Ragtime Cowboys

Loren D. Estleman has long been a favorite. He’s one of those genre craftsmen whose work quietly and unostentatiously rises to the level of art. “Journey of the Dead” is  perhaps his best — a Spur and Western Heritage Award winner for good reason. It’s a strange tale involving a haunted Pat Garrett, and it just sticks with you. His “Bloody Season” is, for my money, the best novel dealing with “that mess in Tombstone.”

I have his new one coming from the library and I’m looking forward to it, since it mashes up the Western and Hardboiled Crime genres in the era when they were being created. How cool is that. And I’m fascinated at how “frontier” persists in the modern world.

“In prohibition-era Southern California, real life detectives Charles D. Siringo and Dashiell Hammett must solve a mystery involving a ruthless politician—Joseph P. Kennedy. With sharp dialogue and rich historical background, “Ragtime Cowboys” is an exciting, suspenseful tale in which the Old West and Hollywood collide.

“Los Angeles, 1921: Ex-Pinkerton Charlie Siringo is living in quiet retirement when Wyatt Earp knocks on his door and asks him to track down his missing horse. What begins as horse thievery turns into a deeper mystery as Siringo and another ex-Pinkerton, the young Dashiell Hammett, follow clues that take them from the streets of Los Angeles to Jack London’s farm, until they discover a conspiracy masterminded by the notorious and powerful Joseph P. Kennedy.”

I love his voice, which is revisionist without the snide overtones that ruins some books for me (Larry McMurttry, I’m lookin’ at YOU). Check it out:

He slid back the heavy bolt and opened the door three inches, thumbing back the Colt hammer in the same motion.
The face was leaner than he remembered, gaunt, the handlebars white, the strong jowls loose now and wobbly. A pair of brows still dark but growing wild drew together over faded gray eyes. “Don’t you know me, Charlie? It’s Earp.”
“I can see that. Which one are you?” They’d looked alike, that whole pack of brothers, and not even a trained detective could tell them apart at a glance. That was one of the reasons there had been so much confusion among the witnesses as to who did what in that mess in Tombstone.
“The one that’s left. You going to let me in or cut loose with that dog’s hind leg? It gets me out of my misery either way you choose.”
“I guess it’s the Christian thing to do.” He took the revolver off cock and stepped out of the way.
Wyatt Earp—he knew which one it was now, the irritable one nobody liked—stepped inside, took off his drooping slouch hat, and shook water off it onto the foot mat. He looked around the room. “I can’t tell if it’s wetter inside or out. I’m glad I didn’t come to borrow money.”
“I chopped them holes myself. I slept under the stars so long I can’t get used to any other way.”
When Earp bent his head to sweep water off his lapels, the light from the lamp glistened on pink scalp. He’d been vain of his hair when it was yellow, slicking it down with pomade and letting it curl over his collar, but it had quit the field, leaving behind a few pale strands on the crown for seed. “I never could figure what the hell you were talking about half the time. That’s one thing hasn’t changed.”
A humorless man, Siringo recalled now. He’d met a few like him, and had always felt sorry for them, like someone born without arms. But an armless man could train his feet to act as hands. A man who couldn’t appreciate how flat-out ridiculous the world was lived every day out of step with existence.