Clay Bell was a onetime drifter who'd grown weary of long trails and settled on the sweetest land he'd ever seen. For six years he fought Indians, rustlers, and the wilderness itself to make the Bar-B ranch the prize of the Deep Creek Range. But now all that Clay has worked for is threatened. Jud Devitt, a ruthless speculator from the East, wants Bell's rich timberland--and he doesn't care how he gets it. Backing Devitt are tame judges, crooked politicians, and fifty of the toughest lumberjacks in the county. Devitt doesn't know how to lose. Bell figures he's just the one to teach him.
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
December 31, 1954
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from Guns of the Timberlands by Louis L'Amour
The two riders on the Deep Creek trail had the morning to themselves. Within the range of their attention nothing moved.
The vast sky arched blue and empty to the horizon. Before them the trail was a white, winding line across the face of the desert plain. On both sides of the trail the bunch-grass levels stretched far toward the blue hills, and in the bottoms along Deep Creek were grassy meadows and a scattering of willow and cottonwood.
Behind them, looming suddenly from the desert, was isolated Deep Creek Range, a fifty-square-mile group of mountains. Its lower slopes were naked rock or rock clad with the sparse, dry-land brush of the middle desert. Along the crests there appeared at intervals the darker tufts of pine tops.
Within the rough circle of Deep Creek Range lay the basin of the creek, a high plateau heavily timbered and slashed by the canyons and valleys of Deep and Cave creeks, carrying a fine stand of virgin timber. The high meadows were rich with grass, well watered and green; the inner slopes of the mountains, except for a few places where lightning-started fires had struck, were thickly clad with ponderosa pine and fir.
There was only one road through the Deep Creek Range, a long abandoned trail used by west-bound pioneers and later, briefly, by a stage line. No wagon had used that road in many years, only the riders of the B-Bar.
"New folks in town." Bill Coffin volunteered the information after three miles of silence and chill morning. "A good-lookin' blonde."
Clay Bell drew on his cigarette, found it dead, and after pinching it to be sure, tossed it into the desert. Here there was no danger of fire but the habit remained from forest living.
"A couple of lumberjacks," Coffin added. "And some city man . . . all duded up."
"You talk too much." Clay took out the makings and began to build a smoke. He glanced over at Coffin, fine lines of remembered laughter showing at the corners of his eyes. "What would lumberjacks be doing in Tinkersville "
"Search me." Bill Coffin was a lean, strongly built young cowhand, a good man with a rope or horse. "What would a beautiful blonde do there "