Informationen zum Autor Our foremost storyteller of the American West, Louis L'Amour has thrilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men and woman who settled the frontier. There are more than three hundred million copies of his books in print around the world. Klappentext The story was that Eli Patterson had died in a gunfight, but Mike Shevlin knew it couldn't be true: the man who'd been like a father to him had been a Quaker. But when Shevlin rides back to Rafter Crossing to uncover the truth, he finds that the quiet ranching community has become a booming mining town. Newfound wealth has not made Rafter a peaceful place, however, and the smell of fear and greed is thick in the air. As Mike Shevlin tries to unravel the mystery of Patterson's death, he is led deeper and deeper into a conspiracy that controls not only the fate of Rafter Crossing but the heart of a beautiful but tormented young woman-and Shevlin's own destiny. Chapter One Mike Shevlin squatted on his heels in the driving rain and struck a match under the shelter of his slicker. The match flared and he leaned forward, cupping the flame in his hand against the face of the gravestone. ELI PATTERSON 1811-1876 There was no mistake, then; but how in the name of truth could a peace-loving man like old Eli wind up in a grave on Boot Hill? Eli Patterson had been a Quaker, a man of deep conviction who never touched a gun for his own use and did not approve of those who did. Yet he was dead, shot to death, and buried here among the victims of gun and knife, and if rumor could be credited, he had himself died gun in hand. The flame flickered out and the dropped match hissed against the sodden earth. "Anybody but him," Shevlin said aloud; "anybody but old Eli." The splash of a footstep in a pool of water warned him an instant before the voice spoke. "Kind of wet up here, isn't it?" Mike Shevlin straightened slowly to his feet, glad his slicker was unbuttoned and his gun ready to hand. Enemies he would surely find at Rafter Crossing, but he could expect no friends. He took his time in facing around, careful that his movements be not misunderstood. Through the pouring rain and the darkness he could see the bulk of a square, powerfully built man. Lightning flared, throwing the grave crosses into sharp relief, lighting the water-soaked earth, and making an occasional gleam on stone, but of the wide face before him he could make out no detail. The other man would see even less of Shevlin, because of the up-turned collar of his slicker and the pulled-down brim of his black hat. "You make a practice of following people?" Mike Shevlin asked. "It's a wet night to be on Boot Hill." "I've buried men here on wetter nights. If need be I can bury more." "Ah, I was right then. You're no stranger." There was satisfaction in the man's voice. Lightning glinted off the badge on his chest. Mike Shevlin put a rein to his tongue. This was no bumbling old Sheriff McKown, nor anybody he remembered from the Rafter Crossing he had known. Wanting no trouble, he simply said, "I've been here before, if that's what you mean." The man with the badge shifted his feet slightly. "Are you Ray Hollister?" "If you don't know Ray Hollister," Shevlin replied, "you haven't been around long." "Two years. He left before I came." Shevlin had an uneasy feeling that had he said he was Ray Hollister, the sheriff would have killed him. Wind and rain lashed the grave-covered knoll, whipping the branches of the trees. Off to the right were the lights of the townmany more lights than he remembered. Beyond the town was the gallows frame and the huddled buildings of a mine, lighted for a night shift. "Too wet to talk here," Shevlin said. "What's on your mind?" "You were looking at Patterson's ...

Autorentext
Our foremost storyteller of the American West, Louis L’Amour has thrilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men and woman who settled the frontier. There are more than three hundred million copies of his books in print around the world.

Klappentext

The story was that Eli Patterson had died in a gunfight, but Mike Shevlin knew it couldn't be true: the man who'd been like a father to him had been a Quaker. But when Shevlin rides back to Rafter Crossing to uncover the truth, he finds that the quiet ranching community has become a booming mining town. Newfound wealth has not made Rafter a peaceful place, however, and the smell of fear and greed is thick in the air. As Mike Shevlin tries to unravel the mystery of Patterson's death, he is led deeper and deeper into a conspiracy that controls not only the fate of Rafter Crossing but the heart of a beautiful but tormented young woman-and Shevlin's own destiny.

Leseprobe
*Chapter One

Mike Shevlin squatted on his heels in the driving rain and struck a match under the shelter of his slicker. The match flared and he leaned forward, cupping the flame in his hand against the face of the gravestone.

ELI PATTERSON

1811-1876

There was no mistake, then; but how in the name of truth could a peace-loving man like old Eli wind up in a grave on Boot Hill?

Eli Patterson had been a Quaker, a man of deep conviction who never touched a gun for his own use and did not approve of those who did. Yet he was dead, shot to death, and buried here among the victims of gun and knife, and if rumor could be credited, he had himself died gun in hand.

The flame flickered out and the dropped match hissed against the sodden earth. "Anybody but him," Shevlin said aloud; "anybody but old Eli."

The splash of a footstep in a pool of water warned him an instant before the voice spoke. "Kind of wet up here, isn't it?"

Mike Shevlin straightened slowly to his feet, glad his slicker was unbuttoned and his gun ready to hand. Enemies he would surely find at Rafter Crossing, but he could expect no friends. He took his time in facing around, careful that his movements be not misunderstood.

Through the pouring rain and the darkness he could see the bulk of a square, powerfully built man. Lightning flared, throwing the grave crosses into sharp relief, lighting the water-soaked earth, and making an occasional gleam on stone, but of the wide face before him he could make out no detail.

The other man would see even less of Shevlin, because of the up-turned collar of his slicker and the pulled-down brim of his black hat.

"You make a practice of following people?" Mike Shevlin asked.

"It's a wet night to be on Boot Hill."

"I've buried men here on wetter nights. If need be I can bury more."

"Ah, I was right then. You're no stranger." There was satisfaction in the man's voice. Lightning glinted off the badge on his chest.

Mike Shevlin put a rein to his tongue. This was no bumbling old Sheriff McKown, nor anybody he remembered from the Rafter Crossing he had known. Wanting no trouble, he simply said, "I've been here before, if that's what you mean."

The man with the badge shifted his feet slightly. "Are you Ray Hollister?"

"If you don't know Ray Hollister," Shevlin replied, "you haven't been around long."

"Two years. He left before I came."

Shevlin had an uneasy feeling that had he said he was Ray Hollister, the sheriff would have killed him.

Wind and rain lashed the grave-covered knoll, whipping the branches of the trees. Off to the right were the lights of the town—many more lights than he remembered. Beyond the town was the gallows frame and the huddled buildings of a mine, lighted for a night shift.

"Too wet to talk here," Shevlin said. "What's on your mind?"

"You were looking at Patterson's grave. He was killed in a gun battle two years ago."

Anger flared up in Mike Shevlin. "Whoever told you that," he said roughly, "lied."

"Then the coroner lied, Mason lied, and Gib Gentry lied."

"Who killed him?"

"Gentry—in self-…