Riders of the Purple Sage (Dover Thrift Editions)

Riders of the Purple Sage (Dover Thrift Editions)

Zane Grey

Language: English

Pages: 256

ISBN: 0486424561

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Initially published in 1912 and the first of Zane Grey's many bestsellers, this stirring tale of adventure in the high country established the prototype for western novels of the twentieth century. The plot's focus is a proud young heroine who's determined to defend her Utah ranch. She stands alone against the villains who rustle and stampede her cattle — until a stranger rides into the territory. Notorious as the scourge of Mormon transgressors, the stranger stays on to assist in the inevitable showdown, and romance blooms amid the canyons and cottonwoods. A classic of American frontier fiction, Riders of the Purple Sage teems with color, authenticity, and thrills.

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whirl out of my mind an’ opened my eyes—I remember distinctly it was the smell of gunpowder. “The court had about adjourned fer thet judge. He was on his knees, an’ he wasn’t prayin’. He was gaspin’ an’ tryin’ to press his big, floppin’, crippled hands over his body. Lassiter had sent all those last thunderin’ shots through his body. Thet was Lassiter’s way. “An’ Lassiter spoke, an’ if I ever forgit his words I’ll never forgit the sound of his voice. “ ‘Proselyter, I reckon you’d better call

silence, Tull stepped forward in such a way that he concealed Venters. The rider reined in his mount, and with a lithe forward-slipping action appeared to reach the ground in one long step. It was a peculiar movement in its quickness and inasmuch that while performing it the rider did not swerve in the slightest from a square front to the group before him. “Look!” hoarsely whispered one of Tull’s companions. “He packs two black-butted guns—low down—they’re hard to see— black agin them black

ranges, Venters rode a horse that was sad proof of his misfortunes. Then, with his back against a stone, Venters faced the east, and, stick in hand and idle blade, he waited. The glorious sunlight filled the valley with purple fire. Before him, to left, to right, waving, rolling, sinking, rising, like low swells of a purple sea, stretched the sage. Out of the grove of cottonwoods, a green patch on the purple, gleamed the dull red of Jane Withersteen’s old stone house. And from there extended the

the alfalfa fields were not in sight, nor was there any rock or ridge or cedar to lend contrast to the monotony. Gray slopes, tinging the purple, barren and wild, with the wind waving the sage, swept away to the dim horizon. Lassiter looked at the grave and then out into space. At that moment he seemed a figure of bronze. Jane touched Venters’s arm and led him back to the horses. “Bern!” cried Jane, when they were out of hearing. “Suppose Lassiter were Milly’s husband—the father of that little

Lassiter, aloud. “Left him down the slope,” answered Judkins. “I footed it in a ways, an’ slept last night in the sage. I went to the place you told me you ’most always slept, but didn’t strike you.” “I moved up some, near the spring, an’ now I go there nights.” “Judkins—the white herd?” queried Jane, hurriedly. “Miss Withersteen, I make proud to say I’ve not lost a steer. Fer a good while after thet stampede Lassiter milled we hed no trouble. Why, even the sage dogs left us. But it’s begun

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