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He rode into our valley in the summer of '89, a slim man, dressed in black.
"Call me Shane," he said. He never told us more.
There was a deadly calm in the valley that summer, a slow, climbing tension that seemed to focus on Shane.
"There's something about him," Mother said. "Something...dangerous..."
"He's dangerous all right," Father said, "...but not to us..."
"He's like one of these here slow burning fuses," the mule skinner said. Quiet...so quiet you forget it's burning till it sets off a hell of a blow of trouble. And there's trouble brewing."
"TAUT...GRIM...UNFORGETTABLE..."
191 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 1949
He rode into our valley in the summer of ’89. I was a kid then, barely topping the backboard of father’s old chuck-wagon…. In that clear Wyoming air I could see him plainly, though he was still several miles away…. He came steadily on, straight through the town without slackening pace, until he reached the fork a half-mile below our place. One branch turned left across the river ford and on to Luke Fletcher’s big spread. The other bore ahead along the right bank where we homesteaders had pegged our claims in a row up the valley. He hesitated briefly, studying his choice, and moved again steadily on our side.