Flashman and the Redskins

Flashman and the Redskins

George MacDonald Fraser

Language: English

Pages: 480

ISBN: 0452264871

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

The seventh volume of the "Flashman Papers" records the arch-cad's adventures in America during Gold Rush of 1849 and the Battle of Bighorn in 1876, and his acquaintance with famous Indian chiefs, American soldiers, frontiersmen and statesmen.

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though, from that commandingly handsome dark face with the crimson strip cutting obliquely across brow and cheek; the fleshy mouth and chin were all business, and the smile coldly formal. The high colour of her skin, I noticed, was artfully applied, but she wore no perfume or jewellery, and her hands were strong and capable. In a word, she looked like a belly-dancer who’s gone in for banking. I said I believed I’d seen her lunching at the Brevoort, in New York, and she nodded curtly and disposed

Terry, couldn’t say that—and really, was there the need? It was just a simple operation against a few hostile bands, after all. Custer said nothing more; he’d got what he wanted, and now he was studiously watching Brisbin pushing pins into the map to mark the Rosebud route and joining them with a blue pencil. Gibbon, with a glance at Custer, said something about there being no need for a precipitate attack—unless it was necessary, of course, and Terry interrupted. “I hope there will be no need

tables, chairs and beds—including the famous “electrical mattress”, too—and realised that she’d never have come by anything half so fine west of St Louis; up went the mirrors, chandeliers, and pictures, and out came the girls’ assorted finery; Susie saw to the very last detail of their personal apartments, and to the appointment of the public rooms, which included a large reception chamber where the wenches could be on view between engagements, so to speak, flirting with the customers while they

won’t, this time of year. But you won’t mind, because the Apaches’ll have skinned you by then, anyway, or rather, they won’t, because before that you’ll have died of thirst. That,” says this wag, “is why it’s called the Jornada del Muerto—the Dead Man’s Journey. There’s only one way across it—and that’s to fill your mount with water till he leaks, take at least two canteens, start at three in the morning, and go like hell. Because if you don’t make it in under twenty-four hours…you don’t make it.

fastness they call the Eagle’s Nest, like a great bowl on the roof of the world, where the air is so clear and pure you want to drink it; the great silent forests, the towering white ramparts of the Rockies far away to the west, the prairie flowers in vast carpets of colour as far as the eye could see, the silver cascades in the deep woods—it was a wild and wondrous land then, untouched by civilisation, a splendid silent solitude that seemed to go on forever. Best of all, it was safe—not because

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