The Blue, the Grey and the Red by George G. Gilman

Author:George G. Gilman [Gilman, George G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure, Genre Fiction, Westerns
Amazon: B008H77AGK
Publisher: Lobo publications
Published: 2012-07-02T00:00:00+00:00

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Lydia Eden's husband had made his fortune from gold as a Forty-Niner and, largely as a result of his wife's good advice, invested the money in land and cattle. He died young and rich, deeply mourned by an attractive widow who chose to channel her great capacity for love in two directions. Nobody was quite sure whether the unselfish affection she lavished upon her son or the dedication with which she sought to swell her wealth had the more powerful motive. But in material terms, the latter had proved the more rewarding.

The ranch she had called the Garden of Eden was spread over many miles of prime oceanside country, stocked with several thousand head of cattle. Citrus trees grew in patterned rows in well-kept orchards, and maize and wheat fields squared the landscape. At the center of this vast expanse of bountiful land was the big house. Two stories high, with Spanish-style arched windows, it was built of native stone, painted white so that it gleamed in the California sun. Around the main structure were spread the outbuildings, housing the servants and the purebred riding horses, the ornate carriages and the high-priced furnishings which the owner had bought on impulse and found no room for.

Paxton approached the house from the west, aware there was less risk of being seen by the Mexican hands and American overseers employed by Lydia Eden. For while most of the property was under cattle or crops, a wide swathe of rugged, pine-clad terrain sweeping down from the house to the beach had been left untouched to provide the owner with a panoramic view of natural beauty which she regarded as a monument to her late husband. His body was, in fact, buried beneath the simple marker of a solid gold cross among a stand of pine in the center of the vista.

Paxton passed the grave without pausing and made his way along a tree-lined bridle path. It was almost noon and he was sweating with the exertion of walking up the rising ground. His horse he had left on the edge of the beach, grazing on lush grass out of range of salt spray from the surf. The deputy moved cautiously, well aware of the meaning of the signs which had been erected around the perimeter of the property, warning trespassers of the severest penalty for their deeds. Three men had been shot for straying through the fences in pursuit of jackrabbits. Two of them had died.

As he neared the crest of the rise, where the ground flattened out, Paxton veered to the side and then swung around so that he could approach the house from the rear. There was no sign of movement anywhere and even the shade trees were so still they seemed to be made of stone. But there were sounds to disturb the hot, quiet air: the rattle of crocks and cutlery from the house kitchen, the snorting of horses from the stables, the strangely beautiful voice of a Mexican woman singing softly in the servants' quarters.

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