Let’s Have Some Fun!
How many Prism imprints, titles, and authors (first name, last name, or both) are contained in the following short story? Each name is counted only once, regardless of how many times it’s repeated. Have fun!
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Sarah’s Bounty Hunt
By: Carlene Havel
“Got any of them sourdough biscuits left?” Jack asked as he spooned more beans onto his tin plate.
“Nope,” Sam replied. “Come daybreak I’ll fix up a new batch.”
“They sure disappeared fast. I should have stole a few more when I come through the grub line.”
Sam chuckled. “You talk like some kind of outlaw Jack. They’re just biscuits. There’s always more in the morning.”
“You never know.” Jack scanned the dark horizon. “This ain’t the French Riviera, you know. Something you have yet to learn, sonny boy. Most anything can happen on a cattle drive. Did I ever tell you about the time out west? We was way up in the mountains when a big horn storm rolled in. Blowing snow, sleet, couple of lightning strikes right near us. After the storm, we was snowed in. Thought we was all going to die.”
Sam stirred the campfire. Since this was the first time he’d been allowed to come along on a cattle drive, he didn’t want to alienate the trail boss. Still, he’d heard this story so many times he could say it by heart. “I think you did tell me about that. Last night, maybe.”
Jack went on as if Sam had never spoken. “Had a little lady with us for some danged reason, youngest daughter of the King family. You know, her uncle owned a big spread out in New Mexico. Me and old Lewis Jones figured we was done for after we run out of food. But we kept scouting around, finally found one of them notch passes where we might be able to cut through. Figured maybe we could escape to Big Fork Lake somewhere over near McMahill’s Crossing. How about some bacon? Any bacon left?”
“Sam’s treasure chest is never empty when it comes to salt pork. I’ll slice off a little and cook it up for you,” Sam said, fearing his choice was either to come up with additional food or listen to Jack spin yarns all night. He took out his trusty iron skillet and put another piece of wood on the campfire.
“Now Sarah—that was the King girl’s name—she was a stubborn little critter. She didn’t want no part of trying to ride a horse through one of them mountain passes. She told me she wasn’t going downhill on no sheet of ice because it was just an accident waiting to happen. Nothing I said could convince that little gal riding out of there was her only hope.”
Sam cut some slices as thin as he could from the block of salt pork he kept in a barrel on the side of the chuck wagon. The meat sizzled and spit when Sam plopped it into the heated iron skillet.
“Fire’s too hot. Lift up that skillet or you’ll burn my bacon,” Jack said. “Then spread out the wood and let things cool down a little. When you’re ready to stoke it up again, may as well put on some of the twigs Lewis cut from the apple tree when we come through the valley. Gives everything a real nice flavor. Got any corn pone?”
“No, the cowboys ate every crumb,” Sam said, not offering to whip up anything extra. Even if he was a novice at cooking, Jack’s unsolicited advice rankled him. Not to mention the trail boss’s numerous unscheduled meals.
“Now I bet you’d never guess what happened next,” Jack said, just before he scooped up a mouthful of beans.
“Oh, maybe Lewis told you the King girl was in love with one of the cowboys.”
“Matter of fact, that’s exactly what happened. Old Lew put a bug in my ear that this little gal had taken a shine to one of the cowboys name of Antoine Faucheux. Good-looking kid from the bayous around New Orleans. Of course we never called him nothing but ‘Frenchy’. Never inspired me much, but women seemed to like the way he talked. To hear old Frenchy tell it, he’d been around the world, worked in a diamond mine in Africa, lived in a garrett with a bunch of artists in Paris, worked on a couple of rail road crews in California. Bunch of malarkey if you ask me.” Jack gulped his coffee. “I don’t guess there’s any tortillas around? Grub wraps up real good in a tortilla.”
“Haven’t seen a tortilla since we left Durango.” Sam poured the pork slices, grease and all, onto Jack’s tin plate. Then he busied himself making the chuck wagon neat. Maybe if he closed everything up, Jack would catch the hint and let him get some rest.
Taking a bite of meat, Jack yelled, “hot.” Nevertheless he slid the rest of the pork into his mouth. “So anyway, I found Frenchy and asked him, ‘Is this King girl still sweet on you?’ Well, that kid looked as surprised as a colt wearing a saddle for the first time. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I have some desperate dreams, but I am constantly praying to the Virgin Mary, seeking patience.’ Now what in tarnation was that supposed to mean?”
“That he’s in love with Sarah King but he hadn’t told her because he’s poor and she’s rich.” Sam hoped his condensation of the story would speed things along.
Toasting Sam with his tin coffee cup, Jack said, “You’re mighty right, son. That’s just how it was. For us this was a roundup and cattle drive. But for that gal Sarah: a mission of love. For once, I played it smart. I told Miss King we’d get her horse over the mountain pass by having Frenchy walk and lead it. All of a sudden, she was all for the idea. See, she just wanted to get close to that danged Frenchman, and don’t ask me why. Pour me a little more of that coffee, will you?”
Sam was careful to get a handful of grounds in the cold coffee he put into Jack’s cup. Taking a sip, Jack didn’t blink an eye. He looked into the cup briefly and poured another gulp down his throat. “Well, sir, old Frenchy, he didn’t have any more sense than a calf eating loco weed. He had on a pair of them high falootin boots hand made down in Sofras County, must have cost fifty dollars. He got down off his horse and tried walking over the ice in them slick-bottomed boots, leading Miss Sarah’s horse—Trinity was that palomino’s name. They didn’t get too far before a bobcat run across the trail. Old Trinity shied and reared up, and Frenchy fell right smack on his assets. He started slipping and hollering, still holding onto the horses’ reins, and that gal was screaming like a banshee. There they went, the whole bunch of them sliding down that mountain just like a saint comes stumbling in the Sunday school class after getting blind stinking drunk on a Saturday night.
Jack laughed and slapped his knee. “Now wouldn’t you think that gal would have been mad as an old wet hen? No, sir. She said Frenchy saved her life and put a big smacker on him like it was a hero’s homecoming of some kind.”
Since the stars were beginning to illuminate the night sky, Sam stretched out his bedroll. “And they lived happily ever after.”
This time Jack laughed until he snorted. “That’s what Sarah wanted. As soon as Frenchy found out she was serious about him, he started getting real nervous. You know how cowboys are. She was making goo-goo eyes at him all the way back to the rail head. One night, Old Frenchy up and disappeared. Never found no trace of him except a half-tore up map with a bunch of places marked in Mexico. Now the morrow of this story…”
“Moral,” Sam interjected, yawning.
“That’s what I said. The morrow is, be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. Hey, you got any of that there beef jerky in the chuck wagon?”
By: Carlene Havel
“Got any of them sourdough biscuits left?” Jack asked as he spooned more beans onto his tin plate.
“Nope,” Sam replied. “Come daybreak I’ll fix up a new batch.”
“They sure disappeared fast. I should have stole a few more when I come through the grub line.”
Sam chuckled. “You talk like some kind of outlaw Jack. They’re just biscuits. There’s always more in the morning.”
“You never know.” Jack scanned the dark horizon. “This ain’t the French Riviera, you know. Something you have yet to learn, sonny boy. Most anything can happen on a cattle drive. Did I ever tell you about the time out west? We was way up in the mountains when a big horn storm rolled in. Blowing snow, sleet, couple of lightning strikes right near us. After the storm, we was snowed in. Thought we was all going to die.”
Sam stirred the campfire. Since this was the first time he’d been allowed to come along on a cattle drive, he didn’t want to alienate the trail boss. Still, he’d heard this story so many times he could say it by heart. “I think you did tell me about that. Last night, maybe.”
Jack went on as if Sam had never spoken. “Had a little lady with us for some danged reason, youngest daughter of the King family. You know, her uncle owned a big spread out in New Mexico. Me and old Lewis Jones figured we was done for after we run out of food. But we kept scouting around, finally found one of them notch passes where we might be able to cut through. Figured maybe we could escape to Big Fork Lake somewhere over near McMahill’s Crossing. How about some bacon? Any bacon left?”
“Sam’s treasure chest is never empty when it comes to salt pork. I’ll slice off a little and cook it up for you,” Sam said, fearing his choice was either to come up with additional food or listen to Jack spin yarns all night. He took out his trusty iron skillet and put another piece of wood on the campfire.
“Now Sarah—that was the King girl’s name—she was a stubborn little critter. She didn’t want no part of trying to ride a horse through one of them mountain passes. She told me she wasn’t going downhill on no sheet of ice because it was just an accident waiting to happen. Nothing I said could convince that little gal riding out of there was her only hope.”
Sam cut some slices as thin as he could from the block of salt pork he kept in a barrel on the side of the chuck wagon. The meat sizzled and spit when Sam plopped it into the heated iron skillet.
“Fire’s too hot. Lift up that skillet or you’ll burn my bacon,” Jack said. “Then spread out the wood and let things cool down a little. When you’re ready to stoke it up again, may as well put on some of the twigs Lewis cut from the apple tree when we come through the valley. Gives everything a real nice flavor. Got any corn pone?”
“No, the cowboys ate every crumb,” Sam said, not offering to whip up anything extra. Even if he was a novice at cooking, Jack’s unsolicited advice rankled him. Not to mention the trail boss’s numerous unscheduled meals.
“Now I bet you’d never guess what happened next,” Jack said, just before he scooped up a mouthful of beans.
“Oh, maybe Lewis told you the King girl was in love with one of the cowboys.”
“Matter of fact, that’s exactly what happened. Old Lew put a bug in my ear that this little gal had taken a shine to one of the cowboys name of Antoine Faucheux. Good-looking kid from the bayous around New Orleans. Of course we never called him nothing but ‘Frenchy’. Never inspired me much, but women seemed to like the way he talked. To hear old Frenchy tell it, he’d been around the world, worked in a diamond mine in Africa, lived in a garrett with a bunch of artists in Paris, worked on a couple of rail road crews in California. Bunch of malarkey if you ask me.” Jack gulped his coffee. “I don’t guess there’s any tortillas around? Grub wraps up real good in a tortilla.”
“Haven’t seen a tortilla since we left Durango.” Sam poured the pork slices, grease and all, onto Jack’s tin plate. Then he busied himself making the chuck wagon neat. Maybe if he closed everything up, Jack would catch the hint and let him get some rest.
Taking a bite of meat, Jack yelled, “hot.” Nevertheless he slid the rest of the pork into his mouth. “So anyway, I found Frenchy and asked him, ‘Is this King girl still sweet on you?’ Well, that kid looked as surprised as a colt wearing a saddle for the first time. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I have some desperate dreams, but I am constantly praying to the Virgin Mary, seeking patience.’ Now what in tarnation was that supposed to mean?”
“That he’s in love with Sarah King but he hadn’t told her because he’s poor and she’s rich.” Sam hoped his condensation of the story would speed things along.
Toasting Sam with his tin coffee cup, Jack said, “You’re mighty right, son. That’s just how it was. For us this was a roundup and cattle drive. But for that gal Sarah: a mission of love. For once, I played it smart. I told Miss King we’d get her horse over the mountain pass by having Frenchy walk and lead it. All of a sudden, she was all for the idea. See, she just wanted to get close to that danged Frenchman, and don’t ask me why. Pour me a little more of that coffee, will you?”
Sam was careful to get a handful of grounds in the cold coffee he put into Jack’s cup. Taking a sip, Jack didn’t blink an eye. He looked into the cup briefly and poured another gulp down his throat. “Well, sir, old Frenchy, he didn’t have any more sense than a calf eating loco weed. He had on a pair of them high falootin boots hand made down in Sofras County, must have cost fifty dollars. He got down off his horse and tried walking over the ice in them slick-bottomed boots, leading Miss Sarah’s horse—Trinity was that palomino’s name. They didn’t get too far before a bobcat run across the trail. Old Trinity shied and reared up, and Frenchy fell right smack on his assets. He started slipping and hollering, still holding onto the horses’ reins, and that gal was screaming like a banshee. There they went, the whole bunch of them sliding down that mountain just like a saint comes stumbling in the Sunday school class after getting blind stinking drunk on a Saturday night.
Jack laughed and slapped his knee. “Now wouldn’t you think that gal would have been mad as an old wet hen? No, sir. She said Frenchy saved her life and put a big smacker on him like it was a hero’s homecoming of some kind.”
Since the stars were beginning to illuminate the night sky, Sam stretched out his bedroll. “And they lived happily ever after.”
This time Jack laughed until he snorted. “That’s what Sarah wanted. As soon as Frenchy found out she was serious about him, he started getting real nervous. You know how cowboys are. She was making goo-goo eyes at him all the way back to the rail head. One night, Old Frenchy up and disappeared. Never found no trace of him except a half-tore up map with a bunch of places marked in Mexico. Now the morrow of this story…”
“Moral,” Sam interjected, yawning.
“That’s what I said. The morrow is, be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. Hey, you got any of that there beef jerky in the chuck wagon?”
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