Cover image for Into the savage country
Title:
Into the savage country
Author:
Burke, Shannon, author.
Personal Author:
Edition:
First edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Pantheon Books, [2015]
Physical Description:
252 pages ; 22 cm
Summary:
"When the young William Wyeth leaves St. Louis for a fur-trapping expedition, he nearly loses his life and quickly discovers the depth of loyalty among the men who must depend on one another to survive. While convalescing, he falls in love with proud Alene, a young widow who may or may not wait for him. And on a wildly risky expedition into Crow territory, Wyeth finds himself unwittingly at the center of a deadly boundary dispute among Native American tribes, the British government, and American trapping brigades"--Dust jacket flap.
General Note:
"A novel"--Jacket.
Language:
English
ISBN:
9780307908926
Format :
Book

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Summary

Summary

This breathtaking adventure set in the American West of the 1820s is at once a tale of complex friendships, a love story, and a panoramic retelling of a crucial moment in American history.
 
When the young William Wyeth leaves St. Louis for a fur-trapping expedition, he nearly loses his life and quickly discovers the depth of loyalty among the men who must depend on one another to survive. While convalescing, he falls in love with proud Alene, a young widow who may or may not wait for him. And on a wildly risky expedition into Crow territory, Wyeth finds himself unwittingly at the center of a deadly boundary dispute among Native American tribes, the British government, and American trapping brigades. A classic adventure told with great suspense and literary flair, Into the Savage Country illuminates the ways in which extreme circumstances expose the truth about the natures of individual men and the surprising mechanics of their bravery, loyalty, and friendship.


Author Notes

Shannon Burke is the author of the novels Safelight and Black Flies (a New York Times Notable Book). He has also worked on several film projects, including Syriana . He lives in Tennessee.


Reviews 3

Booklist Review

Burke, author of contemporary novels Starlight (2004) and Black Flies (2008), delves into the past and traverses a beautiful, savage land in this homage to the American wilderness. When a restless William Wyeth journeys west of St. Louis in 1826, the untamed territory beckons a diverse group of spiritual, political, and financial opportunists. Joining a fur-trapping outfit, he ventures into the wild, experiencing friendship, romance, and conflict in equal measure. The magnificent scenery and sense of place serve as more than a backdrop, taking on the contour of a main character in this beautifully conceived version of frontier life. Steeped in Americana, this gritty testament to the fortunes and foibles of one man moves well beyond classic notions of romantic nationalism, revealing the complex core of a rapidly evolving environmental landscape.--Flanagan, Margaret Copyright 2014 Booklist


Publisher's Weekly Review

Burke's first venture into western fiction (after two novels set in the present, Safelight and Black Flies) is a masterpiece of historical accuracy and exciting storytelling. Set in the 1820s, this bawdy tale of unwashed mountain men and foul-smelling fur trappers follows a 22-year-old tenderfoot named William Wyeth, who is seeking his fortune as a trapper with such real-life notables as Jim Bridger, Jedediah Smith, and Hugh Glass. Wyeth is an idealistic young man, eager to prove his worth to his doubting father, and just as eager to win the affection of Alene Chevalier, the destitute widow of a friend. Then a rival for Chevalier's attention shows up: the unscrupulous Henry Layton, an old enemy of Wyeth's. Layton plans to start his own fur company and invites Wyeth (who needs money) to join, which is too tempting for Wyeth to refuse. Their Market Street Fur Company must compete with other American, British, and French trapping outfits, as well as the Crow and Blackfeet Indians, in western Wyoming's inhospitable Wind River Mountains. Wyeth and his party contend with bear attacks, betrayal, and murder-and not all of them keep their hair. Meanwhile, Wyeth wonders if Alene will still be waiting when he returns from the mountains. This is a raucous tale of a young man's dream colliding with reality, and it also makes an entertaining history of fur trapping. Agent: David McCormick, McCormick & Williams. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.


Library Journal Review

It's 1826. The American West is still wilderness, and William Wyeth is ready to indulge his restless nature and sign on with a fur-trapping outfit. He spends a season in the mountains as a trapper and forms deep friendships with his companions, learning to live with deprivations and danger on the trail. He comes across native encampments, encounters hostile British outposts, joins massive buffalo hunts, gets himself shot, and also finds time for romance. While many vivid events are related here, Burke's (Safelight; Black Flies) third novel is a slower-moving historical narrative, bound to appeal to those who enjoy real-life accounts of opening the West. VERDICT In its realism, the novel echoes Francis Parkman's The Oregon Trail and is told in retrospect by an adult William, so any tension about his survival is defused. Rather, readers enjoy a thoughtful reminiscence about the last unrestricted years of the fur trade. There are no cowboys but plenty of Western landscapes, hardworking trappers, and native tribes. This satisfyingly complex portrayal of a Western reality doesn't need white or black hats to engage the reader.-Melanie Kindrachuk, Stratford P.L., Ont. (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Book One The Voyage Out I was twenty-two years old and feverish with the exploits of Smith and Ashley. I followed their accounts in the Gazette and the Intelligencer and calculated their returns and dreamed of their expeditions. The fur trade was warring and commerce and exploration, and above all else in my mind, it was adventure. But the trade was also notoriously unprofitable, a fool's errand--everyone knew that--and I'd resisted joining a brigade for more than a year. St. Louis had five thousand inmates as I called them back then. The French lived on the north side, on the high ground. I was living on the south end at a boardinghouse--a withered old widow for a landlady. She made it hot for us, bawling at any racket or laughter and particularly at me for bringing bloody pelts back, which, it is true, she had reason to complain of. On the morning this narration begins, June of 1826, an acquaintance named Blanchard appeared beneath my window, calling up to say he was off to visit a Canadian half-breed who brain-tanned hides. The Canadian, he said, would increase the value of pelts more than she charged to tan them, and wasn't hard to look at, either. "I'll join you on such a worthy venture," I called down, and a moment later was striding carelessly through the mud and muck of Market Street with Blanchard, hardly suspecting that little errand would change my life. As we passed the Rocky Mountain House, a bellowing roar blasted from the doorway, and a French trapper named Goddard tottered out, waving a trade gun, breathing Taos Whiskey. "Give an honest turn for the firearm, Blanchy?" Blanchard needed a musket, and with Goddard falling down drunk, thought he'd get the better of him. Blanchard went into the alehouse and I went on to the half-breed's alone, not displeased to cut out the competition. I don't know what I expected from Alene Chevalier--a feather in her hair and dancing around a bonfire or some nonsense like that. Not at all. She was foreign, to be sure, but French, with a quarter native blood that showed in her hair and eyes--a petite woman with olive skin and a long skirt and a shawl that she wore buttoned to her neck with a silver clip at the throat and her hair tied up with a wooden clamshell. All very proper and European in her manners and setting me in my place, though not uninviting, either. She trod that middle ground between warmth and propriety that the French have perfected and has never been replicated in our maidens, who seem to me to be either bawdy or puritanical. "I'm Wyeth. A hunter," I said. "I have deer and muskrat pelts." "Let me see," she said. She had a bit of a French accent. Enough so you knew she was foreign, though not so much that you couldn't understand what she said. She ran her small hands along the first pelt slowly then flipped it over with an abrupt, practiced gesture. The administrators at the tannery were suspicious of native pelts and she wanted to maintain her reputation and did not take in furs that were old or poorly skinned or damaged. "Twenty-five cents a pelt." "Done," I said. "Not much for bargaining, are you?" "Not when I have a maiden to bargain with," I said, trying to be gallant, though she smiled thinly at that bit of nonsense. She was calculating the profits in her mind and by not bargaining I'd lowered myself in her estimation. I carried the pack of furs along a hardened dirt path to the back of her cottage. She had a workshop beneath a pine scaffolding with willow hoops stacked in a row and a heavy pole at hip height for the scraping. There was a tub of mashed brains that looked like pink paste and a wooden flask of oil with a cork stopper and a basin with ash and murky water and a compressor with a pulley system and weights. I noticed she used a dulled carving knife to flesh. Also, a buffalo rib, a stained pumice rock, and a beveled deer antler. I saw indications of additives to the paste like liver and bone marrow and fish oil and pine nuts and wild rhubarb. I took note of all these ingredients, though I did not know the quantities or the process used to mix them. By her reputation, and later by the quality of the furs, I knew she had refined the process. I heaved the pelts into the hard-packed clearing and she lifted soaked pelts from a basin and hung them on a wooden beam and put the first of my pelts, hardened and stiff, into the basin. Then she took one of the soaked pelts and sat on a smoothed log and stretched the pelt onto a willow hoop, affixing it with deer sinew and a curved wooden hook. She saw me watching, and said, "My father was a voyageur for the Northwesters. I learned from him." "Is he with Hudson's Bay now?" I asked, but she shook her head, and by the way she did it I knew he was not with that company, or any other. "Consumption," she said. "Two winters past. He battled the Ree with Ashley. Went on the winter march to the Medicine Bow. But it was the elements in St. Louis that took him." She made a drinking motion. "The same ailment's taking my father," I said. "A farmer and man of property in Allegheny County, Pennsylvania. Least it was two years ago when I last spoke with him." It was a maudlin way to put it, but I said it in a careless tone, as I wanted her to think I was rugged and indifferent to the gales of life, and that we were two of a kind. If she saw the connection, she did not remark on it. She finished with that first fur and when she reached for the second I knew I was meant to leave. I started back around the cottage and when I did she set her pelt aside and went through the doorway and I saw her writing out a ticket on a little pink slip of parchment. There was no need to give a ticket and, later, I thought she went through that bit of theater because she'd heard the sound of education in my voice and wanted to show she could read and write as well as any college professor--that neat cursive hand, the polite, precise sound of her voice, that Frenchified way of hers. She mistook me for a gentleman and didn't want me putting on airs, which, if she'd known me, she need not have worried about, as I worked as a laborer in a warehouse along the river. I went on my way and seven days later I was back in front of her little cottage with my pink ticket. She met me at the door hauling a neatly bound pack of furs, rocking her slight body back and heaving the pack and carrying it, duckwalking, to the porch. I'd been thinking of conversation all week and come up with nothing but banalities. As I paid she said, "You won't be long for St. Louis. Les vrais gentlemen ne restent jamais ici ." " Où est le vrai gentleman?" I said, and she laughed, and said, " Ici même, j'espère. C'est bien ce que je crois, oui." "Not all would call me a gentleman," I said. "Talk to Professor Stanton at Temple. I put a fish with a pickle in its mouth in his desk. I won't be let back. So it's into the savage country for me. My education will be in the notable wonders of the far west." "You'll join a brigade to the fur country?" "Up to the Green River," I said boisterously. I did not believe I'd join a brigade at the time. I said it to be gallant, but I saw disappointment settle. She'd imagined I was a gentleman hunter with a carriage and a fortune, not some cast-off ne'er-do-well with no family or home to speak of. Something in her closed off to me. "It's a hard life," she said. "But an exciting one." "The excitement ends quickly. The difficulties don't," she said. I considered countering with some saucy remark, but she had been born to the life and undoubtedly knew it better than I did. "Thank you, ma'am," I said, and slung the furs on my back and thought that was that. I was not a gentleman and she had decided against me in her mind. I walked out the gate and when I looked back I saw that she'd gone through the cottage and was out behind collecting the willow hoops and stacking them with a clacking sound that followed me down her dusty street. The memory of that short conversation stayed inside me all day. Excerpted from Into the Savage Country: A Novel by Shannon Burke All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.