 Recorded books presents Mean and Evil—Abranagan's Land Western, by William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone, narrated by me, George Waddell. CHAPTER I. I declared it's darker in the inside of a dead-match boot out here, exclaimed Dad Clossom. It ain't talk over here by the fire, countered Dad's younger cow-punching partner, Pete Driscoll. I'm pretty sure it's dark out here. Dad, a short, bandy-legged, gray-bearded man in a bullet-crowned cream-stesson that had seen far better days ago than twenty years ago, stood at the edge of the firelight, holding back a pine branch as he surveyed the night-cloaked, bare-pulled mountain range-land beyond him. If you've become afraid of the dark in your old age, Dad, why don't you come on over here by the fire? Take a load off and pour a cup of coffee. I made a fresh pot. Take as day-old cow-plop just like you like it. I'll even pour some of my who-hit-John in it if you promise to stop cat-a-wallin' like you're about to be set upon by wolves. Dad stood silently scowling off into the star-capped distance, turning his head a little to one side, he asked quietly in a raspy voice, Did you hear that? Hear what? Dad! Dad turned his head a little more to one side. There it was again. Triscoll, a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties and with a thick, dark red mustache mandling his upper lip, stared across a steaming tin cup he held in both hands before him, pricking his ears, listening. A sharpened matchstick drooped from one corner of his mouth. I didn't hear a thing. Dad turned his craggy, bearded face toward the younger man, frowning, You didn't? Not a dad-gum thing, Dad. Triscoll glowered at his partner from beneath the broad rim of his black stitzen. He'd been paired with Clausen for over five years since they'd both started working at the Stevens Kitchen Sink Ranch on Alhout Creek. In that time they'd become as close as some old married couples, which meant they'd fought as much as some old married couples. What's gotten into you? I've never known you to be afraid of the dark before. I don't know. Dad gave his head a quick shake. Something's got my blood off. What is it? Dad glowered over his shoulder at Triscoll. If I knew that, my blood wouldn't be up now, would it? Triscoll blew ripples on his coffee and sipped. I think you got old-timers' disease, that's what I think. He sipped again, swallowed, hearing things out in the dark, getting your jaws in a twist. Dad stood, listening, staring out into the night. The stars shone brightly, guttering like candles and distant windows in small houses across the arching vault of the firmament. Finally he released the pine vowel and danced back into place. He turned and scowling and shaking his head, ambled back over to the fire. His spurs chained softly. And a flat pale rock near the dancing orange flames his speckled tin coffee pot, which owned the dent of a bullet fired long ago by some cow-thieving Comanche Bushwacker in the Texas pan-headle, gurgled and steamed. Something's out there. I'm telling you, some one or some thing is moving around out there. Dad grabbed his old Spencer-repeating rifle from where it leaned against a tree, then walked back around the fire to stand about six feet away from it, gazing out through the pines and into the night, holding the Spencer down low across his skinny thighs, clad in ancient denims and brush-scarred bull-hide chaps. Jessica glanced over his shoulder and where his and dad's hobbled horses contentedly cropped grass several yards back in the pines. Horses ate nervy. Dad eased his ancient leathery frame onto a pine log, still keeping his gaze away from the fire, not wanting to compromise his night vision. Yeah, well, this old coot is savvier than any broom-tailed coyote. Been out on the range longer than both of them, and you put together working Spencer Moon Mexico to cavalry in Alberta. He shook his head slowly. Goldest damn country I ever visited. Still got frostbite on my tired old behind from the two winters I spent up there working for an ordinary old winner. Maybe you got frostbite on the brain too, dad. Jessica grinned. Sure, it's your make fun. That's the problem with you, Pete. You got no respect for your elders. Ah hell, Dad, lighten up. Jessica set his cup down and rubbed it around in his saddlebags. Come on over here and let's play us some two-handed. He cut himself off abruptly, sitting up, gazing out into the night, his eyes wider than they'd been two seconds ago. Dad shot a cock-eyed grin over his shoulder. See? What was that? Dad cast his gaze through the pines again, to the right of where he'd been gazing before. Hard to say. Hoot out? I don't think so. The sound came again. Sample complete. Ready to continue?