Authors: Hanging Woman Creek
Tags: #Western Stories, #Westerns, #Fiction, #Irish Americans, #Montana, #General
J
UST THEN SNOW fell from a pine branch some distance up the slope.
“Look out!” I yelled, and grabbed Ann around the waist and leaped my horse into the rocks and brush.
A blast of rifle fire raked the spot where we’d been, and up the slope I heard a voice. “Get them! Get every damned one of them!”
I dropped Ann as I left the saddle, and when I hit the ground I lit running, rifle in hand. I turned and, crouching, ran to get hold of the trace-chains we’d hooked to the sled.
Philo was lying there, his face white but his eyes lit with a hard fire. “Hand me down a rifle,” he said. “I’ll not be done out of this.”
Eddie was nowhere in sight; one horse was down and dying.
They had trapped us for fair.
NOVELS
Bendigo shafter
Borden chantry
Brionne
The broken gun
The burning hills
The californios
Callaghen
Catlow
Chancy
The cherokee trail
Comstock lode
Conagher
Crossfire trail
Dark canyon
Down the long hills
The empty land
Fair blows the wind fallon
The ferguson rifle
The first fast draw flint
Guns of the timberlands
Hanging woman creek
The haunted mesa
heller with a gunthe
High graders
high lonesome
Hondo
How the west was won
The Iron Marshal
The Key-Lock Man
Kid Rodelo
Kilkenny
Killoe
Kilrone
Kiowa Trail
Last of the Breed
Last Stand at Papago Wells
The Lonesome Gods
The Man Called Noon
The Man from the Broken Hills
The Man from Skibbereen
Matagorda
Milo Talon
The Mountain Valley War
North to the Rails
Over on the Dry Side
Passin’ Through
The Proving Trail
The quick and the dead
Radigan
Reilly’s luck
The rider of lost creek
Rivers west
The shadow riders
Shalako
Showdown at yellow Butte
Silver canyon
Sitka
Son of a wanted man
Taggart
The tall stranger
To tame a land
Tucker
Under the sweetwater Rim
Utah blaine
The walking drum
Westward the tide
Where the long grass Blows
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Beyond the great snow Mountains
Bowdrie
Bowdrie’s Law
Buckskin Run
The Collected Short
Stories of Louis
L’Amour (Vol. 1)
Dutchman’s Flat
End of the Drive
From the Listening Hills
The Hills of Homicide
Law of the Desert Born
Long Ride Home
Lonigan
May There Be a Road
Monument Rock
Night over the Solomons
Off the Mangrove Coast
The Outlaws of Mesquite
The Rider of the Ruby Hills
Riding for the Brand
The Strong Shall Live
The trail to crazy man
Valley of the sun
War party
West from singapore
West of dodge
With these hands
Yondering
SACKETT TITLES
Sackett’s land
To the far blue Mountains
The warrior’s path
Jubal sackett
Ride the river
The daybreakers
Sackett
Lando
Mojave crossing
Mustang man
The lonely men
Galloway
Treasure mountain
Lonely on the mountain
Ride the dark trail
The sackett brand
The sky-liners
THE HOPALONG CASSIDY NOVELS
The Riders of the High Rock
The Rustlers of West Fork
The Trail to Seven Pines
Trouble Shooter
NONFICTION
Education of a Wandering Man
Frontier
T
HE
S
ACKETT
c
OMPANION:
A Personal Guide to the Sackett Novels
A T
RAIL OF
M
EMORIES:
The Quotations of Louis L’Amour, compiled by Angelique
L’Amour
POETRY
Smoke from This Altar
HANGING WOMAN CREEK
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam edition published April 1964
Bantam reissue / May 1999
Bantam reissue / August 2005
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Photograph of Louis L’Amour by John Hamilton—Globe Photos, Inc.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1964 by Louis & Katherine L’Amour Trust
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-553-89918-4
v3.1_r1
I
T WAS RAINING by the time we reached the railroad bridge. Evening was coming on, and the pelting rain was cold.
We dug in our heels and slid down the embankment to get under the bridge, where there was shelter of a sort. We built a fire, then huddled over it wondering what had become of our summer’s wages.
Three of us were there, strangers until a few hours ago, now joined in the idea of going west. I’d be going home, or to as much of a home as I could lay claim to, being rootless as a tumbleweed, blowing on, resting here and there against this fence or that, but staying nowhere long. As for the others, I had no idea.
The black skeleton frame of the trestle danced in the wavering light from the fire, and from time to time the flames guttered and hissed as the wind blew down the draw, spattering us with cold drops from off the bridge.