Louis L'Amour

Their story is the story of the American frontier, an unforgettable saga of the men and women who tamed a wilderness and built a nation with their dreams and their courage.

Created by master storyteller Louis L'Amour, the Sackett saga brings to life the spirit and adventures of generations of pioneers. Fiercely independent and determined to face any and all challenges, they discovered their destiny in settling a great and wild land.

Each Sackett novel is a complete, exciting historical adventure. Read as a group, they tell the epic tale of a country unlike any the world has ever known. And no one writes more powerfully about the frontier than Louis L'Amour, who has walked and ridden down the same trails as the Sackett family he has immortalized. The Sackett novels represent L'Amour at his very best, a high point in a truly legendary career.

SACKETT'S LAND
circa 1600

TO THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS
circa 1600–1620

THE WARRIOR'S PATH
circa 1620s

JUBAL SACKETT
circa 1620s

RIDE THE RIVER
circa 1840s–1850s (before Civil War)

THE DAYBREAKERS
circa 1870–1872

LANDO
circa 1873–1875

SACKETT
circa 1874–1875

MOJAVE CROSSING
circa 1875–1879

THE SACKETT BRAND
circa 1875–1879

THE SKY-LINERS
circa 1875–1879

THE LONELY MEN
circa 1875–1879

MUSTANG MAN
circa 1875–1879

GALLOWAY
circa 1875–1879

TREASURE MOUNTAIN
circa 1875–1879

RIDE THE DARK TRAIL
circa 1875–1879

LONELY ON THE MOUNTAIN
circa 1875–1879

T
he Shawmut, where Diana takes refuge, was, of course, a part of what is now known as Boston. The Reverend Blaxton (sometimes written Blackstone, but in the one signature I have seen, it is Blaxton) was much as he appears here. The same is true of Samuel Maverick, who was helping to establish a family that has contributed much to our history, to say nothing of having added a word to our western vocabulary.

Contrary to general opinion, slave raids from Africa to the coasts of Europe were not uncommon. The raid on the village of Baltimore, a town in West Cork, Ireland, took place in 1631. More than one hundred people were carried away into slavery.

The Warrior's Path led, with many branches and offshoots, from the far south to the towns of the Iroquois and even farther north. The Iroquois used it to attack the Cherokees, Creeks, and so on, and vice versa. The route was also used by traders and other travelers, as it was undoubtedly the best, following the contours of the land through areas in which there were water, fuel, and game.

W
hat I hoped for was a fat bear, and what I came up with was a skinny Indian.

It was lonely on the mountain, and I had been watching the sun crest the peaks with light. There was some mist lying in the valleys, and all around me the rhododendrons were in bloom, covering the flanks of the Blue Ridge and the mountains nearby. Seated among them, their petals falling across my shoulders and into my hair, I watched the path below.

It was an old, old path, old before the coming of the Cherokees, old before the Shawnees hunted these hills, as old as the first men on these mountains.

All through the afternoon there had been no sound but the twittering of birds, but I knew something was coming up the trail yonder, for I'd seen birds fly up from time to time, marking its progress along the path, which was visible only at intervals.

What I wanted was a fat bear, for we were needful of grease, and my ribs were showing. When a body lives off the country around, fat is the hardest thing to come by. Fresh meat was no problem, but it was lean, mighty lean.

An Indian was the last thing I was wishful of seeing. We had good friends among them, but when a body becomes friendly with one nation, he naturally becomes an enemy of their enemies whether he is wishful for it or not. Moreover, a friendly Indian could eat us out of house and home, and we were shy of meat and corn flour.

Next to a fat bear it was Yance I was most anxious to see, for he was coming across the hills with fur, which we would soon be packing for trade in the settlements.

This Indian was old, and he was hurt. When I put my glass on him, I could see that. It was pa's glass, one used by him during his seafaring days and a right handy contrivance.

Sitting among the blooms of rhododendron, all pink, purple, and white, and scattered among them the pink of mountain laurel, I watched him come. Scrooched down in the brush the way I was, it was unlikely he'd see me.

The old man was reaching for the end of his rope. He was worn out and in need of help, but I'd had dealings with redskins since I was knee-high to a short duck, and Indians could be mighty sly. That old Indian might be a decoy to get me to show myself so's I could be bow shot or lanced, and I was wishful for neither.

He seemed to be in perishing bad shape. Coming to my feet, I must needs take the shortest way, which meant right down the steep cliff through the rhododendrons. It was all of three hundred paces back to where our path turned off, and that old man was hurting.

This here was our country, leaving out a few Indians who might argue the point, but I'd see no man die whom I had not personally shot.

He was still a-coming when I slid into the trail before him, but he was weaving a mighty weird path and was ready to drop in his tracks. I was close enough to catch him.

He wasn't only worn down from travel, he was gun shot.

Getting an arm around him to keep him from falling, I took time to slip his knife from its sheath for safety's sake. Then I walked him to where I could lead him through the brush to our cabin.

We'd built, Yance and I, well back in a niche among the rocks with a cliff overhanging from above. We had a fine field of fire on three sides in case of
attack, which happened whenever a passing war party took the notion. This was the place we built after the Senecas killed pa and Tom Watkins in the mountains above Crab Orchard.

When I put that Indian down on the bed, he just naturally passed out. Putting water on to boil, I unlaced the top of his hunting shirt and found he'd been shot through the top of the shoulder with a musket ball. The ball was still there, pressed against the skin at the back of his shoulder. Taking my hunting knife, I slit the skin and oozed it out. The wound was several days old but wasn't in bad shape.

Sakim often commented on the fact that wounds in high country did not fester as often as they did in crowded cities. Sakim had come to America with pa, but he had been a physician and surgeon in central Asia, a descendant of a long line of scholars from the great age of medicine. Pa had met him after pa was kidnapped aboard Nick Bardle's ship where Sakim was also a sailor. He'd come aboard Bardle's pirate craft by shipwreck or capture, and when pa made his escape, Sakim was one of the two who chose to leave with him.

When we were youngsters at our small settlement on Shooting Creek, he had been our teacher. A noted scholar among his own people, his education far surpassed any available in Europe at the time. He taught us much of the sciences and of history but also of sickness and the treating of wounds, but for all his teaching, I was wishing him with us now.

The old man opened his eyes while I bathed his wound. “You are Sack-ett?”

“I am.”

“I come Penney.”

The only Penney I knew was Yance's wife, whose name had been Temperance Penney when he took her to be wed. She was back on Shooting Creek, waiting our return.

“Miz Penney say me come Sack-ett. Much trouble. Carrie gone.”

Carrie? That would be Temp's baby sister, of whom I'd heard her speak.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Pequots take him. Bad Indian. All much afraid of Pequot.”