by Louis L’Amour
A archetypal L’Amour western; the rugged hero, the desert landscape, an evil gang out for vengeance.
Fiction - Western
Appropriate for teens & adults
A good read; the ending was too abrupt for me, though a bit charming in its brevity. Not a classic, though L’Amour has certainly written some. I came to L’Amour kicking and screaming, but he really is a great writer, dry wit, fabulous at painting a picture, and occasionally really nails human nature with all it’s capacity for valor and selfishness.
People, he told himself, were suckers. The fact that on several occasions he had proved to be one himself only served to illustrate the point.
There was strength in the man, and background too. It showed in so many little things. It shoed in his way of speaking of women, always with courtesy, never indicating familiarity, always with respect. It showed in the way he ate, the way he drank, the manner in which he carried himself. Brennan was not of the gentry, but he knew gentry when he saw them.
He glanced at the two books thrust down into his unstrapped pack -- purposely he had left it open for the last few items. He had always wanted to read more, but there had never seemed to be time. Yet he knew that was not true, either -- there was always time. One simply had to make time, and there was always a lot a man did that was trifling and altogether unimportant.
And then he was dead . . . or he felt like it. Never having been dead, he might have been mistaken.