By Frank Leslie
Christmas for Yakima Henry isn't all that merry...
Yakima Henry is searching wild horses together with his accomplice, Lewis Shackleford, while they're attacked by way of desperadoes. A mysterious gunman with a Sharps rifle sends the thieves operating. but if they visit thank their savior, they locate him dead—with a wide poke of gold among his gear.
Haunted via the man's loss of life, Yakima takes it upon himself to take the gold to the shooter's relatives. yet even round Christmas, not anything is simple. at the journey during the snowy Wyoming mountains, Yakima should struggle tough to save lots of himself and his touring companions—including a stunning girl at the run—from predators either animal and human.
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Extra resources for Dead Man's Trail
He had enjoyed the earlier train trip through Europe. In Rome he’d even got a chance to visit the room where Keats died and the Protestant cemetery, where he’d seen the poet’s grave. Standing above the simple headstone near the grand Pyramid of Cestius he’d looked down at the engraving of a broken lyre and the strangely ambiguous epitaph: Here lies one whose name was writ in water. The poet’s friend Charles Brown had interpreted this as Keats’ abandonment of any hope of posthumous fame, but standing there looking at it with the perspective of eighty years’ hindsight Arthur liked to think it was not this simple.
Part of its facade was covered in a crude scaffolding and half-naked workmen clambered over its stone like animated hieroglyphs. Arthur realised it must be Beit el Ajaib, the House of Wonders that Frank had written to him about, and on closer inspection he saw he was right. There, behind the scaffolding, the white walls gave to a shattered dark hole, the last remaining damage of the British shells that had thudded into the palace back in 1896 in what turned out to be the world’s shortest war. Just forty minutes long, Frank had said.
Her face dismantled under the weight of them, and gave way completely with a bursting sob as she pushed her chair away from the table and ran through the huge double doors into the central vestibule. They heard her small feet on the wooden floorboards receding behind them, then the slam of another heavy door. The merchant looked sheepishly around at them all. ‘Gosh, I do apologise. It’s been a long day, and the heat you know…I’ll just…’ He made to get out of his chair. ’ It was the Governor’s wife, speaking for the first time that night.
Dead Man's Trail by Frank Leslie