So I tell readers I’m from the West Bronx, and even that isn’t quite true. I can’t tell them I was born west of the Missouri River, or even the mighty Mississippi. Heck, I wasn’t even born west of the Hudson River.
Let me backtrack: In preparation for the publication of “Bandit Heaven” later this month, advertisements are being prepared for the print media, and some have already been posted on social media. St. Martin’s Press also has distributed several hundred ARCs, or advance review copies, to booksellers and reviewers.
I (almost) blush as I report that this material includes such quotes as: “A rollicking tale of a Texas lawman and the iron-jawed contingent that rode with him … Fans of the Wild West and its pistol-packin’ miscreants will enjoy Clavin’s latest” (about “Follow Me to Hell”).
“Clavin is one of the most popular and bestselling Western authors writing about the Old West … His pace keeps the story moving and he provides details on the historical characters and events that make you want to read more on the topic after finishing the book” (about the same book).
And about “Wild Bill,” The New York Times intoned, “Clavin tacks up the truth like wanted posters in every chapter.” Plus, one of the ads includes, “From The New York Times best-selling author and master chronicler of the Old West.”
Well, bless my Stetson. This stuff is sure better than a spur in the eye.
And, last week, I received an invitation to speak at a special event next June in Dodge City. The organizers will pick up transportation costs, but they expect they will be limited, given that I must live somewhere in that part of the country — because, I was told, “… of my authentic writing about the American West.”
The truth is, of course, that I live in Sag Harbor, where the only dangerous duels are between drivers over parking spaces.
How did it happen that I’m sort of a latter-day Louis L’Amour? I blame Bat Masterson. Or credit him, I should say, because my initial fascination with him has resulted in many mortgage payments being made on time.
Let me back up again.
Specifically, in the Bronx, I was born in what is now called the Norwood section, named for being north of the Woodlawn Cemetery. Back then, you identified with the nearest street of some significance (Bainbridge Avenue), or parish (St. Brendan’s), or a major thoroughfare (Mosholu Parkway.) A month before my 8th birthday, my family moved to Long Island. See, even then, I didn’t get to go west.
I grew up in Deer Park, a blue-collar hamlet whose only resemblance to the Wild West were the dramatic — and sometimes deadly — drag races on Route 231, and the abundance of grungy saloons like the Kozy Kabin and Uneeda Rest.
But like many kids in the 1960s, there was ready access to the Wild West on screen. The movie theaters often offered movies starring Glenn Ford, Richard Widmark, Henry Fonda, Robert Mitchum, James Stewart, and, of course, John Wayne. (My personal favorite was Joel McCrea.) Television beamed shows into our living rooms like “Rawhide,” “Bonanza,” “The Big Valley,” “Branded” and “F Troop.”
Sure, okay, a kid could be surrounded by such stimulation, but that doesn’t mean he gets to one day making a living from it. I mean, I also watched “Peter Gunn” and “77 Sunset Strip,” and I didn’t wind up writing detective novels.
I guess I began on the path to the Wild West when Bob Drury and I were researching “The Heart of Everything That Is,” about the Sioux leader Red Cloud. It was published in 2013, and to put it together it was necessary to roam around Nebraska, the Dakotas and Wyoming, where Red Cloud had lived.
While I don’t think of that book as a “western,” it did get me thinking. Everything west of New Jersey was the frontier to me, so there were a lot of possibilities.
After further research, I settled on Bat Masterson. He’d also been portrayed on a show, by Gene Barry, but this was before my prime TV time and I don’t recall viewing it.
Bat had been born in Canada, moved to Kansas with his family, and become a well-known gambler and gunfighter and lawman. He was a debonair dresser and lively raconteur. Bat and the taciturn Wyatt Earp teamed up to tame Dodge City, which in the 1870s was known as the “Wickedest Town in the American West.”
I could not convince anyone that a biography of Bat Masterson would sell, so Drury and I moved on to research and write a World War II book, “Lucky 666” (which, eight years after publication, is being adapted for the screen). But I reconfigured the Bat story as part of a larger tale of Dodge City and the Earps and Doc Holliday, and bad guys like Sam Bass and John Wesley Hardin. “Dodge City” was not my first solo book, but it was the first one to crack The New York Times bestseller list.
Well, I was off and galloping. Next up was “Wild Bill,” about Hickok, up to his demise in Deadwood, and when that sold well, it made sense to complete a “Frontier Lawmen” trilogy — and, thus, “Tombstone.” And when that did well …
There have been other books the last few years — most recently, with Bob Drury, “Throne of Grace,” about the mountain men of the 1820s — but supply had to meet demand, so the results were “Follow Me to Hell” and “The Last Outlaws,” and, later this month, “Bandit Heaven.”
And I’m okay with being a Bronx-born buckaroo because, ironically, of Bat Masterson.
Many people do not know that the last 15 years of this western legend’s life were spent in Manhattan, first as a U.S. marshal appointed by President Theodore Roosevelt, then as a newspaper reporter.
Bat died at his desk in 1921, a month before his 68th birthday. His grave can be found in the Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx.
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