MOUNTAIN VALLEY WAR, THE（ISBN=9780553250909）pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

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Holed up in a cabin in the Idaho hills, the mysterious man who called himself Trent wasn't looking for trouble. It came looking for him. A trigger-happy kid named Cub Hale emptied his gun into an unarmed man. Then he came swaggering after Trent. The girl who ran the gambling hall tried to get him to hightail it. But Trent wasn't buying. Even in that forsaken back country, he knew when a man had to speak with his shooting iron.

内容简介

A war begins in the Iowa high country between the greedy Hale family and a man called Trent, who hides a courageous and violent legacy and his secret identity, and when the fighting begins, Trent swears to stand his honor---alive or dead. Reissue."

作者简介

Louis L’Amour is undoubtedly the bestselling frontier novelist of all time. He is the only author in history to receive both the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and the Congressional Gold Medal in honor of his life's work. He has published ninety novels; twenty-seven short-story collections; two works of nonfiction; a memoir, Education of a Wandering Man; and a volume of poetry, Smoke from This Altar. There are more than 300 million copies of his books in print worldwide.

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Chapter One

Smoke lifted from the charred timbers where once thehouse had stood, and curled wistfully in memory of the great barnMoffit had built to store hay and grain against the coming winters.The corral bars were down and the saddle stock had been run off.Where Dick Moffit's homestead had been that morning there was nowonly desolation, emptiness, and death.

Dick Moffit lay sprawled on the hard-packed earth of his barnyard,the earth deeply clawed in the agony of death. Even from where hesat on the long-legged buckskin, the man known as Trent could seeMoffit had been shot at least six times. Three bullets had gone infrom the front, the other three fired directly into his back by aman who stood over him. And Dick Moffit had been unarmed.

The small green valley lay still in the lazy afternoon sun, a faintheat emanating from the burned timbers.

So this was the way a dream ended! Dick Moffit had sold a goodbusiness back East to try his luck at stock-raising in the farWest, something for which he had longed since boyhood.

The man who called himself Trent walked his horse slowly around theburned-out farm. Four or five men had come here, one of them ridinga horse with a split right-rear hoof. They had shot Moffit down,then burned his layout.

Chapter One 
 
 Smoke lifted from the charred timbers where once the
house had stood, and curled wistfully in memory of the great barn
Moffit had built to store hay and grain against the coming winters.
The corral bars were down and the saddle stock had been run off.
Where Dick Moffit's homestead had been that morning there was now
only desolation, emptiness, and death. 
 
Dick Moffit lay sprawled on the hard-packed earth of his barnyard,
the earth deeply clawed in the agony of death. Even from where he
sat on the long-legged buckskin, the man known as Trent could see
Moffit had been shot at least six times. Three bullets had gone in
from the front, the other three fired directly into his back by a
man who stood over him. And Dick Moffit had been unarmed. 
 
The small green valley lay still in the lazy afternoon sun, a faint
heat emanating from the burned timbers. 
 
So this was the way a dream ended! Dick Moffit had sold a good
business back East to try his luck at stock-raising in the far
West, something for which he had longed since boyhood. 
 
The man who called himself Trent walked his horse slowly around the
burned-out farm. Four or five men had come here, one of them riding
a horse with a split right-rear hoof. They had shot Moffit down,
then burned his layout. 
 
Yet, where were his children? What about Sally Crane, who was
sixteen? And young Jack Moffit, who was but fourteen? There was no
evidence of them here, and although the killers might have taken
Sally away, they would undoubtedly have killed Jack. 
There were no other bodies, nor were there any recent tracks of the
children. Those that remained and could be distinguished at all
were several days old. 
 
Thoughtfully Trent turned away. The buckskin knew the way they
turned was toward home and quickened his pace. There were five
miles to go, five miles of rugged trails through mountains and
heavy timber and with no clear trail. For this was the way of the
man called Trent, that he leave no definite trail wherever he went,
and each time he came or went from his mountain hideaway he used a
different route, so far as was possible. 
 
He did not expect to be trailed by anyone at this time, but then,
many a good man was now dead who had not expected to be
followed. 
 
This could be it. Always, of course, he had known the day would
come, for trouble had a way of seeking him out, try as he would to
avoid it. For too many months now everything had gone too well. The
rains had come when needed, the grass had grown tall, his few
cattle were growing fat. When in town, he had completed his
business and bought his supplies then returned home. Of course,
there had been rumors that King Bill Hale climbed the high meadows,
and there was surprise that he had not moved to drive them
out. 
 
Slightly more than a year ago he had moved into this high green
valley and built his cabin. He found no cattle ranging there, nor
signs of them, nor were there sheep. It was a high, lonely place,
and the places the others had chosen were much the same, although
lower down than his own place. No drifting cowpunchers came this
high, and only rarely a lion or bear hunter. His only neighbors
were other nesters like himself--Moffit, the Hatfields, O'Hara,
Smithers, and a scattering of others. 
 
In the vicinity of Cedar Bluff there was but one ranch. One, and
only one. On that ranch and in the town, one man ruled supreme. He
rode with majesty, and when he walked, he strode with the step of
kings. He never went out unattended, and he permitted no man to
address him unless he chose to speak first. He issued orders and
bestowed favors like an eastern potentate, and if there were those
who chose to dispute his authority, he crushed them without
hesitation. With some the pressure of his disfavor was enough. With
others he simply offered them a price and their choice was simple:
sell out or be forced out. 
 
King Bill Hale had come west as a boy, and even then he was
possessed of capital. In Texas he bought cattle, hired the best
available men, and drove his herd to Kansas, where he sold at a
handsome profit. He learned to fight and to use a gun, and that
often a man had to fight to hold what was his. He learned to drive
a bargain that was tight and cruel, and to despise weakness. He saw
the strong survive and the weak fail, and he determined then to be
not only strong but strongest. 
 
He had come to Cedar Bluff, which was on the ragged edge of
nowhere, and he drove off those who peddled whiskey to the Indians
and the cattle rustlers who used it as a hideout. He drove off the
few Indians in the area, and when one honest rancher refused to
sell, Hale promptly reduced his offer to half, then bought the one
supply store and refused credit. When that was not sufficient, he
refused to do business with the rancher under any conditions. 
 
Cedar Bluff and Cedar Valley lived under the eye of King Bill Hale,
a strong man and an able one. His ranch prospered, his trading post
did well, and he built the Cedar Hotel, a gambling house and saloon
he called the Mecca, and then he started a stage line. 
 
He owned sixty thousand acres of good grazing land, which he had
bought for prices ranging from a few cents to a dollar an acre. He
controlled, by virtue of holding all accessible water, at least a
hundred thousand more acres. 
 
He had, aside from enough inherited money to begin at the top,
almost unbelievable luck. Of the three trail drives he made to
Kansas, not one stampeded, the weather was always good, and the
Indians far away. King Bill Hale, however, did not believe in good
fortune and was sure he possessed some inherent quality that
accounted for his success. 
 
He had been astute, but so had others. He had come along at a time
when the cattle business was booming and even some stupid men were
making money as a result. He bought beef cattle in Texas for three
or four dollars a head and sold them in Kansas for twenty-eight to
thirty-five dollars. 
 
In a chancy business where stampedes could scatter cattle all over
the range, and where lack of good grazing and water could turn them
to little more than hide and hair, he had experienced only success.
Now that he was surrounded by those whose success depended upon
him, he was free with his money and favors granted, and harsh to
all who were not subservient. 
 
He thought of himself as a good man and would have been shocked at
the implication of anything otherwise. Those not as successful as
himself were "saddle tramps," "nesters," or those who worked for
him, who were tolerated if not praised. 
 
Whenever he rode out, he had tough, hard-scaled Pete Shaw, an
excellent cattleman who rode for the brand, and his son, "Cub"
Hale. 
 
Behind them trailed the so-called Gold Dust Twins, Dunn and Ravitz,
gunmen. 
 
The man who called himself Trent rarely visited Cedar Bluff. The
supplies he required were few, the two packhorses more than
adequate to carry all he needed for three or four months, and he
knew that sooner or later there would be someone from the outside
who would say, "That's Kilkenny!" 
 
Men would turn to look, for the stories of the strange, drifting
gunfighter were many, although few men lived who could describe him
or knew the way he lived. He had no desire for notoriety, no need
to be known as a gunfighter, and that he had become so was through
no choice of his own but rather a simple combination of traits such
as a natural skill with weapons, a cool head and steady hand, as
well as remarkable coordination and the experience of years in
judging both men and situations. 
 
Mysterious, solitary, and shadowy, he had literally been
everywhere. He drifted in and out of cow camps and mining towns,
usually unknown, and often a subject of discussion around campfires
where he was himself present. Occasionally the moment would come
when for one reason or another he must draw a gun, and then for one
brief and bloody moment Kilkenny stood revealed for who he was and
what he was. 
 
His activities had been many and varied, but no more so than those
of many another man of his time and situation, for most men did
what was necessary at the time and most were skilled at a variety
of trades. He had been a trapper and a buffalo hunter, an officer
in the Union Army during the Civil War, a stage driver, a shotgun
guard on stages, a cowhand, foreman on a cattle ranch, a tie
cutter, a track layer, and a variety of other things. Once involved
in a shooting, he never remained in the area, but was gone within
the hour if his presence was not demanded at an inquest, and such
affairs were few. 
 
In Cedar Bluff he used the name of Trent, and in the high peaks he
had found the lush green valley where he built a cabin, ran a few
head of cattle driven in from Oregon, and broke wild horses that
roamed the utterly wild country to the westward. It was a lonely
place, so when he arrived he hung his gun belts on a peg in the
cabin and from that time on carried only his rifle. 
 
When in Cedar Bluff, he went only to the general store and
occasionally to a small boardinghouse where meals were served,
avoiding the Mecca. Most of all he avoided the Crystal Palace, the
new gambling house and saloon owned by Nita Riordan. 
 
The cabin in the pines was touched with the red glow of a setting
sun when he stepped down from the buckskin and slapped the horse
cheerfully on the shoulder. 
 
"Home again, Buck! Feels good, doesn't it?" 
 
He stripped the gear from the horse and turned him into the corral,
then carried saddle and bridle into the log barn. He forked hay to
the horse, and the marmot in the pile of rocks near the entrance to
the trail chewed on some tidbit and paid him no attention. After
the first few weeks the marmot had ceased to whistle his warning
when Trent approached, no longer considering him a potential danger
but rather as part of the normal activity on the mountain.
Occasionally Trent placed bits of bread or fruit on the rocks and
the marmot ate them, obviously accepting them as tribute from this
more or less silent inva...

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