Terry C. Johnston - Buffalo Palace: The Plainsmen

DANCE ON THE WIND

A good book not only gives readers a wonderful story, but also provides vivid slices of history that surround the colorful characters.

Dee Brown, author of
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee

Packed with people, action and emotion makes you wish it would never end.

Clive Cussler

WINTER RAIN

Some of the finest depictions of Indian warfare I have ever read. Johnstons romantic vision imbues the early West with an aching beauty that moderns can only dream of.

Richard S. Wheeler, author of
Two Medicine River

CRY OF THE HAWK

This novel has the epic sweep of the frontier built into it.

Publishers Weekly

Will stain the reader with grease, blood, and smoke.

Kirkus Reviews

THE SON OF THE PLAINS TRILOGY

Terry Johnston is the genuine article. His Custer trilogy is proving this significant point, just as his Indian wars and mountain man boooks prove it. I admire his power and invention as a writer, but I admire his love and faith in history just as much.

Will Henry, author of
From Where the Sun Now Stands

CARRY THE WIND, BORDERLORDS, and ONE-EYED DREAM

Johnstons books are action-packed a remarkably fine blend of arduous historical research and proficient use of language lively, lusty, fascinating.

Gazette-Telegraph, Colorado Springs

Rich and fascinating There is a genuine flavor of the period and of the men who made it what it was.

The Washington Post Book World

Slick with survival-and-gore heroics and thick with Northwest-wilderness period detail (182040), this gutsy adventure-entertainment is also larded with just the right amounts of frontier sentiment.

Kirkus Reviews

Johnston offers memorable characters, a great deal of history and lore about the Indians and pioneers of the period, and a deep insight into human nature, Indian or white.

Booklist

Cry of the Hawk
Winter Rain
Dream Catcher

Carry the Wind
Borderlords
One-Eyed Dream

Dance on the Wind
Buffalo Palace
Crack in the Sky
Ride the Moon Down
Death Rattle

S ONS OF THE P LAINS N OVELS
Long Winter Gone
Seize the Sky
Whisper of the Wolf

T HE P LAINSMEN N OVELS
Sioux Dawn
Red Clouds Revenge
The Stalkers
Black Sun
Devils Backbone
Shadow Riders
Dying Thunder
Blood Song
Reap the Whirlwind
Trumpet on the Land
Cold Day in Hell
Wolf Mountain Moon
Ashes of Heaven
Cries from the Earth
Lay the Mountains Low

For all the faith he had in me
and my vision of the old west
right from the very first,
I dedicate this novel of the time Titus Bass
reaches his beloved Shining Mountains
to
BILL GOLLIHER,
with my deepest appreciation for putting
Ol Scratch and Carry the Wind
in all those stores
up and down the Colorado Rockies ten long years ago.

The history of any land begins with nature, and all histories must end with nature.

J. Frank Dobie

Reining away from Troosts Livery, Titus Bass gave the jug-headed Indian pony urgent taps of his heels, pointing it down the muddy, rutted ruin of Second Street.

Puddles of rain glittered as the sun continued its leisurely rise, the surface of each tiny pool left behind by last nights rain reflecting rose light like broken panes of glass scattered here and there among the heaps of wheel-cut ruts and piles of dung gone cold. Shadows still cloaked nearly all of St. Louis, save for the tallest rooftops gently steaming as they warmed.

Instead of heading directly north, he hurried south out of town, downriver some four miles until he reached the shady glen far from the clutter of settlement and folk. Far from the clatter of mans comings and goings. Someplace far from being underfoot. After all this time Titus was again gratified at the utter peace he sensed there as he halted, dismounted, and tied the two animals off to one of the trees ringing the glade. Plodding quietly in his thick-soled boots across the grassy carpet grown lush already this early spring, he had no trouble locating the mound. Stopping a few feet away, he took it in, finding many of the wildflowers he had transplanted nearly a year before budding once again with renewed life here above the old trappers resting place.

Down in this grove the shadows lingered long of a morning. And the damp mist clung in among the trees, wispy among the climbing ivy and grape. Eventually, Titus inched forward, stopping at the foot of the grave.

Isaac. Its me: Titus, he said barely above a whisper, the way a man might first address someone he found sleeping. I come come here to tell you my fare-thees, Isaac. Im bound awayfor where the two of us was counting on going together. Out yondering to them prerras and far mountains you told me of again and again.

Then he realized and suddenly snatched the floppy felt hat from his head, dropping his eyes as if in apology for his discourteous oversight.

Wish you was going along, Bass continued. Probably asking yourself why I aint gone already, aincha? So let me tell you that you being heredead and buriedthats the onliest reason I aint gone afore now. There I was, planning all the time on tagging long with you then you go and get yourself killt. That washell, it felt just like one of them old brood mares I was shoeing for Troost gone and kicked me right in the gut.

He dropped the hat onto the foot of the grave there among the profusion of newly emerging wildflowers and slowly went to his knees. Placing one palm flat on the grave, Titus continued.

Took me some time to get over your dying, Isaac Washburn. Pained me like few other things ever pained me afore in my life. I was counting on something so hardthen you go and act the idjit and youre gone gone along with my dreams of ever getting to them Shining Mountains you seen with your own eyes.

He felt that first sting of tears burn, and swiped at his eyes with a single cold finger as a ray of sun burst through the canopy overhead, the first to streak into the glade.

Took me a long time to get over the loss of you and my dreams both, Isaac. Didnt get over it till I up and figgered out I could damn well go on my own. I didnt need you like I figured I did. Got me a fine gun of my own now. The rest of our plunder and truck tied up in them bundles over yonder on them horses. And Im riding your pony my own self. Taking it back to the prerra where I figure it belongs.