Winter Rain: The Plainsmen

Winter Rain: The Plainsmen

Terry C. Johnston

Language: English

Pages: 527

ISBN: 0553567705

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Jonah Hook was a man who had lost everything a  man could lose--but the iron will to reclaim what  had been taken from him. Now he must confront the  fiery religious heretic who has enslaved his wife  and the fierce Comanche tribe who has raised his  long-lost sons. From Fort Laramie, land of Sioux  and Cheyenne, to the empire of the Mormons in the  shadow of tall mountains, and on to the Texas  panhandle, where he will join the ranks of the Texas  Rangers, the journey ahead will test Jonah's courage,  cunning, and endurance to the limit. On this  bloody trail of rescue and revenge, nothing will stop  him save success . . . or death.

Anatomy of a Lawman (The Gunsmith, Book 344)

Riders From Long Pines

Wolf Mountain Moon: The Battle of the Butte, 1877 (The Plainsmen, Book 12)

The Way of the West (Leisure Western)

Deadly Election (Gunsmith, Book 374)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They looked at each other, then the bushy mustache wagged his head. “Just don’t know about enlisting a—” “Listen,” Hook said, quieter now as he leaned forward on the table. “He’s been riding with me for more’n five year now. Been through one scrape and another. Just say he can ride with me and you won’t have to pay him. And what you get is two good guns for the price of one.” Hook watched the two men look quickly at one another, and if there was some exchange there between them, Jonah could

easing his horse up with the others, who had the newcomer nearly surrounded, starved for news the way they all were. “Some figure there was eight hundred. Others claim as many as a thousand or more.” Behind Jonah one of the Rangers whistled low in exclamation. “A goddamned thousand of the heathen niggers!” Johns said, clapping his dusty, trail-worn gloves together in a joyous, prayerful attitude, chin tilted heavenward. “Dear Lord, would I love to set the table for those sinners. Just look the

enough they just might turn around and wait for us to come right to ’em.” 41 February 1875 TALL ONE’S EIGHTEENTH summer was not that far away. Already Antelope was eager for his sixteenth spring. Together they had fought and killed Mexicans, Lipan, and Tonkawa. Black scalp locks hung from their war shirts, from their clubs and at the end of their bows. And both had struggled against the yellow-leg soldiers at the bottom of the red canyon. Still, their belts held no white man’s scalp from that

moving back and forth between the warriors and the distant fire pits. Perhaps some of the bigger shadows were animals. A snuffle, then another, was heard in the middle distance. Most of the animals were actually grazing closer to them than High-Backed Bull had expected: off to his right hand and just below the base of the high bluff that overlooked the white man’s camp. He smiled, tapping Bad Tongue in their mutual silence—then pointed down to the main body of the herd as one of the mules

ride with us far as Sedgwick? It’s on the way.” Shad wagged his head and tried a wan smile. “No, my friend. Gonna cross over the river down there. Head north by west. Ride up along the foothills toward the Laramie plain. Gonna be … all right to be alone for a while.” “Will the woman be there?” “Bull’s mother? She should be. If not, I’ll find out where. She deserves to know how he come to die. Where he’s buried.” “I figured you took off from the springs to bury him.” “The Cheyenne way: put

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