Kinch Riley / Indian Territory - Softcover

Braun, Matt

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312948530 ISBN 13: 9780312948535

Verlag: St Martin's Press, 2007

Inhaltsangabe

KINCH RILEY
Newton, Kansas, 1871: One is a young drifter alone in a lawless land. The other is an aged gunfighter well-versed in the bawdy wonders of a wide-open boomtown. When these two lost souls come together one August night, and battle a band of Texas outlaws, the legend of Kinch Riley will be born….
 
INDIAN TERRITORY
When hired gun John Ryan heads into Indian Territory with a brawling crew of railroad workers, a battle of bloodshed and treachery ensues. But when he later meets the proud Cherokees—and the beautiful daughter of and embattled chief—Ryan sees for himself how his employer’s steel rails are splitting the heart of a people’s last home. Can his conscience keep him from pulling the trigger?

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Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

MATT BRAUN is a fourth generation Westerner, steeped in the tradition and lore of the frontier era. His books reflect a heritage rich with the truths of that bygone time. Raised among the Cherokee and Osage tribes, Braun learned their traditions and culture, and their philosophy became the foundation of his own beliefs. Like his ancestors, he has spent most of his life wandering the mountains and plains of the West. His heritage and his contribution to Western literature resulted in his appointment by the Governor of Oklahoma as a Territorial Marshal.

Braun is the author of forty-seven novels and four nonfiction works, including Black Fox, which was made into a CBS miniseries. Western Writers of America awarded Braun the prestigious Spur Award for his novel The Kincaids and the 2004 Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement in Western Literature.

Visit Matt Braun’s Web site at: www.mattbraun.com

MATT BRAUN is a fourth generation Westerner, steeped in the tradition and lore of the frontier era. His books reflect a heritage rich with the truths of that bygone time. Raised among the Cherokee and Osage tribes, Braun learned their traditions and culture, and their philosophy became the foundation of his own beliefs. Like his ancestors, he has spent most of his life wandering the mountains and plains of the West. His heritage and his contribution to Western literature resulted in his appointment by the Governor of Oklahoma as a Territorial Marshal.

Braun is the author of forty-seven novels and four nonfiction works, including Black Fox, which was made into a CBS miniseries. Western Writers of America awarded Braun the prestigious Spur Award for his novel The Kincaids and the 2004 Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement in Western Literature.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

The Old West comes vividly to life in two novels from bestselling author Matt Braun--America's authentic voice of the Western Frontier

KINCH RILEY
Newton, Kansas, 1871: One is a young drifter alone in a lawless land. The other is an aged gunfighter well-versed in the bawdy wonders of a wide-open boomtown. When these two lost souls come together one August night, and battle a band of Texas outlaws, the legend of Kinch Riley will be born .

INDIAN TERRITORY
When hired gun John Ryan heads into Indian Territory with a brawling crew of railroad workers, a battle of bloodshed and treachery ensues. But when he later meets the proud Cherokees--and the beautiful daughter of and embattled chief--Ryan sees for himself how his employer's steel rails are splitting the heart of a people's last home. Can his conscience keep him from pulling the trigger?

"A master storyteller."--Elmer Kelton

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

 

Kinch Riley / Indian Territory

KINCH RILEY

DEATH SHOT

McCluskie’s knees buckled and he was suddenly gripped with the urgency of killing Anderson … He heard the gunfire and the terrified shrieks of dance-hall girls, sensed the crowd scattering. But it was all somehow distant, even a little unreal. Blinded, falling swiftly into darkness, he willed his hand to move. To finish what he had come here to do.

Another bullet smacked him in the ribs, but like a dead snake, operating on nerves alone, his hand reacted and came up with the Colt. That he couldn’t see Anderson bothered him not at all. In his mind’s eye he remembered exactly where the Texan was standing, and even as he pressed the trigger, he knew the shot had struck home …

 

“MATT BRAUN IS ONE OF THE BEST!”
—Don Coldsmith, author of the Spanish Bit series

 

“HE TELLS IT STRAIGHT—AND HE
TELLS IT WELL.”
—Jory Sherman, author of Grass Kingdom

ONE

 

 

McCluskie swung down off the caboose and stood for a moment surveying the depot. It was painted a dingy green, the same as all Santa Fe depots. Not unlike a hundred others he had seen, it had all the warmth of a freshly scrubbed privy. The only notable difference being that it was newer and bigger. Rails had been laid into Newton less than a week past, and the town had been designated division point. Otherwise, so far as McCluskie could see, there was nothing remarkable about the place. Just another fleabag cowtown that would serve as home base till the end of track shifted west a couple of hundred miles.

Hefting his war-bag, he walked to the end of the platform and paused for a look at Newton. The corners of his mouth quirked and he grunted with surprise. It wasn’t Abilene, but it was damn sure more than he had expected. Especially out in the middle of nowhere, with the rails hardly a week old.

Newton was laid out much on the order of all cowtowns. Main Street spraddled the tracks, with the redlight district on the southside and most of the business establishments on the north. Side streets, none of which were more than a block long, branched off of the dusty main thoroughfare. Nearly every building had the high false-front that had become the trademark of Kansas railheads, and the structures looked as if they had been slapped together with spit and poster glue. What amazed McCluskie was not that Newton existed, but that it had sprung from the earth’s bowels with such dizzying speed.

He dropped the war-bag at his feet and started rolling a smoke. The paper and tobacco took shape in his hands without thought, almost a mechanical ritual born of habit. Searching his vest, he found a sulphurhead and flicked it to life with his thumbnail. Touching flame to cigarette, he took a long draw and let his eyes wander along the street. His inspection was brief, for a well-chucked rock would have hit the town limits in any direction. But little escaped his gaze, and except for the hodge-podge of buildings, there wasn’t much to stir his interest.

Whatever Newton had to offer wouldn’t be all that different. He’d seen the elephant too many times to expect otherwise. Cards and shady ladies and railhead saloons were the same wherever a man hung his hat. Such things didn’t change, they just shifted operations whenever the end of track changed. Most times it seemed they had even hauled along the same batch of customers.

McCluskie stuck the cigarette in his mouth, again hefted the war-bag, and started down the platform steps. Somewhere behind him he heard his name called and turned to find Newt Hansberry, the station master, bearing down on him. He didn’t care much for Hansberry and had purposely avoided the depot for just that reason. But then, he was sort of standoffish about people in general, so it wasn’t as if he had anything personal against the man.

“Mike, you ol’ scutter!” Hansberry rushed up and commenced pumping his hand like he was trying to raise water. “Where the hell did you spring from?”

“Just pulled in on the cowtown express.” McCluskie retrieved his hand and wiped it along the side of his pants.

The station master shot a puzzled glance at the cattle cars, then barfed up an oily chuckle. “Cowtown express! That’s rich, Mike. Wait’ll I try that on the boys.” The laughter slacked off and his brow puckered in an owlish frown. “Say, what’s a big muckamuck like you doing in Newton, anyway? The head office didn’t tell me you was comin’ out here.”

McCluskie’s look was wooden, revealing nothing. “Why, Newt, you know how the brass are. They’re so busy shufflin’ people and trains they don’t tell nobody nothin’.”

“Yeh, but they don’t send the top bull to end of track just for exercise.” Hansberry cocked one eyebrow in a crafty smirk. “C‘mon, Mike, ’fess up. They sent you out here on some kinda job, didn’t they? Something hush-hush.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Newt. They just wanted me to have a looksee. Sorta make sure the division has got all the kinks ironed out. Y’know what I mean?”

Hansberry blinked and nodded, swallowing his next question. What with him being station master, that last part had struck a little close to home. “Sure, Mike. I get your drift. But don’t worry, I run a tight operation. Always have.”

“Never thought you didn’t.” McCluskie let it drop there and jerked his thumb back toward the main part of town. “What’s the low-down on this dump? Anything happened I ought to know about?”

“Well I ain’t seen Jesse James around town if that’s what you mean. Course, I don’t guess the likes of him would go in for robbin’ cattle cars anyways.”

“Not likely. That wasn’t what I was drivin’ at, though. Anybody tried to set himself up as the king-fish yet?”

“Hell, ain’t nobody had time. They been too busy gettin’ this place built. ’Sides, Newton’s not rightly a town anyway. Wichita’s the county seat and this here is just a township. Won’t never be nothin’ else, neither. Leastways till somebody proves it’s on the map to stay.”

“So I heard.”

The station master gave him a guarded look. “Yeh, I guess you would’ve. Don’t s’pose there’s much that gets past you boys at the head office.”

McCluskie let the question slip past. “What about law? They got anybody ridin’ herd on the trailhands?”

“Oh, sure. Some of the sportin’ crowd and a few of the storekeepers got themselves appointed to the town board and they pestered Wichita into sendin’ a deputy up here permanent. Good thing they did, too. Otherwise them Texans would’ve hoorawed this place clean down to the ground.”

“This lawdog, he anybody I know?”

“Sorta doubt it. Name’s Tonk Hazeltine. Some folks says he’s a breed, but he don’t look like no Injun I ever saw. Queer kind o’ bird, though. Acts like he just drunk some green rotgut and didn’t care much for the taste.”

“Don’t think I ever heard of him. How’s he handle himself? Been keepin’ the drovers in line?”

“Yeh, what there is of ‘em. Y’know...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: St Martin's Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2007
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0312948530
• ISBN 13: 9780312948535
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Auflage: 1
• Anzahl der Seiten: 477
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar