By Frank Leslie
Yakima Henry has been dealt greater than his percentage of trouble—even for a half-white, half-Indian within the west. Now he’s working a small Arizona horse ranch together with his longtime love, religion, and thinks he could have ultimately chanced on his percentage of peace and prosperity. yet a guy from either their pasts is coming— with vengeance on his mind...
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Yakima Henry has been dealt greater than his proportion of trouble—even for a half-white, half-Indian within the west. Now he’s working a small Arizona horse ranch along with his longtime love, religion, and thinks he could have eventually came upon his proportion of peace and prosperity. yet a guy from either their pasts is coming— with vengeance on his brain.
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Extra resources for The Killing Breed
He inspected the village carefully, spying no movement amongst the cracked, sun-bleached ruins, except wind-tossed tumbleweeds and occasional, hunting hawks. There didn’t appear to be anyone here. Anxiety nibbled at his gut, and he wasn’t sure if it was caused by the possibility that he was being lured into a trap, or by the prospect of seeing Faith again. He’d done his best to forget her, for the thought of her often caused him misery akin to a hot knife laid to the loins. But he hadn’t forgotten her at all.
She reclined naked amidst the bed’s twisted sheets, her head propped on an elbow, her rich hair spilling across her wrist. A smoky smile lit her eyes, which the sun discovered as it rose now behind the eastern ridges and slanted through the window. ” Yakima turned back to the basin and washed his privates. ” “Shame on you. ” She smiled lustily, savagely, showing her teeth. ” She paused, raking her eyes up and down his dark, scarred frame, lean as chewed rawhide but strapped with muscles hewn from a lifetime of hard riding and even harder toil.
There didn’t appear to be anyone here. Anxiety nibbled at his gut, and he wasn’t sure if it was caused by the possibility that he was being lured into a trap, or by the prospect of seeing Faith again. He’d done his best to forget her, for the thought of her often caused him misery akin to a hot knife laid to the loins. But he hadn’t forgotten her at all. In fact, he was willing to risk getting shot for the possibility of seeing her again. Approaching the village a few minutes later, he bolted out from a thick brush patch, and pressed his back to the wall of a brick adobe chinked with mud-packed straw.
The Killing Breed by Frank Leslie