The Original Charles Alden Seltzer

FICTION HOUSE PRESS presents THE ORIGINAL CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER. This issue contains "The Trail to Yesterday", "The High Card", "The Man on the Ridge", "The Horse Thief", "Love's International", and "Seven-Ups Christmas". All of these westerns first appeared in The Outing Magazine between 1911 and 1914. Published in facsimile format.

Getting up the shoulder of the mesa was no easy job, but judging from the actions and appearance of wiry pony and rider it was a job that would be accomplished. For part of the distance, it is true, the man thought it best to dismount, drive the pony ahead of him, and follow on foot. At length, however, they reached the top of the mesa, and after a breathing spell the man mounted and rode across the table-land. A short lope brought pony and rider to a point where the mesa sloped down again to meet a plain that stretched for miles, to merge into some foothills. A faint trail came from somewhere through the foothills, wound over the plain, and followed a slope that descended to a river below the rider, crossed the stream, led over a level, up another slope, to another plain, and so away into the distance. Up and down the river the water ran deeply in a canyon, the painted buttes that flanked it lending an appearance of constriction to its course, but at the crossing it broadened formidably and swirled splashingly around numerous rocks that littered its course.

Charles Alden Seltzer (1875-1942) was a prolific American author of western novels. He wrote his westerns from the experience of living on his uncle's ranch in New Mexico. Seltzer's best works include The Two-Gun Man, The Boss of the Lazy Y, Drag Harlan and West. Many of his novels were turned into Hollywood movies. Content: The Two-Gun Man The Coming of the Law The Trail to Yesterday The Boss of the Lazy Y The Range Boss "Firebrand" Trevison The Ranchman The Trail Horde "Beau" Rand "Drag" Harlan Square Deal Sanderson West!

From the crest of Three Mile Slope the man on the pony could see the town of Dry Bottom straggling across the gray floor of the flat, its low, squat buildings looking like so many old boxes blown there by an idle wind, or unceremoniously dumped there by a careless fate and left, regardless, to carry out the scheme of desolation. Apparently the rider was in no hurry, for, as the pony topped the rise and the town burst suddenly into view, the little animal pricked up its ears and quickened its pace, only to feel the reins suddenly tighten and to hear the rider's voice gruffly discouraging haste. Therefore, the pony pranced gingerly, alert, champing the bit impatiently, picking its way over the lumpy hills of stone and cactus, but holding closely to the trail. The man lounged in the saddle, his strong, well-knit body swaying gracefully, his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, narrowed with slight mockery and interest as he gazed steadily at the town that lay before him. "I reckon that must be Dry Bottom," he said finally, mentally taking in its dimensions. "If that's so, I've only got twenty miles to go." Half way down the slope, and still a mile and a half from the town, the rider drew the pony to a halt. He dropped the reins over the high pommel of the saddle, drew out his two guns, one after the other, rolled the cylinders, and returned the guns to their holsters. He had heard something of Dry Bottom's reputation and in examining his pistols he was merely preparing himself for an emergency. For a moment after he had replaced the weapons he sat quietly in the saddle. Then he shook out the reins, spoke to the pony, and the little animal set forward at a slow lope.

The air in the Pullman was hot and, despite the mechanical contrivances built into the coach to prevent such a contingency, the dust from the right-of-way persisted in filtering through crevices. Even the electric fans futilely combated the heat; their droning hum bespoke terrific revolutions which did not materially lessen the discomfort of the occupants of the coach; and the dry, dead dust of the desert, the glare of a white-hot sun, the continuing panorama of waste land, rolling past the car windows, afforded not one cool vista to assuage the torture of travel. For hours after leaving Kansas City, several of the passengers had diligently gazed out of the windows. But when they had passed the vast grass plains and had entered the desert, where their eyes met nothing but endless stretches of feathery alkali dust, beds of dead lava, and clumps of cacti with thorny spire and spatula blade defiantly upthrust as though in mockery of all life-the passengers drew the shades and settled down in their seats to endure the discomfort of it all

If the passengers on the west-bound train that pulled up at the little red wooden station at Dry Bottom at the close of a June day in -, were interested in the young man bearing the two suit cases, they gave no evidence of it. True, they noted his departure; with casual glances they watched him as he stepped down upon the platform; but immediately they forgot his athletic figure and his regular featured, serious face as their thoughts returned to the heat, the dust, and the monotony of travel. There was the usual bustle and activity which always follows the arrival of a train. A mail bag was dumped out of the mail car, another thrown in; some express packages were unceremoniously deposited near the door of the station by the agent; the conductor ran to the telegrapher's window to receive an order; ran back, signaling as he ran; the engine bell clanged, the drivers clanked, the wheels ground, the passengers sighed, and the train departed on its way. The young man who had alighted stood motionless for a moment, listening to the clatter of the wheels over the rail-joints, watching the smoke from the engine-stack befoul the clear blue of the sky. Then he smiled grimly, threw a rapid glance toward a group of loungers standing at a corner of the station, and walked over to where the station agent stood examining some newly arrived packages. "Do you mind directing me to the courthouse?" said the young man. The agent looked up, turned, and ran a measuring, speculative eye over the new arrival. He noted the Eastern cut of the young man's clothing and beneath the dust of travel the clear, healthy white skin of his face. "Stranger here?" observed the agent, with a slight, humorous narrowing of the eyes. "Yes." "No, I don't mind," resumed the agent, answering the young man's question. "You won't have any trouble findin' the courthouse. There's only one street in this town an' the courthouse is down to the other end of it-you couldn't miss it if you tried." He grinned with some amusement at the young man's back as the latter with a cordial "thank you," returned to his suit cases, gripped them firmly by the handles, and strode down the wooden platform toward the street, ignoring the group of loungers at the corner of the station. "'Nother tenderfoot," remarked one of the loungers as the young man passed out of hearing; "they're runnin' this country plum to hell!" The young man strode slowly down the board sidewalk that paralleled the buildings on one side of the street, mentally taking in the dimensions of the town. It was not an inviting picture. Many buildings of various descriptions snuggled the wide, vacant space which the station agent had termed a "street." Most of the buildings were unpainted and crude, composed of rough boards running perpendicularly, with narrow battens over the joints. There were several brick buildings two stories in height, bearing the appearance of having been recently erected, and these towered over the squat, one-story frames in seeming contemptuous dignity. There were many private dwellings, some stores, but the young man's first impression was that there was an enormous number of saloons.

Good Press presents to you this carefully created volume of "The Greatest Westerns of Charles Alden Seltzer". This ebook has been designed and formatted to the highest digital standards and adjusted for readability on all devices. Charles Alden Seltzer (1875-1942) was a prolific American author of western novels. He wrote his westerns from the experience of living on his uncle's ranch in New Mexico. Seltzer's best works include The Two-Gun Man, The Boss of the Lazy Y, Drag Harlan and West. Many of his novels were turned into Hollywood movies. Content: The Two-Gun Man The Coming of the Law The Trail to Yesterday The Boss of the Lazy Y The Range Boss "Firebrand" Trevison The Ranchman The Trail Horde "Beau" Rand "Drag" Harlan Square Deal Sanderson West!

From out of the shimmering haze that veiled the mystic eastern space came a big black horse bearing a rider. Swinging wide, to avoid the feathery dust that lay at the base of a huge sand dune, the black horse loped, making no sound, and seeming to glide forward without effort. Like a somber, gigantic ghost the animal moved, heroic of mold, embodying the spirit of the country, seeming to bear the sinister message of the desert, the whispered promise of death, the lingering threat, the grim mockery of life, and the conviction of futility. The black horse had come far. The glossy coat of him was thickly sprinkled with alkali dust, sifted upon him by the wind of his passage through the desert; his black muzzle was gray with it; ropes of it matted his mane, his forelock had become a gray-tinged wisp which he fretfully tossed; the dust had rimmed his eyes, causing them to loom large and wild; and as his rider pulled him to a halt on the western side of the sand dune-where both horse and rider would not be visible on the sky line-he drew a deep breath, shook his head vigorously, and blew a thin stream of dust from his nostrils. With head and ears erect, his eyes flaming his undying courage and his contempt for distance and the burning heat that the midday sun poured upon him, he gazed westward, snorting long breaths into his eager lungs.