Frank Leslie - The Thunder Riders

Table of Contents

Praise for Frank Leslie and The Lonely Breed

Frank Leslie kicks his story into a gallop right out of the gate... raw and gritty as the West itself.

Mark Henry, author of The Hell Riders

Explodes off the page in an enormously entertaining burst of stay-up-late, read-into-the-night, fast-moving flurry of page-turning action. Leslie spins a yarn that rivals the very best on Western shelves today.

J. Lee Butts, author of Lawdog

Frank Leslie writes with leathery prose honed sharper than a buffalo skinners knife, with characters as explosive as forty-rod whiskey, and a plot that slams readers with the impact of a Winchester slug. The Lonely Breed is edgy, raw, and irresistible.

Johnny D. Boggs, Spur Award-winning author of Camp Ford

Hooks you instantly with sympathetic characters and sin-soaked villains. Yakima has a heart of gold and an Arkansas toothpick. If you prefer Peckinpah to Ang Lee, this ones for you.

Mike Baron, creator of Nexus and The Badger comic book series

Big, burly, brawling, and action-packed, The Lonely Breed is a testosterone-laced winner from the word go, and Frank Leslie is an author to watch!

E. K. Recknor, author of The Brothers of Junior Doyle

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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, September 2007
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright Peter Brandvold, 2007

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Chapter 1

Arizona Ranger Wilson Pyle built a quirley with his gnarled, slightly arthritic fingers and snapped a match to life on his belt buckle. As he touched the flickering flame to the end of the twisted cigarette, his partner, Kenny Danaher, kneeling atop the rocky escarpment above Pyle and the rangers two ground-tied horses, yelled, I dont see a damn thing down there, Will!

Nuthin?

Dont look to me like theres been a soul in that old ghost town since the miners pulled out two years ago.

Letting smoke dribble out from between his wind-burned lips, Pyle glanced around. Look hard, Kenny. Its late. No doubt quite a few shadows in that canyon.

Pyle was tired. He and Danaher had been on the trail the last five days, brush-popping owlhoots between the White Mountains and the Chiricahuas. Or trying to. Desperadoes holed up like black widows in Mormon tea this time of the year. The old ranger felt as though his saddle had grown into his ass.

Ah, hell. Danaher lifted his field glasses again, directingthe lenses out and down. Long dark red hair fell down from his black-brimmed hat, and his thin red beard was rimed with trail dust. His green duster hung slack on his lean frame, scratched from brambles and cactus thorns.

Young enough to be Pyles grandson, Danaher had the patience of youthwhich is to say, very little patience at all. But then, Pyle didnt have a gal waiting for him back home in Benson like Kenny did. A young wife with a baby on the way. Pyle hadnt had a wife waiting on him in a long time, having outlived twoa half Apache and a pretty blond ex-dance-hall girl from St. Louis by way of Prescott. The old ranger didnt have anything waiting for him back in Bensonexcept a bottle, a dime novel, and a cord of wood that needed chopping out back of his rented shack near the ranger station.

Hold on! Danaher said above the chill winter breeze sighing among the rocks. I do see something, after all. Holy shit!

Pyles heart quickened. He removed the quirley from his lips and straightened, his tired back creaking. What is it?

Danaher was turning his head slightly from left to right, following something with the field glasses. You aint gonna believe this, Will. His voice was sharp with mockery. Oh, Lordy, you just aint gonna believe what I see down there.

Pyle relaxed, and a faint smile shone on his leathery face, all but hidden by his thin gray beard. What is it?

Coyote strollin down the main street just like he owned the place. Got him a rat hangin out of his mouth.

Danaher lowered the glasses and turned to stare down the scarp at Pyle resting on a flat boulder near his paint mustang, one spurred boot propped on a knee. You want to go down there and arrest him for trespassin or huntin on mine company land without a permit?

Pyle chuckled. He blew out a long plume of cigarette smoke, then stuck the quirley between his teeth and hiked his old Walker Colt higher on his hips. Come on, kid. Were gonna go down and have a look.

What for? I told you there aint nothin but a coyote down there, Will!

Mount up, Pyle said, tightening his paints saddle cinch. That bullions gonna be passin through here on the old army road, about a mile east. We best go down and have a look up close. Could be owlhoots holed up, sharpening their horns and cleanin their irons for tomorrow.

Worse still, it could be the Thunder Riderstheyd been raiding along the border for several months now though a vague dread kept the old ranger from mentioning their name aloud.