Books published by publisher W.J. Black

Jarvis Archer wants Bertha and Donald to find out who is sending his secretary threatening letters, and making phone calls to her with heavy breathing. As Donald discovers, he already knew the answer! Meanwhile Donald happens to be cruising around Archer's neighborhood just about the time a murder is committed, and his explanation to the police doesn't satisfy them, but Jarvis Archer and his wife have slick responses to the questions asked of them. This story is perhaps realistic in the sense that there are a collection of odd and seemingly unrelated facts which pull the story together at the end. Although the Sargeant Frank Sellers solves the murder of Jeanette Latty (thanks to Pint-Size, of course) there IS that other mysterious death which will forever remain a mystery.

The Walter J. Black Editions were reprints of seventy-three of Zane Grey's titles with one additional title appearing as a First Edition. The series also included a biography of Zane Grey. They were bound in red and tan cloth and originally came in a rice paper cover. I have a bunch of these volumes, all of which do not appear to have been very used. In all cases, the rice paper covers (if present) have yellowed and may be torn, the end pieces and fly leafs may be yellowed, and the pages themselves may also be yellowed. Other than that they are no markings, stains, wrinkled or torn pages, or other flaws internally. One problem may of these volumes tend to have is the blue and red labels on the spine tend to wear off and are sometimes unreadable. This volume is To the Last Man, has 311 pages, and is in very good condition. The binding is tight, there are no markings, tears, or other signs of use anywhere in the book. The outside is fine, with no wear except the title block on the spine is beginning to wear off (the blue and red area at the top of the spine on these books are often quite worn and sometimes hard to read). The rice paper cover is IS included.

1957 Walter J. Black hardcover, Zane Grey (Tonto Basin). Clint Belmet’s parents were killed in a Comanche raid when he was young, but that hasn't stopped him from taking a job leading freight caravans on the old Santa Fe Trail, from Saint Louis, Missouri, to Santa Fe, New Mexico—a route that goes right through Comanche territory. Here is the raw, primitive West of the early pioneers, great caravans of freighters rumbling across the deadly prairies, risking attack by Comanche. In this action-packed adventure from “the greatest novelist of the American West,” twenty-eight wagons loaded with families, supplies, and tough-as-nails Texans are forced to circle up and fight for their lives against relentless assaults by Comanche who have been goaded on and tricked by raiders. - Amazon

CHAPTER I At sunset hour the forest was still, lonely, sweet with tang of fir and spruce, blazing in gold and red and green; and the man who glided on under the great trees seemed to blend with the colors and, disappearing, to have become a part of the wild woodland. Old Baldy, highest of the White Mountains, stood up round and bare, rimmed bright gold in the last glow of the setting sun. Then, as the fire dropped behind the domed peak, a change, a cold and darkening blight, passed down the black spear-pointed slopes over all that mountain world. It was a wild, richly timbered, and abundantly watered region of dark forests and grassy parks, ten thousand feet above sea-level, isolated on all sides by the southern Arizona desert--the virgin home of elk and deer, of bear and lion, of wolf and fox, and the birthplace as well as the hiding-place of the fierce Apache. September in that latitude was marked by the sudden cool night breeze following shortly after sundown. Twilight appeared to come on its wings, as did faint sounds, not distinguishable before in the stillness. Milt Dale, man of the forest, halted at the edge of a timbered ridge, to listen and to watch. Beneath him lay a narrow valley, open and grassy, from which rose a faint murmur of running water. Its music was pierced by the wild staccato yelp of a hunting coyote. From overhead in the giant fir came a twittering and rustling of grouse settling for the night; and from across the valley drifted the last low calls of wild turkeys going to roost. To Dale's keen ear these sounds were all they should have been, betokening an unchanged serenity of forestland. He was glad, for he had expected to hear the clipclop of white men's horses--which to hear up in those fastnesses was hateful to him. He and the Indian were friends. That fierce foe had no enmity toward the lone hunter. But there hid somewhere in the forest a gang of bad men, sheep-thieves, whom Dale did not want to meet