There was a point in writing The Outlaw Noble Salt where I was overcome with grief. I’ve written some very sad historical novels, novels about war and loss and incredible grit, so to be “struck down” by this novel, in particular, was unexpected. I thought maybe it was me—my life, my career, the crisis of faith I seem to be continually caught in—and not the book at all. Then in de midst of a heart-to-heart conversation with a friend, the thought came loud and clear: these are Butch Cassidy’s feelings, not mine.
 
I understood this character in a way that might be surprising. Like Robert LeRoy Parker, I was raised in Utah in an empty valley just north of his. And I deeply understand his restlessness and his disillusionment, even though we were born a hundred years apart. I’ve felt the same love for the land, the people, and the history, as well as a need to find my own way. And every time I drive through Beaver River Valley, which is at least once a year on our family’s trek to the beach in California, I am overcome. It was the valley, even more than the man, that called to me.
 
Robert LeRoy Parker was a fascinating character, full of the contradictions that make humans remarkable and fallible. He was good even though he did bad things. He was honest even though he was wise. If it’s possible to channel characters—and research starts to feel like channeling after a while—the overwhelming feeling I got from Butch was genuine regret. He knew he’d gotten it wrong and chased a false happiness, and like his father says in the book, there are so few second chances. My goal with this novel was to give him one. Everyone deserves a love story, even an outlaw, and I hope he (and you) liked this alternate ending to an American legend.
 
Amy

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     Eliot Ness died of a heart attack when he was only fifty-four. He was an interesting figure for me, a man I liked. As so often happens in these historical journeys I take, the sadness of the history often overwhelms me, and I wonder how I’m going to give my readers a happy ending—or even a sense of an ending—when history is messy and hard and often sad. The thing that stands out for me with people like Eliot Ness is that he was good. Not perfect. Not by any stretch. But good. He tried. He wanted to make things better. He wanted to do the right thing, and even though he had his flaws and his selfish ambitions, he was not ruled by them. Maybe that is what makes heroes of regular men and what makes regular men (and women) heroes.
     The mystery surrounding the Cleveland Torso Murders of the 1930s dogged Eliot Ness for the rest of his career. As he said in the story, finding the Butcher wasn’t like taking out Al Capone. Ness never talked to the papers or pointed the finger of blame, but I think Eliot Ness knew who the Butcher of Kingsbury Run was, and he did his best to bring the carnage to an end. Many believe those years in Cleveland cost him his health, his first marriage, and his career. I wish him peace.