|Final Shot, the (1975) [Novel]|
by George G. Gilman
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(From the publisher):
Even from a distance he looked deadly. His lean, towering frame measured at least three inches over six feet. About two hundered pounds of mean muscle and bone. His dark clothes were coated with a grey film of dust, from his worn and scarred boots, to the sweatstained, low-crowned hat on his head. The butt of a Frontier Colt jutted from the holster tied to his right thigh. Like his clothes, the gun was far from new.
The approaching stranger's face was a tough, ageless mask, framed by long black hair. Almost like an Indian. Leathery skin, too. Like an Indian's. Deeply etched by sun and wind, and a past that would defy description. Out of this chilling countenance two ice-blue eyes flashed from beneath hooded eyelids, reduced to slits against the desert glare. Like no Indian that ever lived.
As many people before had learned, the inhabitants of Monksville would soon realize that this grim visitor would end their lives...
Original title: The Final Shot
Genre: Fiction→ Western→ Gunfighters