High Plains Tangoby Robert James Waller
The wild places are where no one is looking anymore. Out on the high plains, among Sioux reservations and silent buttes, you can hear the wind. And on the back of the wind is the sound of an old accordion mingling with the lonely thump of a single
With over 10 million copies sold, bestselling author Robert James Waller returns with another haunting, evocative story.
The wild places are where no one is looking anymore. Out on the high plains, among Sioux reservations and silent buttes, you can hear the wind. And on the back of the wind is the sound of an old accordion mingling with the lonely thump of a single drum in the nighttime and a far-off warrior’s cry.
To this, to a town called Salamander, comes Carlisle McMillan, a traveler and carpenter seeking a place of quiet amid the grinding roar of progress. There he finds two very different women: Gally Deveraux, who works at a diner and longs for something more than she is, and Susanna Benteen, beautiful and enigmatic, whom the town has labeled a witch. The women, Carlisle’s carpenter’s trade, and an old Indian known as Flute Player bring Carlisle a sense of contentment for a while. But his quiet is shattered as bulldozer treads begin to turn and the Yerkes County War commences.
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“Blends Waller’s trademark romanticism with earthy humor and a powerful environmental message.” —Dayton Daily News
“A solid story with interesting characters . . . Waller gives the narrator the most wonderful wit.” —Omaha World-Herald
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High Plains Tango
By Robert James Waller
Random HouseRobert James Waller
All right reserved.
Not exactly a dark and stormy night, but nonetheless: a strange, far place in a strange, far time, distant buttes with low, wet clouds hanging across their rumpled white faces and long, straight highways running somewhere close to forever. In a settled land, the truly wild places are where nobody is looking anymore. This was a wild place.
Enigmatic sign pointing west.
Why did the eagle die? Did anyone remember? Some did, but they weren't talking.
Red dirt road perpendicular to the highway, heading into the short grass and disappearing over a low rise a half mile out.
Other signs, every thirty miles or so, pointing to other roads hinting travel through invisible walls and into other times. If you had a vehicle with enough stamina, maybe turn off on one of them, just for the hell of it. We've all had a fleeting urge to do that.
That's what Carlisle McMillan did. He was in no hurry, a traveler without design, a temporary drifter by his own choice. After turning his tan Chevy pickup off westbound pavement onto what the locals called Wolf Butte Road, he headed south past the Dead Eagle Canyon sign. After a while, he stopped his truck and got out, miles from the nearest little town.
Late August cool. Mist. Carlisle McMillan stood there for a few moments, boots becoming grass wet, sky water on his face and hands.
Easy wind came, went, came again. Silence. Cattails bending, yellow clover riffling as the wind chose. Like a film without a sound track--the silence--only deeper. More like a stone coffin at nightfall when the mourners have left and dirt has been shoveled over you.
The Cheyenne believed this was sacred ground. Sweet Medicine said it was so. The hawk sitting thirty fence posts south of Carlisle McMillan believed it. Anyone who happened on this place believed it. The smart money would come with food and water, perhaps a sleeping bag, in case an engine failed or a tire relented and the spare was empty. For nothing out here cared about you, that much was clear. Nothing cared whether you lived or died or paid your bills or danced on warm Pacific beaches and made love afterward. There was nothing except silence and wind, and they would be here long after your passing.
The Early Ones were buried here in mounds, giving the appearance of sea roll to the prairie. They shuffled across the old land bridges from Asia when the continents were connected in the high north. A century ago, others were buried in this place. Buried where they fell in the wars of Manifest Destiny, the great westward push. You could still find metal buttons from cavalry tunics if you scuffled around in the gravel and looked close. Other things, too, old knife handles, human shoulder bones splintered by lance and bullet, pipe stems. If you dug, you would find more, a lot more.
Six inches behind Carlisle McMillan's left rear tire was a tunic button half buried in the mud. The winds of a hundred springs uncovered the button, rain washed it into a creek. The creek carried it onto a sandbar. A bird picked it up and flew toward a nest, dropping it when it turned out to be hard and tasteless. That particular button once fastened the coat of Trooper Jimmy C. Knowles, Seventh Cavalry, who rode behind a man they called Son of the Morning Star. Trooper Knowles thought well of his yellow-haired general and aspired to be a cut-and-paste copy of him. He would have ridden into hell with Son of the Morning Star. And he eventually did.
If you can get past the wind, listen beyond the silence, there are old sounds reverberating here. Distant bugles, squeak of cavalry leather, maybe the low thrum of time itself. And faint images of old riders from a long time ago, mounted on fine Appaloosas, breaking from the shadows of Dead Eagle Canyon, running hard across the roll of green prairie, and turning their ponies for autumn, steam coming from muzzles and mouths.
Sometimes you can even smell things farther out when the wind is just right. That's what they said and still say. You have to lean back and flare your nostrils. Work at it. Then it will come to you. First the ordinary smells of big, open country and after that the faint whiff of old deceptions.
Not far from where Carlisle McMillan stood in light rain and looked out across the rise of nothing, the anthropologist fell to his death from one of the smaller buttes. There had been the sound of rushing air followed by the thump of something high in the middle of his back, causing him to stagger forward from where he was standing and launching him into downward flight. The first eighty feet or so, his fall had a certain purity in its form and velocity, almost graceful. Until he hit an outcropping. After that, it was a Raggedy-Ann tumble for the next six hundred feet. The only sound was his scream, and his only perception was that of the cliff face going by him in a blur of white sandstone. He smashed into rock and gravel at the bottom, neck twisted rearward in such a way that his chin could touch the bottom of his right shoulder blade. None of his colleagues on the plain below had seen it happen or heard his cry.
A pair of dark eyes had seen it, though--the man falling through cool sunlight, the thin and yellow sunlight that sweeps this land in middle spring--but nothing would be said. Nothing, not ever. It was the way of things. That was known long before the horse soldiers rode through here on their way to the Little Big Horn. That was known a long time ago.
Carlisle McMillan leaned on a fence post, looked west, stared at the distance. Great run of empty space, broken only by an occasional butte. The one a half mile to his right, 3,237 feet high, was called Wolf Butte. A woman was dancing there on the crest, but Carlisle couldn't see her.
Bare feet on short grass, she moved. Far off, far down, she could just make out a figure standing beside a pickup truck. Twenty feet behind her, the Indian played a flute, his back resting against the gnarled trunk of a long-dead scrub pine.
A low-slung cloud moved onto the butte, the cold wetness of it touching the graceful arch of the woman's back, touching the curve of her legs. It touched her face and the opal ring on her left middle finger and the silver bracelet around her right wrist, touched the silver falcon hanging from the chain around her neck. The Indian could not see her clearly anymore, only transient sightings through the cloud, a momentary view of leg or breast or the swing of long auburn hair as she turned. But still he played, knowing the cloud would pass, knowing she would come to him.
Far off and far down, Carlisle McMillan shifted his truck into reverse and backed onto the road, grinding into the mud a tunic button that once fastened the blue coat of Trooper Jimmy C. Knowles, Seventh Cavalry. When the cloud drifted away from the butte and the woman again could see what lay on the plain below her, the figure was gone, only the vague image of a pickup truck moving south.
The flute angled down to silence. She raised her arms through the mist to the sky, lowered them, and walked toward the Indian. He was old, but his body was hard like fence wire, and she settled onto him. The wind was light and cool and wet. Close to her, he could smell the sandalwood with which she had bathed that morning. The rain lifted for a moment, and over the Indian's shoulder she watched the hawk flying toward a cliff, the same one from which her father had glimpsed the earth rising toward him.
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpted from High Plains Tango by Robert James Waller Excerpted by permission.
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Meet the Author
Robert James Waller is the author of the #1 New York Times bestsellers The Bridges of Madison County and Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend. His other works include the New York Times bestsellers Old Songs in a New Café: Selected Essays, Border Music, and Puerto Vallarta Squeeze, and his book of photographs, Images.
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Despite the critics, I thoroughly enjoyed this book. I live in the High Plains, near all the sites that are mentioned (although there isn't a town called 'Salamander.') There is an ancient Lakota butte threatened by highway, there are dying towns that believe that the new, four lane highway will create economic development, many of the people presented in this book are like those living on the high plains and there have been many from either coast who want to escape to the wild beauty of this incredible geography. This book touches on all things that make rural areas rural and points out that when your population is few in number and you live far from the city, you've got a tougher road to navigate. I found the book a delightful summer read showing the high plains area realistically in constrast to the typical summer tourist's romantic concept of the area. I was glad to see an author from outside this geographic area actually 'getting' what high plains life is like in contrast to an eastern university's latest itea that the high plains area should be 'rewilded.' The rewilding idea, published in NATURE this summer, states that since mammoths and saber tooth tigers once lived on the high plains that these animals should be reintroduced into game parks here and that those of us who live here just 'need to readjust our thinking.' As a transplanted easterner, I find Waller's look at the high plains realistic and refreshing.
One of my favorite books of the past twenty years or so has been the Bridges of Madison County but I went into reading this particular story knowing that I probably would not have the same experience. I was correct. There is far too much devotion to tedious details, which greatly damage the pace that this story needs to keep it continually interesting. Also, there is a stifling air to the book that invades the picturesqueness of the background that did not occur in ¿Bridges.¿ However, there are redeeming qualities for this title. Gally and Susanna were wonderful characters that I really enjoyed getting to know. Also, the central theme is not exactly an original one, but does have its moments¿. The central character is also not without merit and has become a memorable one in a rather uninspired story. If you are looking through online reviews for the next great book to read, then read the awesome ¿Anna¿s Trinity¿ by Howard Cobiskey. I am still stunned by its enduring power.
I am an avid Bridges of Madison County fan, but was so disappointed in this book. I was over half way through it, and still was looking for a plot. I love to read, but at the end of this book, felt as though I wasted my time.
I loved this book! I chose this novel as my 'vacation book,' a special time with a special book, and hoped it would be as good as I thought it might be. I wasn't disappointed and found it even better than anticipated, despite certain 'reviews.' To me, a good book is when you wish it didn't end, and this is one of them. It contains so many different 'lessons' about life, love, and particularly the importance of keeping wild things and wild places for us to replenish our souls.
After Waller's last book,I did not think it could get much worse. I was mistaken. I am over half way through this novel and still waiting for a true plot. I guess Waller is really a one hit wonder with The Bridges of Madison County.
I kept reading but the book never got any better after the first chapter. the writer rambled through chapter after chapter.. and nothing tied together ...In one chapter near the end of the book the writer tried to put all the main players in the same place. I enjoyed the Bridges of Madison County so much and was so looking forward to this book. I am so sorry but I have to be honest.
I didn't put too much stake into the mixed reviews this book received because that can be expected when the previous novel is such a hit. That being said, I went into this book with an open mind. Unfortunately I found this book rather stale and the characters under developed. There were glimmers of a nice story in there but I just couldn't get into it. As much as I hate to admit this...I actually skimmed the last 5 chapters so I could free myself to read something else on my list....don't waste your time.