Joe Cartwright knew right away the man was bad. Pure evil seemed to roll off him in waves.  Oh, Joe remembered what Pa always told him. He could hear the deep voice now saying “Joe, never judge a book by it’s cover and always give a man the benefit of the doubt.”  And for the most part, Joe was basically the trusting sort.  But he also knew when to trust his own gut feelings about things and this time, his gut feelings were practically screaming for him to get as far from this man as possible.

 He sat up tall on a large bay horse, galloping at a leisurely lope across the sage brush dotted expanse of the high dessert grassland.  Joe noted him first as a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye as he wiped a trickle of water that had missed his thirsty mouth after it exited his canteen.

 By the time Joe had put the stopper back in the canteen, the man was close enough for Joe to quickly realize this man most likely meant nothing but trouble.

 It was more than his appearance which, by most anyone’s standards apart from the man’s own mother perhaps, could only be called ugly. The aura of trouble rolled off the man as sure as a calling card announced a gentleman’s name.

 Much as Joe would have liked to have pretended he hadn’t noticed the rider, there was no way to avoid a meeting with him.

 “Howdy boy,” the man snarled through teeth that were brown and rotting in his mouth. He punctuated the word boy by spitting a stream of brown tobacco juice on the ground through one of the gaps in the side of his mouth.

 As disgusted as Joe was, as nervous as he felt, he simply nodded and said “afternoon.”

 The man stared at Joe with his one good eye. The other, well, it was hard to say. Scarring had fairly closed it up altogether, leaving the barest of slits for the man to peer through, if indeed the eye was still able to see.

 Joe did not want to stare back, but felt that looking away or down at the ground, or anywhere other than right at the man could be a deadly dangerous gesture. Joe did glance at the man’s weaponry, of which there was plenty to see. A sash of bullet cases was slung diagonal across his chest. Hanging from his belt was one of the biggest knives Joe had ever seen. And stuffed into the waistband of his pants was a large colt revolver.

 His jacket was brown, though Joe couldn’t tell if that was its original color, or if it came to be that way over years of wear.

 “Name’s Bromwell Heller,” the man offered, extending a large dirty hand with short fat fingers, one of which was missing halfway down at the second knuckle.

 Joe pretended he didn’t notice and decided that this would be a perfect moment to have another drink of water from his canteen.  He tilted it up high, but let only small amounts make their way down his throat.

 As Joe drew out his drink as long as he could, he saw his new companion pull a flask out of his jacket pocket and proceed to swill down a half dozen swallows of what Joe could only imagine was something stronger than water.  The Adam’s apple at the man’s long unshaven, dirt encrusted neck bobbed up and down with each swallow and Joe became mesmerized with watching its dance.

 “Have a nip,” the man said as he offered the bottle to Joe.

 Joe tried to hide his disgust but quickly realizing the effort would be too much, he turned his head and gazed at the far off plateaus where the sun had now all but disappeared.

“Uh, no thanks.”

 “Whatever suits you.”  Bromwell corked his flask and returned it to the depths of his pocket.

 “So which way’s you headed son?”

 Don’t call me son! Joe wanted to yell, but he just shifted in his saddle and jutted his chin down the trail.

“Headed over Virginia City way,” is all he said, not wanting this man to know any more than was necessary.

 “…and I best be going. Got a few hours left till dark and I ‘d like to take advantage of it.”

 “Whull now that suits me right fine!” said Bromwell, followed by a spit on the ground.

 Joe frowned and thought hard about ways he cold discourage Bromwell from following him into the night. He briefly considered telling him outright that he preferred to be alone, but then thought that it might actually be best for him to keep his ‘enemy’ close where he would be better able to sense any surprises the man might have planned.

 Joe reined Cochise ahead on the trail with Bromwell following along a few paces behind.  Joe could feel eyes bore into his back and he wondered if the sweat he felt trickle between his shoulder blades was really from the heat of the day.

 It didn’t take long for what was left of the day to slip quietly away.  The air became much cooler and it was increasingly difficult to see the trail through the charcoal shadows that now were spreading everywhere. 

 Finally Joe knew he had no choice but to make camp with his unwanted companion.

 Finding a semi-sheltered spot, Joe dismounted and stretched, then immediately began untying his bedroll from behind the saddle.

 Within moments, Bromwell came into sight.

 While Joe had managed to keep moving enough ahead of the man to avoid conversation, he knew there was not much chance he’d get out of it now.

 “Thought you’d never stop traveling kid,” Bromwell slurred as he got down from his horse and took another swig from his flask. 

 After pulling the saddle off Cochise, Joe took some dry jerky and hard biscuit from

his saddle bag leaned against a nearby boulder and began eating.  All the while, Bromwell continued to drink and ramble on incoherently about what he referred to as his ‘younger days’.

 Joe could hardly follow the thread of the story as Bromwell skipped from one adventure to another. 

 But what Joe did hear disgusted him. Bromwell recounted over and over his intrinsic lack of compassion for his fellow man and obviously felt a sense of pride in it.

I did manage to write a few more lines today. But then I stopped myself and tried brainstorming on what I want to happen. I keep trying to think of the story backwards so that I know what will happen and can fill in with a story which explains exactly how I got to that end. I try coming up with a situation and then thinking to myself 'how did the characters get into this situation?'.

I'm not convinced this is the best method, but I am trying some different ways. I try to brainstorm when I am waiting in traffic or sitting on the shuttle bus to work. That is a great time to do it because I'm not distracted by other things. Only problem is that I think of something but don't put it down on paper and then it gets forgotten!

Another problem I seem to run into is that I tend to spend too much time re-reading what I have written. I keep going over it and trying to 'hear' my voice in it. I know I have a different style from a lot of the writers I have read. I know it will need editing, but that is not what the re-reading seems to be about. It's more about listening and feeling. I really have a strong need to infuse the characters with the 'way' I see them, which to me is what all this writing is really about. I can only gauge whether I am getting the character the way I want if I re-read over and over.

Ok, wrambling on here!

Wrenny

Well, I think the pressure of knowing others are watching will get me going, but yesterday was really a bust. My Bonanza Gold magazine came and I couldn't wait to read it.

I have an opening bit written, but I seem to have a hard time deciding where it will go. Reading what others have to say, I do realize that an outline could be helpful to me, so I might try that today, but then I also think I might try just writing any old thing that comes to mind - I tend to be more an intuitive type and like the idea of just going full tilt and seeing where it leads. Of course it could lead to dead ends, but I sort of think this may be more my style.

I just don't want the thing to get too complicated. I like plots that are more simple.

Wrenny