Guns on the Prairie - Softcover

Robbins, David

Softcover

ISBN 10: 045147290X ISBN 13: 9780451472908

Verlag: Berkley, 2015

Inhaltsangabe

In this Western novel by the author of Badlanders, a con man's ruse casts him in the role of heroic lawman...

THE GREAT PRETENDER

Alonzo Pratt, alias Robert Grant, has always survived by his wits, working his way up from petty pickpocket to polished con artist. Saddlebags bulging with disguises, he is a master impersonator, whether limping in a Civil War uniform or toting a Bible dressed in black. On occasion, a tin star pinned to his vest is just the ticket to winning the trust of his innocent marks.

When Federal Marshal Jacob Stone happens to come across another lawman while taking in a wounded prisoner, he’s grateful for some assistance. And when he hears tell that Cal Grissom’s gang is roaming these parts, he enlists Deputy Grant to help him track down the thieves. But he does wonder why his new partner seems so…reluctant.

Alonzo never planned to join a manhunt. But now he’s shooting Sioux and rescuing an outlaw’s gorgeous daughter. His disguise may have fooled the marshal, but it won’t stop lead… 

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

David Robbins has been a writer for more than twenty-five years, publishing under a variety of pseudonyms. He is the author of Badlanders and has written more than a dozen successful titles in the Ralph Compton series, including Fatal Justice and Bullet for a Bad Man.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

The one-armed rider came out of the woods and drew rein on the crest of a hill overlooking a small farm. Placing his right hand on his saddle horn, he grinned. “It looks plumb ripe for pickin’, doesn’t it, Archibald?”

His horse, a bay, pricked its ears at the mention of its name.

“Let’s get to it, shall we?” the rider said eagerly. “I’m hungry enough to eat one of those cows.”

The rider wore a loose-fitting blue uniform. Patched at the elbows, and with a tear in the left pants leg, it gave the impression he’d worn the uniform a good many years. So did the gray in his hair and mustache. His sparkling blue eyes and complexion, though, hinted at youthful vigor and vim. The effect made it hard to guess his age. He could be anywhere from twenty to fifty.

Halfway down the hill the rider again drew rein. “I’m gettin’ careless. I forgot I washed up in that creek this mornin’.” Dismounting, he searched about for a patch of bare earth. Finding one, he scooped at the dirt with his fingernails, then rubbed a little on his cheeks, forehead, and neck to further disguise how young he truly was. “Don’t want to overdo it,” he said to the bay.

Climbing back on, the rider stared at his empty left sleeve. “It’s a darned nuisance but it never fails to work.”

He clucked to his mount and presently they reached a fenced pasture where half a dozen cows grazed or lay watching him with idle interest.

The farm wasn’t much, a house and a barn and a chicken coop, but the buildings were well tended, and that gave the rider hope. “They keep the place up,” he said. “That usually means hard workers, and hard workers usually have more than layabouts, don’t they?”

The sun had barely cleared the eastern horizon, and the farm was stirring to life. Clucks came from the chicken coop. Smoke curled from the chimney atop the house. A large wagon filled with manure, the team already hitched, stood between the barn and the coop.

The barn door was open, and as the rider approached, out of the barn strode a big-boned middle-aged man wearing bib overalls and a straw hat and carrying a pail. He drew up short, his eyes narrowing, his other hand curling into a fist.

“What do we have here?”

The rider smiled his friendliest smile and brought the bay to a stop. “How do, mister? I hope you don’t mind my bein’ on your property. I’m just passin’ through and was wonderin’ if I could maybe buy me a meal.”

The farmer studied him and the bay. “You’ve come a far piece.”

“Yes, sir,” the rider said politely. “All the way from Kansas City, in fact. I’m headin’ west to the mountains.”

“You’re off the beaten trail by a long shot.”

“I reckon I am, at that,” the rider admitted, and chuckled. “I figure I’ll find Denver eventually. Folks say it’s right big.”

“Denver, you say?”

“Yes, sir. I hear it’s boomin’, and I figure there’ll be work to be had, even for someone like me.”

The farmer glanced at the rider’s empty left sleeve, hanging limp at his side. “Lost that in the war, did you?”

“Yes, sir. And you’d be surprised at how many folks won’t hire a cripple.”

“That’s not very Christian.”

“No, sir, it’s not,” the rider said sadly.

“We don’t see many in uniform these days,” the farmer mentioned. “It’s been, what, a dozen years, or thereabouts.”

The rider touched his dusty shirt. “These are the only clothes I have.”

The farmer came closer. He looked at the rider’s waist and then at the saddle where a scabbard would be. “Why, you’re not armed.”

“No, sir,” the rider said. “I gave up guns when I mustered out. I had enough of them in the war.”

A hint of friendliness came into the farmer’s face, and he unclenched his fist. “That’s admirable. But it might not be wise. You’re headed into dangerous country. West of here there are hostiles. To say nothing of all the outlaws and hard cases.”

The rider shrugged. “I’ve put my life in the hands of the Almighty. What will be, will be.”

“What’s your name, anyhow?”

The rider happened to notice a pump over by the farmhouse. “Waterton,” he said. “Jules Waterton.”

“Well, Mr. Waterton—”

“Corporal Waterton, if you don’t mind,” the rider said. “I’m not in the army anymore, but I still like to be called that.”

“Corporal Waterton,” the farmer amended, and hefted the pail. “I just got done milkin’, and the missus and me are about to sit down to breakfast. How would you like to join us? I’m sure Martha won’t mind.”

“I don’t want to be any bother,” the rider said. “And I can pay.”

“The meal is free,” the farmer said. “It’s the least we can do, given what you lost in the war.”

“I never ask to be treated special,” the rider said. “I can make my own way.”

The farmer smiled. “I’m sure you can, Corporal. I admire that. But let us treat you anyhow. I’m Sam, by the way. Sam Carson.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

Carson conducted the rider to the pump and told him to help himself while he went in to break the news to his wife.

“I’m very grateful, sir.” The rider dismounted, putting on a show of moving stiffly to add to the illusion that he was old. The moment the front door closed on the farmer, the rider chuckled. “This uniform does the trick every time, Archibald.” He worked the pump handle until water spurted, then cupped his right hand and raised it to his lips.

It wasn’t two minutes that the door opened and out came Sam and Martha Carson. She was what some would call pleasingly plump, with a face that made the rider think of the cows in the pasture. Her dress was homespun, and she wore a white apron.

The rider doffed his hat and gave a little bow.

“How do you do, ma’am?”

“Corporal Waterton, is it?” the woman said.

The rider nodded. “I’m awful sorry to bother you. I told Sam, there, that I’m willin’ to pay for breakfast but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Neither will I,” Martha said. “Come on in and I’ll set another place. We don’t often get visitors.”

“We’re a bit far out,” Sam said.

“You have a nice farm,” the rider said. “It shows a lot of hard work went into it. My pa used to say that hard work is good for the soul.”

“Your pa sounds like he knew what he was about,” Martha said.

“He did,” the rider said, and grew sorrowful. “He died while I was off fightin’ to free the slaves. I never got to attend his funeral.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Martha commiserated, and beckoned. “Come. Join us. I have bacon on the stove and don’t want to burn it.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

A long parlor brought them to an immaculate kitchen. The floor was clean enough to eat off of, gleaming utensils hung on the walls, and in a frying pan, long strips of bacon sizzled.

The rider inhaled and happily...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Berkley
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2015
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 045147290X
• ISBN 13: 9780451472908
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 304
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar