Pride of Tyson
The untamed frontier was a graveyard for cowardly greenhorns who couldn't outshoot, outwit or outlast the human vultures who fed off their fear. Most Eastern dudes had hardly stepped off the iron horse west before they were loaded feet first into a horse-drawn hearse headed for the local Boot Hill. But Henry Tyson had bitten off and spat out the silver spoon that was his birthright, and he'd been fighting ever since. Fleeing the life of upper class New York, he blazed a trail to the lawless land of renegades and rustlers, double-dealing gamblers and back-shooting gringos. And he'd be damned if some gutless gunman was going to fill his belly with lead and leave his rotting corpse for a buzzard's banquet.
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