{"product_id":"last-stand-at-papago-wells-isbn-9780553258073","title":"Last Stand at Papago Wells","description":"It was the only water for miles in a vast, sun-blasted desert where water meant  survival. So Logan Cates naturally headed for Papago Wells. But he wasn’t the only  one. Fleeing the fierce Churupati and his Apache warriors, other travelers had come  there too. And when the Apaches found them, they began a siege as relentless and  unforgiving as the barren land…and just as inescapable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The last thing Cates wanted  was to be responsible for the lives of thirteen desperate strangers and a shipment  of gold. But he knew that if they were to survive, he was their last chance. He also  knew that some in the party were willing to die—or kill—to get their hands on the  money. If he couldn’t get them to work together, it wouldn’t be the desert or even  the Apaches that would do them in—it would be the greed of the very people he was  trying to save.Our foremost storyteller of the American West, \u003cb\u003eLouis L’Amour \u003c\/b\u003ehas thrilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men and woman who settled the frontier. There are more than three hundred million copies of his books in print around the world.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    HE HAD STOPPED last night in the Gunsight Hills, making dry camp   because others had reached the water hole before him and he preferred   to avoid other travelers. At daybreak he came down out of the hills   and made a little dust as he struck westward with Yuma Crossing in   his mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Logan Cates had the look of the desert about him, a brown, seasoned   man with straight black hair above a triangular face that was all   bone and tight-drawn, sun-browned hide. His eyes, narrow from   squinting into sun and wind, were a cold green that made a man stop   and think before he looked into them a second time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He was a tall man, wide in the shoulder and lean in waist and hips,   an easy-moving man with none of the horseman's awkwardness in   walking. He moved like a hunter when on his own feet, and had been a   hunter of many things, men not least among them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    His hat was black and flat-crowned and flat-brimmed, held beneath his   jaw by a loose thong. His shirt, once red, had faded to an   indeterminate rose. His vest was of black cowhide, worn and   scratched, and over his black jeans he wore fringed shotgun chaps. He   wore a tied-down Smith \u0026amp; Wesson Russian .44 six-shooter, and the   Winchester in his saddle-scabbard was the vintage of '73.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The horse he rode, a long-legged zebra dun, had a wicked eye that   hinted at the tough, resilient and often vicious nature within. A   horse of many brands, he had the speed of a frightened coyote and an   ability to go without water equal to any camel or longhorn steer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Logan Cates was a man without illusions, without wealth, place, or   destination. In the eighteen years since his parents died of cholera   when he was fourteen he had driven a freight wagon, punched cows,   hunted buffalo, twice gone over the trail from Texas to Kansas with   cattle, scouted for the Army and had ridden shotgun on many stages.   Twice, also, he had been marshal of boomtowns for brief periods. He   had lived without plan, following his horse's ears and coping with   each day's problems as they arose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Not an hour out of the Gunsight Hills he drew rein in the bottom of a   dry wash and crawled to the lip of the wash to survey the desert.   Lifting his head among some small boulders to keep from skylining it,   he studied the situation with care, having long ago learned that   vigilance was the price of life in Indian country. Far away toward   the line that divided Mexico from Arizona was a dust cloud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Ten,\" he judged, \"maybe twelve riders.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The knowledge was disturbing, for when so many men came together in   this country it spelled trouble, and no news had come his way since   riding out of Tucson almost four days before. And he knew enough of   the desert to the south to realize no man would ride there without   desperate reason.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A dozen men could mean a posse, a band of outlaws, Indians, or an   Army patrol out of Fort Yuma. The latter was highly improbable as   there had been no trouble in the area for some time, and the Apaches   rarely came so far west.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Yet, with Churupati in the field no dependence could be placed on   that guess, for his mother had been a Yaqui, giving him ties in   western Sonora.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Returning to the saddle, Logan Cates resumed his westward trek,   moving more slowly and trying to lift no dust. Considering this group   of riders to the south and the three who had last night stopped at   Gunsight Wells the country was becoming too busy for comfort. The   three at Gunsight had been too far away to distinguish details but   their fire had been far larger than any Indian would build.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The trail he followed lay fifty yards off to his right, for Logan   Cates had an aversion to leaving his tracks where they might be   easily seen. As it was, his trail was unlikely to be found unless by   riders coming into the trail from the south.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    ALL TRAVEL IN this western Arizona desert was circumscribed by the   necessity for water, and the fact that in several hundred square   miles there were only a few widely scattered water holes, and none of   these reliable in a dry season. No matter what route a man wished to   take his trail must at some time touch these water holes, for without   them he would die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Ahead of him and at least twenty miles from his camp of last night   lay one of these water holes. It lay in the gap through which went   the trail west, but he had been warned in Tucson that the water hole   might be empty and it could in no case be depended upon. The nearest   water beyond the gap was at Papago Wells on the edge of the lava beds   to the south, a good twenty miles further. Unless all signs failed he   would find company at one or both water holes, but there was no help   for it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This was a land of little water and less rain, where trails were   indicated by the bones of men and animals that had died beside them,   and all lines of travel were dictated by the urgency of water. Trails   from all directions would converge on the water hole in the gap ahead   of him, and if that tank proved dry then he must ride at once for   Papago Wells, a grim and lonely place with its three dark pools lying   in their basins of bluish-black basaltic rock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Beyond this place the nearest water was at Tule Tank, thirty miles   further on the Yuma trail, although an Indian had once told Cates of   a place called Heart Tank in the Sierra Pinta north of Papago Wells.   Nobody else he knew had heard of Heart Tank and Cates knew how slight   were the chances of finding water without adequate directions. Such a   tank might exist high in the rocks as at Tinajas Altas, where men had   died within a few feet of water they could not find, or who lacked   the strength for the climb to its place among the high rocks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was very hot . . . Logan Cates squinted his eyes against the   shimmering heat waves and studied the dust of the riders who had   camped last night at Gunsight Wells, who were also heading due west .   . . a glance to the south indicated the larger group had drawn   closer, but were still distant by many miles. It would be well to   ride up to Papago with a ready gun, for in this country many a man   had been murdered for his horse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Several times he drew up to study the country, uneasily aware that   for this lonely desert there was too much movement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    At this moment, unknown to him, half a dozen parties of horsemen were   riding toward an unexpected rendezvous at Papago Wells, and with each   rode the shadow of fear, and some had already been brushed by death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    FAR TO THE north, on another trail toward the gap, were two riders.   As yet they knew nothing of those who rode south of them, and were   concerned with nothing in that direction, but from time to time they   turned to look along their back trail, and of the two the man showed   the greater apprehension.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Tall and spare, he carried himself in the saddle as a former   cavalryman should. His features were clean cut, his mustache trimmed   carefully, and under the brim of his white hat his eyes were piercing   blue. Unquestionably handsome, he had the appearance of a strong,   purposeful man, and despite the powdering of the desert dust the   black coat he wore looked trim and neat. He was a man who rode well   and went armed, and the horse he rode was a splendid chestnut, bred   for the Virginia hills rather than these sandy, rock-strewn   wastelands. The man rode with assurance and the girl he rode beside   was quick to notice it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She was tall, her dark hair drawn back and knotted loosely, her eyes   blue-gray and large. Her every feature indicated breeding, yet there   was something more than breeding or beauty in her face, there was a   hint of fine steel not yet honed to a cutting edge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Do you think your father will follow us?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"He'll follow.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What will it serve if we are already married?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"He'll kill you, I think. He's my father, but he's a brute, and I saw   him kill a man once. I believe I've hated him ever since.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Someone you knew?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"No . . . only by sight. I had seen him around the town, and once he   had come to the ranch, but he was young, gay, handsome. I quite lost   my heart to him when I was ten or eleven, and then my father killed   him. I never knew why.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dust climbed around them, and the desert offered no sound but the   sound of their travel. Despite the heat the girl on the gray horse   looked neat, cool, perfectly composed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She was, Grant Kimbrough decided, the best thing that had happened to   him since the Civil War brought his world to an untimely end. His   given name had come to him from his father, who'd fought through the   Mexican War beside a grim, cigar-chewing soldier he had come to   admire, and when that officer led the Union forces against the South,   the elder Kimbrough saw no reason for his son to change his name. The   blood of the Kimbroughs was good blood, and if there are some who say   such blood wears thin with the passing generations, there was no need   to say this of Grant Kimbrough at the time the war ended. He had   fought well and ended the war with the rank of colonel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    His father died at Missionary Ridge and Grant returned to an   impoverished estate it would take years to rebuild. His   great-grandfather had begun with a wilderness, and although the land   was still rich and fertile, the great-grandson elected to sell out   for a song and go west.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He was a man without skills other than those expected of a gentleman.   He knew how to ride, to dance, to shoot. He held his liquor well and   played an excellent game of cards, yet he had become accustomed to   good living, and, feeling nothing could go wrong for a Kimbrough, he   spent the money received for the estate freely until one morning he   awakened with less than two hundred dollars and no prospects. It was   then he became a professional gambler.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He began with the river-boats, then drawn by the irresistible tide   that moved all things west, he proceeded from Kansas City to   Ellsworth to Abilene to Dodge to Fort Worth, Cimarron and Santa Fe.   On the stage to Tucson he met Jennifer Fair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jennifer Fair was the only child of Jim Fair, a man who knew how to   build an empire on grass, how to handle men, cattle and Apaches, but   never learned how to talk to his daughter, and therefore was never   able to tell her how much she meant to him. His world had no place   for soft words, it was abrupt, hard, dangerous and profane, and he   had lived it well enough to be ranked with Pierce, Slaughter,   Goodnight and Loving, those kings among cattlemen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    When Jennifer reached her father's ranch, returning from the East,   she was accompanied by Grant Kimbrough. The huge, rambling old stone   house reminded him of the estates of his boyhood, and he liked the   simple good taste of the Spanish furniture. After the gambling halls   and river-boats the great old house was subdued, peaceful, lovely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Day after day he rode with Jennifer, talked to her and danced with   her. Compared to the cowhands he was everything to delight a woman,   knowing all the little courtesies and the gentleman's manner. Big Jim   watched and was not pleased, but Kimbrough was his daughter's guest.   And the day came when Grant Kimbrough proposed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jennifer had quarreled with her father over some minor subject and   Grant sensed a coming break, a break he did not wish to occur. He   proposed and was accepted. He approached Jim Fair with a request for   his blessing and was given an hour to get off the ranch. Within the   hour Grant Kimbrough was gone, but he was joined at daylight by   Jennifer and together they rode to Tucson.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    No priest or minister of the gospel would marry them in Tucson   without Jim Fair's blessing. Coldly furious, she spent the night with   a girl friend and at daybreak rode west with Grant Kimbrough and a   company of people bound for Ehrenburg. From where the trails divided   they would push on southwest to Yuma Crossing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    North of the gap they parted company with their companions and   started south at a good clip. Grant Kimbrough knew next to nothing of   southern Arizona, but there seemed to be too many moving dust clouds   and they worried him. They had been pushing their horses hard when   they rode into the gap and stopped at Bates Well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jennifer screamed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The two men who lay sprawled in death upon the hard-packed earth had   been stripped and horribly mutilated. The cracked earth in the bottom   of the dry water hole was dark with their blood. Both men had been   shot through with arrows and struck many times, and about their   bodies were numerous tracks of the unshod ponies of the Indians.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    For the first time since he could remember, Grant Kimbrough knew   fear. His soldiering experience told him these men had not long been   dead, which meant the Indians might be in the vicinity even now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Jennifer, we've got to get away from here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    They did not hear the man who came down from the rocks behind them.   He was a tall boy, shyly attractive in manner, but there was no   shyness in the way he held his rifle. His clothes were shabby and   when he came out of the rocks near the water hole he cleared his   throat before speaking. \"You folks headed west?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Kimbrough turned sharply, his hand automatically dropping for his   gun, but when he saw the tall, slim boy who faced them he merely   said, \"Who're you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"If you folks are headed west, I'm huntin' company. My name is Lonnie Foreman.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Kimbrough gestured at the dead men. \"Did you know them?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"There were fourteen, maybe fifteen Indians. When we found the water   gone I crawled up in the rocks hunting for a rock tank . . . one of   these here tinajas. I was up there when the Indians came, and before   I could get placed for a shot it was all over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"We worked on a cattle outfit together, and talked it over about   California. Finally we made it up to go west an' we got this far.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jennifer had kept her eyes averted, but her heart was throbbing   heavily and she kept thinking about the Indians. If there was one   band out here there might be more, and she remembered stories her   father had told of Indian forays. In any event, nothing was to be   gained here. \"We'd best go on,\" she said; \"they might come back.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Closest water is twenty miles . . . Papago Wells.\" Lonnie Foreman   turned to Jennifer. \"Ma'am, if you'll allow it, I'd ride with you   all.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Of course,\" she said.","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304188596453,"sku":"NP9780553258073","price":6.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553258073.jpg?v=1767731178","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/last-stand-at-papago-wells-isbn-9780553258073","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}