Floyd Hamby’s bearded face was contorted with an old rage against anything that got in his way or caused him any trouble. And now he stood at the door of the restaurant accusing Cole Decker of stealing one of his horses.
“Ain’t no call to talk that way, Floyd,” Sheriff Felix Peabody said. “He thought the horse belonged to a dead man who tried to kill him.”
“Why are you tryin’ to protect him, Peabody?” Floyd Hamby asked suspiciously.
The small old sheriff looked surprised. “I ain’t tryin’ to protect him, Floyd. I’m tryin’ to protect you.”
Floyd Hamby scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Christ, Floyd, he’s already killed Crane and Tip Adams, and either one of them could shoot rings around you.”
Warning: Reading a Van Holt western may make you want to get on a horse and hunt some bad guys down in the Old West. Of course, the easiest and most enjoyable way to do it is vicariously – by reading another Van Holt western.
Van Holt writes westerns the way they were meant to be written.
