The Brave

A Letter from Nick Evans

Hi Bookclub Members,
I hope you'll soon get the chance to read my new novel, The Brave.  We first meet the main character of the story, Tom Bedford, in 1959 when he is just eight years old.  Like a lot of boys at that time, me included, he is obsessed with Cowboys and Indians.  It’s all I ever wanted to play.  My poor sister, three years older, was under constant attack with bows and arrows and rubber tomahawks.  Bless her heart, she still talks to me.  I could still sing you all the theme tunes to the TV westerns I used to watch - The Range Rider, Maverick, Rawhide, Wagon Train (the best of all).  I suppose this was where my love affair with the American West started.  And it has never ended.  It’s where all five of my novels are, at least partly, set. 

I grew up (and still live) in England and didn't get to see the real West until I was in my early twenties.  Like a lot of English students, I Grayhounded across America and then, a few years later, found myself covering US politics for a London TV station. When I first saw those western states, I realized, of course, that most of those corny old TV shows had been shot on the backlot of some studio in LA, because the real thing was so much vaster and more beautiful. 

I visited most western states over the years, but it wasn’t until I was researching my first novel, The Horse Whisperer, that I got to go to Montana.  It was love at first sight.  And since then I have been back many times and have made some wonderful friends there.

The Brave is, again, partly set in Montana.  But it also takes us to England and to the Hollywood of the early 1960s, where our young hero even gets to meet the great Steve McQueen.  I won’t tell you more because I don’t want to spoil the story or give away any of the twists and secrets.  Let me just say that I hope you enjoy it and thank you for taking the trouble to read it.
All best wishes
Nicholas

The Brave

THEY FOUND the tracks at dawn in the damp sand beside the river about a mile downstream from where the wagons had circled for the night. Flint got off his horse, the odd-looking one that was black at the front and white at the back, as if someone had started spraying him with paint then had second thoughts. Flint knelt down to have a closer look at the tracks. Bill Hawks stayed on his horse watching him and every so often glancing nervously up at the scrubby slope that rose steeply behind them. He clearly thought the Indians who had kidnapped the little girl might be watching. He pulled out his gun, checked it was loaded, then holstered it again.
“What do you reckon?”
Flint didn’t answer. To anyone else, including Bill Hawks, the tracks just looked like holes in the mud. But to Flint McCullough they told a whole story.
“Must have ridden downstream in the water so as not to leave tracks around camp,” Bill said. “You can see this is where they came out.”
Flint still didn’t look at him.
“Uh-huh. At least, that’s what they want us to think.”
He swung himself back into the saddle and steered his horse into the water.
“What do you mean?”
Again Flint didn’t reply. He rode across the shallows to the opposite bank, then followed it downstream another thirty yards or so, his eyes scanning every rock and clump of grass. Then he found what he was looking for.
“Flint? Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Come see for yourself.”
Bill rode across to join him. Flint had dismounted again and was squatting on the bank, peering at the ground.
“Darn it, Flint, will you tell me what you’re up to? What are we waiting for? Let’s get after them.”
“See here, among the rocks? More hoof marks. Deeper ones. The tracks on the other side are kinda shallow. No riders. It’s an old Shoshone trick. They turn some horses loose then double up to send you off on the wrong trail. This here’s the way they went.”
Bill Hawks shook his head, impressed and a little irritated, as people often were, by Flint’s brilliance.
“How much of a start have they got on us?”
Flint squinted at the sun.
“Three hours, maybe three and a half.”
“How many of them?”
“Three horses, five or six men. Plus the girl.”
“Let’s go.”
Flint mounted up and the two of them rode away along the riverbank.
“Tommy! Bedtime!”
It was his mother, calling from the kitchen. She always got the timing wrong. Tommy pretended he hadn’t heard.
“Tommy?”
She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Come on, now. It’s half past eight. Up you go.”
“Mum, it’s Wagon Train. It goes on for an hour.”
She looked confused. The familiar evening smell of gin and cigarette smoke had wafted with her into the sitting room. Tommy gave his most angelic smile.
“It’s the one I love most. Please.”
“Oh, go on then, you little rascal. I’ll bring your milk.”
“Thanks, Mum.”

Excerpt from The Brave granted with permission by Little, Brown and Company,
New York, NY. Copyright © 2010 by Nicholas Evans.