Adam Steele series by George G. Gilman (#01,28~32)
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Overview: Terry Harknett (born 1936) is a British author. He is author of almost 200 books, mostly pulp novels in the western and crime genres. He has written as a ghostwriter for Peter Haining and under an array of pseudonyms, including George G. Gilman, Joseph Hedges, William M. James, Charles R. Pike, Thomas H. Stone, Frank Chandler, Jane Harman, Alex Peters, William Pine, William Terry, James Russell and David Ford. Some bibliographies list Adam Hardy as one of Harknett’s pseudonyms, in fact a nom de plume of Kenneth Bulmer.
Genre: Western
01. The Violent Peace (1974): AKA (Rebels and Assassins Die Hard)
Abraham Lincoln is assassinated whilst at the theater in Washington. A great and honorable President is mourned by many, but his passing brings rejoicing to those Southerners defeated in the Civil War. Adam Steele finds he has a private grief to mourn, when he discovers the body of his father slowly swinging on a makeshift gallows. This is a sorrow he cannot share with other men.
He sets out on a mission with deadly purpose. A vendetta that will turn old friends into enemies, that will bring a slow or sudden death to the marked men.
28. Steele’s War: The Stranger (1981):
Steele. Storekeeper, settled and accepted. Him and his wife. Until the stranger rode into town. A hard, silent man with an old newspaper photo all crumpled up in his hip pocket. A photo that just happened to show something from his past. That was when Steele realized that there were two kinds of past. The past a man tries to forget, that forces itself into his sweat-soaked nightmares. Memories of blood, pumping, hot, vivid red on Confederate gray. Of triumphant Rebel yells that rise horribly to bone-chilling screams. And then there is the past you didn’t know about.
Until it rears up, sudden as a diamondback and strikes to kill.
29. The Big Prize (1981):
Mesa, Colorado, was a nice town. Settled, growing, thriving. God-fearing on a Sunday, money-making of a weekday, the citizens grew carefully richer, and their life had a pattern to it.
A pattern that Adam Steele didn’t fit. Not when he rode in, sweaty and shabby after too long on the trail, leading a gelding with two dead men lashed across the saddle. Mesa, Colorado, drew back, squeamish and shocked at the blood dried black round the gunshot wounds, at the flies and the smell. Until the news got around that there was a fortune buried somewhere out there in the hills. And only one man had the map of its location. Then the niceness and the manners were stripped away to the bare bones of greed and hatred. And the citizens remembered how to kill.
30. The Killer Mountains (1982):
The black-clad preacher had led his people a long way: from Pennsylvania, across the prairies to the mountains of Montana. Led them trusting absolutely in the Lord to take care of them, tell them where to settle. They would ask help from no-one but the Lord. And the renegade bunch of Paiute Indians who’d cornered them asked no help either, would help themselves to provisions, blankets, money and finally to the preacher’s daughter. Took her, tied her stripped naked on the ground. Still the preacher forbade resistance for it was the Lord’s will. That was when Adam Steele took a hand. Didn’t know much about the Lord’s will but he knew the time had come to break His commandment about killing.
And broke it again and again.
31. The Cheaters (1982):
Accord, Wyoming. To Steele it looked like some sort of ghost town. Nothing moving, no people, no horses, not even a cur dog. Nothing except the hot dry wind blowing down the one street, raising a little dust. His horse’s hooves echoed lough as he rode warily through. Then, suddenly, Steele found people. A crowd gathered on the far side of town, watching. Under a tree a young fear-sweated cowhand waited, his wrists bound. From the tree dangled a rope. Steele was just in time for the hanging, just in time to get involved in a range war that would stain too much bad blood across the good land.
32.The Wrong Man (1982):
Northern California. Giant redwoods clinging to the slopes of the Coastal Range as it drops down to the blue Pacific Ocean.
Man stretched out on the wide deserted beach right by the water’s edge. Surf may be up but he’s paying no mind. Not working on his tan either on account of his being fully dressed. Just lying there quite still on account of he’s dead. Bullet hole drilled clean between the shoulder blades. Near him a horse, a black gelding, edgy, close to being spooked, while another man, black hair, maybe some Apache blood in him, searches through the saddle bags. Hurried. Not the sort of picture a tourist brochure would use. But a scene to freeze the blood of a man called Steele. Especially when he looks into the dead man’s face and discovers his own double.
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