To the Last Man by Zane Gray

By Zane Gray

Zane gray (1872-1939) was once an American writer most sensible identified for his renowned experience novels and pulp fiction that provided an idealized snapshot of the rugged previous West. "To the final guy" is the tale of a feud in accordance with the infamous real-life friendly Valley W

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Reckon I know most women love nice things to wear an' think because clothes make them look pretty that they're nicer or better. But they're wrong. You're wrong. Maybe it 'd be too much for a girl like you to be happy without clothes. " "Stranger, y'u shore must excuse my temper an' the show I made of myself," replied the girl, with composure. "That, to say the least, was not nice. An' I don't want anyone thinkin' better of me than I deserve. My mother died in Texas, an' I've lived out heah in this wild country--a girl alone among rough men.

He had a dust-colored, sun-burned face, long, lean, and hard, a huge sandy mustache that hid his mouth, and eyes of piercing light intensity. Not very much hard Western experience had passed by this man, yet he was not old, measured by years. When he dismounted Jean saw he was tall, even for an Arizonian. "Seen your tracks back a ways," he said, as he slipped the bit to let his horse drink. " "Reckon I'm lost, all right," replied Jean. " "Shore. I seen thet from your tracks an' your last camp. " The query was deliberately cool, with a dry, crisp ring.

But there seemed more. Jean was quick to see the shadow in the eyes of the women in that household and to sense a strange reliance which his presence brought. "Son, this heah Tonto is a land of milk an' honey," said his father, as Jean gazed spellbound at the bounteous supper. Jean certainly performed gastronomic feats on this occasion, to the delight of Aunt Mary and the wonder of the children. "Oh, he's starv-ved to death," whispered one of the little boys to his sister. They had begun to warm to this stranger uncle.

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