When do you write? (time of day, day of week.)

Every weekday morning I get up with my wife and see her off to work. Next I grab a cup of coffee and sit myself in front of the computer. Writing takes second place as I busy myself with reading the news, other blog posts and visiting Facebook, in that order. Finally, I will write at least 100 word to begin the day. On the weekend, my schedule varies according to what else might be happening that I want to take part in.

How do you seclude yourself from the outside world?

Seclusion isn’t a need for me and write. I could be in the middle of a Los Angeles Freeway and still manage to put words down on paper. Otherwise, I spend 12-to-14 hours a day, Monday-through-Friday by myself with only our dog’s as company. From time-to-time a neighbor or a friend will stop by for a chat and a cup of coffee. Finally, I like my company so I find I’m never really alone.

How do you review what you wrote the previous day?

Much of my act is a formula. I write once, then edit again and again until I’m satisfied I have down what I want to say. So there is no ‘previous day’ for me as a rule. That isn’t to say upon reviewing something I wrote a year or two ago, that I won’t edit it again or three-times because my skill as a write has changed.

What song is your go-to when you’re feeling uninspired?

Rarely do I listen to music when I’m writing. Music is a love of mine and prefer to listen to it unencumbered. I do have my favorite genre which will give me a sense of feeling that I need to maintain when I am pursuing a story, i.e. cowboy music if I’m writing a ‘western-style’ story.

What do you always do (i.e. listen to music, read, watch YouTube, etc.) when you find yourself struggling with writer’s block?

Writer’s block is a pain in the arse, isn’t? I usually walk away for an hour or two when it happens and find something else to do. If it is persistent, I’ll grab a book and read for a while, maybe watch something on the tube (I like true crime solving shows,) or I’ll peruse the blogosphere, (a good source is WordPress Discover.)

What tools do you use when you’re writing?

Before the advent of online services, my desk would be covered with piles of notes, one or two dictionaries (including a large rhyming dictionary) and a thesaurus. Somewhere close by were a set of encyclopedias and an almanac with maps. Today, aside from general clutter of notebooks I use in the field, the world is at my finger-tips using ‘Google.’ Lastly, some of whatever I read, see, hear, feel, learn or experience will end up in a story and because of this, unless it’s pointed out to me, I have been known to accidentally steal stuff from other writers. (Do you hear that Mr. Twain?!)

What’s the one thing you can’t live without during a writing session?

That first cup of coffee. Need I say more? Didn’t think so.

How do you fuel yourself during your writing session?

Since the majority of my writing takes place between 4 am and noon, I generally don’t eat until afterwards. Since childhood, I’ve never been a big fan of breakfast. But that’s not to say I don’t enjoy a breakfast meal for dinner. One cannot get any better than that in my humble opinion.

How do you know when you’re done writing?

Oh, I’m never done writing. I’ve been writing since I was nine-years-old and it has become like second nature. One time I forgot to pack a note-book while on a cross-country road trip and because my folks were in a hurry to get where we were going, they wouldn’t stop, save for gassing up the car or a potty break. During one potty break I stole two rolls of toilet paper from the stall and scrounged a pen from under the drivers’ seat. I still feel bad for the person who followed me after I left that restroom.

It was dark and she couldn’t find her clothes, but Mariko didn’t care. She slipped from the Coven’s clubhouse wearing only her denim vest with its ‘colors’ emblazoned on the back and as the asshole who ‘roofied’ her the night before was still passed out.

In the parking lot, she slipped her getas on her feet and bare-assed climbed on ‘Broomy,’ her motorcycle. Mariko was about to leave when she spotted her black cat.

She scooped her up, putting it on the bike. “You and me need to get a better class of friends to hang with.”

Quietly, she guided ‘Broomy’ onto the street and rocketed away. A couple of miles later, her ride began to sputter and cough, so she had to stop.

And as she worked, she clicked off her personal to-do list in her head:  “Fix this, go home, grab my tanto, return, and neuter that bastard,” then aloud added, “And if I get an STD – I’m gonna do the whole effin’ coven.”

The toaster dinged as the two pieces of burnt toast jumped from their slots. “Christ almighty, couldn’t you at least have popped them out before they burned?” I complained.

He simply sat there in all of his silence. The lack of a response only made me angrier.

“All you do is sit around the house anymore. The least you could do is not let my fucking toast get ruined.”

He remained quiet.

“I don’t mean to so get angry.”

Still, he said nothing.

“It’s not the same since you left and we know it, too,” I screamed at my shadow.

And so the Raven came by night,
taking the key to Edgar’s heart far away,
to drop it into the deepest chasm could be found,
forever irretrievable.
Too long had it been hanging there,
out in the open,
for all the world to see,
for all the world to take,
to use.
Not a soul thought it worth their trouble to find what it could unlock,
and now it’s too late.
But for Poe,
it had been that Raven,
the key to his immortality even unto death that still from the chasm comes the blackened bird’s frightfilled-demon scream:
“Nevermore! Nevermore!”

They knew the lay of the land better heading south than they would going north. In fact there were several narrow canyons and ravines that they could use to evade the coming riders.

“Not only can we delay them, we can fight them from there if push comes to shove,” Brady offered.

Morning broke faster than either man liked, but they had no control over mother nature. Instead they urged their horses to move faster now that there was light to see by.

Once inside the maze of canyons and ravines, they slowed their pace and sought higher ground. Soon they could ride no more and found it necessary to guide their mounts along the narrow trails to the top of a small butte.

Eventually they made it to the top. John quickly scouted around the flattened surface and found that the way up was also the only way down, unless one climbed or fell. In the mean time, Brady yanked Billy off the back of the horse and pulled off his gag.

“You ain’t gonna live through this, you know,” Billy warned.

“Maybe we won’t, but then neither will you,” Brady reminded the young man.

“Helluva place to make a last stand,” John commented.

Brady smiled, “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

As John slept, Brady built a small fire and boiled some water for coffee. He figured that they ought to have some comforts before the big gun battle began.

“Can I have some of that?” Billy asked.

“You gonna behave if I let you?” Brady countered.

“You have my word,” Billy answered.

Brady set about untying the young man and taking away his boots. Billy laid on his belly for a few minutes waiting for the pins-and-needles to subside before rolling over and sitting up.

Revolver in hand and cocked, Brady pour a small amount of coffee in a tin and handed it to Billy. “Not that I don’t trust you or anything.”

Billy took a sip of the hot liquid, “Thanks, mister.”

So far there was no sign of a posse, so Brady let John sleep an extra hour. After waking him, John stood guard as Brady reapplied rope bindings to Billy’s wrists and ankles.

Soon nightfall came and Brady was finally able to get some much-needed shut-eye. John sat watching Billy and quietly listening for out-of-place sounds as the sun finally sank beyond the horizon.

Brady and John traded off night watch six more times throughout the dark hours of the day. They maintained the same routine though out the daylight hours, too.

For nearly two-days they waited for the posse to come riding their way, but nothing. As noon approached that second day, Brady told John, “I’m going to go have a look around.”

Brady saddled his horse and guided the beast down the narrow trail, till he could safely mount and ride. Once outside the slots, he rode back in the direction of Bixby.

“Nothing,” he said to the horse. “I think we’ve gotten clear of the scrape.”

He reined his horse around and headed back to the butte. Once back, he suggested that they cut the kid free, give him a horse and they go their separate ways; John to the west, Brady to the east, Billy to Bixby.

As they discussed this possible plan, John asked, “How come you never asked about the gold or tied to take it.”

Smiling Brady answered, “First, it ain’t my business and second, I know what sort of trouble gold can bring a man.”

“What sort of trouble do you think Billy can get in if he had a few coins of his own?” John wondered.

“Depends on what sort of man he wants to be,” Brady offered. “Greedy like his old man or willing to invest in something and work for what he wants. Only time will tell.”

By mid-afternoon, with the camp struck and supplies divided, John left first, leaving behind a mule as he was now riding a horse. Billy and Brady sat silently watching as John disappeared over the horizon.

As nighttime fell, Brady sat beside Billy, “You’re gonna get paid for your troubles.” He opened his hand and showed the young man ten gold coins left to him by John.

“Does that mean you ain’t gonna kill me or leave me to rot up here?” Billy said with surprise.

“Nope. Gonna let you go and with a horse, too.”

“Thanks, mister.”

“Promise me one thing though, Bill.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Don’t be like your father – greedy and a bully.”

“I promise.”

Brady stood up and pulled from his pocket a Barlow. He opened the large blade and sliced through the ropes holding Billy’s ankles and wrists.

“Your boots are over there,” he said as he handed the coins to Billy.

As Billy stood and pocketed the coins, Brady stepped over to his horse and with the mule in tow, headed down the trail to the point where he could ride and headed for the canyon entrance. He was some distance away when he heard the pounding of hoofs rapidly coming his way.

He instantly recognized the rider; Billy.

“If you don’t mind mister, I’d like to tag along with you. There ain’t nothin’ left for me back in Bixby.”

“You’re welcome to come along. I could use the company,” Brady replied.

The pair nosed their horses east and slowly weaved their way through the rough scrub until darkness over took them and they had to stop for the night. A new day and a fresh start would come soon.

“You gotta plan to get us outta this?” John asked.

“Yeah,” Brady answered. “I think we ought to go under to get around them.”

John wrinkled his brow because he didn’t understand what Brady was suggesting. Brady kneeled and using his finger tips pulled a floor board up revealing the ground beneath.

Within minutes he had enough of the boards removed to allow either man to climb through. Brady disappeared into the cavernous hole only to return a minute or so later.

“We can get into the vacant building next door,” he reported.

“Then what?”

“Then we set this place on fire and escape as they do their best to save their men. Only we’ll have them with us and when we beat feet outta here we take junior with us.”

John nodded knowing he didn’t have a plan that he could claim was any better.

After having to thump one of the men in the head with the butt of his revolver, because he continued to struggle as Brady moved him, all three were finally laying on the floor of the vacant building. Both John and Brady rummaged through what was left of the stores stock and collected what they would need and could safely carry.

Next Brady began firing across the street in rapid succession, hoping that the men would begin firing back. No sooner did he squeeze the trigger than they answered with a couple of volleys of bullets.

As Brady readied to pick a gun fight, John poured several jars of kerosene on the floor and splashed several more on the walls. As the gunfire commenced, he struck a match, lighting the building ablaze.

Then both men scrambled through the hole in the floor and quickly crawled their way to the vacant next door building. They were in position to make a break out the back door by the time the general alarm sounded and smoke and flame bellowed from the store front.

“Fire!” came several cries.

“My kid’s in there,” Frost screamed as he dashed across the street and into the collapsing building.

Knowing that there might be men waiting behind the mercantile, Brady cautiously opened the back door and peered out into the darkness. He knew where his horse was and could see it from time to time as the flames from the build licked the sky.

He also needed to find John a mount and help him load the bags of gold coin he’d taken from George Keene a few days before. Taking a deep breath he calmly walked out and across the open yard into the scrub.

Evidently, every man that’d been out back, if there were any out back all, were now engaged in fighting the fire which had begun to engulf the vacant building John and the three men were in. Brady walked around to the front of the building and across the street to the shed that acted as a livery stable.

There he found John’s two mules and a couple of extra horses, still saddled. He opened the stalls that held the remaining horses and shooed them out into the street using them as cover to cross the street again.

Once at the back of the building, Brady found John having hauled the three men outside and busy stacking the bags together in preparation to load them up. As John tied down the gold and the meager supplies they salvaged, Brady laid Billy Frost across one of the horses.

Once finished, the pair turned their horses south and rode as fast as the night and the land would allow. Both knew that they were going to be chased and they needed to put as much distance between them and the posse, if it could be call such. as possible.

The sun was hanging above the cholla when Brady decided to stop and set up camp. By then he’d been on trail about three hours and had put Bixby some 10 to 12 miles behind him.

As he began to clear away an area, he heard the sound of hoof-beats traveling fast towards him. As they approached he undid the thumb loop on his revolver and placed his hand on the butt of the gun.

It was the card player. He reined his horse to a sliding halt and excitedly shouted, “Your friend’s in trouble. He’s holed-up in the mercantile.”

No more needed saying. John had save Brady’s life and now was the time to repay the man for the good deed.

Back in the saddle, Brady wheeled about and raced after the card player, who turned out to be quite the horseman. It would be nightfall before the pair made it to the rise overlooking what remained of the town.

“So, why you doing this?” Brady asked.

“Not all of us are Rebs,” the man answered, “Some of us are Yankees and damned proud of it.”

Looking over the situation, Brady decided to send the card player down to the main street, while he’d work his way between the abandoned building and the mercantile. A gun shot echoed up the hill and Brady took it as a sign to act right then.

Calmly, the card player rode into the town. He didn’t want to alarm those laying siege to the store that he’d been off getting help.

Meanwhile, rifle in hand, Brady slipped between the two buildings and remaining in the cover of a shadow, watched to see if he could spot anyone shooting into the building. While he didn’t see anyone with a gun, he did see one man jump from behind a water trough and race towards the mercantile with an already lit stick of dynamite.

As Brady raised his rifle, a shot came for somewhere east of the siege and the man fell, bleeding between the shoulder blades. The stick of dynamite landed a foot or two from him and when it went off, the blast left a crater in the center of the street and the man blown to pieces.

It took a minute for Brady’s eye’s readjust to the dark. That’s when he saw the card player laying on the sidewalk, dead.

He’d been shot in the head as the blast occurred. There was nothing Brady could do for him, so he stayed in place and studied the streets and the dilapidated buildings that lined it.

“We know about that gold,” a voice shouted tauntingly.

A muzzle blast erupted from a shattered window of the store as John fired towards the voice. Someone cussed loudly after the bullet struck nearby.

Brady backed out from between the buildings and sticking to the shadows, worked his way west and across the street. Still using the shadows of the buildings, he moved to the back door of the saloon, and stepped inside.

He’d played a hunch and it was right. There he could see three men pressed against a make-shift barricade.

Brady stood quietly in the doorway’s shadow and watched as the three fired round after round into the building just up the street.

“Where’s Edgar?” one man asked.

“He’s trying to get into the building from the roof,” answered another man.

Brady stepped into the room and quickly approached the trio at the barricade. He levered a shell in to his rifle causing all three to turn towards him in surprise.

“Toss your guns at my feet,” Brady stated in a very measured tone. He could sense their indecision as they looked at each other and hesitated.

Without warning, Brady fired a shot next to the center man’s head, so close it peeled off the top of his ear. The blast instantly caused their immediate surrender.

He made them remove their boots, and using the three as a shield, Brady walked them outside onto the wooden walkway. There was an immediate shift in the tension as he forced them cross the street and continue towards the mercantile.

“You’re dead,” the one on the left stated, “My pa won’t let you get away with this.”

As they proceeded to walk, Brady asked, “So was all of this his plan?”

Realizing that he had said too much, the man grew quiet. His sudden silence told Brady all he needed to know.

“What’s your name?” Brady asked as he poked with the rifle to remind him that he was no longer in charge.

“Billy…Billy Frost,” came his reply.

Now standing in front of the mercantile, Brady hollered, “John, open up. Let me in.”

He heard the latch of the door lock click and then saw the door open slightly. Brady toed the door open and forced the three men inside.

“You doing okay, John?”

“I’m alive.”

“Damn, good to hear. Got us some guests – including one that’s pretty important. Seems his daddy is one of the authors of this attack. We can parley our freedom for his safety.”

“You know you didn’t have to come back, Brady.”

“Yeah, I did. You saved my life and I’m returning the favor. Where’s Betsy?

“Took off in the first minutes of the gun fight. Wouldn’t listen, ran outside yelling at them. I don’t think she was all there.”

“I don’t think any of us are.”

John laughed.

As they talked back and forth the pair hog-tied the three men up and gagged them. It was obvious to the men that they weren’t going any place any time soon.

As the two sat, assessing their situation, a noise came from above. Without hesitation John fired two rounds into the ceiling towards where the sound had come.

There was an audible gasp before a man’s body slipped from the roof, striking the ground with a sickening thud. Brady knew that it was Edgar, the man sent to find a way in through the roof.

“Names Frost!” shouted a man from somewhere across the street. “Billy, you okay?”

“He’s tied up at the moment, Mr. Frost,” John answered, obviously pleased with his response.

“Joke all you want,” Frost shouted back, “But I’m gonna kill the both of you and I’m gonna take that Nigger’s gold.”

Neither John or Brady felt the need to reply to his threat.

Wanting to lick my wounded pride from another employment rejection letter, I grabbed two chocolate chip cookies, my water-filled mason jar and headed out back. Sitting in a chair, next to a low table, under our tree, I looked up and asked, “So, now what God?”

Above and behind me, I heard the flitting of bird’s wings. From the corner of my eye I saw Crow, perch on my table. We cautiously eye-balled each other for a few seconds before he screamed, “Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Finished delivering God’s message to me, Crow leaned down, snatched a cookie and flew away.

John and Brady looked at one another as the voice stated, “Him. Not him.”

Brady stepped forward, “Not you – him.”

Surprised, Brady stepped back and John entered the store. Soon he came to the door way, “Come on in. Everything’s okay.”

Still on edge, Brady came to the door way and stood. There he saw an elderly Black woman holding the double-barrel shotgun that had caused him to nearly piss his pants.

“Close the door! You born in a barn or something?” she shouted.

Brady obeyed.

“Sorry ‘bout earlier,” she said, “But I don’t trust White men around these parts.”

“Understood,” Brady replied.

John turned, smiling and said, “Cat done got your tongue, now don’t it?”

Brady, smiled back and nodded.

“Betsy’s my name, Betsy Green, proprietor. Now what can I help you gents with?”

“Looking to buy some flour and coffee beans,” John answered.

“That I can do,” she said. “Got another one of them there coins?”

“Yes, ma’am,” John answered.

“Good. That’s what it’ll cost ya.”

John laid another coin on the counter and Betsy picked it up, slipping it into a pocket folded into her skirt. She quickly got to work gathering up the requested supplies.

“How you come to be owner of this place?” John asked.

“Left to me in a will. Never really wanted it but I got it and decided to make the best of it.”

After a lengthy pause, “Now I can burn it down – and maybe this whole forsaken town with it – and head for Los Angeles – that’s in California.”

“I know,” John said. “Been headed that way myself for a long piece of time.”

Sensing his travel arrangements were about to take a wild turn, Brady quietly loaded the supplies in John’s war-bag and then checked the cinch on his own horse’s saddle. John watched as Brady climbed on the back of the horse.

“Naw,” he said, “You take that bag with you. You’re gonna need them.”

Brady looked over a the bag, then lifted it off the mule and hung it over his saddle bag. He pushed his horse forward and offered his hand to John, “Take care and be careful of that shotgun.”

The two laughed as they gripped and shook. Brady was more than ready to shut Bixby behind him as he exited the single street town to the east.

An hour later and on a high hillside, Brady looked back, “Still no smoke,” he said to his horse, “That’s a good sign.”

The desert slowly gave way to undulating hills and washes that slowed the pairs trek to Bixby. It appeared that there wasn’t an easy trail to the town or that they’d somehow missed it altogether.

By noon of their third day traveling together, they came to a rise in the land and found themselves over looking the valley and Bixby, or rather what was left of the town. John was the first to say what the two were both thinking, “Looks nearly abandoned, don’t it?”

Brady didn’t say a thing. Instead he sat there and observed the situation below. A few minutes later he guided his horse down the hillside and into the west end of the town’s main street – it’s only street.

He could feel the unseen eyes staring at him and John as they rode towards the only building that looked to be alive – an unnamed saloon. Both men could sense that something was wrong and that after a quick resupply, if that were even possible, knew it would be best to high-tail it away a soon as possible.

Pushing the swinging doors in, Brady walked towards the bar. There he could see the tender leaning against the back wall, in the mirror were two men playing cards at a table in the far corned.

All eyes focused on the stranger as he asked, “Anywhere around here a man can get some flour and coffee beans?”

“Yeah,” came a voice from the table with the tow card players, “But I doubt she’s gonna sell anything to you – you bein’ a stranger and all that.” The man with his back firmly against the wall nodded his head towards the door.

He looked at the player and said, “Point the direction. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Having learned where he might or might not get supplies, Brady nodded his head to the man and walked outside to his horse. It was only a hundred foot distance between the saloon and what remained of the general mercantile. It’s dirt-laden windows offered a less than inviting atmosphere as Brady stepped on the wooden sidewalk and reached for the door.

He heard it before he actually saw it, the action of a double-barrel being cocked, followed by the sight of the barrel’s nearly pressed against the window pane. Brady halted, put both hands up and stepped back until he was off the sidewalk.

“Don’t think they’re interested in doing business, today,” Brady quipped, trying to sound as if he wasn’t frightened. Then he noticed John was digging under the duck-clothe covering the pack-trees on one of the mules.

Turning, he held up a gold coin, purposely flashing it in the sun and towards the door’s window. Certain he’d gotten whoever was behind that door’s attention, he tossed it against the door allowing it to rest on a slat of the walk-way.

Seconds later, the door opened and a hand reached out and snatched the coin up. The door slammed then less than ten-seconds later popped open and a voice commanded, “Come in!”