By H.A. DeRosso
WesternDescribed by way of invoice Pronzini as a poet of the Western shadowland, DeRossos characters tend to be gunslicks, bounty hunters, drifters, hard-scrabble ranchers, and outlaws who're lonely and disappointed neither all reliable nor all undesirable. within the Bounty Hunter, Spurr is duped by means of scalp hunters into believing that he has killed his personal son. Fifteen years later, while he learns the reality, he turns into captivated with revenge. This and different tales through H. A. DeRosso, every one of them strong and spellbinding were accrued for the 1st time through invoice Pronzini.*First variation Western
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Example text
There was emptiness in Spurr now that the moment was at hand. He had come here on the last shred of a hope, the last glimmer of light. If he failed here, then there was only the darkness of despair and regret and remorse. Fort Winston was built around a square, and in the plaza there was a fountain and shade trees and benches. He dismounted there and watched as Fuego did likewise. "Wait for me here," he told her. " she asked. He was fingering the tiny branding iron in his pocket. Somehow he had clung to it during his travail in the desert.
Silence lurked everywhere, and heat, and desolation. They surrounded him with an aura of comfort, the only comfort he knew, the comfort of misery and aloneness and the ever-presence of death. He reined in the bay for a breather, dismounted, and loosened the cinches. He gave the bay some water from his canteen, and then drank sparingly himself. A roadrunner hen, followed by her brood, darted across the trail in the sand and into a growth of mesquite. Something stirred in the ashes of his memory, and he Page 20 closed his eyes to the ache of it.
If anything about it gave him apprehension, it was not the end but the means. II He stood there stripped of his belt and gun, and he had never felt more alone and forsaken in all his life. He could use his hands and his boots, but he could not expect them to avail him anything in the face of their guns. There were two of the weapons, and they pointed not at his heart but at his belly, where the slugs could rend and tear and burn and sear and make the way to death seem like an agonizing, never-ending journey.