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Ghost Hills - ebook
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Data wydania:
11 lipca 2022
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Ghost Hills - ebook
An old secret and a lovely woman and three men: Barr Radison, an American adventurer, searching for the mysterious source of black and silver fox pelts, Macferris Montenay, a ruthless giant of a man, trying to carve out his own kingdom in the wilderness, and Jean Nichemus, a halfbreed and Montenay’s henchman, harboring his own sinister plans. „Ghost Hills” is one of the adventure stories of a prolific H. Bedford-Jones who is rightly called the „King of Pulps”.
| Kategoria: | Suspense |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8292-407-7 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,6 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
Contents
I. MONTENAY'S LUCK
II. A CLUE OF MANY THREADS
III. ON THE TRAIL
IV. JEAN NICHEMUS
V. THE WHITE TOBACCO GIRL
VI. IN THE GHOST HILLS
VII. BEYOND THE LAW
VIII. ESCAPE
IX. THE CUNNING OF THE BREED
X. THE FLAT-SHOE TRACK
XI. THE BREAKING POINT
XII. HANDICAPPED
XIII. THE MAN OF PEACE
XIV. CRAZY BEAR TRAPPED
XV. SULVENT'S TALE
XVI. THE SILENT ONES
XVII. BESIEGED
XVIII. NICHEMUS PLAYS TRUMP
XIX. PURSUIT
XX. TRAIL'S ENDI. MONTENAY’S LUCK
“DONE, Take-a-chance!”
“Huh?”
“Last letter’s done, and I’m ready.”
“Time you were. Been writing all afternoon. Come on.”
“What are all these breeds around for this morning? Isn’t that unusual this time of year? Anything doing?”
“Sure–lots. They weren’t breeds, but pure-bloods. That’s what I’ve been after you to break away for. Hold still, Rad–listen!”
The two figures paused in the shelter of the stockade, beside an ancient little cannon on its crumbling carriage near the flagstaff. Above them flared and danced the lights in uncouth streamers and bands from horizon to horizon, and around lay the clay-plastered log buildings of Fort Tenacity, silent on the snow.
Despite the huge furs that enveloped both figures, their faces stood out clear-cut against the sky, distinct in the weird shadow-light. The one was raw-boned, gaunt with the trail, strong hewed of brow and nose and mouth, for Tom Macklin, or “Take-a- chance Macklin,” as he was known from the Mackenzie to the bay, was a son of the lights by breed and birth and choice.
The other was finer-featured, save for his nose, which lent the suggestion of an eagle as he leaned forward, listening. But for the eyes, his face was not distinctive. The mouth was a trifle too firmly set, perhaps; the chin a trifle too short, but the level brown eyes blazed out with a strange intensity as if the owner sought something that lay far out of ken over the horizon.
Even so had Barr Radison sought, for the better part of his life. Blessed with money, he was cursed with the ancient curse of the wanderlust. Ever had he sought the thing undreamed of–the thing that had no name, and ever had he found that beyond the far skyline lay a new horizon, empty. The two men had met in Winnipeg ten weeks before, and Radison had looked Macklin in the eye for a long moment.
“Take me north, will you?” he had asked simply.
“Sure. I’ll take a chance on your looks. Stick around–something may turn up.”
The “something” had turned up. It had taken them north and northeast; it had drawn them west and then north again, until finally it had brought them to Fort Tenacity. And beyond Tenacity there was nothing.
Beyond Tenacity the breed trappers were not. Beyond Tenacity were Cree and Chipewa, with red snow between. Behind Tenacity lay white snow and the trail of the packet, traveled twice a year, for where the mail comes there must be no red snow.
In the north the mail is the law, relentless, irrevocable, unbreakable. Men are little things, and the mail is the greatest thing, for so the white man has ordained. But beyond Tenacity there was none to ordain.
“Hurry up–it’s blamed cold out here!” exclaimed the American after a moment. Both men were staring at a log building next the store, which gleamed dull light through its one window. It was the largest building in the post, where canoes and dog- sleds were stored at other times.
“Hold on,” rejoined Macklin stolidly. “Take a chance on hearing something–there he goes! Lord, what a man–stark drunk at that!”
From the building, which had a moment since echoed a raspy fiddle-squeak, rose a single resonant, liquor-charged bass voice. It was not singing; rather, it was intoning in a most monotonous and sing-song manner, as if it had been caught unawares by the stoppage of the Red River Jig.
...and he who will this toast deny:
Down among the dead men,
Down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down–
Down among the dead men
Let him lie!
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
I. MONTENAY'S LUCK
II. A CLUE OF MANY THREADS
III. ON THE TRAIL
IV. JEAN NICHEMUS
V. THE WHITE TOBACCO GIRL
VI. IN THE GHOST HILLS
VII. BEYOND THE LAW
VIII. ESCAPE
IX. THE CUNNING OF THE BREED
X. THE FLAT-SHOE TRACK
XI. THE BREAKING POINT
XII. HANDICAPPED
XIII. THE MAN OF PEACE
XIV. CRAZY BEAR TRAPPED
XV. SULVENT'S TALE
XVI. THE SILENT ONES
XVII. BESIEGED
XVIII. NICHEMUS PLAYS TRUMP
XIX. PURSUIT
XX. TRAIL'S ENDI. MONTENAY’S LUCK
“DONE, Take-a-chance!”
“Huh?”
“Last letter’s done, and I’m ready.”
“Time you were. Been writing all afternoon. Come on.”
“What are all these breeds around for this morning? Isn’t that unusual this time of year? Anything doing?”
“Sure–lots. They weren’t breeds, but pure-bloods. That’s what I’ve been after you to break away for. Hold still, Rad–listen!”
The two figures paused in the shelter of the stockade, beside an ancient little cannon on its crumbling carriage near the flagstaff. Above them flared and danced the lights in uncouth streamers and bands from horizon to horizon, and around lay the clay-plastered log buildings of Fort Tenacity, silent on the snow.
Despite the huge furs that enveloped both figures, their faces stood out clear-cut against the sky, distinct in the weird shadow-light. The one was raw-boned, gaunt with the trail, strong hewed of brow and nose and mouth, for Tom Macklin, or “Take-a- chance Macklin,” as he was known from the Mackenzie to the bay, was a son of the lights by breed and birth and choice.
The other was finer-featured, save for his nose, which lent the suggestion of an eagle as he leaned forward, listening. But for the eyes, his face was not distinctive. The mouth was a trifle too firmly set, perhaps; the chin a trifle too short, but the level brown eyes blazed out with a strange intensity as if the owner sought something that lay far out of ken over the horizon.
Even so had Barr Radison sought, for the better part of his life. Blessed with money, he was cursed with the ancient curse of the wanderlust. Ever had he sought the thing undreamed of–the thing that had no name, and ever had he found that beyond the far skyline lay a new horizon, empty. The two men had met in Winnipeg ten weeks before, and Radison had looked Macklin in the eye for a long moment.
“Take me north, will you?” he had asked simply.
“Sure. I’ll take a chance on your looks. Stick around–something may turn up.”
The “something” had turned up. It had taken them north and northeast; it had drawn them west and then north again, until finally it had brought them to Fort Tenacity. And beyond Tenacity there was nothing.
Beyond Tenacity the breed trappers were not. Beyond Tenacity were Cree and Chipewa, with red snow between. Behind Tenacity lay white snow and the trail of the packet, traveled twice a year, for where the mail comes there must be no red snow.
In the north the mail is the law, relentless, irrevocable, unbreakable. Men are little things, and the mail is the greatest thing, for so the white man has ordained. But beyond Tenacity there was none to ordain.
“Hurry up–it’s blamed cold out here!” exclaimed the American after a moment. Both men were staring at a log building next the store, which gleamed dull light through its one window. It was the largest building in the post, where canoes and dog- sleds were stored at other times.
“Hold on,” rejoined Macklin stolidly. “Take a chance on hearing something–there he goes! Lord, what a man–stark drunk at that!”
From the building, which had a moment since echoed a raspy fiddle-squeak, rose a single resonant, liquor-charged bass voice. It was not singing; rather, it was intoning in a most monotonous and sing-song manner, as if it had been caught unawares by the stoppage of the Red River Jig.
...and he who will this toast deny:
Down among the dead men,
Down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down–
Down among the dead men
Let him lie!
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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