Howdy, pards! Spring is about sprung, at least for some of us. So let's spring right into this newsletter.

HISTORICAL ARTICLE

Phoebe Ann Moses was born on Aug. 3, 1860, in an old log cabin in Drake County, Ohio. She was the fifth of seven children born to Susan and Bob Moses, who were Quaker farmers.

Her sisters dubbed her "Annie" when "Phoebe" proved to be too hard to pronounce. They often insisted that Annie play dolls with them, but Annie was always off playing in the woods. Here Annie was content to explore and find fascinating creatures.

In 1865, when she was only 5, a heavy snow storm trapped and killed her father, leaving the large family destitute. Most of Annie's family were placed in different locations. Annie was sent to an orphanage. Shy Annie became the taunted victim of the other children, who chanted "Moses Poses" a name she learned to hate.

After two years of suffering in the orphanage, Annie was placed with a farming family where she was abused so much she made up her mind to run away. Somehow she managed to find her mother, who had remarried and was living on a farm. Annie found a loving home again. While searching around her mother's house she found her father's old cap-and ball-rifle. She learned how to use it and set about hunting all types of small animals for her mother to toss in the cookpot. She enjoyed hunting, and soon became an excellent shot.

By 1875, shooting became an important sport, so Annie visited and competed at the local gun club. She won prize money for several exceptional target shots. The men of the gun club began to notice and take an interest in the young girl's outstanding accomplishments. A mere 15-year-old girl who could shoot so well? Unheard of.

The Gun Club membership were very impressed and arranged a shooting contest between Annie and a professional marksman, Frank Butler. Annie shocked the celebrated marksman by winning the match. She not only won the event, but she won Frank Butler's heart as well. They were married the next year. Annie was 16 and Frank was 25.

Annie had become a most desirable woman. She was small only 5 foot and a hundred pounds and had an attractive figure. Long, thick and wavy chestnut hair crowned her head and her bright blue eyes sparkled with a mischief and mystery. Although she astounded many with her knee-length skirts, a man's felt cowboy hat and a rifle in her hands, she proved to be quite feminine.

The two began to tour the country as performers using the billing of "Frank and Annie." It was then that Annie began to use the last name of Oakley. Soon everyone knew who Annie Oakley was and they had much admiration for her. Frank helped Annie improve her acts by using trick shoots. He would throw playing cards into the air as targets and Annie would hit whatever spots came up. The cards with a bullet hole were passed out as complimentary "calling cards" from Annie Oakley.

She also became an accomplished horsewoman. She could stand on the back of a galloping horse and shoot out the candle flames on a revolving wheel. She could ride around the ring, turn in the saddle and shoot at different targets.

In 1885, Annie and Frank joined Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show. Frank became the manager and Annie was the star of the show. Annie's opening performance began when she raced into the center of the ring on foot, grabbed her rifle and shattered balls tossed into the air. Then, she would jump onto her horse, ride around the ring and shoot the mounted targets. Her most famous act was to shoot at a target with the rifle over her shoulder using a Bowie knife as a mirror.

It was believed that Annie made $1,000 a week in Cody's million-dollar-a-year show. She became the most popular performer of her time. One person who admired her was Sitting Bull, who adopted Annie into his Sioux tribe. He gave her the name Mochin Wytony's Cecilia and referred to her as my daughter, Little Sure Shot. Returning his affection, Annie taught the chief how to write. Before Sitting Bull passed away, he gave Annie the headdress and clothing he wore as he made medicine during the battle with Custer. Annie cherished the gift and always kept it with her.

In 1887, Annie, Frank and the Cody Wild West show made an appearance in Europe where Little Sure Shot won the admiration of the royal families.

Because of her popularity, it is thought that Cody became envious of her, and the threesome split up. Annie and Frank appeared in Germany without Cody, then returned to the United States. They joined the Pawnee Bill's Frontier Exhibition for several months. Later, when Cody returned to the states, he encouraged Annie and Frank to come back to his show. They made another European tour, which turned out very successful.

At one point, during one of these European tours, a high-placed personage came out of the audience and challenged Annie to shoot a cigar out of his mouth. She was reluctant, but he insisted. She stepped off the distance as the man clenched a cigar in his teeth. Bam! The cigar was sliced in half. If she had been off just a couple of inches, we might never have had World War I. The man was Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany.

In 1901, when Annie turned 41, the train on which she and Frank were traveling collided head-on with another train. Frank was not hurt, but Annie suffered a spinal fracture. It took months for her to recover. When she was able to get around, she made an appearance in New York on the stage doing many novelty stand-up tricks. She never returned to Cody's Wild West Show.

During World War 1, Annie and Frank offered their professional services as instructors to the enlisted men. They spent twelve weeks at various camps, paying their own expenses, to teach the soldiers to shoot. Annie brought her dog, "Dave," along to provide an entertainment for the men. She had the dog hold a piece of chalk in his mouth or hold an apple on his head to demonstrate her marksmanship. The military men were delighted with her performances.

In 1921, fate dealt Annie another hard blow when she broke her hip in an accident at Daytona, Florida. As months went on, Annie managed to walk with a brace, but she never performed again. She and Frank returned to Drake County where they lived comfortably.

In 1926, Annie died of pernicious anemia. She was 66. Frank followed her in death only 18 days later. They were buried in the Block Cemetery only a few miles from Annie's birthplace. They had identical head stones with "At Rest" directly under their names.

It is believed that Annie's shooting record with a .22-caliber rifle was 943 out of 1,000 targets thrown in succession. She fired approximately 1,200,000 shotgun shells in 30 years. She traveled to 14 countries, appeared before all the European royal families, collected many trophies, medals and jewelry. She melted many gold metals to offer as money to the orphanages, never forgetting the taunting sing-song of "Moses Poses" and the forever hungry children.
Annie's trophy collection is thought to be the greatest of all entertainers.

A GREAT LOSS

Norman Zollinger passed away on Feb. 28, 2000, after a long fight with pancreatic cancer. He was 78. Originally from Chicago, Norman made his home in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
He leaves behind his wife, Dr. Virginia Malone, and three children, Peter, Ann and Robin, and a sister, Wendy.

Zollinger wrote many fine books, including RIDERS TO CIBOLA, COREY LANE, PASSAGE TO QUIVIRA, A RAGE IN CHUPADERA, NOT OF WAR ONLY, CHAPULTEPEC, MERIDIAN: A NOVEL OF KIT CARSON'S WEST.

In 1999 he received the OWEN WISTER AWARD from the Western Writers of America, the organization's highest honor. He won two spur awards. One for RIDERS TO CIBOLA (1979) and one for RAGE IN CHUPADERA (1991)

He earned the Southwest Fiction Award and the Parris Award of the Southwest Writers Workshop and many others.

He was a member of the Western Writers of America, Southwest Writers Workshop and was the founder of the Taos School of Writing.

He will be missed by all who knew and loved him.

John Duncklee had this to say about Zollinger, one of WWA's most beloved and respected members:

"Anyone who ever knew Norm is sad that he is no longer with us. He was truly a treasure as a friend and fellow member of Western Writers of America.

"Norm's enduring works are valuable experiences from which to glean knowledge and pleasure from his superb writing. Everyone who ever knew Norman Zollinger has a clear vision of a true gentleman."

"The Wister Award for lifetime achievement, presented to Norm last year, was a fine and appropriate tribute to a man who gave so much to all who crossed his path."

For those who didn't have the pleasure of knowing Zollinger, you can visit his website at: http://www.readwest.com/norman.htm

NEWS OF MEMBERS

Read West Online Magazine (www.ReadWest.com) learned Tuesday that OPENING DAY, a short story by David Marion Wilkinson, was the winner of the Western Writers of America's 1999 Spur Award for Short Fiction. Wilkinson is the author of NOT BETWEEN BROTHERS, winner of the Violet Crown Award for Fiction and a 1996 Spur Award finalist for Best Novel of the West. Read West published OPENING DAY in the November 1999 issue.

BONANZA, a short story by Win Blevins, also published by Read West, was a finalist in the same category.

Spur Awards Chairman, W. C. Jameson, said this is the first ever Spur given to an original electronic publication.

OPENING DAY and BONANZA are still available for viewing in the Read West archives.

GREAT NEWS FROM JEAN HENRY:

I am a very surprised writer to learn that my Louis L'Amour interview, excerpted from my Maverick Writers book, won The Best Article on the Web Award, $50, and a link back to American Western Ezine, where it was first published online (and to my Web site). What a great surprise that a Western article was chosen as best by a mainstream Ezine such as Zinos.com (Internet Readers Digest).

JOHNNY BOGGS (JDBOGGS) was second runner-up in the Best Western Novel category for TEN AND ME!

PAX RIDDLE (HistFic) was second runner up in the Best Paperback Original category for LOST RIVER, and also first runner up (for the same novel) for the MEDICINE PIPE AWARD!

Richard Wheeler won Best Western Novel for MASTERSON, our own Ellen Recknor won the Best Novel of the West for PROPHET ANNIE, and Jim Davidson's MINE WORK won for Best Paperback Original.

The latest RALPH COMPTON BOOKS edition is THE SHADOW OF A NOOSE, written by RALPH COTTON himself. A story about young twins who loose their father when he is shot down by an outlaw. Their older sister sets out to avenge this death. While the sister is gone, the mother falls seriously ill and dies, leaving the twins alone on the ranch. Not knowing what to do, they decide to set out to find their sister. In this search, they become victims of the outside world's cruelty and conflicts.

ROBERT VAUGHAN REPORTS that shooting on THE LAST OUTLAW begins on April 2. I went to the casting last week . . . that was fun (in fact, I have a part in the picture). And today I went out to OLD FORT DALLAS . . . which is an authentic Western town. Much of our shooting will be done there. The rest will be done at San Antonio, and on a ranch West of Fort Worth.

THE HI-LO COUNTRY will be aired on the Sundance channel on March 21, 26, 30 & 31.

THE HI-LO COUNTRY was written by WWA member Max Evans and, according to some critics, is one of the best contemporary stories/movies ever and should stand with two other very worthwhile western scripts, The Shootist (John Wayne's last movie) and Unforgiven by Clint Eastwood. The Hi-Lo Country and The Shootist received very little promotion and died before they had a chance at the box office.

THE HI-LO COUNTRY features Sam Elliott, Woody Harrelson and a host of other great Hollywood stars.

INTERVIEW

WW: When did you start writing?
RDV: I started writing before I could write. . . . I would make marks on a piece of paper, then make my grandmother, aunts, uncles, anyone I could coerce, listen to my stories. But, I didn't sell my first book until I was 19.

WW: Did a certain author influence your writing?
RDV: I met Bill Butterworth (WEB Griffin) in 1956. We became friends, and he talked me into making my first submission. I still admire Bill's writing, but two other authors have influenced me James Jones, and Herman Wouk.

WW: Among all of your books, which one do you like the best?
RDV: That's hard to say. It's like saying which of your children do you like best. Generally, I like the book I'm working on at the moment best. I think you almost have to. But, THE VALKYRIE MANDATE, which was nominated for the Pulitzer, is one of my favorites. So is BRANDYWINE'S WAR, which is sort of an autobiographical look at the Vietnam War . . . told in the iconoclastic style of CATCH-22. More recently, I really like YESTERDAY'S REVEILLE.

WW: Where is your best source for doing research work?
RDV: Since I write a lot of historicals, I have amassed a rather substantial personal library of history books about 6,500 or so. As a result, I rarely have to go a public or university library. I also have a rather substantial collection of periodicals magazines and newspapers from the 19th and early 20th century.

WW: Do you visit the places you write about?
RDV: I have lived in 19 States and three countries, so often it is a matter of remembering, rather than visiting, since I tend to write about places that I know.

WW: Who do you consider the best fiction author and why?
RDV: Hmm . . . a difficult question to answer. There are many I admire. I like Herman Wouk, as I've mentioned. I liked FROM HERE TO ETERNITY but really was disappointed by everything else James Jones wrote. I am somewhat a student of Hemingway I do a Hemingway show at conferences and schools I like Hemingway's style more than I like his books though. I really think Jory Sherman will go down in history as an outstanding writer.

WW: Do you keep a writing work schedule or just write whenever the urge strikes?
RDV: I keep a very structured writing schedule, which may sound unusual to people who know me, for I have no structure in my personal life. But, when I am writing, I do 20 pages per day. I don't know how NOT to be structured in writing . . . it isn't something I just do . . . it is something I MUST do.

WW: Do you consider writing conferences a must in getting published?
RDV: I consider them to be helpful, but probably not for the reason most think. Writing conferences are very good for motivation, and good for networking with other writers. The workshops are motivational more than instructional, since most people have heard it all before. The one-on-one meetings with editors, agents, etc. are worthless. Too little time, too much pressure on the writer, agonizingly boring for the editor. If you will allow a small pitch, that is why I developed my WRITE ON THE BEACH retreat. No more than five writers per session, for six days, with at least two editors, or editor and agent, etc. By the time the six days are over, the attendees and the editors, who are well into a first-name basis, know each others' kids' birthdays. It is a marvelous means of exposure which, over the last two years, has resulted in 10 first-time sales out of a total of 40 attendees.

WW: Have you had any movie contracts with any of your books?
RDV: BRANDYWINE'S WAR sold to the movies, and I was paid quite well, but it wasn't produced. I was approached by TNT and asked to write the story for ANDERSONVILLE, which became a miniseries. I did the story, but not the screenplay. THE LAST OUTLAW is now in production. It isn't from a book, but is an original script. I was approached by Paragon Pictures and asked to redo the script they bought. I will get half-credit for the screenplay. I have sold THE NIGHT JOHN WAYNE DIED, which is a comedy, also to Paragon. It, too is an original script and should be produced sometime in 2001. I sold an original script to THE NEW ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD, was paid for it, but the series went off the air before my show aired. A chapter from BRANDYWINE'S WAR was adapted to be a segment for M*A*S*H, and I did the story, but not the screenplay, for three LAW AND ORDERS.

WW: Do you have any suggestions for new, unpublished writers?
RDV: Establish a writing schedule and stick to it. It doesn't have to be 20 pages per day, but you should have a schedule. Research the market and submit your story to the editor most receptive to your kind of story. Be professional in your approach, adopt the attitude that it will be bought, exhibit confidence, but step away from arrogance. If you are writing a Western and someone tells you that the market has shrunk from 40 novels per month to only 10, say, "Good! That means I will have one-tenth of the market.

SHORT STORY

Spam stood with his nose tight to the hitching post and his tail inches from the autos creeping down Silverton's Greene Street. His long, black-fringed ears, trademark of the Rocky Mountain burro, poked through an old Marine Corps campaign hat canted on his head.

Looking back over his shoulder, Spam watched the action with impassive interest.

Greene Street was more crowded than usual on this sunny spring Saturday morning, he noticed. Tourists filled the wooden sidewalks and idled near the souvenir shops. A little girl stopped to pat Spam's nose gingerly, giggling at its deceptive softness.

Her mother pulled her away. "Don't pet him, dear," she said, "he'll bite you."

Nothing of the sort, Spam wanted to say to the little girl. Instead, he wondered where his master's next prospecting adventure might lead in the high San Juan Mountains of Colorado, just a step away from Silverton's main street.

Spam had seen the muddy turbulence in Cement Creek as he and his owner, Jeremy Sloat, had come down the Gladstone trail to Silverton that morning. The last sliver of snow had melted off 14,000-foot Handies Peak to the northeast, harbinger of a glorious spring. Kendall and its towering companions, Sultan Mountain and Storm Peak which brooded over Silverton like a trio of hulking demons, also had lost their white winter caps.

The Animas River ran like a wild, muddy beast boiling through town and on to Durango, forty-five miles south. The Spanish named it the Rio de Las Animas Perdidas, the "River of Lost Souls," because so many of their explorers had been lost and never found in its unforgiving canyons.

Baker's Park, a mile wide and two in length where Silverton was born in 1874, sparkled under a glorious blanket of mountain flowers. Meadowlarks trilled and a Cooper's hawk circled high against a deep azure sky dotted with lazy clouds. The narrow gauge train from Durango was unloading its bright, yellow cars of tourists into Silverton, which almost overnight had blossomed into a historic landmark.

Spam had witnessed these scenes often during fifteen years of plodding the San Juan peaks and valleys with his two owners. The town had changed for the worse, it seemed to him. Brown, black and yellow foreigners spoke to him in strange languages. Greene Street was a moving ribbon of people and new autos, that seemed larger and more menacing. Now, hardly a day passed without Silverton overflowing with a steady stream of clamorous men, women and children.

Spam remembered back when Silverton roared into life only on weekends, holidays or with a big silver or gold strike. Scores of rowdy men jumped wildly up and down Greene Street, pistols blazing, clothes plastered with red dust and heads plastered with cheap whiskey. Those days were gone forever, Spam mused.

The door to John Bower's assay office opened and out stepped Spam's owner, Jeremy Sloat. Sloat was a tall, angular man with a neat, gray beard and crew-cut silver hair. His one steel-blue eye peered over a nose so huge and crooked it would make an eagle jealous. Sloat was scowling, but Spam knew he could smile, even laugh. A dime-sized gold nugget swung from one pierced ear lobe. His leather-tanned face was a carbon copy of the surrounding peaks and canyons, chiseled there by war and pain.

Sloat wore a black and red plaid shirt tucked into a pair of snug Marine Corps green woolen trousers. A Marine campaign hat pulled down regulation style on his head jingled with metal sharpshooting ladders. A faded Marine fatigue jacket bore a Fifth Marine Brigade patch. Equally faded ribbons of the Navy Cross, the Purple Heart and the Belleau Wood campaign covered his left breast pocket.

Spam knew the ribbons were genuine because Sloat talked enough about them during their ten years together. He'd also seen the shriveled, brown bullet wounds in Sloat's chest and arm whenever he took off his shirt. But Sloat's most distinguishing feature was the black pirate's patch over his left eye, blown blind when a Hun grenade exploded in his face in the Belleau Woods. It had earned him the nickname "The Pirate Prospector." The eye patch and Sloat's overall dress and bearing gave him the appearance of some unearthly, metaphysical god descended from the cloud-blanketed peaks.

"Standing with your ass hanging out, huh?" Sloat said with a grin as he filled the pack on Spam's back. "I figured a smart ass like you would know better. Folks nowadays drive like sidewinders, weaving and gawking and goin' God knows where."

Sloat forever joked with Spam, forever waited for an answer that forever never came.

He untied Spam, tipped his cap with a flourish to the crowd gathered to watch and ambled up Greene Street, Spam plodding unbridled behind. Sloat stopped in front of the San Juan Cafe and Saloon. "Want a hamburger for breakfast?" he asked. Spam loved hamburgers.

Sloat was back shortly with a couple of juicy hamburgers and a pitcher of Coors draft. Spam loved Coors draft, too.

Curious tourists gathered to watch Spam suck the beer from the pitcher and munch down the hamburger. To them, Spam and Sloat were living relics of a once glorious and glamorous past. To Spam and Sloat, the tourists were a noisy nuisance.

"Do you drink out of the same pitcher as that donkey?" a very fat woman asked. She weighed more than Spam, Sloat noticed with disgust.

"He ain't a donkey, mam. He's a purebred Rocky Mountain Canary, and there ain't a thing we don't do together, including eating, sleeping and getting drunk," he snarled, suddenly angry.

"Why, I declare," she retorted, "that's the most unhealthy thing I ever saw. What will people think?"

"Well, ma'am, if you ask me, some people are more ass than old Spam here," Sloat shot back.

The woman retreated angrily, her jumbo buttocks straining the print dress to its limits. "Come on, you old donkey," Sloat joked, "let's get back to civilization."

They hiked down Greene Street and cut up the trail into the San Juans. As they picked their way along the old railroad bed that once was the bustling Silverton-Gladstone and Northerly railroad, Spam heard Sloat mumbling to himself. He did so only after a visit to town. Then he started singing.

"From the Halls of Montezooooma, to the shores of Tripoli . . . We will fight our country's baaattles, on the land and on the sea . . ." And on and on and on. At the end, Sloat embellished the song with the sounds of machine-gun fire and exploding shells, "Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat, boom, blam, kaaabloohy." Then, breathing heavily, he exclaimed:

"Oh, that this too solid flesh would melt,
"thaw, and resolve itself into dew!
"Or that the Everlasting had not fixt
"His canon against self-slaughter! O God! God! ..."

Then, even more loudly:

"To be or not to be, that is the question ..." He broke off, slapped Spam on the rump, and then, with a broad wave of his arms and another shout:

"Up from my cabin, My sea-grown scarft about me, in the dark,
"I groped to find out them . . ."

Then, the Marine Corps Hymn, again.

Spam could stand the war stories and the Shakespeare, but Sloat's singing was dreadful. It was an off-key, nasal twang, somewhere between a coyote's howl and a bobcat's mating call. It was so loud it roused the owls from their daytime sleep in the valleys.

Sloat suddenly stopped in midverse. "You're supposed to be a Rocky Mountain Canary, so sing," Sloat demanded.

Spam just looked at him.

Spam understood Sloat and Sloat suspected so. It was a kind of game they played. It was much more than the friendship of a man and his dog. They were melded together as one flesh by the hardship of their lives, their scrapes with death and an unspoken love for each other.

As sour as it was, Sloat's singing was a reassuring mountain serenade during their lonely wanderings.

"Spam, I just can't get it in my head how things have changed, can you?" Sloat asked as they skirted Anvil Mountain and trudged through the fallen timbers of the deserted Mogul Mill. "There are more people in town every time we come down and, darn it, they seem meaner and more demanding than ever. "I wish Old Squires was still here, don't you?"

Sloat knew there would be no answer, so he babbled on. It seemed to Spam that Sloat was talking faster than usual. "Old Squires was a fine old Englishman, a damn fine miner, too, don't you think?"

During their short time together, the three had picked and packed more high-grade ore and panned more nuggets than any of the prospectors in the San Juans. Then, suddenly, one bright day high up near the Gold King Mine, Old Squires kicked off. Spam never forgot how spooky it was to tote Old Squires' body down the mountain to Silverton. He loved that old man, but the essence of his dead body haunted him every time he remembered that day.

"Yesirree, I miss that old goat. Remember the first day we all got drunk and he tried to ride you? You bucked him clean down the mountain!"

Sloat laughed, his voice echoing up the canyon. He slapped Spam on the rump again, threw his head back and laughed louder. Then, he started coughing and Spam thought he would choke to death.

"Well, Old Squires got up, brushed himself off and cussed you in that perfect English of his. 'You bloody bastard, I was just trying to be friendly.' He was always complaining how damn independent you were, remember, Spam?"

Suddenly, he hugged Spam, his body trembling. Tears fell on Spam's back. "Good, old Spam, we've had some grand days together, haven't we? They're gone now, Spam." Sloat's breathing came in short, irregular gasps.

They had stopped on the trail when Spam noticed a strange look on Sloat's face. It suddenly turned as white as his beard. He clutched at his chest.

"God, Spam, I think the old ticker's finally had it."

Suddenly, he staggered against Spam. "Get me back down, Spam, carry me back to Silverton."

Sloat fumbled with the pack straps until it fell to the ground. His body trembled as he struggled to climb onto Spam's back. "Carry me back to Silverton, Spam."

Spam picked his way down the trail with Sloat's body hanging limp across his back. He plodded up Greene Street and stopped in front of the San Juan Cafe and Saloon.

"Look, Mommy," the little girl with the fat mother shouted as a crowd gathered around Spam, "they're putting on a show for us!"

That's it for this time, folks. Be well, write well!

Jack and Marge