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Audiobooks Narrated by John Rayburn
Browse audiobooks narrated by John Rayburn, listen to samples and when you're ready head over to Audiobooks.com where you can get 3 FREE audiobooks on us
"The weekly mail had just arrived at the Flying U ranch. Shorty, who had made the trip to Dry Lake on horseback that afternoon, tossed the bundle to the “Old Man” and was halfway to the stable when he was called back peremptorily.
“Shorty! O-h-h, Shorty! Hey!”
Shorty kicked his steaming horse in the ribs and swung round in the path, bringing up before the porch with a jerk.
“Where’s this letter been?” demanded the Old Man. James G. Whitmore, cattleman, would have been greatly surprised had he known that his cowboys were in the habit of calling him the Old Man behind his back. James G. did not consider himself old, though he was constrained to admit, after several hours in the saddle, that rheumatism had searched him out—because of his fourteen years of roughing it, he said.
“This letter’s two weeks old,” stormed the Old Man. “I never knew it to fail—if a letter says anybody’s coming, or you’re to hurry up and go somewhere to meet somebody, that letter’s the one that monkeys around and comes when the last dog’s hung. A letter asking yuh if yuh don’t want to get rich in ten days sellin’ books, or something, it’ll hike along out here in no time. Doggone it!”
In addition to slow mail, in this classic western, you’ll hear confusion about a doctor’s name."
"Penny Parker’s father is a car accident victim and is taken to a hospital by another driver. However, they never arrive and the widowed father, Anthony Parker, is struck by brain damage with memory loss. At one point he cannot remember his own name nor recognize Penny as his daughter. He is owner/publisher of The Riverview Star newspaper and is pursuing information concerning a car-theft gang. Fortunately, the time element is overcome for his recovery and this leads to thwarting the plans of the unscrupulous gang. This is one of seventeen feature novels about the Penny Parker mysteries, so be on the lookout for more of the outstanding adventures."
"Penny’s father is a newspaper owner being sued for libel in his home base of New York. He sends her on a western ski vacation in order to avoid the legalities, but she manages to gain entrance to a room with a mysterious Green Door, an entrance to an illegal fur importation racket from Canada. The culprits turn out to be those pursuing the libel situation back east. She is threatened with possible death, but not only solves the fur racket but winds up scooping a rival reporter. In addition, she gains friendship with a young girl kept in seclusion by a father battling ski facility entrepreneurs seeking control of a broad-ranging lease. They turn out to be the libel claimant villains from back east and wind up with enforced legal charges."
"Overall, those who loved Penny Parker overlooked her casual ways and flippant speech. These largely resulted from her dad having taught her to think straight. She sometimes had to wait a few minutes before gathering sufficient courage to continue battling whatever setbacks might come her way. Her mother died when Penny was only a three-year-old child, but she was, as she said, “on my own, with a vengeance.” This largely resulted from the loving care of her newspaper owner/editor father, Anthony Parker, who never remarried. Join the multitude of other faithful listeners. Other Penny Parker stories will be available as time passes."
"His great body stretched on the dirt floor in a shady corner of the barracks-room of the presidio … a fortified military settlement … his long moustache drooped, his big mouth open, Sergeant Carlos Cassara snored.
His face was purple from wine and the heat; for the air was still and stagnant this siesta hour, and empty vessels on the table nearby told of the deep drinking that had been done.
Scattered about were a corporal and a dozen soldiers, all sleeping and snoring. Against the wall, half a score of feet from the slumbering sergeant, an Indian neophyte … a new entrant … had dropped his palm-leaf and was glancing around the room from beneath eyelids that seemed about to close.
Outside was the red dust, a foot deep on the highway, and the burning sun. The fountain before the mission splashed lazily; down at the beach it seemed that the tide had not its usual energy. Neophytes slept in the shadows cast by the mission walls. Here and there a robed friar went about his business despite the heat and the hour. There was no human being traveling El Camino Real—the king’s highway—as far as a man with good eyes could see. You can hear the whole story."
"The chief character, Lord Peter Wimsey, goes to the Bellona Club to have a meal with an old friend of his, ninety-year old General Fentiman. In great surprise, he finds the aged man fully dressed by the fire in full rigor mortis. A question arises concerning the time of death and the situation develops into a serious murder investigation. Wimsey sometimes seemed to have a supercilious attitude as a monocled aristocrat and sometimes became a sort of professional detective. His family motto was, “As my whimsy takes me.” Lord Peter has exceptional help from Bunter, his valet, who had served under him in WWI. We can listen to how they worked together to reach a decision."
"The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The fiction world of today needs a “Saint” more than it ever did. For years now that scene has been dominated by the “anti-heroes'— those grim gray operators in a sunless sub-culture where global issues are worked out with totally unemotional pragmatism, those hapless uninspired puppets manipulated and expended by ruthlessly dedicated little brothers of Big Brother. It made morbidly fascinating narrative, but it never gave anyone a lift until it climaxed in the hyper-gadgeted parodies of 007 extravaganzas. That there will always be a public old-style hero, who had a clear idea of justice, and a more than technical approach to love, and the ability to have some fun with his crusades. Listen and enjoy."
"In truth the mastery of flying was the work of thousands of men—this man a suggestion and that an experiment, until at last only one vigorous intellectual effort was needed to finish the work. But the inexorable injustice of the popular mind has decided that of all these thousands, one man, and that a man who never flew, should be chosen as the discoverer, just as it has chosen to honor Watt as the discoverer of steam and Stephenson of the steam-engine. And surely of all honored names none is so grotesquely and tragically honored as poor Filmer’s, the timid, intellectual creature who solved the problem over which the world had hung perplexed and a little fearful for so many generations, the man who pressed the button that has changed peace and warfare and well-nigh every condition of human life and happiness. Never has that recurring wonder of the littleness of the scientific man in the face of the greatness of his science found such an amazing exemplification. Much concerning Filmer is, and must remain, profoundly obscure—Filmers attract no Boswells—but the essential facts and the concluding scene are clear enough, and there are letters, and notes, and casual allusions to piece the whole together. And this is the story one makes, putting this thing with that of Filmer’s life and death."
"The idea that the extraordinary narrative which has been called the Joyce-Armstrong Fragment is an elaborate practical joke evolved by some unknown person, cursed by a perverted and sinister sense of humor, has now been abandoned by all who have examined the matter. The most macabre and imaginative of plotters would hesitate before linking his morbid fancies with the unquestioned and tragic facts which reinforce the statement. Though the assertions contained in it are amazing and even monstrous, it is none the less forcing itself upon the general intelligence that they are true, and that we must readjust our ideas to the new situation. This world of ours appears to be separated by a slight and precarious margin of safety from a most singular and unexpected danger. If you have chilblains running up and down your spine, get a good grip on something as you listen to literature that can have frightening aspects with “chilling” present in the dozen tales."
"Ford Village has no railroad station, being on the other side of the river from Porter’s Falls, and accessible only by the ford which gives it its name, and a ferry line.
The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train with her bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry-boat as it shot swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing, with as dully reflective an expression as a cow. Beside Rebecca sat a woman of about her own age, who kept looking at her with furtive curiosity; her husband, short and stout and saturnine, stood near her. Rebecca paid no attention to either of them. She was tall and spare and pale, the type of a spinster, yet with rudimentary lines and expressions of matronhood. She all unconsciously held her shawl, rolled up in a canvas bag, on her left hip, as if it had been a child. She wore a settled frown of dissent at life, but it was the frown of a mother who regarded life as a forward child, rather than as an overwhelming fate. Listen and enjoy."
"Here is a land where a man, to live, must be a man. It is a land of granite and marble, strong stone and gold—and a man’s strength must be as the strength of the primeval hills. It is a land of oaks and cedars and pines—and a man’s mental grace must be as the grace of the untamed trees. It is a land of far-arched and unstained skies, where the wind sweeps free and untainted, and the atmosphere is the atmosphere of those places that remain as God made them—and a man’s soul must be as the unstained skies, the unburdened wind, and the untainted atmosphere. It is a land of wide mesas, of wild, rolling pastures and broad, untilled, valley meadows—and a man’s freedom must be that freedom which is not bounded by the fences of a too weak and timid conventionalism.
In this land every man is—by divine right—his own king; he is his own jury, his own counsel, his own judge, and—if it must be—his own executioner. And in this land where a man, to live, must be a man, a woman, if she be not a woman, must surely perish. Let’s listen, to learn what happens."
"Wallace, a master British storyteller, creates a fascinating tale. It tells of the fictional mystery author, John Lexdale, who is caught in a plot concocted by an unscrupulous millionaire. The fictional author is entrapped in the strange circumstances, becomes charged with murder and sentenced to prison. At one point he is told his wife has been killed and pledges revenge. He has a Scotland Yard friend, Commisioner T. X. Meredith, who is summoned to combat the highly unusual case. Referred to only by his initials, T. X. manages to thwart the culprit, who winds up being killed himself. The highly unusual aspects will keep you bewildered as you listen and become spellbound."
