This is an old western from back when westerns were politically incorrect stories that had no problem condescending to women and minorities, and in which the tough lone-wolf white guy antihero is invariably given some air of moral superiority despite being thoroughly amoral, which he usually reveals with a trite wisecrack after something particularly brutal has happened in the story (especially if it involves the chief antagonist, a dadgum uppity city woman, "getting hers"). It reflects a very dated concept of society that is nonetheless fascinating in its ridiculously black and white moral crudity. With that said, it's an appalling book, though oddly enough I don't feel as though reading it was a waste of time. These old pulp novels from the 80's are increasingly rare - not even most public libraries have them anymore - and very few copies will still exist a decade or two from now. It was interesting to get a view of that time capsule before they're lost forever, but it's also a reminder of a stagnant and much less enlightened time that I'm regularly grateful I no longer have to live in.