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    Sheriff Larrabee’s Prisoner
    Sheriff Larrabee’s Prisoner
    Sheriff Larrabee’s Prisoner
    Ebook84 pages1 hour

    Sheriff Larrabee’s Prisoner

    By Max Brand

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    About this ebook

    Old Mr. Benton had been murdered on his lonely ranch and there was only one suspect: the stranger who rode up in the downpour and sped off again before dawn. But looks can be deceiving and there were plenty of others acting suspiciously including Mrs. Zellar and Jack Montagne. Who had killed old Mr. Benton? The stranger, or Gus, or Mrs. Zellar? And why was Jack Montagne’s behavior so gentlemanly? This is an old-fashioned Western mystery. Max Brand was one of many pseudonyms used by Frederick Schiller Faust (1892 – 1944), an American author known primarily for his thoughtful and literary Westerns.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKtoczyta.pl
    Release dateNov 14, 2017
    ISBN9788381363341
    Sheriff Larrabee’s Prisoner
    Author

    Max Brand

    Max Brand® (1892–1944) is the best-known pen name of widely acclaimed author Frederick Faust, creator of Destry, Dr. Kildare, and other beloved fictional characters. Orphaned at an early age, he studied at the University of California, Berkeley. He became one of the most prolific writers of our time but abandoned writing at age fifty-one to become a war correspondent in World War II, where he was killed while serving in Italy.

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      Book preview

      Sheriff Larrabee’s Prisoner - Max Brand

      Max Brand

      Sheriff Larrabee's Prisoner

      Warsaw 2017

      Contents

      I. NO HANG-OUT

      II. THE HOSTS OF THE HOUSE

      III. LARRABEE LISTENS

      IV. LARRABEE WINS HIS BET

      V. LEFT IN THE RAIN

      VI. ALL ABOARD!

      VII. PUBLIC OPINION

      VIII. LAVIGNE LEARNS A LESSON

      IX. UNFORESEEN SUCCOR

      X. THE KEY TO THE DOOR

      XI. THE WHOLE STORY

      I. NO HANG-OUT

      THE rain had been falling steadily, with a northwester to drive it aslant. Now the wind leaped suddenly at Jack Montagne, and, as if its former pace had been maintained only to lure him into a false security, it now drove the rain in level volleys that crashed against his slicker and stung his face. Even his weather-hardened hands resented the fury of the storm. The blast stopped the trot of his pony that remained for the moment leaning into the storm. Presently it again gathered headway, urged on by the tickling spur of the rider. When the anger of the wind and rain had spent itself, Montagne screened his eyes and peered anxiously up the valley.

      It was then he made out the two lights–one a mere yellow ray which, passing through the mist of rain, was split into a thousand shivering portions as Montagne squinted at it, and the other merely a dim red blur. They were welcome sights to the rider on this black night, and yet he hesitated before going straight toward them.

      Eventually he decided that the news about him could not have preceded him to this desolate valley, and he touched the pony with the spurs again. This time the weary beast broke into a lope, cupping the muddy water on the trail in the hollows of his forehoofs, and sending it up in spurts and showers to drench the rider. But against such physical discomforts Jack Montagne was proof. When the possessions of a man have shrunk to his bridle and saddle and horse and the old gun, sagging at his hip, when, moreover, fear and dread ride at his side, the elements are negligible factors. In truth, the storm fitted in with the mood of Montagne, and his temper rose in fierce bursts of revolt against the world, just as the wind occasionally struck at him with redoubled force, and like the night his mind was filled with a steady, black gloom.

      The red light on his right now grew rapidly. The rain streaked down against it, and above the light he made out the outlines of a tree. Someone was sitting by a campfire to the lee of a tree, and that was his only shelter against this furious storm. There was no other conclusion to come to, and Montagne shook his head in wonder. Perhaps the fellow had not seen that light down the road, that light which evidently came from a house. It was partly with a kindly determination to tell the camper that there was a better shelter in sight, and partly with the hope of learning a little about this valley in which he found himself, that Montagne turned to the right and came squarely upon the fire.

      It was a miserable and uncertain blaze, fizzing and hissing constantly, as drops of water filtered down from the boughs of the tree above. And yet the broad trunk made a rather good shelter, for the steady wind kept driving the rain at an angle, and the man, whose back was against the tree, was in no danger of getting wet by the direct fall of water. Only the drops, that trickled through the foliage above, came splashing about him. He had been stirring weakly at the fire, and it was not until the pony came within a yard of the blaze, snorting in disgust as the smoke filled its nostrils, that the camper lifted to the view of Montagne a white, rat-like face, out of which little bright black eyes glittered.

      Get your own fire, bo, said the camper, without waiting to learn definitely the purpose of the new arrival. I ain’t got any more’n enough room for myself, and I ain’t going to let you in. Get on your way and hustle your own fire?

      He enforced this suggestion with an ugly lifting of his upper lip, very much after the manner of a terrier guarding a bone. But Jack Montagne did not immediately answer. He waited until his observations had taken in all the details of the battered hat, the coat of nameless age and patches, the shoes through the ends of which the toes were thrusting, and the whole atmosphere of unclean suspicion that dwelt about the tramp like a garment.

      You dirty rat, said Jack Montagne, when he broke silence. I ought to twist your neck into two pieces!

      What? demanded the tramp, starting, as he shaded his eyes with his hands and peered half viciously and half curiously up through the darkness, as if he wished with all his heart to attack the man who had insulted him, but must first make sure that such an attack would be an expedient proceeding.

      That which he saw was apparently extremely discouraging, for he settled back against the tree and changed his open defiance to a sullen scowl.

      But, went on Jack Montagne, smiling in spite of himself at this change of front, I’m going to do you a good turn, instead of kicking you away from that fire and out into the mud. I’m going to tell you that there is a house down the road about a mile. You don’t have to stay here. You can go down there and sleep in the barn, anyway.

      Can I? asked the tramp. All right, you go and try it. That’s all I got to say... you go and try it! He wrapped his arms about him, shivering, as the wind grew fresher out of the north, and he grinned in mockery at the rider.

      Did you try it? asked the rider, with a sudden sternness that was not, however, directed at the tramp. Did you try it and get turned out into a night like this?

      Maybe, replied the tramp.

      The rider set his teeth in one of those convulsions of anger which seemed to be characteristic; and the tramp, peering at him by the dim firelight, shrank from what he saw.

      But are there no other houses around here? asked Montagne.

      "Find

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