She spoke the simple truth. Outside was a chill winter night. Within the sauna it was as warm and moist as a tropical rain forest.

“Miss Lane, this is most inappropriate,” Yusef objected, “You should leave. Have you no modesty?”

In answer, Shadow stood up and let her towel drop. “Apparently not,” she said. Her nipples were still erect from her walk in the cold air. Her supple nude body was as white as the snows and rapidly becoming slick with dew droplets of sweat. “Still think I should leave?”

She saw the passion flame in Yusef’s eyes and had her answer. The next thing she knew she was in his arms. They locked together in passionate embrace. They kissed, his lips crushing hers, breaking off only long enough to gasp for breath. She could feel him grow hard against her. He became erect almost instantly, even though the steam-bath’s air was muggy enough to make a man drowsy.

She yielded as he pinned her against the wall with his body and, standing upright, entered her and began thrusting. Her long legs locked about his waist and drew him in deeper. Her arms snaked through his as her hands clutched his broad shoulders for support. Her nails raked his back. She climaxed with a wildcat screech. He gave a few more vigorous thrusts before exploding inside her.

The lovers sank to the floor where they lay spent, drenched in perspiration. Their strength returned gradually. They rose unsteadily and toweled each other off. Shadow remained weak as a kitten. Yusef wrapped her in a fresh towel, donned his robe, and carried her back to the cabin.

That night they slept soundly and serenely in each other’s arms, snug beneath warm blankets while the cold wind howled outside. They awoke before dawn and renewed their passion, then drifted back to sleep. They remained in bed throughout the long grey morning, leaving it only long enough to consume a simple breakfast.

Later in the day they butchered the deer. They enjoyed a hearty venison supper. Shadow stayed another night in the cabin. She and Yusef parted the following morning. She returned to her camp with her share of the venison.

#

Looking back on it now, Shadow felt a warm glow. The time she had with Yusef had been good. But they both knew that they could have no future together. Could she have a future with anyone? That question bothered her.

Shadow finished smoking the joint and resisted the temptation to roll another. Pot-smoking made her more introspective than was her wont. She didn’t usually sit around brooding, but right now she felt moved to examine herself and her motives, particularly in regard to the men in her life.

Christian and Yusef. Church-boy and Mosque-boy. What was it about them that had drawn her to them? They had both just been trying to clean up --in a bath and a sauna-- and she had to make them both get down and dirty. What was up with that? Did she take some secret delight in knocking these religious types off their high horses?

With Christian there was something more. She recalled the moment he had shown her the picture of his runaway fiancée. Shadow had loathed her on sight, she now realized, and had belittled her time and again; tight-ass, saccharine little candy-ass and so on. Had she been insanely jealous of a picture? Had the whole thing really been about stealing Christian’s cherry from Angel, his betrothed? And if so, why not? Some buck had undoubtedly stolen her cherry from him. When he finally realized that, he would thank her. It was for his own good.
Or was it? Maybe she was just a bad person. Like that time…don’t go there, don’t go there…like that time when she had actually toyed with the idea of “consoling” Pops after Steffy died. And what had that been all about?

No wonder she didn’t enjoy getting high so much anymore. Still, she realized the importance of dragging subconscious shit to the surface. Ignore it and let it fester, and it could trip you up later.

Having confronted her issues, Shadow felt mentally more relaxed. The sun was nearing its zenith now. The day was very warm. The rock outcropping on which she sat was big enough to stretch out on. She removed her duster and spread it beneath her. She lay back for awhile, just basking in the sun’s rays like a lizard. She was almost straight again when some clouds started to roll in. It never stayed sunny in these parts for very long. Time to leave this place.

Shadow rode back to the inn. A sheepish-looking Christian awaited her there.

“Thanks for coming back,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t I come back? I just needed a little time to myself.”

“Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I behaved like an ass.”

She waited for him to elaborate.

“I didn’t mean to carry on so about my chastity vow,” he said, “The truth is that if I had really wanted to stop what happened between us, I would have. But I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything. And now I’m glad we made love.”

“Oh Romeo, Romeo, wilt thou can the ‘make love’ bullshit? We fucked, okay?”

This was like a dash of cold water in Christian’s face. “Well, it was more than that to me. And you’re not fooling me by acting hard. I think you’re a good girl, Tammy.”

Now it was Shadow’s turn to be taken aback. “Look Church-boy, you can call me Tamar or you can call me Shadow, but if you ever call me Tammy again I will knock your teeth out.”

“Well, in that case I won’t,” Christian replied coldly.

“Aw, forget it,” Shadow said, her voice softening, “Sorry to be such a bitch. It’s just been a hell of a few days. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

#

Shades of evening were gathering when they rode into view of Pops’ cabin. It had only been a few days, but to Shadow it seemed like years since she had last laid eyes on it. Now she was greatly cheered to see Pain come bounding into the yard. A few moments later, Pops emerged from the cabin.

Shadow swung down from Incitatus and ran to him. She threw herself against the older man, her arms encircling his waist, hugging him fiercely. Pops returned her embrace. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead gently. Shadow was certain of more trouble ahead. For the moment, however, she felt safe in Pops’ massive arms.

Next: Thunder of the Feud

Guns of the Border Region - Chapter Five

2010-01-14T16:32:00.000-08:00

[Here is another chapter of Guns of the Border Region. I've been told that I write great fight scenes, and think this chapter contains one of my best. Also, there's part that's very rough and grim. In writing about a woman adventurer character, I was forced to acknowledge a big potential hazard of such a lifestyle for the sake of honesty. It did hurt. I love my characters, and Shadow is a favorite. In creating her, I wanted to see if I could create a female character as tough as Conan. Not quite, but she's easily as tough as the Man with No Name. A couple of historical notes: Incitatus was the name of the race horse the mad emperor Caligula appointed to the Roman senate. James Bowie's reputation as a knife fighter stems from one battle, the Natchez Sandbar fight. Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman]

CHAPTER FIVE -- SHADOW IN JEOPARDY

The frontier village called Eden consisted of a dozen or so rude log structures. Most lined the road that passed through the settlement, with some others off on the few narrow side streets. The road and streets were unpaved and muddy from recent rains. From within the cabins, the muffled roar of shouts, music and laughter could be heard. On the streets, furtive figures staggered drunkenly from one den to the next. Dogs and pigs rooted through heaps of offal. Beyond the settlement was night and the impenetrable black forest. The sole illumination was from the torches that cast a hellish red glare over the scene.

Eden’s largest establishment and central gathering place was Maggie’s Creekhouse, so called because of the dark nameless stream that flowed sluggishly past its rear. It was twice the size of the next largest structure and typically crammed full of rowdy patrons. Beer, ale and moonshine whiskey were greedily guzzled. The revelers competed in bouts of cards, darts, arm-wrestling and various drinking games. Music blared from battery-powered boom boxes. The lurid light from two fireplaces and candles on the tables sent distorted shadows dancing madly along the walls.

A gust of wind from an opening door made the candles flicker. Heads turned to check out the new arrival.

Shadow crossed the threshold clad in her black duster. She scanned the crowd like some hungry bird of prey, but the one she sought was not there. She raised her voice to address the entire throng.

“Has anyone in this dump seen Sailor Clanton? I would have words with him.”

The Creekhouse patrons grumbled and muttered among themselves. Then one rose in the back to face her.

“I’ve seen Sailor Clanton.”

It was Karla, the self-proclaimed “baddest bitch in the Border Region.” She was about the same size as Shadow, but a pink mohawk made her look taller. Her body was more sculpted, owing to an obsessive workout regimen. However, Shadow knew that Karla wasn’t just show; she had trained with some top fighters. And like Shadow, Karla dressed to impress. She wore torn fishnet pantyhose topped only by her gunbelt and a scanty vinyl thong. Her tight knee-high boots were also of glossy black vinyl. Above the waist Karla wore a red latex tube top and a spiked dog collar. Her bowie resembled a larger version of a military ka-bar, and her sidearm was a 9 mm Parabellum --the Luger commonly worn by Nazis in old war movies. Shadow thought the latter was a stupid affectation.

Not to be outdone, Shadow doffed her duster and cast it aside. She stood revealed in her black leather crotch-huggers, boots, gauntlets and Go-Go Lounge tank top. The two women warriors glowered at each other across a sea of leering male faces.

“Where’s Clanton?” Shadow grated between clenched teeth.

“Whatever you have to say to Sailor you can say to me,” Karla retorted with a haughty sneer.

Shadow rolled her eyes at that one. “Oh, so that’s how it is. So how long have you two been playing hide the salami anyway?” she snapped, to the hoots and guffaws of the crowd.

Karla was unfazed. “Long enough for him to appreciate what a real woman can do for him, as opposed to some lame-ass black-haired brat.”

Shadow seethed inwardly at what Karla had implied. Of course that lying sack of shit Sailor Clanton had gone and told everyone he had scored with Shadow anyway. Something else he had to answer for, she told herself. Then, as simply as one might adjust a control knob on an appliance, she turned off her anger and put it aside. Shadow was too much of a pro to allow passion to cloud her judgment when entering a volatile situation. But she kept an edge in her voice as she said, “Just tell me where Clanton is.”

“No!” Karla smirked. “You gonna make me, Lane?”

“Fine,” Shadow said coldly. She had never liked Karla anyway, and now took grim satisfaction in knowing that the matter of their relative fighting prowess would finally be settled. Karla was as dangerous as a spitting cobra when backing up some guy, but Shadow was certain that she could take her one-on-one.

What happened next that night in the Creekhouse became the stuff of legend throughout the New Settlements, the story told and retold for generations. Patrons shoved tables and benches aside to clear a space for the combatants. Shadow and Karla divested themselves of their weapons. Karla’s were held by a couple of cronies. Shadow left hers in the custody of Maggie and Joe, the proprietors. Then, in the midst of dozens of yelling, roaring spectators, the opponents squared off.

At first the women circled each other warily, taking each other’s measure and getting a feel for their makeshift arena. They had ample room to maneuver and the packed earth floor provided sure footing. Both women were in fine form. Their fighting stances assured balance and stability while still allowing for fluid footwork. Both had their guard up. Karla’s fists were tightly clenched. Shadow’s hands were held more open, ready to shift from striking and blocking to trapping and grappling.

Shadow was waiting for Karla to make the first move. She knew that she would not have to wait long. Karla was impatient and liked to show off. Leave it to her to get the ball rolling with some flashy opening move.

Nor was Shadow wrong. Screeching a loud battle yell, Karla abruptly launched a wide swooping circular kick that shot off the floor and arced towards Shadow’s head. With a deft weave of her torso, Shadow ducked under it and came up in punching range of her opponent. Had she been fighting a man she could have punched him in the balls while weaving. Instead she stung Karla with two quick jabs to the face just as Karla’s kick completed its arc. Karla’s foot was firmly planted back on the ground when Shadow struck, so she was not knocked off balance. An instinctive counterpuncher, Karla lashed back with a right cross. Shadow deflected it by swatting it aside. Karla danced back out of range.

Shadow did not pursue Karla to follow up her attack. For the time being she wanted Karla to come to her. Her plan was to allow Karla to take the offensive for now, and thwart whatever she tried to do. She hoped to frustrate and anger her opponent in this manner, perhaps causing her to commit a fatal blunder. Otherwise, Shadow would pace herself until Karla started to run out of steam, then beat the crap out of her.

Shadow’s defensive strategy was a sound one. Karla possessed a greater repertoire of martial arts techniques, honed to finer precision, but Shadow had a better grasp of their practical application. For example, Shadow would never have used some high-flying kick as an opening gambit. Such kicks placed inordinate demands on one’s attention, timing and energy. They were easy to defend against --stepping out of the way would suffice-- and left one exposed and vulnerable to counterattack if they failed. Better to save the kick for the coup de grace, after the opponent had been softened up and was ready to go down.

Fancy kicks did look impressive, though, and Karla was a glory-hound who loved showboating before an audience. She couldn’t just outfight an opponent; she had to look cool doing it. Shadow considered this a weakness to be exploited. The Creekhouse spectators, on the other hand, shouted their approval. To the uninitiated, Karla appeared the more skillful fighter. Those more knowledgeable about such things kept their eye on Shadow. The din of the crowd grew louder. Some threw bets, others took them.

Egged on by the crowd, Karla was quick to wade back into battle. She didn’t want to lose the initiative to her foe. Shadow knew that Karla would try to smother her by keeping her penned against the rim of the circle formed by the spectators. Rather than allow that to happen, Shadow strode forth to meet her.

The two women met in the center of the ring. There they circled each other, boxer style, once again. Shadow surprised her opponent by lashing out with a roundhouse kick that swung out horizontally to strike at Karla’s thigh. Shadow did not overextend herself by committing any real power to the kick; it was merely a feint aimed at probing Karla’s defenses. This did cause Karla to drop her guard, but only for a brief flashing instant as she blocked the kick. Still, it created enough of an opening for Shadow to bore in.

The combatants were mixing it up now, exchanging body shots and glancing blows to the head. Karla broke away, backpedaling. Shadow went in pursuit. Karla drove her back with more kicks. The blows Shadow had landed thus far were not telling; it would take a lot more of them to begin to sap Karla’s strength. She needed to deliver some really good shots. Karla’s kicks weren’t landing, but they were keeping Shadow at bay. If Shadow could get in close and really duke it out with Karla, she could follow it up with some grappling and a little thing called judo. But Karla had her opponent pegged as an infighter. She altered her own strategy accordingly. Her plan now was to rush in, do some damage, then back out just as quickly before Shadow could react. Repeat as necessary.

Karla edged in closer. When she was near enough to her opponent, she leaped up and lashed out with a front snap kick. Shadow avoided it, but it created an opening. Now toe-to-toe, Karla struck with two quick jabs and a hook. Shadow blocked with her forearms, but before she could counter Karla had glided back out of range. Another rush by Karla yielded similar results.

Shadow remained cool and unfazed by her foe’s tricky maneuvers. She quickly divined Karla’s strategy. She decided to lay a trap by offering an opening, hopefully enticing Karla into making some reckless move.

When Karla came in again, Shadow shed the straight punch she aimed at her face instead of blocking it. To Karla, it looked like the blow had connected with full force rather than glancing off. Shadow staggered back as though stunned. Thinking her to be off-balance, Karla launched a spinning back kick aimed at blowing her foe off her feet. Rotating her body to generate force, Karla thrust out her leg with all the power of her muscular thigh. It was a kick that could have blasted open a locked door. But it never landed. As Karla pivoted, exposing her backside ever so briefly, Shadow struck with a kick of her own. It was a simple straight forward thrust that flicked out like a serpent’s tongue and tagged Karla squarely in her hard buttocks before she could fully extend her leg. Had they been standing in center ring, it would have sent her sprawling face-first onto the floor. Then Shadow would have piled on top of her and ended the fight very quickly. As it was, Karla toppled into some spectators who caught her and checked her fall.

Karla felt herself being seized by rough hands that spun her about and shoved her back into the ring. There she collided with Shadow, who had stalked after her in pursuit. Karla had yet to regain her footing and fell awkwardly against Shadow, clutching at her for support. Her fingers locked in the fabric of Shadow’s Go-Go Lounge tank top. As Shadow backed away, the garment ripped down the middle. The ivory globes of her breasts bobbed free. The crowd went wild.

“Goddamn it!” she snarled angrily, “I liked that top.”

Stung to fury, Shadow seized Karla’s tube top with both hands and rent it asunder. The latex top snapped like a rubber band, flying off and away. Karla was left nude from the waist up. The crowd was on its feet and howling.

Her martial art technique momentarily forgotten, Karla struck Shadow across the face with her open palm. Shadow reeled from the blow. Karla skated back to the edge of the circle formed by the yelling mob. She stood poised, flaunting her magnificent semi-nude body.

“Yeah!” she screamed at Shadow, “My fuckin’ tits are bigger than yours too!”

Shadow said nothing. She stripped away the remnants of her tank top lest they hinder her movements. The women glowered at each other like two bare-breasted Amazon warriors.

For a tense moment the tableau held. Then, as if responding to some signal detectable to none but them, the women dived back into the fray. Karla strode forward. Shadow came only part-way to meet her, preferring to let her opponent come to her while she stood her ground.

Karla was visibly angry, and looked determined to put an end to the fight and her enemy right away. As soon as she was in striking distance, she unleashed a powerful karate straight punch. Chambered at the hip, it was driven by a twist of Karla’s supple body and a blind urge to smash. It was a finishing move, not an opening shot. Shadow blocked it easily, as well as the follow-up punch Karla delivered with her other arm.

The forearm block Shadow used to ward off the second blow flowed smoothly into an elbow strike that crashed into Karla’s face. Twisting to one side to deliver the blow, Shadow struck Karla’s other cheek on the backstroke. Karla was seeing stars and sought to clinch in an effort to pin Shadow’s arms. In a micro-second, Shadow weighed and discarded the notion of using a judo throw. Both women wore no clothing above the waist to grip, and their bodies were slick with sweat. Therefore grappling would be a futile waste of energy. Instead, Shadow drove her knee into Karla’s solar plexus. That would have knocked the wind out of most people, but Karla’s steely abs protected her. She merely grunted and struggled to hold onto her foe until her head cleared.

Shadow wedged her arms between Karla’s and pushed outwards in both directions. Karla’s arms were forced apart, breaking her hold. Karla was still dazed, however. Shadow resolved to make sure she stayed that way.

Shadow smashed a left hook into Karla’s head, striking with her open palm instead of a clenched fist. It was potentially a knockout blow, but Shadow pulled the punch. She wanted Karla conscious enough to tell her where Sailor Clanton was.

“Where’s Clanton?”

No answer. Shadow bitch-slapped Karla hard with the back of her hand.

“I can keep this up all night,” Shadow informed her. By way of emphasis she struck her again.

“Enough,” Karla gasped. She relented when Shadow raised her hand yet again. Shadow checked the motion and repeated her question.

“Need drink,” Karla croaked, indicating that her mouth had gone dry. She staggered over to where her posse awaited her and slumped down on a bench. Karla was handed a half-full pitcher of beer. She began to gulp it directly from the pitcher, some of the beer splashing onto her naked breasts. Putting the pitcher aside for a moment, she downed a shot of something followed by a chaser of more beer.

Shadow’s patience, never in great supply, was quickly exhausted. “Enough of this,” she snapped, “Now talk.”

In answer Karla’s lips curled in a wicked grin as one of her crew slipped her knife to her. The dazed look in her eyes had vanished, replaced by one of sheer malevolence. She rose and started towards Shadow.

Oh shit! She’s got a weapon. Thoughts flashed like flickers of lightening through Shadow’s mind. Get something in your hand, girl! Bottle. Better yet, heavy glass beer mug. Just grab something. Hurry! Her eyes darted about, searching for something suitable. Then she felt the comforting familiar shape of the hilt of her own blade as it was pressed into her hand by Maggie.

Shadow glared at her nemesis. “Are you sure you want to settle this with our bowies?” she said coldly.

Her eyes mad, Karla screamed, “To the death!”

“So be it.”

The women circled each other once more. The crowd was on its feet again, yelling, cheering, chanting the names of the combatants. Spectators jostled one another for a better view. A new round of wagering commenced. Gamblers shouted and waved handfuls of money.

Karla looked none the worse for the pounding she had taken moments earlier. The tough resilience of a Border Region adventurer was hers. She appeared as fresh and dangerous as ever. “I’ll carve you like a fuckin’ turkey,” she snarled.

Shadow said nothing. The time for talk had passed. She stood ready to do battle. To many onlookers it appeared as though she held her knife upside down with the sharp cutting edge facing upwards. But it was part of Shadow’s method. Held in this manner the blunt edge of the knife could be used to block and parry, preventing the keen edged blade from becoming nicked and notched. After fending off an attack, the knife could be inserted cleanly into the attacker’s vitals. A simple upward slash would then disembowel the enemy. This had been how men in olden times had fought with bowie knives, how the men of the Mississippi delta had fought, how James Bowie himself had fought on the Natchez sandbar.

Karla came rushing in like she was on fire, determined to press the attack. Shadow sidestepped and deftly parried her initial thrust. Karla’s knife-fighting technique did not match her empty hand skills. Her movements were predictable. Even so, she kept her blade in constant motion, a whirling arc of deadly razor-edged steel.

Where Karla was all fire and fury, Shadow epitomized icy control. Her movements were no less scintillating, but executed with a machine-like precision -- block, parry, riposte. Soon she had Karla on the defensive. She looked for some sign that Karla was beginning to falter. Then she could use the blunt edge of her blade to beat the knife out of Karla’s hand, disarming her and sparing her life.

No such luck. Karla’s iron arm never seemed to grow weary. Then Karla took Shadow by surprise with a wild slashing motion followed by a thrust on the backstroke. Shadow was only able to check the move by seizing the wrist of Karla’s knife hand. She sought now to drive her own blade home, but Karla also managed to grab hold of her foe’s weapon hand.

The women now stood toe-to-toe as each exerted her considerable strength in an effort to break the stalemate. Drenched in sweat, their naked bosoms heaved as they gulped down the cabin’s stale smoky air. The sleek cords of their muscles stood out in bold relief from the intensity of their exertions. The crowd that ringed them in howled and cavorted like devils.

Tense moments passed as the combatants shuffled about, their footwork slow and deliberate, as they jockeyed for some advantage of position. They inched closer together. Their sinewy arms strained as they fought to hold each other’s knives at bay. The women grappled in a deadly loveless embrace, the bare breasts of each pressed flat against those of the other.

Finally, Shadow caught a glimmer of an opportunity. Karla’s grip on Shadow’s wrist was less secure because of the gauntlet Shadow wore. Her hand began to slip. Shadow seized that instant to butt with her forehead and smash Karla’s nose. Karla was driven back and her grip was broken.

Her knife hand free at last, Shadow drove the blade to the hilt into Karla’s vitals. She then slashed upwards instinctively, ripping the blade free. Karla’s face was a white mask of agony as her entrails began to spill. Shadow quickly decided to end Karla’s suffering and afford her the dignity of dying without crying out. She plunged the clip point of her bowie between Karla’s ample breasts, piercing her heart and killing her instantly.

Shadow yanked her knife free and Karla fell dead at her feet. The din of the crowd faded and died. The spectators whose shouts had shaken the rafters mere moments before now loomed sullenly about like ghouls in conclave.

“What the hell are you assholes looking at?” Shadow demanded, “Two minutes ago you were all howling for blood. Well, there it is. She called the tune and you all saw it.”

Members of the crowd muttered incoherently. Shadow swore at them, her amber eyes ablaze like those of a basilisk; “Goddamn jackals and hyenas. Don’t let her lie there!”

Shadow dragged a long rude wooden table into the area that had served as the arena. She cleared it off with a sweep of her arm. With the aid of a few patrons, she laid Karla’s body upon it. Shadow closed Karla’s eyes, then tore down a bear pelt decorating one of the walls and used it to cover the body. Finally she set candles about the corpse and lit them.

The grim task completed, Shadow poured some liquor into a mug. She raised the mug in a solemn gesture, drained it, then hurled the empty vessel into the fireplace.

Maggie brought Shadow her weapon belt. Shadow fastened it about her waist and sheathed her bowie after cleansing it. She pulled on her duster. Before taking her leave she gave Maggie some money.

“See that she gets taken care of,” she told her. Then she was gone.

#

Upon taking her leave of the Creekhouse, Shadow returned to a small corral at the north end of Eden. There Christian awaited her with the horses.

“So how did it go?” he asked.

“Uh, not so hot.” She briefly recounted the duel to the death with Karla.

“My God! What’s going to happen?”

“Well, what passes for law around here doesn’t have a problem if someone gets killed in a fair fight. That sort of thing happens from time to time, and there were plenty of witnesses. But unless I miss my guess, one or more of those dicks back there are going to scamper and tell Sailor Clanton. He’s not going to like my killing his sweetie-pie. I know Clanton. If he’s not getting it regular, he gets cranky. He’s sure to blame me for what went down back there.”

“This can’t be good,” Christian observed.

“Yeah,” Shadow agreed, “But what choice did I have? I couldn’t back down from a fight. I’d be finished here. The same goes for my still. You can’t let shit like that slide.”

That ended the conversation. They mounted up and rode north for a few miles. At a fork in the road Shadow lead them down a narrow trail. From there they went off the path into a clearing.

“We’ll camp here,” she told him, “No fire. I don’t want to draw attention to our position. There’s no telling who will be riding the roads this night. Like I said, Karla’s buying it in a fair fight should have settled it, but it’s not like there’s some ‘code of the hills’ that’s going to protect us if someone decides to take up a vendetta.”

“I’ll take the first watch,” Christian volunteered.

“Never mind,” Shadow said wearily, “Incitatus’ll warn us if someone comes around. I want to zip the sleeping bags together so we can huddle together for warmth. And no argument from you, Church-boy.”

The clouds had parted, providing them with enough moonlight to prepare the camp without night goggles. While Christian was saying his prayers, Shadow removed her duster. He saw for the first time that she had lost her top during the fight. How beautiful her ivory body was in the moonlight! Christian averted his eyes, lest he succumb to impure thoughts.

Shadow spread her duster over the combined sleeping bags to provide additional insulation. Then she slipped in next to Christian. He found the nearness of her intoxicating, at once exciting and comforting. A lifetime’s worth of tension from the expectations of others seemed to seep out of him. He drifted off into a blissful slumber.

#

The sun was well up when they awoke. Shadow hadn’t meant to sleep so late, but the fight with Karla had been grueling. She arose and donned her duster. Christian had to wait in the sleeping bag for a few minutes until his erection subsided.

He rose presently and they broke camp. They led the horses back to the trail and were about to saddle up. Just then they heard a rustling in the brush and a voice.

“Hands in the air, bitch.”

A man emerged from the woods with a gun leveled at Shadow. He was a short, unkempt scruffy-looking fellow. She recognized him as one of the crowd from the Creekhouse. He had the drop on her. She had no option but to raise her hands. Keep your hands away from the gunbelt; don’t make him nervous, she thought. Maybe she could defuse the situation with talk.

“Okay, you got me,” she said, “Now suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

“You killed Karla,” the man said bluntly, “And she deserved better than to be killed by a tramp like you. I went out after you at daybreak, hopin’ to pick up your trail. Just my luck I happened to be goin’ past here when I heard youns movin’ around back ‘err. I left my horse back in the woods and hid, waitin’ for youns to come out.”

“Your name’s Chester, isn’t it?” Shadow kept her voice soft. She could see that the man’s face was red and puffy from crying. “Well Chester, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Karla barely knew you were alive. You saw what happened. It went down fair and square. It was her choice. You’ve got no call playing the noble avenger. None. So why don’t you stop all this?”

Chester wasn’t buying it. “I don’t care about any of that shit!” he roared.

After Shadow had left the Creekhouse, Chester had remained as the others began to file out. He just sat and stared at Karla’s body in repose, illuminated in the soft glow of the candles. He drank and cried and drank some more. But in spite of the whiskey he had downed through the night, he gun hand did not waver now.

“I don’t care about that shit,” he repeated, “She was a goddess. She’s in heaven now. And I’m sendin’ you straight to hell!”

Give Chester credit: he had gotten the drop on Shadow, a thing not easily done. But he made one mistake. He forgot about the tenderfoot.

Christian drew his revolver, aimed, and fired one shot into the center of the shorter man’s chest. It was enough. Chester pitched backwards without a sound and lay motionless in the brush beside the trail.

“Thanks,” said Shadow.

They looked down at their fallen foe. Chester lie sprawled at their feet, still as an old log. His eyes stared unseeing at the sky above.

Christian trembled, mouth agape, as the realization of what he had done began to creep over him. Shadow tried to snap him out of it.

“Just a flesh wound. He’ll be fine. C’mon Churchy, we gotta get outta here!” She dragged Christian over to the mare and all but shoved him into the saddle.

Shadow mounted Incitatus and they rode off together. Reaching the main road they headed north once more. After several miles, they stopped to water the horses at a stream.

Christian was still shaken by the encounter with Chester. “Why, oh God, why?” he muttered.

“Just another lovesick fool,” Shadow told him. After a moment’s reflection she added, “Love’s too precious to waste on ingrates. Remember that, Churchy.”

Christian began to regain some of his composure. “So now what?” he asked.

“I still have to find Sailor Clanton. This thing is getting out of hand. And to think that it would be over moonshine! I mean, I was expecting some trouble over my marijuana business in Transylvania. That’s why I have Martin and Ron as partners down there. We were ready; we had weapons and security equipment. Shit!”

“So what’s the plan now?”

“Try to locate Clanton’s whereabouts. We can make inquiries at some of the cabins up ahead, and at the roadhouses. If I can get word to him, maybe I can set up a meeting at some neutral location like one of the taverns.”

They continued on their way, keeping to the back roads. It was almost noon before they reached the first isolated cabins north of Eden. The information they were able to obtain was sketchy but sufficient. They learned that Sailor Clanton had been seen frequently in those parts over the last ten days or so, and that there had been a more than usual amount of activity along the main roads that morning.

“It all makes sense,” Shadow explained, “Clanton’s people are located still further north. He’s down here for a reason. He probably holed up in an old cabin near Eden. That would put him in striking distance of Leon’s place. And it looks like last night’s needlepoint with Karla has stirred up a hornets nest.”

Their next step was at a roadside inn called Bear Tavern. They ate lunch in the bar. Afterwards Shadow slipped some money to the proprietor and told him, “If Sailor Clanton should happen to show up here, let him know that I’ll be back here around sunset. We have business I want to straighten out.”

After they left the tavern, Christian asked, “Do we head north or south?”

“South,” said Shadow, “I want to spread the word around here that I’ll be awaiting Clanton at the Bear this evening. We’ll be back there before sundown. I don’t want to risk just running into Clanton on the road after dark. We’ll wait for him in the bar until midnight, then take a room there. We’re sleeping indoors tonight.”

Turning south, they revisited the cabins they had been to earlier. They left word there that Shadow could be found at the Bear Tavern come evening. Most of the cabins were located on back roads. From there they returned to the main road. Rounding a bend they found themselves face to face with a trio of men on horseback about a hundred yards away. All were armed with rifles slung over their shoulders. One of them was Sailor Clanton.

Shadow recognized Clanton instantly. Unfortunately Clanton had spotted her as well. He began to unsling his rifle.

“Shit!” Shadow spat venomously, then, “After me, Churchy, and try to keep up!” So saying she abruptly reigned her horse about, vanishing into the woods. Christian was quick to follow.

As soon as they were off the road, Shadow gave the spurs to Incitatus and they were flying like banshees through the gloom-shrouded forest. Christian did his best to keep pace on the mare. From behind them in the distance, a voice: “After them! Kill him but take the girl alive!” Christian dug his spur-less heels into the mare’s flanks, exhorting it to greater speed.

Had she been on her own, Shadow may well have eluded her pursuers. There was no way they could have brought her down with gunfire, given the difficulty of firing rifles on horseback at full gallop while navigating through the densely-grown woodlands. Shadow wove her way through the thick trees, avoiding entangling brush, jumping her horse over fallen trees and narrow gullies. Christian soon found himself falling behind. He lacked her skill in horsemanship, nor was the mare he rode the equal of the great stallion. He was forced to circumvent obstacles Incitatus cleared with a bound. Shadow was forced to drop back lest he lose sight of her.

Shadow had just begun to slacken her pace when the mare pitched forward, throwing Christian from the saddle. He landed unhurt in some bushes, but his horse was down with a broken leg.

Shadow rode back to him and dismounted. She looked down at the agonized mare, drew her pistol and put it down. Hate to waste a bullet, she thought, Gonna need all of them. Just gave our position, too. She could even now hear their pursuers crashing through the brush, not far distant. But in spite of all that, she could not allow the animal to suffer.

She grabbed Christian by the shirt front and pulled him close; “Not much time, so listen. Clanton wants to take me back alive, but you stay and you’re a dead man. Get on my horse and ride; I’ll hold them off. Double back and hide somewhere. Follow them and see where they take me. Come get me when the coast is clear. Got it?”

Christian nodded.

Incitatus reared up with flailing hooves as Christian attempted to mount him. Shadow jerked hard on the reins and held him steady until Christian was in the saddle. The she smacked the horse sharply on the flank to send it galloping off.
Alone, Shadow looked about for cover. There wasn’t much. The stout trunk of a fallen tree afforded the best protection. Shadow dove behind it, lying prone with her Glock extended. Great. A handgun against three rifles, she thought. Not that Christian’s revolver would have added much firepower. And knowing that twit, he probably would have saved the last bullet for me in order to spare me a “fate worse than death.”

Shadow fired off a shot at her pursuers as soon as they came into view. This forced them to dismount and take cover behind trees while still some distance away. A moment later they opened fire with their rifles. Bullets whined through the air above Shadow or thudded solidly into the log in front of her.

Shadow returned fire as best she could. Her assailants pinned her down under a barrage of lead while darting from tree to tree, working their way closer. In the meantime Shadow expended her pistol’s ammo, including that of two extra magazines.

The barrage by Clanton and his henchmen began to slacken when they realized Shadow was no longer shooting back. She called out to them.

“Clanton, hold your fire! I’m coming out.”

Shadow rose slowly from her place of concealment, both hands raised. Her left hand gripped the butt of the Glock between thumb and forefinger. She tossed it away into the brush. “See? I’m unarmed.”

Sailor Clanton and his cohorts emerged from their own cover and approached her. Clanton strode forward with his familiar cocky grin and self-assured swagger. The others kept Shadow covered with their rifles.

“So,” Clanton smirked, “What happened to the boyfriend?”

Shadow glowered. “The ball-less little shit stole my horse and ran off. He probably won’t stop until he’s back in the Confederacy.”

“Smart lad. I guess he knew that you weren’t worth losing his life over. Good for some laughs, though. Get over here.”

Shadow stepped forward, hands still raised. Clanton instructed one of his cohorts to bring the horses over. A tough rawhide lariat was affixed to one of the saddles. Clanton used it to bind Shadow. He made Shadow extend her hands in front of her, then tied them together at the wrists. After fastening the other end of the rope to his saddle bow, he remounted his horse.

With Clanton in the lead, the trio of horsemen trotted back through the woods and onto the road. Shadow walked alongside Clanton’s horse, tethered to his saddle bow.

Clanton laughed. “This is how it’s done, boys. You bring home the spoils of war tied to your saddle bow. Just like Genghis Kahn.”

Clanton’s cronies hooted uproariously, as they did at all of his nasty jests. Shadow walked along in silence, hell seething in her brain. You are so going to pay for this, Sailor Clanton. When I get done with you, you’ll wish you had never heard of me.

They went south a mile or so on the main road before turning up into the hills. Presently they came to a dark cabin in a clearing surrounded by pines. The sun was already setting behind the hills, casting the scene in deep shadows.

Clanton and his men tied the horses to a hitching post behind the cabin. They holstered their rifles in long leather sleeves affixed to their saddles. One of the men kept Shadow covered with a sidearm, even though her hands were bound, while Clanton led her around to the front of the cabin.

They entered the darkened structure. One of the men lit an oil lamp. The cabin appeared to be an old hunting lodge, abandoned until lately. Several bunks, a table and some chairs comprised most of the furnishings. In the fireplace freshly burnt logs had been heaped atop cold ashes. The single room’s corners were thick with cobwebs. Dusty shelves had been freshly stocked with provisions, mostly canned goods and foodpaste. All of which indicated that Clanton and company had occupied the cabin only recently.

“Tell me something, Clanton,” Shadow said, “It was you who shot up my still, right?”

Clanton grinned, not thinking for a second to deny it. “Yeah,” he admitted freely, “Me and the boys here. Have you met Mike and Lyle?”

“I don’t remember every maggot I’ve ever seen,” she answered scornfully. Mike and Lyle were a couple of slack-jawed dullards, unhandsome, unimpressive in any way. She recalled that Sailor Clanton, so strong, handsome and bold, had always had a tendency to surround himself with losers. It was a trait that fairly reeked of insecurity and desperation, as though he sought to magnify his own superiority by comparison. For their part, toadies like Mike and Lyle got to bask in Clanton’s reflected glory.

Clanton drew an ugly black automatic and waved it menacingly at Shadow. “I’m going to untie your hands now. Don’t try anything stupid. Hate to lose you before the party gets started.”

Clanton undid the knots and unraveled the loops of the lariat that bound Shadow’s wrists. She rubbed them to restore circulation.

“Now let’s get you out of that coat,” Clanton said, “Lyle, help the lady off with her wrap.”

Lyle made a move to grasp Shadow’s duster. Shadow swatted his hand away; “Get your fucking grimy paws away from me. I’ll do it.”

Shadow unfastened the duster, shed it, and cast it aside. The eyes of the men, including Sailor Clanton, widened when they saw that she wore no top beneath her outer garment. Her white body was as lovely as ever, but as she stood glaring at them it looked as cold and hard as a marble statue.

“Impressive,” Clanton remarked, but the sheathed knife on her belt did not escape his notice. “Lose the belt,” he ordered, “Slowly. Left hand. Toss it in that corner.”

After she did so, Clanton visibly relaxed. “You got what it takes, girl,” he told her. “Of course, Karla had a bit more.”

“Well, I hope you took lots of pictures,” Shadow snarled back, “Because last night I used her guts for party streamers. I take it you heard.”

Clanton struck her across the face with the barrel of the automatic. “Yeah, I heard.”

Stung to anger, he barked an order to the others; “Grab her and get the rest of her clothes off.”

Mike prepared to seize Shadow by the upper arms to hold her steady. The next thing he knew he was sailing through the air. Shadow had swiftly executed a judo maneuver to grab him and flip him over her shoulder. She hoped to flip him into Clanton to create an opening for her to escape, but Clanton sidestepped. Mike crashed into one of the bunks, collapsing one of its front legs.

Clanton thrust the muzzle of his gun into Shadow’s face. “Chill out or I will chill you out. Permanently.”

Shadow submitted as Mike staggered back from where he had fallen and placed her in a full nelson. Lyle knelt before Shadow and began to yank off her boots. Shadow still had some fight in her and kicked out. Her spur gouged a deep gash across Lyle’s face. He rose howling and clutching the wound.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Clanton told him, “It’s a scratch. Just pour some booze in it to disinfect it.”

Lyle did as instructed. Clanton turned to Shadow. “As for you…”

He hit her again with his gun barrel. Rather than risk a concussion, she acquiesced after that.

After they stripped her, Clanton went to the bunk with the broken leg and kicked out the other front leg. The front of the bunk crashed to the floor so that the bed lie tilted at an angle.

“Tie her to that,” Clanton told his henchmen.

Shadow was forced onto the bed at gunpoint, the muzzle of Clanton’s automatic held inches from her head. They tied her by the wrists and ankles to the bedposts. Then Clanton personally secured all the knots to make sure they would hold.

Clanton stepped back to admire his handiwork. Shadow’s nude body was bound spread-eagled on the bed. She lie totally exposed and helpless.

Clanton looked down on her in smug satisfaction. “You know, girl,” he told her, “We could have had something. I could tell you were hot for me back then, just like I was hot for you. But you had to go and let your stubborn schoolgirl pride get in the way. This could be our second chance. Before long you’re going to thank me for this.”

“In your dreams, asswipe.” For all the seriousness of her position, Shadow showed no sign of being intimidated.

“We’ll see about that,” Clanton said simply as he took off his shirt. He yanked the front of it open like Superman. Doffing the shirt he stood revealed in a red nylon mesh tank top that emphasized the muscularity of his powerful sculpted torso. Shadow thought he looked gay.

Clanton stood before her preening and flexing his muscles, actually striking poses like he was in some bodybuilder contest. He peeled the tank top off over his head, causing his rock-hard six-pack abs to ripple and undulate. It was the sort of move that drew gasps from the audience on ladies’ night at the strip club.

Shadow was unimpressed. “Nice try, Clanton. But I’m still as dry as sandpaper.”

Clanton’s rakish smile vanished as he kicked off his boots. “That’s too bad,” he told her. And so saying he unzipped his pants. He let them drop, then stepped out of them. He doffed his undergarments to stand before her naked.

Once again, Clanton posed for dramatic effect. He stood with his hands on hips, looking like some laughing young god about to ravish a hapless mortal woman. Shadow noted with disgust that Clanton lacked even the decency to send the other men away before he clambered onto the bed. They stood near, egging on their hero.

“Give it to the whore, Sailor,” Mike smirked.

Clanton looked back over his shoulder at them. “She’s not a whore,” he growled. Then, as though this were a sign of weakness, he hastily added, “Whores get paid.”

Clanton caressed Shadow, fondling her breasts and supple limbs. He kissed her face and neck, whispering endearments; “C’mon baby. You know you want it. Just give in.”

Shadow said nothing. She was working to mentally distance herself from the situation. Clanton had a smooth touch; he was not unskilled. Shadow briefly considered pretending he was someone else, but decided against it. She wanted nothing to diminish the fires of her hatred.

Clanton quickly became hard. Soon he was thrusting inside her. He started with a gentle rocking motion, but before long his jackhammer pummeling was shaking the bed. He was endeavoring to put on a porn star exhibition for the benefit of his worshiping fans. They ate it up. As in a nightmare, Shadow saw their ugly sin-pitted faces leering at her grotesquely in the unsteady lamplight.

Lyle tittered and cackled like a madman, “Hee hee heee. Hee hee heeeee…” The high-pitched squeal was enough to shred lesser nerves, but Shadow remained stoic.

Mike was playing cheerleader; “Fuck her, Sailor! Fuck her real good. You the man, Sailor, you the man!”

Sailor Clanton grunted loudly as he climaxed and gave one last vigorous thrust for emphasis. He rolled off the woman, totally spent. He smiled in smug satisfaction. Shadow said, “Okay lover, you can start now.”

Clanton rose from the bed, his face red, speechless in his fury. He strode over to a pile of gear placed near the table and strode back brandishing a riding crop. Curses spewed from his lips as he lashed the helpless woman. Shadow writhed beneath the crop with clenched teeth and did not cry out. Mike and Lyle howled like jackals as they watched the lewd spectacle of the naked man whipping the bound naked woman.

When he had glutted his anger, Clanton flung the riding crop away. He began to dress.

“Hey Sailor,” said Lyle, “Don’t we get a turn?”

“If I don’t break her soon you just might,” replied Clanton. “In the meantime, we’re going down to Eden to pay our respects to Karla. It’ll give this little hothead a chance to cool off and think things over, maybe figure out what’s best for her.”

“What if she gets loose?”

“She won’t. Trust me; I know how to tie a woman up.”

A few minutes later, they departed.

#

Outside, night had fallen and a harvest moon had risen above the pines. Three horsemen galloped away from the lonely cabin. Hiding in the woods nearby, Christian watched them ride off.

After his earlier escape, he had circled back in time to witness Clanton and his men take Shadow prisoner. He had followed them from a safe distance, using the woods for concealment. Once they had arrived at their destination, he had waited for them to emerge once more.

Now Christian approached the cabin warily. He eased the door open and gasped at what he saw luridly revealed by the flickering lamplight within.

Shadow remained as Clanton had left her, tied spread-eagled to the bed. She was the first thing one saw upon entering the cabin. The bunk lie tilted at such an angle that it offered a clear view of her nude body in bondage. Her ivory flesh was crisscrossed with welts from her whipping with the riding crop. She was slick with sweat and her breasts rose and fell with her heavy breathing. The supple muscles of her superbly toned body flexed and stood out in relief as she writhed on the bed straining against her bonds.

“You can jack off later! Stop staring at me and untie me!”

Shadow’s sharp words snapped Christian out of his stunned paralysis. He crossed the cabin in an instant and began to fumble with the knots that held her immobile. He struggled with them for a few seconds until she told him, “Get my knife over there.”

Christian retrieved Shadow’s bowie knife from where she had tossed it. The keen blade made short work of he bonds. Another moment and she was free.

Shadow sat up. She flexed her fingers and toes and felt circulation return.

“Merciful God!” Christian exclaimed, “Those fiends! Will you be alright?”

“I’m alright now,” Shadow replied tersely, “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve had some oaf grunting on top of me.”

Shadow dressed and they exited the cabin. They went back to Christian’s hiding place, where Shadow’s pinto was tied.

“Did you have much trouble leading my horse back here?” she asked.

“Actually, I got back on and rode most of the way.”

“I’m impressed. Incitatus won’t usually let anyone ride him but me. Do you have your gun?”

“Yes. And yours. I saw where you threw it and went back and got it.”

“Good boy. I spent all the ammunition I had on my belt, but I have a couple more clips in the saddlebags."

Shadow retrieved the ammo and reloaded. She told Christian, “You stay back here with the horse. I’ve got some work to do.”

“What sort of work?”

“When Clanton gets back here, he is in for a big fat fucking surprise.”

#

Maggie’s Creekhouse had been the scene of an impromptu wake that day. Karla now lay in a coffin that one of her admirers had donated. On the morrow the coffin would be nailed shut, loaded onto a wagon, and taken to its final resting place.

Sailor Clanton sat with his cronies, moodily drinking. “She will be missed,” he said, although he didn’t seem too broken up.

“What about the one back in the cabin?” asked Lyle.

“That bitch deprived me of the best piece of ass I ever had,” Clanton informed him. “It’s only fitting that she take her place.”

Looking as though he had made up his mind about something, Clanton slammed some money on the table. “Get drunk on me, boys,” he told Mike and Lyle, “I’m going back. Give me an hour or so. I’m going to try a more romantic approach. Don’t need an audience this time. Could be she might start to warm up to me.”

“What if she don’t, Sailor?”

“She’ll get it the easy way. She’ll get it the hard way. Eventually she’ll start to break.”

Sailor Clanton left to put his theory into practice.

When he arrived back at the cabin, the first thing he noticed was that it was dark. The lamp must have gone out. He tied his horse in back and went around to the front.

Crossing the threshold, he called out, “Honey, I’m home!”

No answer. Before his eyes could adjust to the gloom within, Clanton felt the cold muzzle of a gun being pressed against his temple.

“You’ll never get to Sea World that way!” said a voice in the dark.

Next: Shadow's Revenge

Guns of the Border Region - Chapter Four

2009-10-12T16:47:00.000-07:00

[I'm back at last with a new chapter of "Guns of the Border Region." New readers can scroll down for previous installments. In this chapter, some new characters are introduced, and there is some more exposition giving details about my fictional world of the future. Actually, this is not a bad place for newcomers to start, since it gives the flavor of "Guns of the Border Region" and "Twilight's Last Gleaming."]

CHAPTER FOUR -- TROUBLE IN THE ALLEGHENIES

As they passed ever deeper into the wooded hill country, it seemed to Christian as though they had entered a haunted world of fog and ghosts. It had been only a few days, but sunny skies seemed like a vague, distant memory that required an effort to grasp. Indian summer had fled like a thief in the night, leaving no trace of its passing. Fall had come at last. Leaves drifted down from half-bare trees to carpet the forest floor. Dark walls of lofty solemn pines surrounded them, eclipsing further view. Upon reaching a summit, Christian was finally able to discern the lay of the land. The Alleghenies were wholly unlike the Rocky Mountains of the far west. There were no jagged peaks or bare cliffs. He saw only tree-covered slope beyond tree-covered slope, stretching from horizon to horizon. Over all arched the ominous grey sky.

Christian was walking his bike along a narrow woodland path. Shadow rode on ahead in silent gloomy majesty. He made no attempt at banter or small talk. The setting killed any such notion, and he knew that her keen ears were alert for any sound that hinted danger. He was seeing a different side of her. No longer did she seem the lively, vivacious girl who had swaggered through the boom towns. Here she was quiet and reserved, with a touch of sadness about her. Yet Christian knew that this, too, was the real Shadow. All along he had sensed the somber core within her. Christian was the child of a warm, breezy, tolerant land. Shadow was the child of a grim one.

Although Christian was cheerful and optimistic by nature, the eternal twilight gloom of the forest was beginning to depress him. The eerie wind that sighed through the black boughs, the fog that hung in the ravines and gullies, the tiny streams that trickled silently over the rocks; all were taking their toll on his spirits and causing him to grow uncharacteristically moody. It would only get worse after dark.
Last night they had camped in these woods. Shadow had used some rat traps from her saddle bags to catch some squirrels. She had deftly skinned and cleaned them with her bowie, then roasted them over a campfire. “A little whiskey would make this an old-time Westsylvania supper,” she had told Christian.

After they had eaten, they had rolled out their sleeping bags. Christian had volunteered to take first watch. He wanted to do his part even though he knew that Shadow was a light sleeper, and any unusual sound would instantly rouse her and Incitatus. Christian sat alone by the fire while she slept. The overcast sky shut out the light of the moon and stars. Beyond the glare of the campfire, all was utter blackness. The silence of the night woods was relieved only by the far-off hooting of owls.

Sitting there by the fire, Christian had felt himself growing nervous and actually fearful of the dark. He began to understand the mindset of the ancient Celts and other such people who had imagined the black forests around them to be the haunt of werewolves, witches and wandering spirits. How easy to scoff at such things within the security of one’s cozy home, where one controlled light and warmth with the flick of a switch, and where food and all manner of comforts were within easy reach. But alone in the darkness of the night woods, the old atavistic fears were astonishingly quick to return.

Shadow had relieved Christian around midnight. After turning in he had fallen asleep quickly, only to be troubled by disturbing dreams he could not recall upon awakening. Then he had felt Shadow’s booted foot nudging him awake shortly after the chill grey dawn began to lighten the forest. Soon they were on their way again, moving ever further into the woods.

Christian was relieved when Shadow informed him that they were almost within reach of their destination, and would not be spending another night outdoors. “Pops’ cabin isn’t too far from here,” she said.

“Pops? Who’s Pops? Your father?”

Shadow actually grinned upon hearing the question. “Nah,” she replied with a hint of a laugh, “Just some lovable old coot I know.”

The news that Shadow had one or more friends nearby did much to lift Christian’s spirits. He looked forward to being among people again. The shades of early evening were already closing about them. He was eager to get a move on.

They had not proceeded much further when Shadow abruptly halted the pinto. She raised a hand as a signal for Christian to stop and remain still. A few seconds passed before he too heard the sounds that had roused her attention. Some large animal was moving through the brush, very near by.

A tense moment passed. Then the beast emerged from the forest to stand before them in the middle of the trail mere yards away, barring their path. Christian’s eyes widened as though it were an actual monster that confronted them. It was an enormous dog. The huge black canine shape was short-haired and not unlike a Great Dane, but with the heavier, more massive build of a mastiff. It looked to weigh a good two hundred pounds. Its fangs were bared in a snarl, but it did not bark. The beast’s eyes seemed to glow redly. Surely such a hound as this guarded the gates of Hell!

Christian began to fumble for the gun in his pocket when Shadow snapped, “Stand down, Church-boy. That’ll only get you killed.”

Christian obeyed, freezing stock-still to avoid provoking the beast. Shadow swung down from Incitatus, tossing Christian the reins to hold. “Besides,” she told him, “This is a friend.”

The appearance of the monster dog in the road had been startling enough. Now Christian was astonished to hear Shadow call out to the great hound; “Pain! Come to Mommy!”

At the sound of her voice the dog’s tail began to wag excitedly, whipping back and forth. The brute trotted over to the woman. Abruptly rising to its hind legs, the huge dog placed its forepaws on Shadow’s shoulders and began to lick her face. She grimaced as the big wet tongue lapped her nose and cheeks. Shadow shoved the dog’s massive head aside. “Enough, you big goof. I don’t need a bath.”

The dog shuffled forward on its hind legs, forcing Shadow back in a kind of dance-walk. Catching the playful spirit, Shadow wrestled the beast to the ground. The dog rolled over onto its back, tongue lolling between its jaws. Kneeling beside it, Shadow scratched and tickled its belly.

“Who’s a good boy?” she cooed, “Pain’s a good boy! Such a good little puppy! Yes you is! Yes you is!”

After finishing this sport, Shadow rose and walked back over to Christian with the dog at her side. Christian made a tentative gesture to pet the animal. The dog lifted its lip to bare its fangs, a low growl rumbling in its throat.

“Pain, be good,” Shadow admonished, “Churchy is our friend.”

Christian forced himself to remain motionless as the dog circled about him, sniffing here and there. When the dog sniffed his crotch, Christian clenched his teeth as he fought down the panic that arose at the thought of those massive steel-trap jaws closing about his privates. After agonizing minutes that seemed an eternity, the dog went away and seated itself beside Shadow.

“I think he’s accepted you,” she told Christian.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he replied, “I sure hope you’re right about that. How do you know this dog anyway?”

“Pain is Pops’ dog. I told you he lived close by.”

Christian nodded. He remained fretful of the beast, but thought it a good thing that an old man out here should have the dog for protection.

Shadow remounted Incitatus and they were on their way once more. The dog, still wary of the newcomer, kept close to Christian. Presently Shadow led them down a fork in the trail. Through gaps in the trees, Christian could discern a clearing and a large cabin within it. As they approached it, the dog broke from his side to race on ahead. They entered the clearing.

A tall man stood before them. He had been splitting wood and gripped a large axe with both powerful hands. At the sound of their approach, he had ceased his task. He awaited their coming motionless as a bronze statue, senses alert to identify friend or foe.

The man standing in front of the cabin was perhaps seventy years old, but age had neither stooped nor withered him. He stood erect, well over six feet in height, and was seemingly carved from solid oak. His physique was that of a titan. He wore black jeans supported by a wide leather belt drawn tight about his trim waist. His calves were sheathed by knee-high brown leather moccasins topped with six inches of fringe. The man had stripped to a grey tank top for his labors, exposing his broad shoulders, deep chest, bull neck, and corded sinewy arms. His pate was bald, but the hair on the sides and back of his head had grown long, flowing onto his heavily muscled back and shoulders. A thick walrus mustache masked his upper lip. Both hair and mustache were white as hoar-frost.

All this Christian took in at a glance as his party entered the clearing. As Pain gamboled in ahead of them without barking a warning, the man relaxed. When Shadow rode in on Incitatus, he dropped the axe and strode forward to greet her.

“Shadow-girl!” he called out in a deep booming voice.

“Hi, Pops,” Shadow said demurely as she dismounted.

Pops? Christian was taken aback. This was the “lovable old coot” Shadow had spoken of? Christian had pictured a kindly, doting elfin figure. This man looked to him more like Odin, the chief Viking god of ancient pagan mythology.

The old man and the girl grasped each other in warm embrace. Shadow rested her head on Pop’s deep chest as his massive arms enfolded her. Then, with a hearty laugh, he gripped her about the waist and lifted her high. Shadow was no light-weight, but Pops whirled her about as though she were a child.

By the warmth of this greeting, and just by the way they looked at each other, Christian could tell that the old man and the girl were extremely close. When they were all done with their hugs and kisses, Pops asked Shadow, “So who’s the new boyfriend?”

Shadow made the introductions. “Pops, this is Christian Foster. He’s from the Confederacy.”

“Confederacy?” asked Pops, addressing Christian, “Whereabouts?”

“North Carolina.”

“Mighty pretty country.” The two men shook hands. “Name’s Connor O’Rourke. Shadow and some of the young folks get a kick out of calling me Pops.”

“I won’t,” Christian promised, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. O’Rourke.”

“Likewise, son. Let me show you around a bit before we lose the light. Then we’ll head inside for some supper.”

While Shadow corralled Incitatus in a small barn and stowed her gear in the cabin, Pops gave Christian a tour of his property. Pops’ cabin was a fairly spacious log home. A smaller cabin it had presumably replaced was used as an outbuilding. There were fields for crops, now harvested, and areas for livestock. Christian was duly impressed when shown a bathhouse with its own water heater and a cold storage unit for perishables.

“I use solar panels to power these,” Pops explained, “Of course we get so few sunny days that I also have `em connected to a windmill over on that hill.”

The tour complete, they adjourned to the cabin where Shadow and Pain awaited them. The cabin was divided into a large front room that included areas for cooking and dining and a smaller bedroom in the rear. The main room was dominated by a large stone fireplace. The comfortable furnishings included a large number of bookcases crammed full of tomes.

Christian commented on the oil lamps on some of the tables; “No electricity in here?”

“Don’t really need it,” replied Pops, “But have a seat at the table and I’ll fix us all some supper.”

Pops fried up some venison sausage and served it with some potatoes and greens. It made for a hearty repast. Afterwards Christian, who had never previously eaten venison, remarked on how much he enjoyed it.

“That was delicious, Mr. O’Rourke. I don’t think I’ve ever had sausage quite so tasty.”

“Well, better than that foodpaste shit, anyway,” Pops admitted.

After supper they relaxed before the fire while Pops played his guitar for awhile. Shadow listened as though enchanted. She had always loved to listen to Pops sing and play; it never failed to bring her comfort. Stretched out on the floor alongside Pain, she gazed up at him like some adoring teenage fan. She was captivated by the music and the faraway mystic look in Pops’ strange blue eyes. They were that bright shade of blue that appears white in black-and-white photographs. Set in Pops’ dark, scarred face, they seemed to blaze forth with some inner fire. Shadow had long ago dubbed that particular hue “volcanic blue” in a poem she had written.

After playing an old folk ballad called “For the Love of Barbara Allen,” Pops set his guitar aside. He turned his volcanic gaze towards Christian.

“So,” he said abruptly, “What is your story? How came you to cast your lot with our Shadow-girl?”

Having been welcomed with such hospitality, Christian thought it only fair to “sing for his supper,” so to speak. It occurred to him that people in isolated regions passed many an evening swapping stories. Moreover, he had quickly taken a liking to Pops. And so he felt no qualms as he narrated his odyssey in search of his runaway sweetheart.

When the tale was told, Shadow added her commentary; “I told him it was nuts to begin with, and ten times more nuts to come with me all the way to the New Settlements.”

“Well,” Pops mused, “Men in love do foolish things. Or perhaps the wanderlust has taken hold of him. Or maybe he just can’t get enough of you, Shadow-girl.”

Christian visibly blushed. Pops and Shadow shared a little laugh at his expense.

“It’s getting late,” Pops declared, “You kids take the bedroom. I’ll just doze here in the comfy chair, right by the fire.”

“Oh, but we couldn’t…” Christian objected.

“No, no, I insist. I’ll be more than fine right here with Pain.”

“Well, thank you for all your hospitality, Mr. O’Rourke. I look forward to talking with you some more. You must have seen a lot of history.”

“Indeed,” the white-haired man muttered, “Indeed I have. Now off to bed with you.”

#

The bedroom was cozy and had its own fireplace. The large bed looked to be the most comfortable in the world. Shadow was surprised, yet not surprised, to see Christian unfolding his sleeping bag next to it.

“Why the hell don’t you just get in here with me?” Shadow demanded as she slipped beneath the covers. She was clad in a simple nightshirt she had obtained from one of the drawers. “I promise not to try to have my way with you. Of course, if you like we could cuddle a little bit maybe. Nothing wrong with that.”

“No,” Christian said flatly, “It is better this way.”

“Suit yourself, Church-boy. Most guys would…aw, forget it.” Pulling the covers close about her, Shadow rolled over to face the wall. She was asleep before he had finished his prayers.

#

In the main room, Pops tossed some more wood on the fire. Wrapping himself in warm woolen blankets, he sank back into the comfy chair. Pain was curled at his feet.

Pops looked to the fire, taking comfort from the warm bright crackle of the flames. It’s hell getting old, he thought. Yeah, sure, you can still twist the head off the average young buck. But that won’t bring anything back.

Physically, Pops was in remarkable shape. It was his mind that had grown weary.
What was it the kid had said? That he’d seen a lot of history? Oh, hell yes. Too damn much history.

The worst thing about getting old, he mused, was that the world that one was born into receded further and further into history, never to be retrieved. It’s during one’s formative years that one’s standards for what’s right and normal are conceived. Since the beginning of modern times, virtually every generation had grown up in a different historical era from its predecessor. Changes in societal norms, technological innovations, shifts in international alliances, economic fluctuations; all had come at an increasingly accelerated pace since the Industrial Revolution. The pace of this change often exceeded people’s capacity to cope with it. Many came to feel overwhelmed by it. A sociologist had referred to this phenomenon as “future shock.” How much more disorienting, then, was it to live through a truly tumultuous era?

What must it have been like to first see the light in the days of imperial Rome and breathe one’s last during the Dark Ages? Connor O’Rourke and his generation had a pretty good idea. O’Rourke had been born seventy-two years earlier in what had then been the western part of Pennsylvania. His father had been a Black Irish immigrant who had married a local woman of old Scots-Irish pioneer stock. He had grown up in Evans City, Pennsylvania, USA. The USA had stood for United States of America.
During his boyhood, he had often heard that America wasn’t what it used to be. It was a frequent lament of men who were as old then as he was now. Even then Europe was arguably more powerful than the US, China definitely so. But militarily, economically and culturally, the United States was still a force to be reckoned with. The trouble was that the nation seemed to be running solely on momentum. The country’s mentors were lax when it came to new initiatives aimed at assuring America’s continued preeminence.

At that time, Europe was the up-and-coming power. But it was not the Europe of old. For generations, Muslim immigrants and their descendents had been supplanting the indigenous European races. European Christian civilization was on the wane. Indeed, O’Rourke’s father had emigrated from Ireland lest he find himself inundated by that rising tide. Germany was already an Islamic Republic before O’Rourke himself had been born. When he was in his early teens, the European Union formally reorganized as the Islamic Federation of Europe.

While Europe was melding into the new superpower, America was fragmenting along ethnic, class and cultural lines. The middle decades of the 21st Century saw the nation torn by social strife. The country’s 300th birthday in 2076 was widely greeted with cynical indifference.

The War had come but a few years later. A coalition of Mid-Eastern nations, with Iran at its center, finally moved to wipe out their mutually-despised foe, Israel. America was obliged to come to Israel’s defense. No sooner had it done so than the Islamic Federation of Europe issued a formal declaration of war against the United States of America. The American military, gutted by decades of neglect, proved no match for that of Islamic Europe. The eastern US came under relentless attack. Within weeks, America was fighting wholly on the defensive. The nation took a pounding that left it wrecked and ruined. The coup de grace was the invasion and occupation of New York City. O’Rourke had been in New York when it fell. He had been lucky to make it out alive.

The War ended soon after that. European intelligence got wind of nuclear options being considered by rogue elements of the US military. Moreover, the logistics of invading, subduing and occupying the vast American continent were costly and problematic. The original root cause of the conflict, Israel, was by this point moot. The United States would never again pose a threat. The IFE stood to gain much in the way of concessions from a chastened America should hostilities cease at this juncture. An armistice was conveniently proffered by Europe. The Third World War had come and gone with the appalling swiftness and destruction of a hurricane.

Early the following year, the World Peace Conference convened in Paris. The treaty that resulted from it was commonly referred to in America as “Versailles II.” The Conference had not been conducted in the Versailles palace. Rather, the allusion was to the treaty that had further humbled a defeated Germany in the aftermath of World War I.

Among the provisions of the treaty was the mandate that American states with large Muslim populations be allowed to hold a special election to determine if Islamic law should be adopted as the supreme legal authority. As of the late 21st Century, this pertained to most of the Northeastern and Midwestern states. The Special Election was held in 2081. The measure passed in Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Michigan and Illinois. This did not go down easy in the non-Muslim areas of Muslim-majority states. In western Pennsylvania, there was considerable resentment over a vote that had been tipped by populous Muslim strongholds to the east such as Philadelphia. The western counties erupted in revolt. The Pennsylvania Uprising was underway.

The rebellion had quickly spread to neighboring states affected by the Special Election. In the meantime, activists in western Pennsylvania issued the Westsylvania Manifesto. The Manifesto declared that, by virtue of having adopted a higher legal authority than the United States Constitution, the states in question had for all intents and purposes seceded from the Union. That being the case, the framers of the Manifesto deemed it only right and proper that the western counties secede from Pennsylvania.

The Westsylvania Manifesto sparked secession movements in neighboring states. In Pennsylvania, the movement culminated in the Freedom March that took place in the spring of `82. Thousands of western Pennsylvanians trekked across the Alleghenies towards the state capital of Harrisburg. Many were armed with deer rifles and other weapons. Some carried the blue flag of the long-ago Whiskey Rebellion. Connor O’Rourke had been among the marchers.

The governor of Pennsylvania attempted to quash the Uprising by turning out the National Guard --a move that backfired spectacularly. The Pennsylvania Guard mutinied en masse and threw in with the Freedom Marchers. A calamity was averted when the western counties of Pennsylvania separated peaceably from the eastern portion of the state.

Other states followed suit, with southern Ohio, south Indiana and south Illinois separating from their parent states. The precise legal status of the sundered portions of these states was unclear. Local districts still retained their Congressional representatives, but no new senators or governors were selected. Government in those areas was now conducted at the local level. The seeds of the Border Region had been sown.

The adoption of Islamic law in the Northeast and Midwest, and the subsequent division of some states, was overshadowed just a few years later by an even more momentous turn of events. In 2085, in a move that had long been anticipated, the southwestern states seceded from the Union to join Mexico. Nor did the balkanization of the US end there. In 2089, the northern New England states, separated from the rest of the country by the Islamic states, also seceded and joined Canada. The trend continued into the `90s, with the Pacific Northwest also joining Canada and the Florida peninsula seceding from the state and the nation to form half of what became known as Greater Cuba.

Shadow had been born at the beginning of the last decade of the old century. At that time this part of the country was already Westsylvania, already Border Region. The War was a decade in the past by then. The Southwest and northern New England were already out of the Union. Shadow was only a baby when the Pacific Northwest and Cuban Florida broke away. She was not yet a teen when the Islamic States of America finally declared full independence. The United States of America, as it had existed before the War, when it had been whole and unsundered, was something she had never known.

To the younger generations, those who had come of age during and after the War, the old flag was no more than a symbol of ignominious defeat. For many decades, even well before the War, the political, commercial and cultural life of the nation had been shifting to the South. In the `90s it became common to refer to the downsized nation as “the New American Confederacy.” The term carried a note of irony, owing to the fact that it had not seceded from the Union; rather, sections of the Union had seceded from it. During the New Constitutional Convention of 2104, the name “New American Confederacy,” in common usage for over a decade, was formally adopted. The New Constitution mandated that only Christians could be full-fledged citizens of the new nation, a measure aimed in part at stemming further balkanization. The new flag retained the red and white stripes, but the blue field now contained a cross instead of stars. When the old flag was lowered for the last time, only old-timers were seen to shed any tears.

#

Pops started awake, rubbing his eyes. The fire in the hearth was burning low. He had dozed off while watching the flames, letting them conjure visions as he thought about the past. He had relived the last forty years first in his thoughts, then in the visions in the fire, and finally in his dreams. Now it was daylight.

Pops rose and went outside. He followed a winding narrow path that led to a small forest glade. Within the glade was a single grave marked by a Celtic cross chiseled from stone. Pops had carved it himself and set it there in place of the rude wooden cross that had been there. As though suddenly pressed by some great weight, he sank to his knees before the grave.

“Oh, Steffy,” he groaned, “I miss you, girl. I miss you so much.”

#

Shadow and Christian awoke to the smell of breakfast cooking. Pops had prepared another hearty repast. There was more venison sausage, fresh eggs, coffee and biscuits.

Over breakfast Christian asked Pops, “Have you known Shadow a long time?”

“Long enough to teach her most of what she knows about the fighting arts, not to mention cards and a lot of other things.”

“I’ve learned a lot from Pops,” Shadow admitted, “And we’re also business partners. Did he show you the still?”

“Still?” Christian echoed, “Uh, no. He showed me the solar panel and windmill set-up, but no still. And you have a still for…?”

“Making moonshine, what else? We get a lot of trade from our neighbors on the other side of the line,” Shadow explained, “See, we’re right on the very fringe of the Border Region here. Cross the county line headed east, and you’re in Pennsylvania--as in the Islamic States of America. The Pennsylvanians in these parts are rural, pretty friendly. Some of them come over here to visit and do a little bartering and some business. Being Muslim, they’re not supposed to drink. But a lot of them aren’t all that devout, so there’s good money to be made selling them moonshine. So that’s basically my whole racket. In the spring and summer I sell reefer to the Christians down south, and in the fall I sell moonshine to the Muslims up north. Pretty sweet, huh?”

When Christian made no reply, she added, “You need to check out the still. Come on!”
So saying, Shadow took Christian by the hand and led him out the door. The still was located some distance from the other areas he had been shown. It was encircled by chain-link fence and stood beneath a metal awning to protect it from the elements. Christian had expected to see some crude ramshackle affair, in keeping with the pictures he had seen of moonshine stills from olden times. But the apparatus he saw before him was a fairly modern, sophisticated-looking piece of equipment. It would not have looked out of place in a laboratory.

Shadow explained the workings. “It can make liquor from corn, wheat or barley. Most of the equipment was originally designed to make ethanol for flex-fuel hybrids. But it’s been many a year since any cars have been seen in these parts, so we adapted it for other use.”

“Did Pops build this?” Christian asked.

“Pops and I worked on it together. He provided a lot of the technical know-how. But it’s my baby. I purchased the equipment with money I made selling pot. The whole moonshine thing was my idea. There are other moonshiners further up in the mountains, but most of what they make is just cheap rotgut compared to what we’re doing. There’s always a demand for a superior quality product.”

Shadow was explaining the workings of the still when Pops emerged from the cabin. He was clad in jeans and moccasins, as before, and had donned a green hunting shirt. The latter was a long tunic-like garment that fell to his mid-thighs. It was belted at the waist. The belt supported Pop’s sidearm, a Glock 21 chambered for .45 caliber ammo, and an Alaskan bowie with a coffin-shaped wooden handle and a massive twelve inch blade.

“Ready to head up to see Leon?” He asked Shadow, “I know he’ll be happy to see you.”

“Leon’s my other partner,” she informed Christian. “He looks after another one of my stills.”

Presently they set out for Leon’s cabin, located some distance to the north. Shadow rode Incitatus, Pops rode a huge black stallion he called Balor, and Christian peddled his bike. They left Pain behind to guard the cabin.

They reached Leon’s cabin by midday. As they entered the clearing, they were greeted by two men, one black and one white. The black man was medium height and strongly built. The white man was tall, lanky and youngish looking. Both were armed. The white man carried a twelve-gauge pump shotgun. The black man bore an M-16 assault rifle.

At the sight of the weapons, Shadow’s alertness kicked into high gear. This did not bode well. The white man she did not know, but the black man was an old friend.
She called out to him.

“Leon! What goes on here? Has there been any trouble?”

“Trouble? Yeah, you could say that,” Leon replied grimly, “When we heard you ride up we thought there might be more on the way. We grabbed our guns and headed out to see what’s what.”

Pops and Shadow instantly drew their own weapons and scanned the surrounding woods for any who might be skulking about.

“It’s cool,” Leon assured them, “Wasn’t really expecting anything in broad daylight, but it pays to be on the safe side.”

The old man and the young woman dismounted and led their horses to Leon’s corral. Once the animals were squared away, Pops said, “Suppose you tell us what this is all about.”

“Better to show you.” Leon led the party around back to the other side of the cabin. Shadow cursed long and loud at what she saw there.
They were looking at what had been a still as sophisticated as the one at Pops’ place. Now it was a wreck, shot full of holes.

Shadow’s face was a bone-white mask of rage. She was looking at the ruin of considerable work and investment. “So what the hell happened?” she grated.

“Last night around ten we heard the animals acting up. I thought a bear or something had come around. I grabbed my deer rifle and headed out. I hadn’t taken two steps off the doorstep when I came under fire. Well, I dived back in here. Thank God these cabin walls are thick. I handed the rifle over to Arthur here, got the M-16, and we tried to return fire from the windows.

“Well, it’s a good thing these cabin wall are so thick. See those chips and holes? That wasn’t from woodpeckers. Anyway, we traded shots with whoever was out there, when the other side of the house came under attack. We split up, with Arthur defending the rear window.

“After awhile the shooting subsided. We waited out the night. This morning we went out to scout around. If we hit any of them, the others took them away. Didn’t find blood or anything, just a lot of spent shell casings.”

“Any idea who did it?” asked Shadow.

“Not really. But I think the object was to wreck the still. The initial attack was just to keep us penned in the cabin. Looks like a move by someone to run us out of the moonshine business. By the way, who’s the new guy?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

It was Pops who made the introductions. He started with Leon’s companion.
“Shadow, this is Arthur Gretch. He came to us while you were away.”

Shadow clasped Arthur’s hand warmly and said, “Nice to meet you. We don’t have enough handsome men around here.”

This brought a smile to Arthur’s normally sad countenance. He was quick to return the compliment, “I feel like I’m meeting a legend. Leon has told me so much about you.”

“Charming, too. Not many guys these days know how to talk to a lady.”

While Arthur and Shadow were getting acquainted, Pops introduced Christian to Leon. “Leon Jackson, meet Christian Foster. Chris is from the Confederacy.”
Christian shook hands with Leon, pleased at not having been called “Church-boy” or “Churchy.”

“So what brings you all the way out here?” asked Leon.

“It’s a long story.”

“Arthur’s from the Confederacy too,” Leon said, indicating his tall companion.

“Hi,” said Arthur, and that was the extent of his greeting. He took a step back as if to indicate that he did not wish to shake hands.

They all sensed the sudden chill. And they all knew the reason for it. One look at Arthur’s clothes told the tale. He wore moccasins and a leather belt he had acquired recently, but the rest of his garments were those he had worn since leaving the Confederacy. Shirt, jacket and pants were of the cheap, loose-fitting, pajama-like variety typically worn by the working classes in the Christian South. Such garments were commonly referred to as “peon jammies.” They stood in stark contrast to the well-tailored travel garments worn by Christian. Christian was a member of the professional classes. Arthur was one of the working class peons. Except when the latter served the former, the twain did not intermingle.

Shadow sought to ease the tension, “Well, whatever brought you guys to the Border Region, this is where you are now. And it looks like we could use all the help we can get.”

“So it would seem,” Pops added.

Then Shadow thought of something else. “Pops, if someone’s looking to bust up our moonshine business and get the racket for themselves, your place is likely to get hit next. We should get back there.”

“We’ll come too,” Leon told her, “We can help defend the place. And besides, I wouldn’t mind a little payback. It‘s good to see you again, Shadow. We were expecting you back maybe a week or so ago. Funny knack you have for showing up just as a brawl is about to go down.”

“Funny? Oh yeah, it’s hilarious.”

#

Pops, Shadow and Christian helped Leon and Arthur load a wagon with gear, weapons and provisions. Leon hitched a horse to it, and he and Arthur followed the others back to Pops’ cabin. They arrived just before dusk and managed to get everything unloaded before darkness, which came quickly in the mountains, had fallen.

After supper, Pops rode out to patrol the various roads and by-ways that formed the vast perimeter surrounding his property. Christian accompanied him. When Christian informed the older man that he knew how to ride, Pops saddled one of his mares. They rode out together. Both men wore lightweight night vision goggles, no more cumbersome than glasses. Pops had even devised apparatus for the horses, using old 21st Century night vision hardware. In this manner they could traverse the dark roads without an obvious source of illumination that would draw the attention of other night riders.

Back in the cabin, Shadow tried to get a conversation going with Arthur. It wasn’t easy. He wasn’t exactly shy, just unaccustomed to other people taking an interest in what he had to say. She felt that was too bad. He had a full head of thick tousled brown hair, and his eyes were a nice shade of green. She thought he would be very good-looking if she could get him to smile more.

“You don’t like Church-boy, do you?” she asked in an effort to draw him out.

“Uh, no, that’s not true,” he replied slowly, after taking a moment to choose his words, “He actually seems like a decent enough sort. It’s just that…” a pause here before committing himself, “…the fucking suits can’t be trusted.” And so saying he summed up the prevailing attitude held by the workers towards the professionals in the New American Confederacy.

Arthur Gretch had been born thirty-one years ago in the shadow of Atlanta, the Confederacy’s greatest metropolis. His parents had been in early middle life when they married. At that time his father’s resources finally seemed sufficiently adequate to enable him to merge his life successfully with that of another. His mother had been the eldest of seven children, and had spent the better part of her life helping to care for her siblings until all were grown.

Arthur’s father had died of overwork and exhaustion while Arthur was still a toddler. Arthur and his mother were left to survive on public assistance. His mother was a sorrowful woman who always seemed frightened of everything. He remembered her crying frequently.

When he was old enough, Arthur was shoehorned into an inferior public school. The curriculum seemed designed mainly to teach students how to tell time, follow a schedule, remain stationary where posted, and enable them to follow instructions. The reading program, for example, aimed at making students functionally literate, but not at fostering any real enjoyment of reading.

Upon “graduation,” Arthur entered the workforce. He lived with his mother well into adulthood. He was pleased to be able to furnish her with some small simple comforts. When she died, he was forced to move out of public housing. Even a tiny one-room apartment proved to be a strain on his budget. He opted to move into the “peon barracks.” There he had a bed and a locker. Such spare time as he had was spent mingling in the common areas. The “peon barracks,” like the public housing he had grown up in and the apartment house he resided in briefly, was an unadorned cinder block structure. Members of the working class were housed far from those they served. They were shuttled on special bullet trains to the more fashionable areas to perform their tasks.

In church, the virtues of family life were extolled. However, Arthur had no desire to start a family. He couldn’t see siring children who would grow up with the same disadvantages he had known. Nor could he see sharing a wretched existence with some stooped, pinch-faced woman of the working class --so many prematurely grey, wearing their hair in buns while still in their thirties. How unlike the belles of the middle and upper classes.

Arthur had served their kind while working as a waiter in a coffee shop. They had been resplendent in their finely tailored clothes. He had served them in silence, with a name tag affixed to the apron he wore over his peon jammies. How haughty they had been, so self-assured, while the men and women of his class lived in constant dread of the next horrible thing to go wrong. The professional and upper class women thought nothing of treating him as their personal flunky, when they deigned to notice him at all. When not needed he was invisible to them, part of the background like the wallpaper. It doubtless never occurred to any of them that a male of Arthur’s station would look upon them with lustful thoughts. He was less than a man to them.

But Arthur was a man, with a man’s cravings. He lived in the peon barracks, subsisted on foodpaste, and put money aside all year so that he might enjoy a steak and a woman on his birthday. The steak had been tough, but the hooker had been nice. She had really tried to help, and made a sincere effort to make him feel better.

How livid he had been, then, just a few Sundays later, as he sat rigid in his pew listening to his minister disparage “loose women” from the pulpit. The preacher had railed against “harlots” as a disgrace to “good upstanding women,” and warned that any man who trafficked with them was destined to share their fate in Hell. Arthur had glared back at the man as though his eyes could shoot laser beams of concentrated hatred. He decided then and there to flee the Confederacy and strike out for the Border Region.

He had moved from town to town, gradually working his way northward. In the cities and towns of the Border Region he had found rich and poor, but no aristocrats and peasants. He could have settled in one of the city-states, but they were not his goal. His objective was identical to that of young men of bygone centuries whose options had been limited --to go to the frontier.

In the New Settlements he had met Leon Jackson, who was working to expand his farm and needed assistance. Leon was Border Region born and bred, the descendent of Pittsburgh steel workers. He had treated Arthur as a peer from the beginning, and Arthur was proud to call him friend. It was here that he had met a man such as Pops O’Rourke…and now a woman such as Shadow.

Shadow. God, what a woman! Never had he seen her like. She was beautiful, bold, dynamic, and sensuous beyond all belief. And she treated him like a man. Arthur felt a fierce glow of pride awakening at the thought of this, for Shadow made the women who had treated him with such disdain look like a bad joke.

This is where I belong, he thought. In the Confederacy, he had walked hunched over. His skin had looked pale and pasty. Now he walked with head held high. He looked healthy and invigorated. His frame had filled out. Here he breathed clean mountain air. He performed meaningful productive labor instead of inane tasks. He realized he mattered and thought, I’m home.

These thoughts passed through Arthur’s mind as he listened to Shadow narrate some of her adventures for his entertainment. The conversation took a more serious turn when she told him, “There could be more trouble on the way. Will you stay and fight?”

“Fight? You bet I’ll fight.”

#

It wasn’t long after that when Pops and Christian returned from their vigil. They had nothing to report.

“That doesn’t mean they won’t show up,” Pops told the rest, “Since they hit your place early on, they might hold off until the wee hours before dawn. Or they might not come at all.”

Shadow and Arthur took the next patrol. Arthur had never been on horseback before coming to the Settlements, but he’d been in the saddle a number of times since. In any case, the mare was gentle enough for a novice rider. Christian didn’t care to see the two of them ride off together, but refused to admit to himself that he was feeling any sort of jealousy.

After the pair had departed, Christian asked Pops if there was much money in moonshine. In answer, Pops conducted Christian to a small safe in the back room and opened it. Within it were stacks of bills, fastened by rubber bands, of various denominations.

“Islamic States currency is good for personal transactions in most of this end of the Border Region,” Pops explained, “Come spring Shadow exchanges some it at her bank in Pittsburgh at the current rate. But take a look at this.”

Pops withdrew a single small stack of a different kind of currency. “Fuckin’ Euros,” he stated bluntly, “And the ISA insists they’re not a colony of Muslim Europe. Pah!” He tossed the wad of bills back into the safe, slammed the door and spun the lock.

Back in the living room, Pops and Leon filled Christian in concerning the history of the New Settlements.

After the War, the eastern part of the Old Union lay in ruins. The infrastructure was so badly wrecked that food and other essentials could not be transported any great distance. Relief efforts were spotty at best. Once things became better organized, people in blighted areas took to tilling what they cynically referred to as “defeat gardens.”

In the eastern rural regions, the Amish were instrumental in mentoring residents in the ways of self-sufficiency. Those residents in turn tutored others. After the Special Election and the subsequent Westsylvania secession, the Amish who had long dwelt in the northern and eastern parts of Pennsylvania chose to migrate rather than live under Islamic law. They resettled in what became the northeastern fringe of the Border Region.

In the meantime, adventurous Westsylvanians who felt they had sufficiently mastered the necessary skills opted to embrace the rugged frontier existence their ancestors had known. The New Settlements gradually formed in areas between Amish enclaves. As in the frontier days of old, there were brawls, feuds and other outbreaks of violence. But none raised a hand against the peaceful Amish, who were revered as mentors. Like frontier physicians, the couriers who regularly brought news of the outside world, and roaming troupes of entertainers, the Amish were considered untouchable.

By way of holding up his end of the conversation, Christian told of growing up in North Carolina and of life in the cities of the Confederacy.

“`The New American Confederacy,’” Leon sighed, “I can’t get over that. You have to understand that as a black man, the term `Confederacy’ has certain unpleasant connotations.”

“No one down there has a problem with it,” Christian informed him, “The name actually got started with the notion that it didn’t secede from the Old Union…”

“…The Union seceded from it. Yeah, I know. I heard it.”

Ignoring the interruption, Christian continued, “When they finally had the New Constitutional Convention, that became the name almost by default. That’s because everyone had already been using it for over ten years. So rather than call it something else, they just went with the name commonly used. By the way, black and white contributed equally to the new society. In fact, it was a couple of black clergymen who helped popularize the term `New American Confederacy’ during the previous decade. So race isn’t really an issue.”

“Maybe not. But class is.”

Christian didn’t have a rebuttal for that. For working class citizens of the Confederacy, opportunities for upward mobility were disgracefully few. But that state of affairs had hardly come about overnight. For well over half a century before the War and the breakup of the Old Union, American society had been polarizing along economic lines.

“I take it you don’t think much of the Confederacy,” Christian said at length, “But parts of it are beautiful, like where I grew up. And there are exciting things being done there these days.”

“Oh, I’ve been there,” Leon told him, “And a lot of the people are nice. But the government and business leaders give me a pain. They carry on like the Confederacy is this younger, leaner successor to the Old Union. But the sad fact is that on the world stage the New American Confederacy is a third-rate weenie power. Mexico has more clout internationally.”

As well it might, Christian thought, with California and the other former southwestern US states now part of it. But he didn’t argue the point because he didn’t feel all that passionately about it. The truth was that he felt little in the way of patriotic sentiment regarding the New American Confederacy as a political entity. Christian had been in his early teens when the New Constitution had been adopted, too old to feel any sense of nationhood regarding the Confederacy. Likewise, he had little regard for the defeated and broken Union he had been born into. But for all of that he had fond memories of growing up in North Carolina. He did hope that the new country would one day wax strong and prosperous.

Christian didn’t feel like talking much after that. It was getting on towards morning and Shadow and Arthur had not returned. He wondered about the delay. And then a thought occurred to him.

What if they had come across some cozy spot and were getting better acquainted? Were they even now enjoying a lover’s tryst? As the notion crossed his mind, lurid images came to him unbidden: Shadow and Arthur nude, locked in passionate embrace. He imagined them writhing, coupling.

Christian muttered a prayer between clenched teeth, calling on God to help him banish the obscene images. With an effort, he forced himself to think about other things, like baseball and the dog he had had as a kid. After a few tense minutes, the devil let go of him.

The internal battle had left him shaken and sweating. He took a few deep breaths and grew calmer. Panic gave way to reason. Shadow wasn’t that kind of girl. She might not be a proper Christian woman, but it wasn’t her way to copulate with some man she had met only hours earlier. Probably. And even if she had done it once or thrice, she certainly didn’t do it with every guy she met. That much he knew. Then another thought occurred to him.

Why did he care so much? What was it to him anyway? He was forced to take a cold, sober look at the situation. Did he actually have feelings for this woman? Angel was lost to him. He had to accept that. Why was he now interested in Shadow? Was he indeed interested in Shadow?

A month earlier he would not have thought such a thing possible. Here was a woman who danced naked in front of men, sold drugs, sold moonshine, killed men in gunfights, danced naked in front of men… She was bold, savage, wanton, an outlaw. She was the sort of woman men dreamed of in those dreams they did not confess. He knew that many a man longed to possess such a woman. And if he had a woman such as Shadow, he would be the envy of many men. And that, he realized, would wipe away the shame and humiliation of Angel having left him. Was that the root of his growing infatuation with Shadow? Was that all there was to it? How was he any better than the leering patrons in a Wheeling strip club?

But there was more to it than that. He genuinely cared about Shadow. He had seen her warm, thoughtful side. She was, in his view, a decent person who had adapted to tough circumstances. He had taken a real liking to her as a person. That, combined with her undeniable sexual allure, made for a potent cocktail that could go straight to a man’s head. He could end up falling hard for her, if he hadn’t already.
This raised another question for Christian to ponder. If he had fallen for her and decided he wanted to be with her, what next? Could he really “make an honest woman out of her?” The man wasn’t born who could tame that hellcat. If he wanted to remain with her, it would have to be on her terms. That meant starting a new life in the Border Region. He had a good life in the Confederacy, and a fine profession. Once he completed the business at hand, could he really chuck it all and leave home, friends and family?

Christian knew that he must decide these matters soon. Shadow would not remain available forever. He knew that Arthur was interested in her. He could tell by the way he looked at her. In the Border Region, especially here in the New Settlements, they were equally eligible as suitors. If Christian wanted Shadow, he needed to make his move soon. If it wasn’t already too late, that is. Shadow and Arthur still were not back.

Christian found himself wondering once again if they were somewhere making love. Then, for the first time in the course of all this morbid brooding, he considered the possibility that they might have come to harm. A fine friend he was, not to have thought of that before this. He felt himself growing really anxious when he heard them ride up.

Shadow and Arthur‘s patrol had been uneventful. While they were out they detected no sign that any intruders had ventured into the area. The group bedded down after that, sleeping through part of the daylight hours. At any given time one person remained awake and on watch. The following evening they repeated the vigil. Shadow took the first patrol. Christian volunteered to accompany her before anyone else had a chance to speak up.

Out on the trails, they rode together in silence. Shadow remained alert for anything out of the ordinary. As for Christian, it was as though he had been struck mute. When he tried to break the ice with an innocuous comment about the possibility of rain, his tongue felt swollen and his mouth had gone dry. A swig from his canteen relieved the parched feeling. He now felt he could talk without his voice cracking, but was actually glad he had been unable to speak a moment earlier. He didn’t want to embarrass himself by saying something that made his sound like a blithering idiot. He knew he had to frame his words carefully before he spoke.

It was not the first time this paralyzing awkwardness around women had afflicted him. It had always been so. There had been times when he tried too hard and made the worst sort of fool of himself. On other occasions he had attempted to play it cool and let golden opportunities slip through his fingers. So what to do now? After much deliberation, he decided to err on the side of boldness.

When the moment seemed right he told her, “I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate you.” This evoked a quizzical look, a raised eyebrow, and an odd little half-smile.

Christian groaned inwardly. Way to go, Casanova, he told himself, How can you miss with a line like that? But at least he’d made an opening move. If he followed it up subtly and discreetly, he felt that a smart girl like Shadow was sure to take the hint.

After they returned, Pops and Leon went out on patrol. That left Christian, Arthur and Shadow alone in the cabin. The situation made for some awkward moments. In addition to class resentment, she could sense the jealousy simmering between the two men and their sexual tension regarding her. Shadow worked at smoothing things over. It wasn’t easy. She managed to steer their conversation onto innocuous topics, and gradually felt the mood in the room lighten.

#

Following the second night on alert, with still no trouble materializing, the group assembled the next day to discuss future strategy.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Shadow told the others, “They’ve tipped their hand, so they know we’ll be ready for them if they strike again soon. The smart move for them would be to lie low, bide their time, and lull us off guard before they hit us again. We can’t wait around for them to do that. We need to take the initiative, take the ball away from them, take the fight to them somehow.”

“That could be a tall order, considering that we don’t even know who ‘they’ are,” Leon reminded her.

“Well, somebody knows,” Shadow replied after a moment’s reflection, “Assholes like to brag. People hear things. Nobody in some shit pile like Eden can keep his mouth shut.”

“Eden?” Christian asked abruptly, “What’s Eden?” His curiosity had been piqued as much by the Biblical name itself as by the context.

Pops filled him in. “Eden is one of these little hamlets in the Settlements where people gather to mingle. You have your trading post, taverns, gambling joints, whorehouses; all made of logs mostly. Eden’s the nearest one.”

“I’d like to go right up there and find out what the hell’s going on,” Shadow announced.

“Except everyone will clam up when they see you,” Pops gently reminded her, “They’ll know it was your still that got hit, and nobody is going risk getting caught in the crossfire if there’s a feud brewing. They wouldn’t tell me anything for the same reason. Everyone knows we’re in business together.”

“Same goes for me,” Leon added, “Arthur would be better, but plenty of people have seen us together by now. I even took him up to Eden a couple of times.”

“So that leaves me.” It was Christian who had spoken, to the surprise of the rest. Their heads all turned his way. He had their attention. “Nobody knows me,” he continued, “I’m a total stranger. I could act like I got sick of my life and set out for the New Settlements. I could talk to people about all sorts of things, the way a person who didn’t know his way around naturally would. That way maybe I could find out what really happened.”

“No way.” It was Shadow who vetoed the notion. She had no intention of letting Church-boy blunder into a potentially lethal situation. It was one thing to ask him to carry his weight in a fight with her there to watch his back. But this was different.

“No,” she repeated emphatically, “What do you think you are, anyway? Some sort of secret agent?”

Christian took that with a smile. “I might surprise you,” he said.

“No, no, and no!”

“Enough,” rumbled Pops, “We can’t just stumble around swinging blind. We need to figure this out better.”

“So who’s the competition?” It was Arthur’s turn to speak up. “I mean, who else is making moonshine on a big enough scale that he might want the market to himself?”

Pops knew the Settlements better than most. “Well, let’s see,” he said, “There’s the Wayne brothers, Bruce and John. There’s Peter Gonzales, Babs Kowalsky, Chuck Newman…oh, and Sailor Clanton. I believe you have a history with him, Shadow.”

“Don’t remind me!” Shadow groaned, her face reddening with both anger and embarrassment. It had been a few years back. She’d been a kid then, dumb enough to almost fall for someone like Sailor Clanton. Lots of girls already had. He was a swaggering young rogue, devilishly handsome. There was no denying that he was a hunk, with his trim muscular body, black hair, blue eyes and killer smile. None knew how he came to be called Sailor; if he had actually been to sea or even seen it. It was just something that added to his mystique.

At least that’s one youthful indiscretion I managed to avoid, Shadow thought. She had almost succumbed to his considerable charms. But even then she had been nobody’s fool. She knew damn good and well that Sailor was incapable of taking her or any other woman seriously. To him, she would be just another notch on the bedpost, another conquest to brag about to his doltish pals. While she certainly didn’t mind a romp in the hay with a handsome, muscular stud, she wasn’t having any of that shit.

Unfortunately, Sailor Clanton was not the sort who handled rejection well. When Shadow spurned his advances, he tried forcing himself on her. She didn’t go for the ball shot, which he would surely be expecting, as her opening move. Instead she snaked a vertical-fist punch to the center of the face, breaking his nose and blinding him with tears. Then she kicked him in the balls and left.

Looking back on the episode, Shadow now felt certain of one thing. “It’s Clanton,” she announced to Pops and the others.

“How do you know that?” Leon asked sensibly.

“Because no one else in the Settlements is that big an anus,” she told him, “He’s had it in for me since I shot him down when he tried to make it with me.”

Shadow felt certain she was right. During their acquaintance, she had found Clanton to be petty and vindictive. He was just the sort to nurse a life-long grudge. In rejecting him, she had hurt his ego. The broken nose she had given him marred his good looks ever so slightly. That did not endear her to him either. Clanton was vain as well as proud.

“Honey,” Pops said sympathetically, “You may well be right. But we need a little more to go on than your woman’s intuition before we start a feud with Sailor Clanton, his family, and his cohorts.”

“You’re right, Pops,” Shadow admitted, “We’ll have to make sure he’s involved. If he is, well, maybe he’ll listen to reason. Maybe I can sweet-talk him, or we can cut some sort of deal. Or maybe we’ll have to fight it out after all. But whatever the case, I have to confront Sailor Clanton.”

BLOOD LUST: Robert E. Howard's Spicy Adventures

2009-07-19T17:39:00.000-07:00

[Recent blogs have consisted of excerpts from my original fiction, in the interests of self-promotion. This time I am offering another of my essays on Robert E. Howard. "Blood Lust" was originally published in The Cimmerian in 2005, and was very well received. It went on to win The Cimmerian's Hyrkanian Award. The version here is slightly longer than the one that appeared in print, so worth reading even if you're already familiar with the printed version. This version Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman.]

“The girl looked up at him, her face like a dim white rose in the dark…
“`Tell me.’ His voice was soft, soothing, as one speaks to a babe.
“`Le Loup,” she gasped, her voice swiftly growing weaker. ‘He and his men --descended upon our village-- a mile up the valley. They robbed --slew-- burned…I ran. He, the Wolf, pursued me --and-- caught me--’ The words died away in a shuddering silence.
“`I understand, child. Then--?’
“`Then --he --he --stabbed me--with his dagger--oh, blessed saints! --mercy--’
“Suddenly the slim form went limp. The man eased her to the earth, and touched her brow lightly.
“`Dead!’ he muttered.
“Slowly he rose, mechanically wiping his hands upon his cloak. A dark scowl had settled on his somber brow. Yet he made no wild, reckless vow, swore no oath by saints or devils.
“`Men shall die for this,’ he said coldly.”

--“Red Shadows” Weird Tales, August 1928

“…He laughed at her struggles as his arms savored each intimate charm. ‘I’m no tell-tale, nor blackmailer! I’m not threatenin’ you. I don’t have to!’
“His mouth crushing hers thirstily --the way his muscular arms defeated her frenzied struggles-- was enough to convince her. But, jerking her mouth free, she stormed defiantly: ‘Damn you, let me go! I’ll kill you…you can’t--’
“Her defiance broke in a despairing shriek as she realized the futility of her resistance.
“Presently, as he looked down at her where she lay weeping in rage, shame and humiliation, he started to speak; then he changed his mind, shrugged his shoulders and headed for the door.
“There was no mercy in the game she played, and she had no reason to expect any.”

--“Murderer’s Grog” Spicy-Adventure Stories, January 1937

What a difference eight years make!

The first quotation is from one of Robert E. Howard’s best-known stories, “Red Shadows.” It served to introduce readers to one of Howard’s most memorable heroes, the dour Puritan swordsman, Solomon Kane, a religious fanatic so morally upright that he takes it upon himself to protect all in peril and stamp out evil wherever he finds it. In “Red Shadows,” he seeks to avenge a girl ravaged by a vicious bandit called Le Loup, Kane’s opposite, an amoral thrill-seeker who lives to gratify his lustful appetites at the expense of those weaker than himself.

The second quotation is from the denouement of “Murderer’s Grog” by “Sam Walser.” This story features a very different sort of protagonist, one Wild Bill Clanton, described by the author as a “sailor, gun-runner, blackbirder, pearl-poacher, and fighting man deluxe.” One might also add “serial rapist” to Clanton’s resume-- “Murderer’s Grog” is not the only story in which Clanton forces himself on a woman.

The irony of the contrast between Solomon Kane and Wild Bill Clanton would have been lost on any who chanced to read both these stories upon their original publications in the pulp fiction magazines of the 1920s and `30s --such readers would have had no way of knowing that Robert E. Howard and Sam Walser were one and the same. Walser was a pseudonym --an ancestor’s name-- that Howard used for the Wild Bill Clanton series written in the final phase of his career. Debuting in Weird Tales back in 1928, Solomon Kane had been the first of Howard’s heroes to appear in print. Premiering in Spicy-Adventure Stories in April 1936, a mere two months before Howard’s death, Wild Bill Clanton was most likely the last of Howard’s heroes the author saw introduced. (He may or may not have lived to see his western hero Buckner J. Grimes debut in the June 1936 issue of Cowboy Stories.)

So how was it that the creator of Solomon Kane came at the last to write a series of tales in which, essentially, Le Loup is the hero? In the beginning, it was solely for the money. Weird Tales was never a financially secure publication; it teetered on the verge of bankruptcy throughout its thirty-year history. Payment to authors was often late, and this considerably worsened during the Depression. Early in 1935, Howard was burdened by medical expenses for his aging mother, including a serious operation. At the time of his greatest need, payment from Weird Tales continued to grow ever more unreliable. Weird Tales had been paying Howard in a series of monthly installments, but these were cut off just as his need was greatest. On May 6, 1935, Howard sent “an urgent plea for money” to editor Farnsworth Wright that concluded, “A monthly check from Weird Tales may well mean for me the difference between a life that is at least endurable --and God alone knows what.” Wright responded with part of the money, but Weird Tales owed Howard over a thousand dollars at the time of his death.

Desperate for more dependable sources of income, Howard looked about for fresh markets to tap. To that end he had previously engaged fellow pulp writer Otis Adelbert Kline as his literary agent. Now, in 1935, he followed the lead of his friend and colleague, E. Hoffmann Price. Price was a star contributor to the lucrative “spicy stories” market. The so-called “spicy” pulps were a line of magazines that featured fairly standard genre stories, but with the added ingredient of sex. Of course, for the most part the sex in the spicy magazines was tame, even quaint, by today’s standards. Erotic titillation was furnished mostly by the trappings of sex; the heroine’s scanty undergarments, her inviting boudoir, passionate attitude and so forth. Any actual sexual activity was left to the reader’s imagination. Sexual episodes were indicated by a sentence trailing off in ellipses… followed by a discreet line drop before the story resumed in the next paragraph. Both the cover paintings and the interior illustrations hinted that the magazine’s contents were hot stuff, but the actual stories always seemed to promise more than they delivered. Even so, they were condemned by prudish critics as an affront to decency.

The company that published the spicy line was, as a business tactic for avoiding official censure, known variously as the Trojan Publishing Company or Culture Publications. The first spicy title was Spicy Detective Stories, its premiere issue dated April 1934. It was joined in July by Spicy Mystery Stories and Spicy-Adventure Stories. The last of the primary spicy magazines was Spicy Western Stories, which did not appear until 1936. Companion magazines from the same publisher included Snappy Adventure Stories, Snappy Detective Stories, and Snappy Mystery Stories. The “Snappy” titles were not appreciably different from those bearing the “Spicy” imprint.

Most pulp writers who submitted work to the spicy titles did so --like Howard-- under pseudonyms. E. Hoffmann Price was bold enough to allow his work for the spicy pulps to appear under his real name. In fact, the spicies were Price’s single biggest pulp market, with over a hundred and fifty stories published in them over the years. Price wrote for Spicy Western as well as for Spicy-Adventure. According to Glenn Lord, Price revealed that most of the stories published in the spicies were actually provided by a select inner circle of half a dozen writers utilizing a vast array of pseudonyms. Price asserted that for an outsider attempting to crack that inner circle, it was as difficult as for the proverbial rich man entering the gates of Heaven. Even so, Robert E. Howard did it handily.

Howard found in the spicy pulps just the sort of reliable revenue source that he so desperately needed. For one thing, the pay was good. Spicy-Adventure paid at the rate of one cent per word to its better authors, quite generous by the standards of the day. More important, however, was the promptness of payment. Authors were paid upon editorial acceptance of their material in contrast to Weird Tales’ editorial policy of payment upon publication. With Spicy-Adventure, Howard’s main complaint was that stories could be no longer than 5500 words. For the most part, however, he found the arrangement satisfactory enough to entertain plans to contribute to Spicy Mystery and Spicy Detective as well.

Altogether, Howard wrote eight spicy stories and a synopsis for an additional unwritten story. Of the eight completed stories, six feature the hot-blooded rogue, Wild Bill Clanton. Five of the Clanton stories appeared in Spicy-Adventure. The additional Clanton story, the two unrelated tales, and the synopsis remained unpublished for decades after Howard’s death, finally appearing in the `70s and `80s.

The first Clanton story, “The Girl on the Hell Ship” was received by the Otis Adelbert Kline literary agency on October 7, 1935, and duly forwarded to Frank Armer at the Trojan/Culture publishing group the next day. Otto Binder was at the time the Kline agency’s New York representative. Binder sold additional Clanton stories to Spicy-Adventure, including “The Purple Heart of Erlik” around December of 1935 and “The Dragon of Kao Tsu” in February 1936.

In a letter to Novalyne Price dated February 14, 1936 --Valentine’s Day-- Howard wrote at length about the spicy pulps, describing his work to date and detailing the editorial requirements:

“…A nice balance must be maintained --the stuff must be hot enough to make the readers bat their eyes, but not too hot to get the censors on them. They have some definite taboos. No degeneracy, for instance. No sadism or masochism. Though extremely fond of semi-nude ladies, they prefer her to retain some garment ordinarily --like a coyly revealing chemise. However this taboo isn’t iron-clad, for I’ve violated it in nearly every story I’ve sold to them. I’ve found a good formula is to strip the heroine gradually --she loses part of her clothes in one episode, some more in the next, and so on until the climax finds her in a state of tantalizing innocence. Certain words are taboo, also, although up to a certain point considerable frankness in discussing the female anatomy is allowed. The hero should be an American, and the action should take place in some exotic clime. I’ve laid my yarns in the South Seas, in Tebessa in Algeria, in Shanghai, and in Singapore…My character is Wild Bill Clanton, a pirate, gun-runner, smuggler, a pearl-thief and slaver, and carefully avoids all moral scruples in his dealings with the ladies.”

Novalyne had once chided Howard for making heroes of such disreputable figures as gunfighter John Wesley Hardin. In his unabashed description of Clanton as such a scoundrel, Howard may have been subtly needling Novalyne. Note that Howard bluntly calls Clanton a “slaver” rather than using the charming euphemism “blackbirder.” Moreover, this occupation appears at the end of Clanton’s resume, right before mention of his lack of moral scruples in regards to women.

The Wild Bill Clanton series began to appear in Spicy-Adventure Stories starting with the April 1936 issue. Howard was already dead by the time most of them saw print. Interestingly, the six Clanton stories can be divided into three pairs, grouped by location and plot devices. “The Girl on the Hell Ship” and “Ship in Mutiny” are set in the South Seas. Closely linked, these two episodes tell how Clanton seizes and retains command of the Saucy Wench, and feature the only recurring character apart from the hero, the beautiful and headstrong “Celtic-Latin” hellcat Raquel O’Shane, distinguished from paler Howard sex goddesses by a splash of Hispanic blood that presumably accounts for her stormy temper. The next two stories, “The Purple Heart of Erlik” and “The Dragon of Kao Tsu,” transpire in the Oriental port cities of Shanghai and Singapore, respectively. Each unfolds as a caper to acquire a priceless relic. The final pair of tales consists of “Desert Blood” and “Murderer’s Grog.” The former takes place in French Algeria, the latter in British India. Both involve gun-running and exotic femmes fatale.

“The Girl on the Hell Ship” was retitled “She Devil” by the editor of Spicy-Adventure Stories, and featured as the lead story in the April 1936 issue. The story was also chosen for the cover illustration. As was often the case in the pulps, the cover did not accurately reflect the contents of the story. In fact, the editor may have simply used a painting he had on hand, hence the need to change the story’s title. Instead of a ship in the South Pacific, the cover depicts a tavern in the Yukon or some such place. Gruff male patrons are clad in furs and other heavy clothing. A young brunette girl prances merrily through their midst, cheerfully raising a shot glass. Seemingly impervious to cold that make tough men huddle in furs, the cover girl is clad only in a red bra and microskirt, stockings and garters.

Readers familiar with Howard’s work will recognize plot elements in “She Devil” that the author employed previously in the Conan story, “The Pool of the Black One” (Weird Tales, October 1933). Like Clanton, Conan appears after swimming to a ship, having abandoned a leaky boat. Both protagonists were in that situation as the result of earlier predicaments. Aboard ship, Conan meets the pirate captain, Zaporavo, who has abandoned his usual trade to sail into unknown waters. Zaporavo, like the tyrannical Bully Harrigan encountered by Clanton, broods over maps and charts as he searches for some mysterious treasure kept secret from the crew. In both stories, the captain meets his fate after landfall on an island. Conan and Clanton assume command of their respective ships, which must take flight from the island’s dangers. Conan also appropriates Zaporavo’s sultry mistress, Sancha. Sancha is from Zingara, Howard’s Hyborian Age counterpart of seventeenth-century Spain. Like Raquel O’Shane, she is possessed of fiery Latin blood.

The other interesting aspect of “She Devil” is the manner in which Raquel O’Shane mentally compares Bill Clanton to Bully Harrigan; “He was a man at least, not a beast like Harrigan.” Harrigan is described as “a bellowing, red-eyed, hairy monstrosity,” broad as a door” with “a chest and arms muscled and hairy as an ape’s.” Not a pretty picture, but Clanton engages in the same shady enterprises as Harrigan, is just as ruthless, and more devious. But the author holds up Clanton as a superior type, reflected in his appearance. “Clean-waisted” is a term Howard sometimes uses to physically distinguish a brawny hero from a brawny villain. Raquel is immediately taken by Clanton’s rugged good looks. To be fair, however, she has also had to constantly avoid being pummeled and slapped around by Harrigan. “That’s no way to treat a lady!” Clanton asserts gallantly. He is not one to physically abuse women --yet. That aspect of his personality only emerges in the subsequent stories.

“Ship in Mutiny” is a direct sequel to “She Devil.” Notably, it’s the only Clanton story never to appear in the pages of Spicy-Adventure Stories. Commentators on this usually blame Raquel. Editorial policy dictated that the hero should remain footloose, savoring the charms of many women rather than staying more or less monogamous. In “Ship in Mutiny” Clanton does enjoy passionate sex with the island princess Lailu but, faithful in his fashion, returns to Raquel. The editorial mandate was clear; Raquel had to go. She does not reappear in any of the remaining episodes.

In considering the rejection of “Ship in Mutiny” by Spicy-Adventure, commentators tend to look no further. However, other factors may have contributed to its unsuitability. In a letter to H. P. Lovecraft dated December 5, 1935, Howard complained that writing for the spicy pulps “requires a deft, jaunty style foreign to my natural style.” The first story, “She Devil,” was written in this jaunty style, with touches of playfulness and humor. “Ship in Mutiny,” on the other hand, is more typical of Howard’s prose, grimmer and more intense.

The sexual element is more pronounced than in the previous story. In most pulp fiction, the hero inevitably gets the girl; there is little in the way of sexual tension. But Howard recognized the potential of sexual tension to enhance the overall suspense. Thus the villain Tanoa lusts mightily after Raquel, even as Clanton is aroused by Lailu. Passages speak of eager hands itching to cup velvety breasts. Raquel is in danger of being lured away from Raquel by Lailu’s ample charms.

Of course, the pulp fiction double standard is in effect. Clanton actually bedding a woman of another race is perfectly understandable; boys will be boys. But when a nonwhite man even lusts after a white woman, his desire alone is usually a death sentence. In due course, Clanton fights and kills the island chief Tanoa. Clanton had previously rescued Raquel from a Kanaka native in “She Devil,” but that bout was just a warm-up for Tanoa. Tanoa is a half-breed whose European education includes “boxing in Oxford.” In several stories, Howard introduces a barbaric character who has had the benefit of some sort of civilized education or training; such a character is always presented as an especially dangerous foe. Most notable is a virtually identical character, Santos, for the Sailor Steve Costigan story, “Fist and Fang” (Fight Stories, May 1930). Other such characters could be said to include John De Albor from “Moon of Zembabwei” (Weird Tales, February 1935, as “The Grisly Horror”), or for that matter, Conan himself.

Perhaps it is this mingling of civilized and barbaric traits that accounts for Tanoa’s extreme viciousness. In addition to making the story a little too hot, Howard may have violated the publisher’s stricture against sadomasochistic elements. When Clanton is Tanoa’s captive, the half-breed villain declares, “We’ll find the girl and make her watch while I skin him alive! I’ll make a garment of his hide and force her to wear it always about her loins to remind her how her lover died!” It is a sadistic fantasy worthy of the Marquis himself.

The other two spicy stories written by Howard and unpublished in his lifetime do not feature Wild Bill Clanton. They are “Guns of Khartum” and “Daughters of Feud.” Both merit some comment. “Guns of Khartum” is perhaps most notable for its background. It is set in the Sudan in 1885, during the fall of the besieged city of Khartum. The ten-month siege of Khartum was the culmination of an uprising of Islamic militants led by a religious figure called the Mahdi. The famed British military hero Chinese Gordon perished when Khartum fell. In Howard’s story, an American ivory hunter named Emmett Corcoran is one of the defenders of Khartum. Corcoran battles the Islamic hordes, a French renegade in league with them, and even the Mahdi himself. In a calm during the storm, he finds time for heated sex with both a virtuous white woman and a sinister woman of color.

The tale is anything but “jaunty.” An editor may well have deemed it excessive. The physical and emotional violence is unrelenting, and the sexual content is very intense. Just offstage, white city-dwellers are being slaughtered by non-white invaders. In the aftermath of the siege, the blonde heroine is enslaved in a harem for five months. At one point, the hero beds a woman he finds sexually alluring but otherwise despises. This last incident is certainly a commonplace situation, but perhaps a little too real for the spicy pulps.

In his Valentine’s Day letter to Novalyne Price, Howard mentions setting spicy stories in the South Seas, Algeria, Shanghai, and Singapore. He then mentions yet another story, this one taking place in Kentucky. This last setting is a bet of a jarring note, coming after a string of exotic locales. Kentucky seems an unlikely backdrop for glamour and intrigue. Passion crosses all boundaries, however, as Howard sought to demonstrate in a story titled “Daughters of Feud.”

The subject of feuds between rival clans fascinated Howard to some extent, and he sometimes incorporated it into his fiction. One of the Breckinridge Elkins humorous westerns is entitled “The Feud Buster.” “The Valley of the Lost” and “The Man on the Ground” are horror stories with western setting, and a feud is part of the background in each. Most notably, a feud between factions in a lost city is the subject of “Red Nails,” Howard’s final Conan tale. A feud could even serve as a catalyst for the events of a spicy story.

In “Daughters of Feud,” Braxton Brent is the new schoolteacher in the rural backwater of Whiskey Run (which is not identified as specifically being in Kentucky in the actual story.) He presides over a one-room schoolhouse in which all ages are taught --from tots to nubile nineteen-year-old girls. Two of the latter, daughters of rival feuding families, erupt into a catfight in the middle of class. Dark-haired Ann and fair-haired Joan tear at each other, ripping garments, exposing breathtaking expanses of quivering young flesh, etc. Brent breaks them up and, to maintain discipline among the other unruly students, must administer corporal punishment. After class, he takes each girl in turn to the woodshed, which embroils him in trouble with both feuding families. Things are further complicated when he is overcome with passion for the untamed rustic beauty of Joan.

Howard told Novalyne that the editors said his Kentucky story was “too hot for them to handle.” They might well have added “too rough” and “too kinky.” The lovemaking between Brent and Joan is a tad more explicit than was commonplace in 1936. However, the more objectionable elements would have been the rough stuff. The hero is threatened with castration and the heroine is threatened with gang rape. Brent’s whipping of nineteen-year-old Ann’s naked buttocks with a leather strap is described in loving detail. To protect Brent from charges of partiality, Joan displays her own marked buttocks, which she had actually lashed herself with a switch.

The instances of whipping and self-flagellation in this story are no mere matter of happenstance. Howard’s personal library included such volumes as Experiences of Flagellation, A History of the Rod, and Curiosa of Flagellants and History of Flagellation. He also wrote poetry like “Limericks to Spank By” and “Good Mistress Brown,” the latter concerning the spanking of an adult woman. This does seem to indicate that Howard’s sexual interests extended beyond a simple taste for vanilla. These particular interests, however, are by no means rare. The spanking of a grown woman is often part of a “taming of the shrew” scenario in books and movies. Those who share the interest ate titillated, with the rest of the audience none the wiser. In the movie McLintock! John Wayne spanks Maureen O’Hara --clad in soaking wet undergarments-- in front of the whole town. The film is considered wholesome family entertainment.

Returning to the saga of Wild Bill Clanton, we come to the second pair of stories, “The Purple Heart of Erlik” and “The Dragon of Kao Tsu.” These twin tales unfold in exotic Far Eastern ports teeming with danger and intrigue. Rare artifacts of great value are sought by an assortment of colorful characters. Sinister, inscrutable Oriental villains add a dash of mystery and menace. Such is the very essence of pulp fiction. It is also the sort of thing a master like Howard could write in his sleep.

“The Purple Heart of Erlik” (Spicy-Adventure Stories, November 1936) takes place in Shanghai. Wild Bill Clanton has become a darker character since we saw him last. He does not actually rape the story’s heroine, Arline Ellis, but not for want of trying. When Clanton meets Arline in Shanghai, he tells her, “I’ve made a point to run into you in a dozen ports, and you always act like I had the plague…I came to Shanghai just because I heard you were here…” In contemporary parlance, he has been stalking her. Now comes the moment of truth, “If I didn’t think you were so good-looking, I’d smack your ears back!…Now are you going to be nice or do I have to get rough?…Nobody interferes with anything that goes on in alleys behind dumps like the
Bordeaux…Any woman caught here’s fair prey.”

Arline escapes thanks to the handy pitcher she breaks over Clanton’s head. For some reason, this scene was chosen for an illustration in the pages of Spicy-Adventure. The quote from the story that accompanies the picture reads, “Not even Wild Bill Clanton could stand up under a clout like that.” Clanton has an unfortunate tendency to get hit over the head in these stories. He is stunned by a pitcher and a gun barrel, both wielded by women. On other occasions, he is knocked cold by a belaying pin and a rifle butt that hits him hard enough to break the stock. Clanton will be lucky indeed not to suffer from some form of brain damage later in life.

One can only speculate as to why Howard portrayed Clanton as such a bastard. At the time he was writing the Clanton series, Howard was also writing the humorous western adventures of the powerful but good-natured Breckinridge Elkins. Nearly a score of these stories appeared in Action Stories during the final phases of Howard’s career. After writing so many stories about a character who is constantly being lied to and taken advantage of, the author may have indulged the urge to create a character who was nobody’s fool. Invisible behind the Sam Walser pseudonym, Howard was free to give reign to his darker impulses.

“The Dragon of Kao Tsu” (Spicy-Adventure Stories, September 1936) finds Wild Bill in Singapore. Not surprisingly, he lusts after the wealthy heiress Marianne Allison throughout the story. This time, however, his lust is further fueled by class resentment: “Probably it had never occurred to Old Man Allison’s pampered daughter Marianne that a man on Clanton’s social plane would even think of making a pass at her, but he had to clench his hands to keep them off her.” Remarkably, Clanton is on his best behavior: “[T]here was a limit to even his audacity, and he didn’t dare try any rough stuff on the daughter of Old Man Allison, millionaire and wooly wolf of finance that the old devil was.” Marianne enjoys being in charge: “Feeling perfectly safe from him, she took a feminine delight in tantalizing him. She was aware of her effect on him, and she enjoyed seeing the veins in his forehead swell with frustrated emotion.”

Eventually though, Clanton gains the upper hand. Marianne becomes indebted to him, and has a scandal to avoid. Clanton suggests that, instead of money, she pay her debt with her body. Marianne feigns agreement, then reneges --by striking Clanton on the head with a gun barrel. Though momentarily stunned, Clanton is able to prevent Marianne from fleeing. Swearing that she’ll keep at least one bargain, he then takes her by force. “`You don’t dare!’ she gasped, as he drew her roughly to him. ‘You don’t dare--’ …Bill Clanton didn’t even bother to reply to her ridiculous assertion.” Afterwards, he teases her about associating with men like himself. “Her reply was unprintable, but the look in her eyes contradicted her words as she took his arm and together they went out to the street.” The End.

So it’s really all okay. Or is it? Nowadays, of course, glib rationalizations like the one Howard uses ---her lips said, “No,” but her eyes said, “Yes” -- are deemed unacceptable. No means no. Another such rationalization is “he knew her better than she knew herself.” This one is applicable to James Bond in the movie Goldfinger, in which Bond forces himself on Pussy Galore and saves the American economy by doing so. This scene occurs in one of the most popular movies ever made, a film produced decades after Howard’s death. It was not condemned when the movie was released nor, as far as I know, since. Also, the romance of the popular characters Luke and Laura on the soap opera General Hospital began with a rape, and other sympathetic rapists have been featured on daytime dramas aimed at a primarily female audience. Lest we judge Howard too harshly, we must take this into consideration.

This is not to suggest that Howard just sort of unknowingly blundered into the rape scenes that occur in the Clanton series. He knew exactly what he was doing. In the synopsis for his unwritten spicy story, the hero is held up by a girl and Howard bluntly states “he knocked the pistol out of her hand and raped her.” Interestingly, the girl falls in love with the hero. As in “The Dragon of Kao Tsu,” all’s well that ends well.

In his Valentine’s Day letter, Howard informs Novalyne Price that in the spicies, a favorite formula is for the hero to accomplish what only the villain attempts in conventional yarns. This indicates that not only were rapes by the protagonist tolerated by the editors, but also that such scenes may have been fairly commonplace. Considerable scrutiny is required to adequately account for shifts in attitudes from one era to another. At one time topless women were taboo in motion pictures; now they are a familiar fixture. Conversely, nude baby photos, once so sweet and innocent, are now regarded with suspicion. The sexual attitudes of times gone by can seem odd, ironic or mystifying to people of later eras. As an example, consider these editorial guidelines from Frank Armer, publisher of the Trojan/Culture line of Spicy magazines (reproduced in the Cryptic Publications chapbook Risqué Stories #5):

1. In describing breasts of a female character, avoid anatomical descriptions.
2. If it is necessary for the story to have a girl give herself to a man, or be taken by him, do not go too carefully into details.
3. Whenever possible, avoid complete nudity of the female characters. You can have a girl strip down to her underwear, or transparent negligee or nightgown, or the thin, torn shreds of her garments. But while the girl is alive and in contact with a man, we do not want complete nudity.
4. A nude female corpse is allowable, of course.

It is therefore difficult to gauge Howard’s personal attitudes concerning rape based on the fiction he wrote for the spicy pulps. He may have been following a common magazine format for commercial reasons, or he may have simply been in a bad mood. To be fair, one should look at how he handles the subject in his other fiction. We have previously noted that a rape/murder became the catalyst of Solomon Kane’s quest for vengeance in “Red Shadows.” The matter of rape is also touched on in a pair of stories featuring Howard’s best-known creation. Between Solomon Kane and Wild Bill Clanton, there was Conan. Howard began writing the Conan series in 1932, roughly four years after the appearance of Kane in print and four years before the appearance of Clanton. The two stories of interest at present are “The Frost-Giant’s Daughter” and “The Vale of Lost Women.” Neither saw print during Howard’s lifetime. Perhaps they were a bit too hot for the pages of Weird Tales.

“The Frost-Giant’s Daughter” is set in the far North, where Conan encounters Atlai, the daughter of the god Ymir. The siren-like Atali lures men to their doom. Conan escapes Atali’s trap, but Atali barely escapes subsequent rape by Conan. In this story, Howard suggests that Conan was under a spell, and the author allows no actual rape to take place. In “The Vale of Lost Women,” Conan agrees to aid the virgin Livia, who offers her body as an inducement. He ultimately releases her from her agreement, stating that he has never taken a woman against her will and that holding Livia to such a bargain would be no different that forcing her. For the most part, rape or abuse of women, even by villains, is not a prominent fixture in the fiction of Robert E. Howard.

The third and final pair of Wild Bill Clanton adventures is comprised of “Desert Blood” and “Murderer’s Grog.” In both, Clanton is a “fish out of water” in the sense that these exploits find him, not at sea or in port, but further inland. Both plots involve gun-running. In both we meet exotic femme fatales who seem to spend much of their time lolling about on couches, cushions and divans while wearing revealing costumes.

“Murderer’s Grog” is much darker than “Desert Blood,” however. It appears to have been written a good deal later, when time was running out for Howard. In the Valentine’s Day letter, Howard remarks, “I’ve laid my yarns in the South Seas, in Tebessa in Algeria, in Shanghai and in Singapore.” If the order Howard mentions these locales reflects the order that their respective stories were composed (and in the case of the other episodes, it does), then “Desert Blood” was the third Clanton story to be written, after “She Devil” and “Ship in Mutiny” but before “The Purple Heart of Erlik” and “The Dragon of Kao Tsu.” The fact that Clanton displays better character in “Desert Blood” than in either “Erlik” or “Kao Tsu” also suggests earlier composition. Moreover, the Valentine’s Day letter does not mention the setting for “Murderer’s Grog.” That story only arrived at the Kline literary agency two and a half months later, on April 27, 1936. Otto Binder subsequently sold it to Spicy-Adventure in May. Therefore it does seem likely that it was written after a hiatus of weeks or months following the composition of the rest of the Clanton series. This makes “Murderer’s Grog” one of the last stories Robert E. Howard ever wrote.

The earlier story, “Desert Blood,” was actually the second Clanton story to be published. It appeared in Spicy-Adventure Stories for June 1936. Howard may or may not have lived to see it in print.

Set in Algeria, “Desert Blood” opens in the chambers of the local temptress Zouza. There Zouza successfully rebuffs the advances of Clanton, her feminine wiles enabling her to manipulate him. Preying on his vanity, she is able to convince him that only by killing a lion can he prove his manhood and win her. One would think that Wild Bill Clanton, famed as a brawler and womanizer, would possess greater self-esteem, but he submits to her terms. Leaving Zouza’s chambers, Clanton immediately runs into a woman he has met in his travels. She is Augusta Evans, an American schoolteacher (like Novalyne Price) vacationing abroad. Attractive but prim and aloof, she too rebuffs Clanton. Having gotten the cold shoulder twice in less than an hour, Clanton heads for a seedy dive to drink away his frustrations.

After a bout of hard drinking, Clanton comes to his senses on the back of a mule taking him into the desert to meet his guide for the lion-hunting safari. He does not recall setting out. The safari turns out to be a ruse to get rid of Clanton, who ends up captured by the desert sheik Ahmed. Ahmed, Zouza, and another seductress, Zulaykha, are part of a plot to appropriate Clanton’s cargo of guns. Clanton is rescued by the Bedouin beauty Aicha, disguised in western garb. In the epilog, Clanton learns that Aicha appropriated her garments from Augusta Evans, last seen riding naked on a runaway donkey back towards town.

It is admittedly possible that Howard had a certain schoolteacher ex-girlfriend in mind when he created Augusta Evans. Augusta’s embarrassing predicament at the end of the story could even be viewed as a sadistic humiliation fantasy. On the other hand, taking a pompous character down a peg has long been a staple of slapstick comedy. I tend to favor the latter notion.

“Desert Blood” is fairly upbeat in tone, even “jaunty.” For once, Clanton is given an unselfish motive for his undertakings. Regarding his current gun-running, we are told “there was more than money involved. He had a genuine sympathy for these mountain tribesmen, fighting for their lives against a ruthless European power.” Sympathy for the underdog is a redeeming trait shared by a number of Howard’s more roguish protagonists. Moreover, in both his El Borak adventures and in his correspondence with Lovecraft, REH expresses anti-imperialist sentiments. In “Desert Blood,” the rakish Clanton also displays uncharacteristic warmth towards Aicha.

Similarly, Clanton is atypically circumspect in dealing with the local temptress of the tale, Zouza. When Zouza rejects him, we are told that “it was easy to seen that she was not prompted by a coquettish whim, rising from a desire to be deliciously mastered after a mock resistance.” This indicates that Clanton is somehow able to discern the difference, and is possibly intended to mitigate the sort of behavior he exhibits towards the likes of Arline Ellis and Marianne Allison. Clanton makes no move to coerce Zouza. On the contrary, he caves in to her silly demands.

For some reason, I was given to wonder about the possible inspiration for this sequence. Much has been made of Howard’s advice to H. P. Lovecraft concerning writing for the spicies; “Just write up one of your own sex adventures altered to fit the plot.” This comment has been viewed as bluster, or a playful attempt to tweak the puritanical Lovecraft, but most often dismissed with a baffled shrug. One can only offer conjecture as to what Howard actually meant by this remark.

Conceivably, he was simply describing, in admittedly grandiose terms, a process by which he took a mundane incident and inflated it to heroic proportions for fictional purposes. Perhaps the Zouza episode, for example, was inspired by some instance in which Howard went out of his way to appease a female, to the point of doing something he would normally never consider. In the more colorful world of Wild Bill Clanton, the same sort of appeasement might entail killing a lion to impress an exotic mystery woman.

Whatever the case, “Desert Blood” is one of the spicier Clanton adventures. Wild Bill encounters no less than four alluring females, and those are just among the principle characters. In the background there are also “half a dozen dancing girls who had just enough Sudanese blood in them to impart an untamed voluptuousness found only in mixed breeds.” This talk of blood imparting untamed voluptuousness is part of a motif that runs through the story and indeed the entire series. The title “Desert Blood” has less to do with actual blood spilt in the fight scenes than with blood as a metaphor for the libido. Clanton’s first sight of Aicha sets “his already hot blood a-riot.” When Zulaykha offers herself, “not even the realization that only a miracle could keep his severed head from rolling in the sand within the next hour could cool the customary ardor of his reckless blood.” Just as in the South Seas, when the “magnificent figure” of Lailu “drove a pulse of passion through his blood in spite of his plight.” In Singapore, the mere sight of Marianne Allison crossing her legs “made the blood boil to his head.” There was no place in the pages of Spicy-Adventure Stories for either crude talk of “blue balls” or timid, clinical references to “raging hormones.” “Blood” was by far a more apt metaphor for passion. “Blood” alone could denote either sex or violence. It was a strong word Robert E. Howard made frequent, skillful use of.

“Murderer’s Grog” did not appear in Spicy-Adventure until the January 1937 issue. By that time, Howard had been moldering in his grave for half a year, the feast over, the lamps expired. “Murderer’s Grog” lingered like a bad aftertaste. Befitting its title, the last of Wild Bill Clanton’s exploits is a bitter hangover of a story. The bare bones of the plot are stark: Clanton attempts to rape a woman and is thwarted, but after a night at the bottle he resolves to try again and is successful. Fleshed out, the story is like a dark shadow of “Desert Blood.” The plot and location are similar, but the tone is redolent of bitterness and pain.

“Murderer’s Grog” takes place in British India, recalling the French Algeria setting of “Desert Blood.” Clanton is on another gun-running mission. Once again the story opens with Clanton’s visit to a local femme fatale. Sonya Ormanoff is a mysterious adventuress involved in secret dealings. Like Zouza, she enjoys lounging around in a revealing costume. Also like Zouza, Sonya attempts to brush Clanton off though she had previously displayed an interest in him. This time, however, Clanton is not to be distracted by a snipe-hunting trip. He carries her roughly to the couch and begins to undo her clothes, but gets no further. Sonya has burly male henchmen at her beck and call. Though Clanton fights ferociously, he is overwhelmed by their numbers. He is thrown out of Sonya’s apartment and down a flight of stairs. Sonya’s maid follows him into the courtyard “to indulge in the age-old feminine sport of taunting the fallen.”

As in the previous story, Clanton seeks to drown his troubles at this point. Once again, he heads for a vice den to brood, ogle dancing girls, and drink. Wild Bill’s hard drinking has been duly noted throughout the series. In “She Devil,” we are told that “liquor was to him what moonlight and perfume are to some men.” Indeed, the very sight of bottles of booze make Clanton’s eyes glisten. In “The Dragon of Kao Tsu,” Clanton is drinking in a bar when first seen. Eyeing Marianne Allison’s figure as she walks away from him causes Clanton to "moan with despair and grab the whiskey bottle.” In “Desert Blood,” Clanton retires to a hideaway where he “sat and drank and drank and drank…” As a result of that particular binge, he experiences a lapse of memory symptomatic of a problem drinker. Now Clanton’s career as a drinking man reaches a culmination in a story whose very title speaks of strong drink.

Swaggering into a local dive, Clanton demands “'something liquid with a kick.'” When he repeats his demand for “'liquid dynamite,'” he is offered brandy and even opium. Unknown to Clanton, he has enemies nearby, rival gun dealers. They bribe the bartender to serve him a concoction called bhang. Bhang is known as the drink of murder, capable of inducing homicidal madness. Clanton’s foes hope it will cause him to attack a British official he had a run-in with earlier. His subsequent arrest would get him out of the way.

Clanton drinks the bhang and calls for more. Soon he flies into a rage, abusing a dancer and challenging any man in the house to a fight. When no one takes up the challenge, he storms out. But instead of seeking out the British official, he heads back to Sonya Ormanoff. He fights his way through the henchmen. At the end of the tale, Clanton rapes Sonya and leaves her in tears before heading off to complete his gun deal. Here ends the saga of Wild Bill Clanton.

This time there is no question of the woman’s eyes belying her protests, or of Clanton intuitively discerning here repressed desire. Instead, Clanton simply dismisses her sobbing and abject humiliation with a shrug of his shoulders. No excuse is offered for his behavior, other than the revelation that Sonya was a Communist and plotted his downfall. But Clanton knew neither of these things the first time he attempted to take her. Neither was the bhang, the rage-inducing “murderer’s grog,” a factor by the end. Howard goes out of his way to mention that the fight with Sonya’s henchmen cleared Clanton’s head, and that he is in full command of his faculties when he rapes Sonya. The one truly extenuating circumstance, the malign influence of the murderer’s grog, is discarded by the author like an empty beer can.

Sonya Ormanoff is a character who deserved better treatment, by Howard as well as Clanton. We are told that she is a white woman who lives among the natives. “She was blond, with a glorious wealth of light gold hair, and her flesh was a purely white as unstained Northern snow.” Using terms like “purely white” and “unstained” serve to make Clanton’s defilement of Sonya seem all the more heinous. Sonya is comfortable in a foreign milieu and at ease wearing Eastern garb. Sonya had the potential to be the most interesting of all the Clanton women, a female counterpart to Howard adventurers like El Borak and Kirby O’Donnell. Instead, she is treated like a cheap throwaway.

After raping Sonya, Clanton muses, “There was no mercy in the game she played, and she had no reason to expect any.” And in the real world, that is the plain truth of the matter. A man who traffics with dangerous individuals runs the risk of being beaten up and/or killed. A woman who does so runs the risk of rape in addition to being beaten up and/or killed. But in the “jaunty” pages of Spicy-Adventure Stories, it is an extremely harsh lesson for a female character to learn at the hands of the story’s hero.

The bold adventuress Sonya Ormanoff is humbled in “Murderer’s Grog,” but Clanton himself seems little better off. As introduced in “She Devil,” Wild Bill Clanton is a self-assured winner. He starts out with nothing but a pair of pants and within twenty-four hours acquires an alluring lover and his own ship. In “Murderer’s Grog,” he is beleaguered and at bay. “Smoldering rage at the world in general, smarting vanity, and thwarted desire combined to make Bill Clanton a raging demon.” He give in to brooding and bitterly cursing his fate. “‘The British!’ raged Clanton, clenching his huge fists. ‘Always the damned British--’” This from a man who, in “Ship in Mutiny,” had nary a worry at all about escaping a British warship that was hunting him down.

Emblematic of Clanton’s desperation is his isolation from his natural element --the sea. The first pair of Clanton tales takes place in the South Seas, the second pair in Oriental port cities. “Desert Blood” takes place further inland, but only a hundred miles or so. “Murderer’s Grog,” on the other hand, is set far from any ocean. We are told that Clanton came to India from Russia, bringing his guns by camel train all the way through landlocked Afghanistan. “Desert Blood” contains a number of references to his identity as a seafarer. Clanton is “a man of the sea” whose face is “browned by the sun of the Seven Seas.” In “Murderer’s Grog,” however, there is but a lone fleeting mention of him walking with “the lurching roll of a seaman” as he heads off in search of liquor to drown his misery.

Clanton begins the series as a rogue and ends as a scoundrel. His later behavior is certain to be regarded as reprehensible by many modern readers, especially if they’re women. Naturally enough, he receives no comeuppance in stories written for the spicy pulps of yesteryear. Still, in “Murderer’s Grog,” he seems a man without a future. Given his drinking binges and repeated head injuries, he may well end up the toughest mug in the nursing home.

Howard began writing spicy stories as Sam Walser late in his career for purely commercial reasons. At the same time, he was busy with other projects as well. His humorous western tales of Breckinridge Elkins were popular with readers of Action Stories, and he created similar westerns for other magazines. Shortly before his death he sold the first installments in a new western series that had been commissioned by the editor of the prestigious and high-paying Argosy. Ultimately he was successful in recouping his finances. June 1936 saw Howard stories published in no less than five different magazines --Action Stories, Cowboy Stories, Spicy-Adventure Stories, Thrilling Mystery, and Weird Tales. In “Lone Star Fictioneer,” an essay recounting Howard’s writing career published in The Last Celt, Glenn Lord notes, “By the spring of 1936, he was enjoying an all-time high in sales.” David Drake echoes this fact in his introduction to the Howard paperback collection Cthulhu: The Mythos and Kindred Horrors, observing, “By 1936, Howard was selling regularly to Argosy, one of the top three pulp markets of the day. Robert E. Howard was thirty years old, and his career was about to take off.”

By most accounts, then, Howard’s career was back on track. But how did Howard himself feel about it? In another letter to Novalyne Price, written in late February 1936, he speaks of “my mother’s life ebbing away before my eyes, with my father breaking up and aging before me with the worry and strain we both labor under, and I myself faced with the wreckage of all my life’s plans and labors, and the utter ruin of my career.” (emphasis added) The fact that he went on to take his life a few months later indicates that Howard’s mood did not improve along with his finances. Perhaps money was not everything. Tales of heroic fantasy Howard written a year or more before were still appearing in Weird Tales. Now, these only served to remind him of his glory days.

The fiction of Robert E. Howard is for the most part lacking in misogynistic elements. Not so the fiction of Sam Walser. In the vast range of fiction Howard wrote under his own name, whenever a woman suffers, we are most often meant to feel empathy. This holds true whether in the case of the sadistic abuse of Joan in the horror story “Pigeons from Hell,” or in regards to the terror experienced by Yasmina at the hands of the Master of Yimsha in the Conan adventure, “The People of the Black Circle.” But in one of Howard’s final stories, “Murderer’s Grog,” we find the author in a bitter mood indeed. In the spring of 1936, Robert E. Howard saw the world becoming a very dark place. On June 11, he turned out the last light as he left it.

Guns of the Border Region -- Chapter Three

2009-05-14T17:33:00.000-07:00

[The novel Guns of the Border Region is now nearing completion, so I decided to post another chapter. It takes place in the future history I've outlined in Twilight's Last Gleaming. New readers can scroll down for previous chapters of the novel. It's a work in progress; I've moved a little of the information from Chapter One to this chapter, since posting that chapter. You can also scroll down to read various portions of the future history, or a short version of the entire history. With the novel, I'm attempting to package my ideas in an entertaining, commercially viable form. The story takes place in the next century after the US has broken apart, and concerns the exploits of the sexy girl outlaw Shadow and her encounters with various dangerous characters. Think of it as "The Road Warrior" meets "Pulp Fiction." Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman.

CHAPTER THREE -- INDIAN SUMMER

Weirton was, if anything, an even wilder and rougher town than Steubenville, but Shadow and Christian tried to stay out of trouble. They planned to spend the following day and another night there to rest up before finally heading into Westsylvania.

Having checked into the Gilman during the dark hours before dawn, they slept till well past noon. Upon arising the oddly-matched pair went to a late lunch. On Shadow’s recommendation, they ate at a small diner on the main drag with a full deli counter. The place was called Isaly’s, and like everything else in Weirton, it was old. Upon entering Christian took note of the chrome fixtures and the small marble tiles of the floor, mentally identifying the deli’s furnishings as late art deco or mid 20th Century modern.

Shadow ordered sandwiches of some pinkish-colored luncheon meat, sliced paper thin, that she referred to as “chipped ham.” Christian was not familiar with it, but it seemed to Shadow that it was to his liking. Just to make sure, she asked, “Enjoying your lunch, Church-boy?”

Christian looked at her oddly, as though annoyed, but didn’t reply with his mouth full. Instead, he just nodded.

Shadow’s plans for the evening involved taking Christian to a series of dive bars. They would keep to the background. Shadow wasn’t looking for more action; she merely wanted to point out to Christian how things went down in those places. If they were to be traveling together, she wanted him to acquire more in the way of street awareness.

Entering the first such place, she guided him to a small table in a dimly-lit area near the back. The location commanded a good view of the entire place, including exits, and limited the directions from which others could approach them. Shadow instructed Christian to wait at the table. She returned momentarily with two beers.
“I don’t actually drink,” he told her.

“You were drinking last night.”

“I was trying to blend in.”

“Well, try blending in some more. Drink up, Church-boy.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Don’t all you people in the Confederacy go to church all the time?”

“Not all the time. What about you?”

Shadow quaffed part of her beer before answering. “I’ve seen a lot of bad shit, sonny. If there’s a God he can kiss my rosy red ass.”

“Does everyone in the Border Region feel that way?”

“Nah, most of `em are Christian. They’re just not nuts about it.”

Christian didn’t deign to reply to this last remark. He had been praying for her last night, when she’d burst in on him, but he didn’t tell her that.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Shadow informed him, “I have good friends among the Amish.” The comment was aimed at smoothing things over. That was unusual for her. Normally, if people didn’t like something she said, they could go fuck themselves. Suddenly angry at herself, she felt moved to add, “And besides, I had plenty of your good Christian brethren come over from the Confederacy to buy my wares.”

“What sort of wares?” Christian gasped, paling as though this might be something he really didn’t care to hear about.

“Marijuana,” she said flatly, “That’s what I did all summer before heading back home by way of Wheeling. I was growing and selling pot in Transylvania.”
If Christian felt any disapproval concerning the actual revelation, it didn‘t show on his face. Instead he simply remarked, “I never understood why that part of the Border Region was called ‘Transylvania.’ The name makes me think of the one in Europe. You know…”

“Ah, yes. ‘Land of dark forests, dread mountains and black unfathomed lakes,’” Shadow replied playfully, quoting from some movie she had seen, “The home of Count Dracula.” Then her tone became more somber. “Too bad the real Dracula isn’t still around.”

Christian nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. The historical Dracula, Vlad the Impaler, had actually ruled the neighboring kingdom of Wallachia. A warrior prince, he had expelled the Muslim forces of the Ottoman Empire from the regions that later became Romania. Not that it had mattered in the long run. Romania and its neighbors east, west, north and south had all ultimately been subsumed into the Islamic Federation of Europe, the leviathan that had smashed the Old Union
Christian finally took that drink. “So how did ‘Transylvania’ get to be the name of what used to be the northern part of Kentucky of all places?” he asked.
Shadow explained. “Transylvania”, which simply meant “the land beyond the forest,” had been the name of a short-lived colony in the 18th Century. It had been established in the region later known as Kentucky. The Transylvania Colony had been founded by Richard Henderson in 1775, after he purchased the land from the local Indians. The area had been explored by no less a trailblazer than Daniel Boone himself. In the following year 1776, however, Virginia, which then claimed all lands to its west, invalidated Henderson’s purchase. Otherwise, Transylvania might have become a fourteenth colony and one of the original United States. A college named Transylvania University was founded in Lexington, Kentucky (later Lexington, Transylvania) in 1780, and famous alumni included Stephen Austin and Jefferson Davis. It was still in operation, and Shadow had visited the campus. By the late 21st Century, following the aftermath of World War III, the northern counties of Kentucky were commonly seen as part of the Border Region. When the Old Union was formally dissolved, they seceded from their parent state and adopted the old name of Transylvania.

Shadow went on to explain a little more about her livelihood, in an effort to forestall any further misunderstandings on Christian’s part. She had staked out some land deep in the woods of a remote rural county in western Transylvania to cultivate her marijuana crop. This was not a problem with such local authorities as existed in the sparsely inhabited region. She had selected the area with that in mind, but a more important consideration was its proximity to the Confederacy states of Kentucky, Tennessee, Missouri, and Arkansas. There was little to prevent pot-smokers in outlying rural areas of the Border Region from growing their own supply, which they also commonly used in barter. While some of Shadow’s customers did hail from the Region, the majority were Confederates in search of forbidden fruit. Among the latter, the more daring ones smuggled their purchases back home. However, it was also common to hole up in a rundown motel or some such place within the Border Region for weekend pot parties. That way they steered clear of possible discovery and censure by their more righteous neighbors and peers back home, which would entail denunciation from the pulpit as well as legal consequences.

During the growing season, Shadow lived an isolated backwoods existence. That was why she had been eager to go on a tear in Wheeling, to relieve the pent-up tension of long, lonely months. Not that she had been a total hermit; there had been visits to such taverns as could be found along the rural roads and in the tiny hamlets that dotted the region. And she had neighbors close by, a gay couple occupying a small cabin. In return for a cut of the profits, they helped Shadow out and kept an eye on things when she was abroad during the off-season.

It was important to have partners. After all, it was not like Shadow had the drug trade to herself. There were others in nearby areas who would be happy to force her out, alive or dead, and grab her share of the market. Therefore she had wisely invested in things like guard dogs and night vision goggles, not to mention a shit-load of weapons.

In undertaking these measures, Shadow was merely exercising reasonable caution. She was not unduly worried about a drug war breaking out. Most of the other dealers concentrated on the manufacture and sale of harder drugs, something Shadow wanted no part of. That being the case, she was not in direct competition with them. The hard drug trade was both easier and more profitable. Still, its appeal was limited to the rougher outlaw elements of the Border Region. Shadow’s marijuana, on the other hand, was sought by the sort of mostly-respectable, fairly well-to-do Confederacy citizen that would give a wide berth to anything harder. That was a market worth getting a piece of, so Shadow did have some cause for concern. Therefore she had entered into a mutual-defense pact with other small-time marijuana growers in the region. It was important for her, her partners, and her associates to maintain a strong posture, so as not to tempt rivals by appearing weak. In the absence of that temptation, the status quo would be maintained and peace would prevail.

An outbreak of drug violence was something to be avoided. It would cause nearby Confederates to shun the Border Region like the plague, thus defeating the purpose of seizing the local marijuana trade. It would also force the local militia of the western Transylvania counties to band together to settle the matter. In doing so they would eschew such niceties as arrests and trials and so forth. No one wanted that.

Shadow gauged Christian’s reactions as she explained all this. He just sat quietly, taking it all in. That was good; he knew when to talk and when to listen. Based on what she had observed of him so far, she pegged him as naïve and clueless, but a fast learner. She now commenced to continue his education in the ways of the world.
Their vantage point in the bar afforded them a good view of the various patrons. Shadow instructed Christian in regards to the different types that frequented such places, explaining what their mannerisms and quirks revealed about them. She started with the fairly obvious; the loud drunk and the quiet drunk. In her opinion, loud drunks were basically insecure, needing to prove to themselves that they were having a good time. Insecurity was indicative of other personality problems, which could be a source of trouble. From there she described the various levels of intoxication, from buzzed to plastered, and how judgment and motor skills were affected at each level. She added her personal observations, such as how whiskey drunks were meaner than beer drunks. The real players in the outlaw trade were better at holding their booze. Shadow explained some more of the differences between pros and amateurs. Amateurs tended to be heedless; pros were always observant.

Taking their leave of the first joint, they moved on to one with more action. There Shadow taught Christian the basics of body language, as well as what various tattoos and modes of dress revealed about an individual’s personality, group affiliation, and culture. The second place also had gambling and more women. Therefore it was a perfect laboratory for the study of how fights broke out. Hardcore troublemakers, those who went out looking to indulge their penchant for mayhem, would start the ball rolling on the flimsiest of pretexts. These could be spotted a mile off, and an experienced street-fighter would be prepared for anything they might throw at them. The unwary, however, could be drawn into a violent confrontation without even realizing they were headed that way. This could come about whether the other guy had started out looking for trouble or not. Immersed in that volatile witches’ brew of booze, women, money, and a highly-charged atmosphere, egos grew large and tempers grew short.

Shadow now explained the difference between fights and combat. Fights were to establish dominance. People could and did get injured in them, sometimes severely, occasionally fatally. But there was a certain code about these things. Once a clear victor emerged, it was over and the matter settled. The former foes might even end up drinking together. Combat was a different story, however. Once somebody pulled a gun or a knife --and nearly everyone in Weirton was packing something-- it was combat, a matter of life or death. When it got to that point, the proprietor would usually haul out a sawed-off shotgun from behind the bar, force everyone to settle down, and eject the troublemakers. Every now and then some hardcore psycho would start shit looking to make a kill. These were rare cases; once someone acquired the psycho reputation, their days were numbered. Some civic-minded individual would take said psycho down by bushwhacking him when no one else was around.

Life-and-death combats were far from nightly occurrences in the vice dens of the Border Region, even in Weirton. The norm was the so-called “friendly” brawl, although such a fracas could hardly be described as a good clean fight. Shadow hoped Christian would catch a live demonstration of one here tonight, and so he did. Unfortunately, as fate would have it, it was as a participant, not a spectator.
They were at the bar ordering drinks when a guy came over and started hitting on Shadow. He either hadn’t noticed Christian, or didn’t care. Clad in jeans and a leather vest that left his thickly-muscled arms bare, he looked to be a typical Weirton tough. As such, his pick-up banter left much to be desired.

“Hiya, babe. Haven’t seen you before. People around here call me Big Jim.”

“Really?” Shadow replied coolly. “Big Jim” was actually only average height, and therefore shorter than Shadow. She devoutly hoped that he wasn’t going to explain that his nickname actually referred to his dick.

If Big Jim took notice of her icy tone, he gave no indication of it. “Waddaya say you and me grab ourselves a cozy little booth and get to know each other better?”

“Uh, thanks, but I’m already with someone.”

Big Jim raised an eyebrow as he looked Christian over. With his clean-cut looks and square-john duds, the latter looked as out of place as if he were wearing a powder blue tuxedo and had gotten lost on the way to the prom.

“Who’s this, your kid brother?” Jim snarled. “Why don’t you lose this wimp and get with a real man?”

“Because I’d rather fuck my kid brother,” she told him.

“Okay skank, fuck you. I don’t need skunk pussy like you anyway. Adios, bitch.”

Big Jim turned to walk away. Just then Shadow was startled to hear another voice ring out sharply at her side, cutting through the bar’s din.

“That is no way to speak to a lady! You, sir, are no gentleman!”

It was Church-boy, sure enough. Thanks, Big Mouth, Shadow thought, Now I’m going to have to fight this asshole to get you out of this.

Big Jim turned back towards them, grinning. “Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?”

In answer, Christian stepped back smoothly into a boxing stance, chin lowered, guard raised, bobbing lightly on his feet. Shadow was surprised. Clearly the boy had some training. (He later informed her that he had “boxed a little in college.”) The crowd cleared a space for them as Big Jim advanced.

As he stomped forward, Big Jim cocked back his fist to deliver a roundhouse right. He thought so little of his opponent that he was going for a one-punch knockout. Christian glided in to meet him, putting him off his stride with two quick left jabs to the kisser. Catching on quickly that kid brother had some moves, Big Jim danced back in time to avoid the right cross Christian launched as a follow-up.

First blood to Church-boy, Shadow thought, watching with the other bystanders. But she knew that his moment of glory was destined to be short-lived. Christian was fighting like he was in the ring. In actuality he was moving about on a concrete floor slippery with spilled drinks, hemmed in by the crowd, with broken glass here and there as well as hard furnishings to trip over and fall against. Moreover, his opponent could hardly be expected to abide by the Marquis of Queensbury rules. Shadow realized, to her horror, that Christian probably didn’t even know enough to guard against a ball shot. It was true that Big Jim would be in hot water if he allowed a trained boxer to get up to speed. The trouble was that no street-fighter worth his salt was going to let that happen.

Big Jim renewed his attack, unclenching his fists and wading back in with open hands. Going for the grapple, Shadow thought. Nor was she wrong. Jim knew that if he went in fast, grabbed kid brother and hurled him to the ground, it wouldn’t matter how good a boxer the kid was.

With no room to backpeddle, Christian had no choice but to try to intercept his opponent. Stepping up, he attempted to nail Jim with a straight punch to the face. Jim deflected the blow by swatting it aside, then grabbed Christian’s shirt front with both hands and jerked him roughly off balance. He kicked at Christian’s instep, causing him to tumble to the floor. Christian went down hard, but twisted to avoid striking his head against the floor. He was momentarily stunned, and Big Jim gave him no time to recover his wits much less regain his feet. Christian could only curl into a ball as Jim commenced to viciously kick and stomp him. Wearing heavy boots, Jim would be able to grind his fallen foe into paste in fairly short order.

He doubtless would have done so had not Shadow intervened. She began to move the second Christian hit the floor and was on Big Jim in a flash. She smashed the heel of her open palm into the side of Jim’s head to loosen him up, then flipped him onto the bar and rained hammer-fists onto his upturned face until he stopped squirming. It was a simple technique, crude but effective; she struck with the bottom of her clenched fist over and over just like she was pounding a table. Big Jim slid off the bar and dropped to the floor like a sack of manure. Christian had already risen, and Shadow’s quick inspection found no signs of serious injury.

Shadow decided to call it a night after that. She knew that she ought to be mad at Christian, but couldn’t bring herself to rebuke him. For one thing, she’d learned that Church-boy wasn’t a total creampuff. And there was something else she had noticed. Big Jim had belittled Christian, and Christian had let it slide. It had only been when Jim had insulted her that Christian had called him out. She couldn’t help but feel touched by that.

Back at the hotel, Shadow examined Christian more closely for cuts, abrasions and signs of a concussion. He stubbornly refused to take his underwear off, but she still considered the examination satisfactory.

Before they retired to their separate rooms, she kissed him goodnight. She felt that he ought to be kissed since he had just lost his bar fight cherry.

#

They cleared out of Weirton the next morning. Christian’s face was unmarked from the fight, but the side of his body was one big bruise. Pulled muscles made bike riding difficult. Shadow had some first aid supplies in one of her saddle bags, including a variety of meds. She gave him a pill that made the pain go far, far away. Then they headed east on old Route 22.

The Weirton city limits ended at the state line. Once they were out of town, they were in Westsylvania. At last, Shadow thought contentedly, There’s no place like home. Once Weirton had fallen behind them, Shadow relaxed. She even allowed Christian to see her smile.

The weather was warm and sultry. Shadow rode without her duster. A few weeks earlier, it had been rather chilly. Now the sun blazed hotly in a clear cobalt sky, illuminating the autumn foliage of the surrounding countryside. Leaves of bright yellow, deep reds, vivid orange and gold dazzled the sight. The scent of new-mown hay was in the air. Occasionally one saw patches of pumpkins and squash. Indian summer had come to Westsylvania.

After several miles of gradual uphill travel they reached a high crest. Shadow reined in her horse at the side of the road but did not dismount. Christian stopped alongside her. He thought she looked magnificent sitting there astride the stallion, but Shadow directed his gaze elsewhere. With a wave of her hand, she indicated the landscape stretching out below. It was a patchwork of hills, woods and farmland dotted with a few tiny hamlets. The riot of autumn colors created a breathtaking vista.

“Take a look, Churchy,” she told him, “October in Westsylvania will make you feel great to be alive.”

So will spring in North Carolina, Christian thought to himself. And to his surprise he felt a sudden longing to show it to her one day. For now, though, he had to admit that these rolling hills, painted in their sere autumn leaves, were a glorious sight. The land possessed a vibrant natural beauty distinct even from the wilds of West Virginia he had passed through.

For Shadow, this was the best time to be back. Westsylvania autumn eased the mind and warmed the heart. She considered it a form of recompense. Summer and winter here toughened the spirit. The region had long been known for its brutal temperature extremes. Humid sweltering summers followed bitter cold winters, sometimes seeming to skip spring altogether. It was a climate that had felled many a pioneer. Shadow’s own childhood memories of summer were crowded with rank weeds and maddening insects. For every fond memory of a snowy winter wonderland, there were a dozen more of when there was no snow --just frigid rain, icy winds and blasting sleet. Then the land had looked as cold and dark, hard and barren as a lump of coal. Autumn, however, always brought to her a somber sense of peace, as though she had come home to some golden Valhalla.

Shadow and Christian continued on their way, taking their time. They stopped at stores, motels and diners along the way so Christian could inquire about his runaway girlfriend, Angel. Shadow told him this would be a good place to begin his search. Meadville and Erie were due north. Both were located in the narrow corridor, still part of old Pennsylvania, that linked the Islamic states of the Northeast to those of the Midwest. Using either Meadville or Erie as a jumping-off point, Angel could head east towards New York or west towards Chicago. Assuming, of course, that her ultimate destination lay within the Islamic States of America.

Shadow gauged Christian’s reaction to the notion and watched his face grow dark with repressed anger. Ah ha! She had known he was holding back the whole story, and had suspected something of the sort. To her mind, Christianity could be strict and repressive enough for anyone. Even so, she knew that many women and men converted to Islam because of a need for “structure,” whatever the hell that was. Shadow refused to waste time even thinking about what they meant by that. Instead, she thought about the saccharine little candy-ass in the picture Christian had shown her. “Angel” looked like just the sort to walk right over a nice guy like Christian to get to some bastard who would treat her like shit. Some women were like that.

Rather than upset Christian further, Shadow kept these last thoughts to herself. They spent the night in an old abandoned house, one of the many to be found in semi-rural areas of the Border Region. Inside, they gathered broken bits of wooden furniture and heaped it in the fireplace along with fallen branches from the yard. It caught fire easily, and Christian and Shadow unrolled their sleeping bags before the crackling blaze. They retired after a simple foodpaste supper. Shadow slept lightly as always, ears alert for intruders. Of course, the horse tethered out back would raise a ruckus if anything came around, but Shadow’s habit of light sleeping was deeply ingrained.

Christian awoke the next morning to find that Shadow had risen some time previous. “I’ve fed and watered Incitatus,” she told him, “We need to get going.” She now informed him of their next destination. She would be heading into downtown Pittsburgh to take care of some business. Christian’s curiosity was piqued. Greater Pittsburgh, which encompassed all of Allegheny County and some adjacent regions, was arguably the most eminent of the Border Region’s so-called “city-states.” Downtown Pittsburgh itself would be the largest urban area Christian would encounter since leaving the Confederacy.

As they were preparing to depart, Christian noticed Shadow packing both her gun and her bowie knife into one of her horse’s saddlebags. In the major city-states, law and order held far stronger sway than in the outlying regions. Shadow, however, never went anywhere completely naked of weapons. She carried a small but deadly Spyderco folding knife clipped to her pants waist and concealed by her utility belt.
Shortly after setting out, the travelers took their leave of the main route they had been traversing. Further on, it had been rendered impassible during the war and remained closed to this day. They proceeded instead along Noblestown Road, a long narrow byway that wound its way through the hills and suburbs.

Presently Shadow and Christian entered the Pittsburgh city limits. They approached the downtown area through a section called West End. The buildings along the main drag here were old, but the activity and commerce Christian observed conveyed a sense of renewal. He looked forward to seeing the heart of the city, but as yet the downtown area still remained hidden by the surrounding hills.

At length they passed beneath a railroad bridge at a place called West End Circle to emerge onto a busy highway that ran along the banks of the Ohio River. Since reaching the greater Pittsburgh area, Christian had begun to notice more motor vehicles on the roads. Most were official and emergency vehicles powered by the latest generation of hybrid engines. There were numerous horse-drawn and peddle-powered conveyances as well. The pair merged into the traffic swarming along the thoroughfare.

Up ahead, in the vast triangle where the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers formed the Ohio, lay downtown Pittsburgh. The travelers paused by the roadside for a few minutes to better appreciate their view of the Pittsburgh skyline. It was a new sight to Christian, but not to Shadow. Her grandfather had come from Pittsburgh. In his day the city’s skyline had been dominated by the sixty-story rust-colored shaft of the U.S. Steel Building. Shadow’s grandfather considered the long-ago demise of Pittsburgh’s steel industry a milestone that heralded the decline of the Old Union. The Steel Building suffered serious structural damage during the War. Shadow’s grandfather had lived to see it demolished.

Now the most imposing structure on the Pittsburgh skyline was the massive complex that Christian mentally dubbed “the Black Castle.” Consisting of a central forty-story tower surrounded by smaller buildings of matching design, the complex was a neo-Gothic fortress constructed of black glass. For all its sharp angles and smooth glossy surfaces, it suggested the spires and battlements of some strange castle to be found on an alien world. Since the glass was opaque from the outside, the buildings had no visible windows. Shadow informed Christian that the complex was actually called PPG Place, and that it had been built as the corporate headquarters of a major glass company. Construction had been completed in 1984. To Christian, the Black Castle looked as though it had been hewn by giants from cyclopean cliffs of jet or obsidian, then honed and polished to a high gloss.

He was still staring at the Black Castle when Shadow spurred Incitatus into motion. Christian followed the great stallion on his bicycle. Their route took them along the shadowy base of Mt. Washington and onto the Fort Pitt Bridge. The bridge led over the Monongahela River and into downtown Pittsburgh. At one time a tunnel through the mountain had opened onto the bridge, providing direct access to the downtown area from communities to the south. The Fort Pitt Tunnel had been collapsed during the War, however, and never rebuilt. Now travelers were forced to circumvent Mt. Washington by various alternate routes.

Crossing over the bridge, Christian felt a sense of relief upon reaching a major outpost of civilization. The bridge led directly onto Liberty Avenue, one of the downtown area’s main arteries. As Christian and Shadow made their way up the street, he noticed that an older mode of transportation, the trolley, had made a comeback. Throngs of pedestrians crowded busy sidewalks. Christian mentally likened the scene to Renaissance Italy, when a vital new culture began to emerge amidst the ruins of a fallen empire.

The pair proceeded uptown several blocks to a multi-level parking garage, part of which had been converted to stables. There Shadow corralled the pinto and Christian stowed his bicycle. They passed a number of automobiles parked on a different level of the same structure. Some of the makes and models were unfamiliar to Christian, and he pointed these out to Shadow.

“ISA imports,” she remarked, “Say what you want about the Islamic States, but some of the best cars in the world are coming out of Detroit these days.”
After departing the garage, the pair headed back down Liberty Avenue on foot. Shadow led the way. She took Christian down a side street into a small park-like square surrounded by various taverns, eateries and market places. “This is Market Square,” she informed him, “The whole Border Region actually got its start here.”
Shadow recounted how the first small demonstration protesting the adoption of Islamic law in Pennsylvania had assembled in the square. From this had sprung the Westsylvania secession movement. Christian had, of course, read of the Pennsylvania Uprising. He recalled how the old state of Pennsylvania had been torn asunder by rioting and rebellion which spread to other affected states following the Special Election of 2081.

Christian pointed to a curious blue flag fluttering on a nearby flagpole. In the center of the blue field was the emblem of an eagle, surrounded by thirteen six-pointed stars. “I saw that flag a lot in West Virginia too,” he said. Shadow explained that the flag had originated in the Whiskey Rebellion of the 1790s, when farmers of the Western Pennsylvania frontier had revolted against an excise tax on whiskey levied by the George Washington administration. During the Pennsylvania Uprising nearly three centuries later, the Whiskey Rebellion flag was carried by Freedom Marchers marching on the state capital of Harrisburg. In the following decades, it came to be flown from Transylvania to Westsylvania as kind of an unofficial flag of the Border Region.

From Market Square they proceeded to PPG Place, the “Black Castle” that Christian had found so ominous. As they crossed the vast open courtyard, Christian gaped pensively at the smooth black glass walls that loomed up eerily about him. He wondered what business Shadow had in such a place.

As it turned out, she had an account at a bank branch located within the complex. It was here that she deposited a good portion of the rather large sum of cash she had been carrying in her utility belt. The New American Confederacy, the Free Republic of Alaska, and the Border Region all made use of a common currency (the “American Dollar”), although in practice the currency of the Islamic States was also commonly accepted in transactions in northern parts of the Border Region. Shadow had a number of bank accounts here and there in the more civilized parts of the Region. Elsewhere she had buried hidden caches of jewelry and silver dollars from the Old Union.

At the bank, Christian deposited two thousand dollars into Shadow’s account --payment for two weeks of service as guide and bodyguard. He had ample funds loaded onto cards that could be used in the manner of old-time travelers’ checks. He also used one of his cards to withdraw some cash. Online banking was pretty much a thing of the past in most of the Border Region. During the War, telecommunications networks had been devastated, both by direct enemy action and sabotage, as thoroughly as the physical infrastructure. Afterwards, Federal recovery aid was cut to the rebellious areas that eventually formed the Border Region. Now the extent of telecommunications and other basic services varied widely from county to county. There were local intranets in operation, but only the largest population centers had full access to the world-wide web.

After their banking was completed, Shadow took Christian to lunch at a place called the Oyster House on Market Square. The place was actually an incredibly ancient tavern with some tables for diners. Furnishings were of old, darkly stained wood adorned with brass fixtures. The walls were decorated with framed group photographs of contestants in the Miss America Pageant. This was a beauty contest that had been held annually throughout the 20th Century in Atlantic City, now a part of the Islamic States of America. Shadow informed her companion that the Oyster House was actually the oldest restaurant in Pittsburgh and had long been famed for its giant-sized fish sandwiches.

Christian expressed surprise that seafood was available so far into the Border Region. “Pittsburgh gets a lot of stuff shipped in by rail,” she told him, “A lot of railway routes were wrecked during the War. Horseshoe Curve to the east of here was totally demolished, for instance, and new routes had to go around it. Of course, the rail lines pass through some pretty dark territory without much in the way of law and order. So the rail barons made arrangements with authorities in some of the Podunk counties to house private security personnel on their turf to protect the railroad interests. It’s something I might look into when I get too old for this shit and want a regular job. But I can’t believe how much Pittsburgh is booming. It’s even bigger now than when I was through here just last year.”

Corporations had discovered that there were benefits to doing business in the Border Region. In Pittsburgh they could take advantage of a free-wheeling Hong Kong-type environment free for the most part from burdensome regulations and restrictions. They were also poised to conduct commerce with both the Christian South and the Islamic North, as the Confederacy and the ISA were commonly referred to in the Border Region. The Region’s most vital urban centers were Pittsburgh, the largest city in Westsylvania; Cincinnati, located at the convergence of southern Ohio, southern Indiana and Transylvania; and Wheeling, the crossroads boomtown in West Virginia’s northern panhandle.

After lunch, Shadow and Christian took up the search for Christian’s runaway sweetheart. Once again Shadow felt like telling him that it was a stupid waste of time, a totally random scattershot approach to what amounted to a hunt for a needle in a haystack. But she didn’t. What the hell do you care? she asked herself, You’re getting paid.

At her suggestion, they checked in with local law enforcement. Angel had taken off of her own free will and there was no law against an adult doing that, so they kept mum about the details and identified her as a “missing person.” Christian showed his pictures and furnished other vital information. Neither the Pittsburgh Police nor the Allegheny County Sheriff’s Department found any data to indicate that Angel had been processed by the local courts, jails, or hospitals. This reduced somewhat the possibility that she had come to harm or fallen in with serious bad company.

Shadow and Christian spent the night in a downtown fleabag called the Edison Hotel. The concierge was obviously bewildered by Christian’s insistence on separate rooms. The first floor of the hotel housed a small strip club. Before they turned in, Shadow suggested showing Angel’s pictures to the management and the strippers on the off chance that any of them had information concerning her. Christian adamantly refused to even consider the notion. “My fiancée wouldn’t associate with women like that!” he snorted.

“Shouldn’t that be ex-fiancée, Church-boy?” she snapped back, angry and offended. She thought, You stupid naïve little twinkie. Do really think that that prissy stick-up-her-ass little bitch of yours is as pure as the driven snow? She said, “Look, it’s pretty obvious you don’t know her as well as you thought you did. You’d be surprised where a chick on the run will turn. Now I know it’s past your bedtime, so why don’t you turn in? I’m going down to the bar for a drink. I’ll be up in a little bit.”

#

By the following morning, Shadow was over her anger. She took Christian to breakfast at a nearby coffee shop called the White Tower to make up. She didn’t bother to tell him about how she had filled in for one of the strippers who didn’t show up for work and had raked in some more dough.

Afterwards, they took their leave of downtown Pittsburgh and proceeded on horse and bike to the city’s Oakland district. Most of Pittsburgh’s universities and colleges were located in Oakland. Christian had proved somewhat more agreeable to Shadow’s recommendation that they make inquiries at local chapters of Angel’s sorority than he had concerning her previous suggestion about the strip club. Upon reaching Oakland, Christian expressed curiosity concerning the only really tall building thereabouts. Shadow informed him that it was called the Cathedral of Learning and was the central structure of the vast University of Pittsburgh campus. To Christian’s mind the Cathedral was aptly named; it was a forty-story skyscraper built in the late Gothic revival style. He hoped to examine it more closely. In his teens Christian had aspired to become an architect, but had caved in to parental pressure to follow a safer career path.

In addition to the sorority chapters, they checked with various campus organizations and examined a number of bulletin boards. They spent two days in Oakland, uncovering no leads but enjoying the college environment. Shadow turned Christian on to the delights of the crunchy natural-casing frankfurter at a place called Original Hot Dog, popular with students. Afterwards they went to the nearby Carnegie Museum to view dinosaur fossils.

This is too much like a date, Shadow thought to herself. Time to head back into the boonies.

#

The next day they were on the road again, Shadow astride Incitatus and Christian pedaling his bicycle. Shadow’s gun and bowie knife were once more secure in their accustomed places on her belt. They were headed east into an uncommonly picturesque rural region called the Laurel Highlands. Here the autumn foliage seemed to Christian even more resplendent than that which he had seen thus far. They passed vineyards and apple orchards, saw rows of sheaves and yellow cornstalks where harvest was being gathered. Smoke curled from cottage and farmhouse chimneys. They were not all that far out of Pittsburgh, but to Christian it was as though the city lie a million miles behind them and existed in another age.

Christian felt moved to comment on the patchwork nature of the Border Region, how it encompassed teeming, fairly modern city-states, isolated primitive backwaters, and everything in between. This brought a smile from Shadow.

“Yeah, it’s not this or that,” she said, “It’s something else. I guess that’s why they call it the Border Region.”

As they passed through the outskirts of a town called Latrobe, Christian noted a pleasant yeasty scent that hung in the air all around.

“That’s hops,” Shadow informed him, “From the brewery. This is where they make 33.”

“33?”

“That beer you were swilling the other night.”

During the 20th Century, the Latrobe Brewery had produced a pale lager called Rolling Rock. Originally a local brew, it grew in popularity and came to be distributed throughout the Old Union. Early in the 21st Century a major national brewing company had purchased the Rolling Rock brand name and moved production of the beer to New Jersey. Now, over a hundred years later, New Jersey was part of the Islamic States of America. No alcoholic beverages, including the ersatz Rolling Rock, were produced there any longer. About twenty years ago, however, a group of enterprising Westsylvanians had refurbished and reopened the old Latrobe Brewery. The beer they made there was brewed identically to the original Rolling Rock. The name of their brew derived from the enigmatic number “33” that had appeared on Rolling Rock bottles.

Skirting Latrobe, the travelers headed further into the Laurel Highlands. Their trek took them due east. Less than two days ride brought them within sight of Johnstown. They spent the night in a nearby motel, turning in early. They lit out for Johnstown shortly after daybreak.

Johnstown was an old community, and glancing at its many extant ancient structures Christian and Shadow alike felt its vast age. Once it had been a vital part of the Old Union’s industrial heartland, a major producer of steel before Pittsburgh opened its first mill. With the waning of the steel age, Johnstown, like so much of the area, collapsed into rust and ruin. But unlike Weirton and Steubenville, there was also a sense of renewal here.

Manufacturers of various products had in recent years opened branch plants in Johnstown and environs. Christian was duly impressed by the presence of well-known companies, headquartered in Atlanta and other commercial centers in the Confederacy, who ran facilities here and elsewhere in Westsylvania. It was part of an emerging trend in the Border Region. With so many of the old major roads of the Region still in a state of disrepair, and with no central government to facilitate reconstruction, there was a need to circumvent the long-distance transportation of goods. The establishment of numerous small manufacturing facilities here and there saw that local areas were well-supplied. Places like Johnstown stood to benefit. Johnstown, including its satellite communities in Cambria County, was starting to come into its own as a minor city-state.

Christian and Shadow made the usual inquiries concerning Angel with local authorities, and with local businesses catering to travelers, with the usual negative results. The next day they were on their way again. This time their route veered north-by-northeast through increasingly mountainous terrain, towards Altoona.
Their journey took them past the ruins of Horseshoe Curve, just five miles west of Altoona. Here, as the name implied, a railroad line had looped through a rugged mountainside area that encircled a small valley on three sides. The rail line had originally been established to link the eastern and western portions of the old state of Pennsylvania, and Horseshoe Curve had been constructed with great difficulty. An impressive engineering feat, it had been targeted for destruction by saboteurs during the Second World War of the 20th Century. During the Third World War of 2079, enemy agents finally succeeded in burying Horseshoe Curve in an avalanche.

Shadow and Christian arrived in Altoona the following morning and spent the day there. Altoona, like Johnstown, was beginning to emerge as a small Westsylvania city-state. During dinner at a small local diner, Christian wondered aloud what would happen if Johnstown and Altoona pooled their resources.

“They have, to a certain extent,” Shadow told him, “A lot of neighboring fiefdoms form mutual aid alliances for things like emergency services and law enforcement. That’s not unusual at all. Commerce is a little different, though. Altoona and Johnstown have worked together to improve the roads between them, and done some other stuff. Conceivably they could grow into one big metro area and maybe even rival Pittsburgh someday.”

“What’s stopping them?” asked Christian.

“Politics. They’re in two different counties, so that means two different sets of county commissioners, in addition to the two mayors. You have to look at the nature of the Border Region as a whole. West Virginia is the only part of it where there’s a central state government. That’s because West Virginia was an entire state of the Old Union that opted out of the New American Confederacy. It was commonly seen as culturally part of the Border Region anyway, and when the Union was formally dissolved, that made it official. West Virginia is practically a sovereign nation almost, with the governor as its president, but everywhere else in the Region --Westsylvania, Transylvania, southern Ohio, South Indiana, South Illinois-- the biggest political entity, geographically speaking, is the county. When you cross a county line here, you’re basically entering a separate little mini-nation. That makes for some interesting ramifications.

“In rural counties where you just have these little flyspeck communities like Podunk and West Bumfuck, the county commissioners hold sway. But in Allegheny County, for example, the Mayor of Pittsburgh is the big boss. The Allegheny County Commissioners may try to wrest power from a weak mayor, or try to put their own man in the office. This is like a red flag, though, and the opposition parties are quick to make political hay out of it. As a rule, though, you don’t find weak mayors in Pittsburgh. Elections involve a lot of in-fighting, and when the dust settles the strongest guy standing gets the job. Last year the Mayor attended this big conference with the Governor of West Virginia, and acted like he was the King of Westsylvania or something. What a dick! But I digress…

“It’s in places like Altoona that things get interesting, because the balance of power between the mayor and the county commissioners is more evenly divided. In both Cambria County and here in Blair County you have what amounts to a big town surrounded by smaller towns. But once someplace like Johnstown or Altoona starts being touted as a city-state, the county commissioners don’t like it because it implies that the mayor is the de facto ruler of the whole county --which, in cases like this, he usually is. The point is, these guys are assholes. They’re all looking to become these petty dukes and barons. Any progress occurs in little bursts and spurts.”

Christian digested all this, then asked, “Is there any chance somebody with enough guts and vision could clean up Weirton and Steubenville, and start to make something of them?”

“I doubt it. Wheeling is where the big action is in the West Virginia panhandle area. They’re lucky to lap up any leftovers. They stay alive by catering to the riff-raff.”

“I really appreciate everything you’ve shown me and taught me about the Border Region,” Christian told her, “I hadn’t really realized how colorful and diverse it was. In Pittsburgh the thought occurred to me that it’s sort of like Renaissance Italy, made up of all these separate principalities. It wasn’t like what I thought at all.”

#

After supper, Shadow took Christian up to a high hill that offered a view of most of Altoona. Shades of evening were darkening the sky, and lights were beginning to come on all over town.

“I wanted you to see this,” she told him, “Once you leave here and head east further into the mountains, there’s no more city-states or wannabe city-states. That ends here. These are the last electric lights you’re gonna see. From here on, people make use of oil lamps, candles, and firelight. The country folk have gone back to simpler ways. After the War, they looked to the Amish to learn self-sufficiency and that became their way of life. It’s all dark territory up ahead.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, half-knowing.

“Because you can’t go where I’m going. You won’t find the girl there anyway. I recommend heading back west, maybe by a more northerly route. You’ll be making a big circle through the area, but I think you’d have a better chance of finding leads. Just hook up with some other travelers who are headed that way. Or get yourself another guide.”

“But I want to go with you.”

“Why? I explained why that won’t help your search. And don’t bother offering me any more money. You’ve paid me more than enough.”

“But…”

“Look, I’m headed for the New Settlements. Do you know what they are? They’re up in the mountains on the very fringe of the Border Region. After that, on the other side of the Alleghenies, Pennsylvania begins, in the Islamic States. The New Settlements are like the last frontier. They are most definitely not Renaissance Italy. They’re not even like simple Amish country. We’re talking log cabins, okay? Still want to go with me?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“My heart just tells me that that’s the right way to go.”

Oh brother, Shadow thought, What the hell is it with this guy? Taking a moment to reflect, she considered the possibility that Christian saw himself as some sort of tormented romantic hero. She knew that much of the popular fiction produced in the Confederacy was simple-minded sentimental garbage, rife with sugary romantic delusions. A steady diet of that insipid crap could make anyone sappy. So maybe he fancied himself a knight on a hopeless Quixotic quest that he had to see through to the bitter end. Then another possibility suggested itself. Maybe he was starting to sour on his runaway Angel and looking to trade up for something better. Like her. Maybe deep down he was dying to make it with her, even if he didn’t fully understand the promptings of his “heart” (read “balls”) himself. The notion appealed to her vanity.

“Okay Church-boy, you’re on,” she told him, “There might be trouble on the road ahead, in which case I might need a little backup. We’ll hit the hay early and set out for the New Settlements at first light.”

#

They arose early the next morning and checked out of the last motel east of Altoona. During the night Shadow had considered leaving quietly before Christian woke up, hopefully causing him to abandon his reckless notion of accompanying her to the New Settlements. But knowing him, he’d just follow whatever he considered her probable route and try to catch her again. He could end up God-knows-where, and anything might befall him. She didn’t need that possibility preying on her mind.
As they were preparing to depart, she told him, “Before we leave the area, I’d like to find someone who has some firearms for sale. Where we’re going, it would be better if you were armed.”

“But I have a gun,” he replied, much to her surprise, “I packed one in case I found myself in some place really dangerous. It’s in one of my bike’s saddlebags.”

“Well, a lot of good it’s doing in there! Get it out.”

It took Christian a few minutes to comply; the gun was buried in the bottom of the bag under various other items. When he finally produced it, Shadow checked it out. It was a dinky little .32 revolver from some no-name firearms company. Better than nothing, she thought. She decided which of the many pockets of Christian’s jacket would furnish easiest access to the weapon, and instructed him to carry it there.

Once he had the piece squared away, she told him, “I have a gift for you.”

The gift was something she had found in her own saddlebags after rummaging through them. She hadn’t even been sure that she still had it, but knew that it would be perfect for Christian if she could find it. It was an eighteen-inch length of chain with a small steel weight affixed to either end. Christian examined it, quickly divining its purpose.

“It’s called a manriki-gusarai,” she informed him, “It was an actual ninja weapon back in feudal Japan.”

Shadow figured it would be a good weapon for Christian to carry. She didn’t have time to teach him the intricacies of knife-fighting, and knew that the manriki-gusarai would serve him well as back-up or in situations where firearms were inappropriate. It was fairly easy to utilize, and could be employed with devastating effect. A person could hold one end of the chain and whip the other weighted end about like a chain mace. If it where whirled in a spinning motion before striking, the centrifugal force could generate skull-cracking impact. Or one could grasp the chain in the middle and strike with both weights.

“You have to layer your weapons,” Shadow told Christian by way of instruction, “Don’t have your gun, you go for your knife or your bludgeon. Don’t have those, you have to rely on your empty hand skills. Different things for different situations. You don‘t take a knife to a gun fight, as they say. If trouble goes down in one of the settlements, you‘ll most likely be using your fists or the manriki-gusarai. But if we run into trouble on the road, you may as well haul out your piece and start blasting. Just follow my lead.”

She also taught him the best way to carry the manriki-gusarai. “This is my special fast-draw method,” she informed him, “I invented it. If you just put the whole thing in one pocket, it’ll get all tangled up and you’ll never get it out.”

Shadow’s carry method involved placing one end of the chain in the rear pants pocket, and the other end in the front pocket. This left a few inches of the middle of the chain exposed; to casual onlookers, it just looked like the chain on a trucker’s wallet. To draw the weapon, one need only insert the ring finger and the pinky between the chain and the pants to draw it loose, then grasp it with the other fingers and thumb while whipping it free. “You just whip it out and smack your mark across the face with both weights,” she told Christian, “I guarantee he’ll be seein’ stars. Then you can shift your grip to one end of the chain if you want.”

Christian spent about a quarter of an hour familiarizing himself with the weapon. “Manriki-gusarai” was a bit of a mouthful, so he mentally referred to it as his “ninja chain.” He practiced wielding it and drawing it.

“That’s pretty much all there is to it,” Shadow said, “It’s pretty straightforward. Ready?”

Christian nodded.

Shadow strode over to Incitatus, inserted a booted foot into the stirrup, and swung herself into the saddle. She started off down the road without looking back to see if Christian was following. Christian got on his bike and began pedaling.
The blue summits of the Allegheny Mountains loomed up ahead of them in the morning mists.

Sample Chapter--Twilight's Last Gleaming: Part One

2009-02-12T15:58:00.000-08:00

[I'm back. I missed a couple of the monthly updates, due to the Christmas holidays and other demands on my attention during January. This is another selection from my future history, Twilight's Last Gleaming. In fact, it is the very first chapter of the entire history. In my history, and the novels I'm basing on it, the United States is defeated in a war with the Islamic Federation of Europe. In reading or viewing fiction about future societies, one is often given pause to ask, "How does something like this get started?" (Logan's Run is a good example here.) I've endeavored to create a plausible scenario based on present day events. Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman]

1--THE ROOTS AND FORMATION OF THE ISLAMIC FEDERATION OF EUROPE

In the year 2076, the United States of America was preparing to celebrate its Tercentennial (or “Tricentennial”, as it was commonly referred to.) At this time, the greatest external threat facing the United States was the Islamic Federation of Europe. The Islamic Federation had existed as a formal political entity for less than two decades, but its roots went back much further.

At the dawn of the 21st Century, considerable Muslim populations already existed in almost all European nations. For the most part, they were concentrated in Eastern European areas such as the Balkans. Albania’s population of over 3 million was 70 percent Sunni Muslim. Bosnia was home to a million and a half Muslims, or 40 percent of its population. The Kosovo region’s population of 2 million was 90 percent Muslim. Turkey, linking Europe and Asia, had a large population of almost 70 million, 99 percent of whom were Muslim. These areas had once been a part of the Ottoman Empire, or had been in close contact with it. Islam had predominated there for centuries.

By the late 20th Century, however, Islam had made remarkable inroads into Western Europe as well. Sizable Muslim minorities existed in France, Germany and the United Kingdom, in the Alpine nations of Austria and Switzerland, and even the Scandinavian countries of Denmark and Sweden.

The once-formidable Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) had straddled half of Europe and all of Asia like a vast colossus. When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, Russia relinquished its hold on over a dozen smaller nations that reasserted their autonomy. These included such Islamic Asian countries as Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan. In Russia, Christians and Muslims had co-existed for centuries. With the fall of communism there came a resurgence of ethnic and religious identity among the various peoples. Approximately 20 million Muslims lived in Russia, a million or so residing in Moscow.

Of the Western European nations, France had the largest Muslim population. Official French government estimates placed the figure at 4 to 5 million, or approximately 8 percent of the total population. However, many analysts regarded these figures as misleading. In accordance with French law, census figures did not identify citizens by race, religion, or ethnicity. The actual number of French Muslims in the year 2000 may have approached or even exceeded 8 million, close to 12 percent of the population. The majority traced their ancestry to Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia, formerly North African colonies held by the French.

Germany’s 3 million Muslims accounted for 4 percent of its population. Most were descended from Turks who arrived as early as the 1960s under a “guest worker” program and had not been expected to become permanent residents. Their ranks were further swelled by refugees from the Balkan wars of the 1990s. Balkan refugees, as well as others in flight from Iran, Iraq, and Somalia, also sought asylum in Denmark during the `80s and `90s. There they joined Muslims who had come from Yugoslavia, Turkey, Morocco, and Pakistan in the 1970s in search of work. By 2000, Muslims from many nations comprised 5 percent of the Danish population. An additional million Muslims accounted for 6 percent of the population of the Netherlands. They had begun to emigrate there half a century earlier from former Dutch colonies, and tended to congregate in the larger urban centers. By 2015 they had achieved majority status in Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and The Hague.

Muslims also gained strong footholds in Switzerland, Austria, Sweden, the United Kingdom, and other Western European states. By 2020, they were enjoying a remarkable resurgence in Spain, where the Moors had ruled throughout the Middle Ages. Once they became the majority in Spain and Portugal, additional waves of African Muslims surged up through Morocco into Spain, and from there into the rest of Europe. From the East, Asian Muslims passed through Turkey on their way to the Balkan states and points west.

By and large, European Muslims did not assimilate into the cultures of their adopted countries. They retained the cultural identities of their ancestral homelands. More often than not they congealed into ghettos to form a disadvantaged underclass. This inevitably led to social strife. Disenfranchised youths were drawn to the militant tenets of Islamic fundamentalism, which had seen a resurgence during the latter part of the 20th Century. This pairing of alienation with religious and political extremism bore bitter fruits as the 21st Century dawned.

In March 2004, bombings of four commuter trains in Madrid killed almost 200 people and wounded hundreds more. A radical Islamic group with roots in Morocco came under investigation. Taking place three days before a national election, the Madrid bombings had an intimidating effect on Spanish foreign policy that resulted in a curtailment of support to American military efforts in the Middle East.

In September 2005, Muslims took to the streets throughout the Islamic world in violent protest over editorial cartoons published in a Danish newspaper that many deemed blasphemous. Riots in Nigeria, Libya, Pakistan, and Afghanistan killed 139 people. The Danish and Norwegian embassies in Syria were burned. The cartoonists were forced into hiding.

In October and November 2005, riots broke out in the heavily Muslim suburbs of Paris due to widespread dissatisfaction among disgruntled Muslim youths. The rioting quickly spread to Marseille, Cannes, Nice, and many other French cities and towns. Churches, schools and businesses were vandalized. The rampage went on for nearly a fortnight before French President Jacques Chirac declared a national state of emergency. When the violence subsided, several people had been killed, hundreds had been injured, and over four thousand arrests had been made.

In September 2006, remarks by Pope Benedict XVI sparked another spate of violent protests. In a lecture on theology, the Pope quoted a 14th Century Byzantine Emperor who had made remarks critical of Islam. Thousands erupted into protest and the Pope was burned in effigy. Churches were firebombed and a nun was killed.
Reaction to the rising Muslim tide in Europe by indigenous Europeans was muted. Official government policy and media commentary concerning both Muslim immigration and subsequent social problems tended to be circumspect. This may have owed something to a collective guilt over Europe’s history of imperialist exploitation of former colonies, various pogroms, and, in the case of Germany, history’s most notorious attempt at total genocide. Socially liberal countries such as Sweden and the Netherlands adopted a policy of multiculturalism, essentially conferring a validity to the foreign cultures of recent immigrants that was equal to the long-standing indigenous cultures. In Germany and Austria, Islam was included in the public school curriculum.

Islam gradually achieved greater and greater prominence in all areas of public life throughout the European states. This trend did not go unprotested by concerned citizens of old European ancestry, even if such voices were frequently stifled one way or another. Brigitte Bardot, a French former actress of once-great renown, was tried and convicted for “inciting racial hatred” in such writings as an article entitled “An Open Letter to My Lost France” and her best-selling book, Un Cri Dans le Silence (A Cry in the Silence). Bardot lamented the demise of indigenous French culture, citing among other things the proliferation of mosques in France while Christian congregations dwindled. Payment of hefty fines allowed the then-elderly Bardot to avoid prison incarceration.

Dutch filmmaker Theo van Gogh was not so fortunate. Van Gogh had directed a documentary depicting the oppression of Islamic women. He was shot and stabbed to death in the streets of Amsterdam in broad daylight by a young Dutch Muslim who had taken offense at the film. Van Gogh was a descendent of the brother of painter Vincent van Gogh, and a fairly well known figure in his own right. His death incited violence between Christians and Muslims that caused both mosques and churches to go up in flames.

In the final analysis, however, the occasional voice crying in the dark could do little to forestall the inevitable. Islamic culture came to supplant Western culture in Europe. Even as Muslim populations soared, the population of indigenous Europeans went into steep decline. By the turn of the 21st Century, birthrates among indigenous peoples had fallen to below replacement levels in every European nation. Replacement level was determined to be an average of 2.1 children per woman. In 2006, the German government’s Federal Statistics Office reported that the decline of Germany’s population was “irreversible.” Also in 2006, the Brussels Journal predicted that one third of all European children would be born to Muslim parents by 2025. The Journal estimated that there would be 100 million European Muslims by that year.

As it turned out, such estimates proved to be altogether too conservative. The actual Muslim population of Europe in 2025 was closer to 150 million. Two additional factors accounted for this. The greater by far was an ever-increasing number of immigrants from the traditional Islamic world. As indigenous populations aged, the old came to far outnumber the young. With more of the former retiring every year, a further influx of immigrants was actually needed to shore up the tax base and maintain essential services. By 2025 it was common to refer to the indigenous peoples of Germany, France, Austria, etc., as “the Elder Races.” The Muslim citizens of those same nations referred to themselves as “the New Breed.” The term “Elder Races” was occasionally diplomatically employed in official channels to convey some measure of respect and appreciation. In common usage, however, it carried connotations of antiquity, frailty, senility, and irrelevancy. “The New Breed,” on the other hand, denoted the strength, boldness, and vitality of youth.

This undoubtedly contributed to the secondary factor underlying the spread of Islam throughout Europe: conversion. The dwindling population of young indigenous Europeans felt alienated from what they viewed as a staid and dying culture. Consequently, they converted to Islam in great numbers.

Even as early as the turn of the 21st Century, when they still comprised an ethnic and religious minority, European Muslims were already making their presence felt throughout the public sector. Able to vote and hold office in their adopted countries, they began to sway elections and determine government policy. As a result, they were granted concessions that further enabled them to increase their numbers and influence. The historic rivalry between Islam and Christianity, dating from the Middle Ages, was the basis of an inherited grudge on the part of Muslims towards the society they were infiltrating. Combined with exposure to the secularized, socially permissive culture of late 20th Century / early 21st Century Europe, this engendered a deep-seated contempt for the mores and values of Western European civilization. Subsequent generations of Muslims, born and raised in Europe, absorbed this sense of hostility in their cradles. For the most part, the New Breed had little use for the traditions and institutions of the Elder Races.

In 2033, Germany became the first Western European nation to designate itself an “Islamic Republic.” France and Russia soon followed suit. Previously, a number of the Eastern Balkan countries had formally declared themselves to be Islamic theocracies.

The Islamic Federation of Europe grew vine-like upon the framework of the old European Union. In doing so, it inherited an efficient bureaucracy already in place. This was the legacy of a century of military and commercial alliances.

The first attempt at European unification came about as a result of the World Wars that were waged between 1914 and 1945. The whole continent had been ravaged, with tens of millions killed and cities reduced to rubble. Statesmen and intellectuals sought diplomatic means to forestall further devastation. Western European nations entered into a military alliance with the nations of North America as a deterrent to possible aggression by the Soviet Union. The North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) was established in 1949. The notion of a separate European union to allow nations to pool resources and address common problems was first proposed by French Foreign Minister Robert Schuman in 1950.

The first step towards what would become the European Union was the establishment of the European Coal and Steel Community (ECSC) in 1951, followed by the European Economic Community (EEC), to regulate commerce. In the meantime, West Germany joined NATO in 1955, prompting the Soviet Union and its Eastern European satellites, including East Germany, to join a military alliance known as the Warsaw Pact.

In 1967, the ESC and the EEC merged and became known as the European Community. This body successfully standardized exchange rates and other economic practices. In 1991, the Soviet Union collapsed and the Warsaw Pact fell apart. The following year, the Treaty of Maastricht established the European Union. The Treaty of Amsterdam (1997) and the Treaty of Nice (2003) streamlined the organization and created provisions for a common European citizenship, a common currency, and a constitution. In 2002, the Euro replaced the national currencies of most of the member nations. Initially comprised of Western European nations, the Union began admitting Eastern European nations in the early 21st Century.

The admission of Turkey to the European Union in 2015 added 70 million Muslims to the population of the Union. As citizens of the EU, Turks could cross over all of Europe’s international boundaries in search of work and other opportunities. As a voting block 70 million strong, they tipped the scales decisively in favor of Muslims in Union-wide elections. Turkey also served as the bridge by which many Asian Muslims found their way into Europe. The population of Europe had already begun to shift in favor of the New Breed as the Elder Races began dying off. The evolution of the European Union into the Islamic Federation was inevitable.

The final transformation and the establishment of the Islamic Federation of Europe (IFE) as a formal political entity was the work of many hands. However, two remarkable figures stand out; Abdullah Al Hamza, a Frenchman, and Yar Ali Ghazi, a German. Abdullah Al Hamza was a professor of Islamic Studies at the Sorbonne. He also held advanced degrees in economics and political science, was widely published in academia and the popular press, and was regarded as one of Europe’s leading intellectuals. Yar Ali Ghazi was the forceful and dynamic president of the Islamic Republic of Germany.

The New Breed’s most eminent political theorist, Abdullah Al Hamza became the chief architect of the Islamic Federation of Europe. It was he who coined the widely quoted maxim “Retain and modify what is useful” in regards to Elder European social, political, scientific, and philosophic institutions. Al Hamza was the key figure at the yearlong Berlin Conference (2056 – 57) that oversaw the metamorphosis of the European Union into the IFE.

In his opening address to the Conference, Al Hamza asserted that Europe had been a Muslim-majority continent since the admission of Turkey to the EU, and that Muslims were now the majority in nearly all of the individual European nations. Indeed, many had already been reconstituted as Islamic republics. The character of European civilization had undergone a profound change in the last century, and the political structure of a unified European state must reflect the new order.

The work of the Conference consisted largely of dismantling all the previous European alliances that were still extant and subsuming the component bureaucracies into the auspices of the Islamic Federation of Europe. Member nations were required to subordinate their national sovereignty to the central government of the Federation. In several European nations, such as the United Kingdom, Muslims were still minorities, albeit sizable ones. Such nations were not excluded from membership, provided that the nation as a whole relinquished its sovereignty and submitted to the rule of Islamic law. No European nation with an indigenous majority elected to do so, but by the 2050s these were few in number. The only Western European countries to remain outside of the Islamic Federation were the United Kingdom, Ireland, Italy, Norway, Finland, and Iceland.

On January 1, 2058, the Islamic Federation of Europe took its place among the great nations of the world. Yar Ali Ghazi was sworn in as its first president, and Abdullah Al Hamza became Secretary of Foreign Affairs. Thanks to the efficiency of mid-21st Century telecommunications, the problem of which city should serve as the Federation capital was avoided. Instead, various arms of government were headquartered in Berlin, Paris, and Geneva. The triple capitals were linked by special bullet trains that affected convenient rapid transit for officials. As president, Yar Ali Ghazi welded the Federation into a band of steel. Power was consolidated under the strong central authority of the chief executive and the ruling council. More ominously as far as the Western Hemisphere was concerned, the IFE inherited the formidable arsenals of both the former NATO powers and the Warsaw Pact nations.

Sample Chapter: Twilight's Last Gleaming, Part One

2008-11-23T15:03:00.000-08:00

[Here is another sample chapter from Part One of Twilight's Last Gleaming. It is preceded by 3. The Spread of Islam Elsewhere in the World and followed by 5. Mexico Grows in Prominence. I left the previous installment up for more than a month because I thought it very relevent to the Wall Street bailout and its implications. The chapter I have just posted below I think will be of interest due to the current proposed bailout of the American auto industry. Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman.]

4--AMERICAN DEPENDENCE ON MIDDLE EASTERN OIL AND ITS REPERCUSSIONS

The early decades of the 21st Century saw an increasing number of Muslim Americans elected or appointed to government positions on the Federal, state, and local levels. Many served with distinction. Even so, the growing power of Islam throughout the Eastern Hemisphere was viewed with mounting alarm in America, both by average citizens and officialdom. Unfortunately, the United States had failed to break its dependence on Middle Eastern oil, a holdover from the previous century.

By 1970, the American consumer had long since come to take the gasoline that fueled his car for granted as a cheap, readily available commodity. During the middle period of the 20th Century, from roughly 1945 to 1973, the average American enjoyed a prosperity not seen before or since. With cheap fuel in abundance, the automobile became, not just a means of transportation, but a key accessory to an affluent lifestyle. It was common for motorists to enjoy the convenience of “drive-in” restaurants, banks, and theaters. An efficient system of interstate highways made it possible for Americans to easily travel throughout their vast country in their personal vehicles.

This carefree era came to an abrupt halt in the 1970s, when the price of crude petroleum increased tenfold seemingly overnight. It was a momentous change that came about because of the volatile political climate of the Middle East.

Oil-rich Middle Eastern nations such as Iran and Saudi Arabia were members of the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC). OPEC was founded in 1960 as a business organization aimed at regulating oil production and commerce, and included non-Arab nations elsewhere in the world, most notably Venezuela. In the 1970s, OPEC went from being a mere business enterprise to wielding real political clout. It was then that the Arab members founded an overlapping agency, the Organization of Arab Petroleum Exporting Countries.

Victories by the Jewish state of Israel in the Six Day War of 1967 and the Yom Kippur War of 1973 left Arab countries in the region seething with resentment. Their wrath was directed at nations who had furnished Israel with aid and support, primarily the United States of America. In retaliation OAPEC launched the Oil Embargo of 1973. Petroleum production was curtailed and sales to the West were halted for five months.

The Arab Oil Embargo sent shockwaves through American society. Americans had become accustomed to services designed to maximize their convenience. Now they were forced to pull their cars into block-long lines as they awaited entry into service stations to refuel their vehicles. They were stunned, perplexed, and utterly bewildered. They were told by political leaders that they must “conserve” for the first time since the Second World War. During the post-war era, many Americans had relocated to sprawling suburbs located some distance from the workplace. Now the gasoline necessary for lengthy daily commutes proved to be a considerably more burdensome expense. This “energy crisis” also placed limits on electricity produced by fossil fuels and created shortages of heating oil needed for many homes during the bitter cold Northeastern winters. In the years immediately following, the nation’s economy suffered in no small measure, reaching its lowest point since the Great Depression. Runaway inflation ravaged budgets and savings. Unemployment was widespread. Though not as widely reported, underemployment was also a major social problem. Recent college graduates entering a shrinking job market found that their expensive degrees were worthless. As the “Roaring Twenties” had been followed by the Depression in the `30s, so the “Swinging Sixties” were followed in the `70s by the “Recession,” as it was euphemistically called.

America was still licking its wounds from the `73 Embargo when the Shah of Iran was toppled in the Islamic Revolution of 1979. Once again the flow of Mid East oil to America was choked off. Once again, hapless motorists were forced to form long lines at gas stations. The economy plummeted further. Americans who had come of age during the booming 1950s and `60s were overwhelmed with despair. President Jimmy Carter, whom the electorate had looked to as a beacon of hope, was finally moved to admit that the nation was in the grip of a spiritual malaise.

One sensible adaptation to steeper gasoline prices was the introduction of more fuel-efficient vehicles. The American automobile industry was sluggish when it came to making this conversion. Consequently, the Japanese auto industry made remarkable inroads into the American marketplace during the 1970s and `80s. The Japanese manufacturers offered vehicles that boasted superior gas mileage. Many Japanese models also garnered a reputation for better overall quality. American manufacturers arrogantly chose to ignore market trends, yet wondered why affordable, fuel-efficient, well-built “foreign cars” were finding such favor with American consumers. Instead of improving their products, they promoted the slogan, “Buy American.” The implication was that purchasing foreign goods hurt the American economy. No mention was made of the fact that Japanese auto companies opened manufacturing plants in economically depressed areas of the United States such as Ohio and Tennessee, even as the manufacture of certain American models was outsourced to Mexico. This petulance culminated in a brief period of “Japan-bashing” in the early 1990s. The American business community promoted the notion that unfair Japanese competition was responsible for American economic woes. A popular quotation asserted that “the Japanese regard business as war.” Apparently the assumption was that business in America was conducted in the manner of a gentlemanly sport. In any event, such propaganda did little to curtail the popularity of Japanese automobiles. As one anonymous consumer quoted in Business World put it, “It’s a sad day for America when these car companies have to resort to a bogus appeal to patriotism to sell their over-priced, inferior junk.”

Smaller, more fuel-efficient cars were eventually offered by all manufacturers. However, the United States remained in thrall to Mid-East oil producers. The main reasons were twofold. On one hand, sizable petroleum reserves in Alaska and off the coast remained untapped due to ecological concerns. On the other, alternative energy sources never got off the ground due to the shortsightedness of business leaders in the private sector.

Offshore oil drilling met with frequent opposition due to the possibilities of harm to marine life, damage to the oceanic ecosystem, and the despoiling of coastal areas. Ecology activists likewise opposed the encroachment of oil-drilling into hitherto pristine areas of the Alaskan wilderness. The largest oilfield in North America lie beneath the north slope of Alaska. A portion of this region had been tapped by American oil companies. However much of this same enormous oil bed lie under the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR). The ANWR had been set aside to remain an unspoiled habitat for threatened species of indigenous fauna such as caribou and polar bears. Advocates of oil drilling in the ANWR asserted that less than 8 percent of the Reserve would be affected by the drilling and that the petroleum thus produced would greatly alleviate US dependence on imported oil. Opponents countered by insisting that the ANWR would suffer irrevocable widespread damage from the development that would take place and the amount of oil yielded would, at best, provide marginal relief for the country’s energy demands. A bitterly controversial issue, the question of whether to drill or not to drill in the ANWR was passed on from administration to administration.

Some quarters called for a sensible compromise that would have made allowances for a certain amount of oil drilling, carefully implemented, as a stopgap measure to buy time while the energy and automotive industries redoubled their research and development efforts aimed at engineering alternative energy technologies. Skeptics were quick to insist that tapping the ANWR for oil would furnish business leaders with a convenient excuse not to undertake such a costly and demanding effort.

In support of their argument, these skeptics cited the sluggishness of the American automotive industry when it came to marketing smaller, more fuel efficient cars in the first place, as well as their gradual return to the marketing of large, even massive, vehicles once the energy crisis of the 1970s had abated. The 1980s and `90s saw a resurgence of relative prosperity to the American economy, at least in some segments. The long gas lines of the ‘70s receded into a distant faded memory. American auto companies favored the production of larger, costlier vehicles over fuel-efficient economy cars because the former were more profitable for the manufacturer. By the late `90s one out of every five vehicles sold in America was a light pickup truck or a sport utility vehicle. Both were bulky motor vehicles that consumed great quantities of fuel in the manner of the “gas guzzlers” of an earlier era. Sport utility vehicles (commonly abbreviated as SUVs) tended to be oversized and ostentatious, and were especially popular among the more affluent American motorists.

Such consumers received a shock in the summer of 2006 when the price of gasoline shot up to well over $3.00 per gallon. This development was greeted with alarm. Decades earlier, the manipulation of oil prices by OPEC was seen primarily as a matter of business, the political origins of the 1973 embargo notwithstanding. That is, it was perceived as natural that a region technologically backward but rich in raw materials would wish to exploit its key asset to best advantage. Americans may not have liked the way OPEC controlled Middle Eastern petroleum, but they thought they understood it. But following the series of terrorist incidents that culminated in the September 11, 2001, attacks on New York and the Pentagon, this outlook had changed. Americans now viewed the most oil-rich region on the planet as being dominated by Islamic fundamentalists, fanatics bristling with hostility towards America and the West. This left US citizens with a disagreeable feeling of vulnerability. There were increasing demands that the United States “free itself” from “foreign oil.”

In the fall of 2006, gasoline prices dropped back down to what most Americans had come to regard as acceptable levels. Then in 2008, prices soared to over $4.00 per gallon. Business double talk about mysterious market forces went over the heads of average American consumers but helped to placate them nonetheless. The pattern of rising and falling gasoline prices was repeated many times during the following years and decades. The mentors who guided petroleum production in the Middle Eastern states were shrewd enough to keep America off balance. Fuel prices were raised when a need was perceived to exert pressure on the Western nations, then lowered when it was deemed prudent to lull the West back into complacency. In this manner, the oil-producing nations of the Middle East were able to string the West along well into the 21st Century.