A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale

I have some really exciting news to share today! Tom Van Dyke, author of A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale, has a new holiday gift book available! It's an amazing read and becoming a Holiday Classic. Read on below for the book description, synopsis, book excerpt, author bio and website.

Book Details:

Title: A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale

Author: Tom Van Dyke

Publisher: Page Branch Publishing

Genres: Western Historical Fiction, Action Adventure

Website: Get Your Autographed Copy with FREE Shipping Today! at www.ACowboyChristmas.com & "Enjoy The Ride!"

Description: An American tale rich in history and vivid word pictures is drawn with colorful imagination and told in a cowboy's flavorful soup of words with wit, grit, and humor—an inspiring adventure of discovery, character, strength and romance.

Synopsis: A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale is a magical story that crisscrosses the expansion of the Western frontier and collides with destiny.

IT'S GOOD AND IT MOVES! Tom Van Dyke tells a rousing tale of a young man learning how to cowboy and finding the girl of his dreams. I've written a good 40 western stories but learned a lot from Tom’s book. —ELMORE LEONARD, Novelist

An American tale rich in history and vivid word pictures is told in a cowboy’s flavorful soup of words with wit, grit, and humor in an inspiring adventure of discovery, strength, character and romance. A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale has galloped into the hearts and minds of readers of all ages in an adventure that sweeps across the American Southwest —1873. Masterfully crafted, the story explores the lore of the western frontier when it was imagined to be as big and far away as the moon.

INSPIRING! A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale reveals the true American West but goes even further. A man and woman who refuse to let a soaring relationship disappear is a sign of life on earth at its best. —MICHAEL BLAKE, Author of Dances With Wolves

A WESTERN ADVENTURE —A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale is a story about cowboys who burn themselves like candles for experiences worth living and values that created strength and revealed character. The tale begins just beyond the far bank of the Mississippi River and sweeps across the Arizona and New Mexico Territories westward to California gold.

WB, not yet sixteen, crosses the mighty river without fear and leaves the muddy shores of civilization behind. With empty pockets, a spark for life, and a wild sense of freedom, he follows his heart searching for adventure and fortune in a new world. Experiencing the harsh realities of the Great Plains, WB's roam takes a dramatic twist when he meets the love of his life. As they are falling in love and as fate has it, they are separated. Crisscrossing the far West in search of each other, experiencing the perils of a wild frontier and western theater of unraveled characters, they discover a land bigger and more beautiful than any dream.

A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale is a wonderful tale of a young cowboy's roam and a heartfelt love story. A great Christmas story and a delightful read for all seasons. —THOMAS COBB, Author of Crazy Heart

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

BLOWING IN THE WIND

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.” —William Shakespeare

BLOWING IN THE WIND, I wasn’t much more than a hayseed, fifteen years old, when I stowed away on a wooden ship crossing the Atlantic Ocean from the old country. I was on the trail for adventure, discovery, and fortune in the new world. It was the year I gave up my gold and silver—1873. With the gold sovereign from my parents, I bought an Indian pony and a high-horned Mexican saddle from a trader. I traded the silver pocket watch my father had given me for an American rifle and I was off. I was looking to ripen in the far West.

Chasing the rainbow, I started my roam. I crossed the Mississippi and left the muddy bank of civilization as I knew it. Rumors of free land with vast riches, and the discovery of California gold lying on the ground no deeper than a carrot, had set off a stampede of white-hooded wagons migrating in pandemonium for the land of the setting sun.

The further I plowed from civilization the more of it I found. Furniture and other items of good intention too heavy for mule or ox to haul another day were left, picked over, and strewn along the trails.

And then with certain predictability, miles up ahead, I’d find graves marked with headboards, and the bleached bones of an ox or horse that travelers were forced to slaughter for lack of food and planning. This was common sight.

Trail-weary mules would haul to a stand-off, refusing to budge. Negotiations began with a crack of the whip, followed by a barrage of verbal encouragements, blistering the ears of the mules and not fit for the lessons of Sunday school.

Another household item would sail from the prairie schooner.

Having rested for two hours and satisfied their terms had been addressed, the victors, with another crack of a whip, would launch a momentary charge up the trail. The dust would flood over the top of the wagon wheels and through the spaces between the loops of the canvas ties into the wagon.

This combined folly of tongue, temper, whip, and grunt created a sight that made the covered wagons appear to float like boats on billowing waves in clouds of dust.

Between the torrid sun and the relentless dust, faces burned and noses bled from the dry, cutting dust which covered every man, woman, and child —inside and out.

Not everyone’s wagon made it across the vast prairie. At a point of no turning back, I passed a family downloading a heavy rosewood sideboard from their wagon to lighten the load. I stopped to help them. Admiring the beautiful family heirloom, mother ran her hand over the dusty top revealing the craftsmanship and fine, polished finish. She smiled with a distant gaze releasing memories and a time past. With a deep breath and as if she had suddenly remembered a forgotten chore, she turned quickly and returned to the wagon.

I watched as she stretched her boot to climb the wooden spokes. Pulling herself up hand-over-hand, she pushed off the hub to the top of the wheel and crossed over to take her place on the wooden seat of the wagon. Gripping the reins, her hands were cracked and calloused. Her beauty once bright and obvious, now of fewer years than thirty was fading with hardship and toil. Her lips were blistered and her fair skin parched, scrubbed by the wind, sun, and alkaline water.

Her striking eyes, the color of the ocean, were hardened with resolve in a steely gaze that left me with no doubt that with all the six-gun bravado and strength of the sombreros, the settlement of this hostile frontier would be carved out by the steadfast determination and courage of sunbonnets.

Having endured the endless solitude, monotony, and arid expanse of the Great Plains, I slowly approached the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

Overcome by thirst, I was losing my song and enthusiasm for the lore of the West.

The trail was cluttered with believers and sorry settlers, Yankee neighbors, Rebel brothers, white marauders, men with all the earmarks of bad company—and me.

Rising up in the foothills before me, stood a majestic woodland forest of pine spears guarding the blue horizon of paradise. Mountain streams swarming with trout cut through the dense thicket of ponderosa pines. Thundering waterfalls glistened, cascading down the rock face.

I was looking for a trail of worn passage I could follow westward. The startling hoop-and-holler, which I first thought were Indians, set me on a gallop of escape and safety.

I threw a quick glance back over my shoulder. They were three bandits, looking for loot—my horse, saddle, rifle, anything in my pockets worth a cent. With rebel yells and caps popping, they were gaining on me. Their bullets buzzed by my ears like flies.

If the likes of me was worth their charge, they had to be desperate.

The sound of their yells and the whiz bangs of their bullets startled my pony. And with the speed of an arrow, he wheeled sharply, almost running out from under me—a talent he had kept hidden from me till then. We blazed for cover in the tall pines.

The marauders were closing and their rounds splintered and shattered the bark of the dense maze of trees we were fast approaching. There was no room to fit or enter.

The stream with its roaring rapids was just ahead. If we tried to cross, we’d be sitting ducks. At the stream’s edge, a narrow path used by elk, deer, and the Indian for passage over the mountain twisted up and followed the bank of the river. We slipped into the fortress of shaded cover. The low hanging pine bows whipped past us, stinging both our hides.

Our climb slowed to a fast walk, weaving about the switchbacks up the slope, drifting through patches of light streaming through the high branches of the cathedral pines. Rushing up behind us, I could hear the blundering bandits’ grumbling the worth and effort of their campaign.

A rifle cracked lead—a branch snapped down smacking me loose from the saddle. My startled pony slipped, dislodging rocks and black soil that fell splashing into the river. As he stumbled to catch his footing, I desperately clung on looking over the sheer edge of the high-cut bank at the fierce deafening rapids of the river below.

The dense trail unraveled. Up ahead was a small clearing that glowed green. Surprised, my pony jerked with a sudden stop, wide-eyed and snorting. Two bear cubs scampered across the trail—they were not alone! The ROAR startled every living thing and shook birds from their roosts. Mother was ANGRY! We had just entered her home—uninvited.

I was trapped!

The awesome force of Nature lay in my path and the blazing gunfire and crime of bandits squeezed me from the rear.

Rising up to her full height of seven feet, with a reach to ten, she made a massive impression with snarling teeth. She was going to defend her cubs. With glaring yellow eyes, the silver-tipped hairs on her neck and humpback shoulders were up. Moaning, swinging her head, the extended claws of her paws were ready to thrash.

Nervous and snorting, my pony pitched and danced around. I turned hearing the voices of the bandits rustling up the trail from below. I saw the flash of a rifle. The shot echoed, booming and bouncing off the surrounding cliffs and high peaks.

Momma moaned and glanced around to see the whereabouts of her two baby cubs.

The trap was sprung—the moment was now!

My pony reared up to challenge her size and bolted straight at the grizzly. I lunged forward with all I was worth and let out the ‘rebel yell’ I had just become acquainted with.

The grizzly was struck by the surprise of our charge and momentarily faltered as we pushed past her. With snapping teeth and a whirling swat, she busted me from the saddle.

I dangled over the edge of the high-cut bank of the river grasping onto the saddle horn. My throbbing bloody arm was still attached. Righting myself, we bolted up the trail with momma bound-ing on our heels.

With leaping strides, the nine hundred pound grizzly raced, covering ground—thirty yards, twenty, ten—closing faster than my heart beat. In five she’d be pulling us down. With my pony’s last burst of strength, we dashed up and over the high-cut bank and vaulted thirty feet down into the deep waters of the river below.

The echoing roar of the grizzly standing on the high bank of the river’s edge greeted us as we surfaced the water. My Indian pony was already swimming to the far edge. Red rivulets of blood streamed from the claw marks of my wound. The cold, clear water relieved the pain.

The grizzly swaggered along the steep bank, looking up and down for access. Rising up to her full magnificent height, she let out a shrilling ROAR!

My trail-wise pony made his way up the other side of the steep-winding slope of a pristine mountain wilderness, yet undefiled by the presence of man.

The scent of pine and wildflowers filled my head. As we climbed higher, the air thinned and became cooler. Above the high shadows of late afternoon, the tips of the tall pines glistened in the warm rays of the sun.

I approached the crest of the mountain at twilight. I sat there spellbound—gazing at the luminous light glazing the distant western landscape as if it were the dawn of creation itself.

The wild and free beauty before me rekindled my enthusiasm and spirit. Raw, heavy vapors rose in harmony from the valley floor up into the glowing atmosphere of boiling red clouds. I watched the shimmering afterglow mesmerized as the theater of light slowly faded into a starlight encore that twinkled and glowed with brilliant constellations and blazing shooting stars.

Praise:

“It’s good and it moves! Tom Van Dyke tells a rousing tale of a young man learning how to cowboy and finding the girl of his dreams. I’ve written a good 40 western stories but learned a lot from Tom’s book.” —ELMORE LEONARD, Novelist

“INSPIRING. A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale reveals the true American West but goes even further. A man and woman who refuse to let a soaring relation- ship disappear is a sign of life on earth at its best.” —MICHAEL BLAKE, Author of Dances With Wolves

“A Cowboy Christmas is a wonderful tale of a young cowboy's roam and a heartfelt love story. A great Christmas story and a delightful read for all seasons." —THOMAS COBB, Author of Crazy Heart

“I’m a narrative painter, so as I read this book, the words drew pictures in my mind. These images are vivid and the story feels real. A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale, is a welcome addition to my library.” —HOWARD TERPNING, Western Artist

“A GREAT RIDE!” —BOB BOZE BELL, True West magazine

“A Cowboy Christmas is a warm, well-written tale of a young man discovering himself and the new world during an engaging adventure in the American West. The book took me back in time and sparked memories of when I was working on Western films with my friend John Wayne.” —DON COLLIER, Western Film and TV Actor

“A Cowboy Christmas An American Tale is a beautiful story for all ages. Not since the work of James Dickey have I read such poetry in a novel. A wonderful remembrance for what the Old West once was. Don’t wait for the film—buy the book now.” —KEN ROTCOP, Screenwriter-Producer

“Tom Van Dyke has crafted an inspired story of the Old West, Arizona and New Mexico Territories—1873. A well-researched tale of an adventuresome young man carving out a life that most men can only dream about. Hold on tight. It’s a fast ride. This magical tale fits like a vintage Stetson and good pair of boots.”—MARSHALL TRIMBLE Official Arizona State Historian

“I tasted the dust and lived the adventure of being on the Western frontier. The narrative arc, authenticity of the story, and fine-cut dialogue drew me in—captivating my imagination. I was there, enjoying every moment. Mr. Van Dyke is a most enjoyable wordsmith.” —CYNTHIA WEBER, School Teacher

Author Bio:

TOM VAN DYKE lives with his wife on their ranch in the foothills of Tonto National Forest, Cave Creek, Arizona. Tom is a nationally recognized film producer/director and award-winning screenwriter. One of his motion pictures was considered for nomination of an Academy Award?.

Tom created and wrote the American Bicentennial television public service announcements, Stand Up and Be Counted, featuring John Denver, the most widely viewed national and international PSAs in the history of television.

His creative expression of writing and film production is shared with his creation of fine art. Tom’s sculptures, paintings and photography have been exhibited or are in the permanent collections of the NY Museum of Modern Art, the Carnegie Art Institute, the Buffalo Bill Historical Center, the Detroit Institute of Arts, the Henry Ford Museum, the Cranbrook Academy of Art, and the Butler Institute of American Art.

Website Link:

Get Your Autographed Copy & FREE Shipping Today! www.ACowboyChristmas.com