The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7: Frontier Stories
Language: English
Pages: 544
ISBN: 0804179794
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
There is no story more distinctly American than the western and no writer as great a master of the form as Louis L’Amour. In this final paperback volume of L’Amour’s collected short fiction, you’ll find some of his most popular characters, heroes who have become a part of our cultural legacy, as well as the ordinary people who embody not only the spirit of the West but the timeless struggle of the best and worst in us all.
Here are tales of honest thieves and crooked lawmen, of dream chasers and treasure hunters, of men and women hoping for a second chance and others down to their last. Throughout, L’Amour demonstrates the unerring touch for detail and keen insight into human nature that lend these stories the power to thrill, surprise, and entertain readers of every generation.
ride down to that stage station and just get us some supplies—” She opened her purse, searching for money. He turned and started for the Wells. Yet as he rode his thoughts were only occasionally with the girl. He was thinking more of the man in the white hat, and the fact that Fanning knew something, something that would cause men to contemplate murder. The stage station was one of four buildings at Lobo Wells. There was a rest house and eating place in the station, and the station’s office and
pleasure any time, but in frozen ground?” “Makes for shallow graves,” somebody said, “better when Judgment Day comes.” “That girl ain’t no more’n sixteen or seventeen. It’s a damn shame.” “You go tell that to Pennock.” Nobody replied to that. Well, it was none of his fuss. Besides, they planned to file on his claim, as did Pennock. “Where’s the grub-pile?” he asked. “Two doors down.” He glanced again at the broken nose. “You a fighter?” Bostwick buttoned his slicker. “Only when I’m pushed.”
some solid ground among some reeds on the edge of a slough, and they settled down there for the day. After making coffee with a handful found in one of the only partly burned wagons, London gave Betty Jane some of the jerky and a biscuit. Then for the first time he examined his carbine. His eyes brightened as he sized it up. It was a Ball & Lamson Repeating Carbine, a gun just on the market and of which this must have been one of the first sold. It was a seven-shot weapon carrying a .56-50
he made from odd jobs, and then he got a steady job with the stage line. He rushed home with the news, for it meant he’d have charge of the station at Haver Hill, a cool, pleasant little house where they could raise some chickens and have flower beds as well as a place to raise garden truck. It was always given to a married man, and he had landed it. He rushed home with the news. The house was empty. He had never seen it so empty because her clothes were gone and there was only the note … he
and he whispered, “Dorfman. Five of ’em! Hung me—heard somethin’—they done—took off.” He breathed hoarsely for a bit. “Figured it—it was you—reckon.” “Shhh! Take it easy now, John. You’ll be all right.” “No. I’m done for. That rope—I grabbed it—held my weight till I plumb give out.” The wiry old hand gripping his own suddenly eased its grip, and the old man was dead. Grimly, Cat got to his feet. Carefully, he packed what gear had not been destroyed. The cats had been tied off a few yards from