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Informationen zum Autor Ralph Compton stood six foot eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, The Goodnight Trail , was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was the USA Today bestselling author of the Trail of the Gunfighter series, the Border Empire series, the Sundown Riders series, and the Trail Drive series, among others. Jackson Lowry is the western pen name for Robert E. Vardeman, author of more than three hundred novels. Nominated for multiple awards, Vardeman received the 2017 Western Fictioneers Lifetime Achievement Award. His Western titles include Sonora Noose , Great West Detective Agency , and the weird Western trilogy Punished. He was born in Texas and has lived in the wilds of New Mexico most of his life. Klappentext In the tinderbox of Virginia City, fireman Morgan Mason learns the hard way that he just volunteered for the most dangerous job in town in this scorching new Western in Ralph Compton's bestselling Sundown Rider series. Thanks to the discovery of the Comstock Lode, Virginia City, Nevada has made many a rough-hewn millionaire. It seems like everyone is looking to strike it rich, but to Morgan Mason the real prize is being selected as one of the volunteer firemen who are seen as heroes in the dry, tinder box of a town. Recently inducted into the fire brigade, Mason is called to put out a blaze and stays to investigate its cause. His searing discovery? The fire was no accident--it was deliberately set. As a series of mysterious fires burns through the town, Mason begins to perceive a pattern no one else can. And when the fiery trail leads to the Wells Fargo building--holding what he suspects the arsonists are really after--Mason knows he is the only one who can take the heat and catch the crooks before the wealth of the entire town goes up in smoke. Leseprobe Chapter One The bullet tore a fist-sized hole in the wood beside Morgan Mason's head. He jerked back and collided with the whiskey salesman crowded close behind him in the stagecoach, anxiously waiting to exit. A strong hand shoved him forward. Mason stumbled and landed on one knee in the dust. He looked around frantically for whoever had taken the shot at him. The Virginia City street was crowded with men and women going about their noontime business. No one paid him any heed. No one seemed to notice the gunfire. He brushed off his trousers and settled his coat. His vest had ridden up a bit over his paunch. Trying not to be too obvious, he pulled it down and fastened the bottom buttons that had popped open. "Here. You left this in the stage." The whiskey peddler tossed him his bowler, then lithely jumped to the ground and took a deep breath. "There's that aroma in the air. Isn't it grand?" Mason sucked in a breath and almost gagged. This was nothing like the sea air blowing off the Pacific Ocean or the Bay in his hometown of San Francisco. Acrid smoke mingled with horse dung and more than a little whiff of alcohol blowing from the three saloons lined up side by side across from the Wells Fargo depot. "It's awful," he gasped out. "It's wonderful," the peddler insisted. "That's the smell of thirsty miners wanting just one more shot of my fine whiskey before they return to work." The peddler laughed in delight, hefted his case and left. Mason heard the contents of the leather suitcase gurgle. The salesman carried his wares inside. Without so much as a look back, the whiskey peddler went into the nearest saloon. "You all right, Mister?" The shotgun guard dropped from the driver's box. "You're looking a mite peaked, but then you got a pale complexion just like most of them miners. Only they don't look fair of skin beca...
