In a bygone era, the cowboys of the Old West spent the best parts of their lives working to maintain cattle ranches, to breed and raise livestock and to drive cattle to market. The luckiest of those spent their time on the very ranch that their father, and perhaps their grandfather, had built – living out hard-earned legacies that gave them clear priorities and, if they were truly fortunate, more family to carry on when their time ended.
Stand Tough begins William Martin’s tale which is set within that era – but even then, there were men who had been cheated out of their rightful inheritances by others who were willing to use any means to get the land, money and power they desired. The survivors of our Old West weren’t always the proud or the righteous; often, those left standing were among history’s most sinister characters.
Having acknowledged the villains of this period, it should be noted that America’s history also reveals a solid consistency in producing worthy opponents to them – each of whom has stood for our country’s most revered values. Entering the world of Stand Tough, readers meet such a man. Despite overwhelming odds, Clint Mason reveals the power of one... and single-handedly sets out to defend what remains of his family and their land at all costs. Experiencing Clint’s covert travails as he re-enters the land of his youth as a full-grown man, as he comes to grasp the depths of the troubles his brother has suffered and the desperate state of his family’s land and their neighboring ranches, we see how sharp wits and sure-handed action can begin to conquer the unknown and the unjust.
Mr. Martin wishes to acknowledge the inspiration provided by his favorite uncle, the late Tom Weatherholt, who was a professional truck driver by trade. It was at the age of eight, while accompanying his Uncle Tom on a trip from Kentucky to New York City, sleeping aboard that big rig and eating at truck stops, that the author was introduced to Zane Grey. He also offers many thanks to Roger Darnell for his support in the editing of this book.
William F. Martin was born on a Kentucky farm and moved west in the mid-sixties on an assignment with the federal government’s program to help Native Americans. His assignment to Santa Fe, New Mexico, began a lifetime love affair with the American West. His writing interest was developed with the publishing of many technical journal articles and textbooks on environmental and engineering issues. He has given numerous papers and speeches, both domestically and internationally.
After assignments in South Dakota, Arizona, and Texas, he has lived near the Gulf of Mexico on Treasure Island, Florida, and in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Boone, North Carolina.
As Clint pulled his mount to a slow weary halt, the land seemed to fall away from his position on the edge of a high ridge. The land below turned from the beige color around him to a deep green in the distant valley. The hint of green reminded him that he and his horse had been long without water. If someone were to look right into his face, though, they would not have seen a sign of thirst or emotion. His last few years had conditioned him to complete self-control. The blue-gray steel eyes had a hard look about them, but it was more a look of determination than hatred. There were even faint lines of kindness that could be nurtured to grow if treated right.
Clint Mason was a man with a purpose, but the urgency was not so acute. It had been only six weeks ago, late February, that an old, old letter from his brother had finally caught up to him. Or rather, he had finally bumped into it at a post office bulletin board in a feed and grocery store in Abilene. The letter was five years old, nearly faded away and forgotten by everyone. Even the store clerk, who also handled the mail, had probably stopped looking at this faded letter. It was not unusual to see letters posted like that for months and sometimes years.
When had he last seen his brother Brad? Must have been almost ten years ago. Clint had said he was headed to Abilene as he was leaving Crossbow. He had told Brad to contact him through the general store in Abilene under the initials C.M. Their parting had been quick and sad. Although these two brothers were as different as night and day, there had always been a bond of closeness and understanding that no one could come between. Clint could not even remember a single fight between them.
It was getting dark, the green valley in the distance was turning a deep purple, then almost black. The chilly air of late March cut right through the range-worn clothes that made up Clint’s wardrobe. These clothes were by choice of comfort and disguise. Money had not been a problem. Cool nerve and quick mind had provided ample funds from the rich, flashy, and dumb that chose to play poker in western towns.
Survival was also learned not at cards but due to cards. Clint’s skill was often interpreted as too good for luck, thus he was forced to defend his life too many times. It was not that he couldn’t handle the cards to his advantage, but there just wasn’t any need to resort to that if you had a feeling of every card, could read faces like a mirror and calculated the odds with mathematical skills unknown in the west.
The west played host to many human types. The arrogant, bully gunslinger was seen over and over. Each town seemed to have at least one. Then there were the roving professionals who hired out their gun skill to the highest pay. It was getting so Clint could classify the man by his look, walk, hardware and horse at a single glance. It may have been his knowledge of gunfighter appearances that aided Clint from looking like or being identified with that group. Have no doubt about it, no matter how good and fast you are, there will eventually be someone better. Clint knew his speed was as good or better than anyone he had seen, but why take a chance? Why not use your mind and skills to put the odds in your favor?
The worn cowboy look and his slow, even motion was usually interpreted as the appearance of an ordinary cowboy. Only the most experienced professionals had on occasion seen through that mask into those eyes. Those few times when Clint had been unable to avoid confrontation with these well-known professionals he had gained a hint of his own skill and cunning.
A rock ledge was off to the right, enough off the trail for privacy. The overhang was perhaps twenty feet, plenty of room for him and his horse. It looked like rain, which at this elevation could turn to snow or sleet this time of year. The space was much larger than expected with evidence of digging long ago.
