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Ronicky Doone

Ronicky Doone by Max Brand
By: (1892-1944)

Frederick Schiller Faust (1892-1944), is best known today for his western fiction. Faust was born in Seattle, Washington and at an early age moved with his parents to the San Joaquin Valley in California where he worked as a ranchhand. After a failed attempt to enlist in the Great War in 1917 and with the help of Mark Twain’s sister he met Robert Hobart Davis, editor of All-Story Weekly and became a regular contributor writting under his most used pseudonym “Max Brand”. He wrote in many genres during his career and produced more than 300 western novels and stories. His most famous characters were Destry and Dr. Kildare, both of which were produced in film. Faust was killed in Italy in 1944 as a front line war correspondent at the age of 51. He is buried in the Sicily-Rome American Cemetery in Nettuno, Italy.

Ronicky Doone (1921) is a hero of the west, respected by the law-abiding citizen and hated by bushwhacking bandits. Bill Gregg is a man in love, not about to be deflected from meeting his lady love for the first time, and willing to stand up to the living legend to reach her. This initial meeting leads to a friendship between the two and they travel east to New York City on the trail of the girl. When they find the girl, Caroline Smith, and she refuses to leave, Ronicky must discover the secret that holds her. They encounter the sinister John Mark and the beautiful Ruth Tolliver and are exposed to the horrors and vices of big city life as they attempt to rescue Caroline and find their way back to the mountain-desert of the west.

First Page:




Chapter One

A Horse in Need

He came into the town as a solid, swiftly moving dust cloud. The wind from behind had kept the dust moving forward at a pace just equal to the gallop of his horse. Not until he had brought his mount to a halt in front of the hotel and swung down to the ground did either he or his horse become distinctly visible. Then it was seen that the animal was in the last stages of exhaustion, with dull eyes and hanging head and forelegs braced widely apart, while the sweat dripped steadily from his flanks into the white dust on the street. Plainly he had been pushed to the last limit of his strength.

The rider was almost as far spent as his mount, for he went up the steps of the hotel with his shoulders sagging with weariness, a wide shouldered, gaunt ribbed man. Thick layers of dust had turned his red kerchief and his blue shirt to a common gray. Dust, too, made a mask of his face, and through that mask the eyes peered out, surrounded by pink skin. Even at its best the long, solemn face could never have been called handsome... Continue reading book >>

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