Billy the Kid: A Novel

( 3 )

Overview


William H. "Billy the Kid" Bonney Jr. isn't afraid to take risks. But during a train heist near his hometown, the odds catch up with him when a passenger recognizes the nineteen-year-old outlaw. Fed up with Billy's bad ways, The Law sends its best man to bring him in: Sheriff Willis Monroe, Billy's own cousin and former best friend. But Willis isn't the only one on Billy's tail. The Kid's two-timing partners are hunting him, too--and a conniving posse wants Billy (and the ...
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Billy the Kid: A Novel

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Overview


William H. "Billy the Kid" Bonney Jr. isn't afraid to take risks. But during a train heist near his hometown, the odds catch up with him when a passenger recognizes the nineteen-year-old outlaw. Fed up with Billy's bad ways, The Law sends its best man to bring him in: Sheriff Willis Monroe, Billy's own cousin and former best friend. But Willis isn't the only one on Billy's tail. The Kid's two-timing partners are hunting him, too--and a conniving posse wants Billy (and the sheriff!) dead.

This fictional tale of real-life legend Billy the Kid imagines William Bonney's fate had his life of crime taken a very different turn.

Includes an author's note about the real Billy the Kid.

Young William Bonney is talked into committing his first train robbery, unaware that his cousin and best friend, Willie Monroe, is now sheriff of the nearest town, and that his fellow robbers are already wanted in four states.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
PW said in a starred review, "Taylor smoothly fuses solid storytelling with the stuff of legend." Ages 12-up. (Aug.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Children's Literature
Billy Bonney is a likable sometimes rowdy fellow down on his luck when he crosses paths with three mean-looking men who call themselves the "Smiths." After a tense initial confrontation, he becomes a part of their train heist near his old hometown. Soon after, he finds himself marked as an outlaw and on the run not only from the local lawman—his cousin, Sheriff Willis Monroe—but also from his former partners in crime. Readers will be drawn in from the beginning by the author's attention to detail in creating both the characters and the landscape and will stay captivated through to the dramatic end. Even though this is a fictionalized account based upon a real outlaw, it is believable and one almost wishes it were true. There is an author's note at the conclusion on the real life of William H. "Billy the Kid" Bonney, Jr. There is small amount of cursing in the book in order, one presumes, to make the dialogue seem more authentic. This is a highly recommended work not as a historical resource but simply for the pure pleasure of reading. 2005, Harcourt, Ages 12 up.
—Trina Heidt
VOYA
When a job "discouraging" castle rustlers on a Mexican cattle ranch turns sour, nineteen-year-old Billy Bonney heads north into Arizona and joins a band of train robbers. Billy soon finds himself crossways of both the law and the lawless, however. A train passenger recognizes and identifies him, and soon Sheriff Willis Monroe, Billy's cousin and boyhood hero, begins a dogged but reluctant manhunt. Meanwhile Billy's fellow robbers mount a failed attempt to murder him over his share of the ill-gotten gains, and Billy is soon on the run from both good guys and bad. When a ruthless land baron sends a gunslinger to ambush Willis along the trail, it is only Billy's "blinding speed" with a six-iron that can save him, but in the end Billy must pay the ultimate sacrifice. In his author's note, Taylor makes no bones about his intentions or about the accuracy of this fictionalized account of a Western legend, Billy the Kid: "My fictional Billy the Kid bears little resemblance to the cold and ruthless Billy of legend. I tried to give my Billy a charming personality and a zest for life, making him a sort of "heart of gold" outlaw-as well as a young man destined for a gunslinger's death." Taylor's archetypal story is intensely motivated by his own experiences with the cowboy "picture show" heroes of his youth. Although no one knows for sure how many men William Bonney killed (was it really twenty?), nor how old he was (was he really only nineteen?), the mythic proportions of his legendary life are done justice (just as Pat Garrett bestowed justice on the real Billy the Kid in 1881) in this delightful book. VOYA CODES: 4Q 4P M J S (Better than most, marred only by occasional lapses; Broad general YAappeal; Middle School, defined as grades 6 to 8; Junior High, defined as grades 7 to 9; Senior High, defined as grades 10 to 12). 2005, Harcourt, 211p., $17. Ages 11 to 18.
—James Blasingame
KLIATT
To quote the review of the hardcover in KLIATT, May 2005: Honey-tongued sharpshooter Billy Bonney Jr. is only 19, but he's already down on his luck and flat broke. His luck becomes even worse when he meets an older outlaw and his two nasty sons and gets talked into pulling a train robbery with them. They try to cheat Billy out of his share, and he shoots one son; the two other men chase after Billy to get revenge and the loot. Even worse, the law goes after Billy too, in the form of Sheriff Willis Monroe--Billy's cousin and closest friend. The suspenseful manhunt through Arizona Territory in 1881 is on, and the relationship between outlaw Billy and his sheriff cousin gives it the depth of a classic tragedy. Taylor, the author of The Cay and other acclaimed YA novels, makes the details vivid, and this action-filled Western is a sterling example of the genre. In an author's note at the end, Taylor tells about the real Billy the Kid, carefully pointing out that his charming, doomed fictional Billy doesn't resemble the real-life cold-blooded killer. KLIATT Codes: JS*--Exceptional book, recommended for junior and senior high school students. 2005, Harcourt, 208p., $6.95.. Ages 12 to 18.
—Paula Rohrlick
School Library Journal
Gr 5-8-A fictional account of a legendary figure. Readers find Billy sweltering in a tiny Arizona town with not much more than the dirty clothes on his back and eight dollars in pocket change. Hoping to turn his fortune around, he takes part in his first train robbery near his hometown. What starts off as a surefire way to get cash turns sour fast. Billy is recognized during the heist, and his cohorts are wanted criminals who try to cheat him. And the lawman responsible for bringing him to justice is his best friend and cousin, Willis Monroe. This twisting tale is full of horses, guns, greed, betrayal, regret, and love. A subplot featuring a feud between Willis and a local rancher gives the story an added dimension. Taylor's colorful descriptions and authentic language solidly anchor the setting in the Southwest. While at times slowing the pace, the character development and back story give the tale depth and complexity, which saves it from becoming a superficial shoot 'um-up Western. Taylor doesn't romanticize the events. Once Billy makes his decision to be a train robber and gunslinger, nothing, not even his winning smile and charming ways, can save him from his fate. An author's note explains Taylor's reasons for writing the story and gives a synopsis of the outlaw's real life. This story has definite appeal for readers interested in the era or those looking for a different kind of action book.-Catherine Callegari, San Antonio Public Library, TX Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780152049300
  • Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
  • Publication date: 6/1/2005
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 224
  • Age range: 10 - 14 Years
  • Lexile: 790L (what's this?)
  • Product dimensions: 5.86 (w) x 8.54 (h) x 0.81 (d)

Meet the Author

THEODORE TAYLOR (1921-2006), an award-winning author of many books for young people, was particularly known for fast-paced, exciting adventure novels. His books include the bestseller The Cay, Timothy of the Cay, The Bomb, Air Raid--Pearl Harbor!, Ice Drift, The Maldonado Miracle, and The Weirdo, an Edgar Award winner for Best Young Adult Mystery.

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Read an Excerpt


THERE WAS WAVERING WHITE FIRE over Cochise County, one of those sapping early September days when the sky was light cobalt and cloudless. Since dawn any breeze that had crossed the nearby puny, snuff-colored mountains was filled with high fever.

Billy Bonney sat bootless on the boardwalk planks in sweating misery outside Little Sally's Saloon, warm, half-gone Mex beer by his side, fanning himself in the shade with a stained, dusty hat, thinking that McLean had to be the worst, poorest town of all. Sometime or another, the wind would hide it with dunes. It had died in 1876, when the tin mine quit, but hadn't decently buried itself yet, five years later.

He thought he maybe should have stayed in Douglas or gone on to Tucson. Yet one didn't offer much more than the other. They were both miserable towns. He made his swollen feet comfortable, extending them to the full angle of the shade.

For the last few minutes, he'd been picking at the idea of going back to Mexico, going back to work for the Cudahys, the meat people from Chicago, shooting down rustlers on the Durango spread. He'd done that and it was like target practice. The rustlers never had a chance. Aside from the money, there wasn't much appealing about working for the Cudahys. He pushed the thought away for the time being.

Just now, nobody with any common sense was ambling about in McLean. Not even lizards. Yet he heard a voice: "Move yo' laigs, cowboy." The Texas-flavored drawl carried distinctly over the lifeless midafternoon murmur that trickled out of Little Sally's. It was too oven stifling to even laugh at the gruff orders. But Billy looked up with interest.

There were three of them, trail flushed and alkali dusty. One was a squat man with a square face that reminded Billy of a large cube of whiskered bedrock. About fifty, Billy guessed. He looked as tough as oak heart. Another, looking midtwenties, was big and burly, also fatty. Then there was a young one, also burly and fatty. Maybe nineteen. They all looked a bit alike. They'd come out of nowhere.

"I said, 'Move yo' laigs.'"

That was the youngest one talking so emphatically. Billy frowned up at him, not quite believing any right-minded human would come on that strong in this heat. The speaker had loose lips, a beetle brow, and the damnedest bullet necklace that Billy had ever seen. The bullets were pierced through with baling wire. A silly decoration, Billy thought. The speaker looked remarkably like some boy lumberjack, but he was dressed more like a trail rider.

Billy cocked his head and said, with rapt amusement, "Step around 'em, boy. Plenty o' room. I'm jus' too tuckered to accommodate."

Billy watched as the fatty fellow frowned at his partners, then seemed to make up his mind. It was fascinating to watch those dumb gray eyes operate. The boy aimed a large marred boot toe. Billy estimated that it would hit him just below the rump, in thigh flesh. It was a big slabby toe that would hurt.

Billy's back parted from the adobe wall and he came up in one smooth move, a .44 suddenly in his hand. The gun thudded and the felt crown jumped from the boy's tall black hat before the intruder could get anywhere near his own hip holster. He froze in panic. Billy fanned another shot near the formerly threatening toe, sending splinters of wood; then he turned his attention to the others, ready to shoot again.

The visitors stood openmouthed and amazed. What had been lazing against the wall-an ordinary, no-good, shiftless, scruffy young cowhand-was now erect and tense, cold-eyed, lips tight against teeth. Thin smoke spiraling from his barrel, he was ready for a third shot. Suddenly full of fury, three days of yellow beard on his rigid jaws, he appeared ready to clear the town. He looked older than he was. Actually, he'd just turned nineteen.

Heads poked out of Little Sally's as the booms echoed along the near-empty shimmering street. A dog barked up the way, awakened by the bursts. Then a horse whinnied in fear before McLean fell back to silence.

Billy, feeling like he wanted to kill-maybe it was the heat-heard a female voice behind him. It asked caustically, "Who the hell's shootin'?" He didn't turn, just kept the .44 on the boy, breathing hard.

Sally sighed, "Cowboy, go across the street if you're gonna do that."

The squat older man, quizzical more than frightened, answered her slowly, "Why, I bet this feller a five he couldn't put a hole in my son's hat. He did it, by grannies. Burn your scalp, Joe?"

Still stunned, Joe shook his head.

In contrast to the others, the sweating gray-eyed, gray-haired older man was dressed like he might be a traveling merchant. His alpaca black suit coat fit his stocky body and heavy shoulders snugly. He laughed softly. "I guess it's too steamin' hot for lil' jokes, eh?"

Billy relaxed, holstering the gun. He felt adrenaline start filtering back into its proper places and broke a friendly smile on his face. When it wasn't tensed, it was a pleasant, appealing face. Even the stubble couldn't hide that. He was of medium height and build, body hard as river rocks, hair curly blond.

"It's hot, all right. Been like a furnace here two days."

Billy glanced again at Joe. There were white streaks angling toward Joe's mouth. His nostrils had flared. He was an ugly something, and ugly somethings rarely lived long here in the West.

Billy said quietly, "This weather'll turn a rabbit stark mad." He took an almost unnoticeable breath, relaxing even more, but he remained wary, his hands barely inches from his holster. The older man's practiced eyes took account of those hands.

"Name is Smith," he said with a warm smile. "All of us is Smith. I'm daddy to these boys. This is Joe, my youngest. Joe, you 'pologize. You disturbed a restin' stranger."

Joe mumbled an apology, his cheeks now crimson with a mixture of embarrassment and rage.

"This is Perry, my oldest."

Billy nodded. Both were two hundred-pounders if an ounce. Shaggy, sandy hair grew down their napes and puffed at the vees of their shirts. Their dusty black pants were tucked into brown boot tops. Texans, he was sure.

"Billy Bonney."

The squat man grinned back, nodding at the dead beer. "Billy, how 'bout me gittin' you a fresh'un, an' we'll join out here where it's cool." There wasn't a cool square inch in all of Arizona.

"Mr. Smith, all the-"

"Art," he said disarmingly. "We deal in cattle. Buy ranches and so forth."

"Art, then. All the way to California, it's not cool. I rode up from Douglas two days ago an' like to died. Walked the last ten miles. My horse is still parched an' my feet is blowed."

Art nodded back. "We come up this mornin' from Tombstone. I am ever parched." He went on into Little Sally's.

Gunplay over, Billy eased down to the boardwalk again, his heart flattening out. Putting his shoulders against the eroding clay wall, he wondered about the trio. That Joe had sure pushed his luck. Tampering with a total stranger in a 110 degrees was like stroking rattlesnakes at high noon. Tampering with one who'd been in a bad mood for months invited maiming. He filled his lungs with the hot air and made a guess their name wasn't Smith. Art's sons stayed uncomfortably on their feet, keeping silent, acting restless. They looked around as if McLean had something of interest to see. Then Joe spit into the street dust.

Billy held back a laugh.

Perry trained his eyes over to the livery. Billy followed the look and saw three glistening horses. They'd traveled hard. They looked like good mounts. The big gelding, in particular. Billy knew horses. These were not cowpoke mounts. And the "Smiths" didn't look like cattle dealers.

Perry said, "Joe, go tell that liveryman to git those horses out o' the sun right now. Tell him I said so. You heard Pa say we'd stay tonight."

Joe sent another juvenile glob of spit into the yellow-white dust, hitched his belt, and turned abruptly, glaring at Billy. "I'm gonna kill yo' ass," he said, then slouched off across the street.

Billy shook his head. "My, Joe has a fatal attitude."

Perry stared at Billy. "He's fast. You took him by surprise."

Billy grinned. "That's the only way."

Then Art came out. He settled intimately by Billy and passed a mug, shoving one toward Perry, who squatted. Billy blinked as Art took a long gulp of fresh milk and wiped his mouth. "Ah, that is some kinda good. I had some gypsum wattah this mornin' and still taste it."

"Gypsum's a bad taste," Billy agreed, and fell silent. Milk? He didn't know that Little Sally had it in her cooler.

Billy was normally talkative, but he hadn't been himself for quite a while. He felt an even greater strain at the moment. Behind the generosity of his host, he thought he saw a brutality that was more open in his sons. There was something cruel, nearly hidden, in Art's face.

"I had to be impressed by that shootin'," Art said. "I declare it was the fastest I've seen in years. That your line o' work?"

"Well, I stay in practice, Art. Never know when someone's gonna come up an' make rude demands."

Art laughed back. "That Joe is somethin', isn't he? Real frisky."

"Yeh." Billy pulled out a small cloth bag of Greensboro and started making a cigarette.

"He is reckless sometimes. But a good boy. I'm gonna talk to him tonight." Art took another long gulp of the white stuff. "The way you handled that gun-um-huh! Almost professional. Not many men 'round like that now."

Copyright © 2005 by Theodore Taylor

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,
6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

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First Chapter

THERE WAS WAVERING WHITE FIRE over Cochise County, one of those sapping early September days when the sky was light cobalt and cloudless. Since dawn any breeze that had crossed the nearby puny, snuff-colored mountains was filled with high fever.

Billy Bonney sat bootless on the boardwalk planks in sweating misery outside Little Sally's Saloon, warm, half-gone Mex beer by his side, fanning himself in the shade with a stained, dusty hat, thinking that McLean had to be the worst, poorest town of all. Sometime or another, the wind would hide it with dunes. It had died in 1876, when the tin mine quit, but hadn't decently buried itself yet, five years later.

He thought he maybe should have stayed in Douglas or gone on to Tucson. Yet one didn't offer much more than the other. They were both miserable towns. He made his swollen feet comfortable, extending them to the full angle of the shade.

For the last few minutes, he'd been picking at the idea of going back to Mexico, going back to work for the Cudahys, the meat people from Chicago, shooting down rustlers on the Durango spread. He'd done that and it was like target practice. The rustlers never had a chance. Aside from the money, there wasn't much appealing about working for the Cudahys. He pushed the thought away for the time being.

Just now, nobody with any common sense was ambling about in McLean. Not even lizards. Yet he heard a voice: "Move yo' laigs, cowboy." The Texas-flavored drawl carried distinctly over the lifeless midafternoon murmur that trickled out of Little Sally's. It was too oven stifling to even laugh at the gruff orders. But Billy looked up with interest.

There were three of them, trailflushed and alkali dusty. One was a squat man with a square face that reminded Billy of a large cube of whiskered bedrock. About fifty, Billy guessed. He looked as tough as oak heart. Another, looking midtwenties, was big and burly, also fatty. Then there was a young one, also burly and fatty. Maybe nineteen. They all looked a bit alike. They'd come out of nowhere.

"I said, 'Move yo' laigs.'"

That was the youngest one talking so emphatically. Billy frowned up at him, not quite believing any right-minded human would come on that strong in this heat. The speaker had loose lips, a beetle brow, and the damnedest bullet necklace that Billy had ever seen. The bullets were pierced through with baling wire. A silly decoration, Billy thought. The speaker looked remarkably like some boy lumberjack, but he was dressed more like a trail rider.

Billy cocked his head and said, with rapt amusement, "Step around 'em, boy. Plenty o' room. I'm jus' too tuckered to accommodate."

Billy watched as the fatty fellow frowned at his partners, then seemed to make up his mind. It was fascinating to watch those dumb gray eyes operate. The boy aimed a large marred boot toe. Billy estimated that it would hit him just below the rump, in thigh flesh. It was a big slabby toe that would hurt.

Billy's back parted from the adobe wall and he came up in one smooth move, a .44 suddenly in his hand. The gun thudded and the felt crown jumped from the boy's tall black hat before the intruder could get anywhere near his own hip holster. He froze in panic. Billy fanned another shot near the formerly threatening toe, sending splinters of wood; then he turned his attention to the others, ready to shoot again.

The visitors stood openmouthed and amazed. What had been lazing against the wall-an ordinary, no-good, shiftless, scruffy young cowhand-was now erect and tense, cold-eyed, lips tight against teeth. Thin smoke spiraling from his barrel, he was ready for a third shot. Suddenly full of fury, three days of yellow beard on his rigid jaws, he appeared ready to clear the town. He looked older than he was. Actually, he'd just turned nineteen.

Heads poked out of Little Sally's as the booms echoed along the near-empty shimmering street. A dog barked up the way, awakened by the bursts. Then a horse whinnied in fear before McLean fell back to silence.

Billy, feeling like he wanted to kill-maybe it was the heat-heard a female voice behind him. It asked caustically, "Who the hell's shootin'?" He didn't turn, just kept the .44 on the boy, breathing hard.

Sally sighed, "Cowboy, go across the street if you're gonna do that."

The squat older man, quizzical more than frightened, answered her slowly, "Why, I bet this feller a five he couldn't put a hole in my son's hat. He did it, by grannies. Burn your scalp, Joe?"

Still stunned, Joe shook his head.

In contrast to the others, the sweating gray-eyed, gray-haired older man was dressed like he might be a traveling merchant. His alpaca black suit coat fit his stocky body and heavy shoulders snugly. He laughed softly. "I guess it's too steamin' hot for lil' jokes, eh?"

Billy relaxed, holstering the gun. He felt adrenaline start filtering back into its proper places and broke a friendly smile on his face. When it wasn't tensed, it was a pleasant, appealing face. Even the stubble couldn't hide that. He was of medium height and build, body hard as river rocks, hair curly blond.

"It's hot, all right. Been like a furnace here two days."

Billy glanced again at Joe. There were white streaks angling toward Joe's mouth. His nostrils had flared. He was an ugly something, and ugly somethings rarely lived long here in the West.

Billy said quietly, "This weather'll turn a rabbit stark mad." He took an almost unnoticeable breath, relaxing even more, but he remained wary, his hands barely inches from his holster. The older man's practiced eyes took account of those hands.

"Name is Smith," he said with a warm smile. "All of us is Smith. I'm daddy to these boys. This is Joe, my youngest. Joe, you 'pologize. You disturbed a restin' stranger."

Joe mumbled an apology, his cheeks now crimson with a mixture of embarrassment and rage.

"This is Perry, my oldest."

Billy nodded. Both were two hundred-pounders if an ounce. Shaggy, sandy hair grew down their napes and puffed at the vees of their shirts. Their dusty black pants were tucked into brown boot tops. Texans, he was sure.

"Billy Bonney."

The squat man grinned back, nodding at the dead beer. "Billy, how 'bout me gittin' you a fresh'un, an' we'll join out here where it's cool." There wasn't a cool square inch in all of Arizona.

"Mr. Smith, all the-"

"Art," he said disarmingly. "We deal in cattle. Buy ranches and so forth."

"Art, then. All the way to California, it's not cool. I rode up from Douglas two days ago an' like to died. Walked the last ten miles. My horse is still parched an' my feet is blowed."

Art nodded back. "We come up this mornin' from Tombstone. I am ever parched." He went on into Little Sally's.

Gunplay over, Billy eased down to the boardwalk again, his heart flattening out. Putting his shoulders against the eroding clay wall, he wondered about the trio. That Joe had sure pushed his luck. Tampering with a total stranger in a 110 degrees was like stroking rattlesnakes at high noon. Tampering with one who'd been in a bad mood for months invited maiming. He filled his lungs with the hot air and made a guess their name wasn't Smith. Art's sons stayed uncomfortably on their feet, keeping silent, acting restless. They looked around as if McLean had something of interest to see. Then Joe spit into the street dust.

Billy held back a laugh.

Perry trained his eyes over to the livery. Billy followed the look and saw three glistening horses. They'd traveled hard. They looked like good mounts. The big gelding, in particular. Billy knew horses. These were not cowpoke mounts. And the "Smiths" didn't look like cattle dealers.

Perry said, "Joe, go tell that liveryman to git those horses out o' the sun right now. Tell him I said so. You heard Pa say we'd stay tonight."

Joe sent another juvenile glob of spit into the yellow-white dust, hitched his belt, and turned abruptly, glaring at Billy. "I'm gonna kill yo' ass," he said, then slouched off across the street.

Billy shook his head. "My, Joe has a fatal attitude."

Perry stared at Billy. "He's fast. You took him by surprise."

Billy grinned. "That's the only way."

Then Art came out. He settled intimately by Billy and passed a mug, shoving one toward Perry, who squatted. Billy blinked as Art took a long gulp of fresh milk and wiped his mouth. "Ah, that is some kinda good. I had some gypsum wattah this mornin' and still taste it."

"Gypsum's a bad taste," Billy agreed, and fell silent. Milk? He didn't know that Little Sally had it in her cooler.

Billy was normally talkative, but he hadn't been himself for quite a while. He felt an even greater strain at the moment. Behind the generosity of his host, he thought he saw a brutality that was more open in his sons. There was something cruel, nearly hidden, in Art's face.

"I had to be impressed by that shootin'," Art said. "I declare it was the fastest I've seen in years. That your line o' work?"

"Well, I stay in practice, Art. Never know when someone's gonna come up an' make rude demands."

Art laughed back. "That Joe is somethin', isn't he? Real frisky."

"Yeh." Billy pulled out a small cloth bag of Greensboro and started making a cigarette.

"He is reckless sometimes. But a good boy. I'm gonna talk to him tonight." Art took another long gulp of the white stuff. "The way you handled that gun-um-huh! Almost professional. Not many men 'round like that now."


Copyright © 2005 by Theodore Taylor

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 25, 2013

    PRETTY GOOD BOOK

    PRETTY GOOD BOOK

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 29, 2012

    Poop

    It was pretty good

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    Posted November 11, 2013

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