07/29/2006
Nate Grisham
Nate Grisham, A Black Mountain Man
© Copyright 2006 W.R. Benton, all rights reserved
Years before, Nate Grisham ran from a Southern plantation to the shining mountains, an untamed land where the only law was what a man can enforce with a gun. He became a black mountain man, with no desires other than to live free and trap his plews. He’d experienced plenty of trouble in life, from cruel slave overseers to Blackfoot Indians, but none compared to the difficulties now facing him and his partner Cotton Top—a white mountain man who stands head and shoulders above the rest. Nate was a man in love with his mountains, but when Captain Taylor M. Donnelly brutally kills a colonel and his wife, following a robbery, Nate becomes involved. Returning the Captain to the Army, the black mountain man assumes it’s finished, until Donnelly escapes and swears to have his revenge. Donnelly becomes a cold-blooded killer and rapist, with little to lose, but nothing will keep him killing the big black man.
A contract was signed with Saga Books to publish this book in 2006 and I'm pretty excited about it. I think this book is a real winner, because it shows the struggles Nate has to face just to be treated like a man. While he's rarely respected, he's learned to accept it and lives his life with only a few trusted friends.
Y'all take care, stay safe, and keep yer powder dry,
W.R. Benton
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07/28/2006
Nate Grisham
The renowned artist, Kate Haberstroh created the cover for this book.
See more of her fine work at: http://www.westernartandpoetry.com
She may be contacted by email at info@westernartandpoetry.com
Nate Grisham is a book about a Black Mountain Man and coming soon from Saga Books. I'll post more details in a day or two.
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07/26/2006
It's as Hot as....
As my grandpa used to say, “It’s been hotter than a cathouse on nickel night.” I go to bed when it’s hot, get up when it’s hot and write when it’s hot. Not good, even with the air conditioner working overtime the heat is still felt. Then, of course, I have to make small runs to the store to pick up milk, cola’s, ice cream, and other needed items. Well, maybe not needed, but for sure enjoyed in this heat.
Ya know, looking back I don’t see how I grew up. We didn’t even have electrical power (no television, no fridge, no lights, and as you might guess, no air conditioner) but we survived. I can remember sleeping out under the trees a lot during the summer and my only “corn-cern” was copperhead snakes. Our usual dinner was beans and cornbread, and when the dog days of summer hit, the plastic on the old table chairs would stick to the sweat on my back.
That just reminded me of the sweat bees we had outside. I’m not sure what the real name for them is, and I can’t write on here what I usually called them, but they were always out in force.
We had no ice cold cola’s, no ice cream and our milk was fresh and warm. Still, we survived and all grew (as my brother would say) into adultery. No, ya don’t need an air conditioner to survive, but if for sure makes life easier (personally, I like the ice cream more).
Take care,
WR Benton
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07/19/2006
New Book, "War Paint"
My latest work, not assigned a publishing date yet, has been completed and being edited and proofed. Mike Lanier has given me permission to use his painting titled, "Lakota Brave" for the cover. I love Mikes work and think he's one of the better Native American/Western artists on the market today. Here is the credit for Mike that will be in the book,
The cover might vary some at the time of printing, once the art department finishes. I usually send a layout, as shown, and the art people change what needs changed.
War Paint, a novel of 106,363 words, tells of the experiences of a spoiled and rich young man who heads west to become a mountain man in 1825. Taken under wing by two experienced old mountain men, George Alwood the third becomes Bear Killer the mountain man. After a short visit with Shoshoni Indians, Bear Killer finds himself with an unwanted wife and though he resist’s, he learns to love her. A cold and hard winter in the mountains brings him closer to his bride, as he learns to live as a mountain man, and just before spring she informs him of the child to come. Content now, with a canvas shelter, campfire, jerked meat, and soon to be family, Bear Killer reflects on his rich and pampered background. After his wife and unborn child are killed by white men, the young mountain man makes a promise to avenge their deaths. However, it’s only after one of the old mountain men is killed that the action becomes almost nonstop.
Filled with months of research on mountain man illnesses and medications, as well as the difficult lifestyle, this book is historically accurate in most aspects. Even the various Indian tribes (physical characteristics and cultures) and methods of placing a beaver trap have been explored. Essentially, the manuscript explains how mountain men lived, their deep sense of personal honor, and their total dedication to those they loved.
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07/06/2006
Air conditioners and Women
Our apartment is small, so we use a window air conditioner. It works well and keeps the whole place nice and cool. Usually it's simple to install and within a few minutes I have the job done. But, not always.
This last weekend, I installed the blamed thing and within ten minutes the whole house was being rearranged--to make the air conditioner look more "natural." The sofa was moved, two bedrooms exchanged furniture (the lighter oak looks better with the light gray color of the a/c, I was told). The only two rooms in the whole apartment not changed happened to be the bathroom and my office.
I know when it comes to decorating a living place I'm not very good, nor remotely interested. I've even been called interior design illiterate, but it doesn't bother me in the least. If I had the say, things would go one place and stay there until the day I died, or it falls apart. I see no need to change the whole house because of a new plant, coffee table, or air conditioner. Oh, I'd keep the place clean and dusted, but centering a table under a ceiling fan, picture, or around a bunch of plants make no sense to me.
I suspect its a woman thingy, and hey, don't jump me here ladies, my momma and my wife are women and I love 'em both. I just don't see eye to eye with them on furnishings and design. I'm sure MOST guys are the same way. I fear only one sentence more than, "I need to move some stuff.".....and that's "You need to pull a few things out of the store room for me to use." Our storeroom looks like, "Pack Rats are Us." And, yep, little of it's mine...most of it is, you guessed it, old pieces of furniture, rugs, or ugly lamps.
Take care and stay safe,
WR Benton
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Fishing Fool
The false dawn was slowly filling the sky. I could just make out the outlines of the nearby hills and trees against the skyline. I had added a few pieces of kindling to the still red coals left over from the previous night campfire, and watched as the flames flared up. A small shiver ran through my body. I could feel the night chill still in the air, and smell the dawn of a new day. I added coffee to the pot of water and placed it next to the flames. It just doesn't get much better than this, I thought to myself. Peace and quiet, at least for a little while each morning.
“Heck fire, cold as the dickens out heah! Hain't it Gury? Wooeeeee!!!” A loud southern voice broke my serenity. I turned toward the unexpected voice to see, Bubba. He was exiting his tent in his long johns, boots, and a ball cap on his head at a strange angle. First thing Bubba did when he woke up was to put his cap on.
“Bubba, why do you have to yell?” I asked, not just a little upset with him for interrupting my thoughts. Now, Bubba is my cousin and I guess I love him (a bitter sweet love at best), but why could he never enjoy the finer things when experiencing nature? He never seemed to enjoy just being alive.
“I wasn't yellin', just getting yer attention is all. I thought you was asleep.” He replied as he scratched where it itched and looked at me with those big dumb sad looking eyes of his. See, Bubba has beagle eyes...yep, eyes just like the dog.
I turned, picked up the largest skillet next to the fire, looked back at Bubba and asked him, “How many eggs you want and how do you want them cooked.”
“Six and done.” Was his response as he turned and made his way to the outhouse.
As I watched him walk away to take care of his business, I was amazed. Bubba was a very educated man. Believe it or not, he was college educated, ran his own business, and was financially successful. Nonetheless, he always looked like he needed a bath, haircut, and new clothes. You could dress Bubba in satin and lace, along with gold chains, and he would still look like a slob. Life never ceases to amaze me.
I took out six eggs, cracked them open, dropping them into the skillet. I moved some hot coals to my cooking area, which had three rocks positioned like a triangle, and placed the skillet on three rocks. The rocks acted like a platform for the skillet and the coals made cooking easier than flames did. I knew it was hard to regulate a flame. I did the same for a pan of bacon. As I was scrambling the eggs in the skillet I heard Bubba return.
“Dang, son. I wanted my eggs fried, not scrambled.” He said as he leaned over the campfire and let loose a string of tobacco juice.
“Bubba, ya spit near the food again and I will scramble you instead of the eggs. I don't care if you chew, just not near the food or drinks.” I felt anger rising in me.
“You are as touchy as my little lady in her kitchen on a Sunday morning a-fore church.” He spoke as he took a comfortable position on the ice chest. As soon as he had spoken, he got a far away look in his eyes and seemed to be contemplating something. Now, when Bubba starts to thinking I get scared. I don't believe he has ever had an original idea in his whole life. Nope, not even one. Like my grand daddy used to say about Bubba, he could argue with a fence post all day...and lose the argument.
I kept turning the eggs and watched the coffee start to perk in the old coffee pot. I remembered buying that pot about twenty years before. It was now covered with small dents and bottom was stained a permanent black from many campfires. Each dent was a memory of a camping trip past. It was memories of fun and excitement. Sort of like a diary of my trips, I thought to myself. Once again Bubba disturbed my thoughts.
“Ya know what I'd really like to do today? I thank a good hike down the river, fishing the banks, would be great fun. What ya thank Mule?”
“Bubba. I don't really care. I figured we could take some sandwiches, fish all day, and have a nice thick steak for dinner. Sure, walking the banks could be fun.”
“Or, do you thank wading and fishing the banks would be better?”
“FISH BUBBA! Fish! I don't care if we walk the banks, wade the streams, float on tire tubes, or just fish from the low water bridge. I just want to FISH!” Dang, he could sure get me upset with the simplest words. Then I thought to myself, I am being unreasonable. I flew off the handle for no reason at the man. He is just making conversation to determine what my goals are for the day.
I looked over at Bubba and watched as he released another stream of tobacco juice in the weeds at his feet. He looked at me, blinked a few times, and said, “Them eggs is on far and I didn't brang no tubes to float on.”
Well, the eggs weren't on fire, but they were a bit on the done side. It was the bacon that was on fire. I placed a lid on the skillet, removed it very cautiously from the fire, placed it on the grass, and left it for a few minutes. When I removed the lid and looked in, the bacon was in sad shape. About half of it was black and the other half was a very dark brown. I picked up the skillet to throw the bacon out when I heard Bubba say, “Don't even think about it. I like me bacon crisp. That will do me fine.”
After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and burned bacon, I skipped the bacon, we started gathering our gear to do a little fishing. Or, I thought we were. Bubba had his coveralls on, his many patched waders, his floatation vest, his fishing vest, his creel, his net, his knife, his lucky Vietnam tiger stripped boony hat, and his fishing pole.
Then he suddenly turned to me and said, “I gotta go potty.”
As I watched him meander off to the outhouse, I sat on my log, poured me another cup of coffee, opened a book, and relaxed. I had lots of time.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I remember was Bubba tapping me on the shoulder and saying, “You gonna sleep all day or are we goin' fishin'? Don't know why I fish with you. All you ever want to do is sleep.”
I slowly got up, put my vest on and my hip waders, picked up my rod and reel, and followed Bubba down the trail that led to the river. Now, we call it a river, but the Little Piney is hardly more than a good size stream. It is swift in parts and cold as all get out. As a matter of fact, Bubba and I often took a pillowcase, filled it with soft drinks, tied a rope to it, and lowered it in the river to keep our drinks cold. The only problem was that Bubba often forgot to tie the other end of the rope to a tree or rock. More than once we lost all our drinks.
Now, there are three things sure as the sunrises that you will see when camping in the south, ticks, chiggers, and snakes. Before we even got to the water I had seen three out of three. I pulled a big tick off of my boot and saw the red spot of a chigger on my left hand. Near the bend in the trail I watched Bubba step over a big Copperhead snake and he just kept on walking. Not me, I took the tip of my rod and motivated the snake to move. No, I didn't hit the snake, I sort of flipped it off of the trail. Once the trail was clear I continued on my way.
“Bubba, didn't you see that snake?” I asked surprised that he had not seen it. Bubba was scared to death of snakes. Seems when he was a youngster he got bit on the backside by one and since that day he stays clear of 'em.
“Weren't no snakes on the trail, or I would have seen 'em. You trying to scare me Mule?” He spoke as he walked. He didn't even glance back at me or really look at the pathway. I suspect he was daydreaming, as usual, and never saw the snake.
When I was a kid growing up in the country, all you had to do to scared a child was talk about snakes. Copperheads, Cottonmouths, or Rattlesnakes would do the job. Them city folk’s had Count Dracula and Jack the Ripper, we had snakes. If you think of snakes as the bogeyman without arms and legs and you got the picture.
Soon we were in the water fishing the banks. I had made a few casts and nothing was hitting at all. Bubba was not having any luck either. We continued to fish until noon. We then quit and ate our sandwiches on the bank, washing them down with a can of warm soda pop. Then, back we went into the water.
After about an hour we were still empty handed. I made a final cast and decided if I didn't catch anything within an hour I was done for the day. As I played my lure I was relaxed, just waiting for the fish to hit. My mind was at peace, thinking of nothing, when I heard a bloodcurdling scream come from Bubba. I turned just in time to see him slip, fall in the water, get up, fall again, get up, and start running toward the bank. I was startled, but confused. What had caused all of this?
“Snakes, thousands of snakes! Gury, snakes!” Bubba yelled as the water ran off of his clothes onto the bank making it more slippery.
If there is one thing I hate in this world, it is a person who yells snake and doesn't tell me where the critter is! There I was, thigh deep in the river, Bubba climbing up the muddy river bank, him yelling snake, and me having no idea where the snake was.
“Where is the snake, Bubba?” My head was turning 360 degrees in an attempt to see a snake.
“In the water, you idjet!” He yelled as he reached the top of the bank on his hands and knees.
“Where in the water Bubba? Where is it? Where?!” I was becoming concerned now. I had heard that snakes could not bite if they were underwater, but I didn't want to check the accuracy of that statement right then. Well, my cousin Bubba never said another word. Last I saw of him he was heading full steam down the trail toward our campsite. Oh, by the way, I never saw the snake either.
I never saw a single snake, much less the thousands I had heard about. I decided the days fishing was finished so I climbed the bank and walked back to camp. On the way back to camp I picked up Bubba’s rod and reel, his creel box, his left wader and his knife. About an hour later, when I got to camp Bubba was stretched out beside the campfire sleeping. I was disgusted. Here he was, a big man, scared of a little snake. I wasn't even sure he had seen a snake. He had been terrified actually. It was then the idea hit me. I decided it was pay back time.
I took a small twig and ran it along the side of Bubba's left leg as he slept. Well, he may be a lot of things, but a heavy sleeper right then and there he was not. Before I could react, his right hand, full of cast iron skillet, swung and struck my right hand. Cold bacon grease splashed all over my shirt and pants.
Later that night as Bubba nursed his coffee, I nursed my sore and swollen hand. Nothing was broken, but it hurt. Bubba leaned back against the log and turned to look at me as he said, “Now, tomorrow I got me an idee to put out some limb lines mayhap. You want to hep me some?”
“Naw, my hand hurts too much.” I answered hoping I sounded in pain. I wanted nothing to do with Bubba or limb lines in the morning. If I could end up like this from wading, I would be lucky to survive a limb line. Then, it struck me. “Sure Bubba. Lets get a good nights sleep, hope the snakes leave us alone tonight, and I think will hep ya in the mornin'”
“Snakes? You think they will come to our campsite?” His eyes were suddenly very big.
“Well, they was in the water and we are near the water, right?”
I knew right then that Bubba would be up all night on snake guard. He would not sleep until daylight, when his energy would be gone and fatigue would claim him. I, of course, would sleep all night and fish on my own by the bridge in the morning. Yep, life can be sweet at times, even when you camp and fish with Bubba.
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