"THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

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AUTHOR'S NOTE
The Rider of the Ruby Hills
Often the most beautiful parts of western states are only to be found far from the
highways; a casual traveler can pass through, say, Arizona or Nevada, without being
able to see much of what the areas have to offer. For example, in Arizona the great
pine forests of the White Mountain area, their running, rushing streams and wild
game, lie hidden away from major highways, although the roads through them are usually
excellent.
Monument Valley, the San Francisco Mountains, and other places, also lie off the
highways.
In Nevada, the beautiful Ruby Mountains lie somewhat to the south of Elko and its
highway. The Rubies soar up to 11,000 feet, with several beautiful lakes and the
waterfalls of Lamoille Canyon. It is lovely, inspiring country, and every pass and
every canyon has its story of Indians, mining, and cattle, of lost mines, buried
treasure, and gun battles.
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THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS
Chapter I Losing Bet
There was a lonely place where the trail ran up to the sky. It turned sharply left
on the very point of a lofty promontory overlooking the long sweep of the valley
below. Here the trail offered to the passerby a vision at this hour. Rosy-tipped
peaks and distant purple mountains could be seen, beyond the far reach of the tall
grass range.
Upon the very lip of the rocky shelf sat a solitary horseman. He was a man tall in
the saddle, astride a strangely marked horse. Its head was held high; its ears were
pricked forward with attention riveted upon the valley, as though in tune with the
thoughts of its rider-thoughts that said there lay a new country, with new dangers,
new rewards, and new trails.
The rider was a tall man, narrow hipped and powerful of chest and shoulder. His features
were blunt and rugged, so that a watcher might have said, "Here is a man who is not
handsome, but a fighter." Yet he was good-looking in his own hard, confident way.
He looked now upon this valley as Cortez might have looked upon the Valley of Mexico.
He came alone and penniless, but he did not come as one seeking favors. He did not
come hunting a job. He came as a conqueror. For Ross Haney had made his decision.
At twenty-seven he was
broke. He sat in the middle of all he owned, a splendid Appaloosa gelding, a fine
California saddle, a .44 Winchester rifle, and two walnut-stocked Colt .44 pistols.
These were his all. Behind him was a life that had taken him from a cradle in a covered
wagon to the hurricane deck of many a hardheaded bronc.
It was a life that had left him rich in experience but poor in goods of the world.
The experience was the hardfisted experience of hard winters, dry ranges, and the
dusty bitterness of cattle drives. He had
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fought Comanches and rustlers, hunted buffalo and horse thieves. Now he had decided