Boswell's Luck: An Evans Novel of the West

Chapter One
Day broke slowly over the mesquite-studded hills that spread out beyond
the Brazos River. The faint golden glow crept wearily over the distant hori-
zon， its warming rays seemingly kept at bay by cruel phantom fingers that
perpetuated the midnight bite of a razor-sharp north wind. Springtime in
Texas was an unreliable season， like as not to freeze or burn a man as it
chose. Or so it seemed to the solitary figure leading his horse through the
rocks above the river.
Another man might have found the going hard， even impossible. The
Brazos hills had only recently been wrested from the Comanches and
reclaimed from the buffalo. Big-boned longhorns and spotted mustangs
shared the ravines and rock slides with rattlesnakes and wolves. Oh， a few
foolhardy men tried to make a go of it growing corn or running beeves，
but even they waited for daylight before tackling the treacherous hills.