Inhaltsangabe
Three action-packed tales of the Old West--The Buckskin Line, Badger Boy, and The Way of the Coyote--chronicle the formative years of the Texas Rangers as they follow the exploits of Rusty Shannon, a one-time captive of the Comanche, as he pursues his own quest for vengeance while struggling to uphold justice in the wake of the Civil War.
Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.
Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor
Elmer Kelton, author of more than forty novels, grew up on a ranch near Crane, Texas, and earned a journalism degree from the University of Texas. His first novel, Hot Iron, was published in 1956. For forty-two years he had a parallel career in agricultural journalism.
Among his awards have been seven Spurs from Western Writers of America and four Western Heritage awards from the National Cowboy Hall of Fame. Among his best-known works have been The Time It Never Rained and The Good Old Boys, the latter made into a television film starring Tommy Lee Jones.
He served in the infantry in World War II. He and his wife, Ann, a native of Austria, live in San Angelo, Texas. They have three children, four grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.
Among his awards have been seven Spurs from Western Writers of America and four Western Heritage awards from the National Cowboy Hall of Fame. Among his best-known works have been The Time It Never Rained and The Good Old Boys, the latter made into a television film starring Tommy Lee Jones.
He served in the infantry in World War II. He and his wife, Ann, a native of Austria, live in San Angelo, Texas. They have three children, four grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.
Aus dem Klappentext
"One could wish for a single volume in which all these strands were melded together in a larger dynamic."
-Houston Chronicle
On The Buckskin Line
"Wonderfully satisfying, sophisticated, unsentimental, superbly crafted, and full of a whopping good humor out of Twain. Hard to beat."
-Kirkus Reviews
On Badger Boy
"Kelton is a master of both plot and character development, and his Rusty Shannon is a down-to-earth, dusty cowboy whose exploits always thrill Kelton's fans."
-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
On The Way of the Coyote
"Kelton again lives up to his reputation as one of the finest and most prolific of today's Western authors."
-Abilene Reporter News
|-Houston Chronicle
On The Buckskin Line
"Wonderfully satisfying, sophisticated, unsentimental, superbly crafted, and full of a whopping good humor out of Twain. Hard to beat."
-Kirkus Reviews
On Badger Boy
"Kelton is a master of both plot and character development, and his Rusty Shannon is a down-to-earth, dusty cowboy whose exploits always thrill Kelton's fans."
-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
On The Way of the Coyote
"Kelton again lives up to his reputation as one of the finest and most prolific of today's Western authors."
-Abilene Reporter News
"One could wish for a single volume in which all these strands were melded together in a larger dynamic."
-Houston Chronicle
On The Buckskin Line
"Wonderfully satisfying, sophisticated, unsentimental, superbly crafted, and full of a whopping good humor out of Twain. Hard to beat."
-Kirkus Reviews
On Badger Boy
"Kelton is a master of both plot and character development, and his Rusty Shannon is a down-to-earth, dusty cowboy whose exploits always thrill Kelton's fans."
-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
On The Way of the Coyote
"Kelton again lives up to his reputation as one of the finest and most prolific of today's Western authors."
-Abilene Reporter News
-Houston Chronicle
On The Buckskin Line
"Wonderfully satisfying, sophisticated, unsentimental, superbly crafted, and full of a whopping good humor out of Twain. Hard to beat."
-Kirkus Reviews
On Badger Boy
"Kelton is a master of both plot and character development, and his Rusty Shannon is a down-to-earth, dusty cowboy whose exploits always thrill Kelton's fans."
-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
On The Way of the Coyote
"Kelton again lives up to his reputation as one of the finest and most prolific of today's Western authors."
-Abilene Reporter News
Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
CHAPTER ONE
TEXAS GULF COAST, AUGUST 1840
He was Comanche, and he was known among The People as Buffalo Caller. Once in a time of hunger, when he was a fledgling on one of his first hunts, the older and more experienced men had ridden their horses to exhaustion without scaring up so much as one lone, lame bull. But Buffalo Caller, riding alone, had heard a faint and distant bellow. He had responded in the voice of a buffalo, and the buffalo had answered him. The calls led him to a small herd in a hidden canyon.
It was not buffalo he hunted now. He scouted as a wolf for the largest assembly of raiders the Penateka band had ever put together, moving to strike the land-greedy, hair-faced American settlers of Texas. Beside him against the Texans rode Swift as the Antelope, so named for his fleetness of foot.
Buffalo Caller tingled with excitement over the sights he was about to behold. He had never seen an ocean or even a boat, so it strained his imagination to visualize what old men had described around their campfires. If the veterans had not let fanciful dreams overcome the realities of memory, those wonders lay no more than half a day's horseback journey ahead of him. It was claimed that the great water stretched so far one could not see all the way across. None of The People had ever ventured out upon it to determine how far it extended, for they were of the land, not of the sea. It was said that white men's boats might travel for many days without touching shore and that fish larger than horses lived in the dark and frightening depths.
Buffalo Caller doubted much of what he had heard. It sounded typical of the white teibos' lies. He had forded many rivers, and he had visited lakes wider than the rivers, but none were so wide that he could not see the opposite side.
Where he rode now was far to the south and east of the short-grass prairie and the limestone hill hunting grounds he was accustomed to roaming. A journey of many days had brought the massive Comanche war column into a gently rolling land of sandy soil and tall, summer-cured grass much different from the higher, drier land the Penatekas claimed as home. The hot, humid wind carried a smell foreign to his experience and left a faint suggestion of salt upon his lips. Summer heat sent sweat rolling down from beneath his buffalo-horn headdress and into his paint-streaked face, burning his eyes.
The foreignness of this land made him uneasy despite the persistent gnawing of curiosity. Though he wanted to see the great water for himself, he would be relieved when they finished what they came to do so they could return to country more suited to his experience.
What they were about was vengeance, blood for blood. In the early spring many tribal leaders and warriors had met with white chiefs in San Antonio de Béjar's council house to discuss an earlier agreement by the Comanches to free all their captives. Some had reconsidered the promise and balked, holding out for stronger terms. Talk had led to quarrel, and quarrel to the loosing of arrows and an explosion of gunfire. When the smoke drifted away, more than thirty Indians lay dead and dying in the council house and in the foul dirt of San Antonio's narrow streets.
In retaliation The People had killed most of the remaining white captives, but those had not bled enough to wash away the stain of the San Antonio disaster. The indignant Penatekas had undertaken this huge punitive expedition, carrying them far beyond their normal range, all the way eastward to the Gulf of Mexico. He did not know how many of The People were on this grand adventure. He had attempted to count them on his fingers and thumbs, but the task overwhelmed him. They were so many that they defied his understanding of numbers. Their horses left the grass beaten down and the ground scarred in their wake like the slow passage of a large buffalo herd. Though the object was war, many women and children had come along to watch and cheer as their warriors carried calamity to the white enemy.
Mexican allies guided them, for they knew the route. They knew how to pick their way through the sparsely settled region and avoid detection until time for the great force to loose its thunder and lightning. Buffalo caller understood that the Americans had won this land from the Mexicans in a fierce war. Mexico wanted to take it back and had sent emissaries to the tribes, promising many good things in return for their aid. Buffalo Caller cared nothing for Mexico, for the first raid in which he had ridden had been against Mexicans. He had fought them often and had killed many. But he welcomed any chance to strike the Texans. A temporary alliance with a former adversary was justifiable if it promised victory over an enemy hated even more.
Antelope pulled up on his rawhide reins. "The wind brings the smell of smoke." He raised his head, sniffing, testing.
Antelope was notoriously subject to quick judgments and quick action without considering where they might lead. Buffalo Caller smelled only dust, for the ground was so dry it had cracked open in places. The soil would all be up and moving on the wind were it not bound by a heavy stand of brittle grass, the result of last spring's rains. He drew the skin taut at the edge of his right eye, trying to sharpen his vision. He decided Antelope was right, this time. "I think I see a house. It is beyond the timber, there."
His companion thumped the heels of his moccasins against his mount's ribs, putting him into a trot. "If they have horses, we shall take them."
Buffalo Caller feared that Antelope's zeal would make him forget their real mission. "Taking horses is not what you and I have been sent to do."
The principal concern so far had been to avoid premature detection as the army of warriors moved along. The wolves were to overtake and kill any whites who might observe their passage before the trap was sprung. That precaution seemed less important now because scouts had reported that the town of Victoria lay only a short distance ahead. The Americans would soon know of the column's coming. One Mexican guide had lived in Victoria until the Texans drove him out, and he itched for retribution. Victoria had been chosen as the first target.
Buffalo Caller recognized Antelope's determination. He relented, knowing Antelope would do whatever he wanted, regardless of advice to the contrary. "If we find horses, there is no reason they should not be ours." He set his dun horse into a trot that matched Antelope's pace.
Antelope grunted. "If we find any teibos, we will take their scalps as well as their horses." His taste for vengeance was strong. A brother's blood had soaked into the floor of the San Antonio council house.
"So long as we do not leave our own."
Emerging from a small patch of timber, they saw a man afoot in a cornfield, wielding a curved knife to cut heads from the stalks, tossing them into the bed of a wagon drawn by two horses. His back turned, he did not see the warriors' approach.
Antelope said, "You take the horses. I will take the man."
Not until he heard the hooves did the farmer turn. He wasted a long moment frozen in startled disbelief as the two Comanches rushed down upon him; then he ran for the rail fence. Antelope's arrow struck him in the middle of his back. He fell forward onto his face. The warrior leaped from his horse, vaulted over the low fence, and knelt beside the dying man, slicing a patch of scalp with his knife. Buffalo Caller saw no need for undue haste. He climbed over the fence and cut the two horses loose from the wagon. They were docile. What human beings did to one another concerned them little.
Antelope raised the bloody trophy for Buffalo Caller to observe, then looked toward the log cabin. "There may be others."
Whoever was at the house might have a rifle or shotgun. Buffalo Caller saw...
TEXAS GULF COAST, AUGUST 1840
He was Comanche, and he was known among The People as Buffalo Caller. Once in a time of hunger, when he was a fledgling on one of his first hunts, the older and more experienced men had ridden their horses to exhaustion without scaring up so much as one lone, lame bull. But Buffalo Caller, riding alone, had heard a faint and distant bellow. He had responded in the voice of a buffalo, and the buffalo had answered him. The calls led him to a small herd in a hidden canyon.
It was not buffalo he hunted now. He scouted as a wolf for the largest assembly of raiders the Penateka band had ever put together, moving to strike the land-greedy, hair-faced American settlers of Texas. Beside him against the Texans rode Swift as the Antelope, so named for his fleetness of foot.
Buffalo Caller tingled with excitement over the sights he was about to behold. He had never seen an ocean or even a boat, so it strained his imagination to visualize what old men had described around their campfires. If the veterans had not let fanciful dreams overcome the realities of memory, those wonders lay no more than half a day's horseback journey ahead of him. It was claimed that the great water stretched so far one could not see all the way across. None of The People had ever ventured out upon it to determine how far it extended, for they were of the land, not of the sea. It was said that white men's boats might travel for many days without touching shore and that fish larger than horses lived in the dark and frightening depths.
Buffalo Caller doubted much of what he had heard. It sounded typical of the white teibos' lies. He had forded many rivers, and he had visited lakes wider than the rivers, but none were so wide that he could not see the opposite side.
Where he rode now was far to the south and east of the short-grass prairie and the limestone hill hunting grounds he was accustomed to roaming. A journey of many days had brought the massive Comanche war column into a gently rolling land of sandy soil and tall, summer-cured grass much different from the higher, drier land the Penatekas claimed as home. The hot, humid wind carried a smell foreign to his experience and left a faint suggestion of salt upon his lips. Summer heat sent sweat rolling down from beneath his buffalo-horn headdress and into his paint-streaked face, burning his eyes.
The foreignness of this land made him uneasy despite the persistent gnawing of curiosity. Though he wanted to see the great water for himself, he would be relieved when they finished what they came to do so they could return to country more suited to his experience.
What they were about was vengeance, blood for blood. In the early spring many tribal leaders and warriors had met with white chiefs in San Antonio de Béjar's council house to discuss an earlier agreement by the Comanches to free all their captives. Some had reconsidered the promise and balked, holding out for stronger terms. Talk had led to quarrel, and quarrel to the loosing of arrows and an explosion of gunfire. When the smoke drifted away, more than thirty Indians lay dead and dying in the council house and in the foul dirt of San Antonio's narrow streets.
In retaliation The People had killed most of the remaining white captives, but those had not bled enough to wash away the stain of the San Antonio disaster. The indignant Penatekas had undertaken this huge punitive expedition, carrying them far beyond their normal range, all the way eastward to the Gulf of Mexico. He did not know how many of The People were on this grand adventure. He had attempted to count them on his fingers and thumbs, but the task overwhelmed him. They were so many that they defied his understanding of numbers. Their horses left the grass beaten down and the ground scarred in their wake like the slow passage of a large buffalo herd. Though the object was war, many women and children had come along to watch and cheer as their warriors carried calamity to the white enemy.
Mexican allies guided them, for they knew the route. They knew how to pick their way through the sparsely settled region and avoid detection until time for the great force to loose its thunder and lightning. Buffalo caller understood that the Americans had won this land from the Mexicans in a fierce war. Mexico wanted to take it back and had sent emissaries to the tribes, promising many good things in return for their aid. Buffalo Caller cared nothing for Mexico, for the first raid in which he had ridden had been against Mexicans. He had fought them often and had killed many. But he welcomed any chance to strike the Texans. A temporary alliance with a former adversary was justifiable if it promised victory over an enemy hated even more.
Antelope pulled up on his rawhide reins. "The wind brings the smell of smoke." He raised his head, sniffing, testing.
Antelope was notoriously subject to quick judgments and quick action without considering where they might lead. Buffalo Caller smelled only dust, for the ground was so dry it had cracked open in places. The soil would all be up and moving on the wind were it not bound by a heavy stand of brittle grass, the result of last spring's rains. He drew the skin taut at the edge of his right eye, trying to sharpen his vision. He decided Antelope was right, this time. "I think I see a house. It is beyond the timber, there."
His companion thumped the heels of his moccasins against his mount's ribs, putting him into a trot. "If they have horses, we shall take them."
Buffalo Caller feared that Antelope's zeal would make him forget their real mission. "Taking horses is not what you and I have been sent to do."
The principal concern so far had been to avoid premature detection as the army of warriors moved along. The wolves were to overtake and kill any whites who might observe their passage before the trap was sprung. That precaution seemed less important now because scouts had reported that the town of Victoria lay only a short distance ahead. The Americans would soon know of the column's coming. One Mexican guide had lived in Victoria until the Texans drove him out, and he itched for retribution. Victoria had been chosen as the first target.
Buffalo Caller recognized Antelope's determination. He relented, knowing Antelope would do whatever he wanted, regardless of advice to the contrary. "If we find horses, there is no reason they should not be ours." He set his dun horse into a trot that matched Antelope's pace.
Antelope grunted. "If we find any teibos, we will take their scalps as well as their horses." His taste for vengeance was strong. A brother's blood had soaked into the floor of the San Antonio council house.
"So long as we do not leave our own."
Emerging from a small patch of timber, they saw a man afoot in a cornfield, wielding a curved knife to cut heads from the stalks, tossing them into the bed of a wagon drawn by two horses. His back turned, he did not see the warriors' approach.
Antelope said, "You take the horses. I will take the man."
Not until he heard the hooves did the farmer turn. He wasted a long moment frozen in startled disbelief as the two Comanches rushed down upon him; then he ran for the rail fence. Antelope's arrow struck him in the middle of his back. He fell forward onto his face. The warrior leaped from his horse, vaulted over the low fence, and knelt beside the dying man, slicing a patch of scalp with his knife. Buffalo Caller saw no need for undue haste. He climbed over the fence and cut the two horses loose from the wagon. They were docile. What human beings did to one another concerned them little.
Antelope raised the bloody trophy for Buffalo Caller to observe, then looked toward the log cabin. "There may be others."
Whoever was at the house might have a rifle or shotgun. Buffalo Caller saw...
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