Tuesday, May 17, 2022
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Sunday, March 20, 2022
Welcome
The Soul Rustler is the first of three novels in "the Tinhorn" series, featuring a young midwestern lawman who, after the tragic loss of an associate during the hunt for Jesse amd Frank James, turns to a career as a traveling western photographer. He then applies his trade in the worst towns in the frontier of America, and while helping Pinkerton detectives to solve crimes on the side, in the process rediscovers that part of him which once fit well into law enforcement- thus reestablishing his courage and his desire to fight criminals and injustice. But there are strong emotions which restrain him from officially doing so, which he must resolve in the process.
In the meantime, there are powerful forces of evil entrenched across the land, and chaos reigns. Satan the "Soul Rustler" has agents everywhere spreading violence, lies and delusions which ensnare the unsuspecting. In the end, the young lawman finds his niche and his backbone, but learns the truth in Shakespeare's often alluded to witticism, which came from his character Sir John Falstaff, often quoted and misquoted saying; "The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life."
The historical events in all three novels are presented faithfully, and in proper sequence, with very little modification, providing an educational journey through the American West, revealing in many ways what a small place it was.
BUT PLEASE TAKE NOTE. This is the real west, and if this story was a film, I would rate it PG/R. There is awful language, senseless carnage, sex trade, and plenty of racial hatred and anti-social behavior. For better or worse, most of the characters in these novels were real people, and the incidents actually happened. The main characters have been invented to serve as guides to take you on epic sweeps through the wild frontier, where you will meet many famous individuals, good and bad, in their actual lives, in the middle of their crimes, or in the process of ending other's, devoid of glamorization or the infinite popular myths which they inspired.
IN SPITE OF MY "ADULT" RATING, interspersed among the unfolding true-to-life crime stories are many of my favorite cultural witticisms and allusions to the Bible. The Victorians were all greatly impacted by literary quotations and the Holy Scriptures. The Bible was the most read book of the time, and the source of common knowledge about Ancient History, Law, and morality. These novels seek to show how that generation as a whole may have had more "Bible knowledge" than any in history, and how that shaped their dialogue, and yet how it failed to alleviate pervasive depravity or outlaws and their crimes which were the vanguard of "Manifest Destiny."
Westerns in our culture often present a very one-sided, dark, godless world, when even in the worst places there were actually good, honorable, intelligent people working for "Kingdom Causes" and Social Justice. Have no doubt that I pray that this story honors them and their struggles, as it shows solutions and strategies for our own.
The illustrations are mine. I have collected a huge library of antique tintypes, many of which feature characters from the Old West, or their "doppelgangers." As an artist, I have been able to digitally restore and modify them to make them reliable likenesses of many familiar faces from history.
Wednesday, January 12, 2022
The Soul Rustler... the first of a series by Russell Cushman
Chapter 1: Hanging in the Balance- 1873
The sounds of morning were still an hour away when violent pounding on the door wrenched Alvin from a burdensome dream. He was beating on the lid of a wooden trunk in his dream, just as he awoke and realized that somebody was actually beating on the door. "Mista Payne! MISTA PAYNE, are ya in there?"
The young policeman recognized the voice as Sylvester's, Sheriff McAllister's right-hand "man," a multi-skilled freedman, and a sure-enough deputy if it were not for the color of his skin. The fleeting snippet from his subconscious of his father's heavy photography trunk, packed with tintype photographs of Civil War soldiers, retreated into the back of his mind as he processed Sylvester's brutal launch of the new day.
"I'm here Syl..." Alvin groaned as he rolled over and threw back the covers on his bed, and looked around for his britches. "Gimme a second..." He remembered that he had tossed his dirty pants in the wicker basket the night before, too soiled to wear again. "What the hell... WHAT IS IT SYL?" He yelled as he reached over and pulled off a shirt airing on the back of a chair, and slipped it on.
"Shuriff say c'mon, right now, Mista Alvin, don' ebim part yo hay... jus' c'mon now... They's goin' to fine yo pahtna... de Posse leavim' shawtly!" Sylvester put his ear up close to Alvin's door, so he could hear his responses.
"All right Syl... tell 'em I'm comin'..." Alvin said with thinly-veiled impatience. "But Syl! Wait a minute..." He went to the door and unlocked it. As he did Sylvester jumped back from the door, aware that many White people would not want a Black man huddling next to their door, regardless of their intentions. "Good Mornin' Syl..." Alvin said, a little friendlier, but with a hoarse voice. "I need you to drop something off on your way back to the office."
"What is it Mista Alvin? I still got plenty o'stops ta make..."
"You on the buckboard?"
"Yessuh..." Sylvester was courteous yet dubious about the errand being added to his others.
Hiding his bare legs, Alvin came halfway out of the door with a small basket of fresh peaches, and handed them to Sylvester. "Take these to Mrs. Wilson. She's been wantin' some peaches to can, an' pick a few out for your self. Is that a deal?
"YES-SUH!" Sylvester exclaimed, as he smiled real big and proudly took them and set them in the wagon.
Pleasantly pleased, the shadow deputy sped off, gnawing on a tender peach as he headed to downtown Plattsburg, Missouri. It melted in his mouth, and so he had another, as they were ripening quick. And it would have been just as well if Sylvester Head had eaten them all, for the rest of them would never be canned or eaten. The year was 1873, and the peck of peaches bouncing in the buckboard ws going to be a collateral loss among much greater ones, in a tragedy which was about to render almost everything incidental and extraneous to those folks involved in the hunt for Frank and Jesse James.
“They's goin' to fine yo pahtna!” Syl had annouced with unusual urgency. Alvin's brother in arms had been missing for several days... but where in the world could the posse have been headed so early in the morning? What could they know that he had not found after days of searching in the backwoods of Clay County? Obviously a significant clue to the detective's whereabouts had hit the community like a meteor in the night.
“Cut him down!” demanded the Sheriff, “Who's got a sharp knife?”
Almost speechless, and holding their breath to avoid the stench of death, the deflated posse remained inert, reacting slowly, in a kind of torpor from the shock of horror and lack of oxygen. Some of the men were tying bandannas around their faces, as if the overwhelming odor might not penetrate them. But nothing could filter what assaulted their eyes.
“Somebody!” the Sheriff repeated. Several dapper young posse-men finally dismounted, approaching the hanged man as if he were a time-bomb, and fumbled around. Looking at one another in nervous disbelief, they pulled out an assortment of folding knives, until an old, barrel-chested Civil War veteran with a huge beard burst through them and flashed a seven-inch, battle-scarred Bowie which had the stains and charms of a dragon's tooth. "Somebody grab the rope.." He instructed as he unceremoniously approached the knot holding the poor strangled detective up on the bending limb, and in a half-second it shot up as he slashed with disgust, and the man fell to the ground with a sickening "BLUMP." Nobody had gotten a good grip on the rope before the body came instantly to the ground.
The pretentious deputies had acted in concert as if they would catch the body together, then lost control and danced away, wiping their hands, swatting and shaking their heads wildly. This grisly scene left an irremovable stain on all of them, and for the young men who had been too young to fight in the Civil War, it was the worst thing most of them had ever seen.
“God.” Somebody gasped.
The young detective's name was “Wilson,” so they said, and his somewhat public death had the intended effect. Sent by the Pinkertons, he had courageously investigated the James Gang, the most successful outlaws in America, deep in their home territory. And with the help of Alvin Payne, his local assistant, he had been on the cusp of arranging their capture. Or that had been their belief.
Then their whole scheme was suddenly dissolved and made mute. It was later speculated that some of the Youngers of nearby Jackson County, partners in crime, who had been checking on Frank and Jesse's mother for messages, found Wilson spying too close to her home. Quick to pass judgment, they had taken the suspicious "seed salesman" for “a ride in the country."
As Detective Alvin Payne caught up to the posse, which had left before he could saddle up, he passed through the onlookers and took in the horrific scene, and hearing the sheriff's demands, dismounted. The sudden realization of what had transpired immobilized him, and feeling sick, he fell to his knees instead. And began to lose the peaches he had enjoyed for breakfast. Doubled over, he had never experienced such a violent churning of his stomach. The rest of the posse shuffled away from him, as if his condition might be contagious. And in a few moments, it seemed to be- as all of them were quickly reminded of the mysterious power of suggestion.
“Don' worry 'bout it son, i'makes all of us sick. We' jus' seen this before.” The bearded veteran lamented as he tried to console him. Compassion comes cheap at such moments as this.
“Too many times, Cleetus,” agreed Sgt. Burroughs. “And it's always the same. They string up a missing lawman from a big oak tree and stick a damn sign on him- as if we don't comprehend."
One of the deputies pulled off the sign pinned to Wilson and read it as if it had a hidden message. “STAy OUt” it ordered, without explanation. “The bastards!” He yelled.
But Sheriff McAllister had had enough of pouting and speculating... and dead detectives. “That's enough for now fellas, I'll send my niggah with the wagon to fetch his body. A couple more hours won't make any difference now."
The posse gladly mounted up, as Detective Payne finally got the strength to stand. He was cold, and wringing wet, and his tongue quivered and his knees felt weak, but he struggled to get control of himself. Sheriff McAllister rode up to him, his horse dancing, not showing any respect for the moment, jacking his head up and down. “I know he was your compadre, Payne, I'm sorry 'bout this, but you know, that's why you have ta be the one to tell his wife."
But Alvin knew that in fact he would need some time just to clean himself up- to change shirts, and that he would never be ready to face the most difficult assignment of his fledgling law enforcement career. This was not just horrible, it was very personal.
"I will go tell her sir... Let me pull myself together... I just hope I can hold it together."
"You will Payne. Never seen you shirk your duty." McAllister assured him as he reined his horse away.
Nobody could have prepared for his task. No drilling or education would ever be enough. But Alvin had to formulate how he would tell her, immediately. He was only sure of one thing; there was no diplomatic enough way to tell a person that their life, as they know it, is over, and the love of their life is unexpectedly dead. At a time like this, self-doubt and fear of insufficiency destroys any pretense of composure. So without composure or hubris, he wondered what tools he had left to get the job done.
Detective “Wilson” in fact had been a thin illusion. His real name was Stewart Bacon, which had been changed to protect the detective's family, or himself if and when he got out of the Missouri bottoms alive. Bacon knew what chances he was taking, but thrived on this kind of intrigue, and he had ever since the Civil War, when he served as a Union spy.
When the Pinkertons hired him, he had not been honest about his marital status, capitalizing on the fact that he and his wife were recently separated. Separated in fact, because he would not get out of law enforcement. The Pinkertons were only interested in a single man for such an assignment. To him, the lack of divorce papers did not seem to be sufficient for him to turn down the opportunity of a lifetime. In his interview they had been careful to establish that he was unattached. He insisted that he was. He knew they would not have given him this assignment unless he was single. At the time Pauline was quite convincing that she would not compromise, so he believed that their divorce was just a matter of time. Stew was not the type to let sentimentality or minor details cloud his judgment.
Catching the James boys was a top priority for the Pinkertons, and had been for a decade, and a tempting prize to an ambitious detective like Bacon, but the agency would not knowingly send husbands or fathers into Jesse James country. So Bacon had fibbed a little and now the James gang had a new road sign.
“Wilson” was not the first, and would not be the last agent to give up his life for the cause, but he was the first brutal casualty of the Pinkerton's private war that Alvin Payne had to deal with. Pauline was going to be devastated. She had cast her lot with Bacon after overcoming great reservations. And this cracked stone had been the foundation of their relationship. It had been a curious romance, with controversial twists, not the least of which was that Bacon had been engaged to her older sister first, but she had changed her mind and sought a career instead. Of course Pauline had changed her mind too, and eventually followed Stew to Plattsburg after a painful separation. There never were any divorce papers.
Alvin had grown fond of Bacon and Pauline during the past six months, as they had worked together in the Missouri backwoods in search of clues to find and arrest the James's and the Youngers, the most notorious criminals in the country. The three were kind of like a little family; Bacon was his mentor and she was like a big sister. This relationship was more than acceptable to Alvin, for if he could not marry Pauline, being like a brother to her was the next best thing.
Stew had promised her to eventually give up his undercover detective work when they got married, two years before, and Pauline had tried to hold him to that promise. But jobs were scarce and he loved it so. So Stew found himself in a constant grind to find excuses for not keeping his promise. Here was where he may have undone himself; for people are at their supreme best when rationalizing those things which they want to do.
Never finding peace with her threatened abandonment, Pauline had made many weekend trips, trying to extract concessions from Stew, until she capitulated and came back after ten months of separation, with no strings attached. She had finally given in just a few months before, and moved into a humble cottage in town permanently- with the assurance that he would work his way out of the entire detective business eventually. And now he had kept his promise.
The James and the Youngers were Victorian tribal chieftains in an underground network that found crime and terrorism to be the feasible response to everything Southerners resented after the Civil War. They truly believed they were in the right, and justified their crimes as if they were in a war, where “All is fair.” It was a popular fantasy that somehow “the South will rise again,” and they were the proud tip of that spear.
There was no public body count, and the numbers were not ever publicly admitted, but the Pinkerton Detective Agency was very sensitive about the embarrassing war in Missouri where they had been losing for a decade. Their casualty list would have stunned the American public, and perhaps hurt their business, but more importantly it would have been an admission that the James gang and their robberies had become a folk movement from Texas to Tennessee.
Now Alvin just focused on the present. He pulled on a starch-stiffened, relatively clean Sunday shirt and dipped up a ladle of fresh water, trying to reset his countenance. A drink of cool water always helped him make a transition when he became overcome with emotion. His mother had always offered him a drink of water whenever anything was awry. So he drank- And he thought. Pauline was his immediate focus, but in the back of his mind were many questions which, if he dared to think about them, could immobilize him with fear; Whomever killed Stew, did they know about him too? Was he next? What might they be willing to do to silence him? Would they turn their venom towards the Marshal, or Sheriff McAllister and the other lawmen of the county as well? Should he leave? If so, how much time did he have to get out of Plattsburg? But these worries were best left on a shelf for awhile, until Pauline was safe, whatever that might entail.
He looked into the mirror of his cheap hotel dresser, and realized how red his complexion was. He had gotten hot, too hot, maybe even dehydrated, and he needed to rest a minute. But resting would have to wait too. He had to, and he wanted to be the one to tell Pauline.
Emotionally wrecked and inexperienced, the green young policeman had to be strong- maybe stronger than he had ever had to be. Just twenty-two and already in love with Pauline, he felt guilty, as he was already thinking about her, things far beyond the grief before her- not about how crushed she would be, for she would be, but about how much he loved her, if he dared to admit it. And now everything he said was mitigated by his desire to keep her near.
"Who else?" He thought to himself, to take better care of her? He grabbed his sweaty slouch hat and stepped out into a swirling world of tragedy and marital opportunity, and perhaps even a major change in his own life.
Alvin spit and mounted his horse, almost hating himself at the moment. He had run out of excuses. A voice inside was screaming for him to put his spurs to his mount and get on with the task. He felt sick and almost dead inside, but he had to push forward. “One thing at a time” he said to himself, as he kicked the horse into motion.
Mrs. Pauline Bacon
Pauline was working in her small garden by her cottage on the edge of town, her starched sun-bonnet glistening. People around town knew her by her maiden name, "Miss McAllen," and Stew rarely stayed there. Sometimes he sneaked over after dark, and they would spend evenings together, but he was always gone before sunrise. It was a precaution to protect Pauline, just in case the outlaws ever figured him out.
“Miss McAllen” had explained to the townsfolk that she and her husband were separated, which helped in a twisted way, to keep up appearances with his employers. “Mrs. Bacon” had been left back in Westport, supposedly awaiting divorce papers. Only Alvin knew the truth. And somehow knowing her real name made him feel especially close to her now. He was glad that he did, on both counts.
When Pauline saw him trotting up, she had a quizzical expression, for she had never seen Alvin without “Wilson” alongside. She was already on alert, having noticed a great deal of commotion coming from downtown. And Alvin was failing terribly at hiding his emotions. He thought he would explode before he ever made it to her gate. His teary expression was all she needed to read the situation instantly and become faint and to collapse in front of him, before he ever dismounted.
“NOOO” she cried. I don't want to hear it! Alvin! Go away. Don't take another step!”
Alvin swiftly pulled his reins through the ring on the iron horse head hitching post at the gate and then stopped abruptly, and stood stupidly, not sure what he should do. But he could not stand to see her writhing and crying in the weeds on the edge of her garden, and he had to do something.
He gave her about a half-minute, then began to talk very softly as he approached. “Pauli, they gave me the unpleasant job of telling you. I guess you have guessed already.”
“NOOOoooo. No. No. No!”
“Pauli, our worst fears... they... Pauli they killed him.” Alvin took a knee himself, not sure whether it was to comfort her or to keep himself from falling on his face. “They are bringin' his body to town right now.” Then the tears game gushing, and crying like a child, she hugged Alvin with all of her strength. It was the tenderest, most horrible, most wonderful moment of his life.
“Aaaaahhhhhh aaahhhhh.” Pauline cried unrestrained from hence unmeasured depths of her soul. Alvin let her sit on her own after awhile, as she took a deep breath, and wept quietly for what seemed like the better part of an hour. She was content to sit right there until she died... And Alvin did not mind, except he finally noticed some red ants beginning to climb onto his boots. Then as he brushed them off, trying not to make a scene of it, he saw them all over Pauline's back.
“Pauli- stand up honey, stand-UP!” He commanded as he physically pulled her up and away, and without hesitation began to dust them off. “It's ANTS- ALL OVER YOU!” Knocking ants off of a woman's bustle was beyond the customary social barrier, and her comfort zone, and he wondered what would happen when he worked his way around to her front, but she grabbed his hand at that point. Ants or no ants, she was a lady first and foremost- even in terrible grief.
“That's enough, you can stop, Let me go get out of this dress!” Pauline growled as she jogged into the house, with tears wetting the wooden porch steps, her face buried in a lacy handkerchief, and her pride forgotten. Her Midwest cottage dream and her lovely future had been destroyed in the blink of an eye.
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YOU FOUND IT!
I need readers , so thanks for responding! Here is my newest novel, and I would be so grateful for you to look it over, read it if you woul...
-
The Soul Rustler is the first of three novels in "the Tinhorn" series, featuring a young midwestern lawman who, after the trag... -
Chapter 1: Hanging in the Balance- 1873 The sounds of morning were still an hour away when violent pounding on the door wrenched Al...
-
I need readers , so thanks for responding! Here is my newest novel, and I would be so grateful for you to look it over, read it if you woul...
