The boom reverberated off the canyon walls and the screams and the smoke and the noise—I’m ashamed to say I fainted. I came to rather quickly, the explosive percussion fading like a thunderclap far away, but my mind had fallen into that other canyon—the darker one of memory. That last night in our town, before we were ordered to evacuate, when Mother screamed and smoke billowed from the broken windows of the church. That night when I- Funny, the places your mind takes you at inopportune moments. I read a novel for school that was written as if it were a teenager’s diary. It told of her family’s journey to a new land, America (part of the Old Country), and I remember being annoyed that she stopped a sentence as if she had been interrupted speaking and not writing. A bothersome affectation, I thought, or, worse, a cheap trick to fool the reader into suspense. Yet here I just did the very same thing I criticized in my report (I got an “A”). I promise I won’t do that again. Pa helped me up and I was rather touched his first concern was my welfare instead of what the deuce just happened. Our wagon was more or less in the middle of the caravan, so our view in either direction was blocked. Shouting could be heard and soon men were pushing past us, heading to the front of the group. I was still woozy when Mother appeared, grim faced. “Stay,” was all she said. I nodded, looking past her to my sister’s face peering out the wagon door. I’d seen her scowl at Mother’s back before, but the look on her face just then…I couldn’t place it, connect the emotion. Pa melted away during the next interval after Father appeared to check on our well-being. Both my parents were soon off, disappearing from sight in the ungodly amount of dust created by the explosion, but not before I heard her spit out “Chiggers!” and he “Accident.” I decided on action myself. Though my legs trembled when I followed, I was determined to atone for my previous weakness. After all, many a hero has quailed before conquering fear and finding his true strength. I fancied the rail a narrow bridge above some foreboding chasm, letting it guide me through the smoke and dust and only stepping off to pass around wagons. I heard voices, sensed the presence of others, but did not stop. I must have been close to the front when I thought I heard Pa—well, our Pa, I should say as many of the families had brought along their servants. The smoke was thick and slow like thoughts when one first awakes, but I thought I could see indistinct silhouettes when I looked left. Their whispers rode the pressure waves of silence that followed the explosion and I stopped to listen. “………………, …….” “……. No, no, ……….” “…………………………………………………?” “Okay, Okay, ………………….” The English words were certainly spoken by our Pa, and the rest was the gibberish the natives grunted at each other when they thought themselves alone. Probably making fun of us, Mother always said. “The Great do and the feebleminded poke fun.” I stepped off the rail, silent footfalls brought me closer, and then I heard a quick intake of breath. The silhouettes broke apart: one moving up the seemingly impossible to climb canyon wall and the other towards me. It was just our Pa, our Pa, I told myself, but I- Damn it! I really will stop doing that. I just, I ran. Turned and ran at the sight of a shadow coming at me. After that last night in our town I thought I’d, well, I’d thought I had become less of a- Damn it all to hell.(Gwen's Diary): I’m frightened. I want to see what happened, if anyone’s hurt but I’m still scared of Mother. I’m ashamed of this but I’ve seen what she’s capable of. What Father is incapable of and what my brother- And I realize this second that this is the first time I’ve truly been alone since we fled town and the first thing I do is write in my diary like one of those forlorn but beautiful girls in those laughable stories Mother tells me are proper literature for young ladies. For empty headed preeners without a single original thought in their doe-eyed heads is more like it, oh, but except of course they find their True Self and inner strength just in time to throw it away marrying some noble hero. But I could probably flip back through this diary and find dozens of pages with whining on that topic but what I’m really thinking about is not knowing what’s going on out there, what’s going on with my family and what am I going to do? You’ve become my only friend, diary, and even though I thought it was a silly lark to anthropormor-…whatever, you, I still do it. Think of you as someone real I’m writing to. I’m the one that writes in this stupid thing and re-reads it so I guess I’m my only friend and does that sound pathetic, Gwen? But I don’t know what else to do and there’s no one to talk to. Mother is horrible, so cruel, like a caricature of the evil aunt the forlorn girl has to gather the courage to confront (is this one of her hints?). If those girls had to confront Mother, they’d wilt under her stare, cry, and dissolve into a puddle, a forlorn puddle of failure. Father is hopeless, brooding over matters of state, listless when it comes to us and ignoring how Uncle Samuel has practically taken over his life. Actually, our family is almost exactly like one of those novels! I miss my old brother. Space Captain to my First Mate. We used to play. He used to tell me stuff, even embarrassing stuff like one of his first PE classes when he couldn’t climb the rope ‘cos his body wasn’t used to the increased gravity yet. That brother is gone, stolen by whatever faeries they have on this planet. They replaced him with some smirking dopplewhosit intent on Trying To Be A MAN. So full of himself, he doesn’t even realize how much it hurts to have him brush me off and refuse to talk about Mother and Uncle and about how wrong it is to have slaves and about how lonely I am. The way Mother treats him and Father ignores him I think maybe he might see that he doesn’t have to be what he thinks they want. I had hope until the so-called Attacks. Until he showed how like them he already was. Too late. I’m crying, diary, me, right now, thinking of that night and everything. The whole colonization thing and I know it was “decades before we got here” and that “the old must give way to the new” and it’s “just the way things are” but when I think of what we’ve done to the Chikra. And I know it’s selfish when so many others are suffering but I’m crying for myself too because I feel so trapped and I’m so alone.(end of first half of story)
My introduction to the western genre, passed onto me by my 14yr old son who's currently going through Louis L'Amour like a dose of salts. Thoroughly enjoyed it. A fairly short tale, about 150 pages. Very descriptive of the landscape, and quite insightful I thought, as well as being a book of action and of course lots of gunsmoke. The writing is easy to get into, very simple prose and dialogue style, but far from simplistic. It's easy to see why Louis L'Amour has the reputation he does. I'll be reading more of his stories.
What do You think about The First Fast Draw (1985)?
It may be a while before it actually sinks in that I of all people actually just read a WESTERN NOVEL.Seriously. This is ME we are talking about here.It took me a while to get into it and adjust to the odd cadence of the narrator's voice, but by the time I got to the third chapter or so I stopped noticing that so much and was able to better focus on the story itself.It was nice and fast-paced, did not waste time with unwieldy narrative, and while certain parts of it were predictable, there was enough that wasn't to keep me from feeling completely cheated of an hour of my life.On the whole, not a bad read. I would like to read a couple more of his books before I really form an opinion.
—Jael
