William W. Johnstone
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The Greatest Western Writer Of The 21st Century
He is brave, tough as leather, and has left behind a trail of deadly enemies--outlaws he's hunted down or killed with the cold heart of a man used to violence. A feared bounty hunter and the scourge of bad men everywhere, Flintlock carries an ancient Hawken muzzle-loader, handed down to him from the mountain man who raised him. He stands as the towering hero of a new Johnstone saga.
Busted out of prison by an outlaw friend, Flintlock joins a hunt for a fortune--a golden bell hanging in a remote monastery. But between the smoldering ruin of his former jail cell and a treasure in the Arizona mountains there will be blood at a U.S. Army fort, a horrifying brush with Apache warriors, and a dozen bloody showdowns with the schemers, shootists, madmen, and lost women who find their way to Flintlock's side. From a vicious, superstitious half-breed to the great Geronimo himself, Flintlock meets the frontier's most murderous hardcases--many who he must find a way to kill. . .
walked directly to the donkey and its grotesque burden. After a while he turned to Flintlock and said, “Apaches all right. He’s been skun.” Captain Owen Shaw, his caped greatcoat hurriedly thrown over his night attire, stood close by, but said nothing. He was deathly pale under his dark tan. Flintlock and Charlie Fong stared at the body. It was braced upright on the donkey’s back by a frame of pine branches, and Howard’s purple and pink intestines spilled over the little animal’s back and
guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Flintlock said. His eyes were troubled. Often swept by a north wind, the Chuska Mountains are restless, and around Flintlock the pines rustled, and higher the aspen trembled, made uneasy by the whispering night. Gibbering things haunted the darkness and squeaking things scuttled in the long grass. A slight summer rain ticked across the clearing where Flintlock lay awake in his blankets. Roper and Charlie Fong slept by the sputtering fire, but of Coffin
stung his face and streaked cobwebs into his hair, and he cussed himself for ever leaving his blankets. Coffin led the way to an open meadow. Then he angled to his left toward a high rock cliff that over the ages had eroded into the vague shape of a man’s face—heavily lidded eyes, a wide mouth and a great V-shaped outcropping forming the nose. As he trotted after the breed, Flintlock fancied that the face had a passing resemblance to George Washington . . . or somebody’s maiden aunt. A moment
large-caliber firearm suffers tremendous shock. When Flintlock lifted the old man’s head in his arms, the guardian was beyond speech. But his milky eyes spoke volumes, wide open, staring up at Flintlock with a mix of fear, surprise . . . and relief. The old man died without making a sound and probably with no pain. At least Flintlock hoped that was the case. He laid the old man gently on the floor of the cave. Then he stepped outside. He’d meet Asa Pagg in the rain. And kill him. A
but a Chinaman, them’s lousy odds,” Flintlock said. “But go ahead, Abe. Why me?” “Because I can’t shade Asa Pagg, but you can,” Roper said. “Charlie, can I say it any plainer than that? Am I right or am I wrong?” “No, sir, you’re right and you can’t say it plainer,” Fong said. “And study on this, Sammy,” Roper said. “If for some reason we don’t find the big bell, last time I looked, Asa had a five-thousand reward on his head, dead or alive. Gun ol’ Asa and in a manner of speakin’ you’d be