7 novels by Clifton Adams
Requirements: Mobi reader, 4.49MB
Overview: Clifton Adams was born December 1, 1919 in Comanche, OK, and he passed away due to a heart attack on October 7, 1971 in San Francisco, CA. The author of nearly 50 books and over 125 short stories, it is truly a shame that he died so young at age 52. He was still in his prime as a writer, having just won two consecutive Spur Awards for Best Western Novel from the Western Writers of America, first in 1969 for Tragg’s Choice and in 1970 for The Last Days of Wolf Garnett. He had also recently been named "Oklahoma Writer of the Year" in 1965 by the University of Oklahoma, his alma mater. In addition to his own name, he also published under the pseudonyms Clay Randall (the excellent Amos Flagg series of Westerns), Jonathan Gant, and Matt Kinkaid (sometimes spelled Kincaid).
Genre: Western & Mystery
The Colonel’s Lady
Was her love worth more than his life?
A saga of the West–the desperate gamble of a handful of blue-clad troopers against a howling mob of bloodthirsty redmen.
Gambling Man
He played high, loose and recklessly with the most dangerous partner—Death.
The Law of the Trigger
Ben McKeever was the first to come. Owen Toller and the two Stanley boys were chopping cotton in the bottomland below the Toller house when the first silver notes of the triangle came to them. Owen frowned, resting on his hoe. Now, why would Elizabeth be ringing the triangle this time of day? He shouldered the hoe as though it were a rifle and walked up the gentle slope until he could see the house. A tall, big-boned man, he did not walk like a sodbuster. His was the toe-and-heel, almost mincing, stride of a horseman. Working the land had not yet rounded his big shoulders, and he walked erect, head back, with the unconscious pride of a soldier. And yet there was something of the land about him, in the way he smiled at the green young cotton plants, as though they were children. A few years back, when he first moved to the farm, he had felt out of place at times, and not very comfortable. But that was in the past. His cotton was good. The corn was thriving. He had never been happier or more comfortable in his life
Death’s Sweet Song
His face was burned to the color of old leather, and I guessed he was the type that spent a lot of time on a golf course, or maybe a tennis court. We talked a little about the weather and how hot it was, and then I hung up the hose and went to work on the windshield. That was when I got my first good look at the woman. And she just about took my breath away.
Never Say No to a Killer
THE ROCK WAS about the size of a man’s head. A beautiful rock, about twenty pounds of it, and somehow I had to get over to it. The minute I saw it I knew that rock was just the thing I needed. This is going to take some doing, I thought, but I have to get my hands on that rock. Gorgan yelled, "Get the lead out, Surratt! This ain’t no goddamn picnic!" Gorgan was one of the prison guards, a red-faced, hairy-armed anthropoid, sadist by instinct, moron by breeding. His lips curled in a grin and he lifted his Winchester 30-30 and pointed it straight at my chest. There was nothing in the world he would like better than an excuse to kill me. He had had his eye on me for a long time. You sonofabitch, I thought, if you knew what was good for you, you would pull that trigger right now, because five minutes from now it’s going to be too late!
Whom Gods Destroy
He trafficked in rum and women, this modern-day Al Capone.
Clifton Adam’s famous tale of bootlegging in Oklahoma, 20 years after Prohibition’s repeal in 47 other states. Legendary to this day for its dark account of a man on the wrong side of the tracks out to get what’s his, any way he can.
The Last Days of Wolf Garnett
To most Texans, Wolf Garnett was a notorious outlaw: a man to be feared. To Frank Gault, he was a relentless obsession: a man to be killed. Gault had spent more than a year tracking him, out to revenge the brutal, senseless murder of his young wife.
And now Wolf Garnett was dead. At least everyone who should know – even the outlaw’s sister – agreed that the rotting corpse just buried in the New Boston cemetery was Wolf Garnett. But Frank Gault wasn’t satisfied. How could he have seen Garnett in Indian territory four days earlier if he’d been dead for two weeks? Why did the county’s iron-fisted sheriff deliberately arrange for him to ride out of town unarmed? And why did the whole town seem determined to keep him away from Garnett’s sister?
Whether for revenge, justice, or satisfaction, Frank Gault was driven to find out how Wolf Garnett died – or get killed trying.
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