by Dan Arnold
This reporter has learned that Alta Vista County will soon have a facility for the care of orphaned children. A special meeting of the Commissioner’s Court approved a budget and the immediate hiring of staff for the orphanage. The facility, which will house and feed as many as two dozen children, is situated in the town of North Fork on twenty five acres donated to the county by a local business person.
In related news, construction of a new church has commenced on land adjacent to the orphanage. This reporter has learned plans for starting a school in that community are also being discussed.
***
“Well, Tom, I call that progress.”
Tom grinned at me.
“Yep, it sure is. The new preacher up there stopped by here to tell me about the plans for the school. At first, it will meet in the church house. He says he figures they’ll have at least twenty five children the very first day.”
“A saw mill, a new church, a school and an orphanage all happening at once, aint that something? Who would’ve ever figured North Fork would become civilized so fast?”
“Times are changing everywhere. It’s getting hard to keep up.”
“Yep, it sure is.”
“So, how are you feeling, John? You sure look healthy. Did you learn anything useful down around Yellow Butte?
I grinned back at him.
“Yes, Tom, I sure did. Lora and I are going to adopt Jake and Sarah.”
“Capital, that’s just capital. I’m so happy for you. I can’t wait to tell Becky.”
“I imagine Lora’s already told her.”
“Well let’s all get together tonight and celebrate. What do you say?”
“I say that sounds capital.”
***
We make our plans, but God alone knows what a day may bring forth. I had no idea my trip to Yellow Butte would be the thing that put me right. I haven’t had a nightmare since the day I rode down there.
The snow will soon be falling, another year starting not long after.
I hope this letter finds you feeling well, Mother, and enjoying the weather in California. Lora sends her love, as do I.
May God bless you and keep you.
I remain lovingly your son,
John
*******
Turn the page for an Excerpt from:
YELLOW HORSE
SAGE COUNTRY
Book Four
An excerpt from:
YELLOW HORSE
SAGE COUNTRY
Book Four
By Dan Arnold
Jim Scroggins was a careful man. He prided himself on it. Trying to ambush the Indian in this high country was not the sort of thing a careful man would do. On the other hand, crossing Zeb Fletcher was even more dangerous.
Scroggins figured he’d have a little look around and go back to camp empty handed. Fletcher would be angry, but it was a risk he’d have to take.
From up here on the edge of the mesa he could see for miles. If the Indian was moving around below him somewhere he would be easy to spot. The thing was the savage might not be below him. He could be up on the mesa with him.
He cussed to himself. He should’ve thought of it before now. The sneaky bastard was here and somewhere close.
Scroggins cocked his pistol, listening. Nothing moved, except a flight of crows far off in the distance.
The blow came as a complete surprise, knocking his pistol out of his hand, now broken at the wrist.
He reached across his body to pull his knife, but another blow from the rifle stock slammed the wind out of him and sent him toppling over the edge of the cliff. He bounced off a couple of boulders before landing in a heap forty feet below, dazed and barely able to see.
***
Bending over the white man where he lay sprawled on the rocks at the base of the cliff, Yellow Horse observed two things. The man’s body was broken, but he was still alive.
One eye was open watching Yellow Horse, the other eye destroyed by the crushed bones surrounding it.
“You damned injun. You’ve done for me.” He said, through broken teeth.
“Not yet.” Yellow Horse said. “First you will tell me where the woman is.”
“No I won’t. I aint tellin’ you nothin’.”
Yellow Horse nodded and began gathering small twigs and leaves from the ground. He placed them in a pile and widened his search, returning with larger sticks, which he placed next to the pile of smaller material.
“What are you doing?” The man asked.
“I’ll make a fire. Nights get cold this high up.”
Yellow Horse walked away. He was gone longer this time. When he returned he carried limbs nearly as thick as his arms, broken off from dead pinõn and mesquite trees.
“Where is the woman?”
The man slowly shook his head.
“By now, the shock has worn off. The pain is setting in. I won’t let you faint. You are hurt badly, but not fatally. Although many bones are broken, you are not paralyzed. Even the smallest movement will be horribly painful. You can’t stand, probably can’t crawl. In time you would starve or freeze to death here in these rocks, but not tonight. Tonight we will talk. Tell me where the woman is.”
“You go to hell.”
Yellow Horse sighed and began building the fire.
When he’d arranged the loose leaves and twigs as tinder and built a small box around it with other twigs, he popped a match and lit it.
As the flames began to consume the twigs he added larger ones to it, then sticks. Now the fire was burning well, without any visible smoke. He remained squatted down facing the injured man on the other side of the fire.
“It’s getting dark. Tell me where the woman is.”
“No.”
Yellow Horse stood and walked over to the white man.
“Unless you tell me, I will hurt you.”
“Go on, do it. I’ll never tell.”
“You will. I’m going to burn you until you do.”
The man closed his eyes, shaking his head.
Yellow Horse bent and grabbed one of the man’s feet, yanking his leg straight.
The man screamed and nearly fainted, breaking out in a sweat.
“Where is the woman?”
The man was panting for breath
“Why do you care?”
Yellow Horse pulled on the man’s boot, ignoring the screams, until he pulled it all the way off. There was no sock. The exposed foot was pale, nearly white, like the belly of a fish.
Returning to the fire, he squatted and set the boot down beside him. He waited until the man was breathing normally again.
“She is weak, can’t survive here without help.”
“What’s it to you?”
Yellow Horse pulled a stick about as thick as his thumb out of the fire. He stood and blew on the smoldering end until it glowed, cherry red.
He walked back over to the injured man, grabbing the exposed foot.
He blew on the stick again.
“No, don’t do it. It aint Christian.”
“No, it aint.”
“Wait, wait. Aieeegh!”
Yellow Horse barely wrinkled his nose at the smell of burning flesh. Dropping the foot, he turned back to the fire and squatted again.
He watched the white man where he lay whimpering. Once he’d settled down enough to hear and understand, Yellow Horse answered his question.
“I know her. She is a good woman. What you call a Christian, Not like you and me,”
Pulling another stick from the fire he blew on it and said, “We can do this all night. Tell me now. Where is she?”
***
A note from the author
Thank you for reading Riding For The Brand. I would love to hear from you. You can contact me at my website ~ www.danielbanks-books.com where you will find a list of all my books, or follow me on Goodreads~ www.goodreads.com/author/show/10798086.Daniel_Roland_Banks
I hope you had as much fun reading this book as I had writin
g it. If you liked it please tell a friend - or better yet, tell the world by writing a book review on the book’s page on Amazon, or on Goodreads.com.
Even a few short sentences are helpful. As an independently published author, I don’t have a marketing department behind me. I only have you, the reader.
So please spread the word!
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It’s easy, just say…
Why you liked the book? What was your favorite part? Which characters were most interesting to you? Did you learn anything new or thought-provoking? Would you like to read another book by this author? You can look at other reviews to get an idea of what you might want to write.
Go to the Amazon or Goodreads link, click on the “write a customer review” button and type in your review.
And, to make it a little more fun, if you write a review, e-mail me and I’ll return a note and an excerpt from one of my works in progress, maybe even a free e-book.
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All the best,
Dan
About the Author
I’ve led a colorful life, fueling my imagination for telling stories set in the American West.
I was born in Bakersfield, California and abandoned by my parents in Seattle, Washington. After living in the foster care system for some years, I was eventually adopted. I’ve lived in Idaho, Washington, California, Virginia, and now make my home in Texas. My wife, Lora, and I have four grown children, of whom we are justifiably proud, not because we were such good parents but because God is good.
I’ve written several novels and an illustrated book on the training of horses, in addition to authoring and/or contributing to numerous technical manuals and articles in various publications and periodicals.
As a horse trainer and clinician (I trained performance horses for twenty five years), I had occasion to travel extensively and I’ve been blessed to have worked with a variety of horses and people in amazing circumstances and locations.
I’ve herded cattle in Texas, chased kangaroos on horseback through the Australian Outback, guided pack-trips into the high Sierras and the Colorado Rockies, conditioned and trained thoroughbred race horses, galloped a warmblood on the bank of a canal surveyed by George Washington, and spent uncounted, delightful hours breaking bread with unique characters in diverse parts of the world.
At one (brief) point I was one of the 3% of fine visual artists who earned their entire income from sales of their art. I’m a painter, sculptor and writer.
Under the name Daniel Roland Banks I write contemporary detective thrillers. I’m a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and Western Writers of America.
My contemporary detective thriller, ANGELS & IMPERFECTIONS, was selected as a finalist in the Christian Fiction category in the 2015 Reader’s Favorites International Book Award contest.
In 2013, after 40+ years of searching, I found and got reacquainted with my half-brother and a host of relatives from my mother’s side of the family.
I can’t sing or dance, but I’d like to think I’m considered an engaging public speaker, an accomplished horseman and an excellent judge of single malt Scotch.
