Tuttle Hidden Blood

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-98826-296-7
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 145 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Hidden Blood is a Western novel written by W.C. Tuttle and published in 1947. The story is set in the American West during the early 20th century and follows the adventures of a young cowboy named Bob Stone, who finds himself caught up in a dangerous game of revenge and deceit. The novel begins with Bob Stone returning to his hometown after a long absence, only to discover that his father has been murdered and his family's ranch has been taken over by a ruthless gang of outlaws. Determined to seek justice for his father and reclaim his family's land, Bob sets out on a perilous journey across the West, facing a range of dangers and obstacles along the way. As he travels deeper into enemy territory, Bob must navigate a complex web of deceit and betrayal, and confront a series of dangerous foes, including corrupt lawmen, hired gunmen, and a powerful land baron with a personal vendetta against him. Along the way, he must also confront his own doubts and fears, and find the strength to stand up for what he believes in. Throughout the novel, Tuttle explores a range of themes, including the nature of justice and revenge, the power of greed and ambition, and the importance of personal integrity and moral courage. He also offers a vivid and highly detailed portrait of life in the American West during the early 20th century, with all its dangers, hardships, and romance. Hidden Blood is a classic work of Western literature that has been widely praised for its engaging characters, vivid descriptions, and exciting plot. It is a thrilling and action-packed story of adventure, danger, and heroism, and remains a beloved classic of the genre.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Tuttle, W. C.

Leseproben

CHAPTER I
HASHKNIFE HAS RHEUMATISM IN HIS LEG
“If I had rheumatism like you’ve got, I’d sure head for the hot springs. Yuh can boil it out easier’n any other way.” The owner of Piute leaned back, braced his bony elbows on the bar, spat wisely, and squinted at the two cowboys, who were draped against the bar beside him. “Hashknife” Hartley, a tall, thin, serious-faced cowboy, was standing on one leg, much in the attitude of a stork, except that his knee naturally bent the other way. “Sleepy” Stevens, Hashknife’s partner, was of medium height, with a grin-wrinkled face and serious eyes. There was nothing colorful nor romantic about their raiment or physical appearance. They were clad in well-worn overalls, nondescript shirts, high-heeled boots, and sombreros. Their cartridge belts were scarred, weathered, as were their holsters, from which protruded the plain wood butts of single-action Colt sixshooters. They wore no coats. Hashknife’s vest was little more than a wrinkled piece of cloth, suspended stringlike from his shoulders, affording him pocket room for his tobacco and cigarette papers. “Which way do yuh head for hot springs, pardner?” asked Sleepy, making cabalistic marks on the scarred bar top with the bottom of his wet glass. “I’m goin’ to put this lean pardner of mine on to boil.” “Aw, I’ll be all right,” protested Hashknife, flexing his aching leg. “You won’t be until yuh are,” flared Sleepy. “Yuh can’t ride a horse thataway. I’ve done used up a bottle of horse liniment on yuh, and all it’s done is to make yuh smell.” “Rheumatism ain’t no fun.” Thus the proprietor. “I sure had it ache hell out of me a few years ago.” “Didja go to a hot spring?” asked Sleepy. “Shore did. I went up into Hawk Hole and b’iled out up there. That sulphur water smells like all the bad aigs of the world had been busted; but it knocked my rheumatism.” “Where’s this here Hawk Hole?” asked Hashknife, interested. “South of here, about thirty mile. I dunno whether yuh can use the springs now or not. Belongs to ‘Big Medicine’ Hawkworth, and he ain’t so friendly as he might be.” “We’d take a chance on him, if Hashknife was able to ride that far,” said Sleepy. “Yuh might go by stage. She comes through here about midnight and changes horses here. On ’count of the heat they make the drive from Caliente at night. They go to Pinnacle; but in yore case they might swing around by Hawkworth’s place and let yuh off. If they don’t, it’s only two miles from Pinnacle.” “That sounds good t’ me,” declared Sleepy. “How does she listen to you, pardner?” “Well, all right, Sleepy. I’d go any place to get rid of this ache that’s twistin’ my muscles. I ain’t slept for three nights and days hand-runnin’. If this Hawkworth person tries to deny me a chance to boil the pain out of my carcass, I’ll try and make him see the error of his ways.” “He prob’ly will deny yuh,” said the proprietor. “C’mon and let’s see if supper is ready.” Piute consisted of one building, a long, low adobe structure, separated into three parts: a saloon, a dining-room and kitchen combined, and a place to sleep. Behind this long building were a shedlike stable, corrals, and a well. Its only excuse for existence was to act as a stage station, or a night haven for those who traveled the road from Caliente to Pinnacle. Piute was always hot, except at night. To the north the road disappeared through mesquite-covered flats, while to the south it twisted higher into the hills; rocky hills, where grew stunted pine, piñon, and juniper; down into a land where the law held little sway, where only a range of hills separated them from the land of mañana. Hashknife managed to limp into the dining-room assisted by Sleepy, flopped into a chair, and did justice to a feed of tortillas, frijoles, and coffee. “You ain’t natives down in this here country, are yuh?” asked the proprietor. “What makes yuh think that?” grinned Sleepy. “Jist seen yuh blowin’ on yore frijoles. Yuh can’t cool no chili pepper by blowin’ on it, pardner.” “My mistake,” grinned Sleepy. “The danged things are hot.” “Need ’em inside yuh down here. Hot food is the stuff in this climate. Eskimo would explode on it. Never been over in Hawk Hole, have yuh?” “Never heard of it,” said Hashknife. “Town of Pinnacle’s over there. Ain’t much of a town. Lot of mines back in the Greenhorn country and they all outfits down in Pinnacle. Old Big Medicine Hawkworth owns most of Hawk Hole. Stage line does quite a business, haulin’ supplies, miners, and the kind of folks that clutter up a minin’ town. Pinnacle ain’t exactly in the Hole—kinda on the rim of it. Them hot springs are shore good for rheumatism, y’betcha. There’s cold springs there, too. Big Medicine has been there twenty-five year, and he shore hooked on to most of the place.” “Does he run any cattle?” asked Sleepy. “Yeah. He has the Tumblin’ H iron. The Hole is a dandy place for to run cows, except that she’s almost too close to the border.” “We might get a job,” smiled Sleepy. “I’d punch cows while you boil out, Hashknife.” “Yeah, yuh might,” agreed the proprietor. “But I’m bettin’ yuh won’t. Big Medicine will prob’ly tell yuh that yuh can’t take a soak in his hot springs, and tell yuh to get to hell off his place. He’s a old squaw-man—meaner than hell. “Some folks say that Big Medicine is English, English from the old country. We don’t see much of him. He’s been out this far jist once since I’ve been here at Piute. I’ve heard folks say that he’s crazy. I dunno whether he is or not. Anyway, I do know that he wants folks to leave him alone—and they mostly always do the second time.” Hashknife grimaced with pain as he shoved back from the table and tried to cross his knees. “Does this Big Medicine person mind his own business?” he asked. “Hm-m-m—well, I s’pose so. Down in this country yuh can hear all kinds of talk. It mostly goes into one of my ears and out the other, bein’ as I ain’t noways situated where I can talk a lot about my fellermen and keep my scalp where she belongs. He ain’t never bothered me; so I say he’s all right.” Hashknife and Sleepy did not ask for any further information. They were in a strange country, whither they had drifted; wanderers into the cattle country of the Southwest. They had found things but little different from those in Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, except for the desert stretches, style of architecture, and lack of streams. All had been well until Hashknife had contracted rheumatism, which had crippled him so badly that he suffered keenly in riding. Sleepy had doctored him to the best of his limited ability, but the pain had grown steadily worse, and they both knew that it was a case of seeking medical assistance at once. The arrival of the midnight stage interrupted their three-handed game of seven-up. It required four horses to haul the heavy stage over the grades ahead, and the proprietor assisted in changing teams. The driver was a big, gruff Norwegian, with a big beard and a heavy head of hair, which stood up on his head like the roach of a grizzly bear. The only passenger was a young man, well dressed, black-haired, and with a thin, dark face. He was hardly past twenty years of age, but his mouth and eyes already showed lines of dissipation. He drank whiskey at the bar and climbed back into the stage while Hashknife and Sleepy were tying their horses at the boot. “You got de rheu-maticks?” asked the driver, when he noticed that Hashknife had difficulty getting aboard. “That’s what she feels like,” grunted Hashknife. “I never had it before, but they say she acts like this.” “Yah, she does. You go to Pinnacle, eh?” “The hot springs.” “So? To de hot springs, eh? All right.” His long whip snapped in the moonlight, the four horses sprang into life, and the stage to Pinnacle went lurching and grinding up the grades, swinging wide on the narrow turns, where a driver is only allowed one mistake. Over the top of the hill they swung back into another valley, a fairyland in the blue of the moonlight. The road was rough, badly engineered as to grades, but the driver swore in his own tongue, plied his long whip without stint or threw his weight on a protesting brake on the steep pitches. The young man had nothing to say. He smoked innumerable cigarettes and huddled down in his seat. Hashknife suffered in silence, while Sleepy whistled unmusically between his teeth and cursed the driver. “He’s hit every rock so far,” he told Hashknife. “I’ll bet yuh even money that this damned equipage don’t hold together to reach Pinnacle.” Sleepy turned to the young man. “Have you ever been over this road, pardner?” The young man removed his cigarette. “No,” he said. “Think you’ll ever go agin’?” “Maybe.” Sleepy laughed and stretched out his legs. “You won’t never get hung for talkin’ too much.” “What do you mean?” asked the stranger coldly. “Oh, hell!” Sleepy shifted his seat and rolled a cigarette. Hashknife forgot his pains long enough to laugh. Thereafter all conversation ceased, except from the driver. Stretches of smooth road lulled the passengers to sleep, only to shock them back with lurching...