Finally Coming To The Chapter Title

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 9/28 AND 10/1/12

New Words: 5100 (4000 / 1100) on chapter 7 ("The Scalphunters") of Arizona. Finn is maneuvered into becoming an Apache scalphunter after spending three years trying to hold a peace between the Apache and American traders. Like the little orange cone atop my computer warns, there is CHAOS AHEAD.

Total Words: 186800.

Reason(s) For Stopping: Sleepy brain / Getting ready for work.

Book Years: 1835-36.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas both times. Today he once again reminded me that I was getting a late start and to get with it.

Exercise: None / A neighborhood and partial campus walk with Laurie and the dogs.

Stimulants: None / A glass-bottled sugar Coke.

Opening Passages:

Friday: “Four pesos!” Finn stormed. “Last year you paid six! And every other year before it!”

Finn and Kicking Horse had released Sancho and the other vaqueros to their own pursuits once the trappers reached Santa Fe with their made beaver, betting on a quick sale at their usual trading post. But this time the senor who always paid them six pesos a pound for their pelts refused to be haggled higher than four.

“Last year I was paid seven pesos a pound,” he explained with raised palms. “This year, just five. Next year, who knows?”

“Why?” Kicking Horse asked. His exterior was calm, but Finn knew his Pima companero well enough to feel the boiling spring inside.

“Silk. That’s what all the traders tell me—Americans from Missouri, Mexicans coming up the El Camino Real…all with the same story. Not so many people wearing beaver hats these days. Everyone wants hats from silk.”

Today: Thompson said nothing for the opening hours of their ride. That suited Finn—his whole attention was focused on escape as they rode south instead of the normal westerly route. If he could survive bolting away he had the skills to hide in the terrain and make his way back to the villa. Maybe--he still suffered the effects of his beatings in jail. But the main problem was that everyone else with them—El Rosa, the Shively brothers, and the one-time vaqueros who had abandoned Finn to help Thompson cart guns to the Hopi—all had rifles trained on him.


Darling Du Jour: “Why won’t you be coming again, Beckett?” Cochise asked when they met in their usual spot at the base of the Dragoons. They shared a fire; nearby other Apache were gambling with the monte cards Finn brought.

Finn had tried to explain, and Cochise pretended not to understand. But the warrior was the smartest one there, Finn knew. This was likely a trick to get Finn to explain it to himself as much as the Chiricahua.

“I would stay home,” Finn said, “to care for my family.”

Cochise pondered this, then handed Finn an acorn-pinyon nut pancake over the fire. “Protect them?”

“Of course.”

“From Apache?”

“From anyone who threatens them. But the Chiricahua and my family are friends, yes?”

“An Apache protects his family by hunting his enemies.”

Finn considered his answer and bought time by taking bites from his pancake. “You’ve seen our wickiup. We only need a little land—a place to live…”

“That you can’t move if things go bad where you are,” Cochise said, this time truly not understanding. A house fixed to one place made no sense to any Apache.

“We stay where we are and defend it. And then pass the land to our children.”

Cochise snorted. “You’re more Navajo than Apache, Beckett. Except the Navajo don’t stay still either.” Finn’s laugh was genuine.


Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: The Wages of Fame by Thomas Fleming; The Ghost Belonged to Me by Richard Peck; Contemplation in a World of Action by Thomas Merton.