In a country ravaged by the horrors of a brutal civil war, there were countless families torn apart by conflict and violence. This is the story of one ordinary man driven by loss to extraordinary acts and circumstances.
Simon James Sublette lost his entire family during the Civil War. He dreams of coming home and settling into a quiet, peaceful life on his family farm—until those dreams are shattered by a stray bullet. Forever scarred, inside and out, he abandons all he knows and loves. He sets out on a lonely journey, wandering the West in a desperate quest for peace and order. But with each passing day, serenity still eludes him and his heart grows ever heavier. Torn by grief and fighting off hopelessness, he finds beauty in a more poetic way of life. He develops the unusual trait of speaking in rhyme, especially when provoked.
This trait earns him the name “The Rhymer,” and he becomes a fearless gunfighter who has no equal when it comes to killing. The Rhymer is a hero for women and children everywhere—and a nightmare straight from hell for those evil men in need of killing.
In a country ravaged by the horrors of a brutal civil war, there were countless families torn apart by conflict and violence. This is the story of one ordinary man driven by loss to extraordinary acts and circumstances.
Simon James Sublette lost his entire family during the Civil War. He dreams of coming home and settling into a quiet, peaceful life on his family farm—until those dreams are shattered by a stray bullet. Forever scarred, inside and out, he abandons all he knows and loves. He sets out on a lonely journey, wandering the West in a desperate quest for peace and order. But with each passing day, serenity still eludes him and his heart grows ever heavier. Torn by grief and fighting off hopelessness, he finds beauty in a more poetic way of life. He develops the unusual trait of speaking in rhyme, especially when provoked.
This trait earns him the name “The Rhymer,” and he becomes a fearless gunfighter who has no equal when it comes to killing. The Rhymer is a hero for women and children everywhere—and a nightmare straight from hell for those evil men in need of killing.
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Overview
In a country ravaged by the horrors of a brutal civil war, there were countless families torn apart by conflict and violence. This is the story of one ordinary man driven by loss to extraordinary acts and circumstances.
Simon James Sublette lost his entire family during the Civil War. He dreams of coming home and settling into a quiet, peaceful life on his family farm—until those dreams are shattered by a stray bullet. Forever scarred, inside and out, he abandons all he knows and loves. He sets out on a lonely journey, wandering the West in a desperate quest for peace and order. But with each passing day, serenity still eludes him and his heart grows ever heavier. Torn by grief and fighting off hopelessness, he finds beauty in a more poetic way of life. He develops the unusual trait of speaking in rhyme, especially when provoked.
This trait earns him the name “The Rhymer,” and he becomes a fearless gunfighter who has no equal when it comes to killing. The Rhymer is a hero for women and children everywhere—and a nightmare straight from hell for those evil men in need of killing.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781450294775 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 11/04/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 360 |
| File size: | 788 KB |
Read an Excerpt
The Diary of a Gunfighter
By Eddie L. Barnes
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Eddie L. BarnesAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-9476-8
Chapter One
Northern New Mexico TerritoryThe wind blew fiercely across the open plains. The sky was angry, unforgiving. Ice pellets were hurled to the ground like bullets. A horse and its rider struggled against the wind, the ice pellets and the deepening snow. The pellets stung both the horse and the rider—but neither could feel the pain. For four days the horse and rider had wandered aimlessly through the driving, blinding snow, not knowing where they were going. In every direction the rider looked all he could see was the whiteness of the blinding snow. They had not given up on finding a place for shelter. They had to try and continue forward—to stop was certain death. The only way from them to survive was to, somehow, stumble upon a shelter.
Underneath the large brimmed hat, behind the frozen bandana he was using as a mask for protection, Simon Sublette's world was gray; slowly turning to black with each passing minute. He and his horse would not last much longer in the freezing cold. It seemed both were doomed to die from exposure.
Four days ago he had been riding across the north, central plains of the New Mexico Territory. It was a brisk, sunny spring day in April. Suddenly a freak winter storm developed. The wind went from a gentle breeze to a gale force in a matter of seconds, and a raging blizzard caught him and his horse in the middle of the open plains. The storm came so quickly he had no chance to find shelter. He could see, dimly, in the distance, some hills or mountains, and he headed in that direction. He rode fast but the snowfall was so heavy he was unable to see more than a few yards. He had to ride on blind, hoping that he would soon find those hills he had seen. His only hope was that his horse would continue going in the right direction. He rode on, but he never found any place to use as a haven from the relentless raging storm. The cold, ice, snow and wind were taking their toll.
On the fifth day, the blizzard subsided but the bitter cold remained. Simon thought it was odd the sun was shining bright but there was no warmth—he himself was like that sometimes, warm but cold with no feeling. He almost smiled at the thought, but it was too damned cold to smile. To make matters worse, the sunshine, reflecting off the snow, sent blinding white daggers to stab at his eyes. He could not open his eyes for very long even though the driving snow had ended—the brightness hurt his eyes—he feared he was becoming snow blind.
Relentlessly, he rode on. He rode for hours, and days, for what seemed like a life time considering the situation, and then suddenly, a voice from inside told him to look up. Look up Simon.... open your eyes.... endure the pain.... let the daggers pierce the brain. Slowly, reluctantly, Simon raised his head. He put his hands over his eyes in an attempt to shield them from the harsh, snow–reflected, sun light. He thought he saw something, a dark outline, in the distance. Did he really see something or was his mind playing tricks on him? He wasn't sure. He continued to look, to stare, with great concentration. Then he decided something was there, something indeed. The dark figure was a settlement perhaps, or maybe a town. A ray of hope for survival sprang to his mind. He tried to spur his horse, to urge it on, but his legs wouldn't move. They were frozen and wouldn't respond.
"Come on horse, last a little longer, shelter is just a step or two away."
Simon knew spurring his horse would not have done any good. The horse couldn't go any faster. It was mostly dead, too. Simon also knew that if, and when, his horse finally fell, he would cut its stomach open, pull out the innards, and then crawl inside for the warmth until his own demise came.
A soldier, from his lookout position at Fort Defiance, saw a rider, in the distance. He called out to some of the other soldiers, and they helped to get the frozen hulk of a man to safety. They brought him and his horse into the confines of the fort, out of the weather, into the shelter of a warm stable. The soldiers tried to get him off his horse—but his legs were literally frozen to the saddle. They hurriedly got some fire logs to melt the bond between the saddle and Simon's legs. They got the fire logs so close to his legs his pants would start smoking. Simon didn't care. The heat felt good. He didn't care if they set him on fire, at least he would die warm. Dying of cold was a long slow process. He thought everyone had it backwards. Hell should be cold; it would be a lot more miserable than if it were hot. One of the soldiers used his saber to cut the saddle from the horse and lifted Simon, still frozen to the saddle, to the ground next to the fire. Eventually, after repeatedly warming his legs, they peeled him away from the frozen leather of the saddle. They had to use a saber to help loosen his right leg from the saddle. They not only cut part of the saddle, but also his trouser and right leg—Simon fell unconscious from the pain.
Quickly, they rushed Simon to the fort infirmary and to the fort's nurse, Abigail Sweeney. If anyone could bring a dead man back to life, it was Abigail Sweeney. Lord knows how many of the soldiers she had saved time after time. She had saved them from bullet wounds, Indian arrows, snakebites and various other injuries that occurred from living on the open frontier. She might not be able to save this one, but at least he was in good hands.
The army doctor, Doctor James A. Fadden, came to look at his newest patient, a half frozen corpse. He examined him closely and then he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. He let out a long whistling sigh. He did not have much hope for the man. The exposure and the frostbite had taken its toll, and the tear in the right leg was not good. It would take all he and Abigail knew of medicine to keep the leg wound from becoming infected and to save this man's life.
"Well, Abigail, his right leg doesn't look good. It's real bad, real bad indeed. And his right foot isn't any better. If he survives the rest of his problems, we may have to amputate that leg or foot. Right now, I don't give him much of a chance. Do what you can and I'll look in, in the morning."
Doctor Fadden applied what medicine he had; it was up to a higher power than him to save this one. Maybe the Almighty would be kind to this man.
They put him in a room with a fireplace. They decided it would be better, given his condition, instead of putting him in the general hospital bay.
Simon was lucky. He had his own private room.
Abigail put on three blankets and kept the lamps lit so she could create as much heat as possible. She wrapped his leg and foot in several layers of cloth and hoped for the best. Abigail dressed his wounds every four hours—and prayed.
A soldier brought Simon's personal effects, his saddle, saddlebags and bedroll, to Abigail that same evening. She had the soldier take the saddle to the livery stable for storage.
As Abigail attempted to store his bedroll and saddlebags on the top shelf of the closet, the saddlebags opened and a small book, tied across both ends with a red ribbon, fell on the floor. Abigail picked up the book. It was a tattered loose set of pages, on the front page was written the word Diary. The first thing that came to her was—why would a man have a diary? Usually diaries were women things. She put the diary on the shelf with the rest of the man's belongings. The diary made her curious about this man laying in the bed fighting for his life. Sure, they were going to try everything they knew to bring him back to life, but he had to do the most work, he and the good Lord. He had to want to live. But why would a man carry a diary? Was it his or did it belong to someone else?
Abigail tended to Simon for the next four days. He seemed to be getting better, maybe a little stronger, even though he had never awakened. The color was returning to his right leg, but there was still a problem with the right foot. Only time would tell how much damage had been done.
Abigail's curiosity about a man carrying a diary piqued her interest. Finally, she decided that if this man were to die, then at least she should know as much about him as was possible, so she could say the proper words and put the correct markings on his grave. She went to the closet, got the diary, untied the red ribbon, and sat down to read.
Abigail turned the top page that read Diary; her heart was beating fast like she was doing something wrong. Like when her father had caught her kissing her first boy.
At the bottom of the inside of the first page was inscribed Simon James Sublette. A poorly taken photograph fell to the floor. She could not tell for sure, but it resembled the man lying in the bed. Well at least, she thought, now I know his name. As Abigail read, the half frozen, half dead man remained in his dream like state.
The Beginning
I'm starting this diary, hopefully to get things out of my head.
One said, it's not a diary, call it a Journal instead.
He said diaries are for girls, Journals are what men write.
I don't care either way, but for the ego, perhaps he is right.
I wonder what he would think, me writing this in verse.
Would he think me sissified ~ or maybe something worse?
I'm not sissified by any means. My fighting has proven the contrary.
I am just the opposite, and at times, I can be quite scary.
So far I have survived this mess, but there is more fighting I dread.
This War Between the States has left all of my kin folks dead.
I enlisted when only sixteen, and it has wreaked a terrible toll,
but now I'm headed home, a scarred man with a cold soul.
The politics of this conflict, I don't understand.
I came to help brother, father, to return home again.
I failed in my endeavor, to protect them at all cost.
At the battle Lynchburg, they were both lost.
General Jubal Early is a good leader, but can't protect us all.
Murdock is the problem, under him, too many men fall.
One day Murdock will get his, and I hope it is by my hand,
and then Heaven's light will shine again, on this great land.
Just before my eighteenth birthday, I got a present I didn't want to receive.
I buried my father and brother, and didn't have time to grieve.
I covered them, gently draped in flags, the prayer was about to begin,
but the Union Army didn't care, they attacked us again.
Merciless bastards.
I was enraged with more hate than I ever felt before,
and I vented my rage on the attackers ~ I tried to settle the score.
I killed many men that day, and some probably didn't deserve to die,
but if they want to know the reason, they'll have to ask the Devil why.
I don't ask for much, just a moment in peace to be content,
And then we can fight for days, till we're bloody and spent.
In the paper it said, the rivers ran red, with the blood we shed,
flowing from the battle field covered with all those who had died.
I fought possessed, crazed, and I was never fazed
by the dismembered, mangled bodies strewn across the countryside.
The thought of it haunts me, and has changed me for the worse.
How can I not feel badly about the deed, is it some evil curse?
What if the South were to win, how would it affect me?
But the North IS going to win ~ and from that, what change will we see?
How will my life be better? I can rightly say I don't know.
I do not understand the benefits. Perhaps some Yank can come and tell me so.
I got home today, July 1866, but was it still home?
I found out from the church, my mother had passed, she's gone.
It tore my heart out, I got sick to my stomach, and I cried a tear.
She was all I had left, and I am now all alone I fear.
The woman whose breast I suckled, who nursed me time and again.
I am now deprived forever, of feeling the warmth of her soft skin.
Who is going to hold me, warm me against the cold?
Who is going to help me, restore my scarred, darkened soul?
The war left me with a demon, he needs to be controlled,
but I don't think I'm strong enough, I am in the Devil's hold.
The demon comes when danger is nigh ~ but I can't explain why.
Today is my birthday, July 6, 1866, twenty years to the day.
I came to town to celebrate, when things turned the other way.
I'm fresh back from the war. I survived, and I'm still a young man.
I came out of a side street today ~ all of a sudden this shooting began.
There are two families still feuding, and now it was a full–scale war.
I got shot across the face, and I don't even know what for.
It really bothered me, all that blood dripping from my head.
I raised my rifle, steadied myself, and shot a man dead.
I guess I went a little crazy. I shot three more before they finally ran,
and I suspect I've made blood enemies of the survivors of that clan.
I went over to the barbers to get patched and what I saw made me reel.
My cheek was blown open ~ this kind of wound would take time to heal.
I had lasted through the war and now right here in my own home place
a bullet has passed through my cheek and has forever ruined my face.
My life splattered ~ just like blood when it drops to the floor.
This clan was going to hunt me ~ I am now part of their public war.
It wasn't my fight to begin with ~ I was just acting in self–defense today.
I won't wait for them to come ~ I'll seek them out, and then each one, I will slay.
My last few birthdays have all been dangerous ~ people firing shots my way,
with brother and father in sixty–four, Atlanta in sixty–five, now today.
Sixty–four it was war ~ Atlanta and today, someone else's fray.
Simon was in the alley, between the stables and the saloon. As he turned the corner, he felt the stinging, burning pain and knew it came from a bullet. His reaction was immediate, just like in the war. He grabbed his guns and defended himself. The people whose stray bullet accidentally shot Simon were not ready for someone like him. Simon was a vicious fighter and killer. The Confederate Army saw to that. The army refined his innate talents made him an expert marksman. On occasion, when the Confederacy needed an assassination, they called on Simon. Simon killed many men in the war, some from a long range and some up close—close enough to smell their body odor. His commanders found out quickly that he was well suited to killing and demonstrated no conscience about the results. So when this hostility was directed towards him, he reacted in the only way he knew, the way he was trained. When the shooting was finished four of the Henrys lay dead. The rest fled with what was left of their family.
It happened so fast the sheriff couldn't get involved. Simon went to the barber to see how bad the wound was. The sheriff came to check on Simon, to see how badly he was hurt. The sheriff, J.T. Johnson, was Simon's cousin.
"Simon, you okay son?" asked J.T.
Simon turned and showed his face but didn't speak. The bullet has entered his face near his left lip and came out just before his left ear, leaving a huge gash.
"Simon, I'm sorry you got involved in all this. The Henrys are a mean lot, and they'll be back to kill you. Maybe you should leave until I can get all this settled down."
Simon looked up from the bowl filled with water, water stained red with his blood. The side of his face where he had been shot started to twitch uncontrollably. He talked in a voice never heard before by his cousin. It was a low, harsh voice and in a controlled, paused, rhyme.
"J.T..... I fought in the Great War.... and I didn't even know what the hell we were fighting for. They killed my daddy and they killed my brother.... then when I get home.... I find that I've also lost my mother. I've stood in person, face to face, against thousands.... and I never ran.... and I'll be damned.... if I'm going to start with this clan."
"Well, I was just trying to warn you. I'm only one man and I can't chase them all down."
"You should warn them, they'll need it. I'm only one man and I'm going to seek them out. I'll give them each a chance to flee.... but if they don't.... if they die.... then don't come looking for me."
Johnson looked into Simon's eyes. He saw Simon's ice blue eyes. They were cold, glazed over like he was looking past Johnson. Simon's eyes, and his face, unnerved Johnson for a moment, made him queasy. It was Simon's manner of talk, the paused, controlled rhyme, as much as it was the way he looked, that made Johnson nervous.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Diary of a Gunfighter by Eddie L. Barnes Copyright © 2011 by Eddie L. Barnes. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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