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Lean into the Wind

by P.E. Myers

232 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0233; ISBN 1-55395-870-5; US$21.50, C$24.70, EUR18.00, £12.50

Lean into the Wind is an action-packed Canadian frontier novel blending the strong elements of the cattleman, the frontier woman, the Blackfoot, the immigrants, and more.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts or Table of Contents      catalogue info

About the Book On the brawny arm of the Plains reaching down from Canada deep into the South, an endurable figure has been the cattleman. He remains both the flamboyant figure of the West, and the model of modern man. Tough as whang leather, the woman figure has been no less enduring. Surviving horse thieves, desperadoes, storms, winds, isolation, and men who would marry anything that got off the stagecoach, she remains the heroine of modern woman. The cowhands, the immigrants, the Métis, the wolfers, ensure vibrant characters; the grass fires, the thundering buffaloes, the horse races, the gold seeking -- just the background needed for the factual, dramatic events in Lean into the Wind.

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About the Author P.E. Myers holds a diploma awarding highest honors in a comprehensive course of studies in Creative Writing from the Universal Career Institute. Also by P.E. Myers: The Long Whistle

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Excerpts

from Chapter 11:
    "WHAT WILL WE BE SAYING IN THE TELEGRAM to Uncle?" Moira asked when Patricia and she were about to enter the Battleford telegraph office.
    Tied to the hitching post fronting the building, was a saddled horse. Moira's eyes opened wide. "Faith, there's a stylish horse," she said. Indeed, the horse was a beauty with her dark red body glistening in the sunlight, and on her back a handsome saddle with delicate leather carvings.
    Moira tied Buster at the far end. "To save him from embarrassment," she said.
    The telegraph operator was waiting on a rangy, grey-headed man. Not wishing to eavesdrop, the two stopped by the door, but the operator quickly ushered them inside. "You may prepare your message while you're waiting," he said, handing Patricia a paper and pencil.
    The grey-headed man glanced their way. He was courteous; he didn't stare. Patricia was the one to stare--this man must be a genuine cowboy, she thought. Movement set the shiny spurs to jingling on his high-heeled leather boots, and beneath tough leather chaps his legs appeared solid muscle, and those legs bowed, too, but not to the extent she'd seen in pictures; the rest of his frame was hard and lean. Little silver stars studded the belt he wore around a tight waist, a short vest partially covered his shirt, and a red bandanna was knotted around his neck. His high-crowned hat hung on a peg by the door, and Patricia saw a line on the man's forehead at the place his hat had been, the top part a startling white, the bottom a deep brown tan. He wore a full-sized mustache, the ends leading to sideburns, and a trim beard much darker than his grey hair.
    Moira tugged her arm. "Write it," she said. "You're having the paper."
    Patricia looked thoughtful, but she just stood there.
    The grey-headed man spoke his message, "To Luke Keen at Fort Benton in Montana: In Battleford, Canada. Be home ahead of the snow. Keen."
    "Please assist the lady with her telegram," Keen said, and not waiting for an answer, he sat in a chair.
    "It has to be short, since we're short of money," Moira said. "It's to Paddy Flynn, Dingle, Kerry, Ireland. Here's the spelling, sir." Moira handed the operator the paper.
    "Now for the message," Moira said, thoughtfully rubbing her chin. "Sure and 'tis Rupert's Land. We're all right and in Canada now. No scalps. God bless, Moira and Patricia."
    "Should I leave out a word or two?" she asked Patricia. "It's a wee bit long, is it not? But you're knowing it's to Uncle Paddy."
    "Just find the cost," Patricia said.
     Mr. Tinkler laughed a hearty laugh, the kind that makes you feel like laughing along.
    "You want scalps, keep going west," he said. "Now for the cost."
    When the operator was tallying, Patricia turned for another look at the man called Keen. Their gaze met and locked; the man's eyes dropped, and Patricia quickly turned back to the operator.
    "Two fifty, ma'am."
    Patricia selected the money from a pocket.
    "When we're having the hunger, I'll shoot a buffalo," Moira said.
    "Son," Mr. Tinkler said, "it's hard work to butcher a buffalo."
    "Aye, right enough, but we can easily remove its tongue," Moira said. "I've been told buffalo tongue is tasty."
    "You're travelling west?" Mr. Tinkler asked.
    "Yes," Moira said, "and we're only the two."
    "Where are you going?"
    "It's to Fort Benton in Montana we're going."
    "Whoop-Up and Benton are tough places--I doubt it's safe you two going alone," Mr. Tinkler said.
    "We'll find Ol Armand and take him with us," Moira said. "He's our friend. He won't let the Indians get us."
    "Ol Armand is a horse thief!" Mr. Tinkler said.
    "Aye, he is indeed, sir. It's our horses he stole."
    Mr. Tinkler struck his fist on the counter and roared with laughter.
    Patricia looked at the man called Keen; he cast his eyes downward, amusement creased his face and he covered his mouth with his hand.
    "Mr. Keen," the operator said, gasping for breath," I apologize for the delay."
    "No, it's all right," Keen said, flipping the chair around.
    He was enjoying himself, Patricia thought, and wondered at how comfortable he looked sitting backward in the chair with his arms resting on its back.
    "Sir, is there a place we can have a proper bath?" Moira asked. "We've not had a proper bath since we left our own sweet land."
    "Son," Mr. Tinkler said, "I'll find you a proper bath and if it's my own bathtub. But let me help Mr. Keen."
    "Dancing in the log storehouse across the way," Mr. Tinkler told Keen at the completion of their business. "Starts at seven. Come along and meet the people. The ladies serve tea and fixin's."
    "Now for a proper bath," Mr. Tinkler told Moira. "Take your outfit round the alley to the stable, and put up your horses," he said. "Don't worry about the cost. Be my guests."
    In the stable, Moira poured Lightning a ration of barley. "Just a tad," she said. "You're not needing the bellyache."
    Patricia tied Buster in the next stall. "Our old horse doctor is right here in this capital city," she said, forking hay into the manger. "Ol Armand can heal him if he gets the colic."
    When they returned to the office Mr. Tinkler was busy serving a customer, but he found time to show them to a room at the rear of the building where a large pan of water was heating on a tin stove; it appeared he was planning to take a bath himself. In the corner was a small curtained area; the two flicked the curtain and grinned at what they saw: a huge, round metal tub squatted on the floor, and beside it, a clean towel and a bar of soap.
    They filled the tub half full with the warm water. "You first," Moira offered.
    Patricia closed the curtain. She heard the telegraph clicking while she scrubbed with the soap and scooped water with her hands. "Moira, wash my back," she called. "I want to feel clean all over."
    Moira did, and then she picked up a newspaper from a table and browsed.
    "Here's an article on Battleford in this paper," she said.
    "Read to me," Patricia said between splashes.
    Moira did:

Great expectations for Battleford, formerly Telegraph Flats. It will be elevated to the position of territorial capital, future centre of commerce. The first telegram was sent April 6 of this year. At a cost of eight thousand dollars, a bridge crossing the Battle River has been constructed.

    "I didn't see a bridge," Patricia said.
    "We'll ask the operator."
    "Wait till I'm dressed," Patricia said, slipping into her clothes. "We need to buy soap, sugar, and tea before we leave Battleford."
    Moira tossed Patricia the newspaper and took her turn in the tub.
    "Moira," Patricia said, "you said there's nothing to worry about, and here is exactly what I'm worried about."
    "Don't worry, Patricia. Worry makes you ill."
    "Here in the Wichita Eagle."
    "We don't even know where Wichita is. Why would you be worrying?"
    Patricia read:

The cattle season has not fully set in. A rush of gamblers and harlots are lying in wait for the cowboy game soon to come up from the south.

    Patricia wept.
    "Why are you having to cry?" Moira asked. "You know Ryan won't let the gamblers rob his money." Moira emphasized her words with splashes that spilled over the edge of the tub. "Come and wash me ...my back. Patricia, what's a harlot?"
    Patricia lathered her hands with soap and rubbed Moira's shoulders. "You're too thin. You have to eat more to keep your strength. You can't be ill, Moira. We've not time to be ill." She towelled Moira's back until it was dry. "Now then, you're clean," she said.
    "But me pants are dusty," Moira said, swatting at them. "But I have to wear them anyhow now I'm a boy again. Wear your pink dress, Patricia."
    When Moira had finished bathing, she went to the cart to find the dress Patricia had bought in Galway to wear to her best friend's wedding. Patricia and she had made the long distance journey by boat and Patricia had found the dress in the first shop they had entered. The ruffles on the skirt were exquisite and the bodice hugged her slim waist perfectly, but Moira wasn't satisfied and after spending the whole afternoon trudging shop to shop, they returned and bought the dress.
    "I'm thinking it's too stylish," Patricia said.
    "Nonsense! Put it on. You'll look beautiful and you'll feel better."
    They emptied the tub by pulling it through the back door and dumping the water on the ground.
    "If you hurry, you'll get in on the tea," Mr. Tinkler said, latching the front door.
    "You two run ahead. I'll be along in awhile. After the dance, you're welcome to slip in the back and place your blankets on the floor."
    "Thank you, sir," Moira said. "And it's a true welcome you're giving us."

Chapter 18

    They went through the back door, clumped down the steps to the alley, pitch black since their eyes were accustomed to the saloon lights. The smell of tar was strong. Someone moaned.
     "He's under the kegs," Luke said, pushing them apart. Empty whisky kegs, garbage cans, and buckets were scattered everywhere. "It's Stover. He's covered with tar. Dern it, what happened to you?"
    "He can't say nothing; he's gagged," Deejay said.
     Luke swore at the knots; they were too slippery to untie. Deejay handed him his knife.
    "Who tarred you?" Luke asked. "Where are your clothes? You're stark naked."
     Stover moaned and held his head.
     "They pistol-whipped you?" Luke asked.
    "Damn it, struck me where I live!" Stover said. "Tyler and Nixon. I heard their voices."
    Deejay found Stover's clothes and his six gun under the barrels. "Your Levi's, they're ruined," he said.
     "I'll murder them. It ain't just the Levi's. I'll never be the same again," Stover said, groaning and feeling about his privates.
    "Well, be thankful you still got 'em," Luke said.
     "How to get tar off a human? Fine kettle of fish this is," Stover said to Luke.
    "I'll murder them. I really will murder them."
     "Sit here beside me while I get dressed," he added.
     "Here in the alley?" Luke asked.
     "Got to figure how to outfox 'em," Stover said. "On the platform, they have two water barrels filled with whisky. The wagon's coming to pick them up."
     "Bejasus, you're black!" Deejay said. "Hardly can see you."
     "I'll keep to the shadows and go see," Stover said. He steadied himself against the building.
    A bar customer opened the door and relieved himself from the top step. Deejay moved his boots to keep them dry. The man buttoned up and staggered back inside the saloon, slamming the door.
     "Tarnation," Deejay said, "they wouldn't use a back house if there was one. Why did those hunters tar Stover?"
     "He flattened the teamsters."
     "Talked scads too, I reckon," Deejay said. "Why don't he button his lip?"
    "Shush, he's coming."
     "They're waiting on the platform," Stover whispered.
     "How many?"
     "Tyler, Nixon, and Bull."
     "Chuck must be bringing the wagon," Luke said.
    "I found a drill," Stover said.
     "Whose? Where? Why?" Deejay whispered. The events were piling up fast, and he wished they'd slow enough so that he could keep up.
     "We'll borrow it. Pick up those buckets and follow me," Stover said.
    Even in the light of day to negotiate the alley would have been a challenge with its ruts and castoff boards and boxes; however, the noise from the saloon drowned the occasional misstep.
     "Here's the platform, shush," Stover said, placing his finger to his lips.
     Holding the handles to keep them from rattling, Luke and Deejay ducked under the platform.
     "Here. Right here." Stover bored a hole straight up through the plank floor. In minutes liquid dropped on his hand.
     "Hold the bucket here," he whispered and drilled until the drops became a thin stream.
     "Shush. Someone's coming," Deejay said. The hollow sound of footsteps loomed louder.
     Stover bunged the hole with his bandanna.
    "That damn Chuck. I'll whip him if he don't come soon. That'll give him something to gripe about." It was Bull's voice. The planks squeaked as he clumped back to the others.
     "He's gone," Stover said, pulling the bandanna free.
     The bucket was full, and Stover reached for an empty. When all three buckets were full, he plugged the hole. "We'll dump it in those empty kegs," he said.
     Noiselessly, they returned to the saloon alley.
     "Need a funnel," Luke said.
     Deejay found a tin can with no ends that he bent to shape. "It ain't dishonest to steal something that's stolen," he judged.
     "Who cares!" Stover said. "Hurry, we can get it all."
     Back they went, again and again, until the barrels were empty.
     "Remember which kegs contain the red-eye," Stover said.
     They put all the full ones in the middle and the empties on the outside. "We ought to put the garbage on top. They might come looking," Deejay said.
     "I'd like to see Tyler's face when he finds his barrels empty," Stover said.
     "My eye, I ain't waiting for that," Luke said.
     Bushes grew profusely along the shore of the Oldman River making excellent coverage to observe without being seen. "We ought to hide in the brush and guard our whisky," Stover said.
     They made plans to place their bedrolls under the wagon, to hobble their horses near the mules and walk back; if the Mounties were curious enough to investigate they'd believe the cowboys were bedded under the wagon.
     "What makes you so clever a thief?" Luke asked.
     "The Army," Stover said grinning.
    They took turns guarding far into the night, waiting for the saloon to close.
     "Damn it, they pour it in and piss it out," Stover complained. "They come out on that step, two at a time."
     "You catch some sleep," Luke said. "I'll guard."
     "Someone's coming," Deejay whispered. Two horsemen drew rein at the kegs.
    "Dern, it's those hunters," Luke said.
     A kick to a keg, a hollow thump, and then the saloon door burst open and a Mountie unbuttoned at the top step.
     "Lovely," Stover whispered with feeling, "Mounties piss too."
     The hunters quickly disbursed.
     "San's water barrels," Deejay said when the alley finally hushed. "We'll empty them and put the whisky in."
     "We can't pack these kegs all the way to the wagon," Luke said.
     "Float them," Deejay said. "The stream's right there."
     The saloon was quiet: no voices, no music, no one around. They made trip after trip, became cold and wet, but no one complained.
     When the water barrels didn't hold all the whisky Stover dumped the last quart or two into a smaller barrel packed between them. A light was in the east when they finished the task.
     "We have a couple of hours to sleep," Deejay said, looking at the sky.
     "Luke, you have to cut my hair," Stover said, pulling at the matted clumps thick with tar. "Get the scissors."
     Luke climbed into the wagon. San kept them with his eating irons.
     They bunged repeatedly, but Luke kept at it despite Stover's rough comments.
     "It needs a shave," Luke said surveying his handiwork. "You look like a coyote ran through a bob wire fence.
    "Yessir, your head's white," he added, getting down to the skin.
    Stover's mood was grouchy. He prized his fiery locks. "What did you expect? I ain't no black man," he said grumpily.
     "You are a black man, George," Luke said with a chuckle. "How does it feel?"
    "It feels like hell if you want to know. Need something to get rid of this tar," Stover muttered. "What you figure, Deejay?"
    A sharp snore was the answer.
    "How about the whisky? We have some," Luke said.
    "I know we have some, Luke. We've been stealing it all night," Stover said.
    Deejay had filled a cup and set it on the ground by his bed in the event he had a hangover in the morning. Luke wet the corner of San's dishtowel and rubbed Stover's face briskly.
    "It's coming. Look," Luke said, holding the stained towel before Stover's face.
    "Keep rubbing," Stover said.
    Luke did, but he couldn't get more.
    "That'll have to suffice, I reckon," Stover said. "I've a change of clothes in the wagon. This was one hellish day."
    "Some days you're the top-dog; some days you're the hydrant," Luke said.
    Stover didn't appreciate that remark. He cussed and snorted, changed his clothes, tied a fresh bandanna high on his neck, yanked his hat low and his shirtsleeves down. "Can't see no tar?" he asked.
    "Some on your boots."
    "I'll rub them in the sand in the morning," Stover said.
    "It is morning," Luke said, observing the light sky to the east. "We'll catch an hour anyway."
    "That better be good tarantula juice," Stover said, settling in his blanket under the wagon. The sentry's voice rang clear and sharp. "All's well."
    Luke chuckled. They'd been stealing whisky all night under the watchful eyes of the Mounties.

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Catalogue Information

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