C. William Langsfeld, or “Cosmo” as he’s known to friends and neighbors throughout the Gunnison Valley, likely surprised some of those friends and neighbors with his debut novel, Salvation. Dubbed a Western Noir, the story centers on protagonist Tom Horack and the murder of his best friend, Rust Hawkins. At its core, the book is a meditation on the forces that could drive a man to kill.
Langsfeld, born and raised in Crested Butte, has always been a writer. After college, he realized that living a frugal life of winter bootpacking at the ski resort and seasonal jobs gave him the greatest opportunity to do what he wanted: write and begin work on stories that would eventually become a novel. Langsfeld recounted even further back into his high school experiences, “Writing was easy. I could just focus on the page.”
At Salvation’s book launch at Townie Books, high school English teacher Pat O’Neill recalled Langsfeld’s striking language, noting that while he was a math and science student, “He always had a talent for creative writing.” O’Neill added, “Salvation is a juggernaut of a first novel. The storyline is incredible, but the simplicity and authenticity of the prose are equally so.”
When I asked why he decided not to pursue an MFA in creative writing, Langsfeld answered, “I didn’t want to be in school any more.” Langsfeld is a wonderful reminder that not all writers come from MFA programs. Sometimes, we get a writer of talent and grit, taking orders at the Ginger Cafe, bootpacking, and tending the land, growing in ability each year until the result is a book like Salvation.
Langsfeld cites an easy comparison with Cormac McCarthy for his work being set in the West and rooted in violence, but he eschews the parallel, instead favoring the tender work of another Colorado-based writer, Kent Haruf, known for his elegiac novel Plainsong. Composed of eloquent prose and the interlocking lives within a small community, Plainsong is the perfect companion to Salvation.
Throughout Salvation’s narrative, I am taken not only by the changing perspectives of the characters but also by the book’s setting in the Colorado high country; the town is very recognizable as an amalgam of Crested Butte and Gunnison.
A caretaker of ranches and wilderness properties across Gunnison County, Langsfeld draws on his life among remote summer cabins — stocked with odd bits of canned fruit and dried game — to depict Tom’s winter hideout following the murder.
The cabin was a small one-room number, plywood floors painted a drab grayish blue. Walls of unpainted plywood and a modest line of countertop and cabinetry. Sink without faucet, the table and bed. Window wet with melting frost. Tom rose and went to the window. The bit of moisture blurred the view, but he could see that the storm had broken. The world a blanket of white.
The story is peppered with familiar community archetypes: a Lutheran pastor at odds with his faith, the victim’s son Gus, and Marshal Tomlinson. In the wake of the tragedy, the marshal entrusts Gus to Pastor Green — a character who reflects Langsfeld’s own mountain-bred spirituality. As he notes, each character holds a piece of himself, but Green’s musings on faith most closely mirror the author’s own “spirituality that is tied to the mountains.”
In our conversation, Langsfeld and I discussed the book’s questions of forgiveness — who is deserving of redemption, and what is the true nature of salvation? “Tom is my worst fear come to life,” Langsfeld said. As the main character, Tom Horack is the lens through which we explore how one becomes capable of murder. Langsfeld expertly navigates Tom’s life, dissecting the character with surgical prose that delves into the relationships between fathers, sons, and masculinity. The following passage introduces Tom, portending both his unique perspective and the calamity to come.
The world was white and fear and darkness. Even in the daylight, sun obscured by thick clouds and snowfall, Tom saw only darkness. The snowmobile roared through the fresh snow, piling up in inches, then a foot and more. Everything was cold and wet except his hands, which burned on the heated handle bars that he clung to without gloves, holding on like it was the only thing he knew to do. There was no conscious thought of where he was headed, the road ingrained by decades of muscle memory, intuition, and habit.
“It’s really hard to write about your hometown,” Langsfeld shared when pressed on the book’s locales. “I twist it until it’s unrecognizable.” I beg to differ. Reading Salvation, I clearly see Cement Creek Ranch, Jack’s Cabin, and Roaring Judy. Readers outside the Gunnison Valley will likely see the version of the Rockies they hold in their own minds, but for those of us who drive Highway 135 and gaze into the undulating, treacherous mountainscapes, Langsfeld’s setting appears with crystal clarity.