In this exciting collection of short stories, Louis L'Amour, the legendary voice of the American West, celebrates the unique breed of men who worked the great cattle ranches. Men like Dan Regan, who refused to surrender when trouble came -- Con Fargo, who would fight for what was his--despite the odds -- Rowdy Horn, a small-time rancher with big-time dreams -- Tandy Thayer, too loyal to forget a friend ... Bill Carey, who might have fallen low, but not low enough to let the likes of Tabat Ryerson ride off with a woman like Jane Conway -- and in the classic title story, Danny Lonigan, a hard rider who faced a group of rustlers without fear--or mercy.
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October 31, 1988
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Excerpt from Lonigan by Louis L'Amour
CON FARGO HUNCHED his buffalo coat about his ears and stared at the blood spot. It must have fallen only a minute or two before, or snow would have covered it. And the rapidly filling tracks beside the blood spot were those of a man.
Brushing the snow from his saddle he remounted, turning the grulla mustang down the arroyo. The man, whoever he might be, was wounded and afoot, and the worst storm in years was piling the ravines with drifts.
The direction of the tracks proved the man a stranger. No Black Rock man would head in that direction if badly hurt. In that direction lay thirty miles of desert, and at the end of those miles only the ramshackle ruins of a ghost town.
Con started the mustang off at a rapid trot, his eyes searching the snow. Suddenly, he glimpsed the wounded man. Yet even as his eyes found the stumbling figure, a shot rang out.
Fargo hit the trail beside his horse, six-gun in hand. He could see nothing, only the blur of softly falling snow, hissing slightly. There was no sound, no movement. Then, just as he was about to avert his eyes, a clump of snow toppled from the lip of the arroyo.
He hesitated an instant, watching. Then he clambered up the steep wall of the arroyo and stood looking down at the tracks. Here a man had come to the edge, and here he had waited, kneeling in the snow. He was gone now, and within a quarter of a mile his tracks would be wiped out.
Con Fargo slid back into the arroyo and walked over to the fallen man. The fellow wore no heavy coat, and he was bleeding badly. Yet his heart was beating.
"This moving may cash your chips, old-timer, but you'd die out here, anyway," Con said.
He lifted the man and carried him back to his horse. It took some doing to get the wounded man into the saddle and mount behind him. The mustang didn't like the smell of blood and didn't like to carry double. When Fargo was in the saddle he let the grulla have his head, and the horse headed off through the storm, intent on the stable and an end to this foolishness.
An hour later, with the wounded man stripped of his clothes, Con went to work on him. He had the rough skill of the frontier fighter who was accustomed to working with wounds. The man had been shot twice. The first bullet had been high, just under his left collarbone, but it had spilled a lot of blood. The second shot had gone in right over the heart.