{"product_id":"where-the-long-grass-blows-isbn-9780735286283","title":"Where the Long Grass Blows","description":"Bill Canavan rode into the valley with a dream to start his own ranch. But when he  managed to stake claims on the three best water holes, the other ranchers turned  against him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one is more determined to see Canavan dead than Star Levitt. Levitt  is an unscrupulous businessman who has been accumulating cattle at an alarming rate.  Suspicious after witnessing a secret meeting between the riders of warring ranches,  Bill begins noticing other dubious behavior: Why is Levitt’s fiancée, Dixie Venable,  acting more like a hostage than a willing bride-to-be?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCanavan doesn’t have much  time to figure out what’s going on. The entire valley is against him, and everyone  is ready to shoot on sight.Our foremost storyteller of the American West, \u003cb\u003eLouis L’Amour\u003c\/b\u003e has thrilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men and women who settled the frontier. There are more than 300 million copies of his books in print around the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eJason Culp\u003c\/b\u003e has been featured on television in \u003ci\u003eDays of Our Lives\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eGeneral Hospital\u003c\/i\u003e and in the cult film \u003ci\u003eSkinheads\u003c\/i\u003e. His roles in regional theater include Trigorin in \u003ci\u003eThe Seagull\u003c\/i\u003e. He has been an audiobook performer for 13 years. He lives in New York City and is currently finishing work on a memoir.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    THERE WAS A lonely place where the trail ran up to the sky, turning   sharply away at the rimrock where a man could see all the valley   below, a splendid green of forest and meadow fading into the purple   of the farther mountains. It was a place where a man could look down   upon eagles, soaring far below, yet thousands of feet above the   valley's floor. Here at sundown a man came riding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Bill Canavan rode a horse strangely marked, a true leopard Appaloosa   . . . white with black spots except for a splash of blue roan on the   left hip. He drew up where the trail turned, and sat his saddle,   looking over the valley below. The gelding, nostrils spreading to   catch whatever scent there was, pricked its ears and looked eagerly   toward the wide valley below.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The rider was a tall man, narrow of hip and broad of shoulder, his   features blunt and rugged, not handsome but strong. There was a   tough, confident look about him, and he looked upon this valley now   as Cortez might have looked when first he saw the Valley of Mexico.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Bill Canavan came alone, but he did not come seeking favors, nor even   work. He came as a conqueror.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    For Bill Canavan had made his decision. At twenty-seven he was   sitting in the middle of all he owned, a splendid Appaloosa gelding,   a fine California saddle of hand-tooled leather, a .44 Winchester   rifle and two walnut-butted Colt .44 pistols. These were his all.   Behind him was a life that began with birth in a covered wagon   rolling westward, a boyhood in the gold and silver boom camps of   California, Nevada, Montana and Colorado, a cattle-drive over the   Chisholm Trail, another over the Goodnight-Loving Trail, shotgun   guard on a stage and scouting Indians for the Army.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He had fought rustlers and Kiowas, Comanches and Apaches, Sioux and   Blackfeet, with nothing to show for it but a few scars here and there   and his memories of hunger, thirst, cold, of hard winters and dry   range and long dusty drives. All it had brought him was trouble and   hard riding. Now his decision was made. He was going to ride for   himself and fight for himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    His cool dark eyes scanned the valley below, and his appreciation of   terrain would have done credit to a general. And in his own way he   was a general, and his arrival was an invasion, yet the only force he   commanded was himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Bill Canavan was a young man with a plan. He wanted not wealth but a   ranch, a well-watered ranch in good stock country, and he intended to   settle for nothing less. The fact that he was down to his last three   dollars meant nothing, for his mind was made up. And back down the   trail there were men who could tell you that Bill Canavan with his   mind set on something was a force with which to reckon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Yet he was not riding blindly into a strange land. For, like the   tactician he was, he had gathered his information carefully, judged   the situation, the terrain, the time and the people, and now he was   ready.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This was new country, but he knew the landmarks and the   personalities. He knew the strengths and weaknesses of its rulers,   knew the economic factors of their existence, knew the stresses and   strains within it. He knew that he rode into a valley at war, that   blood had been shed and that armed men rode its trails night and day.   Into this maelstrom he rode, a man alone, determined to have his own   from the country.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The wolves were at war over the carcass of the land, and he, a   stranger, fiercer predator, was moving to the attack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He turned the gelding away from the rim and started down the trail   through the pines, a trail soon to be dark, a trail somber, majestic   in its stillness under the columned trees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    As he rode into the trees he removed his hat and slowed his horse to   a walk. It was a good country, a country in which a man could live   and grow, and where if he was fortunate he might have sons to grow   tall and straight beside him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This was what he wished for. No longer did he look for far horizons.   He wanted his own hearth fire, the creak of his own pump, the heads   of his own horses looking over the gate bars for his hand to feed   them. He wanted peace, and seeking it he had come to a land at war.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A faint smell of woodsmoke drew his attention to the edge of the   meadow. He drew up, then walked his horse over to where the fire had   been. The earth was much trampled and the grass torn. Studying the   scene, his attention held for an instant on a blackened ring at one   side and back from the fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    His eyes glinted with hard humor. \"A cinch-ring artist,\" he said to   the gelding, \"dropped her there to cool and singed the grass.\" A   pretty handy man, no doubt, but not a wise one. A smarter or less   confident man would have pulled up that handful of blackened grass   and thrown it into the fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There had been two men here, his eyes told him. Two men and two   horses. A big man with small feet . . . the impressions were deeper   and he had mounted the largest horse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He studied the scene. This was a new country for him and it behooved   a man to understand the local customs. He grinned at the thought. If   cinch-ring branding was one of the local customs, it was an unusual   one. In most parts of the country it was an invitation to a hanging.   The cinch-ring artist was apt to find himself at the wrong end of a   rope with nothing under his feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The procedure was simple enough. One took a cinch-ring from his own   saddle gear and, holding it with a couple of sticks-after it was   red-hot, of course-he used it like any other branding iron. A good   hand with a cinch-ring could easily duplicate any known brand,   depending only on his degree of skill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Bill Canavan glanced around. If he were found on the spot it would   require explaining, and at the moment he had no intention of   explaining anything. Swinging the gelding, he rode down the trail   once more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Not three miles away lay the cowtown known as Soledad. To his right,   and about six miles away, was an imposing cluster of buildings shaded   beneath a fine grove of old cottonwoods. Somewhat nearer and also   shaded was a somewhat smaller ranch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Beyond the rocky ridge that stretched an anxious finger into the lush   valley was Walt Pogue's Box N spread.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The farther ranch belonged to Charlie Reynolds; his CR brand was the   largest in the area. The nearer ranch belonged to Tom and Dixie   Venable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"When thieves fall out,\" he said aloud, \"honest men get their dues.   Or so they say. Without laying any claim to being more than average   honest, I've got a hunch I'll be around to pick up the pieces.   There's trouble coming, and when the smoke of battle blows away I'll   be top-dog on one of those ranches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"They have it all. They have range, money, power. They have gunhands   riding for them, but you and me, Rio, we've only got each other.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Down there the wolves ran in packs, but he would circle the packs   alone, and when the moment came, he would move in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"There's an old law, Rio, that only the strong survive. Those ranches   are held by men who were strong. Some of them still are. They were   strong enough to take the land from smaller, weaker men. That's the   story of Reynolds and Pogue. They rustled cows until they grew big   enough and now they sit on the housetops and crow. Or they did until   they began fighting each other.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Your reasoning,\" the cool voice behind him was feminine, \"is   logical, but dangerous. I would suggest that if you must talk to your   horse you be sure his are the only ears present!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She sat well in the saddle, poised and alert. There was a quirk of   humor at the corners of her mouth, and nothing of coyness or fear in   her manner. Every inch of her breathed of quality, but a quality   underlaid with both fire and steel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"That's good advice,\" he said. \"It's a bad habit a man gets into,   talkin' to his horse. Comes of riding alone too much.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He was looking at her with very real appreciation. Women of any kind   were scarce, but such women as this-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Now that you've looked me over,\" she suggested cooly, \"would you   like to examine my teeth for age?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He was not embarrassed. \"No, ma'am. Now that I've looked you over I'd   say you're pretty much of a woman. The kind of a woman who's made for   a man!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She smiled, obviously pleased, but she changed the subject. \"Just   which ranch are you thinking about? Where do you intend to be top-dog   when the fighting is over?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, now. I haven't rightly made up my mind. I'm a right choosy man   when it comes to horses, ranches and women!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yes?\" She glanced at the gelding. \"I'd say your judgment of horses   isn't obvious by that one. Not that he isn't a beauty, but I think   you could do better. I never did favor those off-colored horses.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I doubt if I could do better,\" Canavan said. \"And I'd bet a little   money he could outrun that beauty of yours, here to Soledad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Her eyes flashed. \"You're an idiot. Flame is the fastest horse in   this country! He comes of racing stock!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"He's a fine horse, but I'd bet my saddle against a hundred dollars   that my Appaloosa will kick dust in his face before we get to   Soledad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There was scorn in her laughter. \"You're on!\" she said, and her red   horse gave a great bound and hit the trail running. That jump gave   the bay a start, but Bill knew his gelding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Come on, boy! We've got to beat that horse! We need the money!\" Rio,   seeming as always to understand, stretched his legs and ran like a   scared rabbit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    As they swept into the main road, and into full sight of Soledad, the   bay was leading by three lengths. But despite the miles behind it,   the Appaloosa loved to run and he was running now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The gelding had the blood of Arabians in his veins, and he was used   to rough country and the off-hand style of cow camp racing. The road   took a small jog but Bill Canavan did not take the horse around.   Instead, he cut through the rocks and mesquite and hit the road   scarcely a length behind the big red horse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In Soledad, men were coming out into the street now, watching the   racers come toward them. With a half mile to go the red horse was   slowing. He  was a sprinter, but he had been living well with too little running,   while the gelding was just beginning  to run. Neck stretched out, the gelding ran hard and Canavan leaned   far forward to cut the wind  resistance and lend some impetus with his weight. The mustang pulled   up alongside the bay horse, and neck and neck they raced up to the   town. With the nearest building only a few jumps ahead, Canavan spoke   to the Appaloosa.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Now, Rio! Now!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    With a lunge the spotted horse was past and went racing into the   street, leading by a length.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Canavan eased up and let his horse run down the street abreast of the   red horse. They slowed to a canter, then a walk. The girl's eyes were   wide and angry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You cheated! You cut across the bend!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He chuckled. \"You could have, ma'am. You got off to a running start,   left me standing still!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I thought you wanted a race!\" she said scornfully. \"You cheated!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Bill Canavan pulled up sharply, his eyes hard. \"Obviously, ma'am, you   come from a long line of sportsmen! You can forget the bet!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The sarcasm cut like a whip. She opened her mouth to speak, suddenly   ashamed of the way she had acted. After all, she had taken advantage   at the start, and it was only fair-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He had turned his horse away and was walking off down the street, and   for an instant she was about to follow. Impatiently, she tossed her   head. Let him go, she thought . . . who does he think he is, anyway?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Yet she turned once more to look back. Who was he, anyway?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      --","brand":"Random House Audio","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300909076709,"sku":"NP9780735286283","price":30.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780735286283.jpg?v=1767744061","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/where-the-long-grass-blows-isbn-9780735286283","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}