Johnny Two-Guns, Another Look

markwildyr.com, Post #61

  

Artist: Maria Fanning

Someone contacted me recently about how much they enjoyed—and identified with—Johnny Two-Guns, a character in my novel of the same name published in March of 2016. Since I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Johnny, I decided to give you another look at the novel. The following scene takes place while Johnny and Roger Mackie are driving south from Montana toward Arizona. They are still getting to know one another. The shy Johnny has just confessed he’s never experienced an intimate relationship with a woman. The following scene occurs in Chapter 3 of the book. The first speaker is Johnny Two-Guns.

*****

“Do you think bad of me?”

I set the cruise control on the car and shifted my feet to a more comfortable position. “For what?”

“Because I haven’t done it with a girl? Almost twenty-one years old, and I never done it. Everybody else I know has.”

“Or claim they have,” I said. “I don’t think any less of you. You may not have fucked a woman, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to get into a fight with you. You might be too much man for me to handle.”

He laughed. A burst of genuine mirth. “How old were you when you first… you know, had sex?”

My stomach rolled and my upper lip started itching. My nervous system threatened to go out of control. Christ, was I becoming a predator? I snatched a quick look at him and decided he deserved an honest answer. “Johnny, we’re talking man-to-man here, right?”

“Sure.”

“What you say to me goes no further. What I say to you stays with you, right?”

“Okay.”

“All right. I had sex for the first time when I was eighteen. I had sex with a girl the first time when I was nineteen.”

There was a long silence as he puzzled over that one. “I didn’t mean doing it… well, to yourself.”

“I know you didn’t. And that’s not what I meant.”

“Then how…?” His voice died away. Then, “Oh.”

“Now can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.” Wariness edged his tone.

“Do you think any less of me because I told you the truth?”

        “I guess not.”

*****

I don’t care what your orientation is, this is a tender moment when intimate confidences are exchanged.

Please take a look at my novel Cut Hand. I really would like DSP Publications to bring out River Otter and Echoes of the Flute and Medicine Hair, as well as the unpublished Wastelakapi… Beloved, we have to generate some sales in order to get it done. Amazon permits you to read a short passage.

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are some buy links for CUT HAND:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

Thanks for being a reader. I'm going to adopt fellow Okie author Don Travis's mantra--with his permission--as my own: Keep on reading, keep on writing, and keep on submitting. You have something to say, so say it!

Mark

New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Just a Little More of JOHNNY TWO-GUNS

Dreamspinner Press brought out Johnny Two-Guns on Friday, March 18, just as promised. Already has some pretty good reviews (and one disturbing one). Before letting go, I’d like to do one more post about the book.

I write novels with a historical setting and novels that are contemporary in nature. Thus far, the historical books are a series, so each has continuing characters plus many references to other individuals whose time has passed. In the contemporary books, I try to have characters from one book do a cameo appearance in another book. For example, Wilam Greyhorse and Joseph Sixkiller from The Victor and the Vanquished show up in Charlie Blackbear. Let’s look at the principals of Charlie as they make a brief appearance in Johnny Two-Guns.

The following scene takes place in Chapter 3 of Johnny. Denver architect Roger Mackie and Johnny, his young Chippewa rider, are slowly getting to know one another when a sign advertising Blackhorse Traders catches Johnny’s eye. Roger notices his reaction and decides to take a side trip to the place. The Norman Chillers mentioned in the passage is a cousin of Johnny’s.

*****

JOHNNY TWO-GUNS

     I was behind the wheel again when something caught his attention. “What?”

     He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “That sign. Blackhorse Traders.”

     “You know them?”

     “Naw. But my cousin does. Met them at a powwow.”

     “You wanna stop and check them out?” 

     He hesitated. “Dunno. Think he told me it’s ten miles off the highway. On a little reservation.”

     “It caught your interest, so let’s go for it.”

     Three miles later, I exited the highway and halted at a stop sign before a two-lane state road. White letters on a green background proclaimed Flynn’s Corners to be ninety miles east, while Blue Valley lay only ten miles west. I turned right, and in no time, we entered the small town of Blue Valley. A couple of blinks of the eye, and we were through it. Shortly after that, we were on reservation land. Eventually we spotted a frame building sitting on the south side of the road, all by itself.

     “That must be it.”

     Johnny nodded. I could tell his interest in the venture was dropping fast. That shy thing, again.

     “Let’s check it out.”

     I got out of the car with my camera hanging around my neck and stepped onto a broad veranda beneath a huge sign that said Blackhorse Traders. This looked to be a wholesale place that didn’t see much tourist traffic.

     A stout, pleasant-faced young woman introduced herself as Sally and asked if she could help us. I was right, Blackhorse filled orders for Indian traders around the country, but they had a small counter of retail goods. I examined it while Johnny worked up the courage to talk to the woman. One piece caught my eye immediately, an exquisitely wrought, fifteen-inch porcupine made out of marble. But it looked poured rather than worked. Cultured marble, they call it. I picked it up and was surprised by the signature on the bottom. Joseph Sixkiller. I’d seen his work before. Stan Mancuso had two of his pieces. I’d turned to tell the clerk I was interested in the porcupine when she called out.

     “Charlie, Daniel, there’s a friend of Norman Chillers out here.”

     Two extremely attractive young men walked out of a back room. After a moment Johnny turned and included me in the introductions. A little thrill went through me when he said I was a friend, not some guy hauling him down to Arizona.

     Charlie Blackbear was the bigger of the two men. He wore his hair long and loose, and it framed a strong masculine face that was as handsome as any I had seen… until I turned to gaze into Daniel Warhorse’s dark eyes. Was he even better-looking? Hard to tell. Then my gaze fell on Johnny Two-Guns. I’d never be able to untangle that Gordian knot. I was virtually surrounded by three sexy men who made me think of things I didn’t ordinarily dwell on. Butterflies started in on my stomach.

     The two traders, both in their twenties, wore bracelets, just as Johnny did. But theirs were heavy on silver and turquoise whereas Johnny’s were coral and bone. Cultural differences, likely. The men told us how they’d come out of a mountain logging crew one season, taken their accumulated savings, and started selling Indian-made goods to traders. Signs of their success were everywhere. The showroom held quality merchandise. The two pickups out front were new. The place wore comfortably on me.

     I paid the clerk—actually introduced as the office manager—an ungodly amount for the Sixkiller figurine, while listening with half an ear to the men talk about their mutual acquaintance. Johnny’s cousin, Norman Chiller, was apparently a grass dancer of some repute. Whatever that was.

     Just as I figured I was looking at the best trio of men I’d ever seen in one place at the same time, the front door opened and another stunner walked in. I found myself shaking hands with a fellow not much older than Johnny named Aden Smith. Aden worked for the other two.

     It was hard to turn down an offer to meet the trio later at a bar in Blue Valley called the Lazy Eight. It would have been pleasant to spend a few hours in the company of such men, but I was afraid to trust myself around them with a few drinks under my belt. Why in the hell was I coming to understand things about me I’d never suspected before? After they all gathered for a couple of photos in front of the store, Johnny and I took our leave.

*****

I sincerely hope this glimpse at my new book prompts you to want to read more of it. As always, I’m interested in your reaction. Send to markwildyr@aol.com. Thanks for reading.

New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A little more about JOHNNY TWO-GUNS

As I advised in the last post, Dreamspinner Press has named March 18 as the release date of JOHNNY TWO-GUNS. I suppose I should admit to being excited. I’ve never before had a date certain for the publication of a book, so it’s a new experience for me. One I will unashamedly enjoy. So let’s find a little something to excerpt from the novel.

In the scene below, which is lifted from Chapter 1, Roger Mackie, a recently divorced Denver architect,  experiences a life-changing event when he pulls into a remote trading post to gas up his Mercedes.

*****

JOHNNY TWO-GUNS

By Mark Wildyr

     After a hearty breakfast, I-90 led me out of Butte, and an innocuous turnoff to the west drew me deeper into the Bitterroot Mountains. I must have been recovering from my foul mood because the scenery started to hold some interest again. These hills were a part of the same great Rocky Mountain chain as those around Denver, but they had a different feel… craggier, wilder somehow. If I had been the outdoors type, I would have bought a tent and camped out in the crisp mountain air.

     Nonetheless, before long this trek started to look like the latest in a series of mistakes, because the road degraded, the traffic evaporated, and I was absolutely alone without an idea of where I was. My anxiety level soaring as the gas gauge dipped, I came to a place where the road widened. An old log building stood to the left. At the sight of two antiquated gasoline pumps in front, I pulled over and stopped. The sight  was so novel that I grabbed the Canon and clicked a couple of shots of the place.

     Inside, the building was low ceilinged, but much larger than it looked from the outside. If I had been on the Navajo reservation, I would have guessed this was an old-fashioned Indian trading post. I had no idea if they had such things up here, although there were plenty of Native Americans in Montana. The trading post or store or whatever it was had goods crammed in every corner, was dimly lit, and gave off a pleasant, homey atmosphere. A grizzled man of about sixty waited on an elderly woman buying a few basic groceries. The Caucasian trader stood six foot three or four—brawn going soft. He finished with the lady and turned to me.

     “Come right on in and look around. Got a pot of coffee on, and you’re welcome to join us.” He gestured toward a distant corner dominated by a potbellied stove with a few cane chairs grouped around it. At this altitude the warmth was inviting. Someone was seated in one of the chairs beside the stove.

     “Thanks. I’ll take you up on the offer. But first I’d like to gas up the car.” I halfway expected him to say he was out of gasoline.

     “Easy done.” He turned to the stove at the rear. “Johnny, can you come pump this fella some gas?”

     “Yessir, Mr. Beasley.”

   An indistinct figure rose from his chair with animal grace. A moment later, a young Native American emerged out of the semigloom and walked toward us with the strong, languid movement of a mountain lion… unhurried, efficient, powerful.

     “Give Johnny your keys,” the trader said. “He’ll gas up for you. You want it filled?”

      I nodded. “Yep. To the brim.”

     When I told him what I was driving, he told the kid to give me the premium. I agreed and asked for a restroom. The shopkeeper directed me to the back of the establishment, where I took a leak and puzzled over my reaction to the young man now gassing up my car. Occasionally you run into someone who catches the eye and won’t let go. Someone whose physical presence engages the entire you. I’d experienced it only once before in my life.

 *****

And thus, Roger Mackie first lays eyes on Johnny Two-Guns and begins a journey he could never have imagined, during which he learns things about himself he had never before suspected.

I’d appreciate your feedback at markwildyr@aol.com. Thanks for reading, and come back soon.

Mark

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.

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 [DM1]I know it’s not for this purpose, but “The place was so novel…” would be much better.

JOHNNY TWO-GUNS Publication Date

DreamSpinner Press recently advised that the official publication date for JOHNNY TWO-GUNS is March 18, 2016. This book will take its place beside THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISED and CHARLIE BLACKBEAR as Mark Wildyr’s next book with a contemporary setting. Working with DreamSpinner in preparing for this day has been a real pleasure. I particularly like the cover art for the novel. The artists loaded it with symbolism from the book. Johnny, himself, a horse, and a highway scene. All of these play an important part in the story, as does the silver and turquoise ring you can see on his finger Kudos to the staff.

Said cover and the Prologue of the book are provided as this month’s post. Enjoy.

*****

JOHNNY TWO-GUNS

By Mark Wildyr

PROLOGUE

     The Bitterroot Range rose above the tops of the evergreen forest surrounding the ramshackle, tin-roofed house. A wiry young man strode out the back door and tripped down a set of three steps. His father, walking with a decided limp, followed along behind. An old woman caught the screen before it slammed shut and watched the two head for the corral. Her throat nearly closed up on her as she perceived something different in the manly grace of her grandson. She was worried about the boy – and he was a boy to her way of thinking. A deep frown marred the natural dignity of her features. Likely it was this other thing from the outside world bothering her. Her lips moved in an ancient Chippewa prayer, muttered in the mother tongue.

     “You be careful with this bronc,” the father said. “He’s a bad one.”

     The younger man spoke in a clear baritone. “Mean, maybe, but I see good horseflesh under those rollers he’s blowing. He’ll make a good working horse one of these days.”

     The father switched a strip of leather to his other hand. They’d use the device to blind the unruly buckskin while they put leather on him. “Likely, but there’s lotsa outlaw to leech outa him before that comes along. You ain’t rodeoing, so don’t be shy about pulling leather. And don’t let your mind get carried off by that other stuff.”

     “That other stuff looks like a way to bring in some good money.”

     A thundercloud hid in the look the older man shot his son. “We doing all right. You got a roof and a meal and clothes on your back. What else you need? Besides, you bring in extra for breaking mustangs.”

     The younger man’s mouth tightened, but he held his tongue.

     They worked for twenty minutes just to put tack gear on the cold-backed animal. This one would fight the gear every day of his life. The father held on to the bronc’s flaring nostrils and twisted fingers in one of the animal’s ears while the youth wrangled a light saddle into place.

     As soon as the rider swung onto his back, the buckskin went up on his hind legs and came down hard. He tried out some stiff-legged crow hops before turning loose. The horse spun and sun-fished his muscled body in a graceful arc before swapping ends – going up one way and coming down facing the other direction. His bucks were arm jerkers, powerful.

     The youth looked to be glued to the horse’s back. Taking his father’s advice, he held onto the saddle horn during the worst of the leaps. If the blessed mustang would just tire out before he did, he’d have it made. And tomorrow, the pony wouldn’t fight so hard. And the next day …

     They must have been going at it for thirty minutes before the horse stumbled.

*****

While I thoroughly enjoy wallowing in 19th Century historical background of the Cut Hand Series, I do like to set foot in the modern world on occasion. JOHNNY TWO-GUNS is one of these forays. Let me know what you think.

Thanks for reading, and come back soon.

Feel free to contact me at markwildyr@aol.com.

Mark

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.