Genre Fiction
![Craig Johnson - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_craig_johnson.jpg)
Hell and Back: A Longmire Mystery
A new novel in the beloved New York Times bestselling Longmire series.
What if you woke up lying in the middle of the street in the infamous town of Fort Pratt, Montana, where thirty young Native boys perished in a tragic 1896 boarding-school fire? What if every person you encountered in that endless night was dead? What if you were covered in blood and missing a bullet from the gun holstered on your hip? What if there was something out there in the yellowed skies, along with the deceased and the smell of ash and dust, something the Northern Cheyenne refer to as the Éveohtsé-heómėse, the Wandering Without, the Taker of Souls? What if the only way you know who you are is because your name is printed in the leather sweatband of your cowboy hat, and what if it says your name is Walt Longmire . . . but you don't remember him?
In Hell and Back, the eighteenth installment of the Longmire series, author Craig Johnson takes the beloved sheriff to the very limits of his sanity to do battle with the most dangerous adversary he's ever faced: himself.
What if you woke up lying in the middle of the street in the infamous town of Fort Pratt, Montana, where thirty young Native boys perished in a tragic 1896 boarding-school fire? What if every person you encountered in that endless night was dead? What if you were covered in blood and missing a bullet from the gun holstered on your hip? What if there was something out there in the yellowed skies, along with the deceased and the smell of ash and dust, something the Northern Cheyenne refer to as the Éveohtsé-heómėse, the Wandering Without, the Taker of Souls? What if the only way you know who you are is because your name is printed in the leather sweatband of your cowboy hat, and what if it says your name is Walt Longmire . . . but you don't remember him?
In Hell and Back, the eighteenth installment of the Longmire series, author Craig Johnson takes the beloved sheriff to the very limits of his sanity to do battle with the most dangerous adversary he's ever faced: himself.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for Hell and Back
"Solid . . . Longtime fans will relish Johnson's new insights into Walt's character . . ."
-Publisher's Weekly
"A mystical thriller that offers a wild ride through a thoroughly altered reality."
-Kirkus Reviews
". . . those happy to bend crime fiction in the direction of horror will find a smorgasbord of supernatural delights."
-Booklist
"This book will keep Longmire fans coming back for more."
-The Spokesman-Review
"Johnson has plumbed the past and formed a fascinating, compelling and mythic tale, taking Walt to the edge of his ability to survive. ‘Hell and Back' is a riveting read."
-The Durango Herald
"Craig Johnson consistently, intelligently and with customary dry humor, melds literary fiction with western crime fiction… His breadth of knowledge and the meticulous attention to detail adhered to in crafting, rewriting, and polishing his novels and their sheer readability puts him among the great western writers like Wallace Stegner, Ivan Doig, Norman Maclean, and John McPhee… Hell and Back is a stand-out work."
-BookTrib
"Solid . . . Longtime fans will relish Johnson's new insights into Walt's character . . ."
-Publisher's Weekly
"A mystical thriller that offers a wild ride through a thoroughly altered reality."
-Kirkus Reviews
". . . those happy to bend crime fiction in the direction of horror will find a smorgasbord of supernatural delights."
-Booklist
"This book will keep Longmire fans coming back for more."
-The Spokesman-Review
"Johnson has plumbed the past and formed a fascinating, compelling and mythic tale, taking Walt to the edge of his ability to survive. ‘Hell and Back' is a riveting read."
-The Durango Herald
"Craig Johnson consistently, intelligently and with customary dry humor, melds literary fiction with western crime fiction… His breadth of knowledge and the meticulous attention to detail adhered to in crafting, rewriting, and polishing his novels and their sheer readability puts him among the great western writers like Wallace Stegner, Ivan Doig, Norman Maclean, and John McPhee… Hell and Back is a stand-out work."
-BookTrib
Readers Top Reviews
AMcclureLeanne Brook
I am not really sure what the bad reviews for this book are about. It is a great book that explores many different themes. Native American spirituality has been a central concept of many Longmire books, so it is not a surprise that it is a center theme in this book. Walt has been asking himself some big questions the last several books, and he is still recovering mentally from his time in Mexico. If you enjoy a thought provoking book that will make you ask yourself some questions, then you will like this! A mystery with some supernatural and spirituality to boot! Can't wait for the next installment.
earthshoes
Longtime fan--read all of Craig Johnson's books--loved some, was less enthused about others. I saw some of the early reviews on this one and was concerned. But I love well-written supernatural fiction and decided to chance it. I could not put it down--wound up growling at my husband of 33 years when he interrupted while I was reading the last few chapters. While Johnson's Longmire books often play around on the fringes of the supernatural, this is the first time he dove into the deep end. Head first. So many familiar names in this one. And I was glad to see Vic back on the scene (she was missing in the last book). I loved this one and will probably re-read it.
Kindle
I was worried because of the few reviews available, more than one had talked about being confused.... they must not have any imagination nor ability to follow a well crafted good vs. evil narrative. As usual, Mr. Johnson wonderfully weaves native lore into the tale. I came away wishing i hadn't already finished the entire Longmire series as this book went way too fast and leaves me counting the days until the next. Maybe I'll go re-read them all... For the true fan there's nothing like Longmire Days in Buffalo, WY where Mr. Johnson and Mr. Taylor (Walt in the tv series) are available to fans who gather from all over. It was my first year attending this August and those two gentlemen couldn't have been more kind, generous with their time and gentlemanly dashing. What fun. Thank you for another great read!! MM
Madqdog
Craig Johnson, writing as himself in the Acknowledgements and not placing words in any character's mouth writes, "Memory is the fuel of Haunting... " As I read Hell and Back, I thought that there are many (traditional) Longmire fans who will dislike this tome. These reviews on Amazon bear this out. But throughout this book, words of wisdom enhancing that phrase found in the introduction only enhance just what "haunting" and indeed "horror" is. I am one who, like Longmire, has fallen upon ice and been found an hour later with my coat (a coat to my suit) and the back of my head frozen to the ground. From the medical standpoint (I am a physician), I closely identify with the effects of concussion that Walt experiences; the descriptions in lay language are perfect. But Hell and Back transcends the world of scientific reality and explores the metaphysical in the form of Native American spirituality. That transcendence will surely offend some who longed for a Summer's read. Here's my prediction: At some future date, Hell and Back will be used as an example of great Modern American Literature. I respect the opinions of those who would differ, but for me, I only hope that Craig continues on his evolutionary path as a great writer.
John S
While many of the Longmire books have moments of mysticism in them, this book is entirely about Walt Longmire's mystical battle with a Cherokee " bogeyman " or monster. It seems Walt has been injured and is near death and is in a place somewhat like purgatory where he does battle for his soul and the souls of others taken by the monster. While Henry and Vic have cameo appearances they aren't in the book very much and the Longmire books I like the most have them playing a bigger part in the story. While I enjoyed the book for me it doesn't compare to the earlier books where the books concentrated more on Walt being a Sheriff and solving crimes in his county, with just a little mysticism now and then, with Henry, Vic and Dog being more in the story. All in all I was very happy to have a new Longmire book to read, but a little disappointed that it wasn't more like the early Longmire books I love so much.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
There was the sound of bells and then the silence-the kind of quiet that only comes with snow, capturing the soundwaves of life and smothering them before they can cry out. I couldn't open my eyes, like something was weighing them down, so I brought my hand up to my face and brushed the snow away. My eyes worked now, so I tried to sit up, feeling something strike my chest, something small and metallic, a couple of somethings.
Snow, a lot of it, falling in static sheets. Fat flakes covered everything, silenced everything, as they cascaded from the yellowish-black sky.
I was lying in the middle of the street.
I started to stand but discovered that part of my sheepskin coat was frozen to the ground. Leaning over to one side, I noticed that there were two silver dollars in my lap, so I pulled a glove off with my teeth. I picked up one of the coins that were old ones but looked remarkably unsullied. I glanced around again, couldn't see anybody else on the street, so figured finderskeepers. Scooping up the other one, I deposited them both into my pocket and then pulled the glove back on, tugging the tiny red-beaded ends on the straps to snug it. I reached behind me and pulled my coat loose from the ice-I had at least been lying there long enough for it to freeze to the ground.
Raising myself to a kneeling position, I felt something around my neck and pulled the material up to find a red scarf. It didn't particularly look like a man's scarf-silky, with a fringed end-but with current weather conditions I figured I didn't have a lot of options.
Momentarily distracted, I saw a lump of snow beside me and reached over to find it was a pinch-front cowboy hat. I slapped it against my knee to knock it clean. Figuring it was also mine, I lifted it and tugged it over my head. It felt a little tight but that was probably from being as frozen as it was.
I stood the rest of the way and shook off the accumulated snow from my coat like a dog. I was at the top of a hill, which looked down a winding two-lane road that dropped off into a small town about a mile away. Turning, I could see the top of the hill was covered with tiny crosses encircled by a wrought-iron fence where, a little farther off, the corner of a stone building still stood, shedding rubble into the snow, a large lump of which was centered on some sort of platform.
Above a gate I saw an arch with the words Fort Pratt Industrial Indian Boarding School. There was some movement at the apogee of the arch, and I watched as a great horned owl slowly swiveled his head from back to front to look at me, golden eyes shining like twin harvest moons.
"Howdy."
He continued to observe me with all the patience of the world.
"Well, at least you didn't ask who." Sighing, I turned back toward the town, thinking I might get a little more conversation in that direction. Starting off down the two-lane, I lumbered through the snow for a while eventually passing a few of the buildings on the outskirts-a house or two, a library, and what looked to be an old Catholic church.
There were buildings on either side of the road, the type of single-story storefronts seen in many small towns scattered across the Rocky Mountain West. Plastic wreathes hung from the dozen or so lampposts with a red electric candle in each that flickered yellow and then, one at a time, slowly dimmed.
I couldn't really tell if it was night or day with the skies colored a strange yellowish cast and with the inclement weather, the surrounding distance was darkened to an ocean of obscurity. There were a few lit buildings, a two-story grand vintage structure to my left, the Baker Hotel, and a movie theater down on the corner, with a yellow and green neon marquee that read Support Your Local Sheriff.
I had a mild headache and could smell something burning, as if there were a forest fire not too far away, and I felt strangely detached for a guy who had been left lying in the street. With a deep sigh, I took a few more steps, trudging toward the side of the road, amazed that I hadn't been scraped up by a snowplow. My back hurt and my limbs and head felt heavy-I must've been lying out there for a while.
There were no cars or trucks parked on the street as far as I could see. I stepped onto the curb and sidewalk. There was a cafŽ at the other end of the block, and I decided to walk in that direction even though it appeared to be leading west and out of town. Booths lined the glass front of the place, and the condensation on the inside of the windows promised warmth. A woman with strawberry blond hair was wiping the counter, but no patrons, and I was worried the tiny restaurant might be closed.
I was relieved when I pushed on the wooden bar a...
There was the sound of bells and then the silence-the kind of quiet that only comes with snow, capturing the soundwaves of life and smothering them before they can cry out. I couldn't open my eyes, like something was weighing them down, so I brought my hand up to my face and brushed the snow away. My eyes worked now, so I tried to sit up, feeling something strike my chest, something small and metallic, a couple of somethings.
Snow, a lot of it, falling in static sheets. Fat flakes covered everything, silenced everything, as they cascaded from the yellowish-black sky.
I was lying in the middle of the street.
I started to stand but discovered that part of my sheepskin coat was frozen to the ground. Leaning over to one side, I noticed that there were two silver dollars in my lap, so I pulled a glove off with my teeth. I picked up one of the coins that were old ones but looked remarkably unsullied. I glanced around again, couldn't see anybody else on the street, so figured finderskeepers. Scooping up the other one, I deposited them both into my pocket and then pulled the glove back on, tugging the tiny red-beaded ends on the straps to snug it. I reached behind me and pulled my coat loose from the ice-I had at least been lying there long enough for it to freeze to the ground.
Raising myself to a kneeling position, I felt something around my neck and pulled the material up to find a red scarf. It didn't particularly look like a man's scarf-silky, with a fringed end-but with current weather conditions I figured I didn't have a lot of options.
Momentarily distracted, I saw a lump of snow beside me and reached over to find it was a pinch-front cowboy hat. I slapped it against my knee to knock it clean. Figuring it was also mine, I lifted it and tugged it over my head. It felt a little tight but that was probably from being as frozen as it was.
I stood the rest of the way and shook off the accumulated snow from my coat like a dog. I was at the top of a hill, which looked down a winding two-lane road that dropped off into a small town about a mile away. Turning, I could see the top of the hill was covered with tiny crosses encircled by a wrought-iron fence where, a little farther off, the corner of a stone building still stood, shedding rubble into the snow, a large lump of which was centered on some sort of platform.
Above a gate I saw an arch with the words Fort Pratt Industrial Indian Boarding School. There was some movement at the apogee of the arch, and I watched as a great horned owl slowly swiveled his head from back to front to look at me, golden eyes shining like twin harvest moons.
"Howdy."
He continued to observe me with all the patience of the world.
"Well, at least you didn't ask who." Sighing, I turned back toward the town, thinking I might get a little more conversation in that direction. Starting off down the two-lane, I lumbered through the snow for a while eventually passing a few of the buildings on the outskirts-a house or two, a library, and what looked to be an old Catholic church.
There were buildings on either side of the road, the type of single-story storefronts seen in many small towns scattered across the Rocky Mountain West. Plastic wreathes hung from the dozen or so lampposts with a red electric candle in each that flickered yellow and then, one at a time, slowly dimmed.
I couldn't really tell if it was night or day with the skies colored a strange yellowish cast and with the inclement weather, the surrounding distance was darkened to an ocean of obscurity. There were a few lit buildings, a two-story grand vintage structure to my left, the Baker Hotel, and a movie theater down on the corner, with a yellow and green neon marquee that read Support Your Local Sheriff.
I had a mild headache and could smell something burning, as if there were a forest fire not too far away, and I felt strangely detached for a guy who had been left lying in the street. With a deep sigh, I took a few more steps, trudging toward the side of the road, amazed that I hadn't been scraped up by a snowplow. My back hurt and my limbs and head felt heavy-I must've been lying out there for a while.
There were no cars or trucks parked on the street as far as I could see. I stepped onto the curb and sidewalk. There was a cafŽ at the other end of the block, and I decided to walk in that direction even though it appeared to be leading west and out of town. Booths lined the glass front of the place, and the condensation on the inside of the windows promised warmth. A woman with strawberry blond hair was wiping the counter, but no patrons, and I was worried the tiny restaurant might be closed.
I was relieved when I pushed on the wooden bar a...
