Items related to The Scout
Epic in scope and grand beyond our imaginings. The Scout continues the magnificent story that began the highly acclaimed novel Brules. In his stunning new novel, Harry Combs recreates a time when the West was the white man's greatest challenge and the red man's last battleground... a towering tale of dreams unfettered, of mustangs running free, and of young men riding hell-bent-for-leather into Indian country for no other reason than they were young, brave and wild.
By 1900 the Old West was vanishing, but the man many called its fastest gun was still alive. By then Car Brules had shut himself and his secrets away in a cabin on Colorado's Lone Cone Peak. Only one person knew his real story, a boy of eleven who became his friend and heard his extraordinary tales in 1909. The Scout is that unforgettable story, just as young Steven Cartwright heard it, just as Brules told it: hard and gritty, wry with a cowboy's humor, and true to the spirits of all those who loved the west--and died for it--from Custer to Crazy Horse.
Many hard, hurting things had driven Cat Brules to become the man he was. The death of his beloved Shoshone bride, Wild Rose, was one of them. Months after Brules lost her--brutally and far too soon--Wild Rose still came to him in his dreams. With a void in his heart and a reckless spirit, Brules signed on as a Scout for General George Crook, whose cavalry was headed into the Badlands. Then, the U.S. Army still didn't know that there were fifteen thousand Sioux and Cheyenne in those Wyoming foothills, and under chiefs Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, every one of them was willing to fight to the death to live free.
Brules's account of the violence that ensued, told with eyewitness immediacy and chilling authenticity, is one of courage and shame as he rides the trail toward the Little Big Horn and the battles that followed. Seeing for himself the dying of a way of life, Brules tells a searing truth about America's history: the betrayal of Custer to the Sioux, the hunting of Geronimo, and the U.S. Army's cruel pursuit of Chief Joseph and his Nez Perce. And here too are the women who loved Brules: White Antelope, the gentle Indian maiden who wanted what Brules felt he could never give again--and Melisande, the saucy Mormon girl who might be too much for even Cat Brules to handle.
Debunking the myths of the Old West and the romanticism of movies, renowned Western writer Harry Combs creates a vision at once more complex, magnificent and genuine--from the make of the rifle to the caliber of the bullet that cut Custer down. A novel unmatched in excitement and adventure, The Scout lets you smell the cordite, feel a man's hard need for a woman, and discover that the real flesh and blood inhabitants of those legendary days were tougher, bolder and more fascinating than we ever dared to imagine.
From the Paperback edition.
By 1900 the Old West was vanishing, but the man many called its fastest gun was still alive. By then Car Brules had shut himself and his secrets away in a cabin on Colorado's Lone Cone Peak. Only one person knew his real story, a boy of eleven who became his friend and heard his extraordinary tales in 1909. The Scout is that unforgettable story, just as young Steven Cartwright heard it, just as Brules told it: hard and gritty, wry with a cowboy's humor, and true to the spirits of all those who loved the west--and died for it--from Custer to Crazy Horse.
Many hard, hurting things had driven Cat Brules to become the man he was. The death of his beloved Shoshone bride, Wild Rose, was one of them. Months after Brules lost her--brutally and far too soon--Wild Rose still came to him in his dreams. With a void in his heart and a reckless spirit, Brules signed on as a Scout for General George Crook, whose cavalry was headed into the Badlands. Then, the U.S. Army still didn't know that there were fifteen thousand Sioux and Cheyenne in those Wyoming foothills, and under chiefs Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, every one of them was willing to fight to the death to live free.
Brules's account of the violence that ensued, told with eyewitness immediacy and chilling authenticity, is one of courage and shame as he rides the trail toward the Little Big Horn and the battles that followed. Seeing for himself the dying of a way of life, Brules tells a searing truth about America's history: the betrayal of Custer to the Sioux, the hunting of Geronimo, and the U.S. Army's cruel pursuit of Chief Joseph and his Nez Perce. And here too are the women who loved Brules: White Antelope, the gentle Indian maiden who wanted what Brules felt he could never give again--and Melisande, the saucy Mormon girl who might be too much for even Cat Brules to handle.
Debunking the myths of the Old West and the romanticism of movies, renowned Western writer Harry Combs creates a vision at once more complex, magnificent and genuine--from the make of the rifle to the caliber of the bullet that cut Custer down. A novel unmatched in excitement and adventure, The Scout lets you smell the cordite, feel a man's hard need for a woman, and discover that the real flesh and blood inhabitants of those legendary days were tougher, bolder and more fascinating than we ever dared to imagine.
From the Paperback edition.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Harry Combs (1913-2003) was the author of the acclaimed novel Brules. An aviation pioneer and executive whose flying career began in 1928, his interest in early flight led him to research and write Kill Devil Hill, an award-winning study of the Wright brothers. He also received the Wright Brothers Memorial Trophy, the aviation industry’s most coveted and prestigious award for public service.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Statement of Steven Cartwright Broken Bow Ranch Norwood, Colorado August 1919
I was born in 1898 on a ranch in the high country of southwestern Colorado. The ranch was dominated by a beautiful mountain, Lone Cone Peak, just to the south.
Lone Cone was my favorite mountain. Its northern slopes were the summer range of our ranch and so, as a boy, I rode over a great part of it. I recall that there was game everywhere, deer and elk and often bear.
It was still wild country in those days, although the Indians had been removed from the area some fifteen years before I was born. Like any boy I dreamed of the colorful tribes that once roamed through that country, and often liked to imagine, as I came around the shoulder of the mountain, that I could see some wandering Utes in the valley below looking for good hunting grounds, or perhaps a long line of Arapahoe warriors, bedecked with brilliant feathers and riding their painted horses, bent on serious business.
I explored the whole wild range as freely as an eagle wings through the clouds, in tune with it all--the bright greens of the quaking aspens in summer; their shiny gold in the fall; and in the winter the white crown of snow on Lone Cone, standing in all its majesty against the blue of the eastern sky.
I loved the dazzling sunsets of the desert country to the west; the shimmering mystery of the distant desert and the rumbling sound of theSan Miguel River, rushing fresh born from the rock springs of the glacial basin far above Telluride.
The lower slopes of Lone Cone were covered in oak brush. Midway up the shimmering aspen trees skirted the mountain, and higher still the towering blue spruce trees cast their deep shadows--shadows of a mysterious forest that stretched up to timberline at almost thirteen thousand feet.
I often climbed above timberline on Lone Cone to what I thought was the greatest view in the world. Northwest of the mountain, some forty miles away, stood the snowcapped peaks of the La Sals--the Salt Mountains of Utah. Due west lay the Blues. To the southwest lay the red stone sculptures of Monument Valley, and to the south--the mummylike mountain called the Sleeping Ute. When I turned to the east, the giant peaks of the San Juans towered in their snow-clad vastness, beckoning to an adventurous heart.
It was a wonderful place for anyone to live, particularly a young boy. Indeed, even now I recall my youthful wanderings in that country with a joyous heart.
Yet, of all my adventures, the most exciting, mysterious, and wonderful experience was my friendship with old Brules. Old Brules was my hero, a mysterious mountain man, Indian scout, perhaps an outlaw. He lived all alone in a cabin high on the southwest shoulder of Lone Cone.
To me Brules was a fascinating, original source of information on the Old West. On those rare occasions when I was in his presence, I could hear the thunder of the buffalo herds, the voices of the prairie wind, the beat of war drums, and the wild, shrill cry of an Indian charge. He could convey all the excitement and turmoil of that irresistible force that moved the frontier westward, across half the continent, to the Pacific shores in less than fifty years. In fact, he was a part of that turmoil; he had seen almost all of it and drawn his own conclusions. He was fair and honest when it came to passing judgment on the natives who resisted that force to the best of their ability.
He was keen to observe the vast differences in character of one Indian tribe from another. He would describe what separated the cruel and the kind, the ugly and the beautiful, the cowardly and the brave; he knew, too, the different ways these peoples lived in the wilderness.
I first came to know Brules in the spring of 1909 when, as a boy of eleven, I helped with the branding of slick calves--weeners--high up on our summer range on Lone Cone. When it was over and we were headed home, I hit out alone to see for myself if I could find the cabin of the old mountain man. Sure enough, it was where I had heard it would be, and nearby there was the old man himself, panning for gold in the little stream that ran past.
He seemed quite disturbed when I rode up. Clearly strangers were not welcome, but when he saw that his visitor was only a boy, he seemed to grow easier. I felt uncomfortable and left quickly, but I had actually seen and spoken to the legendary mountain man--the outlaw.
That summer I managed to go by his cabin a few more times. I would just wave a greeting and pass by. He never made a sign of recognition, until the last time, at the end of the summer, he waved back.
By late summer of the next year I had got to know old Brules pretty well; I stopped at his camp whenever I could, and he became more friendly, and took an interest in me. He began to show me things about trapping and the use of firearms. Most dramatically, that summer when I was twelve and he was an old man past sixty, he gave me an exhibition of his shooting. I had been around firearms all my life and had lots of instruction on how to use a rifle and handgun, but I had never seen anything like the exhibition Old Man Brules put on that day with his 1873 Winchester and his Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver.
The guns were old and obviously had seen better days, but their action was smooth and clean. Brules was absolutely astounding--he never missed! Whether he set up a small target at long range for his rifle, or I threw cans or bottles into the air (sometimes two at once) for his revolver, he blasted them with deadly accuracy. I had seen men do that with shotguns but never with a rifle or pistol.
Even more impressive was his speed. He could fan his revolver so rapidly that all six shots went off in a steady roar. What's more, each one was accurately placed.
He would complain that his timing had slowed with age and that his eyesight was dimming, but I saw little evidence of either. I wondered what Brules's shooting had been like when he was really in his prime.
From the Paperback edition.
I was born in 1898 on a ranch in the high country of southwestern Colorado. The ranch was dominated by a beautiful mountain, Lone Cone Peak, just to the south.
Lone Cone was my favorite mountain. Its northern slopes were the summer range of our ranch and so, as a boy, I rode over a great part of it. I recall that there was game everywhere, deer and elk and often bear.
It was still wild country in those days, although the Indians had been removed from the area some fifteen years before I was born. Like any boy I dreamed of the colorful tribes that once roamed through that country, and often liked to imagine, as I came around the shoulder of the mountain, that I could see some wandering Utes in the valley below looking for good hunting grounds, or perhaps a long line of Arapahoe warriors, bedecked with brilliant feathers and riding their painted horses, bent on serious business.
I explored the whole wild range as freely as an eagle wings through the clouds, in tune with it all--the bright greens of the quaking aspens in summer; their shiny gold in the fall; and in the winter the white crown of snow on Lone Cone, standing in all its majesty against the blue of the eastern sky.
I loved the dazzling sunsets of the desert country to the west; the shimmering mystery of the distant desert and the rumbling sound of theSan Miguel River, rushing fresh born from the rock springs of the glacial basin far above Telluride.
The lower slopes of Lone Cone were covered in oak brush. Midway up the shimmering aspen trees skirted the mountain, and higher still the towering blue spruce trees cast their deep shadows--shadows of a mysterious forest that stretched up to timberline at almost thirteen thousand feet.
I often climbed above timberline on Lone Cone to what I thought was the greatest view in the world. Northwest of the mountain, some forty miles away, stood the snowcapped peaks of the La Sals--the Salt Mountains of Utah. Due west lay the Blues. To the southwest lay the red stone sculptures of Monument Valley, and to the south--the mummylike mountain called the Sleeping Ute. When I turned to the east, the giant peaks of the San Juans towered in their snow-clad vastness, beckoning to an adventurous heart.
It was a wonderful place for anyone to live, particularly a young boy. Indeed, even now I recall my youthful wanderings in that country with a joyous heart.
Yet, of all my adventures, the most exciting, mysterious, and wonderful experience was my friendship with old Brules. Old Brules was my hero, a mysterious mountain man, Indian scout, perhaps an outlaw. He lived all alone in a cabin high on the southwest shoulder of Lone Cone.
To me Brules was a fascinating, original source of information on the Old West. On those rare occasions when I was in his presence, I could hear the thunder of the buffalo herds, the voices of the prairie wind, the beat of war drums, and the wild, shrill cry of an Indian charge. He could convey all the excitement and turmoil of that irresistible force that moved the frontier westward, across half the continent, to the Pacific shores in less than fifty years. In fact, he was a part of that turmoil; he had seen almost all of it and drawn his own conclusions. He was fair and honest when it came to passing judgment on the natives who resisted that force to the best of their ability.
He was keen to observe the vast differences in character of one Indian tribe from another. He would describe what separated the cruel and the kind, the ugly and the beautiful, the cowardly and the brave; he knew, too, the different ways these peoples lived in the wilderness.
I first came to know Brules in the spring of 1909 when, as a boy of eleven, I helped with the branding of slick calves--weeners--high up on our summer range on Lone Cone. When it was over and we were headed home, I hit out alone to see for myself if I could find the cabin of the old mountain man. Sure enough, it was where I had heard it would be, and nearby there was the old man himself, panning for gold in the little stream that ran past.
He seemed quite disturbed when I rode up. Clearly strangers were not welcome, but when he saw that his visitor was only a boy, he seemed to grow easier. I felt uncomfortable and left quickly, but I had actually seen and spoken to the legendary mountain man--the outlaw.
That summer I managed to go by his cabin a few more times. I would just wave a greeting and pass by. He never made a sign of recognition, until the last time, at the end of the summer, he waved back.
By late summer of the next year I had got to know old Brules pretty well; I stopped at his camp whenever I could, and he became more friendly, and took an interest in me. He began to show me things about trapping and the use of firearms. Most dramatically, that summer when I was twelve and he was an old man past sixty, he gave me an exhibition of his shooting. I had been around firearms all my life and had lots of instruction on how to use a rifle and handgun, but I had never seen anything like the exhibition Old Man Brules put on that day with his 1873 Winchester and his Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver.
The guns were old and obviously had seen better days, but their action was smooth and clean. Brules was absolutely astounding--he never missed! Whether he set up a small target at long range for his rifle, or I threw cans or bottles into the air (sometimes two at once) for his revolver, he blasted them with deadly accuracy. I had seen men do that with shotguns but never with a rifle or pistol.
Even more impressive was his speed. He could fan his revolver so rapidly that all six shots went off in a steady roar. What's more, each one was accurately placed.
He would complain that his timing had slowed with age and that his eyesight was dimming, but I saw little evidence of either. I wondered what Brules's shooting had been like when he was really in his prime.
From the Paperback edition.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherBantam Doubleday Dell Audio Publishing
- Publication date1995
- ISBN 10 0553472801
- ISBN 13 9780553472806
- BindingAudio Cassette
- Rating
(No Available Copies)
Search Books: Create a WantIf you know the book but cannot find it on AbeBooks, we can automatically search for it on your behalf as new inventory is added. If it is added to AbeBooks by one of our member booksellers, we will notify you!
Create a Want