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Crofton’s
Fire by Keith Coplin Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Hero Keith Coplin is a 60
year old college professor who’s written a debut novel, Crofton’s
Fire, about the exploits of an American soldier in the 1870s. From Little
Big Horn to III. In the Fall, the rains came, turning
the grounds of the fort and all about into soggy quagmires. For days at a
time, the huge prairie sky was leaden with clouds. There was still no patrol
activity, and men grew restless with the rain and the clouds and the close
quarters. It was, then, with a pleasant
anticipation that news came of trouble at Lemon Corner, a hamlet about forty
miles west of “A riot,” said the bewhiskered major, a
dapper little man with a twinkle in his eyes. He was addressing two
lieutenants, Mulvay and Simpson, and me in the
deserted officers’ mess hail. The major seemed to be having great fun. “Over
a whore,” he said. The story did have an element of fun
about it. It seems a French whore by the name of Charolais
had killed a cowboy, who, as details of the story were revealed, seemed to
deserve killing. First, it was reported that he had refused to pay for
services rendered, and when the whore insisted on payment, he resorted to
fisticuffs. The whore promptly shot him dead. Justice, particularly of the frontier
kind, would seem then to have been served. But the cowboy was from A sheriff of the county in which Lemon
Corner was located was at first cajoled, then flat out threatened, into
action. He rode a few dreary miles to Lemon Corner to apply the strong arm of
the law upon the delinquent whore, only to be met by armed opposition. According to the bewhiskered major,
“The whore, it seems, had several serious sponsors. And be it for economic
reasons or reasons of a lower quality, the sheriff was dispatched by a band
of armed Lemon Corner citizens. The sheriff, poor man, was seriously
pistol-whipped, and claimed, Once he had gratefully reached safety, that he had narrowly escaped with his life.” What happened next could have been
predicted. The Texans decided to take the law into their own hands. Some
twenty of them descended upon Lemon Corner, intending no doubt to avenge
their friend and teach the denizens of this nowhere Four of the Texans were shot dead, a
half dozen more wounded. Reports of casualties among Charolais’s
defenders were unavailable. However, by this time it was obvious that the
situation had escalated beyond the power of civil authorities, so the Army
was called in. “Lieutenant Crofton,” the major
announced. “You will lead a troop of thirty men to Lemon Corner and restore
order. Lieutenants Mulvay and Simpson, you will
take each the same number of troops and seal the roads south and west of the
community. Any resistance is to be met with arms.” Thus was I drafted into a whore’s war. But like I said, the opportunity to saddle was itself
a welcome relief from the confinements of “And what do we
d0 about the French whore?” McCallum asked in the enlisted men’s
barracks, where I had assembled my thirty troopers and related to them both
the background and purpose of Our mission. “We are to arrest her,” I said, “and
deliver her to the nearest jail for incarceration,” McCallum looked displeased. “That seems
a shame,” he said. Most of the other men in the room
agreed with him. “Only did what she had to do.” “It was self-defense.” “They’s
a law against shooting Texans?” On a bright October morning a
delightful chill in the air and a slight but brisk breeze from the north,
nearly a hundred troopers of the 7th Cavalry set out of We headed west, over a road that had
begun to dry, and it was a grand feeling to be mounted, the jangle of
canteens against rifle stocks, the clack of horses’ hooves, sergeants down
the line barking orders to close up. We might only be going to arrest a whore
and her compatriots, but we were the 7th Cavalry, taking with us what glory
that august group had accrued. Our plan was to make thirty-five miles
of the forty to Lemon Corner and bivouac for the night. The next morning,
Simpson and Mulvay would take their troops to seal
roads, and I would reconnoiter the town itself. Once that situation had been
properly assessed, I would take my troop into Lemon Corner, declare martial
law, and disarm and take into custody any recalcitrant figures determined to
be a threat. The good weather held all through the
day, and we made excellent time, arriving at what we considered an appropriate
place of encampment an hour before sunset. We did without tents, there
seeming to be no chance of rain, hobbled the horses, and soon evening coffee
was ready as the supper simmered. Lieutenants Mulvay
and Simpson and I sat at a campfire just at twilight, sipping coffee.
Simpson smoked a cheroot. Mulvay was the first to ask about the whore. “What if she resists? And you know she
will.” “I’ll shackle her,” I said. “A shackled French whore,” Simpson
said. “Now, there’s a fancy.” Mulvay asked, “And will you be searching
her?” “I will not,” I answered curtly. Simpson said, “She is a dangerous tart,
you know. And she obviously knows how to use firearms.” “I would say,” Mulvay
said, “a thorough search after she’s
shackled.” “In private,” chimed in Simpson. “To
preserve her honor.” “Of course,” Mulvay
said. “But a thorough search, in every nook and cranny.” “Lads,” I said, “you’ve been out here
too long.” Lemon Corner was not much of a town,
two buildings and six tents. McCallum and I lay sprawled in the grass, a bit
after dawn, on a ridge overlooking the hamlet. Our horses were tethered at
the base of the ridge, and I was studying the community through binoculars. “A shit hole of a town,” McCallum said. “Nobody about,” I said. “Here.” I handed the glasses to McCallum.
Taking them, he put them up, swung them slowly back and forth. “I count nine horses, there, on a line
behind that north building.” McCallum lowered the glasses and spit off into
the grass. “That’s a saloon, I imagine.” “I wonder how this place got its name,”
I said. All the troopers had been up an hour
before daylight. Mulvay and Simpson moved their men
out just as the sun was edging up in the east. The remaining men drank coffee
and cooked their breakfast. McCaflum and I set out to ride the five miles
to Lemon Corner, instructing the men in camp to clean their weapons and wait. It
was a beautiful morning, no wind, the light still that clear, edge-of-the-horizon
clean. Two roads ran through Lemon Corner, one north-south, the other
east-west. They were gray and seemingly dry in the light. “We
go in hard,” I said, “and fast. Put guns on everything and hope nobody
shoots.” “They
ain’t got no outriders. I
don’t see none.” “Give
me the glasses.” I
looked again, and just west of the north building, I saw a tent with a sign
on it. I couldn’t read the sign, but I suspected that was Charolais’s
place of business. “The
whore’s tent, there, just west of that north building. I’ll bet that’s it.”
I dropped the glasses. “Go fetch the men, Sergeant. I’ll meet all of you on
the road back there, just below this ridge.” “Aye.” After
McCallum had gone, I kept watching the town. In a quarter of an hour, a man
emerged from the big building, limped out onto the back porch and relieved
himself, then went back inside. They
were all sleeping, I thought. It wasn’t yet seven. And if the building was a
saloon, as McCallum had suggested, they may have been drinking during the
night. Sleeping and hungover, that would suit me
just fine. I
couldn’t help but wonder why those men down there would fight for a whore.
They had killed four Texans. Obviously, they did not intend for the whore to
be taken. Or at least, they were not going to abide men coming into their
town with violence. But, I reasoned, they were like a lot of men I’d met and
seen in the West—shoot first and ask no questions at all. It was a wild
place, untamed in every sense of the word. I had heard lethal stories about An hour later, the troop arrived. I met
them, mounted, on the road east of Lemon Corner. We were below a ridge, so
unless some Lemon Corner folk were up on that ridge, they would not have yet
known we were there. I moved the men into a semicircle and
talked from the middle. “We’re going to go into the town fast.
Have your pistols drawn. But don’t shoot unless someone shoots at you first.
There are two buildings. I will take the first ten of you and surround and
enter the building on the north. Sergeant McCallum will take the next ten and
do the same to the building to the south. You last ten men will space yourselves
and cover the tents between the buildings. “Now, we’re not here to kill anybody.
If you do meet resistance and can use your pistol as a club, do that. Knock
the resisters down, but don’t shoot them. But, if the situation deteriorates
rapidly and gunfire does break out, high-tail it back to this ridge and we’ll
regroup and figure out another strategy. Don’t stay in the town and exchange
gunfire. You men who come in with me, we will linger and provide cover fire
until everyone is out of the town. “Does anyone have any questions?” And
the men drew their pistols. That’s
about as riveting as the action gets in Crofton’s
Fire, so readers looking for more action, should try elsewhere. For a
debut novel, the writing is very good, and we recommend Crofton’s
Fire, especially for lovers of historical fiction. Steve
Hopkins, July 26, 2004 |
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ă 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the August 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Crofton's
Fire.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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