A Death of Crows

Winner of the 2023 Inaugural Saddlebag Dispatches Longhorn Prize for Western Short Fiction

CHAPTER ONE

Lt. Charles Gatewood sat outside under the shaded portico with his boots propped up on a rough, weather-worn wood railing that ran the length of the post’s command building. The spring temperatures were ratcheting higher with each day, reminding him of the unmerciful, furnace-like heat of the impending fighting season.

Camp Apache was as remote a posting as any place in central Arizona’s Apache lands. In his present assignment, Gatewood served as the commander of the White Mountain Apache Scouts. It was lonely and dangerous duty, not only because of the camp’s isolated location, but because he lived with eighty-six restless Apache and one half-breed civilian scout and interpreter, Jess Cochrane, a man who had married into the Lipan Apache tribe.

His chief of scouts, Sergeant Alchesay, bounded up the command building steps, “Bay-chen-daysen, riders come.” Bay-chen-daysen, or long nose, was a name affectionately given to Gatewood by the Apache as a sign of their trust and respect.

“Who are they and how far out?” asked Gatewood.

“The rancher, Singleton, and one other, meebe two miles.”

“Get Cochrane over here. Singleton’s surely not droppin’ by on a social call. When they arrive, Sergeant, bring them into the office,” said Gatewood, as he stood and headed inside.

Clay Singleton ran one of central Arizona’s largest cattle operations. He was stubborn, cantankerous but well-respected by military and civilian leaders alike. And he hated Apache with a vengeance. He and Gatewood had clashed in the past over what Singleton believed was the lieutenant’s lenient treatment of his Apache charges. In turn, Gatewood viewed Singleton, and others like him, as men who refused to consider Apache human beings and who believed the extermination of all Apache should be the proper course of government policy.

Gatewood didn’t know the purpose of today’s visit but figured it had to involve complaints about something. Gatewood and Cochrane stood as Singleton and his ranch foreman, Buck Grimes, entered the office. Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged, before the four men turned to business.

An annoyed-looking Singleton wasted no time. “This morning one of my men was out doin’ a cattle count when he came across two recently butchered steers. This isn’t the first such incident, and I’m here to tell you it’s gotta stop and stop now. If you won’t do something about it, I will.”

“I’m not sure exactly what you have in mind, Mister Singleton, but I must warn you not to take any hostile action against the Apache. That, sir, is Army business. Now, show me on the map where the butchered cattle are located.”

Gatewood stood and turned to a large, wall-mounted map of the Arizona Territory which included the boundary of the White Mountain Apache Reservation.

“Buck, show the lieutenant where we found the carcasses,” said Singleton. Grimes studied the map momentarily and then pointed to a spot that appeared to be on reservation land. “I’d say about here.”

“Thanks,” said Gatewood, shaking his head as he returned to his chair. “I must say, Mister Singleton, you and I have had this conversation before. You continue to graze your cattle on reservation land, and the Apache don’t like it. Now, I’ve been thinking about it, and I have an idea that might help resolve the problem. I’m willing to approach the Apache leaders and ask if they would grant permission for you to graze your cattle on reservation land in exchange for some kind of compensation, be it direct payment, or if that’s unacceptable, payment in beeves they can use to supplement the paltry food allotment the government provides. There’d be advantages for both sides.”

Singleton frowned. “Let me make myself perfectly clear, Lieutenant. I believe that if you were doing your job properly, this problem wouldn’t exist. Why aren’t you doing more to protect settlers and ranchers like me? I believe your well-known, overly sympathetic view of the savages interferes with your ability to carry out your duties.”

“Mister Singleton, my views of the Apache people have never interfered with our efforts to protect white settlers, be they poor homesteaders or wealthy ranchers like yourself. We do have our limits. We do the best we can with the limited resources at our disposal. Now, what about my offer to mediate with the Apache chiefs for grazing rights?”

Singleton shook his head. “I wouldn’t spend a plug nickel to save the life of any Apache, and I have no desire to negotiate any form of compensation for the use of land that rightfully should belong to white men working to help civilize this wild country. To me, the only good Apache, and I mean man, woman, or child, is a dead Apache. Just know I intend to take up my concerns directly with your superiors including General Crook.”

“Well, I think you’ve made your position perfectly clear, Mister Singleton.” Turning to Jess Cochrane, Gatewood said, “Mister Cochrane, grab a couple of the boys, ride out, and have a look at the site Mister Singleton described, then report back to me.” Glancing at Singleton, Gatewood said, “We’ll be in touch when our investigation is complete. Remember what I said about not taking any action against the Apache, or you’ll force me to take action you’re not going to like. Unless you got something else, I believe we’re done here.” With that, Gatewood abruptly stood and walked out of the office.

On the ride back to the Diamond S ranch, Clay Singleton and his foreman hatched a new plan. Singleton ordered Grimes to move a small herd of cattle onto reservation land. “Then Buck, bring out a couple of the boys to keep watch over the herd. Tell ’em to kill on sight anybody trying to steal or butcher our cattle.”

“Okay, Boss. If it’s all right with you, I’ll assign Griffin to the job. He ain’t worth much working cattle, but the old buffalo hunter is still hell-on-wheels with that .50 caliber Sharps of his.”

“More than one way to skin a cat,” said Singleton, a broad smile decorating his weathered, pock-marked face.

Later that afternoon, Cochrane and the Apache scouts returned from the site where the cattle had been butchered and immediately reported to Gatewood. “What’d you find out, Jess?”

“Pretty much what Singleton and his foreman told us. Two head of cattle killed and butchered—lota good meat left on them steers. Two sets of unshod pony tracks leading away from the site and straight back to the village. We lost ’em as we neared the main village—too many tracks headed in every which direction.”

“No suspects?” asked Gatewood.

“Alchesay thinks it looks like it might be the work of a couple of youngsters. Older warriors would have stripped those cattle to the bone.”

Gatewood sighed. “Let’s contact our informers in the villages and see what they can find out. Maybe they can identify those responsible.”

“Already done. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything,” said Cochrane.

——————

CHAPTER TWO

One week later, as full dark approached, two Apache boys sat on their ponies on a hill overlooking a scrub oak meadow watching a small heard of grazing cattle. Dutchy and Big Belly had been warned by their elders not to kill any more cattle after having butchered two head the prior week. Hunger was a constant on the Arizona reservation, and the boys believed their recent behavior served to elevate their status among the People. At ages thirteen and fourteen respectively, the boys stood on the cusp of becoming warriors, and providing fresh meat for hungry reservation families was appreciated by everyone.

After watching and listening for several minutes, the boys slowly rode down to the edge of the herd, careful not to spook the animals. They dismounted, walked quietly among the herd until they had spotted two small yearlings, perfect for the kill. As they readied their bows, suddenly, several quail burst into the air from a small stand of cottonwoods some thirty yards away. Both boys stopped and dropped to one knee, glancing nervously at each other and then to the trees, before mistakenly concluding that whatever had scared the birds did not represent a threat to them. In the next instant, a flash followed by a thunderous boom destroyed the dusky quiet and sent the frightened cattle stampeding in every direction. At the same time, a bullet tore through the face of Dutchy, blowing away most of the back of his head. Big Belly glanced at his friend and knew there was nothing to be done for him. The boy dropped his bow and ran for his horse, jumping on the blue dun from behind and running for home. The dust cloud and the stampeding cattle may have saved the boy’s life as the sound of thunderous rifle fire echoed through the night sky. Big Belly felt a burning pain strike his upper right arm as a bullet tore through tissue and muscle almost dislodging the boy from his pony. Big Belly reached the village alive but had lost a lot of blood.

Within minutes, a dozen armed, horseback-mounted Apache were on their way to the scene of the shooting. They found the body of Dutchy exactly where he had fallen and his grazing horse a short distance away. Several of the Indians scattered and began looking for sign. In a nearby grove of cottonwoods, one of the Apache discovered the tracks of two shod horses and several spent cartridges lying on the ground. The ambush of the boys had occurred from this spot. Tracks of the shod ponies showed they had driven a small number of cattle south from the reservation back onto land belonging to the white-eye rancher, Singleton, before the tracks broke off and headed east.

On a moonless night, total darkness prevented the warriors from tracking the two killers. They would be hunted down at first light and made to suffer Apache-style retribution.

——————

The next morning just before dawn, Gatewood, a light sleeper by habit and necessity, awakened to the sound of a quiet footfall in the narrow hallway of the squat adobe building that served as officer sleep quarters. He reached for the Dragoon pistol resting at his side and waited. The door opened a crack and a voice said, “Tente, do not shoot.” Gatewood watched as Apache scout, Sergeant Alchesay, entered the room, accompanied by Tomas, an Apache who sometimes provided information to Gatewood about activities on the reservation.

“Tomas, it is good to see you, my friend. How is your family?”

“Hola, Bay-chen-daysen, muy bien, gracias,” replied Tomas.

“What information do you bring?”

“Big trouble—two young boys try butcher cattle belonging to white-eye rancher. One boy shot dead, other wounded. Boys ambushed by white-eyes guarding herd.”

Sergeant Alchesay added, “Dutchy, boy killed, was grandson of Chief Nana. War party leave reservation before dawn. Nana lead.”

“Damn,” said Gates, “that’s gonna be trouble. How many went with him?”

“Fifteen, maybe few more,” said Tomas.

“Sergeant, roust Cochrane and muster Company A of the scouts,” said Gatewood. “Five days’ food rations and extra munitions for each man.”

Alchesay nodded and hurried from the room. Twenty minutes later Cochrane, Gatewood, and twenty-two Apache scouts departed the fort.

When the patrol reached the ambush site, they discovered the fresh tracks of two shod horses pushing a small herd of cattle south off reservation land until the tracks of the suspected killers turned abruptly eastward away from the herd and the Singleton ranch. At least a dozen unshod Apache mustangs were in close pursuit of the two riders. When the trailing hostiles realized the two whites’ they hunted had deserted the cattle, they broke into two groups, sending a half-dozen fighters after the gringos, while the larger force continued in the direction of the Singleton Ranch.

Gatewood called a brief halt to rest the horses while he conferred with Cochrane and Alchesay.

“Mister Cochrane,” said Gatewood, “think these two cowboys have any idea just how much trouble they’re in?”

“Damn fools if they don’t,” said Cochrane.

“Anyone have an idea how many hands work for old man Singleton?”

“It’d be a guess, Lieutenant, but I’d say somewheres around a dozen, maybe a few more. It’s a large spread.”

“I wonder if he realizes he’s really kicked the hornet’s nest this time?” said Gatewood.

“Hard to say, but I’d bet old man Singleton set the whole thing up, so he damn sure ought to be expectin’ trouble.”

“You’d think,” replied Gatewood, “yet, from the trail, it looks like the bushwhackers are riding away from ranch headquarters.”

“Mebbe them frightened and try run away,” said Sergeant Alchesay.

“Possibly, or maybe Singleton ordered them to go into hiding someplace away from the ranch till things quiet down a bit,” said Gatewood. “What we know is that Nana has split the war party, with the larger force headed toward the Singleton Ranch and the smaller one going after the two cowhands. I’d like to know whether Nana intends to attack the Singleton Ranch.”

The scouts’ consensus was the larger group of hostiles wanted the pursuing cavalry to believe they intended to attack the Singleton ranch in an attempt to draw the column into chasing them, when, in reality, they never intended a frontal attack against ranch headquarters.

“A delaying tactic then, Mister Cochrane?”

“Think so, Lieutenant. The Apach pick their targets mighty careful and won’t usually attack a well-fortified target straight on. They just can’t afford to lose men. Alchesay says that we’ll find Nana leading the smaller war party in pursuit of the killers of his grandson.”

“All right,” said Gatewood. “Jess, pick two men and head over to the Singleton ranch and warn them.”

“And if the ranch is already under attack?” asked Cochrane.

“Once you’ve located the Apache, send a runner back to me on the double. Then do whatever you can to assist Singleton. In the meantime, I’ll continue in pursuit of Nana and the bunch chasin’ Singleton’s boys.”

——————

Gatewood led the column forward cautiously throughout the day placing scouts out front, to the sides, and the column’s rear. Soon after departure, he noticed that Alchesay had separated from the column, riding ahead, probably searching for sign. The troop moved ahead through rolling terrain covered by scattered stands of scrub oak, pinyon pine, and juniper. Granite and sandstone rock formations etched in colors of orange, yellow, and gray frequently towered over both sides of the narrow trail, providing many opportunities for ambush. Gusty winds blew intermittently throughout the afternoon raising dust and alkali particles, reducing visibility and sound. Carbines were held at the ready, and each man continually scanned the rocky outcrops for any sign of the hostiles. Gatewood knew that Apache liked surprise attacks against outnumbered foes, and, while they were skilled horsemen, they often preferred fighting on foot.

Late in the afternoon a forward scout, Santo, raced back to Gatewood with news. By then Gatewood had spotted several circling crows likely hovering above the dead or dying. A short distance farther, a thin column of smoke became visible, rising lazily into a cloudless blue sky to the southwest.

“Apache find white-eyes. They just ahead,” reported Santo.

——————

CHAPTER THREE

Gatewood motioned to Santo. “Lead the way.”

A couple of hundred yards farther on came the acrid smell recognizable to all men who hunted Apache—the sweet stench of burning human flesh. The odor grew stronger until the patrol ascended a low hill and emerged on to a mesa. There stood the burned-out remains of a small line shack smoldering in the early evening sun, the structure reduced to simmering ashes. Clearly, this had been a line shack used by wranglers employed on the Singleton ranch. Equally disturbing was a set of new unshod pony tracks that had come from the north, apparently joining the half-dozen hostiles pursued by Gatewood’s column.

“How many?” Gatewood asked Santo.

“Twelve, maybe few more,” replied Santo. That meant the group of hostiles they would now pursue was larger than the one headed directly toward the Singleton ranch. Gatewood ordered Santo to follow the Apache and report back on their movement and direction of travel.

A short distance from the line shack sat a small privy. An old wagon wheel had been attached to it, and the body of one of the cowboys was hung upside down from it. A fire had been lit under the man’s head, and it had burned his shoulders, face, and neck, until he was unrecognizable. It would have been a slow, painful death. The second wrangler had been tied facing the afternoon sun to a lone pinyon tree and bound around his ankles and wrists by rawhide straps. His tongue had been cut out and his eyelids removed, allowing the hot sun to do its torturous work. After the hostiles grew tired of this game, they used the man for target practice with over a dozen arrows scattered across his legs and torso. Both men had been made to suffer what the Apache would have considered appropriate retribution for the ambush of young Dutchy.

“Private Messai, take two men and cover these boys with rocks—no time for a proper burial. We need to move.”

An hour later, Santo returned from his scout and reported the hostiles were indeed traveling quickly in the direction of the Singleton ranch. Damn, thought Gatewood. Maybe we were wrong about the willingness of the hostiles to attack the ranch. The combined Apache force now stood somewhere around thirty fighters, enough for old Nana to at least consider an attack. But would he try it? Gatewood was uncertain, and it didn’t help that he hadn’t received a report from Cochrane regarding what was happening at Singleton’s place.

Again, Gatewood moved the column forward toward the Singleton ranch, ever conscious of the danger of ambush while pushing into the growing darkness. He intended to cover as much ground as possible until the rapidly receding sun dipped below the black mountains. As the landscape turned from sunlight to shadowy gray and the sky turned to hues of pink and pale orange, Cochrane and the scouts finally returned from the Singleton ranch accompanied by Sergeant Alchesay. Gatewood halted the command and ordered a short rest for horses and men. He huddled with scouts Alchesay, Santo, and Cochrane. Experience had taught him to listen carefully to his Apache scouts as their information was often accurate.

“What’s the current situation at the Singleton ranch?” asked Gatewood,

“The Apache managed to light a barn on fire and run off a few head of horses, but that was about it,” said Cochrane. “The wranglers managed to get the fire under control quickly, and that limited the amount of damage.”

“Good. No need for us to push on in the dark trying to reach Singleton. The question is what does Nana plan to do next?” said Gatewood. “My guess is the cagy old bastard will make a run for the border, cross into Sonora, and vanish into the Madres.” Cochrane nodded his agreement with that sentiment.

Alchesay and Santo conferred briefly using a mix of Apache, Spanish, and broken English before Alchesay turned to Gatewood. Pointing to a dark canyon a couple of miles in the distance, he said, “Bay-chen-daysen, Nana waits for you there.” Gatewood knew this canyon well. It was deep, narrow, with high rocky walls and many places to hide—perfect for an ambush.

“How do you know that?” asked Gatewood.

“Me find Nana. One group wait for you in canyon. Others hide where you enter. Kill all who go in canyon.”

“So, Nana has split his forces,” said Gatewood. “One group will be hidden above us along the sides of the canyon wall while the other one waits for us to enter the canyon and then closes the door behind us. Clever. Very clever. All right, here’s what we’re gonna do. Sergeant Alchesay, I want you to pick your best three shooters and slip into the canyon while it’s still dark and prepare to strike the hostiles waiting for us there. I will lead the troop into the canyon, and once the shooting starts, it will be our job to attack the Apache who follow us in. I’m counting on you, Sergeant, to raise hell with the hostiles already there. Are we clear?”

“Mister Gatewood,” said Cochrane, “I’d like to be one of the four who goes in with Alchesay.

“Permission granted, Mister Cochrane. To help give you an advantage, I want you to go back to the pack mules where you’ll find four new Winchester Model 73 repeating rifles. The new model includes a magazine that holds fifteen .44 caliber cartridges. Let’s use ’em to give old Nana hell, boys.” The rapid-firing Winchesters should provide a clear advantage to the mostly single-shot Apache rifles, thought Gatewood. While he would like to have added several additional scouts to the advance party, Gatewood knew that Nana would have dispatched his own men to surveil the approximate size of the column. Troop totals that didn’t match the Apache head count would have drawn immediate suspicion and might have led the Apache to abandon the ambush altogether and run for the border.

For the plan to work, the four scouts must enter the canyon in darkness and not be spotted by the waiting hostiles. Just ahead of dawn, Gatewood would march the remaining column into the canyon and allow the Apache coming in behind them to close the door. If everything worked according to plan, old Nana would be in for a very nasty surprise. And, if it didn’t, well….

——————

Cochrane, Alchesay, and two additional scouts waited until midnight before leaving on foot. Gatewood wanted to give them plenty of time to reach the canyon and locate the most advantageous firing positions before he moved the remaining column into the canyon. If the advanced scouts were discovered, the column would hear the shooting and know their plan had failed.

An hour before daylight, Gatewood led the column forward toward the canyon’s mouth, everyone on edge, nervously watching for any sound or movement that seemed out of place. As they neared the canyon entrance, Gatewood stopped and listened. The only sounds he heard were the bark of the crickets and the occasional blow from one of the horses. Everything stood deathly quiet. Despite the cool early morning temperature, Gatewood felt sweat forming in his armpits and dripping down his sides. He knew that the hostiles were watching them as they entered the canyon. About halfway in, the serene calm of the predawn morning was shattered by an explosion of gunfire just in front of the column. Shots rained down from everywhere, and initially, Gatewood was unable to determine which shots were coming from his scouts and how many from the hostiles. His scouts dismounted and took up firing positions at the base of the canyon walls. Gatewood ordered three additional men to reinforce the original team of four who were already laying down a brutal field of fire on the hostiles who appeared surprised and confused by the sudden turn. Gatewood and his remaining scouts faced their rear ready to confront the expected horseback charge of the remaining hostiles. A minute later, they came side-by-side, whooping and hollering, expecting to find a decimated and confused group of U.S. soldiers. Instead, they were greeted by a barrage of heavy rifle fire from more than a dozen Apache scouts. Screaming horses were hit and went down, some dead, others dying, while their riders were thrown unceremoniously to the ground. Several were shot down as they scrambled to their feet and raced for cover.

The fighting ended as abruptly as it had begun, with a gradual reduction in firing as the retreating Apache made a hurried withdrawal from the canyon. In the aftermath, the bodies of five Apache warriors were discovered, three dead and two wounded. The body of old Nana was not found among the casualties. Gatewood realized that a true casualty count would never be known as the Apache never left the bodies of dead and wounded unless absolutely necessary. Among his own scouts, Gatewood determined that four were wounded but only one seriously. The wounded were treated in the field as best they could before their return to Fort Apache. Nana’s remaining Apache fighters did what Apache always did—split into small groups and disappeared.

Gatewood and his remaining scouts chased the largest Apache group as they ran south toward the Mexican border until they vanished like the wind into Arizona’s harsh, desert landscape. Five days after it had begun, Gatewood led a weary group of Apache scouts back to Fort Apache.

As for the rancher, Clay Singleton, he denied any knowledge of the ambush of the two Apache boys and further denied employing either of the two cowboys responsible for the violence. While Singleton faced no legal consequences for the ambush, Gatewood found some satisfaction in reminding the man that Chief Nana would never forgive or forget the murder of his grandson and that the Apache were a patient people who always took the long view when it came to seeking retribution from their enemies.

——————

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Why write a 19th century historical fiction story centered on the life of an arguably obscure U.S. cavalry officer, in this instance, Charles Bare Gatewood? It’s a fair question. Here’s the answer.

I first became aware of Lieutenant Charles Gatewood after watching the 1993 movie, Geronimo: An American Legend. While the film was entertaining, it contained many historical errors. That aside, I began to wonder whether the character of Charles Gatewood was real or merely Hollywood fiction. Thus began my personal journey into the history of the Apache Wars. Not only did I discover that Charles Gatewood was real, but that he had played an important—if at times, controversia—role during the last decade of the Apache Wars (circa 1878-1886). In particular, Gatewood was most prominent in the last Apache war, a war historians frequently refer to now as the Geronimo Campaign.

Leading a party of six men, Gatewood, while seriously ill, departed Fort Bowie, Arizona, on July 16, 1886. He had been ordered by General Nelson Miles to enter Mexico and locate and convince Geronimo and his small band of followers to surrender to Miles on U.S. soil. This was no small feat since Geronimo had eluded some 5,000 U.S. Army soldiers for months, troops that Miles had spread to points all over the American Southwest. When Gatewood finally found Geronimo, several days of tense negotiations ensued in which the Apache vacillated between surrender and fighting to the death. Many historians believed that the trust and respect the Apache people held for Gatewood was ultimately responsible for their decision to surrender. That surrender did not come without conditions, however. Geronimo insisted that Gatewood personally escort his followers out of Mexico into southern Arizona. Further, Geronimo refused to surrender their weapons until safely across the border and in the custody of General Miles.

Gatewood later wrote the return trip was tense and often dangerous. He and his prisoners had to avoid contact with the Mexican Army as well as roving detachments of U.S. troops still hunting for Geronimo with orders to kill him on sight. Despite several close encounters, Gatewood successfully delivered Geronimo and his followers to General Miles on September 4, 1886, at Skeleton Canyon in southern Arizona. This action brought about an end to the Apache Wars.

Sadly, General Miles took the lion’s share of credit for the capture of Geronimo and took steps to ensure that Gatewood was kept from receiving the credit he deserved for Geronimo’s surrender. Gatewood served the remainder of his military career in obscurity and without promotion. In 1895, Gatewood was nominated for the Congressional Medal of Honor, however, the acting Secretary of War denied the request. Gatewood died of cancer a year later at age forty-three, leaving behind a wife and two children. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

After graduating from West Point in 1877, Gatewood became a member of the U.S. 6th Cavalry Regiment and was ordered to Fort Wingate, New Mexico in 1878. He quickly immersed himself in studying the culture, religion, and language of the Apache people. His reputation spread quickly, and within a year, General George Crook transferred him to Fort Apache, Arizona, where he assumed command of the White Mountain Apache scouts. Crook recognized that Gatewood was fast becoming one of the premier Apache men in the U.S. Army.

Gatewood’s duties required him to lead his Apache scouts in the field often in pursuit of renegades who had jumped reservation boundaries. Other responsibilities included managing the day-to-day lives of hundreds of Apache confined on the reservation—again no small feat. These duties frequently placed Gatewood in conflict not only with his Apache charges but with ranchers, homesteaders, and local community leaders. Gatewood had little tolerance for corrupt Indian agents and government contractors who became adept at stealing from the reservation Apache.

The above story, while a fictional account of a conflict between an influential Arizona rancher and the Apache living on the Fort Apache reservation, typified the kinds of problems that beset Gatewood throughout his career in the American Southwest.

While working to grasp the essence of the frontier life of this heroic historical figure, I included the following source material: Lt. Charles Gatewood & His Apache Wars Memoir, by Charles B. Gatewood, Edited by Louis Kraft, 2005, University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln, NE.; Indeh: An Apache Odyssey, by Eve Ball with Nora Henn and Lynda Sanchez, 1980, Brigham Young University Press, Provo, UT.; Gatewood & Geronimo, by Louis Kraft, 2000, University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque, NM.

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Michael Norman has written five mystery novels and three western short stories. His mystery novels are from two different series. The Sam Kincaid novels are The Commission, named by Publisher’s Weekly as one of its 100 best books of 2007, Silent Witness, and Slow Burn. The second series includes two contemporary western mysteries set in Utah, On Deadly Ground and Skeleton Picnic.

Recently, Michael has written three western short stories devoted to the Apache Wars. The first, “Lozen’s War,” was published in the Summer 2022 issue of Saddlebag Dispatches and received a coveted Copper Medallion from the Will Rogers Medallion Awards. “A Death of Crows” is the second in this series, and “Following the Vengeance Trail – Gouyen’s Story,” is awaiting publication. Michael has also been a frequent contributor to the Salt Lake Tribune.

A former police officer and state parole board member, Michael spent 25 years as a university professor teaching in the Department of Criminal Justice at Illinois State University and later at Weber State University in Utah.

Michael and his wife, Diane, live in beautiful Lake Chapala, Mexico, with their pit bull, Kady.