WESTWARD THE WOMEN-1951 MGM Movie

Since we've talked about mail-order brides and wagon trains, I remembered the 1951 movie Westward the Women. I've watched it numerous times over the years, and would probably watch it again if TCM featured it. While it might be a little hokey and simplistic compared to today's movies, this one was a real groundbreaker.

The idea for Westward the Women came from Frank Capra, who in the 1940s read a magazine article about South American women crossing the Isthmus to become brides for a colony of male settlers. What if he moved this event to the American West, the director wondered. Capra had always wanted to make a western, but Columbia wasn't making them at the time and so he put the idea aside.

Then one day he and a friend took the idea to MGM. The company gave it the green light. Venerable MGM leading man Robert Taylor was cast as the scout. He escorts a wagon train of 150 women from Chicago to John McIntire's ranch in California, where there are no women for the male workers in a valley McIntire wants populated with familes. Along the way, the women must fend off Indian attacks, rough weather, forbidding landscapes, and men hired to accompany the group who are unable to control their lust.

Before production started on Westward the Women, all the actresses were gathered together to learn what they were getting themselves into—much like Taylor does in the movie. They were told that there would be no room for prima donnas, for the 11-week schedule in the Utah Mountains and California desert would prove to be long, dirty, and tiring. He offered everyone a last chance to back out, but no one did. The women began a three-week period of basic training which involved calisthenics, rope skipping, softball, bullwhip cracking, horseback riding, mule team handling, firing frontier firearms, blacksmithing, and assembling (and disassembling) covered wagons.

While "feminizing" the male western was nothing new, Westward the Women went a step deeper than most, one of the few films to present positive, overt Sisterhood. It is almost a casebook of traditional attitudes toward women to be refuted. In other words, while the female characters may be spoken to or treated derisively, the audience sees them in a positive light, and even heroically.

For instance, there are images of the women growing comfortable facing tough tasks, working together to fix a wagon and fight off Indians. Their bravery could not be clearer, as the audience sees dramatic images of individual women against an open and stark landscape and sky—a deliberate filming technique.

When a woman's version of a male genre is created, the woman's world—primarily love and romance, marriage, sex, rape, and childbirth—must be reconciled in some manner with the male movie.

By the end of this film, the women "have been told they can't cope, can't shoot, can't rope, can't ride, can't fight, and can't endure, and they have proved this to be wrong every time. These 'masculine' things are now absorbed into them.

This movie touched me because it was a female-driven tale—that of women banding together to form a sisterhood against harsh odds.

Celia Yeary-Romance...and a little bit 'o Texas  
http://www.celiayeary.blogspot.com  

WATCHING A GREAT ACTOR

My husband and I have been ailing for about a week and during that time we’ve spent a lot of time napping in front of TV and watching old movies. Westerns, if we can find them, are usually our faves and we’ve seen several this past week, among them “Broken Trail” and “The Long Riders” with Robert Duval. Seeing him in those movies set me to thinking about all the great movies I’ve watched and enjoyed featuring this fine actor, going all the way back to “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

IMHO, Duval is just about one of the best cowboy actors I can think of. Many have had more star power. John Wayne comes to mind. Many of the popular older western actors played themselves within the confines of the movie story. But with Robert Duval, the character he plays *is* the story.

I know little about acting and even less about movie-making, but it seems to me that the mark of a fine actor is one who can make you forget who *he* is for a moment and instead, concern yourself with the character he plays. In “Broken Trail,” I could feel his character’s inability to say the words that were in his heart.  In “Tender Mercies,” again, I felt his pain.

And who could ever forget him in “Lonesome Dove?” He owned the character of Gus. When I first heard who had been cast in that movie, my first thought was “Oh, no, that’s all wrong.” Now, after watching the movie more times than I can count, I can’t imagine any other actor in that role. When I’ve re-read the book, I picture Duval as Gus. If I were an actor, I think it would be a great inner satisfaction to have had so long a career portraying and branding so many great, unforgettable characters.

Winchester House

On September 30, 1862, Sarah Lockwood Pardee married William Wirt Winchester, the only son of Oliver Winchester, owner of the Winchester Repeating Arms Company.

The couple had one daughter, Annie Pardee Winchester, who was born on July 12, 1866, but died after a few weeks from the childhood disease marasmus. Sarah fell into a deep depression following the death of her daughter, and the couple had no more children. Oliver Winchester died in 1880, quickly followed in March of 1881 by William, who died of tuberculosis, giving Sarah approximately 50 percent ownership in the Winchester Company and an income of $1,000 a day. (This amount is roughly equivalent to $22,000 a day in 2008.)

According to the legends surrounding her, she felt that her family was cursed, and sought out spiritualists to determine what she should do. A medium, believed to be a psychic, allegedly told her that the Winchester family was cursed by the spirits of all the people who had been killed by the Winchester rifle, and she should move west to build a house for herself and the spirits. The medium is claimed to have told Sarah that if construction on the house ever stopped, she would die. In 1884, Sarah moved west to California and purchased an eight-room farmhouse under construction from Dr. Robert Caldwell. It stood on 161 acres of land in what is now San Jose, California. Immediately, she began spending her $20 million inheritance by renovating and adding more rooms to the house, with work continuing 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year for the next 38 years. She was fascinated with the number 13 and worked the number into the house in many places. (There are thirteen bathrooms, windows have thirteen panes, thirteen chandeliers, and so forth.)


It estimated that 500 to 600 rooms were built, but because so many were redone, only 160 remain. This naturally resulted in some peculiar effects, such as stairs that lead to the ceiling, doors that go nowhere and that open onto walls, and chimneys that stop just short of the roof.


We may never know for sure if Mrs. Winchester built her house to accommodate the spirits, but over the years the story has come down that she believed her life was unavoidably affected by departed souls. Presumably she wanted to be friendly with the ‘good’ spirits and avoid the ‘bad’ spirits – and the way to be friendly with the ‘good’ spirits, it seemed, was to build them a nice place to visit.


According to this theory, Mrs. Winchester accommodated the friendly spirits by giving them special attention. For example, it is said that there were only three mirrors in the entire house at the time of Mrs. Winchester’s death. Legend has it that spirits hate mirrors, since the sight of their reflection causes them to vanish.
This is why Mrs. Winchester’s servants and secretary reportedly used only hand mirrors or went without.

The mansion also contained a profusion of light sources, from gas jets and countless candles, to electric light bulbs. Supposedly spirits feel conspicuous and humiliated by shadows, since they cannot cast their own.

The outside of the mansion received nearly as much care and attention as the inside. The cast external façade is bursting with Queen Anne Victorian architecture features like turrets, towers, curved walls, cupolas, cornices, and balconies, all outlined with finely detailed trim work.

When viewed from different angles, the towers, some topped by ornamental spires called finials, give the house a castle-like appearance. It’s an extravagant maze of Victorian craftsmanship – marvelous, baffling, and eerily eccentric, to say the least. Some of the architectural oddities may have practical explanations. For example, the switchback staircase, which has seven flights with forty-four steps, rises only about nine feet, since each step is just two inches high. Mrs. Winchester’s arthritis was quite severe in her later years, and the stairway may have been designed to accommodate her disability. The miles of twisting hallways are made even more intriguing by secret passageways in the walls. Mrs. Winchester traveled through her house in a roundabout fashion, supposedly to confuse any mischievous ghosts that might be following her. Because of the mansion’s immense size, it contained forty-seven fireplaces and seventeen chimneys. One rambling section in particular, the Hall of Fires, was designed to produce as much heat as possible.


My Aunt used to take us to visit this magnificent house every summer. One of my children refused to go inside because she could feel the intruders, the ghosts from the past. I never saw any ghosts, but found the story intriguing all my life.

Massacre at Sand Creek and The Battle of Fort Washita

“Kill and scalp all, little and big…nits make lice.”—Colonel John M. Chivington Before the Battle of Fort Washita came the Battle of Sand Creek—also known as The Sand Springs Massacre. (Colorado)

Chief Black Kettle’s Cheyenne camp, and that of another Cheyenne chief, White Antelope, were attacked and destroyed on a cold November dawn, 1864. Although the camps flew an American flag alongside a white flag of truce, Colonel John Chivington, determined to further himself in the political arena of the day, ordered the Cheyennes annihilated. “Take no prisoners,” he ordered, adding his own personal slogan, “…nits make lice.”

The encampment at Sand Creek consisted of about six hundred Indians—most of them, women and children. As the first shots were fired by Chivington’s men, only about one hundred Cheyenne warriors ran out, up the creek bed from the ravine where they were camped, to defend the women and children.

Still, these warriors were able to hold Chivington’s troops at bay for over eight hours, allowing nearly five hundred Indians to escape—including Black Kettle.

Chivington boasted of killing six hundred; eye-witness testimony estimated the umber at less than two hundred. Two-thirds of the dead were women and children. White Antelope was one of the first killed, as he left his lodge, arms extended to show peace.

Black Kettle’s wife was shot. As troopers neared, they shot her eight more times. Black Kettle threw her over his shoulder and ran. He later removed all nine bullets, and his wife lived.

A three-year-old toddler was not so lucky. As he walked out to the dry creek bed, three troopers some seventy yards away took turns shooting at him. The third one finally hit him, dropping the child where he stood.

Chivington received a hero’s welcome in Denver. He and his men exhibited the corpses of the dead Cheyennes they had sexually mutilated and scalped to the cheering citizens of Denver. It is believed that there has never been another battle in North America where more Indians have been slain.

Three years later, a Congressional inquest labeled Chivington’s “battle” a massacre.

In 1867, Black Kettle was one of the signers of the Treaty of Medicine Lodge (Kansas) in which the Cheyenne gave up their holdings along the Arkansas River for land on a reservation in what is now Oklahoma.

By the fall of 1868, Black Kettle and two thousand warriors settled near the Washita River in the southeastern part of Indian Territory. Though the Treaty of Medicine Lodge promised specific supplies, the provisions never came. Many of the Cheyenne joined a young warrior, Roman Nose, who had been leading a series of raids on farms and homesteads of white settlers.

Under General Philip Sheridan, three columns of troops launched a winter campaign against Cheyenne encampments. The Seventh Cavalry, commanded by George Armstrong Custer, was selected to take the lead.

For four days, in a foot of fresh snowfall, Custer and his 800 men followed the tracks of a small raiding party through the continuing snowstorm. The tracks led to the encampment on the Washita River. Custer ordered the attack at dawn.

On November 27, 1868, nearly four years to the day after the Sand Creek Massacre, Custer’s troops charged. Chief Black Kettle and his wife, Maiyuna, were shot dead on the banks of the Washita River, (Indian Territory), their bodies riddled with bullets.

“Both the chief and his wife fell at the riverbank, riddled with bullets,” one witness reported. “The soldiers rode right over Black Kettle and his wife and their horse as they lay dead on the ground, and their bodies were all splashed with mud by the charging soldiers.”

Custer ordered the slaughter of the Indian pony and mule herd—over 800 animals. The lodges of the encampment were burned along with the winter food supply. At the threat of reinforcements from other Indian camps only a few miles away, Custer quickly retreated to Camp Supply with his hostages.

In the Battle of the Washita, though Custer claimed 100 Cheyenne fatalities, Indian accounts claim 11 warriors, and 19 women and children were killed. More than 50 Cheyennes were captured—mainly women and children.

After this battle, most of the Cheyenne were convinced to accept reservation life. On the Washita River, Chief Black Kettle’s vision of peace was crushed, along with the Cheyenne way of life.

Head 'Em Up, Move 'Em Out: Texas Trail Drives



Modern cattle drive at the Matador Ranch in Texas

 As long as cattle have been in America, there have been trail drives to move the animals from Point A to Point B. As settlers moved west, so did their cattle. Great drives ended in Montana, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, and anywhere ranching was possible. But those of Western movies and novels were primarily from Texas to the railheads in Kansas.

After the Civil War, the South faced high taxes imposed by the Northerners brought in to rule and many Southerners hadn’t the resources to pay. Other homes had been seized or burned, families had been killed or scattered. Many Southern men were left homeless and drifting. Most went West of the Mississippi looking for a new life.

Cattle ran free
during Civil War

During the Civil War, ranches were left almost untended while able-bodied men went to fight. Cattle continued to breed, but their progeny went unbranded and scattered. After the war, those cattle belonged to the man who could round them up and brand them. Drives to Kansas began in 1866 and lasted only a little over twenty years.  

According to LONE STAR, T. R. Fehrenbach’s history of Texas, when cattle brought two dollars a head in Texas, they sold for seven to ten dollars a head in Kansas. Cowboys were paid by the month, so it cost the rancher no more to have his men drive cattle to Kansas than to keep them in Texas. At times many ranchers went together for the drive, or one rancher’s hands would drive several combined herds. They also took extra horses for the cowboys to rotate on their ride.

Herding horses behind
the cattle--dusty job!

Driving cattle to market was a dangerous journey with long hours for the men. They faced outlaws, Indians, stampedes, swollen rivers, and inclement weather. At the end of the drive, the trail boss sold the herd on a handshake. His honor depended on final head count being what he told the buyer.

In 1867, Charles Goodnight invented the chuck wagon for use on trail drives. I don't know if many cowboys knew who invented it, but I'll bet they were all pleased to have it with them. It was a modified Army wagon that could carry substantially more and better food than horseback allowed. Other ranchers soon copied him.

Chuck Wagon

Cattle move slowly, so the chuck wagon could go ahead of the herd, find the camping place, and set up for supper. Generally there were only two meals a day, breakfast and supper, although that depended on the trail boss.

For all its fame, the era of the large cattle drive was a short one. By the 1880’s, railroads had begun spiderwebbing across America. Barbed wire had been introduced. The combination meant the end of the massive trail drive across several states. Fort Worth became the Texas destination, and their stockyards were immense. Swift and Armour built packing plants on the hill above the stockyards, which meant the beef was processed immediately and shipped out in refrigerated rail cars.

Famous 6666 Ranch, Guthrie,
Texas, also appears in
movies and commercials

Railroads continued to expand, making it possible to ship cattle to market rather than drive them. That is not to say that cowboys were out of work. There are still large working ranches in Texas—the 6666, King Ranch, Matador, Spur, and others—as well as hundreds of large and small ranches all across the West. But by 1890, the era of the trail drive had ended.

This is the era I write, and in which THE TEXAN'S IRISH BRIDE occurs. Hero Dallas McClintock has a horse and cattle ranch near Bandera, Texas. Dallas is also a horse whisperer as well as a rancher and is gaining fame as a horse breeder and trainer. That buy link is at:
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/caroline-clemmons-m-638.html 

It's also the era of THE MOST UNSUITABLE WIFE from my backlist, now available with its new cover at  www.smashwords.com/books/view/37683 In that book, hero Drake Kincaid goes on one of the last cattle drives and leaves his angry wife at home. He discovers many surprises when he returns. 
　
Thanks for stopping by Sweethearts Of The West today. Y'all come back now, ya hear?

　

A NEW RELEASE --- CAUGHT BY A CLOWN by Sandra Crowley

Hi all. Today celebrates the official birth of my writing career. My second birthday, so to speak, because of the time and effort invested. I hope you share my excitement by the time you finish this post. Commentors who mention the figure at the end of the book trailer will be placed in a drawing for a free PDF file of Caught by a Clown. 

CAUGHT BY A CLOWN, a spicy romantic suspense, will warm you and thrill you from its opening at a nudist resort in Arizona, to its race to a Texas horse track, and its tumble into the Florida clown school.

The idea for this story came to me a number of years ago. However, the complexity of the shootout I imagined and its unique setting in a nudist resort convinced me I didn't possess the necessary writing skills at that time. I saved the memory, studied, practiced, and finally re-created it on "paper." The shootout changed location and results, but I'm proud of it. I'm proud of the entire story. 

Here's why:

A spontaneous freelance journalist on a mission of mercy finds herself entangled with a methodical undercover FBI agent who's out to settle a score.

These two people approach life from opposing directions and yet they need each other.

Stacie Monroe's spontaneity lands her in hot water again when her best friend's little brother disappears and Stacie trails him to a nudist resort. To get inside the exclusive oasis and convince him to return home, she must blend in, a move tailor made to shock her oh-so-proper family and renew efforts to bring her in line.

That's exactly what Special Agent David Graham intends to do when she interferes in his case. Yet, the soft-hearted temptress challenges his resolve, revealing the path to a love he thought impossible. Will that love survive when he betrays her in order to unravel the final twist in his case and convict a vicious killer?

Writing Stacie and David's story was more adventure than work. My critique partner, Caroline Clemmons, might not agree. lol Her expert advice and patience taught me the majority of the skills I needed to develop these characters to their publishable level. I'm eternally grateful to her. And, to Stacie's indomitable spirit, David's intrepid honesty. 

Here's a sample:
     

     Stacie tapped one sandal-clad foot on the floor while Agent I'd-Rather-Scare-You-Than-Confide-In-You ignored her. She glanced toward the bathroom, crossed her legs, and wished she hadn't finished that last glass of wine.

     "Aren't you going to search that closet or open those two bottom drawers in the dresser?" she asked when he tucked his camera inside his pack.

     "Can't."

     A nasty suspicion raised its head. "Why not?"

     "Don't have a search warrant. That limits me to a visual inspection of what's in plain sight."

     "I won't tell," she pushed, despite being certain of his response.

     "There are laws."

     She groaned over the close match to a pronouncement she'd heard her whole life. There are rules.

     Boring. Snoring. Gone. Think of something else.

     Like how Agent By-The-Book caused this mess. If he'd mentioned being from the FBI when they met in the office none of this would have happened. He ignored her interest in Alan Walsh and her intelligence in favor of treating her as if she were a child in need of a lesson.

     Nature threatened to float her teeth, but Stacie refused to ask for relief. She fidgeted on the hard chair and crossed her legs the other way. The backs of her thighs pulled where her skin had stuck to the wooden seat. That twinge of pain reminded her she ought to be thrilled Graham claimed a badge and not a rap sheet. Instead, she rattled the handcuffs that shackled her to the chair and worried how far he meant to carry her arrest.

CLICK HERE to buy an ebook or paperback of CAUGHT BY A CLOWN. Find out how far David carries Stacie's arrest and discover who's CAUGHT BY A CLOWN.

Visit my website to request an autograph.  

Thank you for stopping by. Remember to comment about the figure at the end of the trailer for a chance at a free PDF file of Caught by a Clown. The WINNER will be announced Tuesday afternoon.

THE WINNER IS JOY HELD OF WRITER WELLNESS. CONGRATULATIONS, JOY. THANK YOU FOR PARTICIPATING.

I hope you'll join me at Author Roast and Toast on February 4th for fun and food under the Big Top. It should be an awesome party!

I appreciate your consideration,
Sandra Crowley
http://www.sandracrowley.com/
http://www.driven2danger.blogspot.com/
www.facebook.com/sandra.crowley2

Wild Texas Wind

I've spent the last couple of posts talking about cowboys and my love for all things old west. Today I thought I'd share an excerpt from one of my very favorite scenes, in fact it's the scene that inspired the tagline for the entire book and really set the tone for the relationship between my hero, Raz Colt, and my heroine, Arden O'Hara.

In this scene, they've spent the night hiding out in a whorehouse, but now, before dawn breaks, they need to move on, to stay one step ahead of the men out to kill Arden.

The blurb is below, followed by the excerpt.  I hope you enjoy!

All Raz Colt wants is land, a quiet peaceable existence and to put his life as a hired gun in the past. When the chance to earn a sizable fortune by rescuing a kidnapped heiress comes his way, he seizes the opportunity. Trouble is, the heiress doesn’t want to be rescued. Offsetting Arden O’Hara’s beauty is a rattlesnake personality and shrewish temper. Despite her claim that she faked the kidnapping so her fiancé would ride to her rescue, Raz knows someone is out to kill her. And if anyone gets the pleasure of wringing her lovely neck, it’s going to be him.

Arden O’Hara is desperate to go home. Her fiancé was supposed to ride to her rescue, proving it’s her–and not her father’s money– he loves. Instead an arrogant stranger, with weapons strapped gun-fighter low and a decided lack of sympathy for her situation, shows up spouting a ridiculous tale about someone trying to kill her. It’s infuriating when Raz Colt’s claims prove true after not one but several attempts are made on her life. She has no idea who this fast gun with the deadly aim is, or why he makes her feel as wild and untamed as the Texas wind. But like it or not, if anyone is capable of getting her home alive, it’s Raz Colt.

The predawn air was warm, and though darkness still cloaked the sky, a sprinkling of white stars overhead and the soft glow from the east made it necessary to stick to the shadows cast by the buildings between Raegene’s and the livery.

Not that Colt gave her much time to look around. He’d barely given her time for a sip of coffee in Raegene’s kitchen before urging her out the door. She suspected he’d done so to avoid an emotional goodbye, instead he had merely assured the woman he’d be back “soon.” From the way he and Sugar had been flirting earlier, Arden supposed he would blaze a trail getting back.

But the look in the madam’s misty eyes had nearly torn her heart in two when she reminded her adopted son that she’d just mended his shirt, and asked him to be careful not to get “any holes in it or anything.” Arden didn’t know if Raz had understood what the woman was saying, but she certainly had.

Colt grabbed her hand and yanked her behind him.

“What the hell are—” Male voices drifted toward them on the still morning air, silencing her.

“His horse is there, he couldn’t have gone far.”

As the voices drew closer, Colt flattened her against the building with his body. Warmth surrounded her. A spicy clean scent, mingled with the faint aroma of smoke teased her nose where it met the middle of his chest.

“I’d like to know what he’s done with that girl,” came the second voice.

“I know what I’d do,” snickered the first man. “Her daddy’d get her back all right, but not ’til I was good and done.”

Their bawdy chuckles echoed in the empty street. Revulsion soured Arden’s stomach. She felt Colt’s hand move, knew he was reaching for his gun. She shook her head to indicate she didn’t want to see any more bloodshed and laid a hand to his chest. Solid heat met her fingertips, and she was reminded again of the sight of his naked chest this morning. Her pinky twitched, then slid over a fraction of an inch to where his shirt lay open, until it touched hot, bare skin.

“So that’s the plan?” asked the first man as they drew nearer. “Take the breed by surprise and grab the girl?”

Dread settled over her. Between the man who wanted her dead and Daddy’s offer of a reward, she’d be lucky if they got to San Antonio alive.

“We just gotta find the sneaky bastard.”

The tension in Colt’s body increased as he pressed her even tighter to the wall, flattening his body against hers protectively. She wanted to protest, but it wasn’t so terrible being crushed by him. Not so terrible at all.

He glanced down at her as the men strolled right past them. She couldn’t see his expression well enough to read it, couldn’t see his eyes. But she felt the shallow breaths he took, felt his breath, tinged with coffee, fan the top of her head. Beneath her palm his heart pounded rapidly.

“You sure he didn’t sneak into Raegene’s place?”

“Nah, not with the girl, Raegene wouldn’t stand for that. B’sides, I heard the sheriff was in there lookin’ for him last night. She said she ain’t seen no breed.”

As the men moved out of earshot and rounded a corner, Colt didn’t move. She didn’t want him to. Her nipples swelled and became sensitive where they brushed his chest. Each breath brought exquisite torture as her breasts crushed against him. Her body willingly absorbed, even savored, the feel of his; hard against all the places she was soft. Something wild and hot moved through her, making her feel wanton and alarmed all at once.

Hearing strangers speak of harming her had been spine-chilling. And yet she hadn’t been frightened, had known Colt would protect her.

Gratitude and fierce, hot need mingled to rush through her veins. Her lips parted. She rested her head against the wall of the livery and tried to meet his eyes, hoping for some sign the same thing was happening to him.

He took a step back, his hand moving to cup her elbow. “You all right?”

She frowned at the familiar ring to those words. What was it he’d said yesterday? I got ten grand riding on your well being.

Oh, he would protect her all right. Protect his own interest was more like it. She shoved against his chest, sending him stumbling back a few steps. How foolish to think he was concerned about anything other than money. “Get away from me.”

He muttered a vile curse, took hold of her hand, and yanked. She fell along after him, glaring daggers at his broad back with every step.

Like it or not, if there was anyone who could get her home alive, it was Raz Colt.

http://www.nicolemccaffrey.com/

Wild Texas Wind – released June, 2010

Publisher: The Wild Rose Press