Streets Of Laredo Quotes

This is a damn useless conversation. Goodbye. (Charles Goodnight to Woodrow Call)

You see tumbleweeds? You see cowpokes? Indians? This isn’t the streets of Laredo.

Call listened with amusement--not that the incident hadn't been terrible. Being decapitated was a grisly fate, whether you were a Yankee or not. But then, amusing things happened in battle, as they did in the rest of life. Some of the funniest things he had ever witnessed had occurred during battles. He had always found it more satisfying to laugh on a battlefield than anywhere else, for if you lived to laugh on a battlefield, you could feel you had earned the laugh. But if you just laughed in a saloon, or at a social, the laugh didn't reach deep.

He was just a husband and a salaried man. Choice didn’t play any part in his life.

There was no degree of competence that would assure anyone of survival, and no scale that would tell a commander which man would live and which man would die.

She didn’t know what to do with the severed leg. She had cut it off, but she didn’t want to touch it or even look at it.

He doesn't talk much, though," she added. "I don't care whether he talks or not," Lorena said. I wouldn't marry a man just for conversation. I'd rather read and having to know how than listen to some man talk.

THE RECKONING BROTHER’S KEEPER SINS OF THE FATHER THE BURNING THE DODGE CITY MASSACRE HELL HATH NO FURY THE RIVER RUNS RED DEATH DANCE BLOOD TRAIL BADGE OF HONOR LONG GUNS WANTED TIN MAN RETRIBUTION HIRED GUN HUNTED RESURRECTION IN COLD BLOOD REAGAN’S RIDERS THE BOUNTY WAGON TRAIN THE KILLING HOMBRE BODY COUNT HUNT DOWN FROM THE GRAVE BLACK RAVEN THE BOUNTY HUNTERS TO HELL AND BACK MACHETE STREETS OF LAREDO RIDE OF REVENGE COLD JUSTICE GOD’S GUN DARK CLOUD REDEMPTION TROUBLE IN NAVARRO BLACK HEART COMING SOON… THE 39TH BOOK IN THE JESS WILLIAMS WESTERN SERIES

It’s not the end of the world, Pea. Just pick up and keep going.

Men were odd. One day they were hard, far too hard; the next day they were soft, far too soft. They were like porcupines: prickly on the outside, but with soft bellies.

I wouldn’t give a nickel’s worth of dogshit for the whole bunch of you, and I don’t care what it says in the papers.

The horses had all been dumping; several piles of horseshit steamed in the dirty snow.

He liked the way I look,” Maria said. “He mistook that for me.

It seemed to him the highest principle, loyalty. He preferred it to honor. He had never been exactly sure what men meant when they spoke of their honor, though it had been a popular word during the time of the War. He was sure, though, what he meant when he spoke of loyalty. A man didn’t desert his comrades, his troop, his leader. If he did he was, in Call’s book, worthless.

Still, he was a salaried man. Even though Katie, who had been a good wife, was dead, he was not his own master.

Richard had sold Gillian's piano. He'd offered to ship it out to California, but neither Jess nor Emily played. Emily had quit her lessons at "Streets of Laredo" and Jess only got as far as "The Teddy Bears' Picnic." They had Gillian's jewelry, but she hadn't collected much. She had never liked necklaces or earrings. In fact, she'd never pierced her ears. She'd preferred a rosebush or two for her birthday, or a standing mixer. "This is very sticky dough," she would tell Emily as she rolled it out. "It's very difficult to work with this dough, because it's so short. You see?" She dusted the rolling pin and board with more flour and rolled briskly, as if to tame the stiff pastry, which she then cut into circles with an overturned teacup, or filled with honeyed poppy seeds, or spread into a glass pan to bake a cake with luscious prunes, their sweetness undercut with lemon. Nothing too sweet. That was the secret. Gillian said as much to Emily in her "Sixteenth Birthday" letter. 'Don't doctor recipes. More is less, and sugar will only get you so far.

Not too many men, in his experience, had achieved a great thing, even one. Very few ever achieved more than one, he knew.

Yet here she was, not with Clara in a theater or a nice hotel in London, but on a bleak prairie, with not even one house within a hundred miles, caring for an old killer who wanted her to cut his ruined leg off so he could get well and kill again. She had studied and educated herself, but she had not escaped.

Gus knew himself. He knew how he wanted to be, and he had chosen in the critical hour not to accept being less.

The bad things that had happened to her had not killed her. They had not even killed the laughter in her.

It was a great annoyance to Billy that because of a long shit and a short nap he had lost his horse. But that was the truth of it and there was nothing he could do but limp along.