Minggu, 31 Juli 2011

Hold of the Bone, by Baxter Clare Trautman

Hold of the Bone, by Baxter Clare Trautman

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Hold of the Bone, by Baxter Clare Trautman

Hold of the Bone, by Baxter Clare Trautman



Hold of the Bone, by Baxter Clare Trautman

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Things are great for LAPD Lieutenant Franco; she's sober, loved, eligible for retirement—and bored absolutely out of her mind. When her squad is called out to investigate a decades-old homicide, Frank happily volunteers to "get out of Dodge" and follow the clues north to a small town in the Salinas Valley.

There, the evidence unexpectedly leads Frank into the untamed wilderness of the Santa Lucia Mountains where she confronts the victim's daughter, "Sal" Saladino. A recluse with uncanny healing abilities, Sal seems as much a part of the landscape as the enigmatic peaks and canyons that Frank finds herself increasingly drawn to. Returning again and again to Sal's remote cabin, ostensibly to discuss the investigation, Frank delves deeper into the land's secrets and her own burgeoning talents.

Sal reveals new mysteries with each visit, and with each visit Frank is called upon to rely on instinct over logic and to trust the ancient counsel in the hold of her bone over modern reason. But how far can Frank trust Sal on this journey into the unknown when Sal might well be the best suspect in her case?

Baxter Clare earned a master's degree in biology at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and promptly turned her hand to writing. A practicing wildlife biologist, she lives in central California with her wife, dogs, cats, and chickens. Clare is a Lambda Literary Award finalist.

Hold of the Bone, by Baxter Clare Trautman

  • Amazon Sales Rank: #1621333 in Books
  • Brand: Clare Trautman, Baxter
  • Published on: 2015-06-02
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 8.40" h x .60" w x 5.40" l, .0 pounds
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 376 pages
Hold of the Bone, by Baxter Clare Trautman

About the Author Baxter Clare: Baxter Clare works as a biologist on California’s Central Coast, where she lives on a ranch with her longtime companion and a fluctuating number of houseguests, wild animals, and domestic pets. Baxter is the author of Bleeding Out, Street Rules, Cry Havoc, Last Call, and End of Watch.


Hold of the Bone, by Baxter Clare Trautman

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5 of 5 people found the following review helpful. Great read By Turquoise I know the author Baxter Clare Trautman. She's a biologist and the descriptions of the backdrop to (and actually a major player in) this story, the Santa Lucia mountains, are rich and complex and beautiful. Very good story. Interesting characters. I've read everything she's written and I still cannot predict where the stories are gonna go.

8 of 8 people found the following review helpful. Masterful By Sharlie Mello I would give Hold of the Bone 10 stars if I could because it is just that good! I am a first time reader of Baxter’s writing, but I will certainly be adding her other books to my library. Her writing grabbed hold of me from almost the very beginning and did not let go, I was intrigued throughout. Just like with Steinbeck, who receives mentioned in this book, Trautman gives you a real feel for the surroundings (which are plentiful) and the story's rich characters. I felt transported there throughout this novel, as though I was seeing and feeling through Frank. I’m a lover of words and Baxter has given me a whole new appreciation for how a gifted author can string words together as easily as the stars fall across the night sky…and I hung on her every word. I read and reread her lush and mysterious descriptions as they fell off my lips, sweet as a lover’s kiss and I longed for more. The book follows Frank, a homicide lieutenant as she digs for clues related to a recently discovered body, but from a crime committed decades ago. The story is rugged, professional and thorough, but always filled with ongoing multi-layered mysteries, and filled with Native American mysticism. I’ve read the works of several great authors in my time and I’ve come to realize that there is a big difference between being merely a writer of words and an excellent storyteller who knows how to weave a tale and keep you enthralled. Trautman is a true storyteller and one of the best wordsmiths I’ve come across. You will not be disappointed with this mystery as it ranks up there with the best of them. I also recently had the privilege of interviewing Baxter Trautman and she shared that starting from an early age she began reading Steinbeck’s work and that she had also, over the years, amassed a huge library related to the people and culture of Native American Plains Tribes. You can truly sense these strong influences in Trautman’s latest masterpiece.

4 of 4 people found the following review helpful. A very cold case. By Martha Miller I've been reading this author for years, but something has happened to the heroine in this book. Frank, a homicide lieutenant, is sober, a mother and about to retire. To judge the depth of of Frank's transformation one of (any of) the previous books might be helpful. Even if this is the first one you've read, it will work, as Frank tells us what we need to know about the past.The settings are masterfully done. When human bones are found at a construction site, forensics determines that it is a man who lived in the mountains, thus Frank makes her first trip up there, and finds the mountains seem to call to her, seem to belong to her in a mystical way. The dead man's daughter still lives in their ranch. Every time Frank goes up to see her, she comes home with more questions and must return. Carolyn is a woman Frank met at an AA meeting and is "dating." These trips and Frank's absences make trouble on the home front. Frank knows the murderer is up there but it becomes a case she doesn't want to solve. Of course she does.

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Rabu, 27 Juli 2011

Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, by Lilly Padilla

Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, by Lilly Padilla

Well, when else will you discover this prospect to obtain this publication Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, By Lilly Padilla soft data? This is your excellent possibility to be below and also get this excellent publication Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, By Lilly Padilla Never ever leave this book prior to downloading this soft documents of Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, By Lilly Padilla in link that we give. Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, By Lilly Padilla will actually make a good deal to be your best friend in your lonely. It will be the most effective companion to enhance your company as well as leisure activity.

Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, by Lilly Padilla

Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, by Lilly Padilla



Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, by Lilly Padilla

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Are you feeling out of balance? Are you inflamed? Are you at risk for cancer or chronic diseases? Many studies have shown the connection between inflammation, acid forming foods, stress and cancer. As a Certified Integrative Nutrition Health Coach, Holistic Nutrition Chef and cancer survivor in this book, I’m sharing my insights of 12 years of cancer and inflammation prevention, and how I used Holistic Chinese Nutrition and modern science to save my own life by improving nutrition, digestion and immunity. Features include: • The roots of inflammatory diseases, like cancer • The maintenance of balanced health and cancer prevention through nutritional habits and the preservation of biological rhythms • The value of food synergy, and delicious anti-cancer foods • The benefits of integrating anti-inflammatory meals to allow you to feel at ease and avoid disease. Plus, anti-inflammatory nutritional recipes!

Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, by Lilly Padilla

  • Amazon Sales Rank: #289029 in Books
  • Published on: 2015-06-13
  • Original language: English
  • Dimensions: 8.50" h x .29" w x 5.50" l,
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 120 pages
Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, by Lilly Padilla

About the Author Lilly Padilla is a Certified Integrative Nutrition Health Coach, Holistic Nutrition Chef, 12 year ovarian cancer survivor and book author. She lives in Los Angeles, California where she leads nutrition lectures at cancer support centers, hospitals, wellness centers, corporations, public libraries, and teaches nutritional cooking at Whole Foods stores. Lilly guides individual clients looking to eat well, prevent cancer, prevent inflammation, increase energy, have less stress and improve nutrition. Lilly’s hope with this book is to inspire and empower people to improve their nutritional and lifestyle habits. www.lillypadilla.com


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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. Excellent book about nutrition and "eating with a purpose in mind" By Kathy Lee Lilly Padilla's book "Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition" is a must read for all those interested in becoming mindfully healthier. She discusses the subjects of healthy digestion, steps to reduce inflammation, and increasing immunity. Her book also discusses strategies on how to reduce stress, and combining certain types of foods for maximum benefit. Ms. Padilla is an excellent holistic nutritionist who cares enough about her clients to write a book about all the knowledge she has accumulated over the years from studying Chinese Nutrition Therapy and holistic nutrition. Especially when it comes to nutrition therapy and delicious healthy eating, she is an expert.I like the book because it has very delicious recipes and color photographs. I have been using this book for about a month now since it first was released and I am very impressed with the changes it has made on my health and increased awareness of proper nutrition as preventative medicine.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. Here is Why You Need Healthy Eating and How You Can Do It! By Peggy Prichard Lilly Padilla is not only a Certified Integrative Nutrition Health Coach, she was motivated to attain that status by climbing the nutritional ladder she so aptly explains in this crucially helpful and clearly explained treatise on how our bodies actually handle digestion, inflammation, immunity, stress, and Cancer. Hit by Cancer at an early age more than 12 years ago, she was determined to survive. This determination led her to the nutritional studies that saved her own life and caused her to help others learn how they could also be proactive in directing their bodies in the pursuit of longer life of a higher quality. I do not believe a more concise nor clearer explanation of these issues can be found anywhere other than this fine book that Ms. Padilla has provided for the public. This is among the best nutritional books available in my opinion.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. This is the best, most easily accessible book on nutrition and how ... By Mary Marcus, Los Angeles This is the best, most easily accessible book on nutrition and how to stay well I've read.Lilly explains why food does what and how it affects the body.I highly recommend this book for anyone in the distressing position of being sickor in the more fortunate position of earnestly trying to stay well.

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Anti-Cancer Habits & Anti-Inflammatory Nutrition, by Lilly Padilla

Jumat, 22 Juli 2011

The Well House Poems: N/A, by Gerald Heaney

The Well House Poems: N/A, by Gerald Heaney

It will have no question when you are visiting pick this e-book. This inspiring The Well House Poems: N/A, By Gerald Heaney e-book could be read totally in certain time depending upon just how typically you open up and also review them. One to bear in mind is that every publication has their very own manufacturing to acquire by each viewers. So, be the good visitor as well as be a much better individual after reviewing this publication The Well House Poems: N/A, By Gerald Heaney

The Well House Poems: N/A, by Gerald Heaney

The Well House Poems: N/A, by Gerald Heaney



The Well House Poems: N/A, by Gerald Heaney

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When I write a poem they sometimes come off the top of my head while others are inspired by events that take place. Sometimes while reading another's work like John Hollander, or Frost, Kipling, or others to many to mention, there will be a single word that grabs me or a line that leads me down a quiet road to only God know where. I have always been inspired by my wife and the love we share and our grandchildren as I grow older. This short 132 page book is a reflection of all those things plus too my love for the natural world. My hope is that there's one in there that you'l take with you for awhile and keep it close like I have. Think Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening or Digging By Seamus Heaney and I think you'l get the picture. GFH

The Well House Poems: N/A, by Gerald Heaney

  • Amazon Sales Rank: #3002789 in Books
  • Published on: 2015-06-04
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 8.50" h x .50" w x 5.50" l, .0 pounds
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 100 pages
The Well House Poems: N/A, by Gerald Heaney

About the Author Born in Detroit Michigan now living in Pinckney Michigan Short Story Writer and Poet write 50/50 by hand and computer. Love a story with a twist and a poem that depicts a slice of life. Married to the love of my life and best friend. Live on a two horse ranch that we don't ride but feed like one thousand pound hamsters. Love a good cold winters day and a balmy summers eve. My father was from Ireland and my mom from Detroit. Love the Lions and the Tigers, in that order. Favorite author -Steven King, fovorate poet Roert Frost


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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. It was one of the best book of poems I have ever read By Amazon Customer It was one of the best book of poems I have ever read. I feel like the author expressed many of his personal lifetime experiences and memories.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. This guy, HEANEY, has written about what we ... By Jack Dunning This guy, HEANEY, has written about what we all see and have experienced in live. Can't wait to read his next book.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. Five Stars By Dana Gray Beautiful poetry that anyone can relate to and enjoy!

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The Well House Poems: N/A, by Gerald Heaney
The Well House Poems: N/A, by Gerald Heaney

The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West,

The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg

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The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg

The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg



The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg

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When the woman who would become Indra Devi was born in Russia in 1899, yoga was virtually unknown outside of India. By the time of her death, in 2002, it was being practiced everywhere, from Brooklyn to Berlin to Ulaanbaatar. In The Goddess Pose, New York Times best-selling author Michelle Goldberg traces the life of the incredible woman who brought yoga to the West—and in so doing paints a sweeping picture of the twentieth century. Born into the minor aristocracy (as Eugenia Peterson), Devi grew up in the midst of one of the most turbulent times in human history. Forced to flee the Russian Revolution as a teenager, she joined a famous Berlin cabaret troupe, dove into the vibrant prewar spiritualist movement, and, at a time when it was nearly unthinkable for a young European woman to travel alone, followed the charismatic Theosophical leader Jiddu Krishnamurti to India. Once on the subcontinent, she performed in Indian silent cinema and hobnobbed with the leaders of the independence movement. But her greatest coup was convincing a recalcitrant master yogi to train her in the secrets of his art. Devi would go on to share what she learned with people around the world, teaching in Shanghai during World War II, then in Hollywood, where her students included Gloria Swanson and Greta Garbo. She ran a yoga school in Mexico during the height of the counterculture, served as spiritual adviser to the colonel who tried to overthrow Panamanian strongman Manuel Noriega, and, in her eighties, moved to Buenos Aires at the invitation of a besotted rock star. Everywhere she went, Indra Devi evangelized for yoga, ushering in a global craze that continues unabated. Written with vivid clarity, The Goddess Pose brings her remarkable story—as an actress, yogi, and globetrotting adventuress—to life.

The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg

  • Amazon Sales Rank: #261107 in Books
  • Brand: Goldberg, Michelle
  • Published on: 2015-06-09
  • Released on: 2015-06-09
  • Format: Deckle Edge
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 8.50" h x 1.19" w x 5.90" l,
  • Binding: Hardcover
  • 336 pages
The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg

Review “An elegant and richly drawn biography. . . . With a jeweler’s eye for detail, Goldberg presents a singular woman. A quasi feminist ahead of her time. . . . The Goddess Pose canters through landmark events from India’s independence to the American invasion of Panama. . . . There is much to enjoy in Goldberg’s cleareyed view of Devi’s life, and there is also a lesson: While (for some) yoga as a discipline may be infallible, the gurus who teach it never are.” —The New York Times Book Review“[A] groundbreaking biography. . . . Goldberg’s impressive research is . . . far-reaching. . . . Her clear prose illuminates the forces of war and social change and reveals the complex roots of our country’s yoga boom. . . . The Goddess Pose builds to a thrilling conclusion, exposing the power struggles and sex scandals within Sai Baba’s inner circle, a tale reminiscent of recent bad behavior by other male gurus.” —San Francisco Chronicle   The story of how Devi came to embrace yoga and spread its gospel in America is as fascinating as it is unlikely. . . . A remarkably coherent, fascinating narrative. . . . Goldberg refuses to moralize—her goal in writing The Goddess Pose seems to have been not just chronicling the life of one of the world’s great iconoclasts, but also providing a history for how hatha yoga went from an Indian spiritual tradition to an everyday part of western lives. She succeeds admirably on both counts, writing with understanding and a healthy sense of skepticism.” —The Guardian“Captures Devi’s Forrest Gump-like propensity to live parallel to some of the most important moments of the previous century. . . . Indra Devi died in 2002, just weeks shy of her 103rd birthday. ‘For much of her life,’ Goldberg writes, ‘Devi’s only goal had been to make yoga known to the West.’ Today, 20.4 million, or 9% of all American adults, have practiced yoga in their lifetime. She certainly succeeded.” —New York Post  “Goldberg’s book is lots of fun, running through the Russian Revolution, the Weimar Berlin nightlife, Indian independence, 1950s Hollywood and 1960s counterculture. . . . Even if you don’t care enough about yoga to hold a pigeon pose for the length of time it takes to say [the] title, Indra Devi, born Eugenia Peterson in 1899 in Riga, Latvia, remains no less a fascinating character: Constantly searching as she moves from Eastern Europe to India to Shanghai and the United States, she changes names, marries twice, acts and dances—finally making it big about halfway through her century-long life as a yoga teacher, author and lecturer.” —Richmond Times-Dispatch   “Most stories of yoga’s journey to the United States have a male protagonist—but not this one. . . . The book tracks [Devi’s] fascinating path through multiple countries (China, Mexico, Argentina), two marriages, and Hollywood fame as a teacher to the stars. Devi lived fearlessly until her death in 2002 at age 102, but her story and influence live on in this can’t-miss memoir.” —Yoga Journal “It’s hard to believe that the life of Indra Devi, the Zelig who helped turn yoga into the plaything of midcentury Hollywood, Noriega’s Panama, and the rest of the world, hasn’t been made into a blockbuster film, never mind a fascinating work of nonfiction. Without idolizing or condemning her, Goldberg evokes Devi’s complicated nature as deftly as she does the Russian Empire, Weimar Berlin, occupied Shanghai, and so many of the other places where Devi worked, loved, and proselytized before her life ended at 103, not long after the century she helped define.” —New York Magazine, “7 Books You Need to Read This June”“The Goddess Pose, Michelle Goldberg’s—yes, audacious—new biogra­phy of Indra Devi, is not just an investigation of one of the twentieth century’s most fascinating and fearless iconoclasts, but a celebration of female freedom and everything it can bring: an appetite for adventure, fearlessness in the face of challenge, and, most important, discovery and assertion of self.” —Anna Holmes, founding editor, Jezebel  “Goldberg’s account of Devi takes the reader through three chronicled, influential centuries of the yogi, actress, and fearless voyager's life which will leave you with a better understanding of how westernized Yoga differs from its roots—plus a deep respect for the iconic Devi’s ruthless dedication, and a major dose of inspiration to get you on the way to your next blissed-out savasana.” —Nylon (Summer Books Preview)“[A] terrific new biography. . . . As Michelle Goldberg capably illustrates in The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, yoga has always been a bizarre blend of Eastern and Western tradition, particularly in the U.S. . . . As spectacular a figure as Devi obviously was, Goldberg wisely devotes a lot of her book to yoga itself: the development and popularization of not simply a physical activity, but also a philosophy. For anyone interested in the practice, The Goddess Pose offers an irresistible story of yoga’s unlikely and, yes, even audacious origins.” —BookPage“In The Goddess Pose, Michelle Goldberg brings Indra Devi, a complicated and incredible woman, to life in Technicolor brilliance, as she bops, Zelig-like, through some of the most important events of last century—from the Russian Revolution to the rise of Nazism, to the JFK assassination. I’ll never think of yoga the same way again—and neither will you. Even if you’ve never uttered the word ‘namaste,’ you won’t be able to put this book down.” —Susannah Cahalan , New York Times best-selling author of Brain on Fire   “Whether you’re a student of yoga, a history buff, an armchair adventurer, or just a reader in search of an unputdownable story that happens to be true, you’ll love this fascinating biography of one of the twentieth century’s boldest, most influential women. Michelle Goldberg gets us as close to unveiling the mysterious Indra Devi as anyone is likely to get. Brava!” —Katha Pollitt, author of Learning to Drive: And Other Life Stories   “Michelle Goldberg’s masterful engagement with her astonishing subject—and with the diverse political, spiritual, and physical worlds she inhabited—is evident on every page of this terrific book. The Goddess Pose is a surprising adventure from beginning to end.” —Rebecca Traister, author of Big Girls Don’t Cry“Fascinating and groundbreaking. . . . Inspired by her interest in yoga, journalist and author Goldberg gives us a highly readable biography of the so-called ‘first lady of yoga,’ an eccentric personality who has also been called a female Forrest Gump because of the wide-ranging nature of her experiences. Born Eugenia Peterson in czarist Russia, the self-proclaimed Indra Devi (1899–2002) reinvented herself many times over as she traveled throughout Europe, Asia, Latin America, and the United States over the course of her century-long life. . . . This painstakingly researched book is more than mere biography, however. It helps readers to understand where yoga, as we practice it in the West, came from and how it differs from its roots. . . . Highly recommended for general readers and cultural historians alike.” —Library Journal (starred) “Most stories of yoga’s journey to the United States have a male protagonist—but not this one. . . . The book tracks [Devi’s] fascinating path through multiple countries (China, Mexico, Argentina), two marriages, and Hollywood fame as a teacher to the stars. Devi lived fearlessly until her death in 2002 a age 102, but her story and influence live on in this can’t-miss memoir.” —Yoga Journal“Goldberg fluidly explores the extraordinary life of Indra Devi (1899-2002), the woman who helped transform the ancient Indian discipline of yoga into a worldwide phenomenon. . . . [Her] book, which uses material she uncovered about Devi on four continents, is not only thoroughly researched; it also offers insights into a magnificently elusive figure, the culture she loved, and the yogic practice she bequeathed to the West. Fascinating reading about an intriguing woman.” —Kirkus Reviews“Investigative journalist Goldberg, by dint of ardent research, adept synthesis, and narrative pizzazz, tracks her chimerical subject around the world to chronicle Devi’s intrepidly improvised, nomadic, and seemingly charmed life with awe and skepticism. . . . Throughout this whirlwind biography, Goldberg provides fresh and enlightening insights into the evolution of modern yoga while Devi, who lived to be 102, forever at the ‘spinning center of thing,’ shimmers provocatively in her ‘almost supernatural’ charisma, ambition, contrariness, and resilience.” —Booklist (starred)“Curious about the roots of yoga, journalist/author Goldberg began digging for clues to the connections between the yoga of India and its Americanized version. She came across the obituary of 102-year-old Indra Devi (née Eugenia Peterson), often called the First Lady of Yoga. This fascinating biography delves deeply into Devi’s life (she was born in Latvia in 1899 to a family of Russian aristocrats) while chronicling a wider history: Devi, a Zelig-like figure who was a student of the legendary sage Krishnamacharya, seemed to show up wherever the action was. Her life story, which touches three centuries (she died in 2002), goes from the Russian Revolution, Weimar Berlin, the Indian independence movement, and Japanese-occupied Shanghai to Hollywood, Vietnam, Mexico, Argentina, and Panama, where she was spiritual advisor to Noriega’s second-in-command. Goldberg painstakingly renders the details of Devi’s kaleidoscopic journey and also explores the underpinnings of her outlook. . . . Though the text will be of particular interest to practitioners and teachers of yoga, this sparkling tale of a remarkable trailblazer should enlighten and inspire every reader.” —Publishers Weekly

About the Author Michelle Goldberg is a journalist and the author of Kingdom Coming: The Rise of Christian Nationalism, a New York Times best seller that was a finalist for the New York Public Library’s Helen Bernstein Book Award for Excellence in Journalism, and The Means of Reproduction: Sex, Power, and the Future of the World. A senior contributing writer at The Nation, she has also written pieces for The New Yorker, the New York Times, Newsweek, The New Republic, Glamour, and many other publications. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and children.www.michellegoldberg.net

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. INTRODUCTION   I NEVER WOULD have started doing yoga if there had been aerobics in the Himalayas, but I was desperate.   The few times I’d taken yoga classes in college, my failed attempts to relax redoubled my anxiety. Each pose was a reminder of the lifelong inflexibility that had often mortified me. When I was a little girl, a sadistic ballet teacher barred me from a holiday party because of my terrible splits. In elementary school, I dreaded being forced to sit “Indian style,” because it left my hips and back screaming. Later, trying yoga, my awkward efforts to keep my legs and back straight while touching my toes and my inability to do even a half lotus only left me tense and humiliated, convinced that the practice was best for those who were already calm, willowy, and graceful.   Besides, while I’d been captivated by India’s kaleidoscopic religious richness during months of traveling, I was wary of anyone purporting to peddle enlightenment to credulous Westerners. On my first trip to the country, a short backpacking sojourn in the late 1990s, I’d read and loved Gita Mehta’s Karma Cola, a wry Indian look at the Western spiritual tourists who flock to the subcontinent, and the enterprising Indian sages who’ve risen to meet the demand. “As our home industry expands on every front, at last it is our turn to mass market,” she writes. The hippie spiritual scene interested me as a journalistic subject, but I certainly didn’t want to participate in it. I wasn’t sure if I could even chant “Om” with a straight face.   Yet, I needed exercise. Living in McLeod Ganj, a mountain village just outside the city of Dharamsala, where the Tibetan exile movement was headquartered, I was sick of hiking. My husband and I—we’d eloped the previous year, when I was twenty-four and he was twenty-eight—were about six months into what would be a year-long trip through Asia. Prior to our departure, he’d worked at an Internet start-up. When he cashed out his stock options before they bottomed out in the crash of the late 1990s, we became Internet thousandaires, with a sum in the low five figures that seemed, at the time, to be a fortune. Both of us loved to travel. Putting all our stuff in storage, we flew to Ho Chi Minh City.   After three months bumming around Southeast Asia, we went from Singapore to the tip of the Indian state of Tamil Nadu, then west to the relatively idyllic state of Kerala, where, while lying on a beach, we were approached by movie producers looking for extras for an Indian musical. They were shooting a scene in an ashram, and since no Indian ashram is complete without a handful of flaky Westerners, they asked for our help. Delighted, we agreed. On set, we met a thirty-two-year-old Argentine devotee of the real-life guru Sai Baba, about whom I’d long been curious. His followers believe he’s God, and I’d seen his face, beaming beneath his surprising Afro, on stickers and trinkets for sale all over the country. A former medical student, the Argentine had given up her studies and her Buenos Aires apartment after dreaming that Sai Baba summoned her to India.   Later, as we snaked our way north, we visited her at Sai Baba’s enormous Prasanthi Nilayam ashram, in a barren corner of Andhra Pradesh, one of India’s poorest states. The ashram boasted a shiny planetarium, two hospitals that treated patients for free, a college, a music school, and a brand-new airport for wealthier devotees with private planes. Around the edges, luxury apartment buildings were replacing mud huts. Rather than requesting two of the ashram’s ten thousand beds, we checked into a nearby hotel. Every afternoon, a loudspeaker piped in music praising the guru. When I bought a pen at a local shop to take notes, it had Sai Baba’s smiling face on it.   There was an ambient spiritual hysteria at Prasanthi Nilayam. At dinner one evening, a devotee we’d become friendly with pointed out an Austrian woman tugging her listless seven-year-old son behind her. She was in the midst of a spiritual crisis because she’d had a dream in which Sai Baba instructed her to abandon the boy and live on the streets as a beggar, and she didn’t know if she had the “strength” to do it. As far as I could tell, no one at the ashram was stepping forward to discourage her.   I also heard rumors of sexual abuse and was shocked to meet old hands at the ashram who accepted these stories as true, though they interpreted the molestations as part of Sai Baba’s divine mission. One man, an American ex-motivational speaker, thought they were part of Baba’s plan to spread his message. “Probably more people are going to know about you if there are allegations that you’re a pedophile than if you say God is incarnated on earth,” he told me. I ended up writing a story about all this for Salon. It didn’t leave me any more eager to find a guru.   Arriving in McLeod Ganj, weeks later, my husband and I saw a flyer seeking volunteers to teach English at a school for Tibetan refugees. After months of lassitude, we were thrilled and relieved at the chance to be useful and threw ourselves into the work. Settling down for several months in the sweet, peaceful little town, blessedly cool after months on the roasting plains, I realized I needed to get in shape. Most travelers who wander around India on the cheap lose weight, but I have an iron stomach, as well as a weakness for nan and paneer tikka masala. There was a three-hour ashtanga-based yoga class that met early every morning in a gymnasium near the center of town, and I signed up for it.   It was excruciating. I didn’t know it at the time, but ashtanga was initially based on exercise routines developed for teenage boys. The jump-backs we did between poses—like squat-thrusts followed by half push-ups—were channels for an animal energy I’d never possessed. The contortions required for binding poses were out of reach, the inversions terrifying, and I still couldn’t do a split, but I kept going back, at first because I wanted to lose weight, then because my friends in town were also going, and finally because it left me feeling fantastic.   A lot of the credit goes to my teacher, Vijay, a Gumby-limbed South Indian who could toss his ankle behind his neck as casually as if he were flinging a scarf. Vijay had very few pretensions. Once, catching me smoking a cigarette, he plucked it out of my fingers—and then started puffing on it himself. “Vijay, what are you doing? You’re a yogi!” I cried. “Michelle,” he said to me with a gleam in his eye, “I’m not a yogi. I’m a businessman.” I appreciated this sort of candor.   Before I left India, Vijay said to me, “Smoking won’t interfere with your yoga, but yoga will interfere with your smoking.” This turned out to be true; a year later, I quit. By then, my husband and I were living in Brooklyn. I was working as a journalist and writing about politics, which often left me knotted and angry. Yoga became a refuge. Sometimes I practiced four or five times a week. In the ritual and community of classes, I began to sense some of the consolation that others find in religion. Though still not a believer in anything supernatural, I felt the benefits of stepping outside the rush of ordinary life and trying to attune myself to a higher state of consciousness, however inchoate and fleeting. The discipline of paying attention to the habitual way your thoughts unfold, to the familiar grooves of your mind, seemed like cognitive therapy, but cheaper. I loved that I could find psychological solace and a workout at the same time.   I would never be lithe or supple, but I learned to do things with my body that I hadn’t thought possible. Occasionally, I would even feel that there was something positive in the tedious loathing I’d always felt for my never-skinny frame, since without that loathing, I might never have taken up yoga in the first place.   But while I loved yoga, I also wondered about it. The claims made for the curative powers of certain poses—the idea that one specific arrangement of limbs could treat depression, another fight headaches or PMS—seemed almost magical. I cringed at the way some of my American teachers romanticized India, a country that, for all its religious magnificence, can also be a place of staggering brutality. And I knew that despite descriptions of postural yoga as a quintessentially Indian discipline, the sweaty, fast-paced style I was practicing in New York was hard to find outside of tourist enclaves on the subcontinent. Everyone in my yoga class back in McLeod Ganj had been from the United States, Europe, Australia, or Israel. Vijay told me his own teacher had been a Frenchman. The Indian yogis I encountered, by contrast, tended to be dreadlocked mendicants practicing torturous physical austerities—standing on one leg for days, sleeping on a bed of nails—that seemed a universe away from anything one learns in a modern yoga class.   Among Western yogis, the standard explanation for the relative scarcity of their style of yoga in India is that most Indians have lost touch with their heritage. Still, I was curious what exactly the connection was between the ash-covered sadhus I’d seen contorting themselves on the banks of the Ganges in Benares and the invigorating stretches, lunges, twists, and handstands I practiced first in McLeod Ganj and then in ninety-minute sessions on a rubber mat in Brooklyn. I started looking around for a book or an article that would explain it. And at some point, I came across the New York Times obituary for Indra Devi.   “Indra Devi, the daughter of European nobility who introduced the ancient discipline of yoga to the Kremlin leadership, Hollywood stars like Gloria Swanson and even students in India, died on Thursday in Buenos Aires,” the obit began. “She was 102.” The piece explained that she’d learned from the same guru as B. K. S. Iyengar and K. Pattabhi Jois, yoga masters I’d heard about from serious students in India. It described her life as a Berlin cabaret performer and an actress in early Indian cinema. According to the obituary, she taught “what was thought to be the first yoga class in modern China” and wrote the first book on yoga by a Westerner to be published in India.   In Indra Devi’s story, I thought, I’d find the answers I was lookingfor. So I began to trace the path of her strange, occasionally inscrutable, and often epic life. As I’d hoped, that life does indeed give us a way to understand where yoga as we practice it in the West came from, showing both its links to an ancient Indian tradition and its wild discontinuities. It reveals how the discipline has been shaped by long dialogue among India, Europe, and America. In a strange way, following the serpentine tale of Devi’s life and teachings resolved whatever anxiety I had had about modern yoga’s authenticity, because it showed that there’s never been a pristine, eternal tradition to corrupt.   The narrative of Devi’s life, however, is much more than the story of yoga in the West. As I dove into it, I felt that I was discovering a secret sideways history of the twentieth century. Devi was a Zelig-like figure, an esoteric female Forrest Gump who seemed to show up wherever tumultuous world events were unfolding. Her story moves through the Russian Revolution, the cabarets of Weimar Berlin, the Indian independence movement, the World War II Japanese occupation of Shanghai, and Hollywood during its 1950s heyday. She pops up, somewhat randomly, in Dallas when JFK was shot and then in Saigon when the Vietnam War was raging. That ashram I visited in Andhra Pradesh? It turns out that she was the one who spread Sai Baba’s fame across the West. She crossed paths with Gandhi, Greta Garbo, and John Lennon. As spiritual adviser to Manuel Noriega’s second-in-command, her name appears in most histories of the U.S. invasion of Panama.   It’s an astonishing story, and once I started trying to write it, I realized why no one had told it before. What source material exists is scattered in archives, old newspapers, government files, and friends’ houses all over the world. Some is in English, but some is in Russian, Czech, German, Polish, and Spanish, and the last is the only one of the languages in which I have any facility. Devi published several books, including, when she was one hundred, a Spanish-language memoir titled Una mujer de tres siglos, or “A Woman of Three Centuries.” Her autobiographical writing, however, is highly selective, full of large gaps. In her memoir, there are fewer than eight pages about her eight years in China. Some important incidents are ignored entirely.   In parts of this book, I had no choice but to use Devi’s own version of events as my guide. But I also dug up old letters and mentions of her in out-of-print books. I obtained her confidential FBI file—J. Edgar Hoover, not surprisingly, had his eye on her—and the service record of her diplomat first husband. I hired a researcher to help me navigate archives in Riga, Latvia, where she was born, and in Berlin. In addition to those countries, I traveled to India, Argentina, Mexico, and Panama. I spent a lot of money on professional translators, sometimes not knowing whether the material would be useful until after I read it in English. Even after all this, lacunae remain. Most of the people who knew Devi in life found her, on some level, ungraspable, and she remains elusive in death.   This is partly because she had so many identities. Again and again, she would build a life for herself and then discard it when it no longer suited, moving on with no discernable effort or regret. You can see her talent for rebirth in how often she changed her name. Born Eugenia Peterson, she was also known as Eugenie and Jane, and later Indira and Indra, all in combination with various surnames. For her, constant openness to change was a spiritual precept, though it also marks her as a very modern sort of celebrity. (In the pages that follow, I will refer to her as Eugenia until she arrives in Hollywood and officially becomes Indra Devi.)   Many people who knew her spoke to me, including two close friends who themselves had tried, unsuccessfully, to write the story of her life, and who generously shared everything they’d learned. (A writer named Natalia Apostolli was finally able to produce a Spanish-language biography of Devi in 1992. Titled Una vida, un siglo, or “One Life, One Century,” it is based almost entirely on Devi’s stories and recollections.)   Some of those who loved her and who helped me will be disappointed in this book. To them, she was nearly divine. I see her as a complicated, audaciously modern, sometimes inspiring, and sometimes maddeningly irresponsible woman, not as a spiritual exemplar.   Indeed, the more I learned about Devi, the more I doubted that her ethic of nonattachment, an idea often bandied about in yoga classes, was truly compatible with passionate loyalty to other people. In “Reflections on Gandhi,” published a year after the Mahatma’s assassination, George Orwell writes, “In this yogi-ridden age, it is too readily assumed that ‘non-attachment’ is…better than a full acceptance of earthly life…If one could follow it to its psychological roots, one would, I believe, find that the main motive for ‘non-attachment’ is a desire to escape from the pain of living, and above all from love, which, sexual or non-sexual, is hard work.” This opinion is reductive, but after spending years researching Devi’s life, which is in many ways a triumph of nonattachment, I don’t think Orwell was entirely wrong.   Yet yoga remains as important to me as ever. My yoga classes even helped me deal with the doubts about yoga that occasionally emerged while I was writing this book. I think this is why the practice is such a comfort to secular urbanites like me—it’s a technique, not a faith. You don’t have to believe in anything, even yoga itself, to find joy and solace in the conscious joining of breath and movement, or relief in slowing the whirling of the mind. You just have to do it.   Devi played a huge role in teaching the world to do yoga. For that, I’m not only fascinated by her, but also grateful. She, more than any cave-dwelling ascetic or Brahmin sage, is the godparent of a practice that has had an enormous impact on contemporary culture as well as on my own wholly worldly life.


The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg

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23 of 25 people found the following review helpful. Woman who Broke through Male Barriers & Took Yoga Around the World By Gadget Fan A tremendous amount of research has produced a very detailed biography, nor so much about yoga, but rather about an independent woman who lived around the world, leaving her influence wherever she went. (If you're interested in yoga specifically, besides reading the preface, go directly to chapter 7 for the roots, and chapter 19 for an assessment of the spread of yoga today.) Most of the book is about Eugenia Peterson / Indra Devi herself, her constant movement, forward-looking reinvention, and proselytizing of yoga over decades of world history, as well as her companions, including many westerners who adopted Indian names. She was remarkable enough that, as a young adult, she convinced Krishnamacharya to teach her yoga, in spite of initially refusing because she was a woman (and western), and he ultimately sent her off to teach her western-palatable yoga to others. However, some readers may find the detailed accounting of her activities a bit tedious, because at times it reads sort of like going through someone's old date books and journals, but for me, getting various connections illuminated and explained was fascinating. (If you're interested in other influences besides Indra Devi, see the other books mentioned at the end of this review).As someone who grew up in S. California, I was vaguely aware of the various personalities involved in Theosophy decades ago, and was always curious about how those early roots lead to the current popularity of yoga, new-age thought, and alternative medicine, and the personalities involved. This book connects many of those threads, tracing how a diplomat's wife became a yoga author (see her many books currently listed on Amazon) and teacher, involving some personalities you would never expect (e.g. from Blavatsky and Ouspensky, through Greta Garbo and Aldous Huxley, to Manuel Noriega !?!). The book closes with her death in 2002, and provides extensive footnotes.One thing I find puzzling is the lack of treatment of the role of other teachers of yoga in its spread in the western world, in relationship to hers. For example, Paramahansa Yogananda (author of Autobiography of a Yogi, among other things) arrived and began teaching in S. California decades before Indra Devi began teaching hatha yoga. It seems to me this should have been addressed, to understand how his yoga teaching in S. Calif. before her set the stage for her successful arrival in Hollywood. Although once you have Hollywood celebrities involved, it is easy to see why her prominence grew. For more about that milieu and time, see other sources such as American Veda: From Emerson and the Beatles to Yoga and Meditation How Indian Spirituality Changed the West or The Subtle Body: The Story of Yoga in America

19 of 21 people found the following review helpful. Excellent, though sometimes a bit dense By A reader I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book about the life of Indra Devi, the times she lived in, the places she lived and worked, her wide range of abilities, the fascinating people she met, and the growth of interest in India and eastern religion, as well as the origin and development of yoga in its various versions and stages. The book is packed with information about Ms. Devi's unusual life and the many intriguing people she interacted with during her long (just short of 103 years). Michelle Goldberg states from the introductory chapter that she writes as an admirer rather than a believer, and her slightly cynical stance on the romanticized view of India that has been popular over several generations may surprise some readers. However, I appreciate the thoroughness of her research and her efforts to dispel popular myths, particularly about hatha yoga practices. I especially enjoyed her frequent digressions from Devi's life story: we learn about the birth and growth of the Theosophical movement and the lives of Mme. Blavatsky and Annie Besant, as well as the life of Krishnamurti, from the time he was discovered as a young boy. Goldberg also tells us about the many important people Devi met, including Rabindanath Tagore, Mahatma Gandhi, Swami Vivekananda, Sai Baba, and so many other influential people like B.K.S. Iyengar, Yehudi Menuhin, and Pattabhi Jois. Goldberg also tells something about the political situation in all of the many places where Devi lived and worked. It was intriguing to follow Indra Devi through so many tages, and to learn a bit more about the situations faced by women through those years. Goldberg tries to give an objective view of Devi's life and her character, highlighting her positive energy and dedication to her cause as well as her very human imperfections."The Goddess Pose" will be most satisfying to readers looking for a more objective look at yoga and mysticism, the emergence of new age philosophies, and the life of Indra Devi. Though this is not the quickest read due to the amount of information Goldberg manages to convey, there is much to enjoy here, much to wonder at (some real surprises!) and much to return to for further thought.

11 of 12 people found the following review helpful. Well-researched and well-written, but distant. By Ladybug In The Goddess Pose, author Michelle Goldberg describes in well-researched detail the unconventional life of Indra Devi, a Russian-born aristocrat who eventually becomes a nomadic spiritual teacher of sorts.There is no doubt that Devi is a fascinating woman--and nothing like the zen yoga-instructor caricature that I was anticipating. Here I was thinking Devi was going to be quiet and serene, full of infinite peace and patience. But, in reality, she is wild and somewhat reckless, intelligent but also selectively naive. She is street-smart but a bit of a dreamer, sometimes getting into crazy, she-did-WHAT?! situations. She's not one to dwell on her life's negative experiences--more often choosing to don her rose-colored glasses and resolutely march forward--but I definitely got the feeling she wasn't just chasing her next adventure so much as she was trying to outrun past trauma.In fact, I thought Goldberg's use of a George Orwell quote to describe Devi in the introduction was spot on: "In this yogi-ridden age, it is too readily assumed that 'non-attachment' is...better than a full acceptance of earthly life...If one could follow it to its psychological roots, one would, I believe, find that the main motive for 'non-attachment' is a desire to escape from the pain of living, and above all from love, which, sexual or non-sexual, is hard work."Goldberg's presentation of Devi's life is both well-written and well-structured. As a whole, the book is incredibly informative. However, it could also be dry at parts. More importantly, it did cross my mind when I finished the book, that I didn't know Devi as well as I wished. I felt like I had spent the past 300 pages being a very distant observer: I learned many facts about her but, somehow, never got close.Regardless, this was still an engaging read, and I was glad I stuck with it.

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The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg

The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg
The Goddess Pose: The Audacious Life of Indra Devi, the Woman Who Helped Bring Yoga to the West, by Michelle Goldberg

Kamis, 21 Juli 2011

Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes),

Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman

Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes For Busy People (Soup Recipes), By Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman. Adjustment your practice to hang or waste the time to only talk with your pals. It is done by your everyday, don't you really feel burnt out? Now, we will show you the extra behavior that, actually it's an older practice to do that can make your life much more qualified. When really feeling tired of consistently chatting with your good friends all downtime, you can discover the book entitle Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes For Busy People (Soup Recipes), By Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman and then read it.

Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman

Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman



Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman

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*** As a Special Thank-you for Your Download Today, You’ll Receive a FREE BONUS At The End of Your Book*** If you want to prepare amazingly delicious pressure cooker soups and stews, then this recipe book is for you.... There is nothing quite like whipping up a batch of steaming hot stew or soup on a cold day. Even when the weather is warm out, a good soup can bring comfort into any house and a cozy feeling that heats your entire body. We normally associate the preparation of these dishes with heavy pots or time-consuming crock pots, and forget that there are actually much easier ways of creating the soups and stews that we crave. Fortunately, the pressure cookers is just another means of making these meals and in virtually half the time! The benefit of using a pressure cooker specifically with soups and stews is that it cooks much quicker than on a conventional stove or with a crock pot. The steam heat that is trapped inside creates enough pressure to cook all of the contents rapidly. And if you're using meat to protein-pack your stew and chili, then the pressure cooker ensures that all of the flavors stay locked directly in your ingredients, creating a robust taste. From traditional chilis to soups and stews with a twist, this e-book has something for whatever taste you are trying to satisfy. These 50 recipes will no doubt keep you warm for nights to come, and also provide a delicious, healthy meal for the next day if you have some left over. You'll be pleased with the easy cleanup and the effortless feasts you will be able to create in no time flat!

HERE ARE JUST A FEW OF THE AMAZING RECIPES INSIDE THIS BOOK

• Electric Pressure Cooker Lentil Soup • Electric Pressure Cooker Chicken Noodle Soup • Electric Pressure Cooker Tomato Soup • Electric Pressure Cooker Chicken Butternut Squash Soup •Pressure Cooker Potato & Kale Soup •Pressure Cooker Creamy Potato Cheddar Soup •Pressure Cooker Sausage & Bean Soup •New England's Best Pressure Cooker Clam Chowder •MUCH MUCH MORE!

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Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman

  • Amazon Sales Rank: #536927 in eBooks
  • Published on: 2015-10-07
  • Released on: 2015-10-07
  • Format: Kindle eBook
Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman


Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman

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0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. The book is nice and if it is a meal, I would say delicious By Fredrick Shaw I ordered beef and mushroom soup at a restaurant one day and from the sight, smell and taste of the soup I thought to myself, "The cook would have gone through hell to make such a delicious meal". But reading this book, I just discovered that soup among many others are easy to prepare and this makes my meal worth the while. I am also starting to love and appreciate pressure cooking as all it advantages that were outlined in this book. I commend the author for making public the safety measures attached to pressure cooking, it is a must read!

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Very educational recipe book! By Nathalie Kim Now in a handbook! Guidelines in using such method and recipes that are easily utilized by the pressure cooker are found here. The book is amazingly written and I can say it is not just your ordinary cookbook. It goes beyond what is projected and goes back to its root wherein the main purpose of having written it is to give people a good sense of deliciousness. Given a set of time, the pressure cooker trains you to become a fast and efficient cooker, making perfect use of pressure and heat at the same time. Good job writing this book!

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. This book has something for everyone By Prema Usually we don't have much options when it comes to have a soup. But this book has so many soups recipes. The fundamental benefit of the pressure cooking is the time that it saves from start to finish. So far I have tried more than 10 types of soups. These are good in taste and also healthy. This book is really helpful for the persons who are working in the restaurant, hotels field and also for the persons like me .... !!! This book has something for whatever taste you are trying to satisfy.

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Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman

Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman

Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman
Pressure Cooker: 101 Pressure Cooker Soups Recipes: Quick & Easy, Soup & Stew Recipes for Busy People (Soup Recipes), by Ashley Peters, Kristina Newman

Rabu, 20 Juli 2011

Escape from Hangtown (Lucas Fume Western), by Larry D. Sweazy

Escape from Hangtown (Lucas Fume Western), by Larry D. Sweazy

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Escape from Hangtown (Lucas Fume Western), by Larry D. Sweazy

Escape from Hangtown (Lucas Fume Western), by Larry D. Sweazy



Escape from Hangtown (Lucas Fume Western), by Larry D. Sweazy

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In this Lucas Fume Western from the Spur Award-winning author of Vengeance at Sundown, no man is truly free until he puts his past—and his enemies—to rest.  Lucas Fume has been exonerated of the murder charge that put him in prison seven years ago. But he isn’t free yet. Not while his friend, former slave Zeke Henry, remains a fugitive wrongly accused of assaulting Senator Barlow’s daughter, Celia. Lucas wouldn’t have his freedom or wealth—let alone his life—if it weren’t for Zeke. And he knows that the only way to clear his friend’s name is to prove the identity of Celia’s true attacker: Senator Barlow himself. Now Lucas has a plan to take on the powerful Senator—and his son John, aka Lanford Grips—once and for all.  The only question is whether it will lead to freedom or the end of a noose.

Escape from Hangtown (Lucas Fume Western), by Larry D. Sweazy

  • Amazon Sales Rank: #924260 in eBooks
  • Published on: 2015-06-02
  • Released on: 2015-06-02
  • Format: Kindle eBook
Escape from Hangtown (Lucas Fume Western), by Larry D. Sweazy

Review “This new series takes us into the heart of our nation and the hearts of the people who were carving it out.”—Nuvo.comPraise for Spur Award-winning Author Larry D. Sweazy “A new star in the world of Western fiction.”—Western Fiction Review “A lively blend of mystery, action, and historical realism.”—John D. Nesbitt, Spur Award–winning author of Death at the Whistling Swan “Raw, wild, and all too human.”—Johnny D. Boggs, Spur Award–winning author

About the Author Larry D. Sweazy is the Spur Award- and Will Rogers Medallion Award-winning author of the Josiah Wolfe, Texas Ranger series, including Vengeance at Sundown, The Gila Wars, The Coyote Tracker, The Cougar's Prey, The Badger's Revenge, The Scorpion Trail, and The Rattlesnake Season. He is also the author of the modern-day thriller The Devil's Bones and short stories appearing in numerous fiction anthologies and literary publications.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PART I

Welcome to No Man’s Land

But a silence vastly deep, oh deeper than all these ties

Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies.

—CLAUDE MCKAY, FROM “ABSENCE”

ONE

Lucas Fume stood on the rear platform of the train car, staring out over land so flat that it looked like a giant cast-iron skillet had fallen from the sky and smashed everything underneath it.

The wide-open view, the long-reaching vista was a far cry from the mountains and hills of his childhood home in Tennessee. That life, that green, lush landscape was just a memory now, and Lucas was certain that he would never return to it, never travel east again, across the Mississippi River, or back to what was once a perfect existence. Not out of fear, but out of self-preservation. He didn’t want to look back, be held by the chains of the past. Grief had become an unlikely bedfellow of recent, and it had, as far as he was concerned, warmed him for far too long. There was nothing left for him in Tennessee. Everything that he had ever loved was either dead and buried, or sold off; every bind cut by choice or by fate.

There was a constant wind that blew across the Kansas plains. It cut and turned and whistled, rising and falling over the grasses, making the millions of pointed blade tips in the vast lea look like waves of an ocean. Such a body of water he had never seen, nor could he imagine, even though at the moment he felt like the captain of a small ship. Trees were sparse, and towns even more so. The sky had free roam, deep and blue as a happy eye, reaching overhead forever. Clouds came and went so fast that it was hard to tell if they offered a threat or not.

Lucas was still uncertain of what the next second would bring after years spent unjustly locked up in a prison cell.

The law of the land had allowed him to move about as he wished, but his footing was not as confident as it once was. There were still elements in the world that sought to do him harm, inflict revenge on him for his past deeds. Just because he was free of all criminal charges didn’t mean that he didn’t have to concern himself with retribution. Freedom by decree only went so far, at least in the world in which he had previously traveled.

Lucas never forgot that he had enemies, or that it was prudent to take an extra second to look over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed—or watched.

And it was that desire—the desire to be able to see in all directions—that had brought him to where he was standing. On a railcar, detached from any visible train, sitting in the middle of a meadow that went on vacantly as far as the eye could see. It was like he had been left behind, left to forage for himself in a prebuilt pioneer shack—though one of many comforts—but that was hardly the case. The railcar belonged to him, or the lease of it, for the time being, and he wasn’t alone. Fending for himself only came at his pleasure, by his own choice. His loss of ties back East had left him a very wealthy man. It was a position to which he had once been accustomed, raised in, taken for granted, then lost to the war, the loss finalized by treachery, trickery, and ultimately, a betrayal so deep that it took the life of his one true love, and nearly his own.

If he had learned only one thing from that event, it was this: Comforts could be taken from you at any moment. Comforts and love.

Lucas would never take either for granted again—one, comfort, could be bought, while the other, love, was best left to the poets. Love was the furthest thing from his mind. He doubted that he would ever venture down that path again.

Birds and animals were strange and new, too, in this foreign country—the territories of the West. He had seen three buffalo on a recent hunt, thin at the ribs, and so straggly and sorrowful looking that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to shoot one of them. The steaks would have been a pleasure for their taste, but nothing more. There was no worry of food.

The railcar was staffed with a cook, Hobart “Hobie” Lawton, a hired man from a fine St. Louis hotel who had come highly recommended. So far, the cook had not been a disappointment. Lucas had already gained a tight waist on his pants, and had been forced to have a new set of trousers tailored in Abilene. His dinners were a far cry from the roach-filled gruel that the prison kitchen had served him. Still, it had taken more time than he would have ever imagined for his appetite to return.

From where he stood, Lucas thought the open field would be a fine place to stop, put down roots, but he knew that idea was just folly. The isolation would be too much to bear, and the winters too difficult to endure. He would have to move on soon, before the summer season offered a change—but for now, he enjoyed the long view before him, and waited.

Winter was a distant concern, and he was hardly alone. He enjoyed a comfortable isolation, and intended to make it as safe as possible.

A gunshot cracked off to Lucas’s right, reminding him of that very thing. He didn’t flinch, just sighed, looked over to the field to his right, and took in the sight of Zeke Henry, holding a smoking rifle, looking at it curiously, balancing it in his big skillet-sized hand without offering any readable judgment on his face.

“You haven’t made up your mind, yet?” Lucas called out. He made his way down the platform, off the steps, and onto the hard, unforgiving Kansas ground.

Zeke, well over six feet tall, and black as a mature thundercloud, shook his head. With a few more arms to offer as limbs, he would have made for one of the larger trees around. As it was, the Negro was of normal composition for his height, everything in perfect proportion, along with a smile that would light any dark room with his flawless ivory teeth. Zeke had been a houseboy once, and the air of that position had never left him.

Zeke looked away from the rifle, let it fall to his side. “Ain’t shore, Mistuh Lucas. Negro with a gun ain’t encouraged less you be in the Tenth Cavalry Regiment. I never was no soldier, though I could ride with those fellas in that troop, and be just fine, I suppose.”

Lucas stopped next to Zeke, and glanced over to the table that they stood in front of. It was loaded with weapons. Six-shooters, rifles, derringers of all makes and sizes, along with a few knives, both to carry in plain sight and to conceal. It was a wide array of firearms, old and new, from the personal armory that Lucas had amassed before leaving St. Louis. He had wanted to be prepared for anything that came their way.

The West was a mysterious land, with only the stories that had traveled back East over the years to navigate by. This was Lucas’s first venture deep into the territories, his first journey into the new land. He wanted to be as prepared as possible, and was still taking pains, and making the best plans he knew how.

“That’s why we’re here,” Lucas said. “So you can find one that fits you the best, that you’re comfortable with.”

“Ain’t necessary,” Zeke said. He put the rifle, a Springfield 1870, down onto the table, and shook his head.

“You don’t like this one?”

“No, suh, it ain’t that. Any would do. But you knows I’d just as well be on my own. I’d rather not carry a gun at all, if it all be the same to you.”

“Trouble’s coming for you, Zeke, you know that. A gun’s as necessary as a good horse. Especially here.”

“I does know that I be an object of capture, but you a free man now. Me, I’ll never be such. It is the hand I was dealt. You knows that. We got this great big country, and I hope to be a flea, and disappear down into the fur of the dog. Ain’t that what all this grass look like to you? I ain’t never seen such a thing.” Zeke shook his head in wonder, but there was melancholy in his voice.

“They’ll find you. You’ve got a price on your head.”

“Don’t want to spend my life runnin’ if it all be the same to you. It’d been best if I’d turned myself in back in St. Louis. Then you be free to explore this land free of any trials due to me.” Zeke shifted his shoulders, broad and straight as a two-by-six piece of lumber, like the shirt he was wearing was uncomfortable. He had been outfitted head to toe, boots to hat, in a new wardrobe himself, setting any doubters straight that he was not a convict on the run. With the bowler hat, fine linen shirt, maroon waistcoat with trousers to match, he passed more as a suave Negro carpetbagger than an escaped convict.

“They would’ve hung you on the spot, Zeke.”

“I can’t outrun the touch of Judgment Day. It’ll catch up with me no matter how many guns I carries, or how much you wishes it to be untrue. Fate is fate. I be a marked man for all my comin’ days.”

“You have done nothing wrong.”

“Say you.” Zeke picked up another rifle, a new model Winchester. He settled the butt of it into his shoulder, fired, pulled the lever down, fired again, and again, until all of the cartridges were gone. A nod of approval came as he placed the rifle back on the table.

“That rifle’s going to change the world,” Lucas said.

“Just means you can kill a man faster, Mistuh Lucas, ain’t nothin’ new gonna come from that. Just more blood. Always gonna be new ways for mans to make war on himself and those that disagree with his ideas. Sad that we bring that fight to this land. It look so pure that I feel like I shouldn’t be standin’ on it.”

“That Winchester just might be the blessing we’ve all been hoping for,” Lucas said, eyeing the horizon. “Get the war with the Indians over quicker.”

“Or, it may well be another curse.” Zeke followed Lucas’s gaze, and settled on the point, on the image, that Lucas had suddenly focused on. “Somebody’s a comin’.” He looked down to the table, and reached for another fully loaded Winchester.

“There’ll be no need for any weapons, Zeke,” Lucas said. “I’m expecting company for dinner.”

Zeke let his hand slip off the rifle, but he didn’t let it fall too far away. “I hope you’re expectin’ a lot of visitors then, Mistuh Lucas.”

Lucas followed Zeke’s gaze, and the contented look on his face fell away. Before he could say another word, a thunderous gunshot rang out, echoing across the flat land quickly and unexpectedly.

The bullet pinged off of one of the iron wheels of the railcar, and was followed by another foreign, unexpected sound. A chorus of whoops and hollers: an Indian call to charge and attack.

“Cheyenne,” Lucas said, reaching for the closest loaded rifle, another Springfield.

Zeke stood staring at the oncoming tide of Indians and horses, caught in a moment of fear, or awe, it was hard to tell which. “I ’spect I’ll need that rifle now.”

“You’ll need as many as you can carry,” Lucas said, firing the Springfield, backing up as fast as he could, dodging back and forth, trying to make himself as difficult a target as possible.

A flaming arrow arched through the air, descended rapidly, and stabbed into the ground with a resounding thud. The flame didn’t extinguish, just wavered in the wind.

Luckily there was little for the arrow to use for tinder. The grass was beat down from Lucas’s and Zeke’s presence, and moist from a recent rain. It sat there like a candle in the daylight—only it offered no comfort to Lucas—just fear. He glanced back to the railcar, and broke into a run. “Come on, Zeke, let’s go. Let’s go.”

But Zeke Henry didn’t move, didn’t act like he’d heard a word. He just stood there big and tall as a cottonwood tree, almost like he hoped one of the arrows, or bullets, would hit him just so he could see how it felt—or put an end to the hopeless wandering that lay before him.

TWO

Most days, Celia Barlow sat on the sanatorium’s veranda staring blankly into the distance. Words had been lost to her for longer than seemed possible. At least words that could roll off her tongue and slip from her mouth. It was like her tongue and throat had been glued shut, clamped tight, the ability to mutter something intelligible, to speak, had been a skill she had never possessed. But she was aware of far more than most people around her thought she was. The doctors and nursemaids talked like she wasn’t there, like she couldn’t comprehend anything they said, or didn’t say. She understood silent implications as well as any loud argument.

The reality that she would never be what she once was, that she wouldn’t heal, that there was no ending for her other than to just slip away one night into the sweet hands of death, was not lost on her. Celia prayed for death to come and take her away almost every minute of every hour.

She was also aware of patterns and schedules, and could recognize faces, voices, and certain touches. It had been in accordance to the time of day for her to be wheeled out in a chair, covered with a blanket, and left to drool on herself, as she looked out over the green valley, unable to swat at mosquitoes or flies, or scratch the tip of her nose, no matter the severity of the annoyance. Along with the ability to speak, she had also lost the ability to move. If she screamed, no one heard her. If she wanted to run, no one could catch her. She was trapped, a prisoner inside her own skin. Death was her only escape. And so far, it had been her hale physical health that had kept her alive and firmly planted in front of a path that she could not traverse, no matter the intensity of her desire to do so.

It was, however, at that moment that two shadows appeared, one on each side of her. There were no voices, no warning. One of the two men, who she had never seen before, stepped in front of her, and looked down at her like she was nothing more than a piece of meat. He smelled unfamiliar, of whiskey and tobacco, and it wasn’t until she was being lifted into the air that Celia thought to be afraid.

But who would she call out to? The nurse who had scowled in disgust when she fouled herself? Or the doctor who poked and probed her like she was a pincushion with no feeling? Just because she couldn’t scream didn’t mean she didn’t feel pain.

Celia thought she was either being kidnapped or rescued. Either way, she would be free of the walls that had held her prisoner for so long, free of the mush shoved down her throat to keep her alive, and the horrid-tasting medicines that did nothing but make her sleepier, and more immobile than she already was.

For all she knew, Death himself had answered her silent pleas, had come to visit her, and this was her voyage, deeper into the darkness, a final punishment. Punishment for the misdeed that had brought so much pain upon her, and her family, already.

If she would have been in her right mind, in her right body, she might have questioned the two men, asked them where they were taking her. But knowing full well that she couldn’t, she relaxed her mind, and prayed. Please, let it be soon. Please, this is no way to live. It was only true love that I surrendered to. How could that have been so wrong?

The senator stood at the window of the hotel, looking down the long street that ended at the Capitol building. He was as tall as a doorway, and thin as a rail. A long, well-groomed beard, gray like a winter sky, announced his age and stature from a distance. But it was his eyes that were his most distinguished feature. They were deep blue, black in the lack of light, hard like steel, and full of ambition, even though such a thing should have run its course long ago.

The hotel room was as lush and fine as the man’s clothes; it was a massive lion’s den, appointed in all the latest fashions. He had stayed in the suite on every visit to Washington since he had been elected. Now, it matched his personality, and was decorated and furnished just for him, for his unusual size.

Lancaster Barlow had been compared to Lincoln in height, but that was all. Barlow was not a homely man, but one the ladies still found attractive—though he was most often suspicious of their motives. Nor was he a great orator, though he could legislate with the best of men, write laws for man and his misdeeds, and wrangle votes with favors, and promises, like the best of senators were expected to do. Being a small-town litigator was the only skill that he had shared with the sixteenth president. But Lancaster Barlow had never enjoyed the practice of law, not like Lincoln had. People and their petty problems bored him. He had always aspired to something grander, bigger. Leaving his mark on the world meant far more to him than solving a crisis of debt—or murder. Being a lawyer had only been a means to an end: It had transported him to Washington, and the title that came with it meant more to him than almost anything else in his life.

Sadly, the opportunity to climb higher in political office was lost, too. His causes and reputation had taken a beating recently, and Barlow was old enough to know that he did not have the time, nor the treasury, to repair both. It would have to be one or the other. Cause or reputation. He was still trying to decide which to pursue.

A knock came from the door, startling him out of his thoughts. “Yes,” he said.

The door opened and a nervous looking man with glasses hurried inside the room, and closed the door behind him. “Sorry to bother you, Senator, but if you do not leave now, you will be late for the afternoon session, and I have news to report before you leave, sir.”

“Yes, Paulsen, I was just gathering my thoughts about the Hills Regulation.” It was a lie, of course. Barlow could have cared less about the latest attempt to encourage mining in his home state. His concerns for Tennessee were far and few between. “What news? Business or personal?”

“Both, sir.”

“Business first.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Of course. We are in Washington. Business is of the utmost, don’t you agree?”

Leland Paulsen sighed, and nodded. “The notes will be in the carriage.” The man wore round, rimmed glasses, and was just a little taller than most twelve-year-old boys—but there was no question that he was of an elder age. He was bald, with only a few stray graying hairs circling his head. Thin mutton-chop sideburns struggled down his cheeks like a dirty gray waterfall. He had been Barlow’s secretary of affairs since the senator had arrived in Washington, some twenty-odd years prior. There was a small quarters set aside for the man in the front of the suite.

“I expected such,” Barlow said, perusing Paulsen from head to toe. “Is there a problem, man?”

“Yes, sir. A reporter just left. He was asking questions about your son.”

Barlow stiffened. “What type of questions?”

“Whether you were aware of his business dealings with the railroads.”

“It is old news, Paulsen. I hope you sent the scallywag on his way with a swift kick in the ass. Election season is heating up early. I suspect I will have to face such nonsense if I seek to keep this office—which I no doubt will.”

“He was a persistent man,” Paulsen said.

“Roaches. The press is full of roaches, snakes, and traitors. I don’t have time for this drivel.” Barlow headed to the coatrack to retrieve his hat and cane. “My son is in prison for actions all of his own doing, and that is as it should be. I hope you told this reporter that that is my view. My son deserved the punishment he received.”

“I did, sir. But he questioned your involvement. He seemed to believe that your son couldn’t have maintained the contracts he held without your help, and that your hands, so to speak, were the ones that stirred the pot and still need washing.”

Barlow cast Paulsen a hard look at the mention of hands. His son had been relieved of his hands, cut off, leaving stumps at the wrist in an attempt of his own to complete an alibi, and propagate a story that ultimately had sent an innocent man to prison for his son’s false murder. It was a sad state of affairs, but Lancaster Barlow silently held his son in high regard for his commitment to the plan, and the execution of the deed.

Paulsen flinched at the look. “I’m sorry, sir, to have brought up such a sensitive subject.”

Barlow shrugged. “I broke no laws, I can assure you of that, Paulsen. There is no need to pussyfoot around about my son’s fate. He did it to himself, or had it done. So be it. That action cannot be changed, and now he lives with his choices like we all do.”

“It is not me who has to be satisfied with an answer, Senator Barlow.”

“You speak as if there is an inquiry being planned into this matter, Paulsen. Tell me, is this the news I should really be concerned about?”

Paulsen nodded. “The Speaker of the House is in the process of ordering a public investigation to your link in the matter, sir.”

“In the process?”

“Yes, from a reliable source. I understand the news will break a week before the filing deadline for the next election. Theobold Gladstone will take the lead in the investigation. It seems a matter of revenge, a public flogging, if you will.”

“Gladstone will do anything to see me escorted out of this city, or thrown into some brig, along with my son. But he will only go so far. I have made it known to him that I am aware of his unfortunate proclivities, and will be just as glad to air them through my own channels.”

“I am just doing my job, sir.”

“I appreciate the intelligence, Paulsen. Your networks are intact and functioning at the highest order. I’m glad to see that my investments are proving their worth and paying the expected dividends.” Barlow turned his lip up, and began to pace the length of the room. “These new Republicans are despicable in their quest for power. I shouldn’t be surprised, though I admired them more as Whigs. I would most likely do the same thing if I were in their shoes.” Senator Lancaster Barlow smiled then, stopped in front of Paulsen, and extended his hand straight out so that it rested on the short man’s shoulder. “You have proven to be a fine secretary. I am in your debt for the gain of this information.”

“I’m afraid,” Paulsen said, hesitantly, “that I have more news, sir. The personal side of the equation that I spoke of when I entered the room. I think you should sit down.”

“I take all my news standing up, Paulsen. You know that.”

“It is very bad news, sir.”

“Has there been a death?” Part of him would have been relieved if it was the news he thought it might be—hoped it might be—but would never say so out loud.

“No, sir. I believe it may be worse than death itself. A wire just came in. It is fresh news.”

“Tell me, man, of what do you speak? I am old and tired, wary of heart attacks and excitement. You have brought enough for me to consider on this day. My reputation is at stake, and now I know what must be done, where my focus must lie. I am grateful for that. Be on with it, time is ticking.”

“I was afraid to tell you, sir, but I must. It is your daughter, Senator Barlow. She has vanished.”

THREE

The second flaming arrow hit the railcar square in the middle. Fire hurried up the wood-paneled exterior like it was on a short fuse. More fire-tainted arrows rained onto the ground and into the railcar, pointed and sure in their target, coloring the once perfect sky with black smoke and fear.

Before long, the railcar would be nothing but firewood for a giant bonfire; there was no water to save it, nor was there time to expend such energy, under attack from the raiding Cheyenne.

The second fire-borne arrow had struck at the heart of the car, but others were piercing the roof at each end, ensuring total destruction of the elaborate abode.

Hobie Lawton ran out onto the platform where Lucas had stood just minutes before, and stopped dead in his tracks. “Redskins. Damned if I knew it weren’t redskins. Not even a month into the journey, and we draw heathens to our doorstep. Damn, if I didn’t know I should’ve stayed in St. Louis where it was safe from such nonsense.”

A gunshot crackled out across the wide meadow, and the bullet sliced into the door frame, inches from Hobie’s head. He looked upward, shocked at the closeness, then stepped back inside the burning railcar, out of harm’s way.

Lucas hadn’t really been listening to Hobie’s rant. The man always seemed to be bellyaching about something: the weather, the sway of the train, the speed of the train, the lack of ingredients to cook with, anything to hear himself talking. But Lucas was annoyed at his lack of action. “Would you grab a gun and help out, Hobie?” Lucas yelled.

Hobie, a man of normal height, and middle age, stuck his head out of the door and shrugged. “Don’t see how it’s gonna do any damn good. No, sir, don’t see it at all. Injuns got us two to one. I got half a head of hair. Be an ugly scalp on a belt, for sure, but they’ll take it and be proud of it.”

“Damn it, Hobie!” Lucas hollered out. “Get a gun!”

More arrows thudded into the railcar, and it was starting to burn in earnest. Flames crawled up the side of the car, just under the windows, in short, steady leaps, advancing to the roof, which was starting to blaze on its own with assured determination from the other arrows.

Zeke had woken up from his stupor, and now recognized the danger that they all were in. He scooped up as many of the rifles as he could, then knocked the table over to use for cover. He crouched behind it the best he could, aimed the Winchester ’73, and returned fire.

It was only a matter of seconds before an arrow sliced into the wood table, and it began to burn, too.

The black smoke fully engulfed the encampment, if it could have been called that, encouraging the attacking braves to scream and yell with delight. They were sure of their success, and Lucas couldn’t blame them.

Hobie disappeared back inside the railcar, opened the first window, jammed a rifle barrel out of it, and began to fire at the distant raiders.

Between Hobie and Zeke offering cover, Lucas had time to grab up a couple of single-action Army Colts, and the loaded ammunition belts that went with them. He crouched as close to the ground as he could, firing as he went, and hurried up onto the platform.

A quick glance over his shoulder told him that there were at least six in the raiding party; Dog Soldiers wearing wolf skins on their heads, faces painted red with white stripes flowing from their noses onto their chins and cheeks, feathers tied to their black hair, and their buckskins adorned with bone jewelry.

Lucas had been warned by the train’s engineer that it would be dangerous to unhook in Kansas, be left out in the open, but he had felt the risk was worth it, that he could handle anything that came his way. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He had been overconfident, and not nearly as prepared as he thought he was. An uncertain tremble was growing in his belly.

Hobie continued to fire, and the smell of gun smoke mixed with the burning railcar caused Lucas’s eyes to water and his lungs to complain. It was an unlikely and unexpected return to the battlefield, a place Lucas had hoped to never return again. He had hoped that the life of fighting, of killing to stay alive, was behind him, but he should have known better.

It was a different kind of fight that he had put himself into.

This was not a war between the states, but a war against a people whose land and life were being altered by the advancement of progress, of the opening of new territory for white men to inhabit and make their own. Lucas had no choice but to fight back. He had put himself squarely in that war, setting up the railcar, almost like bait, offering the Cheyenne an easy target. He saw that now. He should have listened to the engineer, but his pride and his desire for solitude had been stronger than common sense might have offered. He had needed some time to gather himself before moving on.

The Cheyenne rounded a rise about twenty yards straight out from the railcar, then joined together and leapt from their horses, almost in unison. The horses trailed off quickly behind them, out of sight, while the Indians took up prone positions, flat on the ground, and began to fire their single-shot rifles in unison.

“Zeke,” Lucas yelled out, “there’s only four of them under the ridge . . .”

Thunder cracked from behind them, and lead tore into the ground just at the big Negro’s feet, nicking his bootheel, before Lucas could shout another word of warning.

The shot was like rousing a sleeping giant. Zeke spun around with the Winchester, zeroed in on his targets, and started firing.

It was an astonishing sight to see the Winchester rifle in action, and even more gratifying to see Zeke’s skills matched with it. They were either latent, natural, or the Negro had been holding out about his comfort with a firearm.

Zeke’s first shot hit the closest Dog Soldier square in the forehead, sending him spiraling out of sight. The other attacker didn’t have time to react. The second shot sent him stumbling backward.

A slow smile eased across Lucas’s face—but it didn’t last long. The encroaching fire forced him off the platform with Hobie on his heels.

Flames jumped five feet into the air, and the whole of the roof was engulfed in hungry flames. The interior was starting to surrender to the rage of the fire, too.

There was plenty of tinder to offer as fuel inside the railcar. The walls were lined with mahogany paneling, and the floors were covered with Oriental carpets. Velvet draperies hung at the windows, and there was enough furniture inside to offer kindling for several fires, if the need had ever come. Other than clothes, there were very few personal effects at risk. Lucas had had little time to amass material wealth beyond what had come with the car when he had taken it on as his own. Anything that was inside the railcar was most certainly lost.

Hobie had armed himself with a Henry rifle. It was a lever-action rifle with a breech-loading tubular magazine, and fired copper rimfire cartridges. It was his own personal weapon, an 1860 model that he had carried through the War of Northern Aggression, and beyond. Used correctly, the rifle could fire twenty-eight rounds a minute. But Hobie was more adept with a spatula and skillet than the rifle. He’d been a battlefield cook. He was nearsighted, and was prone to leaving his spectacles lying next to the stove, claiming he could see to cut a carrot without them just fine. Which was true. But shooting at a great distance, even with a rifle such as the Henry, was a problem for him.

Hobie had nearly shot all of the rounds loaded in the Henry before the fire had forced him out of the railcar.

Zeke and Lucas fired at the remaining Cheyenne, staying low to the ground, hanging back behind the burning table. It wouldn’t be long before it, like the railcar, started to give into the fire. As it was, the table still offered cover.

Lucas looked over his shoulder, and saw Hobie running straight for them, firing as he came. About halfway between the platform and the table, the Henry jammed, and without thinking, obviously, Hobie came to a stop.

“Keep running!” Lucas screamed. But he was too late. A gunshot rang out, and lead hit Hobie directly in the chest. He stumbled backward, and looked more resigned than surprised. Another shot followed in a blink, and caught him square in the belly, sending the cook spiraling to the ground with a groan and a thud. A cloud of dust wafted over him for a brief second, then joined the smoke, becoming one with the cloud.

Zeke stood up and unloaded the fully loaded Winchester in a series of trigger pulls, lever cranks, and presses. The smoke surrounded the Negro like he had conjured it to hide in. The reports of the gunfire echoed across the lea—and were not immediately answered back.

Lucas peered over the burning table, and watched as two Cheyenne ran off, gathered up their horses, and beat hoof as fast as they could, north, away from them. “I think we ran them off.”

“They’ll be back,” Zeke said. He hurried to Hobie, and Lucas followed, though it was easy to see, even amidst the smoke and fire, that there was no saving the man.

They made no attempt to put out the fire. There was no close source of water, other than a thin stream that cut through the meadow about a hundred yards to the south of them. The railcar burned itself out. There was nothing left of it but a smoldering skeleton: iron frame on iron wheels, with some black timbers sticking up like charred toothpicks.

Nothing of value to either man had survived the fire. All that remained were the weapons that Zeke was trying out before the attack came. Nearly half of the ammunition had been used up in the attack.

Zeke had taken the chore of digging a grave for Hobie without being asked or told. Lucas had just wandered off, a Colt Army dangling from his right hand.

The ground was dry, easy to dig with big hands and the butt of a rifle. The shuffle of dirt sounded like the soles of shoes scraping across slate. There was music in the consistency of the digging, but it offered no joy. Death seemed to follow Lucas Fume wherever he went, and the thought of losing another man because of his escapades touched him deeply, in a dark black place in his soul. One that he avoided as often as possible.

The air still smelled of fire and soot, and the iron frame of the railcar was still hot to the touch. Blue sky had returned, and the perfection of the summer day seemed to have already forgotten, or ignored, the fight that had taken place.

Lucas overlooked Zeke and the task at hand as best he could, and made his way to the center of the railcar.

The railcar had belonged to John Barlow, the man who had faked his own death in order to see Lucas thrown into prison. The ploy had not worked—at least forever like Barlow, who had changed his name and identity to Lanford Grips, had hoped.

Lucas had survived countless attempts on his life, and had escaped the prison with Zeke. All that ugliness had been cleared up in St. Louis. But at a cost. First, Zeke Henry was still a wanted man—wanted for the brutal beating and rape of John Barlow’s sister, Celia. And then there was the loss of Charlotte Brogan, a woman Lucas had known, and loved, since he was a boy. She had died in his arms in St. Louis. He couldn’t save her. And now, any semblance of her presence was gone, burned to ashes and tossed to the wind.

Lucas had slept in her bed, in her quarters of the railcar, trying to inhale her smell for as long as it would last, trying to feel something other than guilt and shame. He had failed. Failed miserably, and could hardly find it in himself to take another step, to move on. He wished he could trade places with Hobie Lawton. Unfortunately, Lucas was going to be forced to live out his days with regret following him everywhere he went.

FOUR

“Gonna be dark soon,” Zeke said. He walked steadily with three gun belts thrown over his shoulder, and two wrapped around his waist. Each had a Colt of some make in it. He carried the Winchester rifle, barrel down. Metal against metal clanked with each giant step he took, even when he walked slow, so Lucas could keep pace with him.

Lucas had on one gun belt, and carried Hobie’s Henry rifle. It was the only keepsake he had allowed himself. “We need to get as far away from there as possible.”

“They’ll find us if they want.”

“You buried the rest of those guns with Hobie?”

Zeke nodded. “Ain’t no Indian gonna look for them there from what I knows. Death is a repellent like no other.”

It was a small comfort for Lucas knowing those guns wouldn’t be used to kill anyone else, and he hoped Zeke was right. The Negro seemed to have a working knowledge of Indian ways that they had never discussed before. For now, Lucas decided to leave that conversation to another time. Truth be told, there was a lot about Zeke Henry that he didn’t know.

The ground was flat along the bank of the small stream that they navigated, doing their best not to leave a visible trail. Mosquitoes and flies buzzed about, glad for their presence, their offer of new blood. The insects seemed drunk with the prospect of flesh to eat, immune to fear, maniacal in their attacks. Lucas swatted at the swarms but it did no good. They hovered over his head in a cloud. “There’s no escaping creatures who want to see us dead, or do us harm,” he said, frustrated.

“You expected it to be different here, Mistuh Lucas?”

Lucas shrugged. “I had hoped for a new start for both of us.”

“You maybe. No such thing for me. Not now or in the future.”

“What if we could do something to free you? There has to be something I can do, that we can do.”

They continued walking, skirting the water, fighting off the marauding insects the best they could, listening for Cheyenne, or any other Indian, at every breath. It was a new skill to develop, but old in its very prospect. Lucas had fought in the war, but rarely as a soldier. Instead, he worked mostly as a spy, gathering intelligence, crossing enemy lines at will, donning getups and identities that allowed him such currency. But those skills were old, used up. Not forgotten. Just atrophied from too many years spent locked inside a prison cell.

“What’s done can’t be undone. You knows that, Mistuh Lucas.”

“She’s not dead,” Lucas said.

“Might as well be. Can’t talk. Can’t walk. Can’t do nothin’ to tell the truth of matters.”

There was a quiver in Zeke’s voice that Lucas had heard before. He remained quiet, said nothing more. What he had said was enough. The subject of Zeke’s crime always put the Negro deeper in the funk he already walked in.

The only sounds that followed them were the constant wind, the buzz of insects, an occasional bird offering a song, and the shuffle of their feet in the mud and gravel along the bank of the stream. Lucas had no clue where they were going, where they were. He just knew that they couldn’t stay near the railcar, and wait for another train to pass by and rescue them. It was too dangerous to stay there. The Cheyenne would come back; there was no doubt about that.

As much as both men were held in grief and regret, they both had carried the will to live, the appetite to put one foot in front of the other.

There had to be a town somewhere up the railroad line, a destination to walk to. Leavenworth was the next big train stop, a town of nearly thirty thousand people, so there had to be outliers close by, farms and such that would offer them direction and, hopefully, safety.

The land might have seemed desolate and lonely, but the Cheyenne and the Kiowa, and the other Plains Indians, were angry for a reason. Not only had the white man come into their territory and spoiled their hunting grounds, they had stayed. And now they were claiming the land as their own—a concept foreign to the Indians as much as the English that rolled off the white man’s tongue. Eleven railroad lines crisscrossed Kansas, and thousands of people poured into, or across, the state every week. The desolation and emptiness that Lucas had found himself in wouldn’t last long.

Lucas stopped, and stepped into ankle-deep water. His stomach growled with hunger, and at that moment, he would have given anything to hear Hobie bellyaching about the weather. “We best start looking for a place to camp. Doesn’t look like there’s going to be any place to stop any time soon,” he said.

Zeke nodded in agreement. “You ever think we shoulda stayed in Libertyville? Just found a life with them folks?”

Lucas looked at Zeke oddly. “You want to go back?”

“They ain’t there now. Moved on. Just askin’, that’s all. Far Jackson ain’t a bad man to follow.”

It was Lucas’s time to shake his head. He wasn’t following anyone, and he knew his presence, and Zeke’s, had brought the people of Libertyville a lot of trouble, and would only bring them more: raging prison guards with an axe to grind, and a quarry to catch. Carl the Hammer, who was dead now, would have just been replaced by someone else. The Klan would have seen to that. “We’re safer here,” he said.

“Hobie Lawton might argue that fact with you. But if you says so.”

“I do.” Lucas forged ahead then, deciding against stopping to camp. He wasn’t comfortable. There was still a little light left in the day, enough to find someplace safer—if that were possible.

He picked up his pace so he could put a little distance between him and Zeke. The question of safety had brought up another memory, another sorrow. How could he not think of Avadine, the Scottish woman who had nursed him to health, saw to it that his strength had returned, and welcomed him into her bed? And what had he done for her in return? He had left her. Ran out at the first chance he had, chased by men with guns, leaving her standing alone in the growing gloom of night, surviving fire and assault, her heart broken for all the world to see. He hoped never to see Avadine, or that look in a woman’s eyes, ever again. She was hopeless, enraged, full of hate and love at the same time.

Just at the onset of dusk, Lucas spied a spiral of smoke in the distance. He eased up his pace to allow Zeke to catch up with him. It didn’t take long for the clatter and clank of the guns to slide up next to him.

“Figured that something would come along this close to the crick,” Lucas said.

“Yup,” Zeke said.

They both stood there looking at the chimney smoke, and the little house, if it could be called that, from which it came.

“Never seen the like,” Lucas said.

“Me, neither. I spent most of my life in them Tennessee hills. Never seen so much brown and open spaces in my life,” Zeke said. “Or a house not made of wood.”

“Not a lot of trees out this way.”

“Was good for you.”

Lucas shrugged. It was true. The lack of trees in the West had made him, and his family, very wealthy. They had owned a few million acres of woodlands in Minnesota. Timber cut and floated down the Mississippi, and used as railroad ties, used to build the railroad lines west. But he owned nothing now. He had money in the bank, the clothes on his back, and the gun in his hand, and that was it—for what good any of it did him.

The way Lucas saw it, he had lost ten times more than he’d gained. His childhood home, his family dead and buried, and Charlotte Brogan killed, because of all the wealth, all of the money and its potential. Add in the betrayal of the one man he thought he could always trust, and he would have traded pasts with Zeke Henry in a heartbeat.

“I hope they’re used to strangers around here,” Lucas said.

Zeke eyed Lucas like he wanted to say something, but restrained himself.

Lucas struck out again, and headed straight for the sod house.

The sky was gray and the curtain of darkness was falling quickly. The day had slipped by, leaving Lucas and Zeke in a very familiar situation—on their own with little resources other than their skills and wits. And even those were rusty, dulled by recent events. Still, there was enough light and will left in them to make it to the house.

The closer they got, Lucas could see another building beyond the house. It was set inside a fence, bore large double doors, and windows with wood sashes and that was all. Low moos of settling cows told him that it was a barn. Something that he wouldn’t have guessed at first sight. Nothing was what it appeared to be in this new land. At least, not to Lucas.

Zeke caught up, walked beside Lucas, doing nothing to hold back the clink and clank of the guns he carried. They weren’t trying to sneak up on anybody.

A thin copse of cottonwoods stood about fifty yards from the front door of the house. Lucas thought nothing of it, and started to skirt the trees, avoiding the shadows that fell off of them.

“You both just stop right there,” a man said, stepping out from behind one of the taller trees. The trunk was just wide enough to hide him, but there was no mistaking the aim of the rifle in his hands.

Lucas and Zeke did what they were told, and automatically put their hands into the air.

“We mean you no harm, mister,” Lucas said.

The man stepped fully out from behind the tree, certain in his hold of the gun. On second look, it was a shotgun, not a rifle. He was about the same height as Lucas, which meant that Zeke towered over him. He seemed fit and clean. His clothes were typical of a man who farmed or tended a herd of animals: simple trousers, a linen shirt, sturdy boots, and a faded wide-brimmed felt hat that had soaked up its fair share of sweat.

“I think you all just need to put down all those weapons. Lord, what’d you do, rob an armory?” the man said.

Lucas unclasped his gun belt and eased it to the ground. Zeke followed suit, putting the gun belts and rifle he carried in a pile at his feet.

“Nothing of the sort,” Lucas said. “We were attacked by Cheyenne earlier today. We were trying these out when they rode in. Killed our cook, and burned the railcar to the ground, leaving us no choice but to move on with what we have left.”

“Thought we saw a stem of smoke east of here,” the man said. His face looked to place him about forty, weathered and cut with worry lines, but it was hard to say for sure. A man’s age was hard to judge under stressful circumstances and bad light. His eyes, though, were curious, and a tad fearful.


Escape from Hangtown (Lucas Fume Western), by Larry D. Sweazy

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Most helpful customer reviews

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Lucas is coming for revenge... By Jo Ann Hakola Lucas has been exonerated from the charges that put him in jail, but he never would have made it out alive if he hadn't had Zeke's help. He intends to help clear Zeke's charges now. He knows the Senator's disabled daughter was beat by her father, not Zeke. Trying to prove that will take a lot of guts and some good skills to make it happen. Zeke doesn't believe it ever will...Mr. Sweazy sent me a copy of this book for review. It has been published and you can find a copy now at your local bookstore. I'm sad to say that this will probably be the last time we see Lucas because the publishing company no longer publishes westerns. That's really an unfortunate turn of events. I like westerns and they're very hard to find.Thing start getting bad for Lucas when his train car is attacked by dog soldiers. The Indians are shooting flaming arrows, kill his cook, and he and Zeke just barely get away. When they stop for shelter, they unfortunately get more than that. While Lucas is going after the Senator and his son, the son and the Senator are going after him.He meets more enemies every day, more friends die, and he's not sure if he wants to live or die. But he does know he will get his revenge first or die trying. Even the women are a bit nasty in this story. But it's the wild west and most folks will do anything for money. (Just like today's world.)The story is a bit complicated but it ticks and ties Lucas' past and present. I was pleased with the ending. There's no one who hasn't been hurt in some way but the ones who have survived are moving on in life and regretting nothing left behind. That's the best way to live.I'll miss Lucas Fume...

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. I don't recommend this book By Chuck Rowland Characters are hard to follow and it keeps bouncing back and forth between four or more right in the middle when something is about to happen. It makes for hard reading because it doesn't stay with the main character until almost the end of the book. I don't recommend this book.

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Three Stars By David Kellner Did not really care for the story just wasn't what i thought it would be

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