THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS
Book / published by arrangement the author
PRINTING HISTORY Bantam edition / September 1986
The Louis L'Amour Collection / May
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
1
 Contents
Foreword
AUTHOR'S NOTE 1
The Rider of the Ruby Hills 3
AUTHOR'S NOTE 99
Showdown Trail 101
AUTHOR'S NOTE 185
A Man Called Trent 187
AUTHOR'S NOTE 289
The Trail to Peach Meadow Canyon 291
2
 I
3
 FOREWORD
The stories presented in this volume are more bits of history from my early days
as a writer when my work was being published exclusively in magazines. The life of
a young writer is never easy, and at the time these stories were written it was a
struggle to eat more than occasionally. The book and movie sales did not come until
much later.
When World War II came along I was just beginning to see my work on the magazine
stands. But during the four years I was first in the Army, then the Tank Destroyers,
and later the Transportation Corps, I rarely found time to write. Returning home
from overseas duty, I found all had changed at the magazines. I literally had to
begin again by convincing a new crop of editors that I could write.
The stories I published back then were classified by their length. The "short-short,"
often with a surprise ending, had been made popular by O. Henry and usually ran to
1,500 words, more or less. A "short story" rarely was more than 6,000 words. A "novelette,"
or "novella," usually amounted to 9,000 to 15,000 words. A "novel," which the stories
collected here are, rarely consisted of more than 40,000 words. By comparison, a
novel published as a book is usually at least 60,000 words, but there's no upward
length limit.
The editors of the magazines in which these stories originally appeared, affectionately
known then and now as "pulps," demanded I stress action-swift and hard hitting. Little
time was to be devoted to atmosphere, characterization, or background. Yet a good
writer knows that action always derives from character and situation, so some of
us tried to push on to tell a better story in a more complete fashion. Yet some stories
need development, time and space, and the "pulps" gave neither.
Often a writer will live so closely with a character he has created that he cannot
leave him alone but must return to relate more of his story. Once accepted as a novelist
I was able to realize my long-held
vii
4
 viii FOREWORD
wish to redo my "magazine novels" for publication as books. Over the years, the works
herein were revised and slightly expanded, often with new characters and additional
plot lines, into novels I published as full-length paperbacks under other titles.
These particular early magazine versions of my books seem to be a source of considerable
speculation and curiosity among fans who have requested the opportunity to read all
the stories I have written. So much so is this the case of late, that I've decided
to bring four of my "magazine novels" back into print in this book.
The title story of this volume, "The Rider of the Ruby Hills," was my first telling
of the novel Where the Long Grass Blows.
It was also once filmed as
The Treasure of Ruby Hills,
a movie with Zachary Scott, Carole Matthews, and Raymond Hatton among the players.
"Showdown Trail," the original version of
The Tall Stranger, was the basis for a movie with the latter title, starring Joel
McCrea and Virginia Mayo.
"A Man Called Trent" became The Mountain Valley War
and is the second in a trilogy of stories about Lance Kilkenny. "The Trail to Peach
Meadow Canyon" was the original version of
Son of a Wanted Man.
In it, I was able to follow in more detail what happened to the various groups of
outlaws operating out of their canyon hideout and bring them into contact with two
law officers of the time and area, Tyrel Sackett and Borden Chantry, neither of whom
is aware that they are distantly related. (Nor did I tell the reader, for that is
Another Story!)
I do not think of the protagonists of these or any of my stories as heroes. They
are simply people living their lives within the circumstances of their time. Most
stories cover only a few hours, days, or weeks in the life of a character. The characters
in my stories are
people.
They are horn, they live, and they die. Much happens in the lives of the people you'll
meet in the following pages that I haven't told you. Perhaps I'll do that in future
books.
5
 AUTHOR'S NOTE
The Rider of the Ruby Hills
Often the most beautiful parts of western states are only to be found far from the
highways; a casual traveler can pass through, say, Arizona or Nevada, without being
able to see much of what the areas have to offer. For example, in Arizona the great
pine forests of the White Mountain area, their running, rushing streams and wild
game, lie hidden away from major highways, although the roads through them are usually
excellent.
Monument Valley, the San Francisco Mountains, and other places, also lie off the
highways.
In Nevada, the beautiful Ruby Mountains lie somewhat to the south of Elko and its
highway. The Rubies soar up to 11,000 feet, with several beautiful lakes and the
waterfalls of Lamoille Canyon. It is lovely, inspiring country, and every pass and
every canyon has its story of Indians, mining, and cattle, of lost mines, buried
treasure, and gun battles.
6
7
8
9
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS
Chapter I Losing Bet
There was a lonely place where the trail ran up to the sky. It turned sharply left
on the very point of a lofty promontory overlooking the long sweep of the valley
below. Here the trail offered to the passerby a vision at this hour. Rosy-tipped
peaks and distant purple mountains could be seen, beyond the far reach of the tall
grass range.
Upon the very lip of the rocky shelf sat a solitary horseman. He was a man tall in
the saddle, astride a strangely marked horse. Its head was held high; its ears were
pricked forward with attention riveted upon the valley, as though in tune with the
thoughts of its rider-thoughts that said there lay a new country, with new dangers,
new rewards, and new trails.
The rider was a tall man, narrow hipped and powerful of chest and shoulder. His features
were blunt and rugged, so that a watcher might have said, "Here is a man who is not
handsome, but a fighter." Yet he was good-looking in his own hard, confident way.
He looked now upon this valley as Cortez might have looked upon the Valley of Mexico.
He came alone and penniless, but he did not come as one seeking favors. He did not
come hunting a job. He came as a conqueror. For Ross Haney had made his decision.
At twenty-seven he was
broke. He sat in the middle of all he owned, a splendid Appaloosa gelding, a fine
California saddle, a .44 Winchester rifle, and two walnut-stocked Colt .44 pistols.
These were his all. Behind him was a life that had taken him from a cradle in a covered
wagon to the hurricane deck of many a hardheaded bronc.
It was a life that had left him rich in experience but poor in goods of the world.
The experience was the hardfisted experience of hard winters, dry ranges, and the
dusty bitterness of cattle drives. He had
3
10
 4 Louis L'AMOUR
fought Comanches and rustlers, hunted buffalo and horse thieves. Now he had decided
that it all had brought him nothing but grief and more riding. Now he was going to
ride for himself, to fight for himself.
His keen dark eyes from under the flat black brim of his hat studied the country
below with a speculative glint. His judgment of terrain would have done credit to
a general, and in his own way Ross Haney was a general. His arrival in the Ruby Valley
country was, in its way, an invasion.
He was a young man with a purpose. He did not want wealth but a ranch, a well-watered
ranch in a good stock country. That his pockets were empty did not worry him, for
he had made up his mind, and as men had discovered before this, Ross Haney with his
mind made up was a force to be reckoned with.
Nor was he riding blind into a strange land. Like a good tactician he had gathered
his information carefully, judged the situation, the terrain, and the enemy before
he began his move.
This was new country to him, but he knew the landmarks and the personalities. He
knew the strength and the weakness of its rulers, knew the economic factors of their
existence, knew the stresses and the strains within it. He knew that he rode into
a valley at war-that blood had been shed and that armed men rode its trails day and
night. Into this land he rode a man alone, determined to have his own from the country,
come what may, letting the chips fall where they might.
With a movement of his body he turned the gelding left down the trail into the pines,
a trail where at this late hour it would soon be dark, a trail somber, majestic in
its stillness under the columned trees.
As he moved under the trees, he removed his hat and rode slowly. It was a good country,
a country where a man could live and grow, and where if he was lucky, he might have
sons to grow tall and straight beside him. This he wanted. He wanted no longer the
far horizons. He wanted his own hearth fire, the creak of his own pump, the heads
of his own horses looking over the gate bars for his hand to feed them. He wanted
peace, and for it he came to a land at war.
A flicker of light caught his eye, and the faint smell of wood smoke. He turned the
gelding toward the fire, and when he was near, he swung down. The sun's last rays
lay bright through the pines upon this spot. The earth was trampled by hoofs, and
in the fire itself the ashes were gray but for one tiny flame that thrust a bright
spear upward from the end of a stick.
Studying the scene, his eyes held for an instant on one place where the parched grass
had been blackened in a perfect ring.
11
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 5
His eyes glinted with hard humor. "A cinch ring artist. Dropped her there to cool
and she singed the grass. A pretty smooth gent, I'd
say. Not slick enough, of course. A smarter man or a less confident one
would have pulled up that handful of blackened grass and tossed it into the flames.
There had been two men here, his eyes told him. Two men and two horses. One of the
men had been a big man with small feet. The impressions of his feet were deeper and
he had mounted the larger horse.
Curiously, he studied the scene. This was a new country for him and it behooved a
man to know the local customs. He grinned at the thought. If cinch ring branding
was one of the local customs, it was a strange one. In most sections of the country
the activity was frowned upon, to say the least. If an artist was caught pursuing
his calling, he was likely to find himself at the wrong end of a hair rope with nothing
under his feet.
The procedure was simple enough. One took a cinch ring from his own saddle gear and
holding it between a couple of sticks, used it when red hot like any other branding
iron. A good hand with a cinch ring could easily duplicate any known brand, depending
only upon his degree of skill.
Ross rolled and lighted a smoke. If he were found on the spot it would require explaining,
and at the moment he had no intention of explaining anything. He swung his leg over
the saddle and turned the gelding down trail once more.
Not three miles away lay the cow town known as Soledad. To his right and about six
miles away was an imposing cluster of buildings shaded beneath a splendid grove of
old cottonwoods. Somewhat nearer, and also well shaded, was a smaller ranch.
Beyond the rocky ridge that stretched an anxious finger into the lush valley was
Walt Pogue's Box N spread.
The farther ranch belonged to Chalk Reynolds, his RR outfit being easily the biggest
in the Ruby Hills country. The nearer ranch belonged to Bob and Sherry Vernon.
When thieves fall out," Ross muttered aloud, "honest men get their dues. Or that's
what they say. Now I'm not laying any claim to being so completely honest, but there's
trouble brewing in this valley. When the battle smoke blows away, Ross Haney is going
to be top dog on one of these ranches.
"They've got it all down there. They have range, money, power. They have gunhands
riding for them, but you and me, Rio, we've only got each other."
He was a lone wolf on the prowl. Down there they ran in packs,
12
 6 Louis L'AMOUR
and he would circle the packs, alone. When the moment came, he would close in.
"There's an old law, Rio, that only the strong survive," he said. "Those ranches
belong to men who were strong, and some of them still are. They were strong enough
to take them from other men, from smaller men, weaker men. That's the story of Reynolds
and Pogue. They rustled cows until they grew big, and now they sit on the housetops
and crow. Or they did, until they began fightin' one another. "
"Your reasoning," the cool, quiet voice was feminine, "is logical, but dangerous.
I might suggest that when you talk to your horse, you should be sure his are the
only ears!"
She sat well in the saddle, poised and alert. There was a quirk of humor at the corners
of her mouth and nothing of coyness or fear in her manner. Every inch of her showed
beauty, care, and consideration of appearances that was new to him, but beneath it
there was both fire and steel-and quality.
"That's good advice," he agreed, measuring her with his eyes. "Very good advice."
"Now that you've looked me over," she suggested coolly, "would you like to examine
my teeth for age?"
He grinned, unabashed. "No, but now that I've looked you over I'd say you are pretty
much of a woman. The kind that's made for a man!"
She returned his glance and then smiled as if the remark had pleased her. So she
changed the subject. "Just which ranch do you plan to be top dog on when the fighting
is over?"
"I haven't decided," he said frankly. "I'm a right choosy sort of man when it comes
to horses, ranches, and women!"
"Yes?" She glanced at the gelding. "I'd say your judgment of horses isn't obvious
by that one. Not that he isn't well shaped, and I imagine he could run, but you could
do better."
"I doubt it." He glanced at her fine, clean-limbed Thoroughbred. "I'd bet a little
money he can outrun that beauty of yours, here to Soledad."
Her eyes flashed. "Why, you idiot! Flame is the fastest horse in this country. He
comes of racing stock!"
"I don't doubt it," Haney agreed. "He's a fine horse. But I'll bet my saddle against
a hundred dollars that this Appaloosa will kick dust in his face before we get to
Soledad!"
She laughed scornfully, and her head came up. "You're on!" she cried, and her red
horse gave a great bound and hit the trail running. That jump gave the bay the start,
but Ross knew his gelding.
Leaning over he yelled into the horse's ear as they charged after
13
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 7
the bay. "Come on, boy! We've got to beat that bay! We need the money!" And Rio,
seeming to understand, stretched his legs and ran like a scared rabbit.
As they swept into the main road and in full sight of Soledad, the bay was leading
by three lengths, but despite the miles behind it, the Appaloosa loved to run, and
he was running now.
The gelding had the blood of Arabians in his veins, and he was used to offhand, cow
camp style racing. The road took a small jog, but Ross did not swing the gelding
around it, but took the desert and mountain bred horse across the stones and through
the mesquite, hitting the road scarcely a length behind the big red horse.
Men were gathering in the street and on the edge of town now and shouting about the
racing horses. With a half mile to go the big red horse was slowing. He was a sprinter,
but he had been living too well with too little running. The gelding was just beginning
to run. Neck stretched, Ross leaning far forward to cut the wind resistance and lend
impetus with his weight, the mustang thundered alongside the bay horse, and neck
and neck they raced up to the town. Then, with the nearest building only a short
jump ahead, Ross Haney spoke to the Appaloosa:
"Now, Rio! Now!"
With a lunge, the spotted horse was past and went racing into the street leading
by a length.
Ross eased back on the reins and let the horse run on down the street abreast of
the big red horse. They slowed to a canter, then a walk. The girl's eyes were wide
and angry.
"You cheated! You cut across that bend!"
Ross chuckled. "You could have, ma'am! And you got off to a running start. Left me
standing still!"
"I thought you wanted a race!" she protested scornfully. "You cheated me!"
Ross Haney drew up sharply, and his eyes went hard. "I reckon, ma'am," he said, "you
come from a long line of sportsmen! You can forget the bet!"
The sarcasm in his voice cut like a whip. She opened her mouth to speak, but he had
turned the Appaloosa away and was walking it back toward the center of town.
For an instant, she started to follow, and then with a toss of her head, she let
him go.
14
 8 Louis
Chapter 11 Hunting Trouble
Several men were standing in front of the livery stable when he rode up. They looked
at his horse and then at him. "That's a runner you got there, stranger! I reckon
Sherry Vernon didn't relish getting beat! She sets great store by the Flame horse!"
Haney swung down and led the horse into the stable, where he rubbed him down and
fed him. As he worked, he thought over what he had just learned. The girl was Sherry
Vernon, one of the owners of the Twin V spread, and she had overheard his meditations
on his plans. How seriously she would take them would be something else again. Well,
it did not matter. He was planning no subterfuge. He had come to Ruby Valley on the
prod, and they could find it out now as well as later.
The girl had been beautiful. That stuck in his mind after he thought of all the rest.
It was the feeling that hung over his thinking with a certain aura that disturbed
him. He had known few women who affected him, and those few had been in New Orleans
or Kansas City on his rare trips there. Yet, this one touched a chord that had answered
to none of the others.
Suddenly he was conscious of a looming figure beside him. For a moment he continued
to work. Then he looked around into a broad, handsome face. The man was smiling.
"My name's Pogue," he said, thrusting out a hand. "Walt Pogue. I own the Box N. Is
that horse for sale?"
"No, he's not."
"I'd not figured you'd be willing to sell. If you get that idea, come look me up.
I'll give you five hundred for him."
Five hundred? That was a lot of money in a country full of ten-dollar mustangs or
where a horse was often traded for a quart of whiskey.
"No," Haney repeated, "he's not for sale." "Lookin' for a job? I could use a hand."
Ross Haney drew erect and looked over the horse's back. He noticed, and the thought
somehow irritated him, that Pogue was even bigger than himself. The rancher was all
of three inches taller and forty pounds heavier. And he did not look fat.
"Gunhand? Or cowhand?"
Walt Pogue's eyes hardened a shade, and then he smiled, a grim knowing smile. "Why,
man," he said softly, "that would depend on you. But if you hire on as a warrior,
you've got to be good!"
"I'm good. As good as any you've got."
"As good as Bob Streeter or Repp Hanson?"
15
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 9
Ross Haney's expression made no change, but within him he felt something tighten
up and turn hard and wary. If Pogue had hired Streeter and Hanson, this was going
to be ugly. Both men were killers, and not particular how they worked or how they
killed.
"As good as Streeter or Hanson?" Haney shrugged. "A couple of cheap killers. Blood
hunters. They aren't fighting men."
His dark eyes met that searching stare of Walt Pogue's again. "Who does Reynolds
have?"
Pogue's face seemed to lower, and he stared back at Haney. "He's got Emmett Chubb."
Emmett Chubb!
So? And after all these years? "He won't have him long," Haney said, "because I'm
going to kill him!"
Triumph leaped in Pogue's eyes. Swiftly, he moved around the horse. "Haney," he said,
"that job could get you an even thousand dollars!"
"I don't take money for killing snakes."
"You do that job within three days and you'll get a thousand dollars!" Pogue said
flatly.
Ross Haney pushed by the big man without replying and walked into the street. Three
men sat on the rail by the stable door. Had they heard what was said inside? He doubted
it, and yet?
Across the street and three doors down was the Trail Emporium. For a long moment
his eyes held their look at the one light gleaming in the back of the store. It was
after hours and the place was closed, but at the back door there might be a chance.
Deliberately, he stepped into the street and crossed toward the light.
Behind him Walt Pogue moved into the doorway and stared after him, his brow furrowed
with thought. His eyes went down the lean, powerful figure of the strange rider with
a puzzled expression. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he here?
He wore two well-worn, tied-down guns. He had the still, remote face and the careful
eyes typical of a man who had lived much with danger, and typical of so many of the
gunfighters of the West. He had refused, or avoided the offer of, a job, yet he had
seemed well aware of conditions in the valley.
Had Reynolds sent for him? Or Bob Vernon? He had ridden into town racing with Sherry.
Had they met on the trail or come from the VV? That Pogue must know and at once.
If Bob Vernon was hiring gunhands it would mean trouble, and that he did not want.
One thing at a time.
Where was he going now? Resisting an instinct to follow Haney, Pogue turned and walked
up the street toward the Bit and Bridle
16
 10 Louis L'AMOUR
Haney walked up to the back door of the store building, hesitated an instant, and
then tapped lightly.
Footsteps sounded within, and he heard the sound of a gun being drawn from a scabbard.
"Who's there?"
Haney spoke softly. "A rider from the Pecos."
The door opened at once, and Ross slid through the opening. The man who faced him
was round and white haired. Yet the eyes that took Haney in from head to heel were
not old eyes. They were shrewd, hard, and knowing.
"Coffee?" "Sure. Food, if you got some ready."
"About to eat myself." The man placed the gun on a sideboard and lifted the coffeepot
from the stove. He filled the cup as Ross dropped into a chair. "Who sent you here?"
Haney glanced up and then tipped back in his chair. "Don't get on the prod, old-timer.
I'm friendly. When an old friend of yours heard I was headed this way and might need
a smart man to give me a word of advice, he told me to look you up. And he told me
what to
say. "My days on that trail are over."
"Mine never started. This is a business trip. I'm planning to locate in the valley."
"Locate? Here?"
The older man stared at him. He filled his own cup, and dishing up a platter of food
and slapping bread on a plate, he sat down. "You came to me for advice. All right,
you'll get it. Get on your horse and ride out of here as fast as you can. This is
no country for strangers, and there have been too many of them around. Things are
due to bust wide open and there will be a sight of killin' before it's over."
"You're right, of course."
"Sure. An' after it's over, what's left for a gunhand? You can go on the owlhoot,
that's all. The very man who hired you and paid you warrior's wages won't want you
when the fighting is over. There's revolution coming in this country. If you know
the history of revolutions you'll know that as soon as one is over the first thing
they do is liquidate the revolutionists. You ride out of here."
Ross Haney ate in silence. The older man was right, of course. To ride out would
be the intelligent, sensible, and safe course, and he had absolutely no intention
of doing it.
"Scott, I didn't come here to hire on as a gunhand. In fact, I have already had an
offer. I came into this country because I've sized it up and I know what it's like.
This country can use a good man, a strong man. There's a place for me here, and I
mean to take it. Also, I want a good ranch. I aim to settle down, and I plan to get
my ranch the same way Pogue, Reynolds, and the rest of them got theirs."
17
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 11 "Force? You mean with a gun?" Scott was incredulous.
"Listen,
young fellow, Pogue has fifty riders on his range, and most of them are ready to
fight at the drop of a hat. Reynolds has just as many, and maybe more. And you come
in here alone-or are you alone?"
The storekeeper bent a piercing gaze upon the young man, who smiled. "I'm alone."
Haney shrugged. "Scotty, I've been fighting for existence ever since I was big enough
to walk. I've fought to hold other people's cattle, fought for other men's homes,
fought for the lives of other men. I've worked and bled and sweated my heart out
in rain, dust, and storm. Now I want something for myself.
"Maybe I came too late. Maybe I'm way off the trail. But it seems to me that when
trouble starts a man might stand on the sidelines and when the time comes, he might
move in. You see, I know how Walt Pogue got his ranch. Vin Carter was a friend of
mine until Emmett Chubb killed him. He told me how Pogue forced his old man off his
range and took over. Well, I happen to know that none of this range is legally held.
It's been preempted, which gives them a claim, of course. Well, I've got a few ideas
myself. And I'm moving
in.
"Son," Scott leaned across the table, "listen to me. Pogue's the sort of man who
would hire killers by the hundreds if he had to. He did force Carter off his range.
He did take it by force, and he has held it by force. Now he and Chalk are in a battle
over who is to keep it and which one is to come out on top. The Vernons are the joker
in the deck, of course. What both Reynolds and Pogue want is the Vernon place, because
whoever holds it has a grip on this country. But both of them are taking the Vernons
too lightly. They have something up their sleeve, or somebody has."
"What do you mean?"
"There's this Star Levitt, for one. He's no soft touch, that one! And then he's got
some riders around there, and I'd say they do more work for him than for the Vernon
spread-and not all honest work, by any means!"
"Levitt a western man?"
"He could be. Probably is. But whoever he is, he knows his way around an' he's one
sharp hombre. Holds his cards close to his chest, an' plays 'em that way. He's the
one you've got to watch in this deal, not Reynolds an' Pogue!"
Ross Haney leaned back in his chair and smiled at Scott. "That meal sure tasted good!"
he acknowledged. "Now comes the rough point. I want to borrow some money-military
funds," he added, grinning.
Scott shook his white head. "You sure beat all! You come into this country huntin'
trouble, all alone an' without money! You've got
18
 12 Louis L'AmouR
nerve! I only hope you've got the gun savvy and the brains to back it up ?
The blue eyes squinted from his leather-brown face and he smiled. He was beginning
to like Haney. The tall young man had humor, and the nerve of the project excited
and amused the old outlaw. "How much do you want?"
"A hundred dollars."
"That all? You won't get far in this country on that."
"No, but along with it I want some advice." Haney hitched himself forward and took
a bit of paper from his pocket and then a stub of pencil. Then from a leather folder
he took a larger sheet which he unfolded carefully. It was a beautifully tanned piece
of calfskin, and on it was drawn a map. Carefully, he moved the dishes aside and
placed it on the table facing the older man.
"Look that over, and if you see any mistakes, correct me."
Scott stared at the map, and then he leaned forward, his eyes indicating his amazed
interest. It was a map, drawn to scale and in amazing detail, of the Ruby Hills country.
Every line camp, every waterhole, every ranch, and every stand of trees was indicated
plainly. Distances were marked on straight lines between the various places, and
heights of land were also marked. Lookout points were noted and canyons indicated.
Studying the map, Scott could find nothing it had missed.
Slowly, he leaned back in his chair. When he looked up his expression was halfway
between respect and worry. "Son, where did you get that map?"
"Get it? I made it. I drew it myself, Scotty. For three years I've talked to every
puncher or other man I've met from this country. As they told me stuff, I checked
with others and built this map. You know how western men are. Most of them are pretty
good at description. A man down in the Live Oak country who never left it knows how
the sheriff looks in Julesburg and exactly where the corrals are in Dodge."
Haney took a deep breath and then continued his story.
"Well, I've been studying this situation quite a spell," he said. "An old buffalo
hunter and occasional trapper was in this country once, and he told me about it when
I was a kid. It struck me as a place I'd like to live, so I planned accordingly.
I learned all I could about it, rode for outfits oftentimes just because some puncher
on the spread had worked over here. Then I ran into Vin Carter. He was born here.
He told me all about it, and I got more from him than from any of them. While I was
riding north with a herd of cattle, Emmett Chubb moved in, picked a fight with the
kid, and killed him. And I think Walt Pogue paid him to do it!
19
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 13
"So it goes further than the fact that I'm range hungry, and I'll admit I am. I want
my own spread. But Vin rode with me and we fought sandstorms and blizzards together
from Texas to Montana and back. So I'm a man on the prod. Before I get through I'll
own me a ranch in this country, a nice ranch with nice buildings, and then I'll get
a wife and settle down."
Scott's eyes glinted. "It's a big order, son! Gosh, if I was twenty years younger,
I'd throw in with you! I sure would!"
"There's no man I'd want more, Scotty, but this is my fight, and I'll make it alone.
You can stake me to eating money, if you want, and I'll need some forty-fours."
The older man nodded assent. "You can have them, an' willin'. Have you got a plan?"
Haney nodded. "It's already started. I've filed on Thousand Springs." Scott came
off his chair, his face a mask of incredulity. "You what?"
"I filed a claim, an' I've staked her out and started to prove up." Ross was smiling
over his coffee, enjoying Scott's astonishment. "But, man! That's sheer suicide!
That's right in the middle of
Chalk's best range! That waterhole is worth a fortune! A dozen fortunes! That's what
half the fighting is about!"
"I know it." Haney was calm. "I knew that before I came in here. That palouse of
mine never moved a step until I had my plan of action all staked out. And I bought
the Bullhorn."
This time astonishment was beyond the storekeeper. "How could you buy it? Gov'ment
land, ain't it?"
"No. That's what they all seem to think. Even Vin Carter thought so, but it was part
of a Spanish grant. I found that out by checking through some old records. So I hunted
up a Mexican down in the Big Bend country who owned it. I bought it from him, bought
three hundred acres, taking in the whole Bullhorn headquarters spread, the waterhole,
and the cliffs in back of it. That includes most of that valley where Pogue cuts
his meadow hay."
"Well, I'm forever bushed! If that don't beat all!" Scott tapped thoughtfully with
his pipe bowl. Then he looked up. "What about Hitson Spring?"
"That's another thing I want to talk to you about. You own it." I do, eh? How did
you come to think that?"
"Met an old sidewinder down in Laredo named Smite Emmons. He was pretty drunk one
night, and he told me how foolish you were to file claim on that land. Said you could
have bought it from the Indians just as cheap."
Scott chuckled. "I did. I bought it from the Indians, too. Believe me, son, nobody
around here knows that. It would be a death sentence!"
20
 14 Louis L'AMOUR
"Then sell it to me. I'll give you my note for five thousand right now. "
"Your note, eh?" Scott chuckled. "Son, you'd better get killed. It will be cheaper
to bury you than pay up." He tapped his pipe bowl again. "Tell you what I'll do.
I'll take your note for five hundred and the fun of watching what happens."
Solemnly, Ross Haney wrote out a note and handed it to Scott. The old man chuckled
as he read it.
I hereby agree to pay on or before the 15th of March, 1877, to Westbrook Scott, the
sum of five hundred dollars and the fun of watching what happens for the 160 acres
of land known as Hitson Spring.
"All right, son! Sign her up! I'll get you the deed!"
Chapter 11I Uneasy Town
When Ross had pocketed the two papers-the deed from the government to Scott and deeded
over to him, and the skin deed from the Comanches-the old man sat up and reached
for the coffeepot.
"You know what you've done? You've now got a claim on the three best sources of water
in Ruby Valley, the only three that are surefire all the year around. And what will
they do when they find out? They'll kill you!"
"They won't find out for a while. I'm not talking until the fight's been taken out
of them."
"What about your claim stakes at Thousand Springs?"
"Buried. Iron stakes, and driven deep into the ground. There's sod and grass over
the top."
"What about proving up?"
"That, too. You know how that spring operates? Actually, it is one great big spring
back inside the mountain flowing out through the rocky face of the cliff in hundreds
of tiny rivulets. Well, atop the mesa there is a good piece of land that falls into
my claim, and back in the woods there is some land I can plow. I've already broken
that land, smoothed her out, and put in a crop. I've got a trail to the top of that
mesa, and a stone house built up there. I'm in business, Scotty!"
Scott looked at him and shook his head. Then he pushed hack from the table and getting
up, went into the store. When he returned he had several boxes of shells.
21
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 15 "In the mornin' come around and stock up," he suggested.
"You
better make you a cache or two with an extra gun here and there and some extra ammunition.
Maybe a little grub. Be good insurance, and son, you'll need it."
"That's good advice. I'll do it, an' you keep track of the expense. I'll settle every
cent of it when this is over."
With money in his pocket he walked around the store and crossed the street to the
Bit and Bridle. The bartender glanced at him and then put a bottle and a glass in
front of him. He was a short man, very thick and fat, but after a glance at the corded
forearms, Ross was very doubtful about it all being fat.
A couple of lazy-talking cowhands held down the opposite end of the bar, and there
was a poker game in progress at a table. Several other men sat around on chairs.
They were the usual nondescript crowd of the cow trails.
He poured his drink and had just taken it between his thumb and fingers when the
batwing doors thrust open and he heard the click of heels behind him. He neither
turned nor looked around. The amber liquid in the glass held his attention. He had
never been a drinking man, taking only occasional shots, and he was not going to
drink much tonight.
The footsteps halted abreast of him, and a quick, clipped voice said in very precise
words, "Are you the chap who owns that fast horse, the one with the black forequarters
and the white over the loin and hips?"
He glanced around, turning his head without moving his body. There was no need for
anyone to tell him that this was Bob Vernon. He was a tall, clean-limbed young man
who was like her in that imperious lift to his chin, unlike her in his quick, decisive
manner.
"There's spots, egg-shaped black spots over the white," said Haney. That the one
you mean?"
"My sister is outside. She wants to speak to you."
"I don't want to speak to her. You can tell her that." He turned his attention to
his drink.
What happened then happened so fast it caught him off balance. A hand grasped him
by the shoulder and spun him around in a grip of iron, and he was conscious of being
surprised at the strength in that slim hand. Bob Vernon was staring at him, his eyes
blazing.
I said my sister wanted to speak to you!"
And I said I didn't want to speak to her." Ross Haney's voice was slow paced and
even. "Now take your hand off me, and don't ever lay a hand on me again!"
Bob Vernon was a man who had never backed down for anyone. From the East he had come
into the cow country of Ruby Valley and made a place for himself by energy, decision,
and his own youthful
22
 16 Louis L'AMOUR
strength. Yet he had never met a man such as he faced now. As he looked into the
hazel eyes of the stranger he felt something turn over away deep inside him. It was
as though he had parted the brush and looked into the face of a lion.
Vernon dropped his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid your manner made me forgetful. My
sister can't come into a place like this."
The two men measured each other, and the suddenly alert audience in the Bit and Bridle
let their eyes go from Vernon to the stranger. Bob Vernon they knew well enough to
know he was afraid of nothing that walked. They also knew his normal manner was polite
to a degree rarely encountered in the West, where manners were inclined to be brusque,
friendly, and lacking in formality. Yet there was something else between these two
now. As one man they seemed to sense the same intangible something that had touched
Bob Vernon.
The batwing doors parted suddenly, and Sherry Vernon stepped into the room.
First, Haney was aware of a shock that such a girl could come into such a place,
and second, of shame that he had been the cause. Then he felt admiration sweep over
him at her courage.
Beautiful in a gray tailored riding habit, her head lifted proudly, she walked up
to Ross Haney. Her face was set and her eyes were bright.
Ross was suddenly conscious that never in all his life had he looked into eyes so
fine, so filled with feeling.
"Sir," and her voice could be heard in every corner of the room, "I do not know what
your name may be, but I have come to pay you your money. Your horse beat Flame today,
and beat him fairly. I regret the way I acted, but it was such a shock to have Flame
beaten that I allowed you to get away without being paid. I am very sorry.
"However," she added quickly, "if you would like to run against Flame again, I'll
double the bet!"
"Thank you, Miss Vernon!" He bowed slightly, from the hips. "It was only that remark
about my horse that made me run him at all. You see, ma'am, as you no doubt know,
horses have feelin's. I couldn't let you run down my horse to his face, thataway!"
Her eyes were on his, and suddenly they crinkled at the corners and her lips rippled
with a little smile.
"Now, if you'll allow me-" He took her arm and escorted her from the room. Inside
they heard a sudden burst of applause, and he smiled as he offered her his hands
for her foot. She stepped into them and then swung into her position on the horse.
"I'm sorry you had to come in there, but your brother was kind of abrupt."
23
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 17
"That's quite all right," she replied quickly, almost too quickly. He stepped back
and watched them ride away into the darkness of early evening. Then he turned back
to the saloon. He almost ran into a tall, carefully dressed man who had walked up
behind him. A man as large as Pogue.
Pale blue eyes looked from a handsome, perfectly cut face of city white. He was trim,
neat, and precise. Only the guns at his hips looked deadly with their polished butts
and worn holsters.
"That," said the tall man, gesturing after Sherry Vernon, "is a staked claim!"
Ross Haney was getting angry. Men who were bigger than him always irritated him,
anyway. "It is?" His voice was cutting. "If you think you can stake a claim on any
woman you've got a lot to learn!"
He shoved by toward the door, but behind him the voice said, "But that one's staked.
You hear me?"
Soledad by night was a tiny scattering of lights along the dark river of the street.
Music from the tinny piano in the Bit and Bridle drifted down the street, and with
it the lazy voice of someone singing a cow camp song. Ross Haney turned up the street
toward the two-story frame hotel, his mind unable to free itself from the vision
that was Sherry Vernon.
For the first time, the wife who was to share that ranch had a face. Until now there
had been in his thoughts the vague shadow of a personality and a character, but there
had been no definite features, nothing that could be recognized. Now, after seeing
Sherry, he knew there could be but one woman in the ranch house he planned to build.
He smiled wryly as he thought of her sharing his life. What would she think of a
cowhand, a drifting gunhand? And what would she say when it became known that he
was Ross Haney? Not that the name meant very much, for it did not. Only in certain
quarters where fighting men gather had he acquired something of a reputation. The
stories about him had drifted across the country as such stories will, and while
he had little notoriety as a gunfighter, he was known as a hard, capable man who
would and could fight.
He was keenly aware of his situation in Soledad and the Ruby Hills country. As yet,
he was an outsider. They were considering him, and Pogue had already sensed enough
of what he was to offer a job, gun or saddle job. When his intentions became known
he would be facing trouble and plenty of it. When they discovered that he had actually
moved in and taken possession of the best water in the valley, they would have no
choice but to buy him out, run him out, or kill him.
24
 18 Louis L'AMOUR
Or they could move out themselves, and neither Walt Pogue nor Chalk Reynolds was
the man for that.
In their fight Ross had no plan to take sides. He was a not-tooinnocent bystander
as far as they were concerned. When Bob and Sherry Vernon were considered, he wasn't
too sure. He scowled, realizing suddenly that sentiment had no place in such dealings
as his. Until he saw Sherry Vernon he had been a free agent, and now, for better
or worse, he was no longer quite so free.
He could not now move with such cold indifference to the tides of war in the Ruby
Hills. Now he had an interest, and his strength was lowered to just the degree of
that interest. He was fully aware of the fact. It nettled him even as it amused him,
for he was always conscious of himself and viewed his motives with a certain wry,
ironic humor, seeing himself always with much more clarity than others saw him.
Yet, despite that, something had been accomplished. He had staked his claim at Thousand
Springs and started his cabin. He had talked with Scott, and won an ally there, for
he knew the old man was with him, at least to a point. He had met and measured Walt
Pogue, and he knew that Emmett Chubb was now with Reynolds. That would take some
investigation, for from all he had learned, he had been sure that Pogue had hired
Chubb to kill Vin Carter, but now Chubb worked for Reynolds.
Well, the allegiance of such men was tied to a dollar sign, and their loyalty went
no further than their next payday. There might have been trouble between Pogue and
Chubb, and that might be the reason Pogue was so eager to have him killed.
He directed his thoughts toward the Vernons. Bob was all man. Whatever Reynolds and
Pogue planned for him he would not take. He would have his own ideas, and he was
a fighter.
What of the other hands whom Scott had implied were loyal to Levitt rather than Vernon?
These men he must consider, too, and must plan carefully for them, for in such an
action as he planned, he must be aware of all the conflicting elements in the valley.
The big man in the white hat he had placed at once. Carter had mentioned him with
uncertainty, for when Carter left the valley Star Levitt had just arrived and was
an unknown quantity.
With that instinctive awareness that the widely experienced man has for such things,
Ross Haney knew that he and Star Levitt were slated to be enemies. They were two
men who simply could not be friends, for there was a definite clash of personalities
and character that made a physical clash inevitable. And Haney was fully aware that
Star Levitt was not the soft touch some might believe. He was a dangerous man, a
very dangerous man.
25
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS
Chapter IV Bold Challenge
Ross Haney found that the hotel was a long building with thirty rooms, a large empty
lobby, and off to one side, a restaurant open for business. Feeling suddenly hungry
he turned to the desk for a room, his eyes straying toward the restaurant door.
When Haney dropped his war bag a young man standing in the doorway turned and walked
to the desk. "Room?" he smiled as he spoke, and his face was pleasant.
"The best you've got." Ross grinned at him.
The clerk grinned back. "Sorry, but they are all equally bad, even if reasonably
clean. Take fifteen, at the end of the hall. You'll be closer to the well."
"Pump?" The clerk chuckled. "What do you think this is, New York? It's a rope-and-bucket
well. It's been almost a year since we hauled a dead man out of it. The water should
be good by now."
"Sure." Ross studied him for a moment. "Where you from? New York?"
"Yes, and Philadelphia, Boston, Richmond, London, and San Francisco, and now-Soledad."
"You've been around." Ross rolled a smoke and dropped the sack on the desk for the
clerk. "How's the food?"
"Good. Very good-and the prettiest waitress west of the Mississippi."
Ross smiled. "Well, if she's like the other girls around here, she's probably a staked
claim. I had a big hombre with a white hat tell me tonight that one girl was staked
out for him."
The clerk looked at him quickly, shrewdly. "Star Levitt?" "I guess."
"If he meant the lady you had the race with today, I'd say he was doing more hoping
than otherwise. Sherry Vernon," the clerk spoke carefully, "is not an easy claim
to stake!"
Ross pulled the register around, hesitated an instant, and then wrote, "Ross Haney,
El Paso."
The clerk glanced at it and then looked up. "Glad to meet you, Ross. My name is Allan
Kinney." He looked down at the name again. "Ross Haney. I've heard that name from
somewhere.
"It's funny," he added musingly, "about a name and a town. Ross Haney, from El Paso.
Now you might not be from El Paso at all. You might be from Del Rio or Sanderson
or Uvalde. You might even be from Cheyenne or from Fort Sumner or White Oaks.
"What happened to you in El Paso or wherever you came from?
26
 20 Louis L'AMOUR
And why did you come here? Men drift without reason sometimes, but usually, there
is something. Sometimes the law is behind them, or an outlaw ahead of them. Sometimes
they just want new horizons or a change of scene, and sometimes they are hunting
for something. You, now. I'd say you came to Soledad for a reason-a reason that could
mean trouble."
"Let's drink some coffee," Haney suggested, "and see if that waitress is as pretty
as you say."
"You won't think so," Kinney said, shaking his head, "you won't think so at all.
You've just seen Sherry Vernon. After her, all women look washed out-until you get
over her."
"I don't plan on it."
Kinney dropped into a chair. "That, my friend, is a large order. Miss Vernon usually
handles such situations with neatness and dispatch. She is always pleasant, never
familiar."
"This is different." Ross looked up, and suddenly he knew with a queer excitement
just what he was going to say. He said it. "I'm going to marry her."
Allan Kinney gulped and put his cup down carefully. "Have you told her? Does she
know your intentions are honorable? Does she even know you have intentions?" He grinned.
"You know, friend, that is a large order you have laid out for yourself."
The waitress came up. She was a slender, very pretty girl with red hair, a few freckles,
and a sort of bubbling good humor that was contagious.
"May," Kinney said, "I want you to meet Ross Haney. He is going to marry Sherry Vernon."
At this, Ross felt his ears getting red and cursed himself for a thickheaded fool
for ever saying such a thing. It may have been startled from him by the sudden realization
that he intended to do just that.
"What?" May said quickly, looking at him. "Another one?" Haney glanced up, and suddenly
he put his hand over hers and said gently, "No, May.
The one!"
Her eyes held his for a moment, and the laughter faded from them. "You know," she
said seriously, "I think you might!"
She went for their coffee. Kinney looked at Ross with care. "Friend Haney," he said,
"you have made an impression. I really think the lady believed you! Now if you can
do as well with Miss Vernon, you'll be doing all right."
The door opened suddenly from the street, and two men stepped in. Ross glanced up,
and his dark eyes held on the two men who stood there.
One of the men was a big man with sloping shoulders, and his
27
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 21
eves caught Haney's and narrowed as if at sudden recognition. The other man was shorter
and thicker, but obviously a hard case. With a queer sort of premonition, Ross guessed
that these men were from the Vernon ranch-or they could be. At least, they knew about
Ross Haney and were more than casually interested.
These could be the men who worked for Star Levitt, and as such they merited study,
yet their type was not an unfamiliar one to Ross Haney or to any man who rode the
borderlands or the wild country. While many a puncher has branded a few mavericks
or rustled a few cows when he needed drinking money or wanted a new saddle, there
was a certain intangible yet very real difference that marked those who held to the
outlaw trail, and both of these men had it.
They were men with guns for hire, men who rode for trouble and for the ready cash
they could get for crooked work. He knew their type. He had faced such men before,
and he knew they recognized him. These men were a type who never fought a battle
for anyone but themselves.
Without warning, the door pushed open and two more men came into the room. Ross glanced
around and caught the eye of a short, stocky man who walked with a quick, jerky lift
of his knees. He walked now-right over to Haney.
"You're Ross Haney?" he said abruptly. "I've got a job for you! Start tomorrow morning!
A hundred a month an' found. Plenty of horses! I'm Chalk Reynolds an' my place is
just out of town in that big clump of cottonwoods. Old place. You won't have any
trouble finding it."
Ross smiled. "Sorry, I'm not hunting a job."
Reynolds had been turning away, but he whipped back quickly. "What do you mean? Not
looking for a job? At a hundred a month? When the range is covered with top hands
gettin' forty?"
"I said I didn't want a job."
"Ah?" The genial light left the older man's face, and his blue eyes hardened and
narrowed. "So that's it! You've gone to work for Walt Pogue!"
"No, I don't work for Pogue. I don't work for anybody. I'm my own man, Mr. Reynolds!"
Chalk Reynolds stared at him. "Listen, my friend, and listen well. In the Ruby Hills
today there are but two factions, those for Reynolds and those against him. If you
don't work for me, I shall regard you as an enemy."
Haney shrugged. "That's your funeral. From all I hear you have enemies enough without
choosing any more. Also, from all I hear, You deserve them."
"What?" Reynolds's eyes blazed. "Don't sass me, stranger!"
28
 22 Louis L'AMOUR
The lean, whip-bodied man beside him touched his arm. "Let me handle this, Uncle
Chalk," he said gently. "Let me talk to this man." Ross shifted his eyes. The younger
man had a lantern jaw and
unusually long gray eyes. The eyes had a flatness about them that puzzled and warned
him.
"My name is Sydney Berdue. I am foreman for Mr. Reynolds." He stepped closer to where
Haney sat in his chair, one elbow on the table. "Maybe you would like to tell me
why he deserves his enemies."
Haney glanced up at him, his blunt features composed, faintly curious, his eyes steady
and aware. "Sure," he said quietly, "I'd be glad to.
"Chalk Reynolds came west from Missouri right after the war with Mexico. For a time
he was located in Santa Fe, but as the wagon trains started to come west, he went
north and began selling guns to the Indians."
Reynolds's face went white and his eyes blazed. "That's not true!" Haney's glance
cut his words short. "Don't make me kill you!" Ross said sharply. "Every word I say
is true! You took part in wagon train raids yourself. I expect you collected your
portion of white scalps. Then you got out of there with a good deal of loot and met
a man in Julesburg who wanted to come out here. He knew nothing of your crooked background,
and"
Berdue's hand was a streak for his gun, but Haney had expected it. When the Reynolds
foreman had stepped toward him, he had come beyond Haney's outstretched feet, and
Ross whipped his toe up behind the foreman's knee and jerked hard just as he shoved
with his open hand. Berdue hit the floor with a crash and his gun went off with a
roar, the shot plowing into the ceiling. From the room overhead came an angry shout
and the sound of bare feet hitting the floor.
Ross moved swiftly. He stepped over and kicked the gun from Berdue's hand and then
swept it up.
"Get up! Reynolds, get over there against the wall, pronto!" White-faced, Reynolds
backed to the wall, hatred burning deep in his eyes. Slowly, Sydney Berdue got to
his feet, his eyes clinging to his gun in Ross Haney's hand.
"Lift your hands, both of you. Now push them higher. Hold it." He stared at the two
men. Behind him, the room was slowly filling with curious onlookers. "Now," Ross
Haney said coolly, "I'm going to finish what I started. You asked me why you deserved
to have enemies. I started by telling you about the white people you murdered and
about the guns you sold, and now I'll tell you about the man you met in Julesburg."
Reynolds's face was ashen. "Forget that," he said. "You don't need
29
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 23 to talk so much. Berdue was huntin' trouble. You
forget it. I need a good man."
"To murder, like you did your partner? You made a deal with him, and he came down
here and worked hard. He planted those trees. He built that house. Then three of
you went out and stumbled into a band of Indians, and somehow, although wounded,
you were the only one who got back. And naturally, the ranch was all yours.
"Who were those Indians, Chalk? Or was there only one Indian? Only one, who was the
last man of three riding single file?
"You wanted to know why I wouldn't work for you and why you should have enemies.
I've told you. And now I'll tell you something more: I've come to the Ruby Hills
to stay. I'm not leavin'."
Deliberately, he handed the gun back to Berdue, and as he held it out to him their
eyes met and fastened, and it was Sydney Berdue's eyes that shifted first. He took
the gun, reversed it, and started it into his holster, and then his hand stopped,
and his lips drew tight.
Ross Haney was smiling. "Careful, Berdue!" he said softly. "I wouldn't try it, if
I were you!"
Berdue stared, and then with an oath he shoved the gun hard into its holster, and
turning out the door, walked rapidly away. Behind him went Chalk Reynolds, his neck
and ears red with the bitterness of the fury that throbbed in his veins.
Slowly, in a babble of talk, the room cleared, and then Ross Haney seated himself
again. "May," he said, "you've let my coffee get cold. Fill it up, will you?"
Chapter V
A Look at the Country
Persons who lived in the town of Soledad were not unaccustomed to sensation, but
the calling of Chalk Reynolds and his supposedly gunslick foreman in the Cattleman's
Cafe was a subject that had the old maids of both sexes licking their lips with anticipation
and excitement. Little had been known of the background of Chalk Reynolds. He was
the oldest settler, the owner of the biggest and oldest ranch, and he was a hard
character when pushed. Yet now they saw him in a new light, and the story went from
mouth to mouth.
Not the last to hear it was Walt Pogue, who chuckled and slapped his heavy thigh.
"Wouldn't you know it? That old four-flusher! Crooked as a dog's hind leg!"
The next thing that occurred to anyone, occurred to him. How did Ross Haney know?
30
 24 Louis L'AMOUR
The thought drew Pogue up to a standstill. Haney knew too much. Who was Haney? If
he knew that, he might- But no! That didn't necessarily follow. Still, Ross Haney
was going to be a good friend to have, and a bad enemy.
Not the least of the talk concerned Haney's confidence, the way he had stood there
and dared Berdue to draw. Overnight, Haney had become the most talked about man in
the Ruby Hills.
When gathering his information about the Ruby Hills country, Ross Haney had gleaned
some other information that was of great interest. That information was what occupied
his mind on his first morning in Soledad.
So far, in his meandering around the country, and he had done more of it than anyone
believed, he had had no opportunity to verify this final fragment of information.
But now he intended to do it. From what he had overheard, the country north and west
of the mountains was a badlands that was avoided by all. It was a lava country, broken
and jagged, and there was much evidence of prehistoric volcanic action, so much so
that riding there was a danger always, and walking was the surest way to ruin a pair
of boots.
Yet at one time there had been a man who knew the lava beds and all of that badlands
country that occupied some three hundred square miles stretching north and west across
the state line. That man had been Jim Burge.
It had been Jim Burge who had told Charlie Hastings, Reynolds's ill-fated partner,
about the Ruby Hills country, and it had been Jim Burge who had first driven a herd
of Spanish cattle into the Ruby Hills. But Burge had tired of ranching and headed
north, leaving his ranch and turning his horses loose. His cattle had already been
gone.
Gone, that is, into the badlands. Burge knew where they were, but cattle were of
no use without a market, and there was no market anywhere near. Burge decided he
wanted to move and he wanted quick money, so he left the country, taking only a few
of the best horses with him.
He had talked to Charlie Hastings, and Hastings talked to Chalk Reynolds, but Jim
Burge was already gone. Gone east into the Texas Panhandle and a lone hand fight
with Comanches that ended with four warriors dead and with Jim Burge's scalp hanging
from the belt of another. But Jim Burge had talked to other people in Santa Fe, and
the others did not forget, either. One of these had talked to Ross Haney, and Ross
was a curious man.
When he threw his saddle on the Appaloosa, he was planning to satisfy that curiosity.
He was going to find out what had become of those cattle.
Nine years had passed since Burge had left them to shift for
31
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 25
themselves. In nine years several hundred cattle can do pretty well for themselves.
"There's water in those badlands if you know where to look," Burge had told the man
in Sante Fe, "an' there's grass, but you've got to find it." Knowing range cattle,
Ross was not worried about them finding it, and if he could find it, he would find
them-unless someone else had.
So he rode out of Soledad down the main trail, and there were many eyes that followed
him out. One pair of these belonged to Sherry Vernon, already out and on her horse,
drifting over the range, inspecting her cattle and seeing where they fed. She noted
the tall rider on the queerly marked horse, and there was a strange leap in her heart
as she watched him heading down the trail.
Was he leaving? For always? The thought gave her a pang, even though remembering
the oddly intent look in his eyes and the hard set in his jaw, she knew he would
be back.
Of course, she had heard the story of his meeting with Chalk Reynolds and Sydney
Berdue. Berdue had always frightened her, for wherever she turned, his eyes were
upon her. They gave her a crawling sensation, not at all like the excitement she
drew from the quick, amused eyes of Ross Haney.
The palouse was a good mountain horse, and ears pricked forward, he stepped out eagerly.
The sights and smells were what he knew best and he quickened his step, sure he was
coming home.
Ross Haney knew that with his action of the previous night he was in the center of
things whether he liked it or not, and he liked it. From now on he would move fast
and with boldness, but not too definitely, for it would pay to keep them puzzled
for a few days longer. Things would break between Pogue and Reynolds, especially
now that his needling of Reynolds would scare the man into aggressive action.
Chalk was no fool. He would know how fast talk would spread. It might not be long
before embarrassing questions might be asked. The only escape from those questions
lay in power. He must put himself beyond questions. Eyes squinted against the glare,
Haney thought about that, trying to calculate just what Reynolds would do. It was
up to him to strike, and he would strike, or Haney knew nothing of men under pressure.
The trail he sought showed itself suddenly, just a faint track off to the right through
the pinons, and he took it, letting Rio set his own gait.
It was midafternoon before Ross reached the edge of the lava beds. The great black,
tumbled masses seemed without trails or any sign of vegetation. He skirted the lava,
searching for some evidence
32
 26 LOUIS L AMOUR
of a trail. It was miserably hot, and the sun threw heat back from the blazing rocks
until he felt like he was in an oven. When he was on a direct line between the lava
beds and Thousand Springs, he rode back up the mountain, halted, and swung down to
give his horse a rest.
From his saddlebags he took a telescope, a glass he had bought in New Orleans several
years before. Sitting down on a boulder while the palouse cropped casually at the
dry grass, he began a systematic, inch-by-inch study of the lava beds.
Only the vaguest sort of plan had formed in his mind for his next step. Everything
had been worked out carefully to this point, but from now on his actions depended
much upon the actions of Pogue and Reynolds. Yet he did have the beginnings of a
plan. If the cattle he sought were still in the lava beds, he intended to brand them
one by one and shove bunches of them out into the valley. He was going to use that
method to make his bid for the valley range.
After a half hour of careful study he got up, thrust the glass in his belt, and rode
slowly along the hillside, stopping at intervals to continue his examination of the
beds. It was almost dusk when he raised up in the stirrups and pointed the glass
toward a tall finger of rock that thrust itself high from the beds. At the base of
it was a cow, and it was walking slowly toward the northwest!
Try as he might, Ross could find no trail into the lava beds, so as dusk was near,
he turned the palouse and started back toward Thousand Springs. He would try again.
At least he knew he was not shooting in the dark. There was at least one cow in that
labyrinth of lava, and if there was one, there would certainly be more.
The trail he had chosen led him up the mesa at Thousand Springs from a little-known
route. He wound around through the clumps of pinon until the flat top was reached.
Then he rode along slowly, drinking in this beauty that he had chosen for the site
of his home. The purple haze had thickened over the hills and darkened among the
trees, and deep shadows gathered in the forested notches of the hills while the pines
made a dark fringe against a sky still red with the last rose of the sinking sun.
Below him the mesa broke sharply off and fell for over a hundred feet of sheer rock.
Thirty feet from the bottom of the cliff the springs trickled from the fractured
rock and covered the rock below with a silver sheen from many small cascades that
fell away into the pool.
Beyond the far edge of the pool, fringed with aspens, the valley was a long sweep
of tall grass range, rolling into a dark distance against the mystery of the hills.
Ross Haney sat his horse in a place rarely seen by man, for he was doubtful if anyone
in many years had mounted the mesa. That he was not the first man here, he knew,
for
33
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 27 there were Indian relics and the remains of stone
houses, ages old. These seemed to have no connection with any cliff dwellings or
pueblos he had seen in the past. The building was more ancient and more massive than
in Acoma, the Sky City.
The range below him was the upper end of Ruby Valley and was supposedly under the
control of Chalk Reynolds. Actually, Reynolds rarely visited the place, nor did his
men. It was far and away at the end of the range he claimed, and the water was available
for the cattle when they wished to come to it. Yet here on the rim of the mesa, or
slightly back from the rim, Haney had begun to build a ranch house, using the old
foundations of the prehistoric builders and many of their stones.
The floor itself was intact, and he had availed himself of it, sweep ing it clean
over a wide expanse. He had paced it off and planned his house accordingly, and he
had large ideas. Yet for the moment he was intent only on repairing a part of the
house to use as his claim shanty.
There was water here. Water that bubbled from the same source as that of the Thousand
Springs. He knew that his water was the same water. Several times he had tried dropping
sticks or leaves into the water outside his door, only to find them later in the
pool below.
From where he sat he could with his glass see several miles of trail and watch all
who approached him. The trail up the back way was unknown so far as he could find
out. Certainly it indicated no signs of use but that of wild game, although it had
evidently been used in bygone years.
To the east and south his view was unobstructed. Below him lay all the dark distance
of the valley and the range for which he was fighting. To the north, the mesa broke
sharply off and fell away into a deep canyon with a dry wash at its bottom. The side
of the canyon across from him was almost as sheer as this and at least a quarter
of a mile away.
The trail led up from the west and through a broken country of tumbled rock, long
fingers of lava, and clumps of piiion giving way to aspen and pine. The top of the
mesa was at least two hundred acres in extent and absolutely impossible to reach
by any known route but the approach he used.
Returning through the trees to a secluded hollow, Ross swung down and stripped the
saddle and bridle from the palouse, then turning it loose. He rarely hobbled or tied
the horse, for Rio would come at a call or whistle and never failed to respond at
once. But a horse in most cases will not wander far from a campfire, feeding away
from it and then slowly feeding back toward it, seeming to like the feeling of comfort
as well as a man.
He built his fire of dry wood and built it with plenty of cover,
34
 28 Louis L'AMOUR
keeping it small. Even at this height there was danger of its being seen and causing
wonder. The last thing he wanted now was for any of the people from the valley to
find him out.
After he had eaten he strolled back to the open ground where the house was taking
shape. Part of the ancient rock floor he was keeping for a terrace from which the
whole valley could be seen.
For a long time he stood there, looking off into the darkness and enjoying the cool
night air. Then he turned and walked back into the deep shadows of the house. He
was standing there, trying to see it as it would appear when complete when he heard
a low, distant rumble.
Suddenly anxious, he listened intently. It seemed to come from within the very rock
on which he stood. He waited, listening for the sound to grow. But after a moment
it died away to a vague rumble and then disappeared altogether. Puzzled, he walked
around for several minutes, waiting and listening, but there was no further sound.
It was a strange thing, and it disturbed him and left him uneasy as he walked back
to his camp. Long after he had rolled in his blankets he lay there puzzling over
it. He noted with an odd sense of disquiet that Rio stayed close to him, closer than
usual. Of course, there could be another reason for that. There were cougars on the
mesa and in the breaks behind it. He had seen their tracks. There were also elk and
deer, and twice he had seen bear.
The country he had chosen was wildly beautiful, a strange, lost corner of the land,
somehow cut off from the valley by the rampart of Thousand Springs Mesa.
He awakened suddenly as the sky was growing gray and found himself sitting bolt upright.
And then he heard it again, that low, mounting rumble, far down in the rock beneath
him, as though the very spirit of the mountain were rolling over in his sleep. Only
now the sound was not so plain, it was fainter, farther away.
Chapter VI Hidden Range
At daybreak Ross rolled out of his blankets, built a fire, and made coffee. While
eating, he puzzled over the strange sound he had heard the night before. The only
solution that seemed logical was that it came somehow from the springs. It was obvious
that forces of some sort were at work deep in the rock of the mesa.
Obviously, these forces had made no recent change in the contour of the rock itself
and so must be insufficient for the purpose. Haney continued with his building, working
the morning through.
35
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 29
Unlike many cowhands, he had always enjoyed working with his hands. Now he had the
pleasure of doing something for himself, with the feeling that he was building to
last. By noon he had another wall of heavy stone constructed and the house was beginning
to take shape.
He stopped briefly to eat and slipped on his shirt before sitting down. As he buttoned
it up, he saw a faint movement far down the Soledad trail. Going to his saddlebags
he dug out his glass and took his position in a lookout post among the rocks on the
rim. First making sure the sunlight would not reflect from the glass and give him
away, he dropped flat among the rocks and pointed the glass down trail.
The rider's face was still indistinct, but there was something vaguely familiar about
him. And then as he drew nearer, Ross saw it was Sydney Berdue.
What was the Reynolds foreman doing here? Of course, as this was considered RR range,
he might be checking the grass or the stock. He rode swiftly, however, and paid no
attention to anything around him. When he reached the pool below, he swung down,
seated himself on a rock, and lighted a cigarette.
Waiting for someone.
The sun felt warm and comfortable on his back after the hard work of the morning,
and Ross settled himself comfortably into the warm sand behind the rocks. Thoughtfully,
he turned his glass down the trail, but saw no one else. Then he began scanning the
country and after a few minutes, picked up another rider. The man rode a sorrel horse
with three white stockings and must have approached through the timber as he was
not in sight until the last minute. He rode swiftly up to the pool and swung down.
The two men shook hands. Puzzled, Ross shifted his glass to the brand.
The sorrel carried a VV on his shoulder! A Vernon rider at what was apparently a
secret meeting with the foreman of the RR! The two seated themselves, and Haney waited,
studying them and then the trail. And now he saw two more horsemen, and these were
riding up the trail together. One was a big, slope-shouldered man whom he had seen
in Soledad, and he rode a Box N horse. The last man rode a gray mustang with the
Three Diamonds of Star Levitt on his hip.
Here was something of real interest. The four brands, two of them outwardly at war,
the others on the verge of it, meeting in secret. Haney cursed his luck that he could
not hear what was said, but so far as he could see, Berdue seemed to be laying down
the law.
Then he saw something else.
At first it was a vague suggestion of disturbance in the grass and
36
 30 Louis L,'AMOUR
brush near the foot of the cliff, and then he saw a slight figure. His heart leaped
as he saw Sherry Vernon, crawling nearer!
Sherry Vernon!
Whatever the meeting of the four men meant, it was at least plain that they intended
no one to overhear what they had to say. If the girl was seen, she would be in great
danger. Sliding back from his lookout point, he ran in a crouching run toward the
house and got his Winchester.
By the time he was back, the brief meeting was breaking up. The girl lay still below
him, and the men mounted one by one and rode away. The last to go was Sydney Berdue.
After several minutes had passed, Sherry got to her feet and walked out in the open.
She went to the spring and drank and then stood looking around, obviously in profound
thought.
Ross debated the possibility of getting his horse, but dismissed his idea as impossible.
It would require a couple of hours at least to ride from here to the spring, although
he was within a few hundred feet of it.
The girl walked away toward the woods finally, evidently for her horse. After some
minutes she rode out of the trees on Flame and started down the trail toward the
VV Ranch, distant against the far hills.
There had been a meeting of the four brands, but not of the leaders. Sherry Vernon
had probably overheard what was said. He scowled thoughtfully. The girl had moved
with care and skill, and her actions showed she was no mean woodsman when it came
to playing the Indian. None of the four below had been a tenderfoot, yet she had
approached them and listened without giving herself away. Sherry Vernon, he decided,
would bear some watching herself.
Saddling Rio, Ross rode back through the aspens and down the lonely and dangerous
trail to the rim of the badlands. He still had found no way to enter the lava beds,
and if he was to take the next step in his program of conquest, he must find the
cattle that he was sure still roamed among those remote and lost waterholes in the
lava.
The afternoon was well along before he found himself skirting the rim of the canyon
that opened near the lava beds, and when he reached them it was already late. There
would be little time for a search, but despite that, he turned north, planning to
cut back around the mesa and return to Soledad by way of the springs.
A slight movement among the trees ahead caused him to halt, and then he saw several
elk drifting slowly down a narrow glade toward the lava. His eyes narrowed suddenly.
There was no water of which he knew closer than the Thousand Springs pool, and these
elk were
I
37
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 31 drifting away from it rather than toward it. As they
usually watered at sundown or before daybreak, they must be headed for water elsewhere,
and that could be in the lava.
Dismounting, he ground hitched his horse and watched the elk as they drifted along
until they had almost vanished in the trees; then he mounted and followed them down.
When the trail he was follow ing turned down and joined theirs, he continued along
it. In a few minutes he grunted with satisfaction, for the hoof marks led him right
up to the lava and into a narrow cleft between two great folds of the black rocks.
Riding carefully, for the trail was very narrow and the lava on both sides black
and rough, he kept on, following the elk. It was easy to see how such a trail might
exist for years and never be found, for at times he was forced to draw one leg up
and lift the stirrup out of the way, as it was too narrow otherwise.
The trail wound around and around, covering much distance with out penetrating very
far, and then it dipped down suddenly through a jagged and dangerous-looking cleft.
Ross hesitated, studying the loosely hanging crags above with misgiving. They looked
too shaky and insecure for comfort. He well knew that if a man was ever trapped or
hurt in this lava bed, he might as well give up. There would be no help for him.
Yet, with many an upward glance at the great, poorly balanced chunks of rock, many
of them weighing many tons, he rode down into the cleft on the trail of the elk.
For over a half mile the cleft led him steadily downward, much of the going very
steep, and he realized that he was soon going to be well below the level of the surrounding
country. He rode on, how ever, despite the growing darkness, already great in the
dark bottom of the cleft. Then the trail opened out, and he stopped with a gasp of
amazement.
Before him lay a great circular valley, an enormous valley sur rounded by gigantic
black cliffs that in many places shelved out over the edge, but the bottom was almost
level and was covered with rich green grass. There were a few scattered clumps of
trees, and from somewhere he heard the sound of water.
Drifting on, he looked up and around him, overcome with astonish ment. The depth
of the valley, at least a thousand feet lower than the surrounding country, and the
unending sameness of the view of the beds from above safely concealed its existence.
It was without doubt an ancient volcanic crater, long extinct, and probably the source
of the miles of lava beds that had been spewed forth in some bygone age.
The green fields below were dotted with cattle, most of them
38
 32 Louis L"AMouR
seemingly in excellent shape. Here and there among them he noticed small groups of
horses. Without doubt, these were the cattle and horses, or their descendants, left
by Jim Burge.
Despite the lateness of the hour, he pushed on, marveling at the mighty walls around
him, at the green grass and the white-trunked aspens. Twice he found springs of water,
in both cases bubbling from the ground. Later, he found a spring that ran from a
cleft in the rock and trickled down over the worn face of the cliff for some thirty
feet to sink into the ground below.
None of the cattle seemed in the least frightened of him, although they moved back
as he approached, and several lifted their noses at him curiously.
When he had ridden for well over two miles he drew up in a small glade near a spring,
and stripping the saddle from his horse, he made camp. This would end his rations,
and tomorrow he must start back. Obviously, this would be a good place to start such
a cache of supplies as Scott had advised.
Night brought a strange coolness to the valley. He built a fire and fixed his coffee,
talking to Rio meanwhile. After a moment he became conscious of movement. He looked
up and saw that a dozen or more cows and a bull had moved up. They were staring at
the fire and at him with their amazed bovine eyes. Apparently they had never seen
a man before.
From all appearances, the crater was a large one, several miles across and carpeted
with this rich grass. The cattle were all in good shape. Twice during the night he
heard the cry of a cougar and once the howl of a wolf.
With daylight he was in the saddle once more, but by day the crater proved to be
smaller than he had at first believed; there were probably some two thousand acres
in the bottom. But it was all level ground with rich grass and a good bit of timber.
Twice, when skirting the edges of the crater, he found ice caves. These he knew were
caused by the lava mass's cooling so unevenly that when the surface had become cold
and hard the material below was still molten. As the fluid drained away, caves were
formed under the solid crust. Because lava is a poor heat conductor, the cold air
of the caves was protected. Ice formed there, and no matter how warm it might be
on the surface, there was always snow in the caves. At places, pools of clear, cold
water had formed. He could see that some of these had been used as watering places
by the deer, elk, and wild horses.
When at last he started back toward the cleft through which he had gained entrance
to the crater, he was sure there were several hundred, perhaps as many as six hundred,
head of wild cattle in the bottom of the crater.
39
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 33 He rode out, but not with any feeling of comfort.
Some day he
would scale those cliffs and have a look at the craggy boulders on the rim. If they
ever fell into the cleft, whoever or whatever was in the bottom.would never come
out.
It was dusk of another evening before the palouse cantered down the one street of
Soledad and drew up at the livery stable. A Mexican came to the door, glanced at
him, and then accepted his horse. He looked doubtfully at the strange brand.
"You ride for Senor Pogue or Senor Reynolds?" he asked hesitantly. "For myself,"
Ross said. "What's the matter? The town seems quiet. "
"Si, Senor.
There has been a killing. Rolly Burt of the RR was in a shooting with two hands from
the Box N. One of them was killed and the other wounded, and Senor Burt has disappeared."
"Left the country?"
"Who knows? He was wounded, they say, and I am sorry for that. He was a good man,
Senor Burt." The Mexican lighted a smoke, glancing at Haney. "Perhaps he was no longer
wanted on the RR, either."
"Why do you say that?" Ross asked quickly. "Have you any reason for it?"
"Si. He has told me himself that he has trouble with Senor Berdue." Berdue had trouble
with Burt, yet Burt had been attacked by two Box N hands? That didn't seem to tie
in-or did it? Could there be any connection between this shooting and the meeting
at the springs? In any event, this would probably serve to start hostilities again.
Chapter VII Manhunt Leaving his horse to be cared for, Ross returned to his room
in the
Cattleman's Hotel. Kinney was not in the lobby when he crossed it, and he found no
one on the stairs. He knew how precarious was his own position, for while the house
he was building was reasonably safe from discovery, there was no reason to believe
that someone would not soon discover that the ground had been plowed back under the
trees. It wasn't much, but enough to indicate he was working on the place.
Uneasily, he surveyed the situation. So far everything was pro ceeding according
to plan, and almost too well. He had his water rights under control. He had found
the cattle. He had in the crater and on the mesa two bases of action that were reasonably
safe from attack, yet the situation was due to blow uu at almost aiiv moment.
40
 34 Louis L'AMOUR
Berdue seemed to be playing a deep game. It might be with the connivance of his uncle,
but he might be on his own. Perhaps someone else had the same idea he had, that from
the fighting of Pogree and Reynolds would come a new system of things in the Ruby
Hills country. Perhaps Berdue, or some other person or group planned to be top dog.
Berdue's part in it puzzled Haney, but at least he knew by sight the men he had met
today and would be able to keep a closer watch on them. Also, there were still the
three strange men, of whom he had seen but two, who lived on the VV. Somehow they
did not seem to fit with what he had seen of the Vernons. "The next order of business,"
he told himself, "is a visit to the VV."
A dozen people were eating in the saloon when he entered. He stopped at one side
of the door and surveyed the groups with care. It would not do to walk into Berdue
or Reynolds unawares, for Berdue would not, and Reynolds dared not, ignore him. He
had stepped onto the scene in Soledad in no uncertain terms.
Suddenly he saw Sherry Vernon at a small table alone. On an impulse, he walked over
to her, his spurs jingling. She glanced up at him, momentarily surprised.
"Oh, it's you again? I thought you had left town."
"You knew better than that." He indicated the chair opposite her. "May I sit down?"
"Surely. " She looked at him thoughtfully. "You know, Ross Haney, you're not an entirely
unhandsome sort of man, but I've a feeling you're still pretty savage."
"I live in a country that is savage," he said simply. "It is a country that is untamed.
The last court of appeal is a six-shooter."
"From all I hear, you gave Sydney Berdue some uncomfortable moments without one.
You're quite an unusual man. Sometimes your language sounds like any cowboy, and
sometimes it doesn't, and sometimes your ideas are different."
"You find men of all kinds in the West. The town drunk in Julesburg, when I was there,
could quote Shakespeare and had two degrees. I punched cows on the range in Texas
with the brother of an English lord."
"Are you suggesting that you are a duke in disguise?"
"Me?" he grinned. "No, I'm pretty much what I seem. I'm a cowhand, a drifter. Only
I've a few ideas and I've read a few books. I spent a winter once snowed up in the
mountains in Montana with two other cowhands. All we had for entertainment was a
couple of decks of cards, some checkers, and a half dozen books. Some Englishman
left them there, and I expect before spring we all knew those books by heart, an'
we'd argued every point in them."
41
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 35 "What were they?" she asked curiously.
"Plutarch's Lives,
the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare, some history-oh, a lot of stuff. And good reading.
We had a lot of fun with those books. When we'd played cards and checkers until we
were black in the face, we'd ask each other questions on the hooks, for by the time
we'd been there half the winter we'd read them several times over."
He ate in silence for a few minutes, and then she asked, "Do you know anything about
the shooting?"
"Heard about it. What sort of man is Roily Burt?"
"One of the best. You'd like him, I think. Hard as nails, and no youngster. He's
more than forty, I'd say. But he says what he thinks, and he thinks a good deal."
Ross hesitated a few moments and then said, "By the way, I saw one of your hands
in town yesterday. A tall, slope-shouldered fellow in a checkered shirt. You know
the one I mean?"
She looked up at him, her eyes cool and direct. He had an uncomfortable feeling that
she knew more than she was letting on. Of course, this was the man she had watched
from hiding as he had met Berdue. Probably she had overheard their talk.
"Oh, you mean Kerb Dahl! Yes, he's one of our hands. Why do you ask?"
"Wondering about him. I'm trying to get folks placed around here."
"There are a lot of them trying to get you placed, too."
He laughed. "Sure! I expected that. Are you one of them?"
"Yes, I think I am. You remember I overheard your talk on the trail, and I'm still
wondering where you plan to be top dog?"
He flushed. "You shouldn't have heard that. However, I back down on none of it. I
know how Chalk Reynolds got his ranch. I know how Walt Pogue got his, and neither
of them have any moral or other claim to them aside from possession, if that is a
right.
You probably heard what I told Chalk in here the other night. I could tell him more.
I haven't started on Pogue yet, and I'd as soon you didn't tell anyone I plan to.
However, in good time I shall. You see, he ran old man Carter off his place, and
he had Emmett Chubb kill Vin Carter. That's one of the things that drew me here."
"Revenge?" "Call it that if you like. I have a different name." He leaned toward
her, suddenly eager for her to understand. "You see, you can't judge the West by
any ordered land you know. It is a wild, hard land, and the men that came west and
survived were tough stern men. They fought Indians and white men who were worse than
Indians. They fought winter, flood, storm, drouth, and starvation.
42
 I
36 Louis L'AMOUR
"We have a sheriff here in town who was practically appointed by Chalk Reynolds.
We have a jail that stands on his land. The nearest court is two hundred miles away,
over poor roads and through Indian country. North of us there is one of the wildest
and most remote lands in North America, where a criminal could hide for years.
"The only law we have here is the law of strength. The only justice we have must
live in the hearts and minds of men. The land is hard, and so the men are hard. We
make mistakes, of course, but when there is a case of murder, we try to handle the
murderer so he will not kill again.
"Someday we will have law, we will have order. Then we can let the courts decide,
but now we have none of those things. If we find a mad dog, we kill him, for there
is no dogcatcher or law to do it. If we find a man who kills unfairly, we punish
him. If two men fight and all is equal, regardless of which cause is right, we let
the killing stand. But if a man is shot in the back, without a gun or a fair chance,
then the people or sometimes one man must act.
"I agree that it is not right. I agree that it should be different, but this is yet
a raw, hard land, and we must have our killers, not punished, but prevented from
killing again.
"Vin Carter was my friend. Of that I can say nothing, only that because he was my
friend, I must act for him. He was not a gunfighter. He was a brave young man, a
fair shot, and on the night he was killed, he was so drunk he could scarcely see.
He did not even know what was happening. It was murder.
"So I have come here. It so happens that I am like some of these men. Perhaps I am
ruthless. Perhaps in the long run I shall lose, and perhaps I shall gain. No man
is perfect. No man is altogether right or altogether wrong. Pogue and Reynolds got
their ranches and power through violence. They are now in a dog-eat-dog feud of their
own. When that war is over, I expect to have a good ranch. If it leaves them both
alive and in power, I shall have my ranch, anyway."
She looked at him thoughtfully. "Where, Ross?"
His pulse leaped at the use of his first name, and he smiled suddenly. "Does it matter
now? Let's wait, and then I'll tell you."
The smile left his face. "By the way, as you left me the other evening, a man told
me you were a staked claim and to stay away." "What did you do?" she looked at him
gravely, curiously.
"I told him he was a fool to believe any woman was a staked claim unless she wanted
it so. And he said nevertheless, you were staked. If it is of interest, you might
as well know that I don't believe him. Also, I wouldn't pay any attention if I did."
43
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 37 She smiled. "I would be surprised if you did. Nevertheless,"
her chin lifted a little, "what he said is true."
Ross Haney's heart seemed to stop. For a full minute he stared at her, amazed and
wordless. "You mean-what?"
"I mean that I am engaged to marry Star Levitt. I have been engaged to him for three
months."
She arose swiftly. "I must be going now." Her hand dropped suddenly to his with a
gentle pressure, and then she was gone.
He stared after her. His thoughts refused to order themselves, for of all the things
she might have said or that he might have expected, this was the last. Sherry Vernon
was engaged to Star Levitt.
"Some hot coffee?" It was May, smiling down at him.
"Sure." She cleaned up the table and then left him alone. "Sure," he said again,
speaking softly into empty air. "That's the way it would be. I meet a girl worth
having and she belongs to somebody else!"
"Mind if I sit down?"
He looked up to see Allan Kinney, the hotel clerk, standing by the table. "Go ahead,"
he suggested, "and have some coffee."
May delivered the coffee, and for a few minutes there was silence. Then Kinney said,
"Ross, you'd do a lot for a friend, wouldn't you?" Surprised, he glanced up, and
something in Kinney's eyes told
him what was coming. "Why, sure!" But even as he said it he was thinking it over,
thinking over what he knew Kinney had on his mind.
Of course, he should have guessed it right away. There was no other place. This was
a Walt Pogue, Chalk Reynolds town.
"Do you regard me as a friend? Of course, I haven't known you long, but you seem
like a regular fellow. You haven't any local ties that I can see."
"That's right! I just cut the last one. Or had it cut. What do you want me to do?
Get him out of town?"
Kinney jerked sharply. "You mean-you know?"
"I guessed. Where else would he go? Is Burt hurt bad?"
He can ride. He's a good man, Ross. One of the best. I had no idea what to do about
him because I know they will think of the hotel soon."
"You've got him here?"
Haney was incredulous. "We'd best get him out tonight. That Box N crowd will be in
hunting him, and I've a hunch the RR outfit won't back him the least bit."
"He's in the potato cellar. In a box under the potatoes." "Whatever made you ask
me?" Ross demanded.
Kinney shrugged. "Well, like I said, you hadn't any ties here, and seemed on the
prod, as they say in Soledad. Then, May suggested it. May did, and Sherry."
44
 1
38 Louis L'AMOUR "She knows?"
"I thought of her first. The W is out of this fight so far, and it seemed the only
place, but she told me she would like to, but there were reasons why it was the very
worst place for him. Then she suggested you."
"She did?"
"Uh-huh. She said if you liked Burt, she knew you would do it, and you might do it
just as a slap at Reynolds and Pogue. She didn't seem to believe Reynolds would help,
either."
Haney digested that thoughtfully. Apparently Sherry had a pretty good idea of just
what undercurrents were moving the pawns about in the Soledad chess game. Of course,
she would have heard at least part of Berdue's meeting with Kerb Dahl and the others.
"We can't wait," Haney said. "It will have to be done now. The Box N hands should
be getting to town within the hour. Have you got a spare horse?"
"Not that we can get without everybody knowing, but May has one at her place," Kinney
answered. "She lives on the edge of town. The problem is to get him there."
"I'll get him there," Haney promised. "But I'd best get mounted myself. I know where
to take him, too. However, you'd best throw us together a sack of grub from the restaurant
supplies so there won't be too many questions asked. After I come back again, I can
arrange to get some stuff."
Ross Haney got to his feet. "Get him ready to move. I'll get my horse down to May's
and come back." He listened while Kinney gave him directions about finding her house,
and then hurried to the door.
It was too late.
A dozen hard-riding horsemen came charging up the street and swung down at the hotel.
Two men stepped up on the boardwalk and strode into the hotel. Haney knew one by
his size. It was Walt Pogue himself, and the man at his right was the man who had
been with Berdue at the springs!
Pogue confronted Kinney. "Kinney! I want to search your place! That killer Rolly
Burt is somewhere in town, an' by the Lord Harry we'll have him hangin' from a cottonwood
limb before midnight!"
"What makes you think he'd be here?" Kinney demanded. He was pale and taut, but completely
self-possessed. He might have been addressing a class in history, or reading a paper
before a literary group. "I know Burt, but I haven't seen him."
45
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 39
Chapter VIII Help Needed
Unobtrusively, Ross Haney was lounging against the door to the kitchen, his mind
working swiftly. They would find him, and there was no earthly way to prevent it.
The only chance would be to avert the hanging, to delay it. He knew suddenly that
he was not going to see Rolly Burt hang. He didn't know the man, but Burt had won
his sympathy by winning a fair fight against two men.
"What are you so all-fired wrought up about, Pogue?" he drawled. Walt Pogue turned
square around to face him. "It's you! What part have you got in this?"
Ross shrugged. "None at all! Just wonderin'. Everywhere I been, if a man is attacked
an' kills two men against his one, he's figured to be quite a man, not a lynchin'
job."
"He killed a Box N man!"
"Sure!" Ross smiled. "Box N men can die as well as any others. It was a fair shake
from all I hear. All three had guns, all three did some shootin'. I haven't heard
any Reynolds men kickin' because it was two against one. Kind of curious, that. I'm
wonderin' why all the RR men are suddenly out of town?"
"You wonder too much!" It was the man from the springs. "This is none of your deal!
Keep out of it!"
Ross Haney still leaned against the door, but his eyes turned to the man from the
springs. Slowly, carefully, contemptuously he looked the rider over from head to
heel, then back again. Then he said softly:
"Pogue, you've got a taste for knickknacks. If you want to take this boy home with
you, keep him out of trouble."
The rider took a quick step forward. "You're not running any bluff on me, Haney!"
"Forget it, Voyle! You get to huntin' for Burt. I'll talk to Haney." Pogue's voice
was curt.
Voyle hesitated, his right hand hovering over his gun, but Ross did not move, lounging
carelessly against the door-post, a queer half smile on his face.
With an abrupt movement then, Voyle turned away, speaking quickly over his shoulder.
"We'll talk about it later, Haney!" "Sure," Ross Haney said, and then as a parting
he called softly, "Want to bring Dahl with you?"
Voyle caught himself in midstride, and Voyle's shoulders hunched
46
 40 Louis L'AMOUR
as if against a blow. He stopped and stared back, shock, confusion, and puzzlement
struggling for expression.
Haney looked back at Pogue. "You carry some characters," he said. "That Voyle now.
He's touchy, ain't he?"
"What did you mean about Dahl? He's not one of my riders!"
"Is that right? I thought maybe he was, although I'll admit I didn't know. "
Walt Pogue stared at him, annoyed and angry, yet puzzled, too. The big man walked
back to the table and poured a cup of coffee from the big pot on the stove. He put
sugar in it and then cream. He glanced once over his shoulder at Ross.
Haney felt a slight touch on his shoulder and glanced around and found May at his
shoulder.
"He's gone!" she whispered. "He's not there!"
There was dust on her dress and he slapped at it, and she hurriedly brushed it away.
"Where was he shot?" he asked, under his breath.
"In the leg. He couldn't go far, I know."
Pogue turned around. "What are you two talking about?" he demanded. "Why the whispering?"
"Is it any of your business?" Haney said sharply.
Walt Pogue stiffened and put his cup down hard. "You'll go too far, Haney! Don't
try getting rough with me! I won't take it!"
"I'm not askin' you to!" Ross replied roughly. He straightened away from the doorpost.
"I don't care how you take it. You're not running me or any part of me, and you might
as well learn that right now. If I choose to whisper to a girl, I'm doin' it on my
own time, so keep out of it!"
Pogue stared at him and then at the girl, and there was meanness in his eyes. He
shrugged. "It's a small matter. With all this trouble I'm gettin' jumpy."
Voyle came back into the room accompanied by two other men. "No sign of him, boss.
We've been all over the hotel. Simmons an' Clatt went through the vegetable cellar,
too, but there ain't a sign of him. There was an empty box under those spuds, though,
big enough to hide a man."
Allan Kinney had come back into the room. "What about that, Kinney?"
"Probably somethin' to keep the spuds off the damp ground, much as possible," Haney
suggested carelessly. "Seems simple enough." Pogue's jaw set and he turned swiftly.
"You, Haney! Keep out of
this! I was askin' Kinney, not you!"
This time Voyle had nothing to say; once Ross glanced at him, and the man looked
hastily away. "He's scared," Ross told himself men
47
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 41 tally. "He's mixed in some deal an' don't want his
boss to know it. He's afraid I'll say too much."
Pogue turned and strode from the restaurant, going out through the hotel lobby, his
men trooping after him. When the last man was gone, May turned to Kinney. "Allan,
where can he be? He was there, you know he was there!"
Kinney nodded. "I know." He twisted his hands together. "He must have heard them
and got out somehow. But where could he go?"
Ross Haney was already far ahead of them. He was thinking rapidly. The searchers
would probably stop for a drink, but they would not stop long. Voyle was apparently
in on the plot to have Burt killed, for he had been at the springs, and this had
happened too swiftly. Too little noise had come from the RR for it to be anything
but a plot among them. Or so it seemed to Haney. For some reason Rolly Burt had become
dangerous to them, and he was intended to die in the gunfight the previous night,
but had survived and killed one of their men and wounded another. Now he must be
killed, and soon.
Yet Haney was thinking further than that. His mind was going outside into the darkness,
thinking of where he would go if he were a wounded man with little ammunition and
no time to get away.
He would have to hobble or to drag himself. He would be quickly noticed by anyone
and quickly investigated. He would not dare go far without shelter, for there was
some light outside even though it was night.
Yet Haney was recalling the stone wall. It started not far from the hotel stables
and went around an orchard planted long ago. Some of the stones had fallen, but much
of it was intact. A man might make a fair defense from behind that wall, and he could
drag himself all of a hundred yards behind it.
Ross walked swiftly out of the hotel through the back door. There in the darkness
he stood stock-still at the side of the door letting his eyes become accustomed to
the night. After a minute or two he could pick out the stable, the orchard, and the
white of the stones in the wall.
Walking to the stable, he took the path along its side and then put a hand on the
stone wall and dropped over it with a quick vault. Then he stood still once more.
If he approached Burt too suddenly the wounded man might mistake him for an enemy
and shoot. Nor did he know Burt, or Burt him.
Moving silently, Haney worked his way along the stone wall. It was no more than three
feet high, and along much of it there was a hedge of weeds and brambles. He ripped
a scratch on his hand and
48
 42 Louis L'AMOUR
then swore. Softly, he moved ahead, and he was almost to the corner when a voice
spoke, very low.
"All right, mister, you've made a good guess but a bad one. Let one peep out of you
an' you can die."
"Burt?" "Naw!" the cowhand was disgusted. "This is King Solomon an' I'm huntin' the
Queen of Sheba! Who did you think it would be?"
"Listen, an' get this straight the first time. I'm your friend, and a friend of May
and Kinney from the hotel. I've been huntin' you to help you out of here. There's
a horse at May's shack, an' we've got to get you there just as fast as we can make
it. You hear?"
"How do I know who you are?"
"I'd have yelled, wouldn't I? If I found you?"
"Once, maybe. No more than once though. This Colt carries a kick. Who are you? I
can't see your face."
"I'm Ross Haney. Just blew in."
"The hombre that backed Syd Berdue up? Sure thing, I know you. Heard all about it.
It was a good job."
"Can you walk?"
"I can take a stab at it if you give me a shoulder." "Let's go, then."
With an arm around Burt's waist, Haney got him over the fence and then down the dark
alleyway between it and the stone house next to it. They came out in an open space,
and beyond it there was the trail and then the woods. Once in the shelter of the
trees they would have ample concealment all the way to May's house.
Yet once they were started across that open space, any door opened along the backs
of the buildings facing them from across the street would reveal them, and they would
be caught in the open. There would be nothing for it then but to shoot it out.
"All right, Burt. Here we go! If any door opens, freeze where you are!"
"Where you takin' me?" Supporting himself with a hand on Haney's shoulder, and Haney's
arm around his waist, he made a fair shift at hobbling along.
"May's shack. If anything delays me, get there. Take her horse an' light out. You
know that old trail to the badlands?"
"Sure, but it ain't no good unless you circle around to Thousand Springs. No water.
An' that's one mighty rough ride."
"Don't worry. I'll handle that. You get over there and find a spot to watch the trail
until you see me. But with luck we'll make it together. "
Burt's grip on Haney's shoulder tightened. "Watch it! Somebody openin' that door!"
49
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 43 They stopped, standing stock-still. Ross felt Burt's
off arm moving
carefully, and then he saw the cowhand had drawn a gun. He was holding it across
his stomach, covering the man who stood in the light of the open door. It was the
bartender.
Somebody loomed over the bartender's shoulder. "Hey! Who's that out there?"
"Go on back to your drinks," the bartender said. "I'll go see." He came down the
steps and stalked out toward them, and Haney slid his hand down for his left gun.
The fat man walked steadily toward them until he was close by. He glanced from one
face to the other. "Pat," Burt said softly, "you'd make a soft bunk for this lead."
"Don't fret yourself," he said. "If I hadn't come, one of those drunken Box N riders
would have, an' then what? You shoot me, an' you have them all out here. Go on, beat
it. I'm not huntin' trouble with any side." He looked up at Haney. "Nor with you,
Ross. You don't remember me, but I remember you right well from your fuss with King
Fisher. Get goin' now."
He turned and strode back to the door. "What is it?" A drunken voice called. "If
it's that Rolly Burt, I'll fix him!"
"It ain't. Just a Mexican kid with a horse. Some stray he picked up, an old crowbait.
Forget it!" The door closed.
Ross heaved a sigh. Without further talk, they moved on, hobbling across the open,
then into the trees. There they rested. They heard a door slam open. Men came out
into the street and started up the path away from them. They had been drinking and
were angry. The town of Soledad would be an unpleasant place on this night.
When Haney had the mare saddled, he helped Rolly up. "Start down the trail," he said.
"If you hear anybody comin', get out of sight. When I come, I'll be ridin' that palouse
of mine. You've seen it?"
"Sure. I'll know it. I keep goin' until you catch up, right?" "Right. Keep out of
sight of anybody else, and I mean anybody. That goes for your RR hands as well. Hear
me?"
"Yeah, an' I guess you're right at that. They sure haven't been much help. But I'll
not forget what you've done, a stranger, too." You ride. Forget about me. I've got
to get back into Soledad an'
get my horse out without excitin' comment. Once I get you where I'm takin' you, nobody
will find you."
He watched the mare start up the road at a fast walk, and then he turned back toward
the town.
He heard shouts and yells, and then a drunken cowhand blasted three shots into the
air.
Ross Haney hitched his guns into place and started down the road for Soledad. He
was walking fast.
50
 44 Louis
Chapter IX Baited Trap
The disappearance of Roily Burt was a nine-day wonder in the town of Soledad and
the Ruby Hills. Ross Haney, riding in and out of town, heard the question discussed
and argued from every standpoint. Burt had not been seen in Rico or in Pie Town.
Nor had any evidence of him been found on the trails.
No horses were accounted missing, and the search of the Box N cowhands had been fruitless,
if intensive. Neither Allan Kinney nor May asked any questions of Ross, although
several times he recognized their curiosity.
The shooting and the frenzied search that followed had left the town abnormally quiet.
Yet the rumor was going around that with the end of the coming roundup, the whole
trouble would break open once more and be settled, once and for all. For the time
being, with the roundup in the offing, both ranches seemed disposed to ignore the
feud and settle first things first.
Second only to the disappearance of Roily Burt was Ross Haney himself as a topic
of conversation. He spent money occasionally, and he came and went around Soledad,
but no one seemed to have any idea what he was doing, or what his plans were. Curiosity
was growing, and the three most curious men were Walt Pogue, Chalk Reynolds, and
Star Levitt. There was another man even more curious, and that one was Emmett Chubb.
It was after the disappearance of Burt that Chubb first heard of Haney's presence
in the Ruby Hills. The RR hands ate at one long table presided over by Chalk himself,
and Syd Berdue sat always at his right hand.
"Heard Walt Pogue an' his man Voyle had some words with that Haney," Reynolds said
to Berdue. "Looks like he's gettin' this country buffaloed."
Berdue went white to the lips and had started to make an angry reply when he was
cut off by a sudden movement down the table. Emmett Chubb had lunged to his feet.
The stocky, hard-faced gunman leaned across the table. "Did you say
Haney?"
he rasped. "Would that be Ross Haney?"
"That's right." Reynolds looked up sharply. "Know him?"
Chubb sat back in his chair with a thud. "I should smile I know him! He's huntin'
me!"
"You?" Reynolds stared. "Why?"
Chubb shrugged. "Me an' a friend of his had a run-in. You knew him. Vin Carter."
51
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 45
"Ah? Carter was a friend of Haney's?" Reynolds chewed in silence. "How good is this
Haney?"
"He thinks he's plumb salty. I wouldn't be for knowin', however. Down thataway they
sure set store by him."
A slim, dark-faced cowhand looked up and drawled softly, "I know him, Emmett, an'
when you tangle with him, be ready. He's the hombre who went into King Fisher's hideout
in Mexico after a horse one of Fisher's boys stole off him. He rode the horse out,
too, an' the story is that he made Fisher take water. He killed the hombre who stole
his horse. The fellow was a fool halfbreed who went for his gun."
"So he's chasin' you, Emmett?" Reynolds muttered. "Maybe that accounts for his being'
here."
"An' maybe he's here because of Vin Carter," Berdue said. "If he is, that spells
trouble for Pogue. That won't hurt us any."
In the days that had followed the escape of Rolly Burt, Haney had not been idle.
He had thrown and branded several of the wild cattle and had pushed a few of them
out into the open valley below Thousand Springs. There would be plenty of time later
to bring more of them; all he wanted was for the brand to show up when the roundup
was under way.
Astride the palouse, he headed for the VV. The morning was warm but pleasant, and
he rode down into the shade under the giant old cottonwoods feeling very fit and
very happy. Several of the hands were in sight, and one of them was the slope-shouldered
Dahl, mending a saddle girth.
Bob Vernon saw him, and his brow puckered in a slight frown. He turned and walked
toward Ross Haney. "Get down, won't you? Sherry has been telling me something about
you."
"Thanks, I will. Is she here?" His purpose had been to verify, if he could, some
of his ideas about that conversation he had seen and she had overheard at the spring.
Also, he was curious about the setup at the W. It was the one place he had not catalogued
in his long rides.
"Yes," Vernon hesitated, "she's here." He made no move to get her. Suddenly he seemed
to make a decision. "I say, Haney. You're not coming with the idea of courting my
sister, are you? You know she's spoken for."
That idea," Haney said grimly, "seems to be one everyone wants to sell me. First
heard it from Star Levitt."
Vernon's lips tightened. "You mean Star talked to you about Sherry?"
"He did. And Sherry told me she was to marry him."
Bob Vernon appeared relieved. He relaxed. "Well, then you un
52
 46 Louis L'AMOUR
derstand how things are. I wouldn't want any trouble over her. Star's pretty touchy."
"Understand this. " Haney turned sharply around and faced Bob. "I was told that by
Levitt and by Sherry. Frankly, the fact that she is engaged to him doesn't make a
bit of difference to me. I haven't told that to her, but you're her brother, and
I'm tellin' you. You don't need any long-winded explanations about how I feel about
her. When I'm sure she's in love with him, I'll keep away. Until then, I'm in to
stay!"
Surprisingly, Vernon did not get angry. He appeared more frightened and worried.
"I was afraid of that!" he muttered. "I should have known!"
"Now, if you won't get her for me, I'll go to the house after her!" "After whom?"
They turned swiftly to see Sherry walking toward them, smiling. "Hello, Ross. Who
were you coming after? Who could ever make your voice sound like that?"
"You," he said bluntly. "Nobody but you."
Her smile vanished, but there was warmth in her eyes. "That's nice," she said. "You
say it as if you mean it."
"I do."
"Boss?" A tall, lean, and red-headed cowhand had walked up to them, and when they
turned, he asked, "Who has the Gallows Frame brand?"
"Gallows Frame?" Vernon shrugged. "Never heard of it. Where did you see it?"
"Up toward Thousand Springs. Seen several mighty fine lookin' bulls an' a few cows
up thataway an' all wearin' that brand, a gallows frame with a ready noose hangin'
from it. An' them cows, why they are wilder'n all get-out. Couldn't get nowhere near
em.
"That's something new," Vernon commented. "Have you seen any of them, Sherry?"
She shook her head, but there was a strange expression in her eyes. She glanced over
at Ross Haney, who listened with an innocence combined with humor that would have
been a perfect giveaway to anyone who knew him.
"No, I haven't seen any of them, Bob." She looked at the redhead again. "Mabry, have
you met Ross Haney? He's new around here, but I imagine he's interested in brands."
Mabry turned to Haney and grinned. "Heard somethin' about you," he said. "Seems you
had a run-in with Syd Berdue."
Ross noted that Kerb Dahl's fingers had almost ceased to move in their work on the
girth.
Mabry walked away with Bob Vernon, and Sherry turned to Ross,
53
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 47
her eyes cool but friendly. "I thought you might be interested in knowing Bill Mabry.
He was always a good friend of that cowhand they were looking for in town-Rolly Burt."
Haney's eyes shifted to her thoughtfully. There seemed to be very little this girl
did not know. She would be good to have for a friend, and not at all good as an enemy.
She was as intelligent as she was beautiful. Her eyes never seemed asleep; she seemed
to see everything and to comprehend what she was seeing. Was that a lucky guess about
Burt? Or did she know? Would Kinney have told her?
Of course, he recalled, Kinney had said she had suggested him. That might be it.
She was guessing.
Dahl's ears were obviously tuned to catch every word, so he turned. "Shall we walk
over and sit down?" He took her elbow and guided her to a seat under one of the huge
cottonwoods.
"Sherry," he said suddenly, "I told Bob I didn't intend to pay no attention to this
engagement of yours unless I found out you were in love with Levitt. Are you?"
She looked away quickly, her face suddenly pale and her lips tight. Finally, she
spoke. "Why else would a girl be engaged to a man?" "I haven't an idea. There might
be reasons." He stared at her, and
then'his eyes strayed to Dahl. "Until you tell me you do, and look me in the eye
when you say it, I'm goin' ahead. I want you, Sherry. I want you like I never wanted
anything in this world, an' I mean to have you if you could care for me. I'm not
askin' you now. Just tellin' you. When I came into this valley I came expectin' trouble,
an' I thought I knew all the angles. Well, I've found out there's somethin' more
goin' on here than I expected, an' it's somethin' you know about.
"Maybe you don't know it all. I'm bankin' you don't. You heard me talkin' to myself.
Well, what I said then goes. I'm here alone, an' I'm ridin' for my own brand, an'
you've guessed right, for that Gallows Frame is mine, an' the noose is for anybody
who wants to hang on it.
"The RR spread an' the Box N are controlled by a couple of range pirates. They whipped
and murdered smaller, weaker men to get what they've got. If they keep it, they'll
know they've been in a fight."
Sherry had listened intently. Her face had become serious. "You can't do anything
alone, Ross! You must have help!" She put her and on his arm. "Ross, is Rolly safe?
Understand, I am not asking
You where he is, just if he is safe. He did me a good turn once, and he's an honest
man."
"He's safe. For your own information, and not to be repeated, he's
54
 48 Louis L'AMOUR
workin' for me now. But he can't do much for another ten days or more, an' by that
time it may be too late. Can I rely on Mabry?" "You can. If he will work for you,
he'll die for you and kill for you if
it's in the right kind of fight. He was Burt's best friend."
"Then if I can talk to him, you'll lose a hand." He looked down at her. "Sherry,
what's goin' on here? Who is Star Levitt? Who are those men I saw in town? Who's
this Kerb Dahl, and Voyle? I know there's some connection."
She got up quickly. "I can't talk about that. Star Levitt is going to be my husband."
Ross got up, too. Roughly, he picked up his hat and jerked it on his head; then he
stood there, hands on hips, staring at her.
"Not Levitt!" he said harshly. "Well, if you won't tell me, I'll find out anyway!"
He turned abruptly and saw the two men he had seen in town at the restaurant. Kerb
Dahl and the shorter, hard-faced man.
In that single instant he became aware of many things. Bob Vernon stood in the door,
white as death. Kerb Dahl, a hard gleam in his eyes, was on the right and he walked
with elbows bent, hands swinging at his gun butts. Behind them Haney could see the
big, old tree with a bench around it and a rusty horseshoe nailed to the trunk. Two
saddled horses stood near the corral, and the sunlight through the leaves dappled
the earth with shadow.
Behind him there was a low moan of fear from Sherry, but he did not move, but waited
and watched the two men coming toward him. It could be here. It could be now. It
could be at this moment.
Dahl spoke first, his lean, cadaverous face hard and with a curiously set expression.
The shorter man had moved apart from him a little. Haney remembered the girl behind
him, and knew he dare not fight-but some sixth sense warned him that somewhere else
would be a third man, probably with a rifle. The difference.
Kerb Dahl spoke. "You're Ross Haney. I reckon you know me. I'm Dahl, an' this here
is the first time you've come to the VV an' this is goin' to be the last. You come
on this place again an' you get killed. We don't aim to have no troublemakers around."
Ross Haney held very still, weighing his next words carefully. This could break into
a shooting match in one instant. "Then have your artillery ready when I come back,"
he warned them. "Because when I'm ready, I'll come back."
"We told you."
Ross looked them over coldly, knowing they had expected to find him as tough and
ready for a fight as he had been with Chalk Reynolds and Berdue. Yet there was a
queer sense of relief in their
55
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 49 eves, too. Haney guessed that while there must be
a hidden rifleman, these men were afraid for their skins.
Mabry stood nearby as Ross swung into the saddle. "I've a job for \'ou if you can
get to town within the next twelve hours. At the saloon. You might run into a friend
of yours."
Mabry did not reply, so Haney rode away leaving the cowhand standing there. He had
spoken softly enough, so he knew he was not overheard. Yet Haney knew he was no closer
to a solution than before.
There was danger here. An odd situation existed in the Ruby Hills. Scowling, he considered
it. On the one hand was Walt Pogue with Bob Streeter and Repp Hanson, two notorious
killers. On the other was Chalk Reynolds with Syd Berdue and Emmett Chubb.
Here at the VV was a stranger situation. Bob and Sherry Vernon, who owned the ranch,
seemed completely dominated by Levitt and their own hands. Also Levitt had a strong
claim of some kind on Sherry herself. What could be behind that? Scowling, Ross considered
it. Whatever it was, it could mean everything to him, not only for his plans in the
valley, but because of his love for Sherry.
Somewhere in this patchwork of conflicting interests, there was another grouping,
that small band who had gathered at the springs with Syd Berdue. The band was made
up of at least one man from each ranch. Of Kerb Dahl of the VV, Voyle of the Box
N, and Tolman of the Three Diamonds.
Where did this last group stand? Voyle, from his actions, wanted Pogue to know nothing
of his tie-up with Dahl. Did Reynolds know about Berdue's meeting at the springs?
Who was behind it?
Chapter X Narrow Squeak
Quiet reigned at the Bit and Bridle when Ross Haney rode into town in the late afternoon.
He left his horse at the rail and strolled through the half doors to the cool interior.
Only Pat the bartender was present. The room was dusky and still. Pat idly polished
glasses as he came in, glanced up at him, and then Put a bottle and a glass on the
bar. Ross leaned an elbow on the hardwood and dug out the makings. He built a smoke
without speaking, liking the restfulness and coolness after his hot ride, and thinking
over what he had seen at the VV.
"You've lived here a long time, Pat?" Uh-huh. Before Carter was killed." "Lots of
changes?"
56
 50 Louis L'AMOUR "Lots."
"There's goin' to be more, Pat." "Room for 'em."
"Where do you stand?"
Pat turned abruptly and fixed his eyes on Haney. "Not in the middle. Not with Reynolds
or Pogue. As for you, I'm neither for you nor against you."
"That's plain enough." Haney didn't know whether to be pleased or angry. After Pat's
attitude in regard to Burt, he had hoped he might be an ally. "But you don't sound
like much help."
"That's right. No help at all. I've got my saloon. I'm doin' all right. I was here
before Reynolds and Pogue. I'll be here after they are gone. "
"And after I'm gone?"
"Maybe that, too." Pat suddenly turned again and rested his big hands on the bar.
"You fool around with Pogue all you want. With Reynolds, too. But you lay off of
Star Levitt an' his crowd, you hear? They ain't human. They'll kill you. They'll
eat you like a cat does a mouse, when they get ready."
"Maybe." Ross struck a match with his left hand. "Who are his crowd?"
Pat looked disgusted. "You've been to the VV. He runs that spread. Don't you be too
friendly with that girl, either. She's poison." Haney let that one ride. Maybe she
was poison. Maybe feeling the
way he did about her was the thing that would break him. He was a strong man. He
had not lived that long under the conditions he knew without knowing his own strength
and knowing how it com pared with the strength of others. He knew that when he was
sure he would push his luck to any degree, but as yet, he was not pushing it; as
yet, no one in the valley knew his real intentions.
Pogue believed he had come looking for Chubb. Reynolds and Berdue, despite their
hatred for him, believed he was after Pogue. Each was prepared to keep hands off
in hopes he would injure the other. Yet the roundup was going to blow the lid off,
for the roundup was going to show that he had cattle on the range and had pitched
his hat into the ring. Then he would be in the middle of the fight, with every man's
hand against him.
Pat's warning was right. Pogue and Reynolds were dangerous, but nothing to Levitt's
crowd. Lifting his glass, Ross studied his reflec tion in the mirror, the reflection
of a tall, wide-shouldered young man with blunt, bronzed features and a smile that
came easily to eyes that were half cynical, half amused.
He was a tall young man with a flat-brimmed, flat-crowned black hat and a gray shield-chested
shirt and a black knotted kerchief,
57
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 51 black crossed belts, supporting the worn holsters
and walnut-stocked guns.
He was a fool, he decided, to think as he did about Sherry. What could he offer such
a girl?
On the other hand, what could Star Levitt offer her?
Regardless, he was here to stay. When he rode the palouse into the street of Soledad
he had come to remain. If he had to back it with gunfire, he would do just that.
Carefully, he considered the state of his plans. There was no fault to find there.
In fact, he had progressed beyond where he had expected in that he had a friend,
an ally, a man who would stay with him to the last ditch.
He had Rolly Burt.
Camping on the mesa, the wounded man was rapidly knitting. They had talked much,
and Burt had told him what to expect of the roundup. He knew the characters and personalities
of the people of the Ruby Hills, and he knew something more of Pogue and Reynolds.
Over nights beside the campfire they had yarned and argued and talked. Both of them
had ridden for Goodnight, both for John Chisum. They knew the same saloons in Tascosa
and El Paso. Both had been over the trail to Dodge and to Cheyenne.
Both had been in Uvalde and Laredo, and they talked the nights away of cattle and
horses, of rustling and gunfighters, until they knew each other and knew they spoke
the same language. Rolly had talked much of Mabry. He was a good man. While Mabry
liked both Bob and Sherry Vernon, he had confided to Burt that he must leave the
VV or be killed.
"Why were the Box N boys gunnin' for you, Rolly?"
A frown gathered between Rolly Burt's eyes. He looked up at Ross over the fire. His
blue eyes were puzzled and disturbed. "You know, I can't figure that. It was a set
deal. I saw that right away. They'd been sent to murder me."
"How'd you happen to be in town?" "Berdue sent me in for a message."
"I see." Ross told him then about the meeting below the mesa, everything but Sherry's
part in it. "There's a tie-up there somewhere. I think Berdue sent you in on purpose,
an' he had those Box N boys primed to kill you."
But why?"
"Something you know, probably. The way I have it figured is that Syd Berdue is in
some kind of a double-cross that he don't want Chalk to know about. Maybe he figured
he'd tipped his hand somehow, and you knew too much. Voyle is in the deal with him,
and I figured from the way he acted the other night in front of Pogue that
58
 52 Louis L'AMOUR
he's double-crossing Walt. And I think Star Levitt is the man behind the whole thing!"
"You mean a deal between Berdue and Levitt? But they are supposed to be on the outs."
"Sure, and what better coverup? You keep an eye on the springs. They may meet again."
"Say!" Burt glanced up. "Something I've been meaning to ask you. Several times I've
heard a funny kind of rumbling, sounds like it comes out of the rock under me. You
heard it?"
"Uh-huh. Don't reckon it amounts to much, but someday we'll do some prowling. Kind
of gives an hombre the shivers."
Standing now at the Bit and Bridle bar, Ross Haney went over that conversation. Yes,
he was ahead of his plans in having such an ally as Rolly Burt.
He leaned his forearms on the hardwood and turned his head to glance out into the
street. The rose of the setting sun had tinted the dusty, unpainted boards of the
old building opposite with a dull glow, and beyond it, in the space between the buildings,
a deep shadow had already gathered. At the rail, Rio stamped his feet against a vagrant
fly and blew contentedly.
It was a quiet evening. Suddenly, he felt a vague nostalgia, a longing for a home
he had never known, the deep, inner desire for peace, his children about him, the
quiet evening rest on a wide porch after a hard day on the range, and the sound of
a voice inside, a voice singing.
Yet when he straightened and filled his glass again, the guns felt heavy against
his legs.
Someday, with luck, things would be different.
Then the half doors pushed open, and Star Levitt stood there, tall and handsome against
the fading light. He looked for an instant at Ross and then came on into the room.
He wore the same splendid white hat, a white buckskin vest, and perfectly creased
gray trousers tucked into polished boots.
As always, the worn guns struck the only incongruous note. His voice was easy, confident.
"Thanks. I've got one." In the mirror his eyes caught the difference between them,
his battered shabbiness against the cool magnificence of Levitt.
Levitt's smile was pleasant, his voice ordinary and casual. "Planning to leave soon?"
"No." Haney's voice was flat. "I'm never going to leave."
"That's what the country needs, they tell me. Permanent settlers, somebody to build
on. It's a nice thought, if you can stick it."
59
 I
THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 53
"That's right. How about you, Levitt? Do you think you'll be able to stick it when
Reynolds and Pogue get to checking brands?"
He heard a glass rattle in Pat's suddenly nervous fingers. He knew he had taken the
play away from Levitt with that remark, and he followed it up. "I've been over the
range lately, and there's a lot of steers out there with VV's made over into Three
Diamonds, an' Box N's to Triple Box A's, an' I understand that brand happens to be
yours, too."
Levitt had straightened and was looking at him, all the smile gone from his face.
"You understand too much, Haney! You're getting into water that's too deep for you,
or for any drifting cowhand!"
"Am I? Let me judge. I've waded through some bad water a few times, an' where I couldn't
wade, I could swim."
Star Levitt's eyes had widened, and the bones seemed to stretch the skin of his face
taut and hard. He was not a man used to being talked back to, and he wasn't used
to being thwarted. He was shrewd, a planner, but in that instant, Ross learned something
else of him.
He had a temper, and when pushed, he got angry. Such a man was apt to be hasty. All
right, Ross told himself, let's see.
"Another thing: you spoke the other day about a staked claim. I'm curious to see
how deep your stakes are driven, so I'm going to find out for myself, Levitt. I don't
think that claim is very secure. I think a little bit of bad weather an' all your
stakes would shake loose. You're a big boy, Levitt, but you're not cutting the wide
swath you think you are. Now you know where I stand, so don't try running any bluffs
on me. I won't take a pushing around!"
"Stand aside, Star, an' let me have him!" The voice rang in an almost empty room,
and Haney's hair prickled along his scalp as he saw Emmett Chubb standing just inside
the door. "I want him, anyway, Star!"
Ross Haney stood, his feet wide apart, facing them, and he knew he was in the tightest
spot of his life. Two of the deadliest gunmen in the country were facing him, and
he was alone. Cold and still he waited, and the air was so tense he could hear the
hoarse breathing of the bartender beside him and across the bar.
So still was the air in the room that Bill Mabry's voice, low as it was, could be
heard by all.
"If they want it, Haney, I'll take Star for you. He's right here under my gun."
Levitt's eyes did not waver. Haney saw the quick calculation in the big man's eyes
and then saw decision. Levitt was sharp, and this situation offered nothing for anybody.
It was two and two, and Mabry's position at the window from which he spoke, commanded
60
 Louis L'AMOUR I
the situation perfectly, as he was just slightly behind both Levitt and Chubb.
It was Pat who broke the stalemate. "Nobody does any shootin' here unless it's me!"
he said flatly. "Mabry, you stand where you are. Chubb, you take your hand away from
that gun an' get out of that door, face first. Star, you foller him. I ain't aimin'
to put clean sawdust on this here floor again today. Now git!"
He enforced his command with the twin barrels of a shotgun over the edge of the bar,
and nobody had any argument with a shotgun at close quarters. A six-gun warrants
a gamble, but there is no gamble with a sawed-off scattergun.
Chubb turned on his heel and strode from the room, and Star smiled suddenly, but
his eyes were cold as they turned to Haney. "You talk a good fight," he said. "We'll
have to see what you're holding!"
"All right," Ross replied shortly. "I'll help you check brands at the roundup!"
Levitt walked out, and then Bill Mabry put a foot through the open window and stepped
into the bar. He grinned.
"That job open?" Haney laughed.
"Friend, you've been working for me for the last three minutes!" he declared warmly.
"You two finish your drinks and pull out," Pat said dryly. "Powder smoke gives me
a headache!"
is
Chapter XI Sinister Signs
Gathered over the fire in the hollow atop the mesa crouched three men, not daring
to use the partly constructed house, as the glow of the fire might attract attention.
Here, in a more sheltered position far back from the rim, they could talk in quiet
and without fear of the fire attracting attention.
Burt, whose leg was much better, was cooking. "It ain't all clear, Ross, but I think
you've got the right idea. It looks like Levitt is engineerin' some kind of a steal
if Voyle, Dahl, an' Berdue are in it with him. I do know this: there's been a passel
of hard cases comin' into the valley here lately. They ain't all tied in with the
Box N or the RR by any means."
"Sure, look at Streeter an' Hanson. They are with Pogue, but how far can he count
on 'em? I think Streeter an' Hanson will stay out of
61
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 55 things if Levitt says to. I think he's cut the ground
from under the feet of both men.'
"Those brands I've looked at aren't intended to fool anybody, it seems to me," Haney
commented. "I think Levitt plans to start trouble. It's my opinion that he'll blow
the lid off things just when the rest of them are standin' by for the roundup. How
many reliable hands has Vernon got?"
"Three or four. Dahl and his partner ran several off. A man sure don't feel comfortable
workin' around a ranch with two hombres on the prod like that."
"What goes on around there?" Haney asked Mabry. "You've lived on that spread an'
should know."
Mabry shrugged. "I sure don't know," he said honestly. "Seems to be a lot of movin'
around at night on that spread, but Dahl or his partner are usually by the door,
an' they go out to see what it's all about. Several times at night riders have showed
up there, leavin' hard-ridden horses behind when they take off. No familiar brands
but one. That I think I've seen down Mexico way."
Ross took the plate he was handed and dished up some frijoles and then accepted the
coffee Burt poured for him. There seemed to be but one answer. He would have to do
some night riding and look around a little. Maybe he could figure it out. After all,
there couldn't be many possibilities.
"Well," Burt suggested at last, "the roundup starts tomorrow. Before it has gone
very far, we'll know a lot of things."
From the rim of the mesa they watched all the following morning. Reynolds's hands
were rounding up cattle, driving them out of the timber and down into the flat. Some
of the Box N riders were part of the group.
The weather was hot and dry, and dust arose in clouds. The cattle moved from the
shade and ample water of the springs with reluc tance. As always, it gave Ross a
thrill to watch the cattle gathered and to see a big herd moving. He kept back and
out of sight but took turns with Mabry at watching the work.
Regardless of their sympathies, there were good cattlemen on both sides. The riders
got the cattle out of the brakes and started them down valley to the accompaniment
of many yells, much shout ing back and forth, and the usual good-natured persiflage
and joking that is part of any roundup crew. As far as his glass was able to see,
the same thing was happening. There would be several thousand head of stock to work
in this roundup, and it would move on down the range for many miles before completed.
Mabry slid up alongside of him at noon on the second day. "You want me to rep for
you, or will you tackle it your own self?"
Haney thought a minute. "We'll both go down, but we'll go loaded
62
 56 Louis L'AMOUR
for bear. I think hell is going to break loose down there before many
days. "
"If they start to fight, what do we do?" Mabry asked keenly.
"Pull out. We don't have a battle with any of them. Not yet, we don't, but almost
any of them might take a shot at us. When they see what's happened, that I've got
cattle on this range, they aren't going to be too happy about it."
"Have you seen Scott?"
"Only for a minute or two. He's advisin' me to get more hands, but I don't want anybody
killed, neither of you nor myself, either. If there's only three of us we'll play
our cards the way we should, close to our belt. If there were more we might take
chances and get somebody killed. If they start a battle, pull out."
"Don't you rate that Levitt too low, Haney." Mabry shook his head seriously. "He's
cold-blooded, and he'll do whatever he's a mind to, to get his way on this range.
He hasn't any use for either Pogue or Reynolds, but he's a sight worse than either
of them."
It was good advice, and the following day when the two drifted down off the mesa
toward the roundup, Ross Haney was thinking about it.
"Remember one thing," he advised Mabry. "We may not be together all the time. Don't
let yourself get sucked in. Hold to the outer edge all the time, and keep an eye
on the hands we've talked about whom we believe to be tied in with Levitt. I wouldn't
be surprised at anything. If they start scattering out and seem to be taking up any
definite positions, ease out of there quick!"
Walt Pogue looked unhappy when he saw the two riding up. Then he brightened noticeably.
"You two hunting work? I need some men. "
"No." Haney noted that Chalk Reynolds was riding over. "I've come to rep for my brand."
Pogue's head came down and his eyes squinted. He leaned toward them, and his somewhat
thick lips parted. "Did you say-your brand?"
"That's right-the Gallows Frame."
The big rancher's face went white and then darkened with a surge of blood. He reined
his horse around violently. "Who said you could run cattle on this range?"
Ross Haney shrugged. Chalk Reynolds looked as astonished and angry as Pogue. "Does
anybody have to say so? Strikes me this here is government land, and my stock has
as much right to run on it as yours, an' maybe more right."
"You'll find there's a difference of opinion on that!" Chalk Reynolds put in violently.
"This range is overcrowded now."
63
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 57 "Tell that to Star Levitt. He's on it, with two brands."
This was obviously no news to either of them, but neither had anything to say for
a minute, and then Reynolds said coldly, "Well, he'll be told! From what I hear somebody's
doin' some mighty smooth work with a cinch ring!"
Ross hooked his leg around the saddle horn and began to dig for the makings. "Reynolds,
if you an' Pogue will take a look at those altered brands, you'll see that whoever
altered them doesn't give a hoot whether you know it or not. He's throwin' it right
in your face an' askin' what you intend to do!"
"I'll do plenty!" Chalk bellowed. "There's goin' to be a new setup on this range
after this roundup is over!"
"You throwin' that at me?" Pogue demanded. Fury was building in the man, and he was
staring at Reynolds with an ugly light in his eye.
"Why don't you two either go to it or cut it out?" Haney drawled. "Or are you both
afraid of Levitt? He's the hombre who's cuttin' in on you. He doesn't even bother
to bring his own cows, he brands yours!"
Ross chuckled, and Reynolds's face went white. He turned and spoke flatly, the rage
trembling behind his even tones. "We might get together, Walt an' I, long enough
to get shut of you!"
"Take first things first," Ross said. "An' you'd better learn this right now, Chalk.
An' you, too, Pogue. I came here to stay. If you fellows stay here, it will be with
me alongside of you. If you go, I'll still be here. I didn't come to this valley
by chance. I came here on purpose and with a definite idea in mind. Any bet you make,
I'll double and raise. So anytime you want to get into the game with me, just start
the ball rolling, anyway you like!"
He struck a match and lighted his smoke, then dropped his leg back and kicked his
foot into the stirrup. Coolly and without a backward glance, he rode away.
Bill Mabry sat quietly for a minute or two, watching him ride. Pogue glared at him.
"What's in this, Bill? You've always been a good man."
"You listen to him," Mabry advised dryly. "He's mucho malo hombre, if you get what
I mean. But only when he's crossed. He's got no reason to like either of you, but
he's got other things on his mind now. But in case either of you wonder where I stand.
Me an' my six-gun, we stand right alongside of Ross Haney. And that's where you'll
find Rolly Burt, too!"
"Burt?" Pogue's face flamed. "Where is that murderin' son?"
Bill Mabry turned, his hand on the cantle of the saddle: "Listen, lv don't you find
out why two of your men were gunning for him,
64
 58 Louis L'AMOUR
Pogue? I'll bet a paint pony you don't know! An' why don't you, Chalk Reynolds, find
out why none of your boys were in town that night to side Burt? Why did your nephew
send him into town with a message?"
Mabry turned and cantered his horse over to Ross. "I gave 'em some more," he said
briefly, and explained.
Haney chuckled. "Their ears will be buzzing for a week if they live that long. Some
nice stock here, Bill, at that."
"How many head have you got out here?"
"Not many. Couple of dozen head is all. Just something to make them unhappy."
"Suppose they start to get sore? Reynolds an' Pogue both can be mighty mean."
"We'll get meaner. I've got them cold-decked, Bill. Someday I'll tell you about it.
I've got them all cold-decked. The only way they can beat me in the long run is with
hot lead."
"Maybe. But that Star Levitt is poison."
"You think Pogue and Reynolds will get through the roundup without a fight?"
"No. There's too much hard feelin' amongst the boys. Somebody will blow his top,
and then the whole thing will bust up in a shootin' match. "
Ross Haney looked across the valley, watching the familiar scene with a little of
the old lift within him. This was the roundup, the hardest work in a cowhand's life,
and in many ways, the highest point. They cussed the roundup and loved it. It was
hot, dusty, full of danger from kicking hoofs and menacing horns, but filled with
good fellowship and comradely fun.
The waving sea of horns tossed and rolled and fell as the cattle milled, or the herd,
starting to line out for somewhere, anywhere, was turned back on itself by some cowhand
quick to stop the movement. At such times the horns would send a long ripple of movement
across the herd.
Wild-eyed steers lunged for a getaway, but were quickly harried back into the herd.
At the branding pens men were gathered, the sharp line of demarcation between the
RR and Box N a little broken here by the business of the day. Elsewhere, the men
from the two big outfits drew off to themselves, worked together, and avoided contact
with the rival ranch hands.
Star Levitt, astride a magnificent white horse, was everywhere to be seen. For a
time he was at the branding pens, and then he was circling the herd. Finally, sighting
Ross Haney and Mabry, he walked his horse toward them. Ross saw Mabry stiffen and
saw the cowhand's face tighten and grow cold. Certainly, there was no love lost here.
I
65
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 59 "How are you, Haney?" Levitt was easy, casual. He
seemed to
have forgotten completely the events of the day in the Bit and Bridle. He was clean
shaven as always, and as always he was immaculate. The dust of the roundup seemed
scarcely to have touched him.
Mabry, glancing at the two, was struck for the first time at something strikingly
similar in the two men; only there was a subtle difference that drew the cowhand
inexorably to Ross Haney.
Both were big men, Levitt the taller and heavier and probably somewhat softer. Ross
was lean and hard, his rugged build seeming so lean as to belie his actual weight,
which was some two hundred pounds. Yet in the faces of both men there was strength,
and in the faces of both men there was the look of command. Haney's manner was easy
and careless, yet there was something solid about him, something rocklike that was
lacking in the brittle sharpness of Star Levitt.
These two were shaped by nature to be enemies, two strong men with their faces turned
in the same direction, yet backed by wholly varied thinking. The one ruthless and
relentless, willing to take any advantage, willing to stop at nothing. The other,
hard, toughened by range wars and fighting, with the rough-handed fair play of the
western plains, yet equally relentless. It could be something, Mabry thought, if
they ever came together in physical combat.
Ross began building a smoke. "Looks like a good herd. You got many cows here?"
"Quite a few." Levitt glanced at him sharply. "I hear you have some, too. That you're
running the Gallows Frame brand."
"That's right." Ross lighted his smoke and eased his seat on the palouse. "It's a
good brand."
"Seems so. Strange that I hadn't heard of any cattle coming into the country lately.
Did you pick yours up on the range?"
At many times in many places such a remark would have meant shooting. After Haney's
equally insulting remarks in the Bit and Bridle they were not important. These two
knew their time was coming, and neither was in a rush. Levitt was completely, superbly
confident. Ross hard and determined, his hackles raised by this man, his manner always
verging on the outrightly aggressive.
No, I didn't need to. Your pattern suits you, mine suits me." He inhaled deeply and
let the smoke trickle out through his nostrils. ".My cattle were already here."
The remark drew the response he wanted. It was a quick, nervous, and irritable scowl
from Levitt. "That's impossible!" he said. Only three brands ran on this range until
I moved in!"
66
 60 Louis
Haney smiled, knowing his enigmatic smile and manner would infuriate Levitt.
"Star," he drawled, "you're an hombre that figures he's right smart, an' you might
be if you didn't figure the other fellow was so all-fired dumb.
"A man like you ain't got a chance to win for long in any game for that reason. You
take everybody for being' loco or dumb as a monthold calf. You ride into everything
full of confidence an' sneers. You're like most crooks. You think everything will
turn out right for you. Why, you're so wrong it don't need any argument!
"You came into this country big an' strong. You were goin' to be the boss. You saw
Reynolds an' Pogue, an' you figured them for easy marks. You maybe had something
on the Vernons, I haven't figured that out yet, but like so many crooks you overlooked
the obvious.
"Let me tell you something, my cutthroat friend, an' get it straight: you lost this
fight before you started. You might win with bullets, that's still anybody's guess,
but you'll lose. You're smart in a lot of ways, an' if you were really smart you'd
turn that horse of yours and start out of this country an' never stop until you're
five hundred miles east of Tascosa."
Levitt smiled, but the smile was forced. For the first time the big man was uneasy,
yet it was only for a moment. "I may not be as smart as I think, Haney, but no four-bit
cowhand is going to outsmart me."
Ross turned slightly. "Bill, let's drift down toward the pens. I want to see what
Reynolds an' Pogue think of those altered brands."
Chapter X1I Roundup Massacre
Nonchalantly Haney turned his back on Levitt and started away. Mabry rode beside
him, occasionally stealing a glance his way. "Boss, you're sure turnin' the knife
in that hombre. What you aimin' to do, force his hand?"
"Somethin' like that. It does me good just to goad him. But you keep your eyes open,
because he's got something cookin' now. I only wish," his brow creased with worry,
"I knew what he had on the Vernons. You don't suppose she really cares for that hombre,
do you?"
Mabry shrugged. "I can guess what a fool cow will do, an' I can outguess a bronc,
but keep me away from women. I never could read the sign right to foller their trail.
Just when you think you can
67
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 61
read the brand, they turn the other way an' it looks altogether different."
Despite the growing sense of danger, the roundup was moving very well, yet the tenseness
of the riders for all the brands was becoming increasingly evident. Several times
Ross saw Sherry, but she avoided him. Bob Vernon was there, working like any of his
men and showing himself to be a fair hand and a very willing one. Yet as his eyes
roved the herd and searched the faces of the riders, Ross could see that under the
heat, the irritating confusing dust, and the hard labor, tempers were growing short.
On the third day, when the roundup had moved to the vicinity of Soledad, the break
came. He had been trying to find a chance to talk to Sherry, and suddenly he saw
it. The girl had been talking with Levitt. She had started away from him, riding
toward the cotton woods that marked the VV ranch house.
Ross started after her and noticed Kerb Dahl, his hard, lupine face set grimly, staring
after him. Dahl had drawn aside from the crowd and was building a smoke. Mabry, who
had been working hard all morning, was still in the center of things, but Voyle was
saddling a fresh horse.
Haney overtook Sherry, and she looked up at him. He noticed for the first time how
thin she had grown and how white her face was. "Sherry?" Surprisingly, his voice
was unsteady. "Wait a minute." She drew up, waiting for him, but he thought she waited
without
any desire for conversation. She said nothing as he rode alongside. "Leaving so soon?"
She nodded. "Star said the men were getting pretty rough in their talk, and they'd
be more comfortable if I went in."
"I've been hoping I'd have a chance to talk to you. You've been avoiding me." His
eyes were accusing, but bantering.
She looked at him directly then. "Yes, Ross, I have. We must not see each other again.
I'm going to marry Star, and seeing you won't do."
"You don't love him." The statement was flat and level, but she avoided his glance
and made no response.
Then suddenly she said, "Ross, I've got to go. Star insisted I leave right away."
Haney's eyes hardened. "Do you take orders from him? What is this, anyway? Are you
a slave? Haven't you a chance to make up your own mind?"
Her face reddened, and she was about to make a quick and probably angry retort when
her remark hit him. He seized her wrist. "Sherry, you say Star
insisted? That you leave now?"
"Yes_" She was astonished and puzzled by his expression. "He
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The remark trailed off, for Ross Haney had turned sharply in his saddle. Kerb Dahl
had finished his cigarette. Voyle was fumbling with his saddle girth, and for the
first time, Haney noticed that he carried a rifle in his saddle scabbard, a rifle
within inches of his hands. Ross's eyes strayed for the white horse and found it
on the far side.
He turned quickly. "Sherry, he's right. Get back to that ranch as fast as you can,
and don't leave it!"
He wheeled his horse and started back toward the branding pens at a rapid canter,
hoping he would be in time. A small herd of cattle was drifting down toward the pens,
and behind it was Streeter and Repp Hanson.
11
As he drew up on the edge of the branding, Mabry was just straightening up from slapping
a brand on a steer. "Bill!" Haney had to speak three times before Mabry heard him,
and then the redheaded cowhand turned and walked toward him. "Look out, Bill! It's
coming!"
His remark might have been a signal, for Emmett Chubb, sitting his horse near the
corral on the outside of the pole fence, spoke up and pointed his remark at Riggs,
a Box N rider. "You all feet or just nat'rally dumb?"
Riggs looked up sharply. "What's the matter with you, Chubb? I haven't seen you down
here doin' any work!"
Riggs was a slim, hard-faced youngster and a top hand. His anger was justifiable,
and he was not thinking or caring who or what Chubb was. Riggs had worked while the
gunman lounged in his saddle, carrying his perpetual sneer.
"Shucks!" Chubb said. "You Box N hands done enough work afore the roundup, slappin'
brands on everythin' in sight! Bunch of tinhorn cow thieves!"
"You're a liar!" Riggs snapped, and Chubb's hand flashed for his gun. At that, Riggs
almost made it. His gun was coming up when Chubb's first shot smashed him in the
middle. He staggered back, gasping fiercely, struggling to get his gun up.
Instantly, the branding pens were bursting with gunfire. Mabry swung into the saddle
and whipped his horse around the corner of the stock pens, and he and Ross Haney
headed for the timber. "It's their fight," Mabry said bitterly. "Let them have it!"
"Look!" Haney was pointing.
Mabry glanced over his shoulder as the firing burst out, and his face went hard and
cold.
Streeter and Hanson, from their saddles, had opened up on Reynolds and Pogue. Voyle
was firing over the saddle of his horse, and cattle were scattering in every direction.
Dust arose in a thick cloud.
69
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 63 From it came the scream of a man in agony and then
another burst of firing.
Mabry gasped out an oath. The freckles were standing out against the dead white of
his face. "Pogue's own men turned on him!" "Yeah," Ross Haney hurled his cigarette
into the dust. "We'd
better light a shuck. I think they intended to get us, too!"
The crash of guns stopped suddenly, but the scene was obscured by dust from the crazed
cattle and excited horses. Ross saw a riderless horse, stirrups flopping, come from
the dust cloud, head high and reins trailing. Behind them there was a single shot,
then another.
Finally, with miles behind them, Mabry looked over at Ross. "I feel like a coyote
ridin' away from a fight, like that, but it sure wasn't none of ours."
Haney nodded grimly. "I saw it comin' but never guessed it would break out just like
that. It couldn't be stopped without killin' Levitt." "You think he engineered it?"
"Sure." Haney explained how Levitt had started Sherry home, and how his riders had
moved out of the working men's group to good firing positions. "Chubb had his orders.
He deliberately started that fight when he got the signal."
"I'll get him if it's the last thing I do!" Mabry said, bitterly. "That Riggs was
a good hand. We hunted strays together."
"There was nothing we could have done but stay there an' die. We've got other things
to do, Bill. We've got to see that Levitt's plans go haywire an' that he gets his
deserts. We've got to get the Vernons out from under. Star will have this country
sewed up now, with no one able to buck him but us. He'll rave when he finds we got
away. "
"As far as Reynolds an' Pogue," Mabry said, "I can't feel no sorrow. They were a
couple of murderin' wolves, but they had some good men ridin' for 'em."
Mabry scowled. "Wonder what Levitt will do now? He's got the range sewed up with
them two out of the way an' the Vernons knucklin' under to him."
Ross frowned. He had thought that over and believed he knew the answer. "That we'll
have to wait an' see," Haney said. "I'm right curious, myself. He'll hunt us, an'
we'll have to lay low. He'll blame the whole thing on the feud between the two big
outfits an' claim he was just an innocent bystander."
"What about the riders?" Mabry protested. "Some of them will tell the truth!"
"Bill," Haney said, "I'd lay a good bet none of them know. We knew pretty well what
was coinin', an' moreover we got off to one
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 64 Louis L'AMOUR
side with a clear view. Down there among the stampedin' cows, the dust an' shootin',
I'll bet the ones who are alive won't know. Moreover, I'll bet most of them drift
out of the country.
"If they don't drift," Haney added, "Levitt will probably see that they do. From
his standpoint it's foolproof. Remember, too, that Levitt's gunmen were men from
both outfits."
"If he kills like that," Mabry asked, "what chance have three men got?"
"The best chance, Bill. We're still honest men, even if the only law is gun law.
We'll wait an' see what Levitt does, but I imagine the first thing he'll do will
be to clean up the loose ends. He may even call in the law from outside so he'll
be in the clear with a clean bill of health. "
Roily Burt was waiting for them when they rode in. "What happened?" he demanded.
"Did the lid blow off? I heard shootin'." Briefly, Haney explained. "The fight would
have come, I expect, even if Levitt hadn't planned it."
"How many were killed?"
"No tellin'. I doubt if so many. Enough to warrant Levitt playin' the big, honest
man who wants to keep the peace. Down there in the dust, I doubt if anybody scored
many good shots. Too much confusion and too many running cattle. Riggs is probably
dead."
"Murderin' coyotes!" Burt limped to the fire. "Set an' eat. I've got the grub ready."
He dished up the food and then straightened, fork in hand. "Ross, what happened to
Chalk?"
Haney did not look up. "He's sure to be dead. So's Pogue. Even Syd Berdue was shootin'
at them. Killed his own uncle, or lent a hand. "
"Chalk was no good, but no man deserves that."
Burt looked up suddenly. "Boss, while you two were gone I done some stumpin' around
to loosen the muscles in this here game leg, an' guess what I found?"
"What?" Haney dished up a forkful of beans and then looked over it at Roily, struck
by something in his tone.
"That rumblin' in the rock. I found what causes it!" he said. "An' man, when you
see it, your hair'll stand on end, I'm a-tellin'
71
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 65
Chapter Cavern of
yawning, Ross Haney opened his eyes to look through the aspen leaves at a cloudless
sky. The vast expanse of blue stretched above them as yet unfired by the blazing
heat of the summer sun. He rolled out of his soogan and dressed, trying to keep his
feet out of the dew covering the grass.
Bill Mabry stuck a head bristling with red hair, all standing on end, out of his
blankets and stared unhappily at Haney.
"Rolly," he complained, "what can a man do when his boss gets up early? It ain't
neither fittin' nor right, I say."
"Pull your head back in then, you sorrel-topped bronc!" Haney growled. "I'm goin'
to have a look at the valley, an' then Rolly can roll out an' scare up some chuck."
"How about this all-fired rumblin'?" Mabry sat up. "I heard it again last night.
Gives a man the creeps."
Burt sat up and looked around for his boots. He rubbed his unshaven jowls as he did
every morning and muttered: "Dang it, I need a shave!"
"Never seen you when you didn't." Mabry thrust his thumb through a hole in his sock,
swore, and then pulled it on. "You need a haircut, too, you durned Siwash. Ugly,
that's what you are! What a thing to see when you first wake up! Lucky you never
hitched up with no girl. She sure would have had you curried and combed to a fare-thee-well!"
Ross left them arguing and, picking up his glass, walked to the nest of boulders
he used for a lookout. Settling down on his stomach in the sand, he pointed the glass
down valley.
At first, all seemed serene and beautiful. The morning sunlight sparkled on the pool
below, and the sound of the running water came to his ears. Somewhere, far off, a
cow bawled. He swept the edge of the trees close at hand, studied the terrain below,
and then bit by bit eased his line of quest up until he was looking well down range
toward the Soledad trail.
The sun felt good on his back, and he squirmed to shift his position a little; he
leveled the glass and then froze.
A group of horsemen was coming up the trail toward Thousand Springs, riding slowly.
Star Levitt, he made out, was not among them. As they drew nearer, he picked out
first one and then an other. They were led by Syd Berdue, and Kerb Dahl and Voyle
were with him. Also, Emmett Chubb and a half dozen other riders. As
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they drew rein below him and let their horses drink, their words drifted up to him.
This time they were making no secret of their conversation, and in the bright morning
air, their words were, for the most part, plain enough.
"Beats all where he got to!" Voyle complained. "One minute both of them were there,
an' then they were gone."
"We'd better find 'em," Dahl replied. "I never did see Star so wrought up about anythin'
as when he found they'd got away. He must have turned over everything in the flat,
a-huntin' 'em. Refused to believe they'd got away. Golly, was he mad!"
"He's a bad man to cross," Streeter commented. "I never seen him mad before. He goes
crazy."
Chubb hung at one edge of the group, taking no part in their talking. His eyes strayed
toward Berdue from time to time. Finally, he swung down and walked to one of the
springs for a drink, and when he came back, wiping his mouth, his eyes shifted from
one to the other. "Some things about this I don't like," he said.
There was no reply. Watching, Ross had the feeling that Chubb expressed the view
of more than one of them. Syd idly flicked his quirt at a mesquite.
"Well, you can't say he ain't thorough!" he said grimly.
Chubb looked around. "Yeah," he agreed sarcastically. "But how thorough? Where does
his being' thorough stop? You ever start to figure like that? He had me primed to
start the play by gunnin' Riggs, as he had Riggs pegged as a hothead who would go
for a gun if pushed. Well, I hadn't no use for Riggs, my own self, but he never told
me what was to come after. It was pure luck I didn't get killed!"
"Where do you reckon Haney went?" Dahl demanded, changing the subject.
"Where did Rolly Burt go?" Voyle asked. "You ask me, that Ross Haney is nobody's
fool. He an' Mabry sure got shut of those brandin' pens in a hurry! They lit out
like who flunk the chunk. Maybe left the country."
"He shore didn't!" Chubb said bitterly. "He wants my scalp! He'll not leave if I
read his tracks right."
"He called the boss a couple of times," Voyle said. "Pogue, too. Don't seem to take
no water for anybody."
Syd Berdue's eyes shifted from face to face, waiting for somebody to mention his
own fuss with Haney, but they avoided his eyes. "I'd
say the thing to do would be to stop chasin' over the country keep an eye on that
Kinney feller. He was right friendly with Hai they tell me."
73
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 67 "Or Sherry Vernon!" Berdue sneered. "I think the
boss is buckin' a stacked deck with her."
Watching from the mesa and listening to the faint sound of their voices, Ross could
see Kerb's eyes shifting from man to man. He shook his own head, disgusted.
"They talk too much," he told himself, "that Dahl will tell Levitt every word or
I miss my guess. He wasn't planted on the VV for nothing."
Long after the group rode away, he lay there restlessly, hoping for some sight of
Sherry, but there was none. More than he cared to admit, he was worried about her.
Star Levitt had been revealed as a much more ruthless man and a more cruel man than
he had believed.
Perhaps of them all, Emmett Chubb was the nearest to correct in his estimation of
Levitt's character.
There was small chance he would ever allow any of the group below to escape the valley
and repeat what they knew over too many glasses of whiskey. He was thorough, and
he would be thorough enough and hard enough to carry out what he had started.
Yet there was little Haney could do until Levitt's next move was revealed. Reynolds
and Pogue were gone, and the Ruby Hills coun try lay in the big man's palm.
Haney longed for a talk with Scott, for the old storekeeper was a shrewd judge of
men, and he listened much and heard everything. Returning to the fire, he joined
Burt and Mabry in eating a quick
breakfast. "Now," he said as he finished his last cup of coffee, "we'll see what
you've got to show us. Then Mabry an' me will go down into the lava an' push out
some more cows. We've got to keep Levitt sweatin'. "
Burt, whose leg was rapidly returning to normal, led them through the aspens to the
open mesa, and then along its top toward the jumbled maze of boulders that blocked
off any approach from the northwest except by the narrow trail Haney used in coming
and going.
The way Burt took followed a dim pathway into the boulders and ended at a great leaning
slab of granite under which there was a dark, chill-looking opening.
"Come on," he said. "We're going down here!" He had brought with him several bits
of candle, and now he passed one to each of them. They stooped and crept into the
hole. The air felt damp inside, and there was a vast, cavernous feeling as of a dark,
empty space. Holding their candles high, they saw they were on a steep floor that
led away ahead of them, going down and down into an abysmal darkness from which came
the faint sound of falling water.
Burt hobbled along ahead of them, and they had descended sev enty or eighty feet
below the level of the mesa above, when he
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 68 Louis L'AMOUR
paused on the rim of a black hole. Leaning forward, Ross Haney saw a bottomless blackness
from which there came at intervals a strange sighing and then a low rumble.
"We got maybe ten minutes, the way I figure it," Burt said. "And then to be on the
safe side, we've got to get out." He knelt and touched the rock at the edge of the
hole. "Look how smooth! Water done that, water falling on it for years an' years!
"I tried to time it yesterday, an' it seems to come about every three hours. Pressure
must build away down inside the mountain somehow, an' then she blows a cork an' water
comes a-spoutin' an' a-spumin' out of this hole. She shoots clear up, nigh to the
roof, and she keeps a-spoutin' for maybe three, four minutes. Then it dies away,
an' that's the end."
"Well, I'm doggoned!" Mabry exclaimed. "I've heard about this place! Injuns used
to call it the Talkin' Mountain. Heard the Navajos speak of it afore I ever came
over here."
"Stones come up on that water, too, an' water fills this whole room, just boilin'
an' roarin', but that ain't all. Look up there!" He stepped back and pointed, and
moving away from the rim, they looked up.
High above them, in the vaulted top of the cave, were several ragged holes. "Back
in the trees, too! A man could walk right into them if he wasn't careful, an' he'd
go right on through into that, or else break a leg an' he on the rim until the water
came."
"Ugly lookin'," Ross said. "Let's get out of here!"
They turned and started out, and then from behind them came a dull, mounting rumble!
"Run!" Burt's face was suddenly panic-stricken. "Here it comes!" He lunged forward,
and stumbling, fell full length on the steep trail. Haney stooped and grabbed the
man, but he was a big man and powerful, and if Bill Mabry had not grabbed the other
arm he never would have gotten him up the steep hole in time.
They scrambled out into the sunlight, their faces pale, and below and behind them
they heard the pound and rumble of boulders and the roar of water tumbling in the
vast and empty cavern.
"That," Mabry said dryly, "is a good place to keep out of!"
When they returned to the camp, Burt started for his horse. "I'll saddle up," he
said, "an' help you hombres. I've been loafin' long enough."
"You stay here." Ross turned around and grinned at him. "You keep an eye on the springs,
as I've a hunch we'll have more visitors. This is a two-man job. Tomorrow, if we
need help, you can go an we'll leave Bill behind, or I'll stay."
Mabry had little to say on the ride into the lava beds, and Haney
75
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 69
was just as pleased, for his thoughts were busy with Sherry and the situation in
the valley and at Soledad. He made up his mind he would take a chance and slip into
town.
Then he could talk to Scott or Kinney and would be able to find out just what was
taking place.
He had no idea what had happened beyond the words he could catch from the conversation
of the posse searching for him, but Scott would know all that had happened. On second
thought, it would be wiser to see only Scott, for the chances were that Kinney would
be watched. Already, the connection with him would be formed in Star Levitt's mind.
The work in the lava beds was hot and tiring. The wild cattle fought like devils,
and branding them was a slow task and a hazardous one for the two men.
Yet by nightfall they had branded enough of them to warrant their work. They camped
that night in the canyon, and the following morning they started the cattle out through
the deep crevasse toward open range. Once they had them started toward Thousand Springs,
they returned to the mesa where Rolly was waiting for them.
"Took a ride in last night," he volunteered. "Been goin' stale layin' around. I talked
to Kinney a little, but they are watchin' him." "What's happened?" Haney's irritation
at Burt's gamble was lost in his eagerness for news.
"Well, Levitt seems to be havin' everythin' his own way. He made Emmett Chubb sheriff
and says it's goin' to be necessary to be strict until they rid themselves of the
`lawless elements,' which probably means us.
"I talked to Scott, an' he sure wants to see you. Sherry Vernon ain't been seen in
town since the fight, an' Bob only once, an' then he came an' hightailed it out of
there. Levitt, he sent for outside law."
"He did what?"
"Sent for some outside law. He says he aims to have this Reynolds an Pogue feud cleared
up, an' he wants you caught. Says you're a rustler an' may have had more than a little
hand in the killin' at the stock pens. He wants the blame fixed, he says. Also, the
story's around," Burt cleared his throat and avoided Haney's eyes, "that there will
be a weddin' out at the VV pretty soon."
Ross stared at the fire. So that was it? Now he would marry Sherry Vernon and the
VV would be his in name as well as in appearances, for once they were married he
would know how to handle Bob. If Haney was to do anything, it must be done soon.
It must be done
76
 Berdue fair raised mischief over that, but Levitt told him he would be taken care
of."
"I reckon that's what he's scared of," Mabry said dryly. "I know what I'd do if Star
Levitt said I was to be taken care of. I'd either get me a shot at Star or a fast
horse out of the country."
"Well, Berdue ain't leavin'. Not willin', anyway. I reckon Star is anxious to have
everything looking shipshape for the law when it comes up. They'll be glad to get
shut of the trouble anyway, an' if things look pretty, they'll leave them as they
be."
Ross pondered the news. Certainly, Levitt's position was good. He was a smooth-talking
man with a good outward appearance, and if everything looked settled and calm, the
outsiders would go away.
The valley would be safely in Levitt's hands, and Ross Haney would be declared an
outlaw and hunted by the forces of the law wherever he happened to appear.
It was, apparently, time to come off the mesa and enter the game once more. Suddenly,
he knew just exactly what he was going to do! "Somethin' else," Burt added, "there's
a lot of talk around about
those steers of yours. Seems to be a lot of difference of view as to where they come
from. No other brands on 'em, but full-growed steers. There's a rumor around that
you've had a herd in the hills for some time."
"Roily," Ross said thoughtfully, "there's been some talk about another man on the
W spread. And when I was out there I saw a small cabin off across the wash. You know
anything about that?"
"No, I don't know anything at all. There's somethin' mighty peculiar about that cabin,
an' none of us ever went near it but Star or Kerb Dahl."
Mabry leaned back against a tree and built a smoke. "Dahl, he acted mighty skittish
around that cabin, his own self."
When morning came again to the Ruby Hills, Ross Haney mounted the Appaloosa and started
by a winding route toward Soledad. He had no intention of getting there before dark
unless it could be managed without his being seen.
After Soledad, he planned to go to the VV and bring Sherry away. While he was about
it, he would investigate that mysterious cabin and learn once and for all if it had
anything to do with Sherry and her attitude toward Levitt.
The trail he was using was the same used on the previous trips. A trail that lay
along a concealed route through the timber, mountain, and chaparral. It was the trail
of which he had learned from the same
70 Louis L'AMOUR
"Howsoever, there seems to be some talk around. Syd Berdue ain't happy with the new
setup. Kerb Dahl is foreman at the VV, an'
Uhubb is sheritt. bob Streeter is toreman on the titt, an they say
77
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 71 source as had provided the story of the cattle, the
lava beds, and the mesa.
This might well be the last time he would travel it, for he needed no additional
warning to let him know that every man's hand would be against him in Soledad.
His own position in the valley was a good one, but must be backed by gun power, and
he could not match Levitt as to numbers. However, Levitt himself was bringing the
law in, and the law out weighed the brute force of any outlaw or the tricks of any
criminal working beyond it.
Chapter XIV Quick on the Draw
Circling around Soledad he cut down through the chaparral to a position on the point
of the ragged hills that overlooked the VV. Then, glass in hand, he took a comfortable
position where he could watch all movement on the ranch and began a systematic survey
of the entire area below.
The isolated cabin he located without trouble. He studied it for a long time, watching
for any evidence of life, but found none. The cabin looked bare and lonely, and no
smoke came from its small chimney, nor did anyone approach it. Obviously, the cabin
held something or someone of great importance to Levitt, or it would not be kept
so secret.
After a careful survey of the ranch buildings, he decided the door of the cabin was
not actually in view of the ranch house, for that view was cut off by the stable
and several large stacks of hay for feeding saddle stock through the winter months.
Kerb Dahl was loitering around the ranch yard, and he was wearing two guns, but no
one else was in view. Once, as dusk drew nearer, he saw Bob Vernon come to the door
of the house and stare off toward town, but he turned then without coming outside
and walked back. But in that moment when he had stood in the door, Dahl had walked
hastily forward and stood facing him, for all the world like a prison guard.
The evening faded and the stars came out. From away on the desert a soft wind picked
up and began to blow gently. Back over the mountains lay a dark curtain of cloud,
black and somber. As he glanced that way, Haney saw its bulging billows darting with
sudden lightning, and once, like the whimper of far-off trumpets, he heard the distant
sound of thunder.
78
 72
III
He waited there, his ears attuned to every sound, his eyes roving over the ranch
and all its approaches. On what he saw and heard now his life might depend, for in
a matter of minutes he was going down there. Yet aside from the restless roving of
Kerb Dahl, there was no evidence of life about the ranch until a light came on. And
when that light brightened the windows, Ross got to his feet, brushed the sand from
his clothes and stretched.
Then, leading his horse, he came off the hill, concealed from the ranch by the point
of the ridge on which he had waited. He took a winding route up a sandy wash toward
the ranch, stopping from time to time to listen once more, then moving on. In the
shadows back of the stable, he let the horse stand, reins trailing, with a light
touch on the shoulder and a whisper of warning. Nothing now but Haney's own shrill
whistle would move him from the spot.
Loosening his guns in their holsters, Ross Haney took a deep breath and turned his
eyes on the lonely cabin. Then he went down into the gully and started for the cabin
door.
Stark and alone on the knoll it stood, a gloomy little building that seemed somehow
ominous and strange. Nearby, he crouched in the darkness listening for any sound
of movement that might warn him of a possible occupant. Wind whispered around the
eaves and from the ranch house itself there came a rattle of dishes, the sound made
plain by that cool night air. Here at the cabin, all was silence. The only window
was covered with a fragment of sacking, so after a long minute, he moved to the door.
His heart pounded against his ribs, and his mouth felt dry. He paused, flattened
against the building, and listened once more. Only the wind made a sound to be heard,
a soft soughing that seemed to whisper of the impending rain. The clouds towered
in the sky now, higher and closer, and the rumble of thunder was close, like a lonely
lion, growling in his chest as he paced his cage.
Carefully, his hand went to the knob. In the darkness the metal seemed strangely
chill. His right hand moved back to his gun butt, and then, ever so carefully, he
turned the knob.
It was locked.
Gently he released the knob. The pause irritated him. He had built himself to a crisis
that was frustration in this most obvious of ways, and the piling up of suspense
made him reckless. A glance toward the ranch assured him he was unobserved and probably
could not be seen against the blackness along the cabin wall.
This was a puzzle he must solve, and now was the time. There might never be another.
Behind this locked door might lie the answer to the mystery, and he moved forward
suddenly and placed his shoulder against the flimsy panel.
79
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 73 Light streamed from the bunkhouse windows, too. From
the
ranch, there came only the continuing rattle of dishes and once a loud splash as
someone threw water out onto the ground. Taking the knob in his hand he turned it,
and then putting his shoulder to the door and digging his feet into the earth, he
began to push.
The construction was flimsy. Evidently, whatever was kept here was guarded enough
by Dahl and his partner. Haney relaxed and took a deep breath, and then putting his
shoulder to the door again, he shoved hard. Something cracked sharply, and he drew
back, hand on his gun, waiting and listening.
From within there came no sound. From the ranch, all was normal. He put his shoulder
again to the door and heaved, but this time the damage had been done and the door
came open so sud denly that he sprawled on hands and knees inside!
Catlike, he wheeled, back to the door and gun in hand. His eyes wide for the darkness,
he stared about. The light wind caught the sacking with a ghostly hand and stirred
it faintly. Lightning flashed, and the room lay bare before him for an instant.
A wooden chair on its side, a worn table with an empty basin, a cot covered with
odorous blankets, and against the wall, several stacks of boxes.
Puzzled, Haney crossed to them. They were not heavy. He hesi tated to risk the screech
of a drawn nail, but by that time he was almost beyond caring. With his fingers,
he got a grip on one of the boards that made up the box, and pulled hard. It held,
and then as he strained, it came loose. If it made any sound it was lost in the convenient
rumble of thunder.
Inside the box there was more sacking and, when that was parted, several round cans,
slightly larger and not unlike snuff cans. Lifting one to his nostrils, he sniffed
curiously, and from the box came a strange, pungent odor.
"So that's it?" he said. Then he scowled into the darkness. It did not clarify the
position of Sherry or her brother. And yet-his heart seemed to go empty within him-maybe
it did!
Pocketing several of the boxes, he replaced the boards as well as he could and turned
the box so as to conceal the more obvious damage. Then he slipped outside and pulled
the door to behind him.
Confused by the unexpected turn of events, he returned to his horse, whispered reassuringly,
and then went around the stable toward the house.
Nearby was a window, and he moved up under the trees and looked through into what
was the dining room of the ranch house. Three people sat at the table: Bob and Sherry
Vernon and, at the head of the table, Star Levitt!
The window was slightly open, and he could hear their voices.
80
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74 Louis L'AMOUR
Levitt was speaking: "Yes, I think that's the only solution, my dear." His tone was
suave, cruel, and decisive. "We shall be married in this house on Monday. You understand?"
"You can't get away with this!" Bob burst out angrily, but the undercurrent of hopelessness
in his voice was plain. "It's a devil of a thing! Sherry hates you! What sort of
a mind can you have?"
"Sherry will change!" Levitt smiled across the table at her. "I promise you both,
she will change. Also, it will be convenient for her to be my wife. She cannot be
made to testify against me, and I scarcely believe that with her as my wife you'll
care to bring any charges, Bob. Also, I'll have control of this ranch, and as the
others are in my hands, the situation is excellent."
"I've a good notion to-" Bob's voice trailed off into sullenness. "Have you?" Levitt
glanced up, his eyes ugly. "Listen, Vernon! Don't give me any trouble! You're in
this deeper than I am! You've got murder against you, as well as smuggling! If I'm
ever exposed, you know that you and Sherry will both go down with me! What will your
precious father think then, with his fine family pride and his bad heart?"
"Shut up!" Bob cried angrily. He leaped to his feet. "If it weren't for Dad, I'd
kill you with my bare hands!"
"Really, Bob," Sherry said quietly, "perhaps we should talk this over. I'm not so
sure that prison for both of us wouldn't be preferable to being married to Star!"
Levitt's face went white and dangerous. "You're flattering!" he said dryly, striving
to retain his composure. "What, I might ask, would have happened to Bob if I hadn't
gotten him away from that mess and brought him here? The killing of Clyde Aubury
was not any ordinary killing."
Aubury? Ross Haney's brows drew together, and he strained his ears to hear more.
"Yes, I think I should have earned your gratitude," Levitt continued. "Instead, I
find you falling for that drifting cowhand."
Sherry Vernon's eyes lifted from her plate. "Star," she said coolly, you could never
understand through that vast ego of yours that Ross Haney is several times the man
you could ever have been, even if you hadn't become a thief and a blackmailer of
women."
Haney's heart leaped, and his lips tightened. In that instant, he would cheerfully
have gone through the window, glass and all, and cheerfully given his life if it
would have helped. Yet even in his elation at her praise of him, he could not but
admire her coolness and composure. Her manner was quiet, poised. He stared into the
window, his heart pounding. Then she lifted her eyes and looked straight into his!
81
 L
THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 75 For an instant that seemed an eternity, their eyes
held. In hers he
saw hope leap into being and then saw her eyes suddenly masked, and she turned her
head, passing something to her brother with an idle comment that ignored Levitt completely.
"Well," she said after a minute, her voice sounding just a tone louder, "everything
is all right for the time. At least I have until Monday!"
He drew back. That message was for him, and between now and Monday was a lifetime-three
whole days!
Three days in which many things might be done, in which she might be taken from here-in
which he might even kill Star Levitt. For he knew now that was what he would do if
the worst came to
the worst. He had never yet actually hunted a man down for the purpose of killing
him, but he knew that was just what he would do if there were no other way out.
Tiptoeing to the corner of the house, Ross started for the stable and his horse,
and then as he stepped past the last tree, a huge cottonwood, a man stepped out.
"Say, you got a match?"
It was Kerb Dahl!
Recognition came to them at the same instant, and the man let out a startled yelp
and grabbed for his gun.
There was no time to grapple with the man, no chance for a quick, soundless battle.
Too much space intervened, so there was only one chance. Even as Dahl's hand grasped
his gun, Haney plucked out his own gun and fired!
Flame stabbed from the muzzle, and then came a second stab of fire. Dahl took a hesitant
step forward, his gun half out. Then his gun belched flame, shooting a hole through
the bottom of the hol ster, and Dahl toppled forward on his face.
Behind Dahl the bunkhouse door burst open, and there was a shout from the ranch house
itself., As quickly, Ross ducked around the stable and hit the saddle running.
The Palouse knew an emergency when he felt one, and he lit out, running like a scared
rabbit. A gun barked and then another, but nothing in that part of the country could
catch the Palouse when he started going places in a hurry, and that was just what
he was doing.
On the outskirts of Soledad, with the pounding hoofs of the Pursuit far behind, Haney
leaped the horse over a gully and took to the desert, weaving a pattern of tangled
tracks into a trail where cattle had been driven and then cutting back into the scattered
back alleys of Soledad, leaving town a few minutes later, crossing a shale slide
and swinging around a butte to hit his old trail for Thousand Springs Mesa.
"Rio, you saved my neck tonight, an' we took a scalp. I'd as soon
82
 76 Louis
never take another, but if we have to, let 'em all be hombres like Dahl!"
Yet what was all this about a murder charge against Bob Vernon? And what was their
connection with the smuggling and the cans of opium he had found in the cabin? He
had known the smell the instant he lifted the can to his nostrils, for it is a smell
one does not soon forget. He remembered it from a visit, a few years before, to some
of the dives along the Barbary Coast.
And now he must think. Somehow, some way, he must free Sherry from this entanglement,
and as a last resort, he would do it, if he must, by facing Star Levitt with a gun!
11
Chapter XV Captured Haney's course was clear. Whatever other plans he might have
had
must be shelved and the whole situation brought into the open by Monday. Studying
the situation carefully, he could see little hope, unless the sheriff and the investigating
officers from the outside arrived on Monday. Then, if he could present his case-but
Levitt would take every measure to avoid that, and his only chance would be to get
into town before time.
On Sunday night, in absolute blackness, the three rode down the back trail toward
Soledad. Outside of town they slackened pace. Ross turned in his saddle as Burt and
Mabry came up beside him.
He gestured toward the town. "It looks quiet enough. You two leave your horses at
May's. Put them in the stable, and I'll leave mine there, too. Then you two either
hide out in the stable or get down to the hotel and see Kinney. I'm going direct
to Scott, and he'll see Allan for me.
"If the worst comes to the worst, and there is no other way, I'm going gunning for
Star. I'd rather die myself than see that girl forced to marry him, or to see him
win after all this murder and deceit.
"However, I may give myself up when the sheriff gets here." Mabry nodded thoughtfully.
"Who are these hombres Levitt's bringin' in, Ross? Are they really the law?"
"Yeah. You see, he calls Chubb the sheriff; actually, he's only a town marshal. The
county seat is over a hundred miles away by trail, an' there's no deputy up here.
Star Levitt is shrewd. He knows that sooner or later some word of this scrap will
get out. Somebody, on a stage or somewhere, will talk. The chances are they already
have.
"Well, so he sends to the governor for an investigating officer, wanting the whole
thing cleared up. That puts him on the map as a
83
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 77
responsible citizen. He'll do the talking, and the men he selects will back him up.
The whole situation will be smoothed over. The chances are, one of his men will be
made a deputy sheriff.
"Then the investigatin' officers will go back to the capital, and Levitt's in a nice
spot. If any trouble comes up, they will always remember him, apparently rich, a
stable citizen, a man who called on the law. They wouldn't believe a thing against
him. His skirts will be clear, an' we three will be outlawed.
"Somehow, we've got to block that an' expose the true state of affairs. "
"What is this joker you said you had?" Mabry asked.
"Wait. That will do for the showdown. Nobody knows about that but myself an' Scott.
We'll have this whole show well sewed up." He was the first to move forward, walking
the Palouse through the
encircling trees to May Ashton's cabin on the edge of Soledad. There was no one in
sight, but a light glowed in the cabin. He moved up and led his horse into the stable
and left it there. Then he slipped along the wall of the house until he could glance
into a window. The waitress was inside, and alone.
She opened the door at his tap, and he slipped inside. "You!" she gasped. "We were
wondering how to get word to you! Star Levitt is marrying Sherry tomorrow!"
"I know. What about the officers from the capital?"
"They'll be in tomorrow, too. In the morning. The sheriff is coming up from the county
seat, and some attorney from the capital named Ward Clymer. Two state rangers are
coming with them. I've heard it all discussed in the restaurant."
"They will have a hearing? Where?"
"In the lobby of the hotel. It's the only place large enough, aside from the Bit
and Bridle. I heard Voyle talking with Syd Berdue about it. Incidentally," she added
quickly, "there's a warrant out for your arrest. Emmett Chubb has it. They want you
for killing Kerb Dahl. Was that you?"
"Uh-huh, but it was a fair shake. In fact, he went for his gun first. I had no choice
but to shoot."
"Well, the order is out to shoot on sight, and they have reward Posters ready to
go out tomorrow morning. They will be all over town for the officers to see when
they come in. You're wanted for murder, dead or alive, and they are offering a thousand
dollars."
Ross smiled wryly. "That will make it worse! A thousand dollars is money enough to
start the blood hunters out.
"Now listen: I'm going to Scott, and I'm going now. Mabry and Burt will be in soon,
and they'll hide either here or close to here. They will be standing by in case of
emergency; I'll try to communi
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cate with you in case of really serious trouble, and then you can get word to them.
If the worst comes to the worst, I'll give myself up to the state officials and make
them hold a preliminary hearing right here. I can talk them into that, I think. Then
we can get facts in front of them."
"Ross, don't plan on anybody siding you," May said quickly. "Chubb has been around
town with Hanson, and they have frightened everybody. You can't depend on a soul.
I don't even know whether I'd have nerve enough to back you up, but I'm afraid Allan
will. He's that kind."
The street was dark when Ross Haney stepped out of May's cabin. He did not try to
keep out of sight, realizing that such an attempt, if seen, would be even more suspicious.
He walked rapidly down the street, staying in the deep shadows, but walking briskly
along. Old man Scott was the man he must see. He must get to him at once, and he
would know what to do. Also, it would be a place to hide.
Glancing across the street, he saw a half dozen horses standing at the hitch rail
in front of the Bit and Bridle. There was light flooding from the windows, and the
sound of loud laughter from within.
A man opened the door and stumbled drunkenly into the street, and for a moment, Ross
hesitated, feeling uneasy. The street was altogether too quiet, there was too little
movement. He turned at right angles and went between a couple of buildings, starting
for the back door of Scott's place. Once he thought he glimpsed a movement in the
shadows and hesitated, but after watching and seeing nothing more, he went on up
to the back door and tapped gently. The door opened, and he stepped in.
Scott glanced at him, and alarm sprang into his eyes.
"Set down!" he said. "Set down! You've sure been stirrin' up a pile of trouble, Haney!"
He poured a cup of coffee and placed it on the table. "Drink that," he said quietly.
"It will do you good."
Scott stared at him as he lifted the cup. "Big trouble's goin' to break loose, Scott,"
Haney said. "I hope I can handle it."
His ears caught a subtle whisper of movement outside, and his eyes lifted, and then
his face went to a dead, sickly white.
Old man Scott had a shotgun, and its twin barrels were pointed right at his stomach.
"Sit tight, son," he said sternly. "A move an' I'll cut you in two!" He lifted his
voice. "All right, out there! Come on in! I've got him!"
The door burst open and Emmett Chubb sprang into the room, and with him were Voyle,
Tolman, and Allan Kinney!
Chubb's eyes gleamed, and his pistol lifted. "Well, Mr. Ross Haney, who's top dog
now?"
85
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 79 "Hold it!" Scott's shotgun made a sharp movement.
"You take her
easy, Emmett Chubb! This man's my prisoner. I'm claimin' the reward, right now. Moreover,
I'm holdin' him alive for Levitt!" "You will not!" Chubb snarled. "I'll kill the
dirty dog!"
"Not unless you want a blast from this shotgun!" Scott snapped. The old outlaw's
blue eyes sparked. "Nobody's beatin' me out of my money! Kinney here, he has a finger
in it, maybe, because he tipped me off, but you take him away from me over my dead
body."
Baffled, Chubb stared from one to the other. "He's right, Emmett," Kinney agreed.
"He got him first."
Ross Haney stood flat-footed, staring from Kinney to Scott. "Sold out!" he sneered.
"I might have suspected it!"
Kinney flushed, but Scott shrugged.
"A thousand dollars is a lot of money, boy. I've seen men killed for a sight less."
"Let's take him off to jail then," Chubb said. "This ain't no place for him!"
"He stays right here!" Scott said harshly. "He's my prisoner until Levitt gets him,
an' then Levitt can do what he's a might to. Nobody's beatin' me out of that money!
Stay here an' help guard if you want, but don't you forget for one minute that he's
my prisoner! This shotgun won't forget it!"
Kinney slipped around behind Haney and lifted his guns. Reluctantly, Haney backed
into a corner and was tied to a chair. Shocked by the betrayal, he could only stare
from Allan to Scott, appalled by the sudden turn of fortune.
From the high, if desperate, hopes of the day, he was suddenly smashed back into
hopelessness, a prisoner, betrayed by the men he had had most confidence in. How
could they have known he was in town? There was only one way. May must have betrayed
him! She and Allan must have planned together, and when he left her house, she must
have gotten word to him at once.
Chubb dropped into a chair and pulled one of his guns over into his lap. "I'd like
to blast his heart out," he said sullenly. "What you frettin' so about, Scott? You
get the money, dead or alive."
"Sure!" Scott said. "And if you kill him you'll lay claim to it. I wouldn't trust
you across the street where that much money was concerned! Nor any of you!"
He chuckled, his eyes sneering at Haney. "Anyway, Levitt's top dog around here from
now on, an' he's the boy I do business with! I'm too old to he shoved out in the
cold at my time of life! I ain't figurin' on it! I'll work with Star, an' he'll work
with me!"
I never heard of you being' so thick with him!" Chubb's irritation Was obvious.
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80 Louis L'AMOUR
Scott chuckled. "Who got him into this country, do you suppose? I've knowed him for
years! Who told him this place was right for a smart man? I did! That's who!
"Haney, here, he figured on the same thing. He figured on takin' over when Reynolds
an' Pogue were out of it, but he was leavin' too much to chance. Star doesn't leave
anything to chance."
Bitterly, Ross Haney stared at the floor. This time he was finished. If Mabry and
Burt had gone to May's they would have been sold out, too. He listened, straining
his ears for shots, hoping at least one of them would manage to fight it out and
go down with a gun in his hand.
The situation was all Levitt's now. The man was a front rider, and these others were
with him. He stared at Kinney, and the young man's eyes wavered and looked away.
How could he have guessed that such a man would sell him out? And Scott? Of course,
the old man was an admitted outlaw, or had been. Still, he had felt very close to
the old man and liked him very much.
There was no chance for Sherry now-unless ... His eyes narrowed with thought.
What would they do with him? Would they get word to Star that he was a prisoner and
then smuggle him out of town to be killed? Or would they bring him out in the open
with evidence arrayed against him, or kill him "trying to escape"?
If only there would be some break, some chance to talk to Ward Clymer or the sheriff!
Of course, held as a prisoner, with reward posters out and the stories Star and his
men would tell, he would find himself in a had position even before they talked to
him, for they would be prejudiced against him and everything he might say. And what
evidence had he? Star Levitt would have plenty, and as May had told him, no one in
town would testify for him against Star.
They were frightened, or they were getting on the band wagon. He was through.
Unless-there was a vague hope-Mabry and Burt had not come in. If they could somehow
free him. Knowing the manner of men they were, he knew they would not hesitate to
make the attempt.
87
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 81
Chapter XVI
:k to the Wall
In the back room of the store the night slid slowly by and crawled into the gray
of day, slowly, reluctantly. The rising sun found the sky overcast, with no opening
in the clouds through which it could shine down on the clustered false-fronted frame
buildings and adobes of Soledad. A lone Mexican, a burro piled twice its own height
with sticks, wandered sleepily down the town's dusty street.
Pat walked out of the Bit and Bridle, stared at the sky, and then turned and walked
back within. A pump rattled somewhere and then began a rhythmical speaking.
Half asleep in his bonds, Ross Haney heard the water gushing into the pail in spouts
of sound. He stirred restlessly, and his chair creaked. He opened his eyes to see
four pairs of eyes leveled at him. Emmett Chubb, Voyle, Allan Kinney, and Scott all
sat ready and watchful. His lids fluttered and closed. Behind them his mind began
to plan, to contrive.
No man is so desperate as a prisoner. No man so ready to plan, to try to think his
way out. If only his hands were free! In a few minutes, an hour at most, the stage
would rattle down the street and halt in front of the Cattleman's Hotel, and the
passengers would go into the cafe to eat. Later they might go upstairs to sleep.
During that interval, he would know his fate. He touched a tongue to dry lips.
"Al," Scott said suddenly, "you take this here shotgun. I'll throw together a few
ham an' eggs. I'm hungry as a hibernatin' bear in the springtime!"
Tolman, who had left earlier, returned now and stuck his head in the door. "Stage
a-comin!" he said. "An' Syd Berdue just blowed in!" That VV bunch in yet?" Chubb
asked, without turning his head.
When Dolph Turner gets in, you tell him about this. He'll see that Levitt knows first
of all!"
Scott was working around the room, and soon it was filled with the pleasant breakfast
smell of frying ham and eggs and the smell of coffee. Despite his worry, Haney realized
he had been hungry, and for the first time recalled he had eaten nothing the night
before.
Emmett Chubb got up. He was a stocky, swarthy man with a square jaw and a stubble
of beard. His hair was unkempt, and when he crossed the room to splash water on his
face and hands, Ross noted the worn guns had notches carved in them, three on one
gun, five on the other. Eight men.
"The only thing I'm sorry for," Chubb said as he dried his hands,
88
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82 Louis L'AMouR
his eyes on Haney, "is that I didn't get the chance to shoot it out with you in the
street!"
His black eyes were sneering and cold. "I'd like to put you in the dust," he said.
"I'd like to see you die!"
"Well," Haney said dryly, "my hands are tied, so you're safe enough to try.
"You're a lot of yellow-backed double-crossers. You, Chubb, are a cheap murderer.
You blew town fast enough after killin' Vin Carter or you'd have had a chance to
draw on me--or run."
Chubb walked across the room and stopped, his feet apart, in front of Haney. Lifting
his open palm, he slapped Ross three times across the mouth. Scott did not turn,
and Kinney shuffled his feet on the floor.
"Maybe Levitt will give me the job," he said harshly. "I hope he does!"
The door opened suddenly and three men stood there. Ross Haney's head jerked up as
he saw Levitt. Star Levitt glanced from Chubb to Scott and then indicated the men
with him.
"Neal an' Baker, of the rangers. They want the prisoner!"
Chubb stared, disappointment and resentment struggling for place in his eyes. "Here
he is! Scott's been holdin' him."
Neal bent over Haney and cut the ropes that tied his arms. "You come with us. We're
havin' the hearin' right now."
Haney turned and as he started toward the door, he saw Scott smiling. The old outlaw
looked right into his eyes and winked, deliberately.
What did that mean? Scowling, Haney walked across the street toward the hotel. Neal
glanced at him a couple of times. "You know a man named Mabry?"
"Bill Mabry?" Ross turned to Neal, astonished. "Why, sure. He works for me, an' a
mighty good man!"
"When Clymer asks the questions," Neal said, "give him the information you have straight,
honest, and without prejudice." Puzzled by the suggestion, Ross Haney walked into
the room and was shown to a chair.
A big man with a capable, shrewd-looking face glanced at him sharply and then went
back to examining some documents on a table. Several other men trooped in, and then
Sherry and Bob Vernon walked into the room. More and more astonished, Ross stared
from one to the other, trying to see what must have happened.
He had never believed that Levitt would allow Clymer to confront the Vernons or himself,
if it could be avoided. Yet here they all were, and it looked like a showdown. Allan
Kinney was there, and
89
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 83 May. The pretty waitress glanced at him, and he averted
his eyes. Scott had come over, and Star Levitt was one of the last to come into the
room.
From the dark expression on Levitt's face, he decided all could not be going well
for the big man, and the thought cheered him. Any thing that was bad news for Levitt
was sure to be good news for him.
Ward Clymer sat back in his chair and looked over the room, his eyes noncommittal.
"Now, friends," he said briskly, "this is an entirely informal hearing to try to
clarify the events leading up to the battle between the Reynolds and Pogue factions
and to ascertain the guilt, if any, of those who are here with us.
"Also," he glanced at Haney, "I am informed that Ross Haney, the cattleman, is held
on a charge of murder for the slaying of one Kerb Dahl, a cowhand from the VV. If
such is the truth, and if the evidence warrants it, Ross Haney will be taken south
to the county seat for trial. In the meantime, let us examine the evidence."
"Mr. Levitt, will you tell us the events that preceded the fight between Reynolds
and Pogue?"
Star Levitt got to his feet, very smooth, very polished. He glanced around, smiled
a little, and began. "It seems that before I arrived in the Ruby Hills country there
had been considerable trouble over water and range rights, with sporadic fighting
between the two big outfits. The VV, owned by the Vernons, was not involved in this
feud, although there seemed to be some desire on the part of both outfits to possess
the VV holdings and water. On the day the fight started, there was some minor altercation
over branding, and it led to a shooting which quickly spread until most of the hands
on both sides were involved, with resulting deaths."
"What was your part in the fight?" Clymer asked shrewdly. "None at all, sir. I saw
trouble coming and withdrew my men and got out of the way myself. After it was over,
we did what we could for the wounded."
"There are no witnesses present from the other outfits?"
"Oh, yes! Emmett Chubb, now the town marshal, survived the fight. Also Voyle, of
the Box N, is here. Kerb Dahl, of the VV, who was in the middle of things was later
murdered by the prisoner, Ross Haney. "
"Sir?" Haney asked suddenly.
Clymer's eyes shifted to him, hesitated, and then asked, "Did you have a question?"
"Yes, I'd like to ask Star Levitt where his range holdings were."
I don't see that the question has any bearing on the matter," Levitt replied coolly.
Its a fair question," Clymer admitted. "It may have some later
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bearing on it. I understand you were running cattle. Where was your headquarters?"
Levitt hesitated. "On the VV," he said. "You see, I am soon to marry Miss Vernon."
Clymer glanced curiously at Haney. "Does that answer your question?"
"Sure, it answers it for now. Only I want it plain to everybody that Star Levitt
had no holdings on the range other than cattle and the use of the VV headquarters."
Levitt stared at Haney and shrugged in a bored manner. The attorney then asked Chubb
and Voyle a few questions about the killing, and through Scott, Pat the bartender,
and others brought out the facts of the long-standing feud between the Reynolds and
Pogue outfits. Every story served to bolster Levitt's position. Bob Vernon offered
his evidence in short, clipped sentences, and then Sherry hers.
As she started to return to her chair, Haney spoke up. "Another question: Sherry,
did anyone warn you away from the roundup, telling you to leave at once, that there
might be trouble?"
She hesitated. "Why, yes. Star Levitt did."
"I could see some of the men were spoiling for a fight," Star said quietly. "It seemed
a bad place for a woman, due to the impending trouble and the profanity attending
the work of the men."
"May I ask a few questions?" Ross asked.
"Mr. Clymer," Levitt interrupted, "this man Haney is a troublemaker! His questions
can do no good except to try to incriminate others and to put himself in a better
light. The man is a murderer!"
Clymer shrugged. "We're here to ascertain the facts. However, the prisoner should
be examined in connection with the killing of Kerb Dahl. What have you to say to
that, Haney?"
"That it is impossible to divide the killing of Dahl from the other sides of the
case. Nor is it going to be of any use to talk of it until the events leading up
to that point are made plain."
"Well, that's reasonable enough," Clymer said. "Go ahead." Levitt's lips tightened
and his nostrils flared. Voyle had walked into the back of the room with Syd Berdue,
and they stood there, surveying the crowd. With them was the silent man who had been
Dahl's partner.
"I want to ask Levitt how many hands he had when he came into this country," Ross
said evenly.
Star was puzzled and wary. "Why, not many. What difference does it make?"
"How many? You used the VV spread, how many hands did you have?"
91
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 85
"Why, one that actually came with me." The question puzzled Levitt and disturbed
him. He couldn't see where it pointed.
"The one man was that short, dark man at the back of the room, wasn't it? The man
called Turner?"
"That's right."
Haney turned suddenly in his chair and fired a question at Dahl's partner. "Turner,
what's a piggin string?"
"What?" The man looked puzzled and frightened. The question had startled him, and
he was irritated at being suddenly noticed.
"I asked what a piggin string was. I'd also like to know what a grulla is."
Turner turned his head from side to side, eager for a way out, but there was none.
He wet his lips with his tongue and swallowed.
"I don't know," he said.
"These questions make no sense at all!" Levitt said irritably. "Let's get on with
the murder hearing!"
"They make sense to me," Ross replied. Then, turning to Clymer, he added, "You, sir,
were raised on a cow ranch, so you know that a piggin string is a short piece of
rope used to tie a critter when it's throwed-thrown. You also know that a grulla
is a mouse color, a sort of gray, an' usually applied to horses.
"The point I'm gettin' at is that Levitt came into this country with one man, who
wasn't a cowhand. Turner doesn't know the first thing about a ranch or about cattle."
"What's that got to do with it?" Levitt demanded.
Clymer was looking at Ross Haney thoughtfully. He began to smile as he anticipated
the reply.
"Why, just this, Levitt. How many cattle did you bring into this country?" Haney
demanded sharply. He leaned forward. "An' how many have you got now?"
Somebody out in the room grunted, and Scott was grinning from ear to ear. The question
had caught Levitt flat-footed. Clymer turned on him, his eyes bright with interest.
"A good question, Mr. Levitt. On the way here you told me you ran a thousand head.
Where did you get them?"
That's got nothing to do with it!" Levitt shouted angrily. For the first time he
was out in the open, and Ross Haney had led him there, led him by the nose into a
trap. As Haney knew, Levitt grew.angry When pushed, and it was that he was playing
for.
r. Clymer," Ross interrupted, "I think it has a lot to do with it! This man, claimin'
to be a representative rancher, admits comin' into this country with one man who
wasn't a cowhand, even if he may be fairly good with a gun. No two men like that
are bringin' a thousand head of cattle into this country an' brandin' 'em.
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 86 Louis L'AMOUR
"But I'll show you that Levitt does have a thousand head, or near to it, an' every
one with a worked-over brand!"
"That's a lie!" Levitt shouted, leaping to his feet.
Ross settled back in his chair, smiling. "Now ask me about the killin' of Kerb Dahl,"
he said gently.
Star Levitt sagged back in his chair, flushed and angry. He had let go of his temper.
Despite his burning rage, he knew he was in an ugly position, where Haney, by his
fool questions, had led him. The killing led away from the cattle, so he jumped at
the chance.
Before he could speak, Clymer asked Haney, "If he has the
uranueu caLue now, wno uranueu Lnem:
"Kerb Dahl, the man I killed on the VV, Voyle of the Box N, Tolman, who hired on
after Levitt got here, an' Emmett Chubb, among others."
"That's absurd!" Levitt said contemptuously.
"Sherry, name the men you heard talking at Thousand Springs!" Ross asked quickly.
The sudden question startled her, and before Levitt could catch her eye, she glanced
up and replied, "Why, Dahl was there, and Voyle, Tolman, and Sydney Berdue."
"What did they talk about?"
Levitt was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes upon her. Sherry glanced at him,
and her eyes wavered. "Why, I-" Her voice trailed off.
"Before you answer," Ross told her, "let me tell you that you've been the victims,
you and your brother, of the foulest trick ever played."
Haney turned to Clymer: "Sir, Miss Vernon was concealed near the springs, and overheard
some of the plotting between the men mentioned. These were the same men who altered
the brands for Levitt. Through them, Levitt engineered and planned the whole fight,
forcing an issue between Reynolds and Pogue deliberately, and in the battle, killing
the two men who opposed him in the Ruby Hills country. It will no doubt strike you
that among the survivors of that battle were
all the men seen by Miss Vernon at the springs.
"Also," he added, "Levitt was blackmailing the Vernons, using their ranch as a storage
depot and transfer point for his deals in the opium trade!"
i
93
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 87
Chapter XV11 Desperate Chance
Knocked off balance by these public revelations, Star Levitt struggled to his feet,
his face ashen. The carefully planned coup was tumbling about his ears, and he who
had come into the valley as a leader in a dope ring and planned to become the legitimate
owner of a great ranch, suddenly saw the whole thing reduced to chaos.
"Furthermore," Ross got to his feet, and the ringing sound of his voice reduced to
silence the stir in the room, "I think this is the proper time to make a few points
clear." Opening his shirt, he drew a leather wallet from inside it and from the wallet
drew a handful of papers, which he passed to Clymer. "Will you tell Mr. Levitt,"
he said, "what you have there?"
Clymer glanced at them and then looked up in amazement. "Why, these are deeds!" he
exclaimed, glancing from Haney to Levitt. "These indicate that you are the owner
of both Hitson Springs and the Bullhorn ranch headquarters, including the water right.
Also, here are papers that show Haney has filed on the Thousand Springs area!"
"What?"
Star Levitt's fingers gripped the arms of his chair, and his brow creased. Before
his eyes came the whole plan he had made, all his planning, his actions-all were
rendered perfectly futile. Who controlled the water in those three sources controlled
the Ruby Hills, and there was no way of circumventing it. From the beginning he had
been beaten and now he had been made ridiculous.
I told you," Haney said quietly, looking at Levitt, "that you had overlooked the
obvious. Somehow, a crook always does."
Now, sir," Ross said to Clymer, "with the cattle brands I can show you, the evidence
we can produce, I'd say that you have a strong case for robbery and murder against
Star Levitt!"
There was a slight stir in the back of the room, and Haney's eyes shifted. Emmett
Chubb was slipping from the room to the street.
As the accusation rang in the silent room, Star Levitt held himself taut. The crashing
of his plans meant less to him now than the fact that he had been shown up for a
fool by the cowhand he despised and hated. Suddenly, the rage that was building within
him burst into a fury that was almost madness. His face went white, his eyes glassy
and staring, and letting out a choking cry, he sprang for Haney.
Warned by Sherry's scream, Ross jerked his eyes back from the vanishing Chubb and
lunged from his chair swinging two brainjarring blows to the head. They rocked Levitt,
but nothing could stop his insane rush, and Haney gave ground before the onslaught.
94
 88 Louis
Levitt swung wildly with both hands, beside himself with hate and fury.
But Ross lunged at him, burying a right in the bigger man's stomach and then hooking
a powerful, jarring left to the chin. Levitt staggered, and Ross, eager for battle,
bulled into him, bringing his head down on Levitt's shoulder and smashing away with
both hands in a wicked body attack. He threw the punches with all the power built
into his shoulders by years of bulldogging steers and hard range work.
He caught Levitt with a wicked overhand right and battered him back into the chairs.
The crowd scattered. From somewhere outside Ross heard the sharp rap of a shot and
then another. Then quiet. His right smashed Levitt over a chair, and the big man
came up with a lunge, grabbing for the chair itself.
Ross rushed him and Star tried to straighten, but Haney clubbed him with a fist on
the kidney and the big man went to his knees. Ross stepped back, panting. "Get up!"
Ross said. "Get up an' take it!"
Levitt lunged to his feet, and Ross smashed his lips with a sweeping left. He ripped
a gash in Levitt's cheek with a right. Star tottered back, his eyes glazed. He straightened
then and shook his head, some measure of cunning returning to him. Suddenly he turned
and hurled himself through the glass of the window!
Ross sprang to the window after him and caught a fleeting glimpse of Emmett Chubb
as a bullet whirred within a hair of his cheek and buried itself in the window frame.
There was a clatter of horses' hoofs and then silence.
Haney's hands fell helplessly. Scott moved up beside him, handing him his guns. "Sorry
I couldn't get 'em to you sooner," he said, "but you did plenty without 'em!"
Clymer caught his arm. "You've loyal friends, Haney. Burt and Mabry stopped the stage
outside of town. Levitt had ridden on ahead, and they took time to tell me a lot
of things and asked that I get you and the Vernons together with Levitt and withhold
judgment until you had talked and I had listened.
"As it happens," he added, "Neal and I had both been reared on ranches where Mabry
worked. We knew him for a good man and an honest one. From the first we had doubts
that all Levitt had told us was the truth. Mabry also had a cowhide with him, and
any western man could see the brand had been altered from a VV to Three Diamonds."
Ross shoved his guns into his holsters and pushed his way to Sherry who was standing
white and still near the door, waiting for him. He said gently: "Sherry, we can talk
about it some other time,
95
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 89 but I think I can make a rough guess at most of it.
Why don't you go in and get some coffee? I'll join you in a minute."
Mabry and Burt were waiting outside, and they had the palouse. "We can chase 'em,
boss," Rolly said, "but they've got quite a start." "Later, I head some shooting.
What was it?"
"That was
Voyle," Mabry said grimly. "He made a rush for his horse an' met Rolly halfway. He
made a grab for his gun an' I guess he wasn't as gunslick as he figured."
"Tolman?" "Roped an' hogtied. He'll go south with the rangers, an' unless I miss
my guess, he'll talk all the way. We've got Turner, too."
"Incidentally," Mabry added, "don't you jump to no conclusions about Kinney an' Scott.
I ain't had much time to talk to Scott, but we moved down to May's like you said,
an' all three of us seen you follered to Scott's by some of Levitt's crowd.
"They had us way outnumbered, an' Kinney came up and said if he butted in he might
keep you from gettin' killed."
"That was my idea," Scott put in. "I thought I seen somethin' in the shadows when
I let you in, an' then I heard a step outside, an' I knowed I either had to get you
as my prisoner or we'd both be in a trap. Chubb would kill you sure as shootin' if
he got a chance, but with you as my prisoner I'd have the right to interfere."
"So then Levitt, Chubb, an' Berdue are the only ones who got away?" Ross mused.
"Uh-huh," Mabry agreed, and then running his fingers through his coarse red hair,
he commented: "That ain't good! I know that sort, an' you can take my word for it,
they'll be back!"
Yet as the days found their way down the year and the summer faded toward autumn,
there was no further sign of the three missing men. The mornings became chill, but
the sun still lay bright and golden upon the long valley and the view from the growing
house upon the mesa top changed from green to green and gold shot through with streaks
of russet and deep red. The aspen leaves began to change, and sometimes in the early
morning the countryside was white with the touch of frost.
Rumors came occasionally to their ears. There had been a bank held up at Weaver,
a stage had been looted and two men killed at Canyon Pass, and one of the three bandits
had been recognized by a passenger as Emmett Chubb. Then the town marshal in Pie
Town was shot down when he attempted to question a big, handsome man with a beard.
When Sherry rode the valley or over into the Ruby Hills, Ross Haney was constantly
at her side. The Appaloosa and Flame became constant companions. Despite the fact
that no reports came of any of the three men being seen nearby, Haney was worried.
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 90 Louis L'AMOUR
"Ross," Sherry said suddenly, "you've promised to take me to the crater in the lava
beds. Why not today?"
He hesitated uneasily. "That place has me buffaloed!" he said after a while. "I never
go into it myself without wishing I was safely out. The way those big rocks hang
over the trail scares a man. If they ever fell while we were in there, we'd never
get out, never in this world!"
She smiled. "At least we'd be together!"
He grinned and shoved his hat back with a quick, familiar gesture. His eyes twinkled.
"That sure would be something, but I'd not like to have you confined in that place
all your life. You might get tired of me. This way you can see a few folks once in
a while an' maybe I'll wear better."
"But you've been there so many times, Ross, and Rolly tells me it's perfectly beautiful.
I want to see the ice caves, too!"
Below them, there was a faint rumbling and stirring within the mountain, and they
exchanged a glance. "I'm getting used to it now," he admitted, "but when I first
heard it that rumbling gave me the chills. When we move into the house we'll have
those holes fenced off. They are really dangerous."
"I know. Ever since you took me down there and showed me that awful hole, I've been
frightened of it. Suppose someone was trapped down there, with a foot caught or something?
It would be frightful!"
"It would be the end!" Ross replied grimly. "When that geyser shoots up there it
brings rocks with it that weigh fifty or sixty pounds, and they rattle around in
that cave like seeds in a gourd. You wouldn't have to have a foot caught, either.
All you would have to do would be to get far enough away from the mouth of that cave
so you couldn't make it in a few steps. A man wouldn't have a chance!"
They were riding down the mesa through the slender aspens, the graceful white trunks
like slender alabaster columns. The trail was carpeted with the scarlet and gold
of autumn leaves.
"Somehow it all seems like some dreadful dream!" she said suddenly. "We'd been so
happy, Bob and I. It was fun on the ranch, working with the men, building our own
place, learning all the new things about the West. Bob loved handling the horses
and working with cattle, and then when we were happiest, Star Levitt came out to
the ranch.
"You can't imagine what a shock it was to us, for we thought all that had been left
behind and forgotten. Our brother, the oldest one in the family, had gone down to
Mexico and got mixed up with a girl down there and started using dope. He'd always
been Father S
97
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS
favorite and we all loved him, but Ralph was weak and easily led. Levitt got hold
of him and used his name for a front to peddle dope in the States.
"Father has been ill for a long time with a heart condition that has become steadily
worse. He has just two great prides, two things to live for. One is his family reputation
and the other his children. Principally, that meant Ralph.
"We knew about it, but we kept it from Dad, and later when Ralph was killed down
there, we managed to keep the whole truth of the story from him. We knew the shock
and the disgrace would kill him, and if by some chance he lived, he would feel the
shame and the disgrace so much that his last years would be nothing but sorrow.
"Star told us that he needed our ranch. It was the proper working base for him, not
too far from Mexico, yet in easy reach of a number of cities. He said he wanted to
use the ranch for a headquarters for two months, and then he would leave. If we did
not consent, he threatened to expose the whole disgraceful affair and see that my
father heard it all.
"We were foolish, of course, but it is so hard to know what to do. And Levitt didn't
give us time; he just started moving in. The next thing we knew he had his own men
on the ranch, and we were almost helpless. Reynolds and Pogue were outlaws or as
bad, and we could not turn to them. There was nobody, until you came."
Ross nodded grimly. "Don't I know it? When I started digging into the background
of this country I found fewer good people here than anywhere I ever knew. And the
best folks were all little people."
"It was after he had been here a few weeks," Sherry continued, that he decided to
stay. He was shrewd enough to know he couldn't keep on like that forever, and here
was a good chance to have power, wealth, and an honest income. He saw that the fighting
between the Box N and RR was his chance."
The two rode on in silence, their horses' hoofs making little sound on the leaf-covered
trail. Suddenly, before Ross realized how they were riding, they were at the entrance
to the lava bed trail.
Sherry laughed mischievously. "All right, now! As long as we're here, why don't we
go in? We can be back before dark, you told me so yourselfl "
He shrugged. "All right, have it your way."
98
 Louis
Chapter XV111 Thirst for Vengeance
Very reluctantly the Appaloosa turned in to the trail between the great black rolls
of lava, leading the way. Once started, there was no turning back, for until a rider
was well within the great cleft itself there was insufficient room for any turning
of the horses.
When they reached the deepest part of the crevasse, where in some bygone age an earthquake
or volcanic eruption had split the rim of the crater deep into the bedrock, Ross
pointed out the great crags suspended over the trail.
"This place will be inaccessible someday," he told her. "There will be an earthquake
or some kind of a jar, and those rocks will fill the cleft so there will be no trail
or place for one.
"From the look of them, a man might get them started with a bar or lever of some
kind. I never ride in here without getting the creeps at the thought. They are just
lying up there, and all they need is the slightest start and they would come roaring
and tumbling down."
Tilting her head back, Sherry could see what he meant, and for the first time she
understood something of the fear that Ross had for this place. One enormous slab
that must have weighed hundreds of tons seemed to be hanging, ready to slide at the
slightest touch.
It was an awesome feeling to be riding down here, with no sound but the click of
their horses' hoofs, and to have those enormous rocks poised above them.
Yet once within the crater itself she forgot her momentary fears in excitement over
the long level of green grass, the running water, and the towering cliffs of the
crater that seemed to soar endlessly toward the vast blue vault of the sky. Great
clouds piled up in an enormous mass in the east and north, seeming to add their great
height to the height of the cliffs.
It was warm and pleasant in the sunlight, and they rode along without talking, listening
to the lazy sound of the running water and watching the movements of the few remaining
great red and brindle cattle, which were becoming more tame as a result of the frequency
of their visits.
"There must have been more than six hundred down here and probably would have been
more, but there are a good many var mints around. I've seen cougars down here, an'
heard 'em."
"Where are the ice caves?" Sherry demanded. "I want to see them. Rolly was telling
me about the crystals!"
For two hours they rambled over the great crater and in and out of
99
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 93
the caves. They found several where cattle and horses had been drinking, and whatever
cattle they found they started back toward the trail. Then suddenly, as they were
about to leave, Sherry caught Haney's arm. "Ross!" There was sudden fear in her voice.
"Look!"
It was a boot track, small and quite deep.
Her breath caught. "It might be-Rolly?" Her voice was tight, her fear mounting.
"No, it wasn't Rolly." Mentally, he cursed himself for ever bringing her here. "That
foot is smaller than either Mabry's or Burt's, an' a heavy man made it. Let's get
out of here.'
When they were outside, he could see the pallor of her face in the last of the sunlight.
He glanced at the sky, surprised at the sudden shadows, although it was drawing on
toward evening. Great gray thunderheads loomed over the crater, piling up in great,
bulging, ominous clouds. It was going to rain, and rain hard.
Leading the way, he started for the horses, every sense alert and wary, yet he saw
no one. His movements started the cattle drifting again, and as they reached the
horses, he told her, glancing at the sky:
"You go ahead. I think I'll start the rest of the cattle out of here while I'm at
it."
"You can't do it alone!" she protested.
"I'll try. You head for home now. You'll get soaked."
"Nonsense! I have my slicker, and-" her voice faded and her eyes fastened on something
beyond Ross's shoulder, widening with fear and horror.
He knew instantly what it was she saw, and for a fleeting moment he considered making
his draw as he turned, but he realized the girl was directly in the line of fire.
And so, after so long a time, we meet again!" The voice was that of Star Levitt.
But there was a strange tone in it now, less selfassurance, something that sounded
weirdly like madness.
Carefully, Ross Haney turned and met the eyes that told him the worst.
All the neatness and glamour of the man was gone. The white hat was soiled, his shirt
was dirty, and his face was unshaven. His eyes were still large and magnificent,
but now the light of insanity was in them. Haney realized the line between sanity
and something less had always been finely drawn in this man. Defeat and frustration
had been all that were needed to break that shadow line.
"Oh, this is great!" Levitt chortled. "Today we make a clean sweep! I get you, and
later, Sherry! And while I am doing that,
100
 94 Louis L'AMOUR
Chubb and Berdue will finish off Mabry and Burt. They are up on the mesa now, waiting
for them!"
"On the mesa?" Haney shrugged. "They'll never surprise the boys there. Whenever one
of us has not been on the mesa all day, we are very careful. We've been watching
for you, Levitt."
Star smiled. "Oh, have you? But we found our own hiding place! We found a cave there,
an ideal spot, and that's where they'll wait until they can catch Mabry and Burt
without warning them!"
"A cave?" Ross repeated. Horror welled up within him, and he felt the hackles rising
along his neck and his scalp prickled at the thought. "A cave? You mean you've been
in that cave on the mesa?"
Levitt smiled. "Only to look, enough to know that it was an ideal hiding place. At
first, I planned to stay, too, but then when I saw you two leaving the mesa and heading
for the lava beds, I decided this was a better chance. Besides," he glanced at Sherry,
"I want her for a while-alone. She needs to be taught a lesson."
Ross Haney stared at him. "Levitt, you're mad! That cave where those men are hiding
is a death trap! If they aren't within a few feet of the opening, they won't have
a chance to get out of there alive! Did you see that black hole in the center? That's
a geyser! Those men will be trapped and drowned!"
Levitt's smile vanished. "That's a lie, of course. If it isn't, it won't matter.
I was through with them, anyway. And Mabry and Burt are small fry. It is you two
that I wanted. "
Ross Haney had shifted his position slightly now and he was facing Levitt. His heart
was pounding, for he knew there was only one chance for them. He must draw, and he
must take a chance on beating Levitt to the shot. He would be hit, he was almost
sure, but regardless of that, he must kill Star Levitt.
Wes Hardin had beaten men to the shot several times when actually covered with a
gun. There were others who had done it, but he was no fool, and he knew how tremendously
the odds weighed against him. Thunder rumbled and a few spatters of rain fell.
"Better get your slicker, Sherry," he said calmly. "You'll get wet!"
His eyes were riveted upon Star Levitt, and what he waited for happened. As the girl
started to move, Levitt's eyes flickered for a fraction of an instant, and Ross Haney
went for his guns.
Levitt's gun flamed, but he swung his eyes back and shot too fast, for the bullet
ripped by Haney's head just as Ross flipped the hammer of his gun.
Once! Twice! And then he walked in on the bigger man, his heart pounding, Levitt's
gun flaming in his face, intent only upon getting in as many shots as possible before
he was killed.
A bullet creased his arm, and his hand dropped. Awkwardly, he
101
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 95 fired with his left-hand gun and knew the shot had
missed; yet Star Levitt, his shirt dark with blood, was wilting before his eyes,
his body fairly riddled with the bullets from Haney's first, accurate shots.
Ross held his gun carefully and then fired again, and the shot ripped away the bridge
of Star's nose, smashing a blue hole in his head at the corner of his eye.
Yet he wouldn't go down. The guns wavered in his hands as his knees slowly gave 'way,
but some reflex action brought the guns up again. Both men bellowed their defiance
into the pouring rain, their flames stabbing and then winking out. As the echoes
of the gunfire died, there was only the rain, pouring down into the crater like a
great deluge as Levitt lay still forever.
Sherry rushed to him. "Oh, Ross! You're hurt! Did he hit you?" He turned dazedly.
He didn't feel hurt. "Get into that slicker!" he yelled above the roar of the rain.
"We've got to pull out of here! Think of those rocks in this rain and lightning!
Let's go!"
Fighting his way into his slicker, he saw the girl mount, and then he crawled into
the saddle. The cattle moved when he started his horse toward them. Suddenly, he
made a resolution. He was taking them'out-now.
Surprisingly, the big steer who took the lead seemed to head into the cleft of his
own choice-possibly because it seemed to offer partial shelter from the sweep of
the rain, perhaps because he had seen so many of his fellows go that way in the weeks
past.
Waving the girl ahead of him, Ross followed on into the cleft, casting scared glances
aloft at the huge rocks. "Get on!" he yelled. "Get going!"
He glanced up again as they neared the narrowest part. Horror filled him, for the
great, hanging slab seemed to move!
"Hurry!" he yelled. "For heaven's sake, hurry!" He grabbed a stone and hurled it
at a loitering steer, and the animal sprang ahead. Sherry cast a frightened look
upward, and her eyes widened with
horror. Her face went stark white, as though she had been struck. A thin trickle
of stones fell, splashing into the cleft. A steer ahead stopped and bawled complainingly,
and Ross grabbed a chunk of rock from the bank and hurled it, and the steer, hit
hard, struggled madly to get ahead.
Sherry moved suddenly, closing up the gap between her horse and the nearest cattle,
harrying them onward with stones and shouts. Ross looked up again, and caught as
in a trance, he saw the great slab stir Ponderously, almost majestically. Its tablelike
top inclined, and then slowly, but with gathering impetus, it began to slide!
102
I'l 96 Louis L'AMOUR
Shale and gravel rattled down the banks, and Ross touched spurs to his horse. The
startled palouse sprang ahead, forcing Flame into the steers, who began to trot,
and then as the two horses crowded up into the folds of lava, but out of the cleft
in the crater wall, the air behind them was suddenly filled with a tremendous sound,
a great, reverberating roar that seemed to last forever.
The rain forgotten, they sat riveted in place, listening to the sound that was closing
the crater forever and leaving the body of Star Levitt as the only thing that would
ever tell of human movement or habitation.
Yet as they remembered what Star Levitt had said about Berdue and Emmett Chubb, they
unconsciously moved faster, and once out of the lava beds they left the cattle to
shift for themselves and turned toward the mesa trail.
There was no letup to the rain. It roared down in an unceasing flood. They bowed
their heads and hunched their slickers around them. The red of Flame's coat turned
black with wet. Under his slicker, Ross rode with one hand on his gun, hoping for
no trouble, but searching every clump of brush, every tree.
Rolly Burt ran from the cabin and grabbed their horses when they swung down. "Hustle
inside an' get dry!" he yelled. "We've been worried as all get-out!"
When they got inside and had their slickers off, Mabry looked up, rolling a smoke.
"Burt thought he saw Chubb today. We were worried about you."
"You haven't seen them?" Ross turned on him sharply.
Burt came in, overhearing the question. "No, an' I'm just as well satisfied. Say!"
he looked up at them. "That danged geyser sure gives off some funny noises! I was
over close when it sounded off the last time this afternoon, and I'd of swore I heard
a human voice a-screechin'! That's one reason we have been worried about you two,
although Bill did say you rode off the mesa!"
Sherry's face blanched, and she turned quickly toward an inner room.
Rolly stared after her. "Hey, what's the matter? Did I say something wrong?"
"No. Just forget about it. And don't mention that geyser again!" Then he explained,
telling all that had happened during the long, wet afternoon, the end of Star Levitt
and the closing of the great cleft.
Sherry came out as they finished speaking. "Ross, those poor men! I hated them, but
to think of anything human being caught in that awful place!"
"Forget about it. They asked for it, and now it is all over. Look at
103
 THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS 97
that fire! It's our fire, in our own fireplace! Smell that coffee Mabry has on? And
listen to the rain! That means the grass will be growin' tall an' green next year,
honey, green on our hills an' for our cattle!"
She put her hand on his shoulder and they stood there together, watching the flames
dance, listening to the fire chuckling over the secrets locked in the wood, and hearing
the great drops hiss out their anguish as they drowned themselves in the flames.
A stick fell, and the blaze crept along it, feeling hungrily for good places to burn.
From the kitchen they heard the rattle of dishes and the smell of bacon frying, and
Rolly was pouring the coffee.
104
105
 AUTHOR'S NOTE Showdown Trail
Stories are rarely conceived in one piece. Often, just one situation appears, with
perhaps a character in that situation. If not, one tries Fo find a character or characters
whose presence would contribute to the drama. Fictionalized events may be chosen
in the same way. For ,xample, the trip across the mountain during the terrible thunder
storm like the one in this book happened to me. Not in just that way or at that same
place, but I lived through the experience, so when I had to put it on paper I knew
what I was writing about.
Men and women in the West were nearly always from somewhere else. The West in its
beginning at least was
not old enough to have bred grown men. Yet wherever they came from, they brought
with them their previous experience, whatever it happened to be, and when a man or
woman reacted to an event, the reaction would have devel oped from previous training,
experience, and temperament.
These people who came west were largely from small towns or farms. Only a few came
from cities. Many of the men had already ventured into a wilderness somewhere or
had taken part in wars and were accustomed to hardship. They adapted very quickly
to new styles of living and to the customs of the people among whom they were to
live.
What I have sought from the very beginning was to understand the thinking of the
people of the West, to know how they worked and lived. I wished to understand the
background against which dramas would be played. One cannot judge the actions of
a man on the frontier in Texas by the same measure as one would a man living in New
Jersey or Virginia. The thinking of the man on the frontier would be altered by the
demands made upon him, as well as by the freedom from society's restrictions. Yet
always there was the desire on
the part of most westerners for the amenities of the more civilized life they had
formerly led.
Unfortunately, perhaps, stories deal with drama, and great drama
106
 is always found at the cutting edge, and one is
inclined to forget the churches, schools, square dances, sewing circles, box suppers,
and other aspects of social living on the frontier. For instance, Dodge City had
gunfighters and gunfights, but it
also
had band concerts and a baseball team.
107
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL
I With slow, ponderously rhythmical steps, the oxen moved, each step a pause and
an effort, each movement a deadening drag. Fine white dust hung in a sifting cloud
above the wagon train, caking the nostrils of animals and men, blanketing the lean
sides of oxen and horses, dusting with a thin film the clothing of men and women.
Red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes stared with dazed weariness into the limitless distance
before them, seeing nothing, knowing nothing. Long since all had been forgotten but
heat, dust, and aching muscles. Each succeeding step lifted a powdery dust, stifling
and irritating. It lay a foot deep on the endless plain, drowning the sparse grass
and sage.
Rock Bannon, riding away from the train and alone, drew in his steel-dust stallion
and turned in the saddle, looking back over the covered wagons, sixteen of them in
a long line with some lead horses and a few outriders, yet not one who rode so far
out as himself.
From where he sat he could not see their faces, but in the days just past he had
seen them many times, and the expression of each was engraved in his mind. Haggard,
worn, hungry for rest and cool water, he knew that in the secret heart of each was
a longing to stop.
The vision was in them yet, the golden promise of the distant hills, offering a land
of milk and honey, the fair and flowering land sought by all wandering peoples of
whatever time and whatever place. No hardship could seem too great, no trail too
long, no mountains impassable when the vision was upon them.
It was always and forever the same when men saw the future opening beyond the hills
where the sun slept; yet this time the vision must hold meaning, this time the end
of the trail must h
~i ing realization, for they had brought their women and children
101
108
All had done so but Rock Bannon. He had neither woman nor child, nor anyone, anywhere.
He had a horse and a saddle, a ready gun, and a mind filled with lore of the trail,
and eyes ever fixed on' something he wanted, something faint and indistinct in outline,
ever distant, yet ever real.
Only of late as he rode alone on the far flank of the wagon train had that something
begun to take shape and outline, and the shape was that of Sharon Crockett.
His somber green eyes slanted back now to the last wagon but one, where the red gold
hair of Sharon on the driver's seat was a flame no dust could dim. In the back of
that heavily loaded wagon was Tom Crockett, her father, stirring, restless with fever
and hurt, nursing a bullet wound in his thigh, a memento of the battle with Buffalo
Hide's warriors.
From the head of the train came a long, melodious halloo, and Cap Mulholland swung
his arm in a great circle and the lead oxen turned ponderously to swing in the beginning
of the circle. Rock touched the gray with his heels and rode slowly toward the wagon
train. He was never sure these days as to his reception.
Cap's beard was white with dust as he looked up. Weariness and worry showed in his
face. "Rock," he said, "we could sure use a little fresh meat. We're all a mite short
on rations, and you seem to be the best hunter amongst us."
"All right," Rock said, "I'll see what I can do after I get Crockett's wagon in place."
Mulholland's head turned sharply. "Bannon, I'd let that girl alone if I were you.
No offense intended, but she ain't your kind. I ain't denyin' you've been a sight
of help to us. In fact, I don't know what we'd have done without you, and we're glad
you came along, but Sharon Crockett's another story. Her pa's bedded down now, and
in no shape to speak."
Bannon turned the steel dust sharply. His face was grim and his jaw hard. "Did he
ask you to speak to me? Or did she?"
"Well, no-not exactly," Mulholland said uncomfortably. "But I'm headin' this train."
"Then I'll thank you to mind your own business! Headin' this wagon train is job enough
for any man! Any time the Crocketts ask me to stay away, I'll stay, but that's their
affair!"
Mulholland's face flushed and his eyes darkened with anger. She ain't your kind,"
he persisted, "you being' a killer and all."
Rock Bannon stared at him. "You didn't seem to mind my killing Indians!" he said
sarcastically. "In fact, you killed a few yourself!" "Don't get me wrong!" Cap persisted.
"I ain't gainsayin' you am
helped us! Without you I don't know if we could have beat off those
109
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 103 Indians or not, but killin' Indians and killin' our own kind
is a lot different thing!"
"You're new to the West, Cap." Bannon's voice was rough. "In a short time you'll
find there's men out here that need killin' a sight worse than Indians. In fact,
I'm not so sure those Indians jumped us without help!"
"What do you mean?" Mulholland demanded.
"I mean," Bannon said, "that Morton Harper told you there'd be no hostile Indians
on this route! I warned you of Buffalo Hide then, but he told you he ranged further
north. You took his advice on this trail, not mine!"
Pagones and Pike Purcell were coming up to join them. Pike heard the last remark,
and his lean, lantern-jawed face flushed with anger.
"You ridin' Harper again?" he harshly demanded of Bannon. "He said this was a better
trail, and it is. We ain't had no high passes, and we had six days of the best travel
we've had since we left Council Bluffs, with plenty of water and plenty of grass.
Now we get a few bad days and a brush with Indians, but that ain't much!"
He glared at Rock. "I'm sick of your whinin' about this trail and Harper! I figure
he's a durned good man. He was sure a help to me when I needed it. Out of supplies,
no medicine for the wife, and he staked me."
"I wasn't talking to you," Rock replied shortly, "and I don't like your tone. As
far as your loan from Harper, remember that you haven't heard from him on it yet.
I've a hunch he'll collect, and plenty!"
"I don't need no killer to tell me my business!" Pike snapped, reining his horse
around to face Rock. "And I ain't afeerd of no reputation for killin', neither. You
don't bluff me none."
"Here, here!" Cap protested. "We can't afford to have trouble in camp. You'll have
to admit, Pike, that we'd have been in bad shape a couple of times in that fight
if it hadn't been for Bannon. He's been a help. I don't agree with him on Mort Harper,
either, but every man to his own idea."
Rock swung the steel dust and cantered off toward the hills. Inwardly, he was seething.
He was a fool to stay on with the wagon train--he understood that perfectly well.
Not a man here liked him; not a man here talked to him except on business. He was
not even a member of their train except by accident.
They had found him at the crossing of the Platte. Riding, half dead with two bullet
wounds in his body, his horse ready to drop with fatigue, he had run up to the wagon
train. Sharon Crockett had
110
 104 Louis L'AMoux
bedded him down in her wagon and cared for him, and he had ridden on in the same
place where her father rode now.
He had offered no explanation of his wounds, had talked but little. A grim and lonely
man, gentle words came hard, and he could only look up into Sharon's face and wonder
at her beauty, tongue-tied and helpless. Yet his hard, tough, trail-battered body
was too used to pain to remain helpless for long. He had recovered rapidly, and afterward
he had ridden along with the wagons, hunting for fresh meat and helping when he could.
He was not a man who made friends easily, yet gradually the ice was melting, and
the clannishness of the wagon train was breaking down. Twice he had even talked with
Sharon, riding beside her wagon, speaking of the mountains and his own wild and lonely
life. All that had ended abruptly that night beside the campfire at the fort.
They had been seated around the fire eating supper, listening to the bustle of life
around the fort, when a tall, handsome man rode up on a beautiful black mare.
Perfectly groomed, his wide, white hat topping coal-black hair that hung to his shoulders,
a drooping black mustache and a black broadcloth suit, the trousers tucked into hand-tooled
boots, Morton Harper had been a picture to take any eye.
Swinging down, he had walked up to the fire. "Howdy, folks!" His voice was genial,
his manner warm and pleasant. In an instant his personality and voice had done what
Rock Bannon's could not do in two weeks. He had broken down their reserve and become
one of the group. "Headin' for California?"
"Reckon we are," Mulholland had agreed. "We ain't rightly decided whether to stay
on the Humboldt Trail or to swing north and go to Oregon."
"Why go either way?" Harper asked. "There's a southern route I could recommend that
would be much easier going for your womenfolks." His alert eyes had already found
and appraised Sharon Crockett. "More water, plenty of grass, and no high mountain
passes."
Cap Mulholland looked up interestedly. "We ain't heard of no such pass, nor no such
trail," he admitted. "How does she go?" "Man named Hastings scouted some of it, and
I scouted the rest
myself. It is a more southerly route, and within another few months all the travel
will be going that way. Right now," he winked, the trains that go that way are going
to have a mighty fine trip of it. Very little dust except in one stretch, fine grass,
lots of water. Also, the hostile Indians are all raiding far north of there along
the traveled routes.
"But," he added, "I can see you're well led, and you'll no doubt
111
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 105 learn about this trail yourselves. From the look of your teams
I'd say vnu were lucky in your choice of a leader."
Leaning against the hub of a wagon wheel, Rock Bannon ate in silence. The even, smooth
flow of the stranger's language had an enchanting quality, but his own hard-grained,
cynical character was impervious to mere talk.
As the hours flowed by, Harper sat among them, pleasing the men with subtle flattery,
the women with smiles. The reserve of the group thawed under his easy manner, and
before long they began to discuss his trail and its possibilities, considering themselves
fortunate to know of it first.
There was some talk of putting it to a vote, but it was morning before it came to
that. Until then, Rock was silent. "You'd do better," he interposed suddenly, "to
stick to the regular trail."
Harper's head came up sharply, and his eyes leveled at Bannon. "Have you ever been
over the trail I suggest, my friend?"
"Part way," Rock replied. "Only part of it."
"And was that part easy going for oxen and horses? Was there a good trail? Grass?
Water?"
"Yes, I reckon it has all that, but I wouldn't advise it."
"You say it is a better trail but you wouldn't advise it." Harper glanced around
at the others, smiling tolerantly. "That doesn't make much sense, does it? I've been
over the entire trail and found it very good going. Moreover, I can give you a map
of the trail showing the waterholes, everything. Of course, it's nothing to me what
route you take, but if you want to avoid Indians-" He shrugged.
"What about Buffalo Hide?"
Morton Harper's face tightened, and his eyes strained to pry Rock Bannon's face from
the shadows in which he sat. "He's a Blackfoot. He ranges further north."
Harper's eyes shifted to Mulholland. "Who is this man? I'm sur prised he should ask
about Buffalo Hide, as he isn't known to most white men other than renegades. I can't
understand why he should try to persuade you to neglect an easier route for a more
dangerous one. Is he one of your regular train?"
Pike Purcell was abrupt. From the first day he had disliked and been suspicious of
Bannon. "No, he ain't none of our crowd, just a feller what tied up with us back
yonder a ways. He ain't got no wagon, nothin' but the horse he's ridin'."
"I see." Morton Harper's face became grave with implied doubt. NO offense, friend,
but would you mind telling me your name? I know most of the men along this trail,
and Colonel Warren was asking about some of them only tonight. You'll admit it is
safer to be careful, for there are so many renegades who work with the Indians."
112
 106 Louis L'AMOUR "My name's Rock Bannon."
Morton Harper's lips tightened and his eyes grew wary. For a moment he seemed taken
aback. Then as he perceived where his own interests lay, his eyes lighted with triumph.
"Ah? Bannon, eh? I've heard of you. Killed a man in Laramie a month or so back, didn't
you?"
"He drew on me."
Rock was acutely conscious of the sudden chill in the atmosphere, and he could see
Sharon's shocked gaze directed at him. The people of the wagon train were fresh from
the East. Only Cap had been as far west as the Platte before, and he only once. They
were peace loving men, quiet and asking no trouble.
Morton Harper was quick to sense his advantage. "Sorry to have brought it up, Bannon,"
he said smoothly, "but when a man advises a wagon train against their best interests,
it is well to inquire into the source of the advice."
Bannon got up. He was a tall man, lean hipped and broad shoul dered, his flat-brimmed
hat shadowing his face, his eyes glowing with piercing light as he spoke.
"I still say that route's a darned fool way to go. This ain't no country to go wanderin'
around in, and that route lays through Hardy Bishop's country. You spoke of Hastings.
He was the man who advised the Donner party."
As his footsteps died away in the darkness, the members of the wagon train sat very
still, their enthusiasm suddenly dampened by that ill-fated name. They all knew the
story. The horror of it still blanketed the trail with its bloody shadow of the party
caught by snows in the high passes and starving until they resorted to cannibal ism
as a way out.
Morton Harper shrugged. "Of course. They started on Hastings's trail, but left it
too soon, and the route I suggest avoids all the higher passes." His eyes swung around
the group, gathering their attention like the reins of a six-horse team, and he led
them on with promises and suggestions, an easy flow of calm, quiet talk, stilling
their fears, quieting their doubts, offering them grass and water instead of dust
and desert.
In the morning when they moved out, they took the trail Harper had advised, turning
off an hour after they left the fort. He glanced back, and smiled when he saw he
was unobserved. Then he wished them luck and promised to overtake them when a message
came for which he waited. Turning, he galloped back to the fort.
Rock Bannon was with them. He rode close to Sharon's wagon, and after a time she
looked up. He had watched her the night before, had seen her fascinated eyes on Harper's
face.
113
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 107 "You don't approve, do you?"
He shook his head. Then he smiled, somewhat grimly. He was a dark, good-looking man
with a tinge of recklessness in his green eyes.
"My views aren't important," he said. "I don't belong."
"Pike shouldn't have said that," she said. "He's a strange man. A good man, but very
stubborn and suspicious."
"Not suspicious of the right folks, maybe."
Her eyes flashed. "You mean Mr. Harper? Why should we be suspicious of him? He was
only trying to help."
"I wonder."
,,I think," Sharon said sharply, "you'd do better to be a little less suspicious
yourself. You admitted this was a good trail!"
"You haven't met Hardy Bishop yet. Nor Buffalo Hide."
"Mr. Harper said that Indian was farther north." She looked at him. "Who is Hardy
Bishop? You mentioned him before?"
"He's a man who is trying to run cattle at Indian Writing. They said he's insane
to try it, but he's claimed seventy miles of range, and he has cattle there. We have
to cross his range."
"What's wrong with that?"
"If you cross it, maybe nothing, but Bishop's a funny man. He doesn't like strangers
very much. He's going to wonder why you're so far south. He's going to be suspicious."
"Well, let him be suspicious then!" Sharon said, her eyes bright and her chin lifting.
"We don't care, and we won't bother him any. Does he think he owns the whole country?"
"Uh-huh," Rock said. "I'm afraid he does. With some reason as far as that valley
goes. He made it what it is today."
"How could any man make a valley?" Sharon protested. "This is all free country. Anyway,
we're just going through."
The conversation had dwindled and died, and after a while he rode off to the far
flank of the wagon train. Sharon's manner was distinctly stiff and he could see she
was remembering that story of the killing in Laramie. After a few rebuffs he avoided
her. Nobody talked to him. He rode alone and camped alone.
It had remained like that for six days. They were six days during which Morton Harper's
name became one to reckon with. The long green valley down which they moved was unrutted
by wagon trains, the grass was green and waving, and water was plentiful. Harper's
map showed an accurate knowledge of the country and was a great help. On the sixth
day after leaving the fort, the Indians hit them.
114
 108 Louis L'AMOUR
The attack came at daybreak. Rock Bannon, camping near a spring a half mile from
the wagons, awoke with a start. It was scarcely light, yet he felt uneasy, and getting
to his knees, he saw the steel dust staring, ears pricked, at a distant pile of rocks.
Then he noticed the movement.
Swiftly and silently he saddled the stallion, bridled it, and stowed his gear in
the saddlebags. Then, rifle in hand, he skirted the trees along the tiny stream and
headed back for the wagons. He rode up to them, and the man on guard got up, stretching.
It was the short, heavyset Pagones. A good man and a sharp one. He smiled at Bannon.
"Guess Harper had it more right than you when he said there were no hostiles here,"
he said. "Ain't that right?"
"No," Bannon said sharply. "Get everybody up and ready. We'll be attacked within
a few minutes!"
Pagones stared. "Are you crazy?"
"Get busy, man!" Bannon snapped at Pagones. He wheeled and running from wagon to
wagon, slapped the canvas and said, "On your feet! Indians!"
Men boiled from the wagons, crawling into their clothes and grabbing at rifles. "Get
around the whole circle!" he told them. "They are in those rocks and a draw that
runs along south of us."
Mulholland rushed out and halted, glaring around. The sky was gray in the east, and
everything lay in a vague, indistinct light. Not a movement showed in all the dark
width of the prairie. He started for Bannon to protest, when he heard a startled
exclamation. Wheeling, he saw a long line of Indian horsemen not over two hundred
yards away and coming at a dead run!
Even as his eyes touched them, the nearest Indian broke into a wild, shrill whoop!
Then the whole charging line broke into yells. Rock Bannon, leaning against the Crockett
wagon, lifted his Henry
rifle and fired. A horse stumbled and went down. He fired again, and an Indian threw
up his arms and vanished in the turmoil of oncoming horses and men, and then the
other men of the wagon train opened up.
11 Firing steadily, Bannon emptied his rifle before the Indians reached
it the edge of the circle. One brave, his wild-eyed horse at a dead run, leaned low
and shot a blazing arrow into the canvas of the Crockett wagon. Rock fired his right-hand
pistol and the Indian hit the dirt in a tumbling heap, just as a second arrow knocked
off Rock's hat. Reaching up with his left hand, Rock jerked the burning arrow from
the canvas. The fire had not yet caught. Then he opened up, firing his pistol, shifting
guns, and firing again. The attack broke as suddenly as it had begun.
i~i! Tom Crockett was kneeling behind a water barrel, his face gray. A
115
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 109
good shot, he was not accustomed to killing. He glanced up at Rock, a sickened expression
on his face.
"I never killed nothing human before!" he said weakly.
"You'll get used to it out here!" Rock said coldly. His eyes lifted to Sharon.
"You saved our wagon!" she said.
"it might have been anybody's wagon," he said brutally, and turned away. He counted
seven dead Indians on the prairie. There were probably one or two more hidden in
the tall grass. He could see several dead ponies. The Indian who had shot the flaming
arrow lay not more than a dozen feet away. The bullet had gone through his stomach
and broken his spine.
Rock walked around. He had eyes only for the men. Cap looked frightened, but determined.
Pagones had fired steadily and with skill. Bannon nodded at the short man.
"You'll do," he said grimly.
Pagones started to speak, started after him, and scowled a little. He was ashamed
of himself when he realized he was pleased at the compliment.
They were good men, Rock decided. Purcell was reloading his rifle, and he looked
up as Bannon passed, but said nothing. Rock walked back to the Crockett wagon. Cap
was standing there, his rifle in the hollow of his arm.
"Will they come again?" he asked.
Bannon nodded. "Probably several times. This is Buffalo Hide. Those were his warriors."
"But Morton said-" Crockett started to protest.
Bannon looked around, and then he pointed at the dead Indian. You goin' to believe
Morton Harper or that?" he demanded. "That Indian's a Blackfoot. I know by the moccasins."
This time they came in a circle, going around and around the wagon train. A volley
of flaming arrows set two wagon tops afire. Rock stood at the end of the wagon and
fired steadily, carefully, making every shot count.
Dawn came with a red, weird light flaming in the east and turned the wagon colors
to flame. Guns crashed, and the air was filled with wild Indian yells and the acrid
smell of gunpowder and burned canvas. Three times more they attacked, and Bannon
was everywhere. Firing, firing, firing. Crockett went down with a bullet through
his thigh. Bjornsen was shot through the head, and a warrior leaped from a horse
into Greaves's wagon and the two men fought there until the Indian thrust a knife
into Greaves's side. Bannon shot the brave with a snapped pistol shot, almost from
the hip.
The last attack broke, and the sun lifted into the sky. As if by
116
 6
110 Louis L'AMOUR
magic the Indians were gone. Rock Bannon wiped the sweat from his forehead and stared
out over the plain. Buffalo Hide had lost men in this fight. At least twenty of his
braves were dead, and there would be wailing and the death chant in the Blackfoot
villages tonight.
Two horses and an ox had been killed. They gathered around, buried the two dead men
and butchered the ox. Rock sat on a wagon tongue alone. Cap walked over to him. The
man's face was round and uncomfortable.
"Reckon you saved us, Rock," he said. "Don't rightly know how to thank you!"
Bannon got up. He had been cleaning his rifle and reloading it while the men were
buried. "Don't try," he said.
Bob Sprague walked over and held out his hand. "Guess we haven't been very friendly,"
he said, "but you were right about the Indians. "
Suddenly, boyishly, Bannon grinned. "Forget it, Bob! You did a right good job with
that rifle of yours!"
They were the only two who mentioned it. Rock helped lift Crockett into the back
of the wagon and then harnessed the oxen. He was gone, riding out on the flank on
the steel dust when Sharon came to thank him. She looked after him, and her heart
felt suddenly lost and alone.
It was late that day when they reached the dry country. The settlers did not realize
the change until the dust began to rise, for in the distance it had looked much the
same, only the grass was darker and there was less of it. Within a mile they were
suffused in a cloud of powdery, sifting dust, stifling and irritating in the heat.
This was no desert. Merely long miles of plain where the hills receded and there
was no subirrigation to keep the grass green and rich. All the following day the
dust cloud hung over the wagon train, and from Mulholland's place in the van the
last wagons could not even be distinguished.
Mulholland looked up at Bannon, who was riding beside him. "Harper said there was
one bad stretch," he said, almost apologetically. Bannon did not reply. He alone
of all the party knew what lay
ahead. He alone knew how brutal the passage would be. Let them find out.
Days later, when Cap asked him to go for game, they all knew. They were still in
that desert of dust and dirty brown brush. They had camped in it five days now. Their
water barrels were empty, the wagons so hard to pull in the thick dust that they
made only a few miles each day. It was the worst kind of tough going.
When he had killed two antelope in the hills, Rock rode back to join the party. Pagones,
hunting on the other side, had killed one.
117
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 111 Rock turned toward Sharon's wagon and swung down from the saddle.
She looked up at him from over a fire of greasewood.
"Hello," she said. "We haven't seen much of you?"
He took off his black, flat-brimmed hat. His dark, curly hair was plastered to his
brow with sweat.
"There are some here who don't want me talking to you," he said dryly. "Figure I'm
a bad influence, I guess."
"I haven't said that!" she protested. She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.
"I like to have you riding close. It-it makes me feel safer."
He looked at her an instant and then looked away. "How's your dad?"
"Better, I think. But this heat! It's so awful! How long before we get out of this
dust?"
"Tomorrow night, at this rate. This bad stretch is over." "Then we're free of that.
Morton said there was only one."
He noticed that she had called Harper, "Morton." "He was wrong. You'll strike another
near Salt Lake that's much worse than this. You'll never get across unless you swing
back and take the old trail for Pilot Peak."
"But he said-" Sharon protested.
Rock Bannon looked up at her from where he squatted on his haunches. "I know he did.
I heard everything he said, and I'm still wondering what he has to gain by it. Nobody
takes this route. Crossing the Salt Desert by this route is suicide-with wagons,
at least. You've all placed a lot of faith in a stranger!"
"He was right, Rock. Those first six days were heaven, and from now on it should
be good."
"From now on it will be good until you hit the desert," he admitted, "unless you
stop."
"Unless we stop?" Sharon dished up a plate and handed it to him, and then poured
the coffee. "Why?"
"Tomorrow we get into Hardy Bishop's country." Rock Bannon's face was somber.
"You always refer to him as if he were an outlaw or something awful!"
"No," he said. "Bishop isn't any of those things. If you are his friend or a guest,
he's one of the finest men alive. If you are an enemy or try to take something that's
his, he is absolutely ruthless." 11 When she returned from feeding her father, she
sat down beside him on the wagon tongue. The sun was down, and the dust had settled.
Near a fire on the far side of the circle, Dud Kitchen was singing softly over his
mandolin.
The air was cool now, and the soft music mingled in the air with the scent of wood
smoke, the low champing of the horses, and the
118
 112 Louis L'AMOUR
mumbling of the oxen. In the distance they could see the hills, purple with the last
shadows before darkness, and shadowed with a promise of coolness after the long days
of heat and dust and bitterness.
He stared away at the hills, remembering so much, worried, uncertain, wondering again
about Morton Harper. What did the man have in mind? Who was he? Purcell said Harper
had lent him money. Perhaps he had lent others in the wagon train money. It was not
like a man to loan money and not follow it up to get back what was his. Behind all
of this was a reason, and in the back of his mind
m INIU11 i
worm
Rock
~naron always so silent. You seem so bitter sometimes, and I can never understand
what you have in your mind."
"It isn't anything." He had no desire to mention Harper again. "I was just thinking
about this country."
"You like it, don't you?"
"Like it?" He looked up suddenly, and his eyes changed. He smiled suddenly and with
warmth. "Like it? I love it! This is a man's country! And that ahead? Wait until
you see Bishop's Valley! Miles upon miles of tumbling streams, waving green grass
dotted with cattle!
You should see Bishop's Valley! You go down through a deep gorge along a roaring
mountain stream, and you can look up at cliffs
that rise for three thousand feet, and then suddenly the gorge widens and you look
down a long valley that is six or seven miles wide and all of fifty miles long.
"On each side, high mountain ridges shut it in, and here and there deep gorges and
ravines cut back into those ridges and there are green meadows and tumbling waterfalls.
And all the hills around are timbered to their crests. It's a beautiful country!"
Sharon stared at him, enchanted. Rock had never talked like this before, and as she
listened to him tell of the hills and the wild game, of deer, elk, bear, and mountain
goats, of the catbirds calling in the willows and the hillsides white with groves
of silver-columned birch, she suddenly forgot where she was and who was talking.
"You seem to love it so much!" she said. "Why did you ever leave?"
"It belongs to one man, to Hardy Bishop," Rock said. "He's carving a little empire
there. He went there long before any other white man dreamed of anything but going
on to California, before they thought of anything but getting rich from gold mines.
They came through the country like a pack of vultures or wolves, taking everything,
building nothing. They want only to get rich and get out.
"He was different. Once, when only a boy, he went into that
was
afraid he knew that reason.
spoke suddenly. "What are you thinking of, Rock? You are
119
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 113 valley on a trapping venture, and he was never content until
he came back. He drove a herd of cattle west when there were no cattle in this country,
and he got them into that valley and turned them loose. He fought Indians and outlaws,
he built a dam, built a home, built irrigation ditches where he wanted them, and
planted trees.
"He made the valley, and you can't blame him if he wants to keep it his way now.
Long after Sharon lay in her blankets, she thought of that and of Rock Bannon. How
tall he was! And how strange! He had risen suddenly and with scarcely a word had
walked into the night, and then she heard him mount his horse and ride away. Yet
even as she heard the dwindling hoof beats, she heard something else, the sound of
other horses drawing near. Still wondering who the riders could be, she fell asleep.
Scarcely were they moving in the morning before a black mare wheeled alongside her
wagon. Flushing suddenly, she saw Morton Harper, hat in hand, bowing to her.
"Good morning!" he said. "I hoped to catch up with you before this, but by tomorrow
you'll be in green country again!"
"Yes, I know."
He looked at her quickly. "You know? Who told you?" "Rock Bannon."
His face sharpened, and she could sense the irritation in the man. "Oh? Then he's
still with you? I was hoping he had left you alone. I'm afraid he's not a good man."
"Why do you say that? He's been very helpful."
Harper shrugged. "I'd rather not say. You know of that killing in Laramie, and if
that were the only one, it would not matter. There are others. He has killed five
or six men. He's a troublemaker wherever he goes. I'm glad Purcell and your men understand
that, for it will save a lot of trouble. "
He smiled at her. "You look so lovely this morning that it is unbelievable that you
have come so far across the prairies. It is a pity you have so far to go. I've been
thinking some of settling in this country here." He waved ahead. "It is such a beautiful
land, and there is nothing in California so desirable."
Rock Bannon had heard the horses the night before, and he had reined in long enough
to see them come up to the fire. Harper he recognized at once. There were two men
with him, one a lean, sharp-faced man with a long nose. The other man was short,
chuckleheaded and blunt featured. Bannon's lips tightened when he recognized Pete
Zapata. The half-breed killer was notorious, a gunfighter know sperado of the worst
stripe, but none of the wagon train would
120
 I
114 Louis L'AMOUR
All that day he stayed away from the train, riding on ahead. He drank at the spring,
killed an antelope and a couple of teal, and then rode back under a clump of poplars
and waited for the wagon train to
come up. They were already on Hardy Bishop's V Bar. Only a short distance behind
the poplars, the long canyon known as Poplar Canyon ran down into Bishop's Valley.
He got up when he saw the first of the long caravan of wagons. Better than the others,
he knew what this would mean and knew on how bad a trail they had started. He was
standing there, close to the
steel-dust stallion, when the wagons moved in.
The fresh water and green grass made everyone happy. Brownlegged children rushed
downstream from where the drinking water was obtained, and there was laughter and
merrymaking in the camp. Fires sprang up, and in a short time the camp was made and
meals were being cooked.
Watchfully, Rock saw Morton Harper seated on a saddle at Cap Mulholland's fire. With
them were the sharp-featured stranger, Satterfield, Lamport, and Pagones. They were
deep in a conference. In a few minutes Tom Crockett walked over to join them.
Dud Kitchen was tuning his mandolin when he saw Bannon sitting under the willows.
"All alone?" Kitchen said with a grin and dropped on the grass beside Bannon. "Saw
how you handled those guns in that Indian fight. Never saw the like. Make more tune
with 'em than me with a mandolin!"
Rock chuckled. "But not so nice to hear." He nodded at the group
of men around the fire. "Wonder what's up?"
Dud shrugged. "Harper's got some plan he's talkin' about. Sayin' they are foolish
to go on when there's good country right here." Rock Bannon sprang to his feet, his
eyes afire with apprehension.
"So that's it?" he said. "I might have known it!"
Kitchen was startled. "What's the matter? I think it would be a good idea, myself.
This is beautiful country. I don't know that I've ever seen better. Harper says that
down this draw behind us there's a long, beautiful valley, all open for settlement."
But Rock Bannon was no longer listening. Stepping across the branch of the creek,
he started for the fire. Morton Harper was
VII
talking when Rock walked up.
"Why not?" Harper was saying. "You all want homes. Can you find a more beautiful
country than this? That dry plain is behind you. Ahead lies the Salt Lake Desert,
but in here, this is a little bit of
paradise. Beyond this range of hills-you can reach it through poplar Canyon-is the
most beautiful valley you ever saw. It's just crying
121
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 115 for people to come in and settle down! There's game in the hills
and the best grazing land in the world, all for the taking!"
"What about Hardy Bishop?" Bannon demanded harshly.
Harper looked up, angered. "You, again? Every time these people try to do anything,
you interfere! Is it your business where they stop? Is it your business if they remain
here or go on to California? Are you trying to dictate to these people?"
Pike Purcell was on his feet, and Rock could see all the old dislike in the big Missourian's
face. The other men looked at him with disapproval, too. Yet he went on recklessly,
heedlessly.
"Hardy Bishop settled that valley. He's running two thousand head of cattle in there!
You try to settle in that valley and you're asking for trouble! He won't stand for
it."
"An' we won't stand for you buttin' in!" Purcell said suddenly. He dropped a hand
to the big dragoon pistol in his holster. "I've had enough of your buttin' around,
interferin' in our affairs. I'm tellin' you now, you shut up an' get out."
"Wait just a minute!" Bob Sprague stepped closer. "This man warned us about that
Indian attack, or we'd all be dead, includin' you, Pike Purcell. He did more fightin'
in that attack than any one of us, or two of us, for that matter. His advice has
been good, and I think we should listen to him!"
Dud Kitchen nodded. "Speak up, Rock. I'll listen!"
"There's little to be said," Bannon told them quietly. "Only the land this man is
suggesting you settle on was settled on over ten years ago by a man who fought Indians
to get it. He fought Indians and outlaws to keep it. He won't see it taken from him
now in his old age. He'll fight to keep it. I know Hardy Bishop. I know him well
enough to be sure that if you move into that valley, many of the women in this wagon
train will be widows before the year is out.
'What I don't know is Morton Harper's reason for urging you into this. I don't know
why he urged you to take this trail, but I think he has a reason, and I think that
reason lies in Bishop's Valley. You are coming west to win homes. You have no right
to do it by taking what another man fought to win and to keep. There is plenty for
all further west."
That makes sense to me," Sprague said quietly. "I for one am moving west!"
"Well, I'm not!" Purcell said stubbornly. "I like this country, and me and the wife
have seen enough dust and sun and Indians! We aim to stay!"
"That valley is fifty miles long, gentlemen," Harper said. "I think there is room
enough for us all in Bishop's Valley."
"That seems right to me!" Cap said. He looked around at Tom Crockett, limping near
the fire. "How about you, Tom?"
122
 I 116 Louis L'AMOUR
"I'm staying," Crockett said. "I like it here."
Satterfield nodded. "Reckon I'll find me a place to set up a blacksmith shop," he
said. "But there's a sight of things we all need. There ain't no stores, no place
to get some things we figured to get in California."
"That will be where I come in," the man with the sharp features smiled pleasantly.
"I'm John Kies, and I have six wagonloads of goods coming over the trail to open
a store in our new town!"
Silently, Rock Bannon turned away. There was no further use in talking. He caught
Sharon's eye, but she looked away, her gaze drawn to Mort Harper where he sat now,
talking easily, smoothly, planning the new home, the new town.
Bannon walked back to his blankets and turned in, listening to the whispering of
the poplar leaves and the soft murmur of the water in the branch. It was a long time
before he fell asleep, long after the last talking had died away in the wagon train
and when the fires had burned low.
When daylight came he bathed and saddled the stallion. Then, carefully, he checked
his guns. At a sound, he glanced up to see Sharon Crockett dipping water from the
stream.
"Good morning," he said. "Did you finally decide to stay?" "Yes." She stepped toward
him. "Rock, why are you always against everything we do? Why don't you stay, too?
I'm sure Morton would be glad to have you. He's planned all this so well, and he
says we'll need good men. Why don't you join us?"
"No, not this time. I stayed with the wagon train because I knew what you were going
into. I wanted to help you-and I mean you. In what is to come, no one can help you.
Besides, my heart wouldn't be in it."
"You're afraid of this crabby old man?" she asked scornfully. "Morton says as soon
as Bishop sees we intend to stay he won't oppose us at all! He's just crabby and
difficult because he's old, and he has more land than he needs. Are you afraid of
him?"
Rock smiled. "You sure set a lot of store by this Harper fellow, don't you? Did he
tell you that Bishop's riders were all crabby old men, too? Did Harper tell you why
he carries Pete Zapata along with him?"
"Who is he?" Sharon looked up, her eyes curious, yet resentful. "You've called me
a killer," Bannon replied. "I have killed men. I may kill more, although I hope not,
but Pete Zapata, that flat-faced man who rides with Harper, is a murderer. He's a
killer of the most
123
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 117 vicious type and the kind of man no decent man would have near
him!'.
Her eyes flared. "You don't think Morton Harper is decent? How dare you say such
a thing behind his back?"
"I'll face him with it," Bannon said dryly. "I expect I'll face him with it more
than once. But before you get in too deep, ask yourself again what he is getting
out of all this. He goes in for talk of brotherly love, but he carries a gunman at
his elbow!"
He turned and swung into the saddle as she picked up her bucket. He reined in the
horse at a call. It was Bob Sprague.
"Hey, Rock! Want to come on west with us?" He halted. "You're going on?"
"Uh-huh. Six wagons are going. We decided we liked the sound of what you said. We're
pullin' on for California, and we'd sure admire to have you with us!"
Bannon hesitated. Sharon was walking away, her head held proudly. Did she seem to
hesitate for his reply? He shrugged.
"No," he said. "I've got other plans."
Sharon Crockett, making frying-pan bread over the fire beside her wagon, stood up
to watch Bob Sprague lead off six wagons, the owners of which had decided not to
stay. All farewells had been said the night before, yet now that the time for leave-taking
had come, she watched uneasily.
For years she had known Bob Sprague, ever since she was a tiny girl. He had been
her father's friend, a steady, reliable man, and now he was going. With him went
five other families, among them some of the steadiest, soberest men in the lot.
Were they wrong to take Morton Harper's advice? Her father, limping with the aid
of a cane cut from the willows, walked back and stood beside her, his face somber.
He was a tall man, almost as tall as Harper and Bannon, his hair silvery around the
temples, his face gray with a slight stubble of beard. He was a fearless, independent
man, given to going his own way and thinking his own thoughts.
Pagones walked over to them. "Did Bannon go along? I ain't seen him.
" I don't think he went," Crockett replied. "Sprague wanted him to go "
"No' he didn't go," said Satterfield, who had walked up to join them. Satterfield
had been a frontier lawyer back in Illinois. I saw him riding off down the canyon,
maybe an hour ago."
you think there will be trouble?" Pagones asked.
Satterfield shrugged. "Probably not. I know how some of these old
124
 118 Louis L'AmOUR
frontiersmen are. They hate to see civilization catch up with them, but given time,
they come around. Where's Harper?"
"He went off somewhere with that dark-lookin' feller who trails with him," Pagones
said. "Say, I'm glad Dud Kitchen didn't go. I'd sure miss that music he makes. He
was goin', then at the last minute changed his mind. He's goin' down with Harper
and Cap to survey that townsite."
"Seem good to have a town again," Crockett said. "Where's it to be?"
"Down where Poplar Canyon runs into Bishop Valley. Wide, beautiful spot, they say,
with plenty of water and grass. John Kies is puttin' in a store, I'm goin' to open
an office, and Collins is already figurin' on a blacksmith shop."
"Father, did you ever hear of a man named Zapata?" Sharon asked thoughtfully. "Pete
Zapata?"
0111111111
Crockett looked at her curiously. "Why, no. Not that I recall.
Why?" "I was just wondering, that's all."
The next morning they hitched up the oxen and moved their ten wagons down Poplar
Canyon to the townsite. The high, rocky walls of the canyon widened slowly, and the
oxen walked on, knee deep in rich green grass. Along the stream were willow and poplar,
and higher along the canyon sides she saw alder, birch, and mountain mahogany, with
here and there a fine stand of lodgepole pine.
Tom Crockett was driving, so she ranged alongside, riding her sorrel mare.
As they rounded the last bend in the canyon, it spread wide before them, and she
saw Morton Harper sitting his black mare some distance of . Putting the sorrel to
a gallop, she rode down swiftly, hair blowing in the wind. Dud Kitchen was there
with Zapata and Cap. They were driving stakes and lining up a street.
Before them the valley dropped into the great open space of Bishop's Valley, and
she rode on. Suddenly, rounding a knoll, she stopped and caught her breath.
The long, magnificent sweep of the valley lay before her, green and splendid in the
early-morning sun. Here and there over the grassland, cattle grazed, belly deep in
the tall grass. It was overpowering; it was breathtaking. It was something beyond
the grasp of the imagination. High on either side lifted the soaring walls of the
canyon, mounting into high ridges, snowcapped peaks, and majestic walls of gray rock.
This was the cattle empire of Hardy Bishop. This was the place Rock Bannon had spoken
of with such amazing eloquence.
125
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 119 She turned in her saddle at the sound of a horse's hoofs. Mort
Harper rode up beside her, his face glowing.
"Look!" he cried. "Magnificent, isn't it? The most splendid view in the world. Surely,
that's an empire worth taking!"
Sharon's head turned quickly, sharply. At something in Harper's eves she caught her
breath, and when she looked again at the valley, she was uneasy.
"What-what did you say?" she asked. "An empire worth taking?" He glanced at her quickly
and then laughed. "Don't pay any mind. I was thinking of Bishop, the man who claims
all this. He took it. Took it from the Indians by main force." Then he added, "He's
an old brute. He'd stop at nothing!"
"Do you think he will make trouble for us?" she inquired anxiously. He shrugged.
"Probably not. He might, but if he does, we can handle that part of it. Let's go
back, shall we?"
She was silent during the return ride, and she kept turning over in her mind her
memory of Bannon's question, "What's he going to get out of this?" Somehow, half
hypnotized by Harper's eloquence, she had not really thought of that. That she thought
of it now gave her a twinge of doubt. It seemed, somehow, disloyal.
For three days, life in the new town went on briskly. They named the town Poplar.
Kies's Store was the first building up, and the shelves were heavy with needed goods.
Kies was smiling and affable. "Don't worry about payment!" he assured them. "We're
all in this together! Just get what you need, and I'll put it on the books. Then
when you get money from furs or crops, you can pay me!"
It was easy. It was almost too easy. Tom Crockett built a house in a bend of the
creek among the trees, and he bought dress goods for Sharon, trousers for himself,
and bacon and flour. Then he bought some new tools.
Those first three days were hard, unrelenting labor, yet joyful labor, too. They
were building homes, and there is always something warming and pleasant in that.
At the end of those first three days, Kies's Store was up, and so were Collins's
blacksmith shop, Satterfield's office, and Harper's Saloon and Theater. All of them
pitched in and worked.
Then one day as she was leaving Kies's Store, she looked up to see three strange
horsemen coming down the street. They were walking their horses, and they were looking
around in ill-concealed amazement.
Mulholland had come out behind her, and at the sight of him, one of the horsemen,
a big, stern-looking man with a drooping red mustache, reined his horse around.
You!" he said. "What do you all think you're doin' here?" "Buildin' us a town," Cap
said aggressively. "Any objections?"
126
 pN
120 Louis L'AMOUR
Red laughed sardonically. "Well, sir," he said, "I reckon I haven't, but I'm afraid
the boss is sure goin' to raise hob!"
"Who's the boss?" Cap asked. "And what difference does it make? This is all free
land, isn't it?"
"The boss is Hardy Bishop," Red drawled, glancing around. He looked approvingly at
Sharon, and there seemed a glint of humor in his eyes. "And you say this is free
land. It is and it ain't. You see, out here a man takes what he can hold. Hardy,
he done come in here when all you folks was livin' fat and comfortable back in the
States. He settled here, and he worked hard. He trapped and hunted and washed him
some color, and then he went back to the States and bought cattle. Drivin' them cattle
out here ten years ago was sure a chore, folks, but he done it. Now they've bred
into some of the biggest herds in the country. I don't think Hardy's goin' to like
you folks movin' in here like this."
"Is he so selfish?" Sharon demanded. "Why, there's land here enough for thousands
of people!"
Red looked at her. "That's how you see it, ma'am. I reckon to your way of thinkin'
back East, that might be true. Here, it ain't true. A man's needs run accordin' to
the country he's in and the job he has to do. Hardy Bishop is runnin' cows. He expects
to supply beef for thousands of people. To do that he needs a lot of land. You see,
ma'am, if thousands of people can't raise their own beef, somebody's got to have
land enough to raise beef for all those thousands of people. And Hardy, he come by
it honest."
"By murdering Indians, I suppose!"
Red looked at her thoughtfully. "Ma'am, somebody's been tellin' you wrong. Plumb
wrong. Hardy never murdered no Indians." "What's going on here?" Morton Harper stepped
into the street.
To his right was Pete Zapata, to his left Pike Purcell. Lamport lounged in the door
of the store.
"Why, nothin', mister," Red said thoughtfully. His gaze had sharpened, and Sharon
saw his eyes go from Harper to Zapata. "We was just talkin' about land and the ownership
of it. We're ridin' for Bishop, and-"
"And you can ride right out of here!" Harper snapped. "Now!" Sharon was closer to
the Bishop riders, and suddenly she heard the second man say softly:
"Watch it, Red! That's Zapata!"
Red seemed to stiffen in his saddle, and his hand, which had started to slip off
the pommel of the saddle, with no aggressive intention, froze in position. Without
a word, they turned their horses and rode away.
127
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 121 "That's the beginning," Harper stated positively. "I'm afraid
they mean to drive us from our homes!"
"They didn't sound much like trouble," Cap ventured, hesitantly. "Talked mighty nice!"
"Don't be fooled by them!" Harper warned. "Bishop is an outlaw, or the next thing
to it."
Tom Crockett was a man who loved the land. No sooner had he put a plow into the deep,
rich soil of the canyon bottom than he felt he had indeed come home. The soil was
deep and black, heavy with richness, land that had never known a plow. Working early
and late, he had in the next day managed to plow several acres. Seed he bought from
Kies, who seemed to have everything they needed.
There were several hours a day he gave to working on the build ings the others were
throwing up, but logs were handy, and all but Zapata and Kies worked on the felling
and notching of them. Kies stayed in his store, and Zapata lounged close by.
Morton Harper helped with the work, but Sharon noticed that he was never without
a gun, and his rifle was always close by. At night in his saloon he played cards
with Purcell and Lamport and anyone else who came around. Yet several times a day
he managed to stop by, if only for a minute, to talk to her.
He stopped by one day when she was planting a vine near the door. He watched her
for a few minutes, and then he stepped closer. "Sharon," he said gently. "You shouldn't
be doing this sort of
thing. You're too beautiful. Why don't you let me take care of you?" She looked at
him, suddenly serious. "Is this a proposal?"
His eyes flashed, and then he smiled. "What else? I suppose I'm pretty clumsy at
it."
"No," she returned thoughtfully, "you're not clumsy at it, but let's wait. Let's
not talk about it until everyone has a home and is settled in a place of their own."
"All right." He agreed reluctantly. "But that won't be very long, you know."
It was not until they were eating supper that night that her thoughts suddenly offered
her a question. What about Morton's home? He had not even started to build. He was
sleeping in a room behind the saloon, such in name only as yet, for there was little
liquor to be had.
The thought had not occurred to her before, but it puzzled and disturbed her. Tom
Crockett was full of plans, talking of crops and the rich soil.
The next day Morton Harper was gone. Where he had gone to Sharon did not know, but
suddenly in the middle of the morning she realized he was not among them. The black
mare was gone, too.
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 I
122 Louis L'AMOUR
Shortly after noon she saw him riding into town, and behind him came six wagons,
loaded with boxes and barrels. They drew up before the store and the saloon.
He saw her watching and loped the mare over to her door. "See?" he said, waving a
hand. "The supplies! Everything we need for the coming year, but if we need more,
I can send a rider back to the fort after more."
"Then you had them coming from the fort?" she asked. "You were farsighted. "
He laughed, glancing at her quickly. "Well, I thought these things would sell in
the mining camps out in California, but this is much, much better."
In spite of herself, Sharon was disturbed. All day as she went about her work, the
thought kept recurring that those supplies offered a clue to something, yet she could
find nothing on which to fasten her suspicions. Why should their arrival disturb
her so much? Was it unusual that the man should start several wagonloads of supplies
to California?
Pagones stopped by the spring to get a drink. He smiled at her, pushing back his
hat from a sweating brow.
"Lots of work, ma'am. Your pa's sure getting in his plowing in a hurry. He'll have
his seed in before the rest of us have started." "Pag, how do the supplies reach
the goldfields in California?" Sharon said suddenly.
He looked up over his second dipper of water. "Why, by sea, of course! Much cheaper
that way. Why do you ask? Something botherin' you?"
"Not exactly. Only ever since those wagons came in this morning I've been wondering
about them. Morton said he had started them for California, but thought they would
sell better here. Why would he send them to California to sell when they can get
supplies by sea?"
"Might mean a little ready money," Pagones suggested. He hung the dipper on a shrub.
"Now that you mention it, it does seem kind of strange."
The expected trouble from Hardy Bishop did not materialize as soon as she expected.
No other riders came near, although several times she noticed men, far out in the
valley. All of Morton Harper I promises seemed to be coming true. He had said Bishop
would not bother them.
Yet all was not going too smoothly. The last wagons had brought a load of liquor,
and several of the men hung around the saloon most of the time. Purcell was there
every evening, although by day he worked on his place. Pete Zapata was always there
when not oft on one of his lonely rides, and the teamsters who had brought the
129
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 123 wagons to Kies's Store had remained, loitering about, doing nothing
at all, but always armed. One of them had become the bartender.
During all this time, her work had kept Sharon close to the house and there had been
no time for riding. Time and again she found herself going to the door and looking
down toward the cluster of buildings that was fast becoming a thriving little village.
And just as often she looked back up the trail they had followed when first coming
into Poplar Canyon.
Not even to herself would she admit what she was looking for. She refused to admit
that she longed to see the steel-dust stallion and its somber, lonely rider. She
had overheard him say he would not leave, yet where was he?
The sound of a horse's hoofs in the trail outside brought her to the cabin door.
It was Mary Pagones, daughter of George Pagones, who had long since proved himself
one of the most stable men in the wagon train.
"Come on, Sharon-let's ride! I'm beginning to feel cramped with staying down here
all the time."
Sharon needed no urging, and in a few minutes they were riding out of the settlement
toward the upper reaches of the canyon. "Have you seen that Pete Zapata staring at
the women the way he
does?" Mary asked. "He fairly gives me the creeps!" "Somebody said he was a gunman,"
Sharon ventured.
"I wouldn't doubt it!" Mary was an attractive girl, always gay and full of laughter.
The freckles over her nose were an added attraction rather than otherwise. "Dud doesn't
like him at all. Says he can't see why Harper keeps him around."
As they rode out of Poplar Canyon, an idea suddenly occurred to Sharon, and without
voicing it she turned her mare toward their old encampment, but as they burst through
the last line of trees, disappointment flooded over her. There was no sign of Rock
Bannon.
They had gone almost a mile further, when suddenly Mary reined in sharply.
"Why, look at that!" She pointed. "Wagon tracks coming out of that canyon! Who in
the world would ever take a wagon in there?" Sharon looked at them and then at the
canyon. It was narrow
mouthed, the only entrance into a wild, rugged region of crags and ravines, heavily
forested and forbidding. Riding closer, she looked down. The wagon tracks were coming
from the canyon, not going into it. She studied the mountains thoughtfully. Then,
wheeling her horse, with Mary following, she rode out on their own trail. All the
tracks she had observed were old.
She looked at Mary, and Mary returned the glance, a puzzled
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124 Louis L'AMOUR
frown gathering around her eyes. "What's the matter?" Mary asked. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't know," Sharon said. "There are no tracks here since we came over the trail,
but there are tracks coming out of that canyon!" Mary's eyes widened. "You mean those
wagons of Harpers? Then they must have come over a different trail."
That wasn't what Sharon was thinking, but she just shook her head. "Don't say anything
about it," she said.
They rode on. That wall of mountains would not offer a trail through, and if it did,
where would it go? If it joined the Overland Trail to the north, it would still be
almost twice as far as by the trail they had come, and through one of the most rugged
sections she had ever seen. Suddenly, she knew. Those wagons had been here before.
They had been back there, in some remote canyon, waiting.
Waiting for what? For a town to begin? But that was absurd. No one had known the
town would begin until a few hours before. No one, unless it had been Morton Harper.
On, through hills of immeasurable beauty, the two girls rode. Great, rocky escarpments
that towered to the skies and mighty crags, breasting their saw-toothed edges against
the wind. Long, steep hillsides clad with alder and birch or rising to great, dark-feathered
crests of lodgepole pine mingled here and there with an occasional fir.
Along the lower hillsides and along the mountain draws were quaking aspen, mountain
mahogany, and hawthorn. They had come to the edge of a grove of poplar when they
saw the horseman. They both saw him at once, and something in his surreptitious manner
brought them to a halt. They both recognized him at the same instant.
"Sharon," Mary said, "it's that Zapata!"
"Ssh! He'll hear us!" Sharon held her breath. Suddenly, she was frightened at the
idea of being found out here, even with Mary along, by Zapata. But Zapata seemed
to have no eyes for them or even their direction. He was riding by very slowly, not
over fifty yards away, carrying his rifle in his hands and watching something in
the valley below that was beyond their vision.
Yet even as they watched he slid suddenly from the saddle and crouched upon some
rocks on the rim. Then he lifted his rifle and fired!
"What's he shooting at?" Mary asked in a whisper.
"I don't know. A deer, probably. Let's get home!" Turning their
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 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 125 horses, they rode back through the trees and hit the trail back
to the settlement.
All the next day Sharon thought about that wagon trail out of the mountains. Several
times she started to speak to her father, but he was preoccupied, lost in plans for
his new home, and thinking of nothing but it. Later in the day she saw Dud Kitchen
riding over. He reined in and slid from the saddle.
"Howdy, Sharon! Sure glad to see you all! We been talkin' some, IMary and I, about
us gettin' up a sort of party. Seems like Satterfield plays a fiddle, and we thought
we might have a dance, sort of. Liven things up a mite."
"That's a good idea, Dud," Sharon agreed. She looked up at him suddenly. "Dud, did
Mary tell you anything about that wagon trail we saw?"
His blue eyes sharpened and he ran his fingers back through his corn-colored hair.
"Yeah," he said, "she did."
"Dud, it looks to me like those wagons were out here before we were, just waiting.
It begins to look like somebody planned to have us stop here."
"You mean Mort? But what would he do that for? What could he gain? And even if he
did, you've got to admit it's a good place." "Yes, it is, but just the same I don't
like it."
Her father was walking toward them with George Pagones and Cap Mulholland.
"What's this you young folks figurin' to do?" Cap said, grinning. Hear we're havin'
us a party."
Her answer was drowned by a sudden rattle of horses' hoofs, and he saw three men
swing down the canyon trail. When they saw the roup before the house, they reined
in. One of them was Red, the man who had called on them the first day. Another was-her
breath caught-Rock Bannon!
"Howdy!" Red said. He looked down at the men and then recognized Cap. "Seen anything
of a young feller, 'bout twenty or so, ridin' a bay pony?"
..Why, no," Cap said. "Can't say as I have. What's the trouble?" "He's Wes Freeman,
who rides for us. He was huntin' strays over this way yesterday and he never came
back. We figured maybe he was hurt somehow."
No, we haven't seen him," Crockett said.
Dud Kitchen was grinning at Rock. "Shucks, man! We figured you had left the country.
What you doin'?"
Bannon grinned. "I'm ridin' for Hardy Bishop," he said. "Went over there right after
I left you folks."
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"What made you think your man might have come over here?" Pagones asked. "Was he
ridin' thisaway?"
"As a matter of fact," Red said, "he was ridin' back northeast of here. Pretty rough
country, except for one canyon that's got some good grass in it."
The third man was short, thickset, and tough. "Hurry up, Red!" he said. "Why heat
around the brush. Tell 'em!"
"All right," Red said. "I'll just do that, Bat!" He looked down at the little group
before the house. "Fact of the matter is, Wes's horse come in about sundown yesterday,
come in with blood on the saddle. We backtrailed the horse and we found Wes. We found
him in the open valley we spoke of. He was dead. He'd been shot through the back
and knocked off his horse. Then whoever shot him had followed him up and killed him
with a hunting knife."
Zapata! Sharon's eyes widened, and she looked around to see Dud staring at her, gray
faced. She had seen Zapata shoot!
In stunned silence the men stared up at the three riders. Rock broke the silence.
"You can see what this means?" he said sternly. "Wes was a mighty nice boy. I hadn't
known him as long as these men, but he seemed to be a right fine feller. Now he's
been murdered-drygulched. That's going to mean trouble."
"But why come to us?" Cap protested. "Sure, you don't believe we"We don't believe!"
Bat broke in harshly. "We know! We trailed three riders down out of those hills!
Three from here! Wes was my ridin' partner. He was a durned good boy. I'm goin' to
see the man who done that."
"Turn around."
The voice was cold and deadly. As one person, they turned. Pete Zapata, his guns
low slung on his hips, was staring at the three riders. Flanking him were two men
with shotguns, both of them from the teamsters' crowd. The other two were Lamport
and Purcell of the wagon train.
Behind them, and a little to one side, was Morton Harper. He was wearing two guns.
"Get out of here!" Harper snapped harshly. "Don't come around here again, aimin'
to make trouble. That's all you came for, and you know it! You've been looking for
an excuse to start something so you could get us out of here, take our homes away
from us. Now turn your horses and get out!"
His eyes riveted on Rock Bannon. "As for you, Bannon," he said sharply, "you're a
traitor! You rode with us, and now you've gone over to them. I think you're the cause
of all this trouble. If a man of
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yours is dead, I think it would be a good idea if these friends of yours backtrailed
you. Now get moving, all of you!"
"This is a bad mistake, Harper," Rock said evenly. "I'm speaking of it before all
these people." He nodded at the group in front of the house. "Bishop was inclined
to let 'em stay, despite the fact that he was afraid they'd bring more after them.
He listened to me and didn't run you off. Now you're asking for it."
"He listened to you!" Harper's voice was alive with contempt. "You? A trail runner?"
Red looked quickly at Rock and started to speak. Bannon silenced him with a gesture.
"We'll ride, Harper, but we want the man-or men-who killed Wes. And we want him delivered
to us by sundown tomorrow! If not, we'll come and get him."
Turning abruptly, they started away. Wheeling, Zapata grabbed a shotgun from one
of the teamsters. "I'll fix him, the bluffer!"
"Hold it!" Pagones had a six-shooter and was staring across it at Zapata. "We don't
shoot men in the back."
For an instant, they glared at each other. Then Harper interposed. "Put it down,
Pete. Let them go."
He looked around. "There'll be a meeting at the saloon tonight. All of you be there."
When they had all gone, Tom Crockett shook his head sadly. "More trouble, and all
because of that Bannon. I almost wish we'd let him die on the trail."
"It wasn't Bannon, Father," Sharon said. "Those men were right, I think. Mary and
I saw Zapata yesterday. Two of the horses they trailed back here were ours. The other
one was his. We were not fifty yards away from him when he fired that shot. We didn't
see what he shot at, but it must have been that man."
Crockett's face was gray. "Are you sure, Sharon? Are you positive?" "Yes, I am."
"Then we must give him up," he said sadly. "If he killed, he should suffer for it.
Especially, if he killed that way." He got up and reached for his hat. "I must go
and tell Morton. He'll want to know."
She put a hand on his arm. "Father, you mustn't. Don't say anything to him until
you've told the others. Pagones, I mean, and Cap. I'm afraid."
"Afraid of what? Morton Harper is a fine man. When he knows what happened, he'll
want something done himself."
Putting on his hat he started across the road for the cluster of buildings. Only
for an instant did she hesitate. Then she swung around and ran to her horse, standing
saddled and bridled, as she
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128 Louis L'AMOUR
had planned to ride over to Mary's. Dud Kitchen would be there, and Pagones.
They were sitting at the table when she burst into the room. "Please come!" she said
when she had explained. "I'm afraid!" Without a word, they got up and buckled on
their guns. It was
only a few hundred yards to the saloon, and they arrived just a few moments after
Tom Crockett had walked up to Harper.
"Morton, my daughter and Mary Pagones saw Zapata fire that shot yesterday," Crockett
was saying. "I think we should surrender him to Bishop. We don't want to have any
part in any killings."
Harper's face hardened and he started to speak. Zapata, overhearing his name, stepped
to the door, his hand on a gun. Then Harper's face softened a little, and he shrugged.
"I'm afraid they were mistaken," he said carelessly. "You're being needlessly excited.
Probably Pete was up that way, for he rides around a good deal, the same as the girls
do. But shoot a man in the back? He wouldn't do it."
"Oh, but he did," Dud Kitchen interrupted. "What the girls say is true."
"You call me a liar?" Harper turned on him, his face suddenly flushed with anger.
"No," Kitchen replied stiffly, his face paling. "I ain't callin' no man a liar, 'specially
no man who come over the trail with me, but I know what I seen with my own eyes.
"Mary, she done told me about that, and I'll admit I figured there was something
wrong with what she said, so I went up and backtrailed 'em. I didn't have no idea
about no killin' then, but I trailed the girls, and then I trailed Pete.
"Pete Zapata stalked that cowhand for two miles before he got the shot he wanted.
I went over every inch of his trail. He was fixin' to kill him. Then I trailed him
down to the body. I seen where he wiped his knife on the grass, and I seen some of
them brown sort of cigarettes he smokes. Pete Zapata killed that man, sure as I'm
alive!"
Zapata had walked, catfooted, to the edge of the wide plank porch in front of the
saloon. He stood there now, staring at Dud.
"Trailed me, huh?" His hand swept down in a streaking movement before Dud could as
much as move. His gun bellowed, and Dud Kitchen turned halfway around and dropped
into the dust.
"Why, Mort!" Crockett's face was gray. "What does this mean? I-"
"You'd better all go back to your homes," Harper said sternly. "If Pete Zapata shot
that man, and I don't admit for a minute that he did, he had a reason for it. As
for this shooting here, Kitchen was wearing a gun, and he accused Zapata of murder."
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Pagones's face was hard as stone. Two of the teamsters stood on the porch with shotguns.
To have lifted a hand would have been to die.
"That settles it," Pagones said. "You can have your town! I'm leaving!"
"I reckon that goes for me, too," Crockett said sadly.
"I'm afraid you can't go," Harper said smoothly. There was a glint of triumph in
his eyes. "My friend, John Kies, has lent you all money and supplies. Unless you
can repay him what you owe, you'll have to stay until you have made a crop. California
is a long ways away, and he couldn't be sure of collecting, there.
"Besides," he added, "Indians have rustled some of our stock. I have been meaning
to tell you. Most of your oxen are gone." He shrugged. "But why worry? Stay here.
This land is good, and these little difficulties will iron themselves out. There
are always troubles when a new community begins. In a few years all this will be
over and there will be children born here, a church built, and many homes."
Dud Kitchen was not dead. In the Pagones' house, Mary sat beside his bed. Satterfield
had removed the bullet, and he sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.
"He's got him a chance," Satterfield said. "A good chance. I'm no doctor, just picked
up a mite when I was in that Mexican War, but I think he'll come through."
Pagones, his heavy head thrust forward on his thick neck, stared into the fire, somber,
brooding. He turned and looked at Satterfield and Crockett.
"Well," he said, "it looks bad. Looks like we're in a fight whether we want it or
not. Hardy Bishop hasn't bothered us none, even after all of Mort Harper's preaching
about him. Now Zapata has killed one of his men."
"That Red feller," Satterfield muttered, half to himself, "he don't look like no
man to have trouble with. Nor Bat, neither!"
"Where does Rock stand?" Pagones demanded. "That's what I'm wonderin'."
Said he was ridin' for Bishop," Satterfield replied. "That's plain enough."
"Ifwe'd listened to him, this wouldn't have happened," Mary said. There was no reply
to that. The three men stood quiet, listening to Dud Kitchen's heavy breathing. The
rap at the door startled them, and they looked up to see Rock Bannon standing there.
Sharon drew in her breath, and she watched him wide-eyed as he stepped into the room
and closed the door after him. Hat in hand, his eyes strayed from them to the wounded
man lying in the bed.
How tall he was! And his shoulders had seemed to fill the door when he entered. He
wore buckskin trousers tucked into hand
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tooled star boots and a checked shirt with a buckskin jacket, Mexican
fashion, over it. On his hips were two big dragoon Colts in tied-down holsters.
"He hurt bad?" he asked softly.
"Yes, but Jim Satterfield says he's got a chance," Mary said.
Rock Bannon turned to look at them. "Well," he said, "you saw me ride in here today.
You know I'm riding for Bishop. From what's happened, I reckon you know that war's
been declared. You've got to make up your mind whose side you are on. I talked Hardy
Bishop into lettin' you stay on against his better judgment. He was all for runnin'
you off pronto, not because he had anything against you, but because he could see
settlers gettin' a toehold in his domain.
"Now one of our boys has been killed. Even Bishop might have trouble holdin' the
boys back after that. I've talked to 'em, and they want the guilty man. They don't
care about nobody else. What happens now is up to you."
"Not necessarily," Pagones objected. "We'll call a vote on it." "You know how that'll
go," Bannon objected. "Ten of you came in here with Mort Harper. Then he brought
in Kies and Zapata. Now he's got other men. Supposin' you three vote to turn over
the guilty man. How many others will vote that way? Cap may think right, but Cap
will vote pretty much as Harper says. So will Purcell and Lamport. Anyway you look
at it, the vote is going to be to fight rather than turn Zapata over."
"No way to be sure of that," Satterfield objected. "Harper may decide to turn him
over."
Bannon turned, his temper flaring. "Haven't you learned anything on this trip? Harper's
using you. He brought you down here for his own reasons. He's out to steal Bishop's
Valley from Hardy-that's what he wants. You're just a bunch of dupes!"
"You got any proof of that?" Crockett demanded.
"Only my eyes," Rock admitted, "but that's enough. He owns every one of you, lock,
stock, and barrel. I heard about that matter of you being in debt to Kies. Don't
you suppose he planned all that
The door opened and Mulholland came in; with him was Collins' Cap's face flushed
when he saw Rock. ', "You'd better light out. If Pete Zapata sees you, he'll kill
you. "That might not be so easy," Bannon said sharply. "All men don't
die easy. Nor do they knuckle under to the first smooth talker who sells them a bill
of goods."
Mulholland glared at him. "He promised us places, and we got em. Who's this Bishop
to run us off? If it comes to war, then we 11 fight."
"And die for Morton Harper? Do you think he'll let you keep what
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you have if he gets control of this valley? He'll run you out of here without a penny.
You're his excuse, that's all. If the law ever comes into this, he can always say
that Bishop used violence to stop free American citizens from settling on the land."
"That's just what he's doin'," Cap said. "If he wants war he can have it!"
"Then I'd better go," Rock said. "I came here hopin' to make some peace talk. It
looks like Zapata declared war for you. Now you've got to fight Mort Harper's war
for him.'
"You were one of us once," Pagones said. "You helped us on the trail. Why can't you
help us now?"
Rock Bannon looked up. His eyes hesitated on Sharon's face and then swept on. "Because
you're on the wrong side," he said simply. Sharon looked up and her eyes flashed.
"But you were one of us," she protested. "You should be with us now. Don't you understand
loyalty?"
"I was never one of you after Mort Harper came," he said. Sharon flushed under his
gaze. "Whatever I might have been, Harper took away from me. I ain't a smooth-talkin'
man. Guess I never rightly learned to say all I feel, but sometimes them that says
little feels a sight more."
He put one hand on the latch. "As for loyalty, my first loyalty's to Hardy Bishop,"
he said.
"But how could that be?" Sharon protested.
"He's my father," Rock said quietly, and then he stepped quickly and silently out
the door.
His father!" Pagones stared after him. "Well, I'll be danged!" That don't cut any
ice with me," Mulholland said. "Nor his talk. I got the place I want, and I aim to
keep it. Harper says there ain't any way they can drive us off. He says we've got
guns enough to hold our own, and this canyon ain't so easy to attack. I'm glad it's
comin' to a showdown. We might as well get it over."
All I want is to get to work," Collins said stubbornly. "I got a sight of it ahead,
so if that Bishop aims to drive me off, I wish he'd come and get it over with."
"All that talk about him usin' us," Satterfield said uneasily. "That didn't make
sense"'
Of course not!" Cap said hotly. "Bannon was against everything we tried to do, right
from the start. He just never had no use for Mort Harper, that was all."
Maybe there is something to what he says," Sharon interposed. is glanced around irritably.
"Beggin' your pardon, Sharon. This is man's talk."
I'm not so sure," she flashed. "We women came across the plains
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with you! If we fight, my father may die. That makes it important to me, and if you
think I'm going to stand by and let my home be turned into a shambles, you're wrong."
Her father started to speak, but she stepped forward. "Bannon said Harper was using
you. Well, maybe he is and maybe he isn't, but there are a few things I'd like you
to think about, because I've been thinking about them.
"Did Mort Harper look for this townsite? No, he rode right to it, and to me that
means he had planned it before! What affair was it of his which trail we took? Yet
he persuaded us, and we came down here. Who got us to stay? It was him! I'll admit,
I wanted to stay, and most of us did, but I'm wondering if he didn't count on that.
And what about those wagons of supplies that turned up just at the right time?"
"Why, they just follered him on from the fort," Mulholland protested.
"Did they?" Sharon asked. "Go up and look at the trail. Mary and I looked at it,
and no wagons have come over it since we did, Anyway, would he let those wagons come
across that Indian country without more protection than they had? Those wagons were
already here, waiting for us. They were back up in a canyon northeast of the trail."
"I don't believe that!" Collins said.
"Go look for yourselves then," Sharon said.
"You sound like you were against us," Cap said. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"I'm on the side of the wagon train people, and you know it," she said. "But a lot
of this doesn't look too good to me. The first day we were here I rode down in the
valley with Mort, and he said something that had me wondering, something about taking
it for himself."
"Don't make sense," Cap said stubbornly. "Anyway, womenfolks don't know about things
like this."
Sharon was angry. In spite of herself, and knowing her anger only made Cap more stubborn,
she said:
"You didn't think there were any Indians, either. You took Mort's word for that.
If it hadn't been for Bannon, we'd all have been killed." She turned quickly and
went out of the cabin. Swinging into the
saddle, she started across toward her own cabin. It was dark, and she could see the
light in the saloon and the lights in Collins's blacksmith shop, where his wife and
little Davy would be waiting for him to return.
Angry, she paid little attention where she was going until suddenly a horseman loomed
in the dark near her. "Howdy!" he said, swinging alongside.
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SHOWDOWN TRAIL 133 From his voice and bulk she knew him at once as Hy Miller, a big
teamster who sometimes served as relief bartender. He had been drinking and his breath
was thick.
She tried to push on, but he reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Don't be in no such
hurry," he said, leering at her in the dimness. "I want to have a bit of palaver
with you!"
"Well, I don't want to talk to you!" she said angrily. She tried to jerk her wrist
away, but he only tightened his grip. Then he pulled her to him and slid his other
arm around her waist. She struggled, and her mare sidestepped, pulling her from the
saddle.
Miller dropped her and then slid from his own horse and grabbed her before she could
escape. "I'll learn you a thing or two!" he said hoarsely. "It's about time you settlers
were learnin' who's runnin' this shebang!"
What happened next, Sharon scarcely knew. She was suddenly wrenched from Miller's
arms. She heard the crack of a blow, and Miller went down into the grass underfoot.
"Run for the house!" It was Bannon's voice. "Quick!"
Miller came up with an oath, and she saw him charge. Bannon smashed his left into
the big teamster's mouth and staggered him, but the man leaped in, swinging with
both hands. There was no chance for science or skill. In the dimness the two men
fought like animals, tooth and nail, yet Bannon kept slamming his right to the bigger
man's stomach. The teamster coughed and gasped, and then Rock swung a right to his
chin that staggered him, and followed it up with a right and a left. Miller went
down, and Bannon stooped and grasped his shirt collar in his left hand.
Holding the man at arm's length in a throttling grip, Bannon smashed him in the face
again and again. Then he struck him in the body and hurled him to the ground.
Sharon, wide-eyed and panting, still stood there. "Get to your house," Bannon snapped.
"Tell your father to go armed, always. This is only the beginning!"
As she fled, somebody behind her said, "Hey, what's goin' on here?"
Behind her, there was a pound of horse's hoofs, and she knew Rock was gone. Swiftly,
when she reached the house, she stripped the saddle from the mare and turned her
in the corral. Then she went into the house and lighted the lamp. A few minutes later,
her father came in. She told him all that had happened.
He stood there, resting his fists on the table. Then he straightened. "Honey," he
said, "I'm afraid I did wrong to stop here. I wish now I'd gone on with Bob Sprague
and the others. They'd be most to California by now. I'm afraid-I'm afraid!"
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V
Rock Bannon stopped that night in a line cabin six miles west of Poplar and across
the valley. When morning came, he was just saddling up when Bat Chavez rode in. With
him were Johnny Stark and Lew Murray. All three were armed.
Bat grinned at him. Then his eyes fell on the skinned knuckles, and he chuckled.
"Looks like you had some action."
"A little," Rock said and then explained briefly. "You watch your selves," he said,
"and stick together. That outfit's out for trouble." "All I want's a shot at Zapata,"
Bat said harshly. "I'll kill him if I get it."
Rock mounted and rode north toward the ranch house. No act of his could avert trouble
now. He had hoped to convince the settlers who came with the wagon train that they
should break away from Mort Harper.
That would draw the lines plainly-the ranch against the land grabbers. That Mulholland
was an honest if stupid man, he knew. The others of the train, to a man, were honest,
but some of them, such as Purcell and Lamport, were firm adherents of Harper's and
believed in him. This belief they combined with a dislike of Rock Bannon.
It had been a hard task to persuade Hardy Bishop to let them stay. The old man was
a fire-eater, and he knew what it would mean to let settlers get a toehold in his
rich valley. Once in, they would encroach more and more on his best range until he
was crowded back to nothing. Only his affection for Rock had convinced him, and the
fact that he had gleaned from Rock's talk that among the settlers was a girl.
Rock Bannon knew what the old man was thinking. Lonely, hard bitten, and tough, Bishop
was as affectionate as many big bearlike men are. His heart was as big and warm as
himself, and from the day he had taken Rock Bannon in when the boy had been orphaned
at six, when Kaw Indians had killed his parents, Bishop had lived as much for Bannon
as for his ranch. Now, more than anything, he wanted Rock settled, married, and living
on the broad acres of Bishop's Valley.
It had been that as much as anything that had brought him around to Rock's way of
thinking when Rock had planned to go east to Council Bluffs. Secretly, he had hoped
the boy would come back with a wife; certainly, there were no women around Bishop's
Valley but an occasional squaw. He had never seen this girl with the wagon train,
but he had gleaned more than a little from Rock's casual comments, and what he heard
pleased him.
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 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 135 Hardy Bishop was a big man, weighing nearly three hundred
pounds now that he was heavy around the middle. Yet in the days of his raw youth
he had tipped the beam at no less than two hundred and fifty pounds. On his hip even
the big dragoon Colts looked insignificant, and he was scarcely less fast than Rock.
Seated deep in a cowhide-covered chair, he looked up when Rock came in, and grinned.
He was just filling his pipe. There was a skinned place on Bannon's cheekbone, and
his knuckles were raw.
"Trouble, you've had," Bishop said, his deep voice filling the room. "Been over to
look at them settlers again? Think they killed Wes?"
"Not the settlers," Rock said. "One of the men with them."
He sat down on the butt of a log and quietly outlined the whole situation, explaining
about Harper, Zapata, and the teamster.
"They had that stuff cached in the hills," Rock went on. "Red Lunney spotted it some
time back. There were about a dozen men holed up back there with a lot of supplies,
too many for themselves. He kept an eye on them, but they didn't wander around and
made no trouble, so he left them alone.
"Evidently, Mort Harper had them planted there. The wagon train, as near as I can
figure, he planned to use as a blind in case the government got into this. He could
always say they were honest settlers looking for homes, and the government would
be inclined to favor them. What he really wants is Bishop's Valley!"
"He'll have a time gettin' it!" Bishop said grimly. "I'll bank on that. I fought
Indians all over these hills, but this here valley I bought fair and square from
old War Cloud. We never had no Indian trouble until lately, when the wagon trains
started comin' through. Those Mormons, they had the right idea. Treat Indians good,
pay for what you get, and no shootin' Indians for the fun of it, like some folks
do!
"Why, Rock! I trapped all over these here mountains. Lived with Indians, trapped
with them, hunted with them, slept in their tepees. I never had trouble with them.
I was through this country with Wilson Price Hunt's Astorians when I was no more'n
sixteen, but a man growed. I was with John Day in this country after that, and he
saw more of it than any other man.
"Took me two years to drive these cattle in here. First ever seen in this country!
I drove them up from Santa Fe in six or seven of the roughest drives any man ever
saw, with Indians doin' most of my drivin' for me. They said I was crazy then, but
now my cattle run these hills and they eat this valley grass until their sides are
fit to ust. One of these days you'll start drivin' these cattle east. Mark my
142
 136 Louis L'AMOUR
words, there'll come a day they'll make you rich. And then some whippersnapper like
this Harper-why!"
He rubbed his jaw irritably and then looked up at Rock. "You see that girl? That
Crockett girl?"
"Uh-huh," Rock admitted. "I did."
"Why not stop this here cayusin' around and bring her home, son? Time you took a
wife. Ain't no sense in a man runnin' loose too long. I did, and then hadn't my wife
very long before she died. Fine girl, too."
"Hardy," Rock said suddenly, calling him by his first name as he had since Bishop
first took him in hand as a child, "I don't want war with those people. They are
askin' for it, and that Mulholland is simple enough to be led by the nose by Harper.
Why don't you let me go get Zapata? I'll take him on myself. In fact," he added grimly,
"I'd like to! Then we can take some of the boys, get Harper and his teamsters, and
start them out of here."
"Separate the sheep from the goats, eh?" Bishop looked at him quizzically. "All right,
son. I've gone along with you this long. You take the boys, you get that Harper out
of there and start him back for Laramie.
"As for Zapata, do what you like. I've seen some men with guns, and you're the fastest
thing I ever did see, and the best shot. But don't leave him alive. If I had my way,
we'd string every one of 'em to a poplar tree, and right quick."
The old man grinned briefly at Bannon, leaned back, and lighted his pipe. So far
as he was concerned, the subject was closed.
1~6
Bat Chavez was a man who made his own plans and went his own way. Loyal to the greatest
degree, he obeyed Rock Bannon and Hardy Bishop without question. They were his bosses,
and he liked and respected them both. However, he had another loyalty, and that was
to the memory of Wes Freeman.
He and Wes had ridden together, hunted together, fought Indians together. Wes was
younger, and Bat Chavez had always considered himself the other's sponsor, as well
as his friend. Now Wes was dead, and to Bat Chavez that opened a feud that could
only be settled by blood.
Johnny Stark and Lew Murray were like-minded. Both were young, hardy, and accustomed
to live by the gun. They understood men like Zapata. Of the three, perhaps the only
one who rated anything like an even break with Zapata was the half-Mexican, half-Irish
Chavez. However, no one of them would have hesitated to draw on sight.
They weren't looking for trouble, but they were ready. In that frame of mind they
started down the valley to move some of the cattle away from the mouth of Poplar
Canyon. No one of them knew
143
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 137
what he was riding into, and had they known, no one of them would have turned back...
.
i`tort Harper, seated in his own living quarters in the back of the saloon, was disturbed.
Things had not gone as he had planned. Secure in his familiarity with men of Hardy
Bishop's type, he had been positive that the arrival of the wagon train and the beginning
of their settlement would precipitate trouble. He had counted on a sudden attack
by Bishop and perhaps the killing of one or more of the settlers. Nothing more, he
knew, would have been required to unite them against the common enemy. Peace loving
they might be, but they were men of courage and men who believed in independence
and equal rights for all. Typically American, they wouldn't take any pushing around.
On his knowledge of their character and that of Bishop he had built his plans. Over
a year before he had seen Bishop's Valley, and the sight had aroused a lust for possession
that he had never known could live within him. Since that day he had lived for but
one thing: to possess Bishop's Valley, regardless of cost.
It was beyond the reach of law. Few people in the country had any idea the valley
existed or that it had been settled. His first thought was to ride in with a strong
band of outlaws recruited from the offscourings of the border towns and take the
place by main force, but times, he knew, were changing.
Morton Harper was shrewd enough to understand that the fight might arouse government
inquiry. Fremont and Carson knew this country, and it was possible the Army might
soon move into it. It would behoove him to have justice on his side.
The wagon trains offered that chance. From the first he had seen what a good chance
it was. At the fort he watched them go through, and he saw the weariness of the women
and children, the haggard lines of the men's faces. The novelty of the trip was over,
and miles upon miles remained before they could reach Oregon. Now, if he could but
get some of them into the valley country, he believed he could persuade them, by
some method, to stay on. With that end in view, he watched until he saw the wagon
train he wanted.
Those who were led by able and positive men he avoided. He talked to a number, but
when he encountered Cap Mulholland, he was quick to perceive his opportunity.
In his visit to the camp he noted that Tom Crockett was a mild, tolerant man, friendly,
and interested mainly in finding a new home and getting a plow into the ground. Pagones
was a strong, able man, but not outspoken, nor likely to push himself into a position
of leadership.
Pike Purcell and Lamport were honest, able men, but ignorant and alike in their dislike
of Rock Bannon. Lamport, who was unmar
144
 IRIrI
138 Louis L'AMOUR
ried and thoroughly undesirable, had fancied himself for an inside track with Sharon
Crockett until Bannon joined the train.
As Rock Bannon was constantly with her, first as a wounded man needing care and later
as a rider, Lamport grew jealous. Purcell, married to a nagging wife, had looked
after Sharon with desire. His own dislike of Bannon stemmed from the same source,
but grew even more bitter because Pike sensed Bannon was the better man. Pike hated
him for it.
Mort Harper was quick to curry the favor of these two. He talked with them, flattered
them in subtle fashion, and bought them drinks. He learned that Purcell was desperately
hard up and lent him some money. He gave Lamport a gun he had admired.
The only flaw in the picture had been Rock Bannon, and in Rock, Harper was quick
to recognize a formidable and dangerous antagonist. He also realized he had an excellent
weapon in the veiled enmity of Purcell and Lamport.
His plans had gone ahead very well until an attack by Bishop failed to materialize.
Despite himself, he was disturbed. Would the old man really let them settle there?
He caused a few cattle to be killed for meat and left evidence about. That Rock Bannon
had found the remains of the slaughtered cattle and buried them, he could not know.
The expected attack failed to come and he sensed a falling away from him on the part
of the settlers.
The only way he could hope to get the valley was by precipitating open warfare, killing
all of the Bishop forces, and taking possession. Then in due time he could eliminate
the settlers themselves and reign supreme, possessor of one of the largest cattle
empires in the country.
Pete Zapata was under no orders to kill, but the fact that he had killed Wes Freeman
fell in line with Harper's plans. Yet he could sense the disaffection among the settlers.
Crockett and Pagones could be a strong force against him if they became stubborn.
Something was needed to align them firmly on his side.
That chance came, as he had hoped it would come. With Pete Zapata, Hy Miller, Pike
Purcell, Lamport, and Collins, he was riding down into the valley when they saw Bat
Chavez and the two Bishop riders approaching. Had Harper continued with his party
along the trail on which they had started, the paths of the two groups would not
have intersected, but Harper reined in and waited.
Chavez wasn't the man to ride around trouble. In Lew Murray and Johnny Stark he had
two companions who had never ridden around anything that even resembled trouble.
With guns loosened in holsters they rode on.
145
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 139 "Howdy!" Bat Chavez said. His eyes swung and fastened on Pete
Zapata. "Where you ridin'?"
"Who's askin'?" Purcell demanded truculently. "We go where we want."
"Not on this range, you don't! You stick to your valley. This here's Bishop range."
"He own everything?" Miller demanded. "We ride where we please!"
"Looks like you been ridin' where somebody else pleased," Johnny Stark said, grinning.
"In fact, that face looks like somebody rid all over you with spikes in his boots."
Miller's face flamed. "There was three of 'em!" he snapped. "You couldn't do it.
I think it's time we taught you Bishop riders a lesson, anyways.
"You mean," Chavez demanded insolently, "like that murderin' Zapata killed Wes Freeman-in
the back?"
Zapata's hand flashed for his gun, and Chavez was scarcely slower. Only the jerk
of Zapata's horse's head saved him, as the horse took the bullet right through the
head. It leaped straight up into the air, jerking Zapata's gun and spoiling his aim.
There was a sudden flurry of gunshots, and Mort Harper was quick to sense his chance.
He drew his six-shooter and calmly shot Collins through the back.
The attack broke as quickly as it had begun. Zapata's horse had leaped and then hit
the ground, stone dead. Thrown from the horse, Zapata lost his gun and sprawled in
the grass, showing no desire to get up and join the fight or even hunt for his gun.
Outnumbered, and with Murray shot through the leg, the Bishop riders drew off. Purcell
had been burned along the cheek, and Miller's horse was killed, so the battle ended
after only a few seconds with two horses and one man dead. In the excitement, only
Mort IElarper had seen the flare of pained astonishment and accusation in Collins's
eyes.
The blacksmith's mouth refused to shape words, and he died there ~ollins the grass.
Harper looked down at him, a faint smile on his face.
had been a popular man, quiet and well liked. This would do what all Harper's other
plans had failed to do.
l Collins got it?" Pike stood over him, his hard face saddened. "He Purcell good
man." Collins was the only man in the wagon train Pike rcell had known before the
trip began. They had come through the war together.
"Might as well bury him, I guess," Mort said.
Pike looked up. "No, we'll tote him back home. His widow will be wantin' to see him.
Reckon it'll go hard with her."
146
 111
140 Louis L'AMOUR
Mort Harper's lips thinned, but there was nothing more he could say without arousing
suspicion. Silently, the little cavalcade started back. Collins's body was tied to
Pike's horse, and Pike walked alongside, trailed by Zapata and Miller.
For two days ominous quiet hung over the town of Poplar. Collins had been buried,
and the faces of the settlers as they gathered about to see his body lowered into
the grave proved to Harper how right he had been. No longer was there any doubt or
hesitation. Now they were in the fight. He had walked back from that grave filled
with triumph. Only a few days longer, and then he would begin the war in earnest.
Tom Crockett was a quiet man, but his face was stern and hard as he walked back home
beside Sharon.
"Well, we tried to avoid it, but now it's war," he said. "I think the sooner we have
some action the better."
Sharon said nothing, but her heart was heavy within her. She no longer thought of
Mort Harper. His glamour had faded, and always now, there was but one man in her
thoughts, the tall, shy, hesitant Rock Bannon.
She always marveled that a man so hard, so sure of himself when with men, horses,
or guns, could be so quiet and diffident with women. As a matter of fact, Rock Bannon
had never seen any woman but an Indian squaw until he was eighteen years old, in
Santa Fe.
Rock Bannon had never talked to a woman until he was twenty. In his life until now,
and he was twenty-seven, he had probably talked to no more than six or seven women
or girls.
With deepening sadness and pain, she realized that the killing of Collins had done
all they had hoped to avoid. There would be war now, and knowing her father as she
did, she knew the unrelenting stubbornness in him once he was resolved upon a course.
She had seen him like this before. He always sought to avoid trouble, always saw
the best in people, yet when the battle line was laid down, no man would stay there
longer than Tom Crockett.
Only one man was silent on the walk back from the grave. Dud Kitchen, weak and pale
from his own narrow escape, was out for the first time. He was very tired, and he
was glad when he was back in the Pagones' house and could lie down and rest. He was
up too soon; he knew that, but Collins had been his friend. Now, lying alone in the
gathering darkness and hearing the low mutter of men's voices in the other room,
he was sorry he had gone.
He had gone over to the Collins house to see his old friend once before he was buried,
and he was there when the widow and Satterfield had dressed him in his Sunday-go-to-meeting
clothes. The saw something then that filled the whole inside of him with horror
147
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 141
He saw not only that Collins had been shot in the back, but something more than that,
and it was that thing that disturbed him.
Dud Kitchen was a friendly, cheerful young man who liked nothing better than to sing
and play the mandolin. Yet in his life from Missouri to Texas, he had had more than
a little experience with guns. Once, too, he had gone down the river to New Orleans,
and he had learned things on that trip.
Among other things, he knew that the dragoon Colt had the impact of an ax and would
blow a hole in a man big enough to run a buffalo through, or so it was phrased on
the frontier. The hole in Collins had been small at the point of entry, but it had
been wide and ugly at the point of exit.
Opening the door between the living room and the kitchen of the Pagones' house, Pike
walked in to look down at Dud. "Better get yourself well, Dud," Pike said. "We'll
need all hands for this fuss."
"Was it bad, Pike?" Kitchen asked. His voice was faint, and in the dim light Pike
could not see what lay in the younger man's eyes. "No, I figger it wasn't so bad,"
Pike said. "Only a few shots fired.
It was over so quick I scarce got my gun out. That Bat Chavez, him and Zapata were
fastest, but Pete's horse swung around and spoiled his aim for him. Guess it saved
his life, though, 'cause Bat's bullet hit the horse right in the head. Between the
eyes.
"The horse rared up and throwed Pete, and I jumped my horse away to keep from gettin'
in a tangle. Lamport, he scored a shot on one of them other fellers. We seen him
jerk and seen the blood on him as they were ridin' off."
Dud Kitchen waited for a long moment, and then he said carefully: Who killed Collins?"
Purcell seemed to scowl. "Don't rightly know. There was a sight of shootin' goin'
on. Might have been any one of them three. Don't you worry about that. We'll get
all three of them, so we won't miss gettin' the right one."
"Have they got good guns?" Dud asked. "I'll bet they have!" "Same as us. Dragoon
Colts. One of 'em had an old Walker though. Big gun, too. Shoots like a rifle."
After Pike Purcell was gone Dud Kitchen lay alone in the dark room, thinking. His
thoughts frightened him, and yet, he was himself down from a shot by Zapata, who
was on their own side. Collins had been shot in the back.
Whatever he had been shot by, Dud Kitchen was willing to take an oath it had not
been by either a Walker or a Dragoon Colt. The hole was much too small, though the
chest of the man had been frightfully torn. Sometimes men cut their bullets off flat
across the
148
 142
nose to make them kill better. Dud had seen that done. It tore a man up pretty bad.
I
Johnny Stark brought the news of the fight to Rock Bannon. He was with Bishop at
the time, and the old man's face hardened.
"Well, there it is, Rock! We can't give them any more time now. They've had their
chance, and from now on she'll be open warfare!" Bishop looked up at Stark. "Take
six men back with you. Have
Monty go with the buckboard and bring Lew here to the ranch house where he can have
proper care. You tell Red I want to see him, but he'll be in charge when he goes
back."
Rock got up and paced the floor. He ran his fingers through his shock of black, curly
hair. His face was stern and hard. He knew what this meant. One man had gone down,
Johnny said. From his description of the man it would be Collins, one of the good
men. That would serve to unite the settlers in a compact lot. Despite all his desires
to avoid trouble, they were in for it now, and it would be a case of dog eat dog.
What would Sharon think of all this?
Hastily, he computed the numbers at the townsite. Their numbers were still slightly
inferior to those on the Bishop ranch, but because of expected Indian trouble and
the stock, many of the Bishop hands must remain on the far ranges.
"I'm going out," he said at last. "I'm going down to Poplar. Also, I'm going to have
a look in that canyon where Harper's stuff was cached. "
"You watch yourself, boy!" Bishop said. He heaved himself up in his chair. "You take
care! I'm figurin' on you havin' this ranch, and I ain't wantin' to will it to no
corpse."
Rock hurried down to the corral and saw Johnny Stark leading out the steel dust,
all saddled and ready.
"I figured you'd be ridin', Rock," he said grimly. He handed the reins to him and
started to turn away, but then he stepped back. "Rock," he said, "somethin' I been
goin' to tell somebody. I forgot
to mention it back there. Rock, I don't think any of us killed Collins!"
Bannon wheeled and grabbed the cowhand by the arm. His
were like steel.
"What do you mean? Give it to me, quick!"
"Hey!" Johnny said. "Ease up on that arm!" He grinned. "You a grip like a hear trap."
He rubbed his arm. "Why, I been think about that ever since. Bat, he was thinkin'
only of Zapata. I shot
149
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 143 that Miller, the guy you whupped. I got his horse. Lew, he burned
that long, lean mountain man along the cheek, tryin' for a head shot. Actually, this
here Collins hombre was off to our left. None of us shot that way.'
"You're sure about that?" Bannon demanded.
His mind was working swiftly. If one thing would arouse anger against Bishop among
the settlers it would be the killing of one of their own number, and particularly
one so well liked as Collins had been.
Bannon stared at the rider. "Did you see anybody near him? Who was over at that side?"
"This here Collins hombre who got shot, he was in the front rank," Johnny said. "Then
there was a heavyset, sandy sort of guy with a beard and a tall hombre with a white
hat with a dark coat."
The bearded man would be Lamport. The man in the white hat was Mort Harper.
Rock Bannon swung a leg over the saddle. "Johnny, you tell Red to sit tight," he
said. "I'm riding to Poplar."
"Want me along?" Stark asked eagerly. "You better take some help. Those hombres are
killin' now. They are in a sweat, all of them."
Rock shook his head. "No, I'll go it alone," he said. "Tell Red to wait at the cabin."
Rock wheeled the steel dust and cut across the valley. There was still a chance to
avoid a battle if he could get to Poplar in time, yet he had a feeling that Harper
would not wait. Hostilities had begun, and that was what he had been playing for
all the time. Now he had his excuse to wipe out the Bishop forces, and he would be
quick to take advantage of it.
Before he was halfway down the valley, he reined in on the slope of a low hill. Miles
to the south he could see a group of horsemen cutting across toward the line cabin.
Bat Chavez was there alone with the wounded Murray.
Red would be starting soon, but would get there too late to help Bat or Murray. Within
a matter of a half hour they would be attacking. From where he was it would take
him all of that time and probably more to reach them. There was no time to go back.
Wheel ing the steel dust he started down the valley, angling away from the group
of riders.
In the distance around the peaks towering against the sky, dark clouds were banking.
A jagged streak of lightning ripped the horizon to shreds of flame and then vanished,
and there was a distant roll of thunder, muttering among the dark and distant ravines
like the echoes of distant battle.
The gray horse ran through the tall grass, sweeping around groves
150
 144 Louis L'AMOUR
of aspen and alder, keeping to the low ground. He splashed through a swale, crested
a long low hill that cut athwart the valley, and turned at right angles down the
draw toward the cover of the far-off trees. The cool wind whipped against his face,
and he felt a breath of moist wind as it shifted, feeling for the course of the storm.
The big horse was running smoothly, liking the feel of running as he always did,
letting his powerful muscles out and stretching them. Leaning forward to break the
wind and let the weight of his body help the running horse Rock Bannon talked to
him, speaking softly to the stallion. He knew it loved his voice, for between horse
and man there was that companionship and understanding that come only when they have
known many trails together, shared the water of the same creeks, and run over long
swells of prairie as they were running now.
Then he heard the distant sound of a rifle, followed by a roll of shots.
"Bat, I hope to heaven you're under cover!" he muttered. "I hope they didn't surprise
you!"
He eased the horse's running now because he might rush upon some of them sooner than
he expected. He slid his rifle from the scabbard and raced into the trees. The sound
of firing was nearer now. He slowed the horse to a walk, letting him take a blow,
his eyes searching the brush. There was still some distance to go, but there was
firing, and that meant that Bat was under cover. They had not caught him flat-footed
at least.
He swung the horse up into the rocks and slid from the saddle, easing forward to
the rim of the shelf overhanging the line cabin. Lying face down among the rocks,
he could see puffs of smoke from the brush around the cabin. Waiting until he saw
a gleam of light on a rifle, he fired.
Almost instantly, a man some distance away leaped up and started to run for a boulder.
Swinging the rifle he snapped a shot at him, and the man went to his knees and then
started to crawl for shelter.
A rifle bellowed down below, and a shot glanced off a rock, kicking splinters into
Bannon's face. He eased back and worked down the slope a bit, studying the situation
below. One man was wounded, at least.
Suddenly, a horseman leaped a horse from behind some trees, and dragging a flaming
mass of brush, raced toward the cabin. It was a foolhardy thing to do, but instantly,
Bannon saw his purpose. The rifle fire had attracted Bat Chavez to the other side
of the cabin. Rock lifted his own rifle and steadied it. A flashing instant of aim,
and then he fired.
151
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 145
The horseman threw up his arms and toppled back off the horse, right into the mass
of flaming brush. He screamed once, horribly, and then rolled clear, fighting the
fire in his garments and dragging himself in the dust. Another man rushed from the
brush to aid him, and Rock held his fire.
Suddenly, there was a heavy roll of thunder. Looking around, he saw the clouds had
come nearer, and now there was a sprinkle of rain. At the same instant he heard the
pounding of horses' hoofs. Snapping a quick shot at the brush, he heard a startled
yell. Then the attackers broke from the brush and, scrambling to their saddles, charged
away across the valley. At that moment, the rain broke with a thundering roar, a
veritable cloudburst.
Rushing to the steel dust, he swung into the saddle. He put the animal around to
a steep slide of shale and rode down to the barn near the corral. Johnny rushed up
to him.
"You all right?" "Yeah. How's Bat?"
"Don't know. Red went in. You go ahead. I'll fix your horse up." Rock sprinted for
the house and got in, slamming the door after him. Bat looked around, grinning widely.
"Man, was I glad to hear that rifle of yours," he said. "They had me surrounded.
Lew wanted to get into it, but I was afraid his wound would open and start bleedin'
again. Well, we drove 'em off." "You get anybody?"
"Scratched a couple. Maybe got one. You got one that first shot. I seen him fall.
That'll be one down and two bad hurt, maybe four. Looks like we come out of that
on top."
"I was headed for Poplar and saw them comin'. I was afraid you'd be outside and they'd
split up on you."
Chavez spat. "They mighty near did. I'd just been to the spring for water. "
Rock stared into the fire. This would mean nothing one way or another. They had been
turned back from the first attack, but they would not be convinced. He had killed
a man. Who was it? That would matter a great deal, he knew. Certainly, if it was
another of the settlers he would have small chance of selling them on quitting.
Yet he was just as resolved now as before the attack. This thing must be stopped.
It was never too late to try. The rain was roaring upon the roof. They would never
expect him in a flood like that. They would be' inside and expecting everyone else
to be there, too. If he circled around and came down the canyon, it would be the
best chance. If they were keeping watch at all it would be from this direction. He
would start in a few minutes. They were making coffee now. . Sharon was outside when
she saw the rain coming, and she waited
152
 146 Louis L'AMoux
for it, liking the cool air. Over the distant mountains across the valley, there
were vivid streaks of lightning. It was already storming there, a frightful storm
by all appearances.
She was alone and glad of it. Mary had wanted her to come to the Collins house, where
several of the women had gathered, but she knew she could not stand to be cooped
up now. She was restless, worried. Her father was out there, and for all his courage
and willingness to go, Tom Crockett was no fighting man. He was not like Bannon.
Strangely now, she was but little worried about him. He was hard, seemingly impervious
to harm.
Even now he might be over there across the valley. He might be killing her father,
or her father might be shooting him. Twelve men had ridden away. Eight of them were
settlers. Collins was dead and Dud Kitchen still too weak to ride, but the others
had gone to a man. Mulholland, Satterfield, Pagones, Lamport, Purcell, Olsen, and
Greene. And, of course, her father.
Then the rain came, a scattering of big drops and then the rolling wall of it. She
turned and went inside. There were a few places where the roof was not too tight.
She put pans under them and lighted a light, which she put on the table near the
window. Her father's leg was still not overly strong, and it worried her to think
he was out there in all this.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, a tall, lovely girl with a great mass
of red gold hair done in two thick braids about her head, her face too pale, her
eyes overly large.
She heard them coming before she saw them, and saw a horseman break away from the
others and cross the grass, now worn thin from much travel. When the horse was stabled
he came in, stamping his feet and slipping out of his slicker. His gray hat was black
with rain, and she took it close to the fire. The coffee was ready, and she poured
a cup and then went for a bowl to get some thick soup for him.
He sat down at the table, sat down suddenly, as if his legs had been cut off, and
she noticed with a sudden qualm that he looked old, tired. His eyes lifted to hers
and he smiled wanly.
"Guess I'm no fighting man, Sharon," he said. "I just wasn't cut out for it. When
that man fell into the flames today, I nearly wilted. "Who was it?" she asked quickly.
"One of our men?"
"No, it was a teamster. One of the bunch that hangs around the saloon. His name was
Osburn. We rushed the house, and one of the men inside opened fire. Wounded one of
the men, first shot. we had the house surrounded though, and would have had them
in few minutes. Then someone opened up on us from the cliff.
"It was Bannon, I'm sure of that. He killed Hv Miller. Got him
153
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 147
with his first shot, although how he saw him I can't imagine. Then he wounded Satterfield.
Shot him through the leg, about like I was. This Osburn got on a horse, and-" His
voice rambled on, and all she could think about was that her father was home, that
her father was safe.
After it all, when his voice had died away and he was eating the hot soup, she said,
"And Bannon? Was he hurt?"
"No, he wasn't hurt. He never seems to get hurt. He's a hard man, Sharon."
"But a good man, Father!" she said suddenly. "He's a good man. Oh, I wish things
were different!"
"Don't think it, Sharon," her father said, shaking his head. "He's not for you. He's
a wild, ruthless man, a man who lives by the gun. Collins is dead, and by one of
this man's friends, and they'll never let up now, nor will we. It's a war to the
end."
"But why, Father? Why?" Sharon's voice broke. "Oh, when I think that we might have
gone by the other trail! We might have been in Oregon now. Sometimes I believe that
everything Bannon ever said about Mort Harper was true. All we've done is to come
on here into this trap, and now our oxen are gone, all but the two you use to plow,
and we're in debt."
"I know." Crockett stirred restlessly. "But it might have been as bad wherever we
went. You must understand that. We may be mistaken in Mort. He's done what he could,
and he's standing by us in this fight."
The fire flickered and hissed with the falling drops of rain in the chimney, and
Sharon crossed and knelt beside the fire, liking the warm feel of it on her knees.
She sat there, staring into the flames, hearing the unrelenting thunder of the rain,
and wondering where Rock Bannon was.
Where would it all end? That boy, Wes Freeman, slain in the hills. Then Collins and
now Miller. Dud Kitchen recovering from a wound. Jim Satterfield down, and the whole
affair only beginning and no end in sight. The door opened suddenly and without warning,
and she whirled, coming to her feet with her eyes wide.
Disappointment swept over her, and then fear. Pete Zapata was closing the door after
him. He was smiling at her, his queer, flat face wet with rain, his narrow rattler's
eyes searching the corners of the room.
"Not here?" he whispered hoarsely. "Pretty soon, maybe." "Who-who do you mean?" she
gasped.
Her father was sitting up very straight, his eyes on the man. Zapata glanced at him
with thinly veiled contempt and then shrugged. Who? That Rock Bannon. A few minutes
ago he came down the
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canyon on his horse, now he is here somewhere. Who knows? But soon he will come here,
and when-" He smiled, showing his yellow teeth between thick lips. His eyes shifted
from her to her father. "if one speaks to warn him, I'll kill the other one, you
see?"
Fear left her lips stiff, her eyes wide. Slowly, she turned back to the fire. Bannon
would come here. Zapata was right. She knew he would come here. If Rock had come
again to Poplar, he would not leave without seeing her. He might come at any minute.
She must think, she must somehow contrive to warn him-somehow!
The steel dust liked the dim, shallow cave in which Rock stopped him, but he didn't
like being left alone. He whimpered a little and made believe to snort with fear
as Bannon started to move away, but when Rock spoke, the stallion quieted, resigned
to what was to come.
Rock Bannon moved out swiftly, keeping under the trees but working his way closer
and closer to the house of Pagones. He didn't know what he was getting into, but
Pagones was the most reliable of them all, and the strongest one. If resistance to
Harper was to come, it must come from him. Crockett lacked the force of character,
even though he might have the will. Besides, Pagones knew that one of Harper's men
had shot down Dud Kitchen.
Pagones hadn't chosen his potential son-in-law. Mary had done that for herself, but
Pagones couldn't have found anyone he liked better. Dud was energetic, tireless,
capable, and full of good humor. George Pagones, in his heart, had never felt sure
of Mort Harper. He had listened with one part of his mind to Bannon's protests, even
while the smooth words of Harper beguiled him.
Pagones had returned wet and tired. Like Crockett, he had no love of killing. He
had seen Osburn tumble into the flames, and he had seen Miller killed. Knowing the
trouble Miller had caused and how he had attacked Sharon while drunk, Pagones was
not sorry to see him die. If it had to be someone, it might as well have been Miller.
Yet seeing any man die is a shock, and he had been close to the man.
Many men are aggressive and willing enough to fight, but when they see death strike
suddenly and horribly their courage oozes away. Pagones had the courage to defend
himself, but his heart was not in this fight, and the action of the day had served
to make him very thoughtful. that
Something was worrying Dud Kitchen. He had been noticing
for several days, yet there had been no chance to talk to him when the womenfolk
were not around. He felt the need of talking to him now and got up and went into
the room. He was there, beside the bed, when a breath of cold air struck him and
he heard a startled
gasp from his wife.
155
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 149
Gun in hand he stepped back to the door. Rock Bannon was closing it after him. He
turned now and looked at the gun in Pagones's hand. Bannon smiled grimly.
"Well, you've got the drop on me, Pag. What happens now?" "What do you want here?"
Pagones demanded sternly. "Don't you know if you keep coming back, they'll kill you?"
"Just so it isn't you, Pag," Bannon said. "I always reckoned you a friend."
Pagones holstered his gun. "Come in," he said. "I take it you've come to talk."
Mary and his wife stood facing him, their eyes shining with apprehension. There was
a scuffling of feet from the other room, and Dud Kitchen was in the door.
"Howdy," he said. "They'll kill you, Rock. I heard Zapata say he was after you. He
said he was going to get you next."
"All right." Rock dropped into a chair, his right-hand holster in his lap, the ivory
gun butt near his right hand. His dark blue shirt was open at the neck, his leather
jacket unbuttoned. The candle and firelight flickered on the bright butts of the
cartridges in his twin belts.
Dud's face was very pale, but somehow Rock sensed that Dud was glad to see him, and
it made him feel better and made the talk come easier. Pagones's cheekbones glistened
in the firelight, and his eyes were steady on Bannon's face as he waited for him
to begin. It was very still in the room. A drop of water fell into the fire and hissed
itself into extinction.
Mary Pagones stooped, her freckles dark against the pallor of her face, and dropped
a handful of small sticks on the fire.
"Pag," Bannon began slowly, "I've never wanted this fight. I don't think you have.
I don't think Crockett did either, or Dud here. There's no use me tryin' to talk
to Tom. He's a good man and he knows what he wants, but he hasn't force enough to
make it stick. He couldn't stand against Harper. There's only one man here can do
that, Pagones, and that's you."
"Harper 's my friend," Pagones said evenly. "He led us here. This is his fight and
ours."
You don't believe that," Rock said. "Not down inside, you don't. Collins's death
brought you into it. That made it your fight and Crockett's fight. The truth is,
all you men want is homes. That's what your wife wants, and Mary. That's what Sharon
wants, too. That's what Cap wants, and the rest of them.
"What Mort Harper wants is land and power. He intends to have them, no matter who
dies or when. I've been here before to try to stop this trouble. I'm here again now.
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 150 Louis L'AMOUR
"One of our men died first, and he was a good boy. He was murdered, Pagones, murdered
like no man in the wagon train would kill any man. Purcell didn't like me. Neither
did Lamport. Cap was your leader, but he listened too quick to that glib tongue of
Harper's."
"We all did," Dud said. "I listened, too. I listened for a while, anyway." Mary moved
up behind his chair and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up quickly, and she
smiled.
"Get to the point!" Pagones said. All that Bannon said was true. He knew it as well
as Rock. He had listened to Harper, but secretly he had always been afraid that Bannon
was right. He had been afraid of this trail. They had no oxen now, and they had no
money. They were here, and they could not escape.
Rock leaned a hand on his knee. "Pagones, my boys say they didn't kill Collins!"
VII
1 fill Dud Kitchen drew in his breath, and Mary looked at him in
sudden apprehension.
"What's that you say?" Pagones demanded.
"I repeat. I talked to my boys, and they say they didn't kill Collins. Bat Chavez
couldn't see anything but Zapata, Stark and Murray weren't even facing toward Collins
then. They say they didn't kill him."
"There was a lot of shooting," Pagones said. "Anything might of happened."
"That's right," Bannon agreed. "But my boys don't think they shot Collins, and that
leaves a big question."
"It don't leave no question for me!" Dud flared suddenly. "I saw that wound of Collins's!
And he was shot in the back!"
Pagones's face hardened. He stared down at the floor, his jaw muscles working. Was
nothing ever simple anymore? Was there nothing on which a man could depend? How had
he got into this mess, anyway? What should he do?
"Who do you think?" he asked. "You mean Zapata?"
Their eyes were all on Rock Bannon, waiting, tense. "No," he said. "I mean Mort Harper!"
"But, man, that's crazy!" Pagones leaped to his feet. "What would be the object?
Is there any reason why he would kill a man on his own side?"
"You know the answer to that as well as I," Bannon said. He got up, too. "He wanted
you in this fight, and that was the only way he could get you. Purcell and Lamport
were fire-eaters. They were in, but they weren't enough. He wanted the rest of you,
the good,
11
157
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 151 sober, industrious citizens, the men whose reputations at home
were good, the men who would look honest to the military if they ever came west."
"I saw that wound," Kitchen repeated. "Collins was killed with a small gun, a small
gun with flat-nose or split-ended bullets."
"Who has such a gun?" Pagones said. "You all know that Harper carries a Dragoon,
like the rest of us."
"In sight, he does," Bannon agreed. "Mort Harper may pack another one."
He stopped, feet wide apart. "I've got to get out of here, Pag. I've got to get going
and fast. There's not much chance of anybody being out tonight, but I can't gamble
on that. I've got to get away from here, and this is the last time I'll come. I've
tried to tell you about Mort Harper for a long time. You've got your last chance
to break away, because I'm telling you flat: if you don't break away there won't
be a building standing on this ground within forty-eight hours." Pagones's head jerked
up. "Is that an ultimatum?"
"You bet it is!" Bannon snapped. "If I'd let Bishop have his head, you'd have all
been out of here long ago. Wes would be alive now, and Collins, and Murray wouldn't
be packin' that slug in his leg, and Dud would be on his feet. If I'd not kept Bishop
off you, he would have faced you with forty armed men and ordered you off before
you had a stake down or a foundation laid.
"Those boys of ours are spoilin' for a fight. They hate Harper's innards, and they
want Zapata. He's a murderin' outlaw, and they all know it."
"I don't know that I can do anything," Pagones protested. "We have to think of Zapata
as it is. Harper's the only thing that keeps him and those teamsters off our places
and away from our women, anyway!"
Rock Bannon started for the door. With his hand on the latch, he turned, sliding
into his slicker.
"You step aside and there won't be any Zapata or his friends!" he declared. "We'll
wipe them out so fast they'll only be a memory. We just don't want to kill good people.
You can keep your places. We let you come in, and we'll let you stay."
He turned and slipped out the door into the rain. For an instant, he hesitated, letting
his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Rain fell in slanting sheets, striking his
face like hailstones and rattling against his oilskin slicker like on a tin roof.
Water stood in puddles on the ground, and when he stepped down a large drop fell
from a tree down the back of his neck.
He hesitated, close against the wet tree trunk, and stared into the night. There
was a glow of light from the window of the Crockett
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 152 Louis L'AMOUR
place. Somebody was still up. He hesitated, knowing it was dangerous to remain longer,
yet longing for a sight of Sharon, for the chance to take her in his arms.
He never had. He had never kissed her, never held her hand. It was all a matter of
their eyes, and yet he felt she understood and, perhaps, a little responded to his
feeling.
There were lights from the saloon. They would all be down there now, playing cards,
drinking. It was a pity he had none of the boys here. They could go in and wipe them
out in one final, desperate battle. Lightning flashed and revealed the stark wet
outlines of the buildings, the green of the grass, worn down now, between him and
the Crockett cabin.
He stepped out from the tree and started across the open, hearing the far-off thunder
muttering among the peaks of the mountains beyond the valley, muttering among the
cliffs and boulders like a disgruntled man in his sleep.
He did not fasten his slicker, but held it together with his left hand and kept his
right in his pocket, slopping across the wet ground with the rain battering the brim
of his hat, beating with angry, skeleton fingers against the slicker.
Under the trees, he hesitated, watching the house. There was no horse around. Suddenly,
a column of sparks went up from the chimney, as if someone had thrown some sticks
on the fire. He started to move, and another cluster of sparks went up. He hesitated.
A signal? But who would know he was near?
A third time. Three times was a warning, three smokes, three rifle shots-what could
it be? Who could know he was here? It was nonsense, of course, but the sparks made
him feel uneasy.
Then again, three times, once very weakly, sparks mounted from the chimney. Somebody
was playing with the fire, tapping with a stick on the burning wood or stirring the
fire.
No matter. He was going in. He felt cold, and the warmth of the room would be good
again before he began his long ride to the line cabin. A long ride, because it would
be foolhardy to go down the canyon toward the valley.
He stepped out from under the tree and walked up to the house. His boots made sucking
noises in the mud before the door. Lightning flashed and water glistened on the smooth
boards of the door. He should knock, but he stepped up and, keeping to the left of
the door, reached across with his left hand and drew the door wide.
A gun blasted, and he saw the sudden dart of fire from the darkness by the fireplace.
The bullet smashed into the door, and then he went in with a rush.
He caught a glimpse of Sharon, her eyes wide with fright, scrambling away from the
fire. Zapata lunged from the shadows, his face
159
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 153
set in a snarl of bared teeth and gleaming eyes. His gun blasted again, and a bullet
snatched at Rock's jacket. Bannon thumbed his gun.
Zapata staggered, as though struck by a blow in the stomach. As Rock started for
him, he leaped for an inner door. Rock lunged after him, firing again. There was
a crash as Zapata went through a sack-covered window.
Wheeling, Rock leaped for the door and went out. Zapata's gun barked, and something
laid a white hot iron across his leg. Rock brought his gun up, turned his right side
to the crouching man, and fired again, fired as though on a target range.
Zapata coughed, and his pistol dropped into the mud. He clawed with agonized fingers
at his other gun, and Rock Bannon could see the front of his shirt darkening with
the pounding rain and with blood. Then Bannon fired again, and Zapata went down,
clawing at the mud.
A door slammed, and there was a yell. Rock wheeled and saw Sharon in the doorway.
"I can't stop," he said. "Talk to Pagones." And even as he spoke, he was running
across the worn grass toward the trees.
A rifle barked and then another; then there were intermittent shots. Crying with
fear for him, Sharon Crockett stood in the door, staring into the darkness. Lightning
flared, and through the slanting rain she caught a brief glimpse of him. A rifle
flared, and then he was gone into the trees. A moment later, they heard the pounding
of hoofs.
I "They'll never catch him on that horse," Tom Crockett said. "He of away!"
Sharon turned, and her father was smiling. "Yes, Daughter, I'm glad he got away.
I'm glad he killed that murderer."
"Oh, Father!" Then his arms were around her, and as running feet slapped in the mud
outside, he pushed the door shut. "He'll get away," she cried. "He must get away."
The door slammed open, and Mort Harper shoved into the room. Behind him were four
men, their faces hard, their guns ready. "What was he doing here?" Harper demanded.
"That man's a
killer! He's our enemy. Why should he come here?"
"I don't know why he came!" Crockett said coldly. "He never had a chance to say.
Zapata had been waiting for him all evening. He seemed to believe he would be here.
When Bannon came in, he fired and missed. He won't miss again."
Harper stared at him, his face livid and angry under the glistening mpness of the
rain.
160
 154 Louis L'AMOUR "You seem glad!" he cried.
"I am!" Crockett said. "Yes, I'm glad! That Zapata was a killer, and he deserved
killing."
"And I'm glad," Sharon said, her chin lifted. "I'm glad Bannon killed him, glad that
Bannon got away."
There was an angry mutter from the men behind Harper, but Mort put up a restraining
hand. "So? This sounds like rebellion. Well, we'll have none of that in this camp.
I've been patient with you people, and especially patient with you, Sharon, but my
patience is wearing thin."
"Who cares about your patience?" Anger rose in Sharon's eyes. "Your soft talk and
lies won't convince us any longer. We want our oxen back tomorrow! We've had enough
of this. We'll get out of here tomorrow if we have to walk."
"No, you won't," Harper said. "Come on, boys. We'll go now." "Let's teach 'em a lesson,
Boss," one man said angrily. "To blazes with this palaver!"
"Not now," Harper said. His nostrils were flared with anger, and his face was hard.
"Later!"
When the door closed after them, Tom Crockett's face was white. "Well, Sharon," he
said quietly, "for better or worse, there it is. Tomorrow we may have to fight. Your
mother helped me fight Indians once, long ago. Could you?"
Sharon turned, and suddenly she smiled. "Do you need to ask?" "No." He smiled back,
and she could see a new light in his eyes, almost as if the killing of Zapata and
the statement to Harper had made him younger, stronger. "No, I don't," he repeated.
"You'd better get some sleep. I'm going to clean my rifle."
Rock Bannon's steel dust took the trail up the canyon at a rapid clip. They might
follow him, Bannon knew, and he needed all the lead he could get. Some of those men
had been in these hills for quite some time, yet if he could get away into the wilderness
around Day's River, they would never find him.
Shooting it out with six or seven desperate killers was no part of his plan, and
he knew the teamsters who had come to Poplar were just that, a band of renegades
recruited from the scourings of the wagon trains passing through the fort. After
the immediate dash, however, he slowed down to give the steel dust better footing.
He turned northeast when he came out of Poplar Canyon and rode down into a deep draw
that ended in a meadow. The bottom of the draw was roaring with water that had run
off the mountains, but as yet it was no more than a foot deep. Far below, he could
hear the thunder of Day's River, roaring at full flood now.
The canyon through the narrows would be a ghastly sight with its
161
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 155 weight of thundering white water. Always a turmoil, now it would
be doubled and tripled by the cloudburst. Rain slanted down, pouring unceasingly
on the hills.
The trail by which he had come would be useless on his return. By now the water would
be too deep in the narrow canyon up which he had ridden. He must find a new trail,
a way to cut back from the primitive wilderness into which he was riding and down
through the valley where Freeman had been killed, and then through the mountains.
Briefly, he halted the big stallion in the lee of a jutting shoulder of granite where
wind and rain were cast off into the flat of the valley. Knowing his horse would
need every ounce of its strength, he swung down. His shoulder against the rock, he
studied the situation in his mind's eye.
His first desperate flight had taken him northeast into the wild country. Had he
headed south he must soon have come out on the plains beyond the entrance to Bishop's
Valley, where he would have nothing but the speed of his own horse to assist his
escape.
He was needed here, now. Any flight was temporary, so in turning north he had kept
himself within striking distance of the enemy. His problem now was to find a way
through the rugged mountain bar rier, towering thousands of feet above him, into
Bishop's Valley, and across the valley to home.
No man knew these mountains well, but Hardy Bishop best of all. Next to him, Rock
himself knew them best, but with all his knowl edge they presented a weird tangle
of ridges, canyons, jagged crests, peaks, and chasms. At the upper end of the valley,
the stream roared down a gorge often three thousand feet deep and with only the thinnest
of trails along the cliffs of the narrows.
The isolated valley might have been walled for the express pur pose of keeping him
out, for as he ran over the possible routes into the valley, one by one he had to
reject them. Bailey's Creek would be a thundering torrent now, water roaring eight
to ten feet deep in the narrow canyon. Trapper's Gulch would be no better, and the
only other two routes would be equally impassable.
Rock stared at the dark bulk of the mountain through the slanting rain. He stared
at it, but could see nothing but Stygian darkness. Every branch, every rivulet, and
every stream would be a roaring cataract now. If there was a route into the valley
now it must be over the ridge. The very thought made him swallow and turn chill.
He knew what those ridges and peaks were in quiet hours. They could be traveled,
and he had traveled them, but only when he could see and feel his way along. Now,
with lightning crashing, with thunder butting against the cliffs, and with clouds
gathered around them, it
162
11
IS
156 Louis L'AMOUR
would be an awful inferno of lightning and granite, a place for living thing.
Yet, the thought in the back of his mind kept returning. Hardy Bishop was alone,
or practically so. He had sent Red to the line cabin nearest Harper with most of
the fighting men. Others were in a cabin near the narrows, miles away. Only two men
would be at home aside from the cook.
Rock Bannon did not make the mistake of underestimating his enemy. Mort Harper had
planned this foray with care. He would not have begun without a careful study of
the forces to be arrayed against him. He would know how many men were at the line
cabin, and the result of his figuring must certainly be to convince him that the
ranch house was unprotected, and Hardy Bishop, the heart, soul, and brain of the
Bishop empire, was there.
There was a route over the mountain. Once, by day, Bannon had traveled it. He must
skirt a canyon hundreds of feet deep along a path that clung like an eyebrow to the
sheer face of the cliff. He must ride across the long swelling slope of the mountain
among trees and boulders, and then between two peaks, and angle through the forest
down the opposite side.
At best, it was a twelve-mile ride, and might stretch that a bit. Even by day it
was dangerous and slow going. And he needed only his own eyes to convince him that
lightning was making a playground of the hillside now.
"All right, boy," he said gently to the horse. "You aren't going to like this, but
neither am I." He swung into the saddle and moved out into the wind.
As he breasted the shoulder of granite, the wind struck him like a solid wall, and
the rain lashed at his garments, plucking at the fastenings of his oilskin. He turned
the horse down the canyon that would take them to the cliff face across which he
must ride. He preferred not to think of that.
As he drew near, the canyon walls began to close in upon him, until it became a giant
chute down which the water thundered in a mighty Niagara of sound. Great masses of
water churned in an enormous maelstrom below and the steel dust snorted and shied
from its roaring.
Rock spoke to the horse and touched it on the shoulder. Reassured, it felt gingerly
for the path and moved out. A spout of water gushing from some crack in the rock
struck him like a blow, drenching him anew and making the stallion jump. He steadied
the horse with a tight rein and then relaxed and let the horse have his head. He
could see absolutely nothing ahead of him.
Thunder and the rolling of gigantic boulders reverberated dow"
163
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 157
the rock-walled canyon, and occasional lightning-lit flares showed him glimpses of
a weird nightmare of glistening rock and tumbling white water that caught the flame
and hurled it in millions of tiny shafts on down the canyon.
The steel dust walked steadily, facing the wind but with bowed head, hesitating only
occasionally to feel its way around some great rock or sudden, unexpected heap of
debris.
The hoarse wind howled down the channel of rock, turning its shouting to a weird
scream on corners where the pines feathered down into the passage of the wind. Battered
by rain and wind, Rock Bannon bent his head and rode on, beaten, soaked, bedraggled,
with no eyes to see, only trusting to the surefooted mountain horse and its blind
instinct.
Once when the lightning lifted the whole scene into stark relief, he glimpsed a sight
that would not leave him if he lived to be a hundred. For one brief, all-encompassing
moment he saw the canyon as he never wanted to see it again.
The stallion had reached a bend and for a moment, hesitated to relax its straining,
careful muscles. In that instant, the lightning flared.
Before them, the canyon dropped steeply away, like the walls of a gigantic stairway,
black, glistening walls slanted by the steel of driving rain, cut by volleys of hail,
and accompanied by the roar of the cataract below.
Two hundred feet down the white water roared, and banked in a cul-de-sac in the rock
was a piled-up mass of foam, fifteen or twenty feet high, bulging and glistening.
At each instant, wind or water ripped some of it away and shot it, churning, down
the fury of raging water below. Thunder roared a salvo, and the echoes responded,
and a wild cliff-clinging cedar threshed madly in the wind, as if to tear free its
roots and blow away to some place of relief from the storm.
Lightning crackled, and thunder drummed against the cliffs, and the scene blacked
out suddenly into abysmal darkness. The steel dust moved on rounding the point of
the rock and starting to climb. Then, as if by a miracle, they were out of the canyon,
but turning up a narrow crevice in the rock with water rushing, inches deep, beeath
the stallion's feet. A misstep here and they would tumble own the crevice and pitch
off into the awful blackness above the ater. But the stallion was surefooted, and
suddenly they came out n the swell of the mountain slope.
The lightning below was nothing to this. Here darkness was a series of fleeting intervals
shot through with thunderbolts, and each Jagged streak lighted the night like a blaze
from Hades. Gaunt shoulders of the mountain butted against the bulging weight of
164
 158 Louis L'AMOUR
cloud, and the skeleton fingers of long-dead pines felt stiffly of the wind.
Stunned by the storm, the stallion plodded on, and Rock swayed in the saddle, buffeted
and hammered, as they walked across that bare, dead slope among the boulders, pushing
relentlessly, tirelessly against the massive wall of the wind. A flash of lightning,
and a tree ahead detonated like a shell, and bits of it flew off into space with
the wild complaining of a ricocheted bullet. The stub of the tree smoked, sputtered
with flame, and went out, leaving a vague smell of charred wood and brimstone.
A long time later, dawn felt its way over the mountains beyond and behind him, and
the darkness turned gray, and then rose and flame climbed the peaks. Rock rode on,
sullen, beaten, overburdened with weariness. The high cliffs behind him turned their
rustcolored heights to jagged bursts of frozen flame, but he did not notice. Weary,
the stallion plodded down the last mile of slope and into the rain-flattened grass
of the plain.
The valley was empty. Rock lifted his red-rimmed eyes and stared south. He saw no
horsemen, no movement. He had beaten them. He would be home before they came. And
once he was home he could stand beside the big old man who called him son, and they
would face the world together, if need be.
Let Harper come. He would learn what fighting meant. These men were not of the same
flesh or the same blood, but the response within them was the same, and the fire
that shaped the steel of their natures was the same. They were men bred to the Colt.
Bred to the law of strength. Men who knew justice, but could fight to defend what
was theirs and what they believed.
He was not thinking that. He was thinking nothing. He was only moving. The steel
dust plodded on into the ranch yard, and he fell rather than stepped from the saddle.
Springer rushed out to get his horse.
"My stars, man! How'd you get here?"
"Over the mountain," Bannon said, and walked toward the house. Awed, Springer turned
and looked toward the towering, sixthousand-foot ridge. "Over the mountain," he said.
"Over the mountain!" He stripped the saddle from the big horse and turned it into
the corral, and then almost ran to the bunkhouse to tell Turner. "Over the mountain!"
Hardy Bishop looked up from his great chair, and his eyes sharpened. Rock raised
a hand and then walked on through the room, stripping his sodden clothing as he went.
When he reached the bed he pulled off one boot and then rolled over and stretched
out, his left spur digging into the blanket.
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SHOWDOWN TRAIL 159 Bishop followed him to the room and stared down at him grimly;
then he walked back and dropped into the chair. Well, he reflected, for that he could
be thankful. He had a man for a son.
It was a long time ago that he first came into this valley with old John Day. They
had come down through the narrows and looked out over the wide, beautiful length
of it, and he had seen what he knew he was looking for. He had seen Paradise.
There were men in the West then, men who roamed the streams for beaver or the plains
for buffalo. They lived and traded and fought with the Indians, learning their ways
and going them one better. They pushed on into new country, country no white man
had seen.
There were men like John Coulter, who first looked into the Yellowstone region; old
Jim Bridger, who knew the West as few men. There were John Day, Smith, Hoback, Wilson
Price Hunt, Kit Carson, and Robert Stuart. Most of them came for fur or game, and
later they came for gold, but there were a few even then who looked for homes, and
of the first was Hardy Bishop.
He had settled here, buying the land from the Indians and trading with them long
before any other white man dwelled in the region. Once a whole year had passed when
he saw not even a trapper.
The Kaws were usually his friends, but the Crows were not, and occasionally raiding
parties of Blackfeet came down from the north. When they were friendly, he talked
or traded, and when they wanted to fight, he fought. After a while, even the Crows
left him alone, learning friendship was more profitable than death, and many had
died.
Bad days were coming. From the seat in the great hidebound chair, Hardy Bishop could
see that. The trouble with Indians would be nothing to the trouble with white men,
and he was glad that Rock was a man who put peace first, but who handled a gun fast.
He raised his great head, his eyes twinkling. They were keen eyes that could see
far and well. Even the Indians respected them. He could, they said, trail a snake
across a flat rock, or a duck down stream through rough water. What he saw now was
a horseman, riding toward the ranch. One lone horseman, and there was some thing
odd in the way he rode.
It was not a man. It was a woman. A white woman. Hardy Bishop heaved himself ponderously
from the chair. It had been almost ten years since he had seen a white woman! He
walked slowly to the door, hitching his guns around just in case.
The sun caught her hair and turned it to living flame. His dark eyes kindled. She
rode up to the steps, and he saw Springer and Turner in the bunkhouse door, gaping.
She swung down from her black mare and walked over to him. She was wearing trousers
and a man's shirt. Her throat was bare in the open neck. He smiled. Here
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160 Louis
Sharon looked up at Bishop, astonished. Somehow, she had always known he would be
big, but not such a monster of a man. Six feet four he stood, in his socks, and weighing
three hundred pounds. His head was covered with a shock of iron-gray hair, in tight
curls. His eyes twinkled, and massive forearms and hands jutted from his sleeves.
"Come in! Come in!" he boomed. "You'll be Sharon Crockett, then. I've heard of you.
Heard a sight of you!"
He looked around as she hesitated on the steps. "What's the matter? Not afraid of
an old man, are you? Come in."
"It isn't that. Only we've come here like this-and it was your land, and-"
"Don't explain." He shook his head. "Come in and sit down. You're the first white
woman who ever walked into this house. First one ever saw it, I reckon. Rock, he's
asleep. Dead to the world."
"He's safe then?" she asked. "I was afraid. I saw them go after him."
"There was trouble?" he looked at her keenly. "What happened?" She told him about
the killing of Pete Zapata and what happened afterward. "That's why I'm here," she
said. "In a way, I'm asking for peace. We didn't know. We were foolish not to have
listened to Rock in the beginning, when he told us about Mort. My father and the
settlers want peace. I don't know about Pike Purcell and Lamport, but I can speak
for the rest of us."
Bishop nodded his head. "Rock told me what he was goin' for. So he killed Zapata?
That'll please the boys." He turned his head. "Dave!" he bellowed.
A face covered with a shock of mussed hair and beard shoved into the door. "Bring
us some coffee! And some of that cake! We've got a lady here, by-" He flushed. "Excuse
me, ma'am. Reckon my man ners need a goin' over. We cuss a sight around here. A sight
too much, I reckon.
" 'Course, I ain't never figured on gettin' into heaven, anyways. I been pretty much
of a sinner and not much of a repenter. Reckon they'd have to widen the gate some,
anyway. I'd be a sight of weight to get into heaven. Most likely, they'd have to
put some cribbin' under the cloud I set on, too."
He chuckled, looking at her. "So you're the girl what's goin' to marry Rock?"
She jumped and flushed. "Why! Why, I-"
"Don't let it get you down, ma'am! Reckon I'm a blunt old codger. It's true enough,
the boy ain't said a word to me about it, but I can
167
 SHOWDOWN
see what's in his eyes. I ain't raised the lad for nothin'. When he took off on this
rampage, I was hopin' he'd find himself a gal.
,,you like him, ma'am?" He looked at her sharply, his eyes filled with humor. "You
goin' to marry him?"
"Why, I don't know," she protested. "I don't know that he wants
me. "Now listen here! Don't you go givin' me any of that demure,
folded-hands palaver. That may go for those young bucks, but not for me. You know
as well as I do if a woman sets her cap for a man he ain't got a chance. Only if
he runs. That's all! Either give up and marry the gal or get clean out of the country
and don't leave no address behind. Nor no trail sign, neither!
"You might fool some young sprout with that `he hasn't asked me' business, but not
me. I seen many a young buck Indian give twenty head of ponies for some squaw when
he could have had better ones for ten. Just because she wanted him like and caused
him to figure the price was cheap.
"No, sir! I'd rather try to get away from a bear trap on each foot and each hand
than a woman with her head set on marriage."
Flushed with embarrassment, she ignored what he had said. "Then-then, you'll let
us have peace, sir? You won't be fighting us if we draw off from Harper?"
"Of course not, ma'am! I reckon it'd be a right nice thing to have a few folks around
once in a while!" His eyes flashed. "But no more, you understand. Only this bunch
of yours. No more!"
"And we can have our land, then?" she persisted.
"Sure, you can have it. You can have what them other fellers got, too, when they
get out. Sure, you can have it. I can't set my hand to paper on it, though, because
I never did learn to write. That's true, ma'am! Never learned to write, nor to read.
But I can put my name on the side of a house with a six-shooter. I can do that. But
them pens! They always figured to be a sight too small for my hands. No, I can't
read printin', but I can read sign. I trailed a Blackfoot what stole a horse from
me clean to Montana one time. Trailed him six hundred miles, believe me or not. Yes,
ma'am, I come back with the horse and his scalp. Took it right in his own village."
A startled yell rang out, and Springer burst through the door. "Boss! Boss! Here
they come! Oh, quick, man! Here they-"
His voice died in the report of a gun, and Hardy Bishop lunged from his chair to
see men charging the porch.
Turner had started from the bunkhouse, but the rush of the horses rode him down.
They heard his wild, agonized screams as he went down under the pounding hoofs. Sharon
never saw the old man reach for his guns, but suddenly they were spouting flame.
She saw a
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man stagger back from the door clutching at his breast, blood pouring over his hand.
Then a wild figure wearing one boot appeared from the other room, swinging gun belts
about his hips. Then Rock Bannon, too, was firing.
A sound came at a rear window, and he turned and fired from the hip. A dark form
looming there vanished. The attack broke, and Rock Bannon rushed to the rifle rack
and jerked down two Henry rifles. Then he ran back, thrusting one at Bishop.
The old man dropped to his knees beside a window. "Come up on us fast!" he said.
"I was talkin' to this gal."
Rock's eyes swung to her, and then amazement faded to sudden grimness. With horror,
she saw suspicion mount in his eyes.
A wild chorus of yells sounded from outside, and then a volley of shots smashed through
the windows. The lamp scattered in a thousand pieces, and from the kitchen they heard
a cursing and then the crash of a buffalo gun.
"How many did you see?" Rock demanded.
"Most like a dozen," Bishop said. "We got two or three that first rush!"
"A dozen?" He wheeled to the girl. "Did the settlers come? Did they? Are they fighting
us now?"
"Can't be that," Bishop said, staring out at the ranch yard, his eyes probing the
corral. "No chance of that. This girl come with peace talk. "
"And while she was talking, they rode in on us!" Rock raged. Sharon came up, her
eyes wide. "Oh, you can't believe that! You can't! I-"
The thud of bullets into the logs of the house drowned her voice, along with the
crashing of guns. Rock Bannon was slipping from window to window, moving on his feet
like an Indian. He had yanked off his other boot now. A shot smashed the water olla
that hung near the door. Bannon fired, and a man toppled from behind the corner of
the corral and sprawled on the hard-packed ground near the body of Turner.
"They're goin' to rush us," Bannon said suddenly. He began loading his Colts. "Get
set, Hardy. They are goin' to rush."
"Let 'em come! The sneak-thievin', pelt-robbin', trap-lootin' scum. Let 'em come!
More'll come than'll go back!"
As the outlaws rushed suddenly, charging in a scattered line, the old man burst through
the door, his Colt smoking.
A man screamed and grabbed his middle and took three staggering steps and then sprawled
his full length on the ground. Another Ina,,
169
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 163 went down, and then a gun bellowed and the old man winced, took
another step, and then toppled back into the room.
Sharon stared at him in horror and then ran to him. He looked shocked.
"Hit me! They hit me! Give me my gun, ma'am. I'll kill the scum like the trap-robbin'
wolverines they are!"
"Ssh, be still," she whispered. She began tearing the shirt away from the massive
chest to search for the wound.
Steadily, using now one gun and then the other, Rock Bannon fired. He could sense
uncertainty among the attackers. They had shot the old man, but four of their own
number were down, and probably others were wounded. They were beginning to lose all
desire for battle.
Watching closely, Rock saw a flicker of movement behind a corral trough. He watched,
lifted his rifle, and took careful aim, and when the movement came again, he fired,
just under the trough.
A yell rang out, and he saw a man lift up to his full height and then topple over.
"All right!" Bannon shouted. "Come on and get me! You wanted me! But you'd better
come before the boys get in from north camp, or they'll spoil my fun."
They wouldn't believe him, but it might make them doubtful. He heard voices raised
in argument. Then there was silence. He re loaded all the guns, his own, Bishop's
Henry, and the old man's six-guns. It was midafternoon, and the sun was hot. If they
waited until night, he was going to have a bad time of it.
There was a chance, however, that they would believe his story or fear that someone
from the line cabin might ride far enough this way to hear the shots. If both groups
came, they would be caught between two fires and wiped out.
An hour passed, and there was no sound.
"Rock!" Sharon was standing behind him. "We'd better get him on a bed."
He avoided her eyes, but got up and put his rifle down. It was a struggle, but they
lifted Bishop off the floor and put him on his homemade four-poster. While Sharon
bent over him, bathing the wound and treating it as best she could, Rock walked back
to the
Like a caged panther, he prowled from window to window. Out side, all was still.
Only the bodies of the dead lay on the hard-packed ground of the ranch yard. A dust
devil started somewhere on the plain and twisted in the grass of the meadow and then
skipped across the ranch yard, stirring around the body of Turner and blowing in
his hair.
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Turner was dead. The old man had been with them almost as long as Rock himself. He
had been like one of the family. And Bob Springer was gone, blasted from life suddenly,
all the young man's enthusiastic plans for a ranch of his own. Well, they would pay.
They would pay to the last man.
The steel dust had come back from the end of the corral near the creek. He seemed
curious and approached the body lying near the trough with delicate feet, ready to
shy. He snuffed at the body, caught the scent of blood, and jerked away, eyes distended
and nostrils wide.
There was no one in sight. Apparently, the attackers had drawn off. They had anticipated
no such defense as this. They had had no idea that Rock Bannon was home, nor had
they realized what a fighter the old man could be. They had to learn what the Crows
had learned long since.
Rock waited another hour, continuing his slow prowl. Within the house he was comparatively
safe, and he knew that to go out before he was sure was to tempt fate. From time
to time he went into the bedroom where Bishop lay on the four-poster. He was unconscious
or asleep, Sharon sitting beside him.
He avoided her eyes, yet the thought kept returning, filling him with bitterness,
that she had ridden here with peace talk and that under cover of her talk Harper's
men had made their approach. Knowing Bishop, he knew that unless his attention had
been diverted, no rider or group of riders could have reached the ranch without being
seen.
Had she planned with Mort Harper to do this thing? Everything he knew about the girl
compelled him to believe she would do nothing of the kind, yet the thought persisted;
it was almost too much of a coincidence.
After all, what reason had he to believe otherwise? Hadn't she admired Harper? Hadn't
Pete Zapata been waiting in her cabin for him? Perhaps she had tried to warn him
by throwing sticks on the fire, or it could have been an accident. The fact remained
that while visiting her he had almost been killed in a trap laid by Zapata, and while
she had been making peace talk with Bishop, the raiding party had struck. It was
not her fault they were not dead, both of them.
He knew she came to the door from time to time, and once she started to speak, but
then turned away as he avoided her eyes. Rock was crouching by a window when the
sound of horse's hoofs
brought him to his feet. It was Bat Chavez astride a slim, fast buckskin. The horse
shied violently at Turner's body, and Bat had a hard time getting him to the door.
Bannon rushed out. "Everything all right at the line cabin?"
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"Shucks, man!" Bat exploded. "That's what I was goin' to ask you. What happened here?"
"They hit us. Dave opened up from the kitchen, Hardy and I shot it out up here. Bishop's
down, hit pretty bad. They got Springer and Turner, as you can see.'
"Saw them cuttin' across the valley for Poplar a few minutes ago. The boys are gettin'
restless, Rock. They want to ride over and wind this up."
"No more than I do," Bannon said shortly. "Yes, we're goin'. We'll ride over and
wipe that place out."
"Oh, no! You mustn't." Sharon had come into the door behind Rock. "Please, Rock!
You mustn't. The settlers don't want to fight anymore. It's just Harper's crowd."
"Maybe that's true," Bannon said, "but I've seen no sign of them quittin' yet. There
were at least twelve men in this bunch. Did Harper have twelve men of his own? Not
that I saw, he didn't. And Zapata's dead. So's Miller. Where would he get twelve
men?"
He turned back to Chavez. "Get some food into you, Bat, and then ride back. I'll
be down before long, and when I am, we'll cross that valley. If the settlers get
in the way, they'll get what the rest of them got-what they gave Turner and Springer
here! We've dallied long enough."
Rock Bannon turned and walked back into the house. Sharon stared at him, her face
white.
"Then you won't believe me?" she protested. "You'll go over there and kill innocent
people?"
"Who killed Springer and Turner?" Rock demanded harshly. "In what way had they offended?
I don't know that your settlers are innocent. I tried to tell them what they were
going into, and they wouldn't believe me. Well, they came, and if they get their
tails in a crack they've only themselves to blame.
I argued with them. I argued with Bishop to give them a break, and now this happens.
There were twelve men in that attack on us. At least twelve! Well, some of them died
out here, but you and I both know that Harper didn't have twelve men. Perhaps eight,
at best. They came in here and killed two of our boys and wounded Bishop. That old
man in there has been a father to me. He's been more than most fathers. He's been
a guide and a teacher, and all I know I learned from him. He may die, and if he does
the fault was mine for ever letting this bunch of squatters in here."
The girl clasped her hands in distress. "Please, Rock!" she protested. You can't
do this. Most of your men don't know one from the other. The settlers would be killed
whether they fought or not. Their homes will be burned."
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"If they don't fight they won't be hurt," he insisted stubbornly. "Next time that
Harper attacks, he might get us all. Anyway, it looks to me like they were plenty
willing to ride in on Harper's coattails
and get all they could while the getting was easy."
"That's not true," she protested hotly. "They wanted to do the right thing. They
thought they were doing the right thing. They believed Harper was honest."
Rock slid into his buckskin coat and picked up his hat. His face was grim and hard.
He could not look at Sharon. He knew if their eyes ever met it would tear the heart
out of him. Yet he also knew he had waited too long now, that if he had resorted
to guns long ago, so many things might not have happened. Springer might be living,
and Turner, and Collins, the settler.
He started for the door, picking up his rifle from where he had left it. "Rock,"
Sharon said, "if you go back, I will too. The first one of your men who puts a hand
on a settler's home, I'll kill with my own rifle. "
For the first time he looked at her, and her eyes were flashing with pain and anger.
"Go, then!" he said brutally. "But if you're half as smart as I think you are, you'll
take your friends and head for the hills. Go! I'll give you a start. Warn Harper,
too, if you want. Let him know we're coming. But if you want to save that precious
pack of settlers, get them out of Poplar. Take to the hills until this is over-but
be out of town before my boys ride in!"
He walked to the door and went out. She saw him stop by the corral and pick up a
rope and then go to the corral for the steel dust. Running from the house, she threw
herself into the saddle of her own black mare, which had been tied at the corner
of the house. Spurring her to top speed, she sprang out on the long ride across the
valley.
Rock Bannon did not look up or turn his head, but in his heart and mind the hard
hoofs pounded like the pulse in his veins, pounded harder and harder, and then vanished
with the dying sound of the running horse.
He saddled the steel dust, and as Bat Chavez walked from the house, Rock swung into
the saddle. "Dave!" he yelled at the cook. "You watch over Hardy. We won't be long
gone."
Abruptly, he swung the stallion south. Chavez rode beside him, glancing from time
to time at Rock. Finally, he burst out. "Bannon, I think that gal's on the level.
I sure do!"
"Yes?" Rock did not turn his head. "You let me worry about that.
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Pike Purcell was a grim and lonely man. He had been loitering all day around the
saloon. Only that morning before riding away to the attack on the Bishop ranch house,
in which he and Lamport had taken part, Dud Kitchen had told him about the bullet
that killed Collins.
Pike was disturbed. His heart had not been in the fight at the ranch, and he had
fired few shots. In fact, he and Lamport had been among the first to turn away from
the fight. Purcell was thoroughly disillusioned with Mort Harper. The attack on the
ranch had been poorly conceived and carried out even more poorly. Purcell didn't
fancy himself as a leader, but he knew he could have done better.
Men had died back there-too many of them. Pike Purcell had a one-track mind, and
that one track was busy with cogitation over the story told him by Dud. He could
verify the truth of the supposition. Mort Harper had been behind Collins. It worried
him, and his loyalty, already shaken by inadequate leadership, found itself on uncertain
ground.
On the ride back there had been little talk. The party was sullen and angry. Their
attack had failed under the straight shooting of Bishop and Bannon. They were leaving
six men behind, six men who were stone dead. Maybe they had killed two, but that
didn't com pensate for six. Bishop was down, but how badly none of them knew.
Cap Mulholland had ridden in the attack as well. Never strongly inclined toward fighting,
he had had no heart in this fight. He had even less now. Suddenly, he was realizing
with bitterness that he didn't care if he never saw Mort Harper again.
"They'll be comin' for us now," Cap said.
"Shut up!" Lamport snapped. He was angry and filled with bitter ness. He was the
only one of the settlers who had thrown in com pletely with Harper's crowd, and the
foolishness of it was now apparent. Defeat and their own doubts were carrying on
the rapid disintegration of the Harper forces. "You see what I saw?" he de manded.
"That Crockett girl was there. She was the one dragged Bishop's body back. I seen
her!"
Harper's head jerked up. "You lie!" he snapped viciously. Lamport looked across at
Harper. "Mort," he said evenly, "don't you tell me I lie."
Harper shrugged. "All right, maybe she was there, but I've got to see it to believe
it. How could she have beaten us to it?"
"How did Bannon beat us back?" Lamport demanded furiously. He was supposed to be
lost in the hills."
"He must have come back over the mountain," Gettes put in. He
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was one of the original Harper crowd. "He must have found a way through."
"Bosh!" Harper spat. "Nothing human could have crossed that mountain last night.
A man would be insane to try it."
"Well," Pike said grimly, "Bannon got there. I know good and well he never rode none
of those canyons last night, so he must've come over the mountain. If any man could,
he could."
Harper's eyes were hard. "You seem to think a lot of him," he sneered.
"I hate him," Pike snapped harshly. "I hate every step he takes, but he's all man!"
Mort Harper's face was cruel as he stared at Pike. Purcell had ridden on, unnoticing.
Pike did not return to his cabin after they reached Poplar. Pike Purcell was as just
as he was ignorant and opinionated. His one quality was loyalty, that and more than
his share of courage. Dud Kitchen's story kept cropping up. Did Harper own a small
gun?
Suddenly, he remembered. Shortly after they arrived at Poplar he had seen such a
gun. It was a .34 Patterson, and Mort Harper had left it lying on his bed.
Harper was gone somewhere. The saloon was empty. Purcell stepped in, glanced around,
and then walked back to Harper's quarters. The room was neat, and things were carefully
arranged. He crossed to a rough wooden box on the far side of the room and lifted
the lid. There were several boxes of .44s, and a smaller box. Opening it, he saw
a series of neat rows of .34 caliber cartridges, and across the lead nose of each
shell was a deep notch!
He picked up one of the shells and stepped back. His face was gray as he turned toward
the door. He was just stepping through when Mort Harper came into the saloon.
Quick suspicion came into Mort's eyes. "What are you Join' in there?" he demanded.
"Huntin' for polecat tracks," Purcell said viciously. "I found 'em!" He tossed the
shell on the table. It was the wrong move, for it left his right hand outstretched
and far from his gun.
At such a time things happen instantaneously. Mort Harper's hand flashed for his
gun, and Purcell was late, far too late. He had his hand on the butt when the bullet
struck him. He staggered back, hate blazing in his eyes, and sat down hard. He tugged
at his gun, and Harper shot him again.
Staring down at the body of the tall, old mountaineer, Mort Harper saw the end of
everything. So this was how things finished? An end to dreams, an end to ambition.
He would never own Bishop's Valley now. He would never own the greatest cattle empire
in
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 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 169 the West, a place where he would be a king on his own range,
with nothing to control his actions but his own will.
He had despised Purcell for his foolishness in following him. He had led the settlers
like sheep, but now they would survive and he would die. In a matter of hours, perhaps
even minutes, Bannon would be coming, and then nothing would be left here but a ruin.
At that moment he heard a pounding of horse's hoofs and looked up to see Sharon go
flying past on her black mare.
There was something left. There was Sharon. Rock Bannon wanted her. Sudden resolution
flooded him. She was one thing Bannon wouldn't get! Mort Harper ran to his quarters,
threw a few things together, and then walked out. Hastily, under cover of the pole
barn, he saddled a fresh horse, loaded his gear aboard, swung into the saddle, and
started up the canyon toward the Crockett home.
Cap Mulholland watched him go, unaware of what was happening. Dud Kitchen had heard
the shots and had returned for his own guns. He watched Harper stop at the Crockett
place, unaware of the stuffed saddlebags. When he saw the man swing down, he was
not surprised.
Sharon had caught Jim Satterfield in the open and told him they should flee the village
at once. At this moment Satterfield was headed for the Pagones' house as fast as
he could move. Sharon ran into her house, looking for her father, but as usual, he
was in the fields. There was not a moment to lose. She ran out and was about to swing
into the saddle when Mort Harper dismounted at the front steps. He heard her speak
to the horse and stepped around the house.
"Sharon!" he said. "You're just in time."
She halted. "What do you mean?" she demanded coolly.
He rushed to her excitedly. "We're leaving! We must get away now. Just you and me!
The Bishop crowd will be coming soon, and they'll leave nothing here. We still have
time to get away."
"I'm going to get my father now," she said. "Then we'll go to the hills. "
"There's no time for that-he'll get along. You come with me!" Harper was excited,
and he did not see the danger lights in Sharon's eyes.
"Go where?" she inquired.
Mort Harper stared at her impatiently. "Away! Anywhere for the time being. Later
we can go on to California together, and-" "Aren't you taking too much for granted?"
She reached for the
black mare's bridle. "I'm not going with you, Mort. I'm not going anywhere with you."
It was a real shock. He stared at her, unbelieving and impatient.
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"Don't be foolish!" he snapped. "There's nothing here for you. You were practically
promised to me. If it's marriage you want, don't worry about that. We can go on to
California and be married there."
It is marriage I want, Mort, but not to you. Never to you. For a little while I was
as bad as the others, and I believed in you. Then I saw the kind of men you had around
you, how you'd deliberately led us here to use us for your own ends. No, Mort. I'm
not marrying you and I'm not going away with you." She made no attempt to veil the
contempt in her voice. "If you're afraid, you'd better get started. I'm going for
my father."
Suddenly, he was calm, dangerously calm. "So? It's that Rock Bannon, is it? I never
thought you'd take that ignorant cowhand seriously. Or," he sneered, "is it your
way of getting Bishop's Valley?"
"Get out!" she said. "Get out now! Dad and Pagones will be here in a moment, and
when I tell them what you've said, they'll kill you. "
"Kill me? Those two?" He laughed. Then his face stiffened. "All right, I'll get out,
but you're coming with me!"
He moved so swiftly she had no chance to defend herself. He stepped toward her suddenly
and she saw his fist start. The shock of the blow was scarcely greater than the shock
of the fact that he had struck her. Dimly, she realized he had thrown her into the
saddle and was lashing her there. She thought she struggled, but she lived those
moments only in a half world of consciousness, a half world soon pounded into oblivion
by the drum of racing horses....
It was Satterfield who finally got Crockett from the fields. The Bishop riders were
already in sight when Tom raced into his house, caught up his rifle, and called for
Sharon. She was gone, and he noted that her black mare was gone. She was away, that
was the main thing. With Jim, he ran out into the field, where he was joined by Pagones,
his wife and daughter, and Dud Kitchen.
The others were coming. It was a flight, and there was no time to prepare or take
anything but what lay at hand. Cap Mulholland, his face sullen, went with them, his
wife beside him. The Olsens and Greene joined them, and in a compact group they turned
away toward the timber along the hillside.
Lamport did not go. He had no idea that Mort Harper was gone. John Kies was in his
store, awaiting the uncertain turn of events. Kies had worked with Mort before, and
he trusted the younger
man's skill and judgment.
It was over. It was finished. Lamport stared cynically at the long buildings of the
town. Probably it was just as well, for he would do better in the goldfields. Steady
day-to-day work had never appealed to him. Pike Purcell had been an honest but misguided
man. Lan-,port
177
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 171 was neither. From the first he had sensed the crooked grain in
the timber of Mort Harper, but he didn't care.
Lamport felt that he was self-sufficient. He would stay in as long as the profits
looked good, and he would get out when the luck turned against them. He had seen
the brilliant conception of theft that had flowered in the brain of Mort Harper.
He saw what owning that valley could mean.
It was over now. He had lived and worked with Purcell, but he had no regret for the
man. Long ago he had sensed that Harper would kill him someday. Of all the settlers,
Lamport was the only one who had read Harper aright, perhaps because they were of
the same feeling.
Yet there was a difference. Lamport's hate was a tangible, deadly thing. Harper could
hate and he could fight, but Harper was com pletely involved with himself. He could
plot, wait, and strike like a rattler. Lamport had courage with his hate, and that
was why he was not running now. He was waiting, waiting in the full knowledge of
what he faced.
His hate for Rock Bannon had begun when Bannon rode so much with Sharon. It had persisted,
developing from something much deeper than any rivalry over a woman. It developed
from the rivalry of two strong men, of two fighting men, each of whom recognizes
in the other a worthy and dangerous foe.
Lamport had always understood Harper. Of all those that had surrounded him, Lamport
was the only one Mort Harper had feared. Pete Zapata he had always believed he could
kill. Lamport was the one man with whom he avoided trouble. He even avoided conversa
tion with him when possible. He knew Lamport was dangerous, and he knew he would
face him down if it came to that.
He was a big man, as tall as Rock Bannon, and twenty pounds heavier. When he walked,
his head thrust forward somewhat and he stared at the world from pale blue eyes beneath
projecting shelves of beetling brows. In his great shoulders there was a massive,
slumber ing Power. Lamport's strength had long since made him contemptu ous of other
men, and his natural skill with a gun had added to that contempt. He was a man as
brutal as his heavy jaw, as fierce as the light in his pale eyes.
Surly and sullen, he made friends with no one. In the biting envy and cantankerousness
of Pike Purcell he had found companionship if no more. Lamport was not a loyal man.
Purcell's death meant nothing to him. He waited for Rock Bannon now, filled with
hatred for the victor in* the fight, the man who would win.
Thinking back now, Lamport could see that Rock had always held the winning hand.
He had known about Bishop, was akin to him,
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r
had known what awaited here. Also, from the start his assay of Harper's character
had been correct.
From the beginning, Lamport had accepted the partnership with Purcell, rode with
the wagon train because it was a way west, and threw in with Harper for profit. In
it all, he respected but one man, the man he was now waiting to kill.
When he heard the horses coming, he poured another drink in the deserted bar. Somewhere
around, there were three or four more men. The rest had vanished like snow in a desert
sun. Hitching his guns into place, he walked to the door and out on the plank porch,
John Kies's white face stared at him from an open window of the store.
"Where's Mort?" Kies said. "That's them coming now."
Lamport chuckled and spat into the dust. He scratched the stubble on his heavy jaw
and grinned sardonically at Kies.
"He's around, I reckon, or maybe he blowed out. The rest of 'em have."
Stark fear came into the storekeeper's face. "No! No, they can't have!" he protested.
"They'll have an ambush! They'll- "
"You're crazy!" Lamport sneered. "This show is busted. You should know that. That's
Bannon comin' now, and when that crowd of his gets through, there won't be one stick
on another in this town."
"But the settlers!" Kies wailed. "They'll stop him."
Lamport grinned at him. "The settlers have took to the hills. They are gone! Me,
I'm waitin' to kill Rock Bannon. Then if I can fight off his boys, I'm goin'."
They came up the street, walking their horses. Rock was in the lead, his rifle across
his saddle bows. To his right was Bat Chavez, battle hungry as always. To his left
was Red, riding loosely on a paint pony. Behind them, in a mounted skirmishing line,
came a dozen hard-bitten Indian-fighting plainsmen, riders for the first big cow
spread north of Texas.
A rifle shot rang out suddenly from a cabin in the back of the store, then another.
A horse staggered and went down, and Bat Chavez wheeled his horse and with four riders,
raced toward the cabin. The man who waited there lost his head suddenly and bolted.
A lean blond rider in a Mexican jacket swept down on him, rope twirling. It shot
out, and the horse went racing by, and the burly teamster's body was a bounding thing,
leaping and tumbling through the cactus after the racing horse. Chavez swung at once,
and turned back toward the saloon. The riders fanned out and started going through
the town. Where they went, there were gunshots, then smoke.
Rock Bannon saw Lamport standing on the porch. "Don't shoot!"
1
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 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 173
he commanded. He walked the steel dust within twenty feet. Lamport stood on the edge
of the porch, wearing two guns, his dark, dirty red wool shirt open at the neck to
display a massive, hairy chest.
"Howdy, Rock!" Lamport said. He spat into the dust. "Come to take your lickin'?"
"To give you yours," Rock said coolly. "How do you want it?" "Why, I reckon we're
both gun handy, Rock," Lamport said, "so I expect it'll be guns. I'd have preferred
hand muckin' you, but that would scarcely give you an even break."
"You reckon not?" Rock slid from the stallion. "Well, Lamport, I always figure to
give a man what he wants. If you think you can take me with your hands, shed those
guns and get started. You've bought yourself a fight."
Incredulous, Lamport stared at him. "You mean it?" he said, his eyes brightening.
"Stack your duds and grease your skids, coyote!" Rock said. "It's knuckle and skull
now, and free fighting if you like it!"
"Free, he says!" A light of unholy joy gleamed in Lamport's eyes. "Free it is!"
"Watch yourself, Boss!" Red said, low voiced. "That hombre looks like blazin' brimstone
on wheels!"
"Then we'll take off his wheels and kick the brimstone out!" Rock said. He hung his
guns over the saddle horn as Bat Chavez rode around the corner.
Lamport faced him in the dust before the saloon, a huge grizzly of a man with big
iron-knuckled hands and a skin that looked like a stretched rawhide.
"Come and get it!" he sneered, and rushed.
As he rushed, he swung a powerful right. Rock Bannon met him halfway and lashed out
with his own right. His punch was faster, and it caught the big man flush, but Lamport
took it on the mouth, spat blood, and rushed in, swinging with both fists. Suddenly
he caught Bannon and hurled him into the dust with such force that a cloud of dust
arose. Rock rolled over like a cat, gasping for breath, and just rolled from under
Lamport's driving boots as the big man tried to leap on him to stamp his life out.
Rock scrambled to his feet and lunged as he picked his hands out of the dust, butting
Lamport in the chest. The big renegade jerked up a stiff thumb, trying for Rock's
eye, but Bannon rolled his head away and swung a left to the wind and then a driving
right that ripped Lamport's ear, starting a shower of blood.
Lamport now charged again and caught Bannon with two long swings on the head. His
skull roaring with pain and dizziness, Rock braced himself and started to swing in
a blind fury, both hands going with every ounce of power he could muster.
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174 Louis L"AMOUR
Lamport met him, and spraddle-legged, the two started to slug. Lamport was the bigger,
and his punches packed terrific power, but were a trifle slower. It was nip and tuck,
dog eat dog, and the two battled until the breath gasped in their lungs and whistled
through their teeth. Lamport ducked his battered face and started to walk in, stemming
the tide of Bannon's blows by sheer physical power.
Rock shifted his attack with lightning speed. He missed a right, and following it
in with the weight of his body, he slid his arm around Lamport's thick neck. Grabbing
the wrist with his left hand, he jerked up his feet and sat down hard, trying to
break Lamport's neck.
But the big renegade knew all the tricks, and as Rock's feet flew up, Lamport hurled
his weight forward and to the left, falling with his body half across Bannon. It
broke the hold, and they rolled free. Rock came to his feet, and Lamport, catlike
in his speed, lashed out with a wicked kick for his head.
Rock rolled away from it and hurled himself at Lamport's one standing leg in a flying
tackle. The big man went down, and as they scrambled up, Rock hit him with a left
and right, splitting his right cheek in a bone-deep gash and pulping his lips.
Lamport was bloody and battered now, yet he kept coming, his breath wheezing. Rock
Bannon stabbed a left into his face, set himself, and whipped a right uppercut to
the body. Lamport gasped. Bannon circled and then smashed him in the body with another
right and then another and another. Lamport's jaw was hanging open now, his face
battered and bleeding from a dozen cuts and abrasions. Rock walked in, measured him,
and then crossed a right to his chin. He followed it up with two thudding, bone-crushing
blows. Lamport reeled, tried to steady himself, and then measured his length in the
dust.
Rock Bannon weaved on his feet and then walked to the watering trough and ducked
his head into it. He came up spluttering and then splashed water over his face and
body, stripping away the remnants of his torn shirt.
"We got 'em all, Boss," Red said. "You want we should go after the settlers?"
"No, and leave their homes alone. Where's Kies?" "The storekeeper? Inside, I guess."
Rock strapped on his guns and strode up the steps of the store with Red and Chavez
at his heels. Kies was waiting behind the counter, his face white. sold
"Kies," Rock said. "Have you got the bills for the goods you the settlers?"
III
181
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 175 "The bills?" Kies's frightened eyes showed doubt and then dismay.
"Why, yes.,,
"Get 'em out."
Fumblingly, Kies dug out the bills. Quickly, Bannon scanned through them. Then he
took a match and set fire to the stack as they lay on the counter.
Kies sprang for them. "What are you doing?" he screamed. "You're payin' the price
of hookin' up with a crooked bunch," Bannon said grimly, as Chavez held the angry
storekeeper. "You got a horse?"
"Yes, I have a-horse, but I-"
"Red," Bannon turned. "Give this man some shells, a rifle, a canteen, and two days'
grub, skimpy rations. Then put him on a horse and start him on his way. If he tries
to load that rifle or if he doesn't ride right out of the country, hang him."
"But the Indians!" Kies protested. "And my store!"
"You haven't got a store," Bannon told him harshly. "You'll have to look out for
the Indians yourself."
"Boss," Chavez touched him on the shoulder. "Hombre here wants to talk."
Rock Bannon wheeled. Tom Crockett, Pagones, and Dud Kitchen were standing there.
"Bannon," Crockett said, "Harper took my girl. Kitchen saw him tying her to a horse."
Rock's face went white and then stiffened. "I reckon he was the one she wanted,"
he said. "She had Zapata waitin' for me, and she led that raid to the ranch."
"No, she didn't do that, Rock," Pagones said. "The raid wasn't even organized when
she left. As for Zapata"
He forced himself on us," Crockett protested. "And she was tied to the saddle. She
didn't want to go with Harper. She was in love with you."
"That's right, Rock," Pagones assured him. "Mary's known that for weeks. "
"All right," Rock said. He jerked a shirt from a stack on the counter and began getting
into it. "I'll find 'em. "
Who goes along with you?" Bat asked eagerly. "Nobody," Bannon said. "This is my job."
x The steel-dust stallion liked the feel of the trail. He always knew when he was
going someplace that was beyond the place where distance lost itself against the
horizon. He knew it now, knew in
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176 Louis L'AMOUR
the sound of Rock Bannon's voice and the easy way he sat in the saddle.
Rock rode through the poplars where the wagon train had spent its last night on the
trail, and as he passed, he glanced down at the ruts, already grown with grass. It
seemed such a long time ago, yet it was scarcely more than days since the wagons
had waited here. He had observed them from the mountains, looking back for the last
time as he rode away from the train.
He turned the stallion up the long, grassy canyon where Freeman had been killed.
The trail Mort Harper had left was plain enough. So far, he had been running; later,
he would try to cover it. Yet Bannon was already looking ahead, planning, trying
to foresee what plan, if any, could be in the man's mind.
The Day's River region was one of the most rugged in all America. No man knew it
well; few knew it even passingly well. Unless a man chose carefully of the trails
that offered, he would run into a blind canyon or end in a jump off or at some blind
tangle of boulders.
There were trails through. The Indians had used them. Other Indians, ages before,
had left picture writing on the canyon walls, some of them in places almost impossible
to reach. No man knew the history of this region.
There were places here with a history stranger than any written-an old weapon washed
from the sands of a creek, a strange date on a canyon wall. There was one place miles
from here where the date 1642 was carved on a canyon wall among other dates and names,
and no man has yet accounted for that date or said who put it there or how he came
to be in the country.
From Grass Canyon the trail of the two horses led into a narrow draw with very steep
sides overgrown with birch, balsam, and cottonwood. His rifle ready, although anticipating
no trouble at this stage, Rock pushed on.
The draw now opened on a vast region of jagged mountain ridges, gorges, cliffs, and
mesas. The stallion followed the trail along the edge of a meadow watered by a brawling
mountain stream. Some teal flew from the pool of water backed up by a beaver dam,
and Rock heard the sharp, warning slap of the beaver's tail on the water.
The trail dipped now down a narrow passage between great rock formations that towered
heavenward. On one side was an enormous mass of rock like veined marble, and on the
other a rock of brightest orange fading to rust red, shot through with streaks of
purple.
Boulders scattered the space between the walls, and at times passage became difficult.
At one place great slabs of granite had sloughed off from high above and come crashing
down upon the rocks below. Far ahead he could see the trail leaving the lowlands
and climbing, threadlike, across the precipitous wall of the mountain,
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 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 177
Studying the trail and the speed of the horses he was following, Rock could see that
Mort was trying for distance, and fast. Rock knew, too, that unless Harper was far
ahead, he would, if watching his back trail, soon know he was followed. From the
incredible heights ahead, the whole series of canyons and gorges would be plainly
visible except when shoulders of rock or boulders intervened.
The trail up the face of the cliff had been hewn by nature from the solid rock itself,
cutting across the face of an almost vertical cliff and only emerging at times in
bare rock ledges or dipping around some corner of rock into a cool, shadowed gorge.
"He's headin' for Big Track," Rock told himself suddenly. "He sure is. He's headin'
for Big Track Hollow."
He knew the place, and certainly, if Harper was following a known or planned route,
he could choose no better. Big Track Hollow was a basin over six thousand feet above
sea level where there was a wealth of grass, plenty of water, and sheltering woods.
It would be the best place in this region to hole up for any length of time. Long
ago, somebody had built a cabin there, and there were caves in the basin walls. It
took its name from gigantic dinosaur tracks that appeared in the rock all along one
side.
For Harper the place had the distinct advantage of offering four separate avenues
of escape. Each one would take him over a trail widely divergent from the others,
so once a follower was committed to one trail he would have to retrace his steps
and start over again to find his quarry. The time consumed would leave him so far
behind that it would be impossible to catch up.
Rock Bannon stared thoughtfully at the tracks. It would soon be night, and the two
must stop. Yet they had sufficient lead on him to make it difficult to overtake them
soon, and at night he could easily get off the trail and lose himself in the spiderweb
of canyons.
Reluctantly, he realized he must camp soon. The landscape everywhere now was rock,
red rock cliffs towering against the sky, cathedralshaped buttes and lofty pinnacles.
He rode down the steep trail, dipping into shadowy depths and riding along a canyon
that echoed with the stallion's steps. It was like riding down a long hallway carved
from solid rock, lonely and empty.
There was no sound but the walking of the horse and the creak of Ithe saddle leather.
Dwarfed by the lofty walls, he moved as a ghost m a vast, unreal world. Yet he rode
warily, for at any point Harper might elect to stop and waylay him.
Now the trail down the long avenue between the walls began to rise, and suddenly
he emerged upon a plateau that seemed to hang upon the rim of the world.
Far away and below him stretched miles upon miles of the same
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 178 Louis L'AMOUR
broken country, but there were trees and grass in the valleys below, and he turned
the horse at right angles and then reined in. Here for a space was gravel and rock.
He studied the ground carefully and then moved on.
The trail was difficult now, and in the fading light he was compelled to slip from
the saddle, rifle in hand, and walk along over the ground. They wound around and
around, steadily dropping. Then ahead of him he saw a pool and beside it a place
where someone had lain to drink.
Sliding to the ground, he stripped the saddle from the stallion and
tethered him on a grassy plot. Then he gathered dry sticks for a fire, which he made,
keeping it very small and in the shadow of some boulders. When the fire was going
he made coffee and then slipped back from the fire and carefully scouted the surrounding
darkness.
Every step of the way was a danger. Mort Harper was on the run now, and he would
fight like a cornered rat, where and when and how he could find the means.
Before daylight, Rock rolled out, packed his gear, and saddled the stallion. Yet
when it was light enough to see, there was no trail. The water of the stream offered
the best possibility, so he rode into it himself, scanning the narrow banks with
attention.
Finally, after being considerably slowed down by the painstaking search, he found
where they had left the stream. A short distance further, after seeing no marks,
he found a bruised clump of grass where a horse had stepped and slipped.
He had gone no more than four miles when he found where they had camped. There had
been two beds, one back in a corner of rocks away from the other, and cut off from
the trail by it. Mort Harper was taking no chances. Yet when Rock looked around,
he glimpsed something under a bush in the damp earth.
Kneeling, he put his head under the bush. Scratched in the earth with a stick were
the words BE CAREFUL and then BIG TRACK. He had been right then. Harper was headed
for Big Track. If that
was so, they were a good day's ride from there. Bannon thought that over while climbing
the next ridge. Then he made a sudden decision. From the ridge, he examined the terrain
before him and then wheeled his horse. As he did so a shot rang out. Leaping from
the horse to a cleft in the rock, he lifted his rifle and waited.
The country on the other side of the ridge was fairly open, but with clumps of brush
and boulders. To ride down there after a rifleman, and Harper was an excellent shot,
would be suicide. Only his wheeling of the stallion had saved his life at that moment.
Sliding back from the cleft, he retreated down the hillside to the steel dust. He
swung into the saddle, and keeping the ridge between
185
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 179 him and the unseen marksman, he started riding east. He had made
his decision, and he was going to gamble on it.
If he continued to follow, as he was following now, he would fall further and further
behind, compelled to caution by Harper's rifle and the difficulty of following the
trail. If Harper reached Big Track Hollow first, it would be simple for him to take
a trail out of there, and then it would be up to Bannon to find which trail.
Rock Bannon had never heard of a cutoff to Big Track, but he knew where he was and
he knew where Big Track was. Ahead of him a draw opened and he raced the steel dust
into it and started along it, slowing the horse to a canter. Ahead of him and on
the skyline, a sharp pinnacle pointed at the sky. That was his landmark.
The country grew rougher, but he shifted from draw to draw, cut across a flat, barren
plateau of scattered rocks and rabbit grass, and traversed a lava flow, black and
ugly, to skirt a towering rust-red cliff. A notch in the cliff ahead seemed to indicate
a point of entry, so he guided the stallion among the boulders. A lizard darted from
under the stallion's hoofs, and overhead a buzzard wheeled in wide, lonely circles.
The sun was blazing hot now, and the rocks caught and multiplied the heat. He skirted
the gray, dirty mud shore of a small alkaline lake and rode into a narrow cleft in
the mountain.
At one point it was so narrow that for thirty yards he had to pull one foot from
the stirrup and drag the stirrup up into the saddle. Then the cleft opened into a
spacious green valley, its sides lined with a thick growth of quaking aspen. There
was water here, and he stopped to give the stallion a brief rest and to drink.
They had been moving at a rapid clip for the distance and the heat. Yet the horse
looked good. Again he checked his guns. It was nip and tuck now. If he were to make
Big Track before they reached it, or by the same time, he must hurry. If he failed,
then there was not one chance in a dozen that he would ever see Sharon again.
Now, every movement, every thought, and every inflection of her voice returned to
him, filling him with desperation. She was his. He knew it in every fiber of his
being. She was his and had always been his, not only, he understood now, in his own
heart, but in hers. He had always known what Mort Harper was. He should never have
doubted the girl. It was amazing to him now that he had doubted her even for an instant.
So on he went, though the sun blazed down on the flaming rocks in a torment and the
earth turned to hot brass beneath the stallion's feet. The mountains grew rougher.
There was more and more lava, and then when it seemed it could get no worse, he rode
out upon a glaring white alkali desert that lasted for eight miles at midday, stifling
dust and blazing sun.
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Rock Bannon seemed to have been going for hours now, yet it was only because of his
early start. It was past one in the afternoon, and he had been riding, with but one
break, since four in the morning,
On the far side of the desert, there was a spring of water that tasted like rotten
eggs-mineral water. He drank a little, rubbed the horse down with a handful of rabbit
grass, and let him graze briefly. Then he mounted again, and went on, climbing into
the hills.
Big Track was nearer. Somewhere not far from the great skystabbing pinnacle he had
seen. Sweat streamed down his face and down his body under the new shirt. He squinted
his eyes against the sun and the smart of the sweat. He had to skirt a towering peak
to get to the vicinity of Big Track.
He was riding now with all thought lost, only his goal in mind, and a burning, driving
lust to come face to face with Mort Harper. Somewhere ahead he would be waiting;
somewhere ahead they would meet.
The sun brought something like delirium, and he thought again of the long days of
riding over the plains, of Sharon's low voice and her cool hands as he wrestled with
pain and fever, recovering from the wounds of a lone battle against Indians. He seemed
to feel again the rocking roll of the wagon over the rutted, dusty trail, tramped
by the thousands heading for the new lands in the West.
Why had he waited so long to speak? Why hadn't he been able to find words to tell
the girl he loved her? Words had always left him powerless; to act was easy, but
somehow to shape into words the things he felt was beyond him, and women put so much
emphasis on words, on the saying of things, and the way they were said.
He swung down from the saddle after a long time and walked on, knowing even the great
stallion's strength was not without limit. The wild, strange country through which
he was going now was covered with blasted boulders, the rough, slaglike lava, and
scattered pines, dwarfish and wind bedraggled, whipped into agonized shapes by the
awful contortions of the wind.
Then he saw the stark pinnacle almost ahead, and he saw, beyond it, the green of
Big Track. He climbed back into the saddle again, and mopped the sweat from his face.
The big horse walked wearily now, but the goal was reached. Rock Bannon loosened
the guns in their holsters, and grim faced, he turned down a natural trail that no
man had ridden before him, and into the green lush splendor of Big Track Hollow.
The smell of the grass was rich and almost unbelievable, and he heard a bird singing
and the sudden whir of wings as some game bird took off in sudden flight. Water sounded,
and the gray stallion quickened his pace. He skirted a wide-boled aspen and rode
through
187
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 181 a grass scattered with purple and pink asters, white sego lilies,
and red baneberry. Then he saw the water and rode rapidly toward it.
He dropped from the saddle, taking a quick look around. No human sound disturbed
the calm, utter serenity of Big Track. He dropped to his chest on the ground and
drank, and beside him, the steel dust drank and drank deep.
Suddenly, the stallion's head came up sharply. Warned, Rock felt his every muscle
tense. Then he forced himself to relax. The horse was looking at something, and the
calling of birds was stilled. He got slowly to his feet, striving to avoid any sudden
movement, knowing in every muscle and fiber of his being that he was being watched.
He turned slowly, striving for a casual, careless manner.
Mort Harper was standing a short distance away, a pistol in his hand. He was thinner,
wolfish now, his face darkened by sun and wind, his eyes hard and cruel. Backed in
a corner, all the latent evil of the man had come to the fore. Quick fear touched
Rock.
"Howdy," he said calmly. "I see you're not takin' any chances, Mort. Got that gun
right where it'll do the most good."
Harper smiled, and with his teeth bared he looked even more vulpine, even more cruel.
"We both know what it means to get the drop," Harper said. "We both know it means
you're a dead man."
"I ain't so sure," Bannon said, shrugging. "I've heard of men who beat it. Maybe
I'm one of the lucky ones."
"You don't beat this one," Mort said grimly. "I've come to kill you, man." Suddenly
his eyes darkened with fury. "I'd like to know how in blazes you got here!" he snapped.
"Figured you'd head for this place if you knew the country at all," Bannon replied
with a shrug. "So I cut across country."
"There's no other trail," Harper said. "It can't be done."
Rock Bannon stared at him coldly. "Where I want to go, there's always a trail," Bannon
said. "I make my trails, Mort Harper, I don't try to follow and steal the work of
other men."
Harper laughed. "That doesn't bother me, Rock. I've still got the edge. Maybe I lost
on that steal, but I've got your woman. I've got her and I'll keep her! Oh, she's
yours, all right-I know that now. She's yours, and a hellcat with it, but it'll be
fun breaking her, and before I take her out of these hills she'll be broken or dead.
"I've got her, and she's fixed so if anything happens to me, you'll never find her
and she'll die there alone. It'll serve both of you right. Only I'm not going to
die-you are."
"All rat," Rock said coldly. "A rat, all the way through. I don't imagine you ever
had a square, decent thought in your life. Always out to get something cheap, to
beat somebody, to steal somebody jlse's work and fancying yourself a smart boy because
of it."
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Rock Bannon smiled suddenly. "All right, you're going to kill me. Mind if I smoke
first?"
"Sure!" Mort sneered. "You can smoke, but keep your hands high, or you'll die quick.
Go ahead, have your smoke. I like standing here watching you. I like remembering
that you're Rock Bannon and I'm Mort Harper and this is the last hand of the game
and I'm holding all winning cards. I've got the girl and I've got the drop."
Carefully, Rock dug papers and tobacco from his breast pocket. Keeping his hands
high and away from his guns, he rolled a cigarette. "Like thinking about it, don't
you, Harper? Killing me quick
would have spoiled that. If you'd shot me while I was on the ground, it wouldn't
have been good. I'd never have known what hit me. Now I do know. Tastes good, doesn't
it, Mort?"
He dug for his matches and got them out. He struck one, and it flared up with a big
burst. Rock smiled, and holding the match in his fingers, the cigarette between his
lips, he grinned at Mort.
"Yes," he said, "it tastes good, doesn't it? And you've got the girl somewhere? Got
her hid where I can't find her? Why, Mort, I'll have no trouble. I can read your
mind. I can trail you anywhere. I could trail a buzzard flying over a snowfield,
Mort, so trailing you would be-"
The match burned down to his fingers and he gestured with it; then as the flame touched
his fingers he let out a startled yelp and dropped the match, jerking his hand from
the pain-the hand swept down and up, blasting fire!
Mort Harper, distracted by the gesture and the sudden yelp of pain, was just too
late. The two guns boomed together, but Mort twisted with sudden shock, and he took
a full step back, his face stricken.
Rock Bannon stepped carefully to one side for a better frontal target, and they both
fired again. He felt something slug him, and a leg buckled, but he fired again and
then again. He shifted guns and fired a fifth shot. Harper was on his knees, his
face white and twisted. Rock walked up to him and kicked the smoking gun from his
hand.
"Where is she?" he demanded. "Tell me!"
Mort's hate-filled face twisted. "Go to the devil!" he gasped hoarsely. "You go-plumb
to the devil!"
He coughed, spitting blood. "Go to the devil!" he said again. Suddenly his mouth
opened wide and he seemed to gasp wildly for breath that he couldn't get. Then he
fell forward on his face, his fingers digging into the grass, as blood stained the
mossy earth beneath him.
Rock walked back to the horse, and stood there, gripping the saddle horn. He felt
weak and sick, yet he didn't believe he had
189
 SHOWDOWN TRAIL 183 been hit hard. There was a dampness on his side, but when he
pulled off the new shirt, he saw that only the skin was cut in a shallow groove along
his side above the hipbone.
Digging stuff from his saddlebags, he patched the wound as best he could. It was
only then he thought of his leg.
There was nothing wrong with it, and then he saw the wrenched spur. The bullet had
struck his spur, twisting and jerking his leg but doing no harm.
Carefully, he reloaded his guns. Then he called loudly. There was no response. He
called again, and there was no answering sound. Slowly, Rock began to circle, studying
the ground. Harper had moved carefully through the grass and had left little trail.
Rock returned for his horse, and mounting, he began to ride in slow circles.
Somewhere, Mort would have his horses, and the girl would not be far from them. From
time to time he called. Two slow hours passed. At times, he swung down and walked,
leading the stallion. He worked his way through every grove, examined every boulder
patch and clump of brush.
Bees hummed in the still, warm air. He walked on, his side smarting viciously, his
feet heavy with walking in the high-heeled boots. Suddenly, sharply, the stallion's
head came up and he whinnied. Almost instantly, there was an answering call. Then
Rock Bannon saw a horse, and swinging into the saddle he loped across a narrow glade
toward the boulders.
The horse was there, and almost at once he saw Sharon. She was tied to the top of
a boulder, out of sight from below except for a toe of her boot. He scrambled up
and released her and then unfastened the handkerchief with which she had been gagged.
"Oh, Rock!" Her arms went about him, and for a long moment they sat there, and he
held her close.
After a long time she looked up. "When I heard your horse, I tried so hard to cry
out that I almost strangled. Then when my mare whinnied, I knew you'd find us."
She came to with a start as he helped her down. "Rock! Where's Mort? He meant to
kill you."
"He was born to fail," Rock said simply. "He was just a man who ad big plans, but
couldn't win out with anything. At the wrong time e was too filled with hate to even
accomplish a satisfactory killin'." Briefly, as she bathed her face and hands, he
told her of what had appened at Poplar. "Your folks will all be back in their homes
by now," he said. "You know, in some ways, Lamport was one of the ,best of the lot.
He was a fighter-a regular bull. I hit him once with
190
I
184 Louis L'AMOUR
everything I had, every bit of strength an' power and drive in me, and he only grunted."
They sat there in the grass, liking the shade of the white-trunked aspens.
"Dud and Mary are getting married, Rock," Sharon said suddenly. He reddened slowly
under his tan and tugged at a handful of grass. "Reckon," he said slowly, "that'll
be two of us!"
Sharon laughed gaily and turned. "Why, Rock! Are you asking me to marry you?"
"Nope," he said, grinning broadly. "I'm tellin' you! This here's one marriage that's
goin' to start off right."
The steel dust stamped his hoofs restlessly. Things were being altogether too quiet.
He wasn't used to it.
191
AUTHOR'S NOTE
A Man Called Trent
Society has never been
comfortable
with killers
. In times of warfare
and troubles they have been tolerated
,
but have always been discom
forting to
have around
.
A marshal
or sheriff
with such a reputation might be tolerated as long as he was necessary
,
but as soon as the need passed, most citizens wanted to
be rid of him.
Contrary to western motion pictures, nobody went around culti vating a reputation
as a gunfighter unless he was a psychopath. A gunfighter was simply a man who was
good with a gun. His coordi nation, his coolness in a tight situation, and his steadiness
of nerve and hand also might have been better than others'. At a time when gunfighting
was the accepted way of settling disputes, a man with a steady hand and eye came
up a winner. By the time he had won two or three times, he had a reputation. Some
admired him for his ability, but far more were uneasy in his presence.
A man such as Lance Kilkenny would not want such a reputation, and, as in this story,
might flee from it. But a reputation is hard to escape in a country of a small but
constantly shifting population. Moreover, the motivations and skills that won the
reputation in the first place would always be with him.
There are always those who will ride roughshod over the rights of others if they
can make a dollar by doing so, and each one believes he is manifest destiny. But
there are always those who will resist. And there are always those who believe that
because they have wealth or power, they are different from those without it.
Such people as Jared Tetlow in this story were all too familiar. In Wyoming a number
of large ranchers or their superintendents, aided by men who were politically powerful,
actually recruited fifty-odd gunfighters to come secretly into Wyoming and kill more
than eighty "wn The men to be killed were called "rustlers," but as a matter of fact
most of them were simply nesters, people who had moved to government land, built
cabins, and laid claim to land and waterholes
192
A
193
the big cattlemen wanted. So these gunmen were imported for the purpose of committing
murder, nothing more nor
less.
Sheepmen were often killed by cattlemen because of the mistaken impression that cattle
would not feed where sheep were. That this was utter nonsense made no difference.
The killings were carried out by self-righteous cattlemen accustomed
to
the use of power.
These wars were not "made up" by writers. They actually happened and were not infrequent.
From the standpoint of ecology, the big cattlemen were closer to being
right than the nesters, but that had nothing to do with justice or common decency.
A MAN CALLED TRENT
Chapter 1
The
Challenge
Smoke lifted wistfully from the charred timbers of the house, and smoke lifted from
the shed that had been Moffitt's barn. The corral bars were down and the saddle stock
run off, and where Dick Moffitt's homestead had been in the morning, there was now
only desolation, emptiness, and death.
Dick Moffitt himself lay sprawled on the ground. The dust was scratched deeply where
his fingers had dug in the agony of death. Even from where he sat on the long-legged
buckskin, the man known as Trent could see he had been shot six times. Three of those
bullets had gone in from the front. The other three had been fired directly into
his back by a man who stood over him. And Dick Moffitt wore no gun.
The little green valley was still in the late afternoon sun. It was warm, and there
was still a faint heat emanating from the charred timber of the house.
The man who called himself Trent rode his horse around the house. Four or five men
had come here. One of them riding a horse with a split right rear hoof. They had
shot Moffitt down and then burned his layout.
What about the kids? What about Sally Crane, who was sixteen? And Young Jack Moffitt,
who was fourteen? Whatever had happened, there was no evidence of them here. He hesitated,
looking down the trail. Had they been taken away by the killers? Sally, perhaps,
but not Jack. If the killers had found the two, Jack would have been
uead.
Thoughtfully, Trent turned away. The buckskin knew the way was
187
194
188 Louis L'AMOUR
toward home, and he quickened his pace. There were five miles to go, five miles of
mountains and heavy woods, and no clear trails. This could be it. Always, he had
been sure it would come. Even
when happiest, the knowledge that sooner or later he must sling his gun belts on
his hips had been ever present in the back of his mind. Sooner or later there would
be trouble, and he had seen it coming here along the rimrock.
Slightly more than a year ago he had built his cabin and squatted in the lush green
valley among the peaks. No cattle ranged this high. No wandering punchers drifted
up here. Only the other nesters had found homes, the Hatfields, O'Hara, Smithers,
Moffitt, and the rest.
Below, in the vicinity of Cedar Bluff, there was one ranch-one and only one. On the
ranch and in the town, one man ruled supreme. He rode with majesty, and when he walked,
he strode with the step of kings.. He never went unattended. He allowed no man to
address him unless he spoke first, he issued orders and bestowed favor like an eastern
potentate, and if there were some who disputed his authority, he put them down, crushed
them.
King Bill Hale had come west as a boy, and he had had money even then. In Texas he
had driven cattle over the trails and had learned to fight and sling a gun, and to
drive a bargain that was tight and cruel. Then he had come west, moved into the town
of Cedar Bluff, built the Castle, and drove out the cattle rustlers who had used
the valley as a hideout: The one other honest rancher in the valley he bought out,
and when that man had refused to sell, Hale had told him to sell, or else. And he
had cut the offered price in half. The man sold.
Cedar Bluff and Cedar Valley lived under the eye of King Bill. A strong man and an
able one, Hale had slowly become power mad. The valley was cut off from both New
Mexico and Arizona. In his own world he could not be touched. His will was law.
He owned the Mecca, a saloon and gambling house. He owned the stage station, the
stage line itself, and the freight company that hauled supplies in and produce out.
He owned the Cedar Hotel, the town's one decent rooming house. He owned sixty thousand
acres of good grazing land and controlled a hundred thousand more. His cattle were
numbered in the tens of thousands, and two men rode beside him when he went among
his other men. One was rough, hard-scaled Pete Shaw, and the other was his younger
son, Cub Hale.
Behind him trailed the gold-dust twins, Dunn and Ravitz, both gunmen.
The man who called himself Trent rarely visited Cedar Bluff, Sooner or later, he
knew, there would be someone from the outside,
195
A MAN CALLED TRENT 189
someone who knew him, someone who would recognize him for what and who he was, and
then the word would go out.
"That's Kilkenny!"
Men would turn to look, for the story of the strange, drifting gunman was known to
all in the West, even though there were few men anywhere who knew him by sight, few
who could describe him or knew the way he lived.
Mysterious, solitary, and shadowy, the gunman called Kilkenny had been everywhere.
He drifted in and out of towns and cow camps, and sometimes there would be a brief
and bloody gun battle, and then Kilkenny would be gone again, and only the body of
the man who had dared to try Kilkenny remained.
So Kilkenny had taken the name of Trent, and in the high peaks he had found the lush
green valley where he built his cabin and ran a few head of cows and broke wild horses.
It was a lonely life, but when he was there he hung his guns on a peg and carried
only his rifle, and that for game or for wolves.
Rarely, not over a dozen times in the year, he went down to Cedar Bluff for supplies,
packed them back, and stayed in the hills until he was running short again. He stayed
away from the Mecca, and most of all, he avoided the Crystal Palace, the new and
splendid dance hall and gambling house owned by the woman, Nita Riordan.
The cabin in the pines was touched with the red glow of a sun setting beyond the
notch, and he swung down from the buckskin and slapped the horse cheerfully on the
shoulder.
"Home again, Buck! It's a good feeling, isn't it?"
He stripped the saddle and bridle from the horse and carried them into the log barn;
then he turned the buckskin into the corral and forked over a lot of fresh green
grass.
It was a lonely life, yet he was content. Only at times did he find himself looking
long at the stars and thinking about the girl in Cedar Bluff. Did she know he was
here? Remembering Nita from the Live Oak country, he decided she did. Nita Riordan
knew all that was going on; she always had.
He went about the business of preparing a meal, and thought of Parson Hatfield and
his tall sons. What would the mountaineer do now? Yet, need he ask that question?
Could he suspect, even for a moment, that the Hatfields would do anything but fight?
They were the type. They were men who had always built with their hands and who were
beholden to no man. They were not gunfighters but they were lean, hard-faced men,
tall and stooped a little, who carried their rifles as if they were part of them.
And big Dan O'Hara, the talkative, friendly Irishman who always acted as though campaigning
for public office-could he believe that Dan Would do other than fight?
196
190 Louis L'AMOUR
War was coming to the high peaks, and Trent's face grew somber as he thought of it.
War meant that he would once more be shooting, killing. He could, of course, mount
in the morning and ride away. He could give up this place in the highlands and go
once more, but even as the thought came to him, he did not recognize it as even a
remote possibility. Like O'Hara and the Hatfields, he would fight.
There were other things to consider. The last time he had been to Cedar Bluff, there
had been a letter from Lee Hall, the ranger.
We're getting along all right here, but I thought you would like to know: Cain Brockman
is out. He swears he will hunt you down and kill you for killing his brother and
whipping him with your fists. And he'll try, so be careful.
He dropped four slices of bacon into the frying pan, humming softly to himself. Then
he put on some coffee water and sat watching the bacon. When it was ready, he took
it out of the pan and put it on a tin plate. He was reaching for the coffee when
he heard a muffled movement.
Instantly, he froze in position. His eyes fastened on the blanket that separated
his bedroom from the living room of the two-room cottage. His guns were hanging from
a peg near the cupboard. He would have to cross the room to them. His rifle was nearer.
Rising, he went about the business of fixing the coffee, and when close to the rifle,
he dropped his hand to it. Then, swinging it hip high, he crossed the room with a
bound and jerked back the blanket.
Two youngsters sat on the edge of his homemade bed, a slender, wide-eyed girl of
sixteen and a boy with a face thickly sprinkled with freckles. They sat tight together,
frightened and pale.
Slowly, he let the gun butt down to the floor. "Well, I'll be-!
Say, how did you youngsters get here?"
The girl swallowed and stood up, trying to curtsey. Her
which was very lovely, hung in two thick blond braids. Her dress
was cheap and cotton, and now after rough treatment, was torn and dirty. "We're-I
mean, I'm Sally Crane, and this is Jackie Moffitt."
"They burned us out!" Jackie cried out, his face twisted and pale. "Them Haleses
done it! An' they kilt Pappy!"
"I know." Trent looked at them gravely. "I came by that WaYCome on out here an' we'll
eat. Then you can tell me about it.' "They come in about sunup this mornin'," Jack
said. "They told
Pap he had two hours to get loaded an' movin'. Pap, he allowed he wasn't movin'.
This was government land an' he was settled legal, an he was standin' on his rights."
197
A MAN CALLED TRENT 191 "What happened?" Trent asked. He sliced more bacon and dropped
it in the pan.
"The young'un, he shot Pap. Shot him three times afore he could move. Then after
he fell, he emptied his gun into him."
Something sank within Trent, for he could sense the fight that was coming. The "young'un"
would probably be Cub Hale. He remem bered that slim, erect, pantherlike young man
in white buckskins and riding his white horse, that young, handsome man who loved
to kill. Here it was, and there was no way a man could duck it. But no. It wasn't
his fight. Not yet, it wasn't.
"How'd you kids happen to come here?" he asked kindly.
"We had to get away. Sally was gettin' wood for the house, an' when I met her we
started back. Then we heard the shootin', an' when I looked through the brush, I
seen the young'un finishin' Pap. I wanted to fight, but I ain't got no gun."
"Did they look for you?" Trent asked.
"Uh-huh. We heard one of 'em say he wanted Sally!" Jackie glanced at the girl, whose
face was white, her eyes wide. "They allowed there wasn't no use killin' her-yet!"
"You had horses?" Trent asked.
"Uh-huh. We done left them in the brush. We wasn't sure but what they'd come here,
too. But we come here because, Pap, he done said if anythin' ever happened to him,
we was to come here first. He said you was a good man, an' he figgered you was some
shakes with a gun."
"All right." Trent dished them out some food. "You kids can stay here tonight. I
got blankets enough. Then in the mornin' I'll take you down to Parson's."
"Let me fix that," Sally pleaded, reaching for the skillet. "I can cook."
"She sure can," Jackie declared admiringly. "She cooked for us all the time."
A horse's hoof clicked on a stone, and Trent doused the light instantly. "Get down,"
he whispered hoarsely. "On the floor. Let's see who this is.,,
He could hear the horses coming closer, two of them from the sound. Then a voice
rang out sharply.
Halloo, the house! Step out here!"
From inside the door, Trent replied shortly. "Who is it? What d'you want?"
"It don't make a damn who it is! Trent, we're givin' you till noon tomorrow to hit
the trail! You're campin' on Hale range! We're movin' everybody off I"
Trent laughed harshly. "That's right amusin', friend!" he said
198
NNI
I
11
192 Louis L'AMOUR
dryly. "You go back an' tell King Bill Hale that I'm stayin' right where I am. This
is government land, filed on all fittin' an' proper." He glimpsed the light on a
gun barrel and spoke sharply. "Don't
try it, Dunn. I know you're there by your voice. If you've got a lick of sense you
know you're outlined against the sky. A blind man could get you both at this range."
Dunn cursed bitterly. Then he shouted, "You won't get away with this, Trent!"
"Go back an' tell Hale I like it here, an' I'm plannin' to stay!" When they had gone
Trent turned to the youngsters. "We'll have a little time now. Sally, you take the
bed in the other room, Jackie an' me, we'll bunk out here."
"But-?" Sally protested.
"Go ahead. You'll need all the sleep you can get. I think the trouble has just started.
But don't be afraid. Everything is goin' to be all right."
"I'm not afraid." Sally Crane looked at him with large, serious eyes. "You'll take
care of us, I know."
He stood there a long minute staring after her. It was a strange feeling to be trusted,
and trusted so implicitly. The childish sincerity of the girl moved him as nothing
had ever moved him before. He recognized the feeling for what it was, the need within
himself to protect and care for something beyond himself. It was that, in part, that
during these past years had led him to fight so many fights that were not his. And
yet, was not the cause of human liberty and freedom always every man's trust?
Jackie was going about the business of making a bed on the floor as though he had
spent his life at it. He seemed pleased with this opportunity to show some skill,
some ability to do things.
Trent reached up and took down his guns and checked them as he had every night of
the entire year in which they had hung from the peg. For a minute after he completed
the check, he held them. He liked the feel of them, even when he hated what they
meant. Slowly, he replaced them on the peg.
Chapter 11
The
Right to
Bear
Arms
The early-morning sun was just turning the dew-drenched grass settings for diamonds
when Trent was out of his pallet and rc
m
some horses. Yet, early as it was, when he returned to the cabin tilt fire was going
and Sally was preparing breakfast. She smiled at him, but her eyes were red and he
could see she had been crying.
199
A MAN CALLED TRENT 193
Jackie, beginning to realize now the full meaning of the tragedy, was showing his
grief through his anger, but was very quiet. Trent was less worried about Jackie
than about Sally.
Only six years before, according to what Dick Moffitt had told him, Sally Crane had
been found hiding in the bushes. Her father's wagons had been burned and her parents
murdered by renegades posing as Indians. Since then, Dick had cared for her. Dick's
wife had died scarcely a year before, and the girl had tried to take over the household
duties, yet even to a western girl, hardened to a rough life, two such tragedies,
each driving her from a home, might be enough to upset her life.
When breakfast was over he took them out to the saddled horses. Then he walked back
to the cabin alone, and when he returned he carried an old Sharps rifle. He looked
at it a moment, and then he glanced up at Jackie. The boy's eyes were widening, unbelieving,
yet bright with hope.
"Jackie," Trent said quietly, "when I was fourteen I was a man. Had to be. Well,
it looks like your pappy dyin' has made you a man, too. I'm goin' to give you this
Sharps. She's an old gun, but she can shoot. But Jackie, I'm not givin' this gun
to a boy. I'm givin' it to a man. I'm givin' it to Jackie Moffitt, an' he's already
showed himself pretty much of a man.
"A man, Jackie, he don't ever use a gun unless he has to. He don't go around shootin'
heedless like. He shoots only when he has to, an' then he don't miss. This gun's
a present, Jackie, an' there's no strings attached, but it carries a responsibility,
an' that is never to use it against a man unless it's in defense of your life or
the lives or homes of those you love.
"You're to keep it loaded always. A gun ain't no good to a man unless it's loaded,
an' if it's seen settin' around people won't be handlin' it careless. They'll say
`that's Jackie Moffitt's gun, an' it's always loaded.' It's always guns people think
are empty that kill people by accident."
"Gosh!" Jackie stared in admiration at the battered old Sharps. That's a weapon,
man!" Then he looked up at Trent, and his eyes were filled with tears of sincerity.
"Mister Trent, I sure do promise! I'll never use no gun unless I have to!"
Trent swung into the saddle and watched the others mount. He carried his own Winchester,
one of the new '73 models that were replacing the old Sharps on the frontier.
He was under no illusions. If King Bill Hale had decided to put an end to the nesters
among the high peaks, he would probably succeed. But Hale was so impressed with his
own power that he was not reckoning with the Hatfields, O'Hara, or himself.
"Y'know, Jackie," Trent said thoughtfully, "there's a clause in the
200
it
194 Louis L
'AMOUR
Constitution that says the right of an American to keep and bear arms shall not be
abridged. They put that in there so a man would always have a gun to defend his home
or his liberty.
"Right now there's a man in this valley who is tryin' to take the liberty an' freedom
of some men away from 'em. When a man starts that, and when there isn't any law to
help, you got to fight. I've killed men, Jackie, an' it ain't a good thing, no way.
But I never killed a man unless he deserved killin' an' unless he forced me to a
corner where it was me or him.
"This here country is big enough for all, but some men get greedy for money or power,
an' when they do the little men have to fight to keep what they got. Your pappy died
in a war for freedom just as much as if he was killed on a battlefield somewheres.
"Whenever a brave man dies for what he believes, he wins more'n he loses. Maybe not
for him, but for men like him that want to live honest an' true."
The trail narrowed and grew rougher, and Trent felt a quick excitement within him,
as he always did when he rode up to this windy plateau. They went up through the
tall pines toward the knifelike ridges that crested the divide, and when they finally
reached the plateau he reined in, as he always did when he reached that spot.
Off over the vast distance that was Cedar Valley lay the blue haze that deepened
to purple against the far-distant mountains. Here the air was fresh and clear, crisp
with the crispness of the high peaks and the sense of limitless distance.
Skirting the rim, Trent led on and finally came to the second place he loved, a place
he not only loved but which was a challenge to all that was in him. For here the
divide, with its skyscraping ridges, was truly a divide. It drew a ragged, mountainous
line between the lush beauty of Cedar Valley and the awful waste of the scarred and
tortured Smoky Desert.
Always, there seemed a haze of dust or smoke hanging in the sky over Smoky Desert,
and what lay below it, no man could say, for no known trail led down the steel canyon
to the waste below. An Indian had once told him his fathers knew of a trail to the
bottom, but no living man knew it, and no man seemed to care, nobody but Trent, drawn
by his own loneliness to the vaster loneliness below.
Far away were ragged red mountains, red, black, and broken like the jagged stumps
of broken teeth gnawing at the sky. It was, he believed, the far edge of what was
actually an enormous crater, greater than any other of its kind on earth.
"Someday," he told his companions, "I'm goin' down there. It looks like the mouth
of hell itself, but I'm goin' down."
201
A MAN CALLED TRENT 195 Parson Hatfield and his four tall sons were all in sight when
the
three rode up to the cabin. All were carrying their long Kentucky rifles.
"Alight, Trent," Parson drawled, widening his gash of a mouth into a smile. "We was
expectin' most anybody else. Been some ructions down to the valley."
"Yeah." Trent swung down. "They killed Dick Moffitt. These are his kids, Parson.
I figgered maybe you could make a place for 'em." "You thought right, son. The good
Lord takes care of his own, but
we have to help. There's always room for another beneath the roof of a Hatfield."
Quincy Hatfield, oldest of the lean, rawboned Kentucky boys, joined them. "Howdy,"
he said. "Did Pap tell you all about Leathers?" "Leathers?" Trent frowned in quick
apprehension. "What about him?"
"He ain't a-goin' to sell anything to us no more." The tall young man spat and shifted
his rifle to the hollow of his arm. "That makes the closest store over at Blazer,
an' that's three days across the mountains."
Trent shrugged, frowning. "Aims to freeze us out or kill us off." He glanced at Parson
speculatively. "What are you plannin'?" Hatfield shook his head. "Nothin' so far.
We sort of figgered we
might get together with the rest of the nesters an' try to figger out somethin'.
I had Jake ride down to get O'Hara, Smithers, an' young Bartram. We got to have us
a confab."
Parson Hatfield rubbed his long, grizzled jaw and stared at Trent. His gray eyes
were inquisitive, sly. "Y'know, Trent, I always had me an idea you was some shakes
of a battler yourself. Maybe if you'd wear some guns you'd make some of them gunslick
hombres of Hale's back down cold."
Trent smiled, "Why, Parson, I reckon you guess wrong. Me, I'm a peace-lovin' hombre.
I like the hills, an' all I ask is to be let alone." "An' if they don't let alone?"
Parson stared at him shrewdly,
chewing his tobacco slowly and watching Trent with his keen gray eyes.
"If they don't let me alone? An' if they start killin' my friends?" Trent turned
to look at Hatfield. "Why, Parson, I reckon I'd take my guns down from that peg.
I reckon I'd fight."
Hatfield nodded. "That's all I wanted to know, Trent. I ain't spent my life a-feudin'
without knowin' a fightin' man when I see one. O'Hara an' young Bartram will fight.
Smithers, too, but he don't stack up like no fightin' man. My young'uns, they cut
their teeth on a rifle stock, so I reckon when the fightin' begins I'll be bloodin'
the two young'uns like I did the two older back in Kentucky."
202
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'
6 Louts L
AMOUR
I
r
111
00
Trent kicked his toe into the dust. "Don't you reckon we better get the womenfolks
off to Blazer? There ain't many of us, Parson, an' Hale must have fifty riders. We
better get them out while the gettin' is good."
"Hale's got more'n fifty riders, but the women'll stay, Trent. Ma, she ain't for
goin'. You ain't got no woman of your own, Trent, so I don't reckon you know how
unpossible ornery they can be, but Ma, she'd be fit to be tied if it was said she
was goin' to go to Blazer while we had us a scrap.
"Ma loaded rifles for me in Kentucky when she was a gal, an' she loaded 'em for me
crossin' the plains, an' she done her share of shootin'.
"Trent, I'd rather face all them Haleses than Ma if we tried to send her away. She
always says her place is with her menfolks, an' there she'll stay. I reckon Quince's
wife feels the same, an' so does Jesse's woman."
Trent nodded. "Parson, we got us an argument when the rest of them get here. They've
got to leave their places an' come up here. Together, we could make a pretty stiff
fight of it. Scattered, they'd cut us down one by one."
He swung into the saddle. "I'm goin' down to Cedar. I'm goin' to see Leathers."
Without waiting for a reply, Trent swung the buckskin away and loped down the trail.
He knew very well he was taking a chance. The killing had started. Dick Moffitt was
down. They had burned his place, and within no time at all, the Hale riders would
be carrying fire and blood through the high hills, wiping out the nesters. If he
could but see King Bill, there might be a chance.
Watching him go, Parson Hatfield shook his head doubtfully and then turned to his
eldest. "Quince, you rope yourself a horse, boy, an' you an' Jesse follow him into
Cedar. He may get hisself into trouble.'
A few minutes later the two tall, loose-limbed mountain men started down the trail
on their flea-bitten mustangs. They were solemn, dry young men who chewed tobacco
and talked slowly, but they had grown up in the hard school of the Kentucky mountains,
and they had come west across the plains.
Chapter III
A Tough Job Ahead
Unknowing, Trent rode rapidly. He knew what he had to do, even as he rode, his thoughts
were on the Hatfields. He liked tl Hardworking, honest, opinionated, they were fierce
to resent
203
A MAN CALLED TRENT 197
intrusion on their personal liberty, their women's honor, or their pride.
They were the kind of men to ride the river with. It was such men who had been the
backbone of America, the fence-corner soldier, the man who carried his rifle in the
hollow of his arm, but the kind of men who knew that fighting was not a complicated
business but simply a matter of killing and keeping from being killed.
They were men of the blood of Dan Boone, Kit Carson, Jim Bridger, the Green Mountain
Boys, Dan Freeman, and those who whipped the cream of the British regulars at Concord,
Bunker Hill, and New Orleans.
They knew nothing of Prussian methods of close-order drill. They did nothing by the
numbers. Many of them had flat feet and many had few teeth. But they fought from
cover and they made every shot count-and they lived while the enemy died.
The Hale Ranch was a tremendous power, and they had many riders, and they were men
hired for their ability with guns as well as with ropes and cattle. King Bill Hale,
wise as he was, was grown confident, and he did not know the caliber of such men
as the Hatfields. The numbers Hale had might lead to victory, but not until many
men had died.
O'Hara? The big Irishman was blunt and hard. He was not the shrewd fighter the Hatfields
were, but he was courageous, and he knew not the meaning of retreat.
Himself? Trent's eyes narrowed. He had no illusions about himself. As much as he
avoided trouble, he knew that within him there was something that held a fierce resentment
for abuse of power, for tyranny. There was something in him that loved battle, too.
He could not dodge the fact. He would avoid trouble, but when it came he would go
into it with a fierce love of battle for battle's sake.
Someday, he knew, he would ride back to the cattle in the high meadows, back to the
cabin in the pines, and he would take down his guns and buckle them on, and then
Kilkenny would ride again.
The trail skirted deep canyons and led down toward the flat bottomland of the valley.
King Bill, he knew, was learning what he should have known long ago, that the flatlands,
while rich, became hot and dry in the summer weather, while the high meadows remained
green and lush, and there cattle could graze and grow fat. And King Bill was moving
to take back what he had missed so long ago.
Had the man been less blinded by his own power and strength, he would have hesitated
over the Hatfields. One and all, they were fighting men.
Riding into Cedar Bluff would be dangerous now. Changes were corning to the West,
and Trent had hoped to leave his reputation in
204
198 Louis L'AMOUR
Texas. He could see the old days of violence were nearing an end. Billy the Kid had
been killed by Pat Garrett. King Fisher and Ben Thompson were heard of much less;
one and all, the gunmen were beginning to taper off. Names that had once been mighty
in the West were already drifting into legend.
As for himself, few men could describe him. He had come and gone like a shadow, and
where he was now, no man could say, and only one woman.
King Bill even owned the law in Cedar. He had called an election to choose a sheriff
and a judge. Yet there had been no fairness in that election. It was true that no
unfair practices had been tolerated, but the few nesters and small ranchers had no
chance against the fiftyodd riders from the Hale Ranch and the townspeople who needed
the Hale business or who worked for him.
Trent had voted himself. He had voted for O'Hara. There had been scarcely a dozen
votes for O'Hara. One of those votes had been that of Jim Hale, King Bill's oldest
son. Another, he knew, had been the one person in Cedar whom he had studiously avoided,
the half-Spanish, half-Irish girl, Nita Riordan.
Trent had avoided Nita Riordan because the beautiful girl from the Texas Mexican
border was the one person who knew him for what he was-whn knew him ac Kilkennv the
crunfiohter
Whenever Trent thought of the trouble in Cedar he thought less of King Bill but more
of Cub Hale. The older man was huge and powerful physically, but he was not a killer.
It was true that he was
NII Iespo11s1Ule 101 Uedllls, DUI Llley Were UI Men W110I11 lie UC11eVCU w
IIU be his enemies or to be trespassing on his land. But Cub Hale was a
ill killer.
Two days after Trent had first come to Cedar Bluff he had seen Cub Hale kill a man.
It was a drunken miner, a burly, quarrelsome
fellow who could have done with a pistol barrel alongside the head, but needed nothing
more. Yet Cub Hale had shot him down, ruthlessly, heedlessly.
VIII Then there had been the case of lack Lindsay, a known gunman, and Cub had killed
him in a fair, standup fight, with an even break
all around. Lindsay's gun had barely cleared its holster when the first of three
shots hit him. Trent had walked over to the man's body to see for himself. You could
have nut a slaving card over those three
nniec i not wac cnnntina
There had been other stories of which Trent had only heard. had caught two rustlers,
red-handed, and killed them both. He
killed a Mexican sheepherder in Magdalena. He had killed a gunfighter in Fort Sumner,
and gut shot another one near Socorro, leaving him to die slowly on the desert.
205
A MAN CALLED TRENT 199 And besides Cub, there were Dunn and Ravitz. Both were graduates
of the Lincoln County War. Both had been in Trail City and had left California just
ahead of a posse. Both were familiar names among the dark brotherhood who lived by
the gun. They were strictly cash-and-carry warriors, men whose guns were for hire.
"Buck," Trent told his horse thoughtfully, "if war starts in the Cedar hills, there'll
be a power of killin'. I got to see King Bill. I got to talk reason into him."
Cedar Bluff could have been any cow town. Two things set it off from the others.
One was the stone stage station, which also contained the main office of the Hale
Ranch; the other was the huge and sprawling Crystal Palace, belonging to Nita Riordan.
Trent loped the yellow horse down the dusty street and swung down in front of Leathers's
General Store. He walked into the cool interior. The place smelled of leather and
drygoods. At the rear, where they dispensed food and other supplies, he halted.
Bert Leathers looked up from his customer as Trent walked in, and Trent saw his face
change. Leathers wet his lips and kept his eyes away from Trent. At the same time,
Trent heard a slight movement, and glancing casually around, he saw a heavyset cowhand
wearing a tied-down gun lounging against a rack of saddles. The fellow took his cigarette
from his lips and stared at Trent from shrewd, calculating eyes.
"Need a few things, Leathers," Trent said casually. "Got a list here. "
The man Leathers was serving stepped aside. He was a townsman, and he looked worried.
"Sorry, Trent," Leathers said abruptly, "I can't help you. All you nesters have been
ordered off the Hale range. I can't sell you anything. "
"Lickin' Hale's boots, are you?" Trent asked quietly. "I heard you were, Leathers,
but doubted it. I figgered a man with nerve enough to come west an' set up for himself
would be his own man."
"I am my own man!" Leathers snapped, his pride stung. "I just don't want your business!"
"I'll remember that, Leathers," Trent said quietly. "When all this is over, I'll
remember that. You're forgettin' something. This is America, an' here the people
always win. Maybe not at first, but they always win in the end. When this is over,
if the people win, you'd better leave-understand?"
Leathers looked up, his face white and yet angry. He looked Uncertain.
You all better grab yourself some air," a cool voice suggested. Trent turned and
he saw the gunhand standing with his thumbs in his belt, grinning at him. "Better
slide, Trent. What the man says
206
200 Louis L'AMOUR
is true. King Bill's takin' over. I'm here to see Leathers doesn't have no trrnihle
with necterc "
"All right," Trent said quietly, "I'm a quiet man myself. I expect that rightly I
should take the gun away from you an' shove it down your throat. But Leathers is
probably gunshy, an' there might be some shootin', so I'll take a walk."
"My name's Dan Cooper," the gunhand suggested mildly. "Any time you really get on
the prod about shovin' this gun down my throat, look me up."
Trent smiled. "I'll do that, Cooper, an' if you stay with King Bill I'm afraid you're
going to have a heavy diet of lead. He's cuttin' a wide swath."
"Uh-huh." Cooper was cheerful and tough. "But he's got a blade that cuts 'em off
short."
"Ever see the Hatfields shoot?" Trent suggested. "Take a tip, old son, an' when those
long Kentucky rifles open up, you be somewhere else."
Dan Cooper nodded sagely. "You got somethin' there, pardner. You really have. That
Parson's got him a cold eye."
Trent turned and started for the street, but Cooper's voice halted
nim. i ne gunnanci naa tollowea tum to the door.
"Say," Cooper's voice was curious. "Was you ever in Dodge?" Trent smiled. "Maybe.
Maybe I was. You think that one over, Cooper. "
He looked at the gunhand thoughtfully. "I like you," he said
1,1,,,,11., r',v. .,.., ,,,.?,. F;.. I` ..;,lo
u;nii
t
IlllllIV!llllul L,i b 1.' ''- .,. .;, .,... "., +... by
... .v ,,.a..
..au , .,...,u...,.. ... Trent turned and walked down the street. Behind him, he
could
feel Dan Cooper's eyes on his back.
The gunman was scowling. "Now who the hell?" he muttered. "That hombre's salty, plumb
salty."
Three more attempts to buy supplies proved to Trent he was
I~ frozen out in Cedar Bluff. Worried now, he started back to his horse. 11
The nesters could not buy in Cedar Bluff, and that meant their only supplies must
come by the long wagon trip across country from
Blazer. Trent felt grave doubts that Hale would let the wagons
proceed unmolested, and their little party was so small they could
not spare men to guard the wagons on the three-day trek over desert
and mountains.
He turned slowly and found himself facing Price Dixon, a
1111111111 dealer from the Crystal Palace. "Nita wants to see you. Asked me
find you and ask if you'd come to see her."
For a long moment, Trent hesitated. Then he shrugged.
207
A MAN CALLED TRENT 201 right," he said, "but it won't do any good to have her seen
with me. We nesters aren't looked upon with much favor these days."
Dixon nodded, sober faced. "Looks like a shootout. I'm afraid you boys are on the
short end of it."
"Maybe." Dixon glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. "Don't you wear a gun?
They'll kill you someday."
"Without a gun you don't have many fights."
"It wouldn't stop Cub Hale. When he decides to shoot, he does. He won't care whether
you are packin' a gun or not."
"No. It wouldn't matter to him."
Price Dixon studied him thoughtfully. "Who are you, Trent?" he asked softly.
"I'm Trent, a nester. Who else?"
"That's what I'm wondering. I'm dry behind the ears. I've been dealing cards in the
West ever since the War Between the States. I've seen men who packed guns, and I
know the breed. You're not Wes Hardin, and you're not Hickok, and you're not one
of the Earps. You never drink much, so you can't be Thompson. Whoever you are, you've
packed a gun."
"Don't lose any sleep over it."
Dixon shrugged. "I won't. I'm not taking sides in this fight or any other. If I guess,
I won't say. You're a friend of Nita's, and that's enough for me. Besides, Jaime
Brigo likes you." He glanced at Trent. "What do you think of him?"
"Brigo?" Trent said thoughtfully. "Brigo is part Yaqui, part devil, and all loyal,
but I'd sooner tackle three King Bill Hales than him. He's poison."
Dixon nodded. "I think you're right. He sits there by her door night after night,
apparently asleep, yet he knows more about what goes on in this town than any five
other men."
"Dixon, you should talk Nita into selling out. Good chance of getting the place burned
out or shot up if she stays. It's going to be a long fight."
"Hale doesn't think so." "Parson Hatfield does."
"I've seen Hatfield. He looks like something I'd leave alone." Dixon paused. "I was
in Kentucky once, a long time ago. The Hatfields have had three feuds. Somehow, there's
always Hatfields left. "
"Well, Price," Trent threw his cigarette into the dust, "I've seen a few fighting
men, too, and I'm glad the Hatfields are on my side, an' particularly the Parson."
208
202 Louis L'AMOUR
Chapter IV
One Girl in a Million
The Crystal Palace was one of those places that made the western frontier what it
was. Wherever there was money to spend, gambling joints could be found, and some
became ornate palaces of drinking and gambling like the Palace. They had them in
Abilene and Dodge, but not so much as farther west.
Cedar Bluff had the highly paid riders of the Hale Ranch. They also drew miners from
Rock Creek. The Palace was all gilt and glass, and there were plenty of games going,
including roulette, faro, and dice. Around the room at scattered tables were at least
a dozen poker games.
Nita Riordan, Trent decided, was doing all right. This place was making money and
lots of it. Trent knew a lot about gambling houses, enough to know what a rake-off
these games would be turning in to the house. There was no necessity for crooked
games. The percentage was entirely adequate.
They crossed the room, and Trent saw Jaime Brigo sitting on a chair against the wall
as he always sat. The sombrero on the floor was gray and new. He wore dark tailored
trousers and a short velvet jacket, also black. The shirt under it was silk and blue.
He wore, as always, two guns.
He looked up as Trent approached, and his lips parted over even white teeth.
"Buenos
dias,
Senor!"
he said.
Price stopped and nodded his head toward the door. "She's in there. "
Trent faced the door, drew a deep breath, and stepped inside. His heart was pounding,
and his mouth was dry. No woman ever stirred him so deeply or made him realize so
much what he was missing in his lonely life.
It was a quiet room, utterly different from the garish display of the gambling hall
behind him. It was a room to live in, the room of one who loved comfort and peace.
On a ledge by the window were several potted plants; on the table lay an open book.
These things he absorbed rather than observed, for all his attention was centered
upon Nita Riordan.
She stood across the table, taller than most women, with a slender yet voluptuous
body that made a pulse pound in his throat. She was dressed for evening, an evening
walking among the tables of the gambling room, and she was wearing a black and spangled
gown, utterly different from the room in which she stood.
Her eyes were wide now, her full lips parted a little, and as he
209
A MAN CALLED TRENT 203
stopped across the table he could see the lift of her bosom as she took a deep breath.
"Nita!" he said softly. "You've not changed. You're the same." "I'm older, Lance,"
she said softly, "more than a year older." "Has it been only a year? It seems so
much longer." He looked at
her thoughtfully. "And you are lovely, as always. I think you could never be anything
but lovely and desirable."
"And yet," she reminded him, "when you could have had me, you rode away. Lance, do
you live all alone in that cabin of yours? Without anyone?"
He nodded. "Except for memories. Except for the thinking I do. And the thinking only
makes it worse, for whenever I think of you, and all that could be, I remember the
Brockmans, Bert Polti, and all those others back down the trail. Then I start wondering
how long it will be before I fall in the dust myself."
"That's why I sent for you," Nita told him. Her eyes were serious and worried. She
came around the table and took his hands. "Lance, you've got to go. Leave here, now!
I can hold your place for you, if that's what you want. If that doesn't matter, say
so and I'll go with you. I'll go with you anywhere, but we must leave here."
"Why?" It was like him to be direct. She looked up into his dark, unsmiling face.
"Why, Nita? Why do you want me to go?"
"Because they are going to kill you!" she exclaimed. She caught his arm. "Lance,
they are cruel, ruthless, vicious. It isn't King Bill. He's their leader, but what
he does he believes to be right. It's Cub.
"He loves to kill. I've seen him. Last week he killed a boy in the street in front
of my place. He shot him down and then emptied his gun into him with slow, methodical
shots. He's a fiend!"
Lance shook his head. "I'll say, no matter."
"But listen, Lance!" she protested. "I've heard them talking here. They are sure
you'll fight. I don't know why they think so, but they do. They've decided you must
die, and soon. They won't give you a chance. I know that."
"I can't, Nita. These people in the high meadows are my friends. They depend upon
me to stand by them. I won't be the first to break and run, or the last. I'm staying.
I'm going to fight it out here, Nita, and we'll see who is to win, the people or
a man of power and greed."
"I was afraid you'd say that." Nita looked at him seriously. "Hale is out to win,
Lance. He's got men. They don't know you're Lance Kilkenny. I've heard them talking,
and they do suspect that you're something more than a nester named Trent. But Hale
is sure he is right, and he'll fight to the end."
210
I
ii
I
204 Louis L'AMOUR
Trent nodded. "I know. When a man thinks he is right, he will fight all the harder.
Has anybody tried to talk to him?"
"You can't. You can't even address him. He lives in a world of his own. In his way,
I think he is a little insane, Lance, but he does have ability, and he has strength.
He's a fighter, too."
Trent studied her thoughtfully. "You seem to know him. Has he made you any trouble?"
"Why do you ask that?" Nita asked quickly. "I want to know."
"He wants to marry me, Lance."
Trent tightened and then stared at her. "I see," he said slowly. "And you?"
"I don't know. " She hesitated, looking away. "Lance, can't you see? I'm lonely.
Dreadfully, frighteningly lonely. I have no life here, just a business. I know no
women but those of the dance hall. I see no one who feels as I do, thinks as I do.
"King Bill is strong. He knows how to appeal to a woman. He has a lot to offer. He
has a son as old as I, but he's only forty, and he's a powerful man, Lance. A man
a woman could be proud of. I don't like what he's doing, but he does think he's right.
"No," she said finally, "I won't marry him. I'll admit, I've been tempted. He's a
little insane, I think. Drunk with power. He got too much and got it too easily,
and he believes he is better than other men because he has succeeded. But whatever
you do, Lance, don't underrate him. He's a fighter."
"You mean he'll have his men fight?" Trent asked.
"No. I mean
he
is a fighter. By any method. With his fists, if he has to. He told me once in such
a flat, ordinary voice that it startled me that he could whip any man he ever saw
with his hands."
"I see."
"Shaw, his foreman, tells a story about King Bill beating a man to death in El Paso.
He killed another one with his fists on the ranch." "I've got to see him today. I've
got to convince him that we must be left alone."
"He won't talk to you, Lance." Nita looked at him with grave, troubled eyes. "I know
him. He'll just turn you over to his cowhands, and they'll beat you up or kill you."
"He'll talk to me."
"Don't go down there, Lance. Please don't." "Has he ever made any trouble for you?"
"No." She shook her head. "So far, he has listened to me and has talked very quietly
and very well. No one has made any trouble yet, but largely because they know he
is interested in me. Some men tried to hold me up one night, but Jaime took care
of that. He killed
211
A MAN CALLED TRENT 205 them both, and that started some talk. But if King Bill decides
he wants this place-or me-he'll stop at nothing."
"Well,"-he turned-"I've got to see him, Nita. I've got to make one attempt to stop
this before anyone else is killed."
"And if you fail-?"
He hesitated, and his shoulders drooped. Then he looked up, and he smiled slowly.
"If I fail, Nita, I'll buckle on my guns, and they won't have to wait for war. I'll
bring it to Cedar myself!"
He stopped in the outer room and watched Price Dixon dealing cards, but his mind
wasn't on the game. He was thinking of King Bill.
Hale was a man who fought to win. In this little corner of the West, there was no
law but that of the gun. Actually, there were but two trails in and out of Cedar
Valley. What news left the valley would depend on Hale. The echoes of the war to
come need never be heard beyond these hills.
Only one trail led into Cedar Bluff, and one led out. Most of the traffic went in
and out on the same route. The other trail, the little-used route to Blazer, was
rough and bad. Yet in Blazer, too, Hale owned the livery stable, and he had his spies
there as all around.
Hale himself lived in the Castle, two miles from Cedar. He rode into town once each
day and stopped in at the Mecca for a drink and again at the Crystal Palace. Then
he rode out of town. He went nowhere without his gunmen around him. Thinking of that,
Trent decided on the Mecca. There would be trouble unless everything happened just
right. He didn't want the trouble close to Nita.
He knew what Nita meant when she said she was lonely. There had never been a time
when he hadn't been lonely. He had been born on the frontier in Dakota, but his father
had been killed in a gun battle, and he had gone to live with an uncle in New York,
and later in Virginia.
Trent walked out on the street. It was late now, and the sun was already gone. It
would soon be dark. He walked down to the buckskin and led him to a watering trough.
Then he gave him a bundle of hay and left him tied at the hitching rail.
There were few people around. Dan Cooper had left the store and was sitting on the
steps in front now. He watched Trent thoughtfully. Finally, he got up and walked
slowly down the walk. He stopped near the buckskin.
"If I was you, Trent," he said slowly, "I'd get on that horse an' hit the trail.
You ain't among friends."
"Thanks." Trent looked up at Cooper. "I think that's friendly,
212
11
III!
206 Louis L'AMOUR
Cooper. But I've got business. I don't want a war in Cedar Bluff, Cooper. I want
to make one more stab at stopping it."
"An' if you don't?" Cooper studied him quizzically.
"If I don't?" Trent stepped up on the boardwalk. "Well, I'll tell you like I've told
others. If I don't, I'm going to buckle on my guns and come to town."
Dan Cooper began to roll a cigarette. "You sound all-fired sure of yourself. Who
are you?"
"Like I said, old son, I'm a nester, name of Trent."
He turned and strolled down the walk toward the Mecca, and even as he walked, he
saw a small cavalcade of horsemen come up the road from the Castle. Four men, and
the big man on the bay would be King Bill Hale.
Hale got down, and strode through the doors. Cub followed. Ravitz tied King Bill's
horse, and Dunn stood for a moment, staring at Trent, whom he could not quite make
out in the gathering gloom. Then he and Ravitz walked inside.
Chapter V
May the
Best Man
Win
Walking up, Trent pushed open the swinging doors. He stopped for an instant inside
the door. The place was jammed with Hale cowhands. At the bar, King Bill was standing,
his back to the room.
He was big-no taller than Trent, and perhaps an inch shorter than Trent's six-one,
but much heavier. He was broad and powerful, with thick shoulders and a massive chest.
His head was a block set upon the thick column of a muscular neck. The man's jaw
was broad, his face brown and hard. He was a bull. Looking at him, Trent could guess
that the stories of his killing men with his fists were only the truth.
Beside him, in white buckskin, was the slender, catlike Cub Hale. And on either side
of the two stood the gunmen Dunn and Ravitz.
Trent walked slowly to the bar and ordered a drink. Dunn, hearing his voice, turned
his head slowly. As his eyes met Trent's, the glass slipped from his fingers and
crashed on the bar, scattering rye whiskey.
"Seem nervous, Dunn," Trent said quietly. "Let me buy you a drink. "
"I'll be hanged if I will!" Dunn shouted. "What do you want here?"
Trent smiled. All the room was listening, and he knew that many
213
A MAN CALLED TRENT 207 of the townspeople, some of whom might still be on the fence,
were present.
"Why, I just thought I'd ride down an' have a talk with King Bill," he said quietly.
"It seems there's a lot of war talk, an' somebody killed a harmless nester the other
day. It seemed like a man like King Bill Hale wouldn't want such things goin' on."
"Get out!" Dunn's hand hovered above a gun. "Get out or be carried out!"
"No use you makin' motions toward that gun," Trent said quietly. "I'm not heeled.
Look for yourself. I'm makin' peace talk, an' I'm talkin' to King Bill."
"I said-get out!" Dunn shouted.
Trent stood with his hands on his hips, smiling. Suddenly, Dunn's hand streaked for
his gun, and instantly, Trent moved.
One hand dropped to Dunn's gun wrist, while his right whipped up in a short, wicked
arc and exploded on Dunn's chin. The gunman sagged, and Trent released his gunhand
and shoved him from him so hard he fell headlong into a table. The table crashed
over, and among the scattered cards and chips, Bing Dunn lay, out cold.
In the silence that followed, Trent stepped quickly up to King Bill. "Hale," he said
abruptly, "some of your men killed Dick Moffitt, shot him down in cold blood and
then burned him out. Those same men warned me to move out. I thought I'd come to
you. I've heard you're a fair man."
King Bill did not move. He held his glass in his fingers and stared thoughtfully
into the mirror back of the bar, giving no indication that he heard. Cub Hale moved
out from the bar, his head thrust forward, his eyes eager.
"Hale," Trent said sharply, "this is between you an' me. Call off your dogs! I'm
talkin' to you, not anybody else. We want peace, but if we have to fight to keep
our land, we'll fight! If we fight, we'll win. You're buckin' the United States government
now."
Cub had stepped out, and now his lips curled back in a wolfish snarl as his hand
hovered over his gun.
"What's the matter, Hale?" Trent persisted. "Making a hired killer of your son because
you're afraid to talk?"
Hale turned deliberately. "Cub, get back. I'll handle this!"
Cub hesitated, his eyes alive with eagerness and disappointment. I said," Hale repeated,
"to get back."
He turned. "As for you, you squatted on my land. Now you're gettin' off, all of you.
If you don't get off, some of you may die. That's final!"
"No!" Trent's voice rang out sharply. "It's not final, Hale! We took those claims
legal. You never made any claim to them until now. You
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208 Louis L'AmouR
got more land now than you can handle, and we're stayin'. I filed my claim with the
United States, so did the others. If we don't get justice, we'll get a United States
marshal in here to see why."
"Justice!" Hale sneered. "You blasted nesters'll get all the justice you get from
me. I'm givin' you time to leave-now get!"
Trent stood his ground. He could see the fury bolted up in Hale, could see the man
was relentless. Well, maybeSuddenly Trent smiled. "Hale," he said slowly, "I've heard
you're a fightin' man. I hope that ain't a lie. I'm callin' you now. We fight, man
to man, right here in this barroom, no holds barred, an' if I win, you leave the
nesters alone. If you win, we all leave!"
King Bill wheeled, his eyes bulging. "You challenge
me?
You dirty-necked, nestin' renegade. No! I bargain with no man. You nesters get movin'
or suffer the consequences."
"What's the matter, Bill?" Trent said slowly. "Afraid?"
For a long moment, there was deathly stillness in the room, while Hale's face grew
darker and darker. Slowly then, he unbuckled his gunbelt. "You asked for it, nester,"
he sneered. "Now you get it."
He rushed. Trent had been watching, and as Hale rushed, he sidestepped quickly. Hale's
rush missed, and Trent faced him, smiling. "What's the matter, King? I'm right here!"
Hale rushed, and Trent stepped in with a left jab that split Hale's lips and showered
him with blood. In a fury, Hale closed in and caught Trent with a powerful right
swing that sent him staggering back on his heels. Blood staining his gray shirt,
King Bill leaped at Trent, swinging with both hands. Trent crashed to the floor,
rolled over, and got up. Another swing caught him, and he went down again, his head
roaring with sound.
King Bill rushed in, aiming a vicious kick, but Trent rolled out of the way and scrambled
up, groggy and hurt. Hale rushed, and Trent weaved inside of a swing and smashed
a right and left to that massive body.
Hale grabbed Trent and hurled him into the bar with terrific power and then sprang
close, swinging both fists to Trent's head. Trent slipped the first punch, but took
the other one, and started to sag. King Bill set himself, a cold sneer on his face,
and measured Trent with a left, aiming a ponderous right, but Trent pushed the left
aside and smashed a wicked left uppercut to Hale's wind.
The bigger man gasped and missed a right, and Trent stabbed another left to the bleeding
mouth. Hale landed a right and knocked Trent rolling on the floor. Somebody kicked
him wickedly in the ribs as he rolled against the feet of the crowd, and he came
up staggering as Hale closed in. Hurt, gasping with pain, Trent clinched desperately
and hung on.
Hale tore him loose, smashed a left to his head that split his
215
A MAN CALLED TRENT 209 cheekbone wide open, and then smashed him on the jaw with
a powerful right. Again Trent stabbed that left to the mouth, ducked under a right
and bored in, slamming away with both hands at close quarters.
Hale grabbed him and threw him then and rushed upon him, but even as he jumped at
him, Trent caught Hale with a toe in the pit of the stomach and pitched him over
on his head and shoulders.
King Bill staggered up, visibly shaken. Then Trent walked in. His face was streaming
blood and his head was buzzing, but he could see Hale's face weaving before him.
He walked in, deliberately lanced that bleeding mouth with a left, and then crossed
a right that ripped the flesh over Hale's eye.
Dunn started forward, and with an oath, Hale waved him back. He put up his hands
and walked in, his face twisted with hatred. Trent let him come, feinted, and then
dropped a right under the big man's heart. Hale staggered, and Trent walked in, stabbed
another left into the blood-covered face, and smashed another right to the wind.
Then he stood there and began to swing. Hale was swinging too, but his power was
gone. Trent bored in, his head clearing, and he slammed punch after punch into the
face and body of the tottering rancher. He was getting his second wind now, although
he was hurt, and blood dripped from his face to his shirt. He brushed Hale's hands
aside and crossed a driving right to the chin. Hale's knees buckled, but before he
could fall, Trent hit him twice more, left and right to the chin. Then Hale crashed
to the ground.
In the instant of silence that followed the fall of the King, a voice rang out. "You
all just hold to where you're standin' now. I ain't a-wantin' to shoot nobody, but
sure as my name's Quince Hatfield, the one to make the first move dies!"
The long rifle stared through the open window at them, and on the next windowsill
they saw another. Nobody in the room moved. In three steps, Trent was out of the
room. The buckskin was
standing at the edge of the walk with the other horses. Swinging into the saddle,
he wrenched the rifle from the boot and with two quick shots, sent the chandelier
crashing to the floor, plunging the Mecca into darkness. Then, the Hatfields at his
side, he raced the buckskin toward the edge of town. When they slowed down, a mile
out of town, Quince looked at him, grinning in the moonlight.
"I reckon you all sure busted things wide open now!"
Trent nodded soberly. "I tried to make peace talk. When he Wouldn't, I thought a
good lickin' might show the townspeople the fight wasn't all on one side. We're goin'
to need friends."
"You done a good job!" Jesse said. "Parson'll sure wish he'd been
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210 Louis L'AMOUR
along. He always said what Hale needed was a good whuppin'. Well, he sho' nuff had
it tonight!"
Nothing, Trent realized, had been solved by the fight. Taking to the brush, they
used every stratagem to ward off pursuit, although they knew it was exceedingly doubtful
if any pursuit would be started against three armed men who were skilled woodsmen.
Following them in the dark would be impossible and scarcely wise.
Three hours later, they swung down at the Hatfield cabin. A tall young man with broad
shoulders stepped out of the darkness.
"It's us, Saul," Jesse said, "an' Trent done whipped King Bill Hale with his fists!"
Saul Hatfield strode up, smiling. "I reckon Paw will sure like to hear that!"
11 11 11
They gone to bed?
F "Uh-huh. Lijah was on guard till a few minutes back. He just turned in to catch
hisself some sleep afore mornin'."
"O'Hara get here?" Quince asked softly.
"Yeah. Him an' Smithers an' Bartram are here. confab, come mornin'."
Chapter VI
The
Rallying Call
The morning sun was lilting over the pines when the men gathered around the long
table in the Hatfield home. Breakfast was over, and the women were at work. Trent
sat quietly at the foot of the table, thoughtfully looking at the men around him.
Yet even as he looked, he could not but wonder how many would be alive to enjoy the
fruits of the victory, if victory it was to be.
The five Hatfields were all there. Big O'Hara was there, too, a huge man with great
shoulders and mighty hands, a bull for strength and a good shot. Bartram, young,
good-looking, and keen, would fight. He believed in what he was fighting for, and
he had youth and energy enough to be looking forward to the struggle.
Smithers was middle-aged, quiet, a man who had lived a peaceful life, avoiding trouble,
yet fearless. He was a small man, precise, and an excellent farmer, probably the
best farmer of the lot.
Two more horsemen rode in while they were sitting down. Jackson Hight was a wild-horse
hunter, former cowhand, and buffalo
hunter; Steven Runyon was a former miner.
Parson Hatfield straightened up slowly. "I reckon this l' meetin' better get started.
Them Haleses ain't a-goin' to wait us to get organized. I reckon they's a few things
we got to do.
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 211
got to pick us a leader, an' we got to think of gettin' some food."
Trent spoke up. "Parson, if you'll let me have a word. We all better leave our places
an' come here to yours. We better bring all the food an' horses we got up here."
"Leave our places?" Smithers objected. "Why, man, they'd burn us out if we aren't
there to defend 'em. They'd ruin our crops." "He's right," O'Hara said. "If we ain't
on hand to defend 'em, they sure won't last long."
"Which of you feel qualified to stand off Hale's riders?" Trent asked dryly. "What
man here could hold off ten or twenty men? I don't feel I could. I don't think the
Parson could, alone. We've got to get together. Suppose they burn us out. We can
build again, if we're alive to do it, an' we can band together and help each other
build back. If you ain't alive, you ain't goin' to build very much!"
"Thet strikes me as being' plumb sense," Hight said, leaning forward. "Looks to me
like we got to sink or swim together. Hale's got too much power, an' we're too scattered.
He ain't plannin' on us gettin' together. He's plannin' on wipin' us out one at a
time. Together, we got us a chance."
"Maybe you're right," O'Hara said slowly. "Dick Moffitt didn't do very well alone."
"This place can be defended," Trent said. "Aside from my own place, this is the easiest
to defend of them all. Then, the house is the biggest and strongest. If we have to
fall back from the rocks, the house can hold out."
"What about a leader?" Bartram asked. "We'd better get that settled. How about you,
Parson?"
"No." Parson drew himself up. "I'm right flattered, right pleased. But I ain't your
man. I move we choose Trent, here."
There was a moment's silence, and then O'Hara spoke up. "I second that motion. Trent's
good for me. He whipped old King Bill." Runyon looked thoughtfully at Trent. "I don't
know this gent," he
said slowly. "I ain't got any objections to him. But how do we know he's our man?
You've done a power of feudin', Parson. You should know this kind of fightin'."
"I do," Parson drawled. "But I ain't got the savvy Trent has. First, lemme say this
here. I ain't been here all my life. I was a sharpshooter with the Confederate Army,
an' later I rid with Jeb Stuart. Well, we was only whipped once, an' that was by
a youngster of a Union officer. He whipped our socks off with half as many men-an'
that officer was Trent here."
Trent's eyes turned slowly to Parson, who sat there staring at him, his eyes twinkling.
"I reckon," Hatfield went on, "Trent is some surprised. I ain't said nothin' to him
about knowin' him, specially
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212 Louis
when his name wasn't Trent, but I knowed him from the first time I seen him."
"That's good enough for me," Runyon said flatly. "You say he's got the savvy, I'll
take your word for it."
Trent leaned over the table. "All right. All of you mount up and go home. Watch your
trail carefully. When you get home, load up and get back. Those of you who can, ride
together. Get back here with everything you want to save, but especially with all
the grub you've got. But get back, and quick."
He got to his feet. "We're goin' to let Hale make the first move, but we're goin'
to have a Hatfield watchin' the town. When Hale moves, we're goin' to move, too.
We've got twelve men-"
"Twelve?" Smithers looked around. "I count eleven."
"Jackie Moffitt's the twelfth," Trent said quietly. "I gave him a Sharps. He's fourteen.
Many of you at fourteen did a man's job. I'll stake my saddle that Jackie Moffitt
will do his part. He can hit squirrels with that gun, an' a man's not so big. He'll
do.
"Like I say, we've got twelve men. Six of them can hold this place. With the other
six, or maybe with four, we'll strike back. I don't know how you feel, but I feel
no man ever won a war by sittin' on his royal American tail, an' we're not a-goin'
to."
"That's good talk," Smithers said quietly, "I'm not a warlike man, but I don't want
to think of my place being burned when they go scot-free. I'm for striking back,
but we've got to think of food."
"I've thought of that. Lije an' Saul Hatfield are goin' out today after some deer.
They know where they are, an' neither of them is goin' to miss any shots. With the
food we have, we can get by a few days. Then I'm goin' after some myself!"
"You?" O'Hara stated. "Where you figger on gettin' this grub?" "Blazer." He looked
down at his hands on the table and then looked up. "I'm not goin' to spend three
days, either. I'm goin' through Smoky Desert!"
There was dead silence. Runyon leaned forward, starting to speak, but then he sat
back shaking his head. It was Smithers who broke the silence.
"I'll go with you," he said quietly.
"But, man!" Hight protested. "There ain't no way through that desert, an' if there
was-"
"The Indians used to go through," Trent said quietly, "and I think I know how. If
it can be done, I could reach Blazer in a little over a day an' start back the same
night."
He looked over at Jesse Hatfield. "You want to watch Cedar? reckon you know how to
Indian. Don't take any chances, but keep an eye on 'em. You take that chestnut of
mine. He's a racer. You take
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 213
that horse, an' when they move, you take the back trails for here."
Jesse Hatfield got up and slipped from the room. Then Trent said, "All right, start
rolling. Get back here when you can."
He walked outside and saddled the buckskin. Jackie sauntered up, the Sharps in the
hollow of his arm.
"Jackie," Trent said, "you get up there in the eye, an' keep a lookout on the Cedar
trail." Mounting, he rode out of the hollow at a lope and swung into the trail toward
his own cabin.
He knew what they were facing, but already in his mind the plan of campaign was taking
shape. If they sat still, sooner or later they must be wiped out, and Boone; or later
his own men would lose heart. They must strike back. Hale must be made to learn that
he could not win all the time, that he must lose, too.
All was quiet and green around the little cabin, and he rode up, swinging down. He
stepped through, hurriedly put his grub into sacks, and hung it on a packhorse. Then
he hesitated. Slowly, he walked across to the peg on the cupboard. For a long minute
he looked at the guns hanging there. Then he reached up and took them down. He buckled
them on, heavyhearted and feeling lost and empty.
It was sundown when he hazed his little band of carefully selected horses through
the notch into the Hatfield hollow and, with Jackie's help, put them in the corral.
All the men were back, and the women were working around, laughing, pleasant. They
were true women of the West, and most of them had been through Indian fights before
this.
Hight was the last one in. He came riding through the notch on a spent horse, his
face drawn and hard.
"They burned me out!" he said hoarsely, sweat streaking his face. They hit me just
as I was a-packin'. I didn't get off with nothin'. I winged one of 'em, though!"
Even as he spoke, Smithers caught Trent's arm. "Look!" he urged, and pointed. In
the sky they could see a red glow from reflected fire. "O'Hara's place," he said.
"Maybe they got him, too."
"No." O'Hara walked up, scowling. "They didn't get me. I got here twenty minutes
ago. They'll pay for this, the wolves."
Jesse Hatfield on the chestnut suddenly materialized in the gloom. "Two bunches ridin',"
he said, "an' they aim to get here about sunup. I heard 'em talkin'."
Trent nodded. "Get some sleep, Jesse. You, too, Jackie. Parson, you an' Smithers
better keep watch. Quince, I want you an' Bartram to ride with me."
11 Where you all goin'?" Saul demanded.
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214 Louis L'AMOUR
"Why, Saul," Trent smiled in the darkness, "I reckon we're goin' to town after groceries.
We're goin' to call on Leathers, an' we'll just load up while we're there. If he
ain't willin', we may have to take him along anyway!"
"Count me in," Saul said. "I sure want to be in on that!"
"You'd better rest," Trent suggested. "You got three antelope today, you an' Lije."
"I reckon I ain't so wearied I'd miss that ride, Captain, if you all say I can go."
"We can use you."
Suddenly, there was a burst of flame to the south. "There goes my place," Smithers
exclaimed bitterly. "I spent two years a-buildin' that place. Had some onions comin'
up, too, an' a good crop of potatoes in."
Trent had started away, but he stopped and turned. "Smithers," he said quietly, "you'll
dig those potatoes yourself. I promise you-if I have to wipe out the Hales personally
so's you can do it."
Smithers stared after him as he walked away. "Y'know," he remarked thoughtfully to
O'Hara, "I believe he would do it. O'Hara," he turned to look at the big Irishman,
"maybe we can win this fight after all."
Chapter Vii Food for
the Siege
Cedar Bluff lay dark and still when the four horsemen rode slowly down the path behind
the town. Trent, peering through the darkness, studied the town carefully. Taking
the trail might have been undue precaution, for there was small chance the road would
be watched. There had been, of course, the possibility that some late puncher might
have spotted them on the trail.
It was after three, and the Crystal Palace and the Mecca had closed their doors over
an hour earlier. Trent reined in on the edge of the town and studied the situation.
King Bill, secure in his power even after the beating he had taken, would never expect
the nesters to approach the town. He would be expecting them to try the overland
route to Blazer for supplies, and in his monumental conceit, he would never dream
that they would come right to the heart of his domain.
"Bartram," Trent whispered, "you an' Saul take the packhorses behind the store. Keep
'em quiet. Don't try to get in or do anything. lust hold 'em there."
1111
221
A MAN CALLED TRENT 215 He turned to the older Hatfield. "Quince, we're goin' to get
Leathers."
"Why not just bust in?" Saul protested. "Why bother with him? We can find what we
need."
"No," Trent said flatly. "He's goin' to wait on us, an' we're goin' to pay him. We
ain't thieves, an' we're goin' to stick to the legal way. I may hold him up an' bring
him down there, but we're goin' to pay him, cash on the barrelhead, for everything
we take."
Leaving their horses with the others behind the store, Trent took Quince and soft-footed
it toward the storekeeper's home, about a hundred yards from the store. Walking along
the dark street, Trent looked around from time to time to see Quince. The long, lean
Hatfield, six foot three in his socks, could move like an Indian. Unless Trent had
looked, he would never have dreamed there was another man so close.
Trent stopped by the garden gate. There was a faint scent of lilacs in the air, and
of some other flowers. Gently, he pushed open the gate. It creaked on rusty hinges,
and for an instant, they froze. All remained dark and still, so Trent moved on, and
Quince deftly took the gate from him and eased it slowly shut.
The air was heavy with lilac now, and the smell of damp grass. Trent stopped at the
edge of the shadow and motioned to Quince to stand by. Ever so gently, he lifted
one foot and put it down on the first step. Lifting himself by the muscles of his
leg, he put down the other foot. Carefully, inch by inch, he worked his way across
the porch to the house.
Two people slept inside. Leathers and his wife. His wife was a fat, comfortable woman,
one of those in the town who idolized King Bill Hale and held him up as an example
of all the West should be and all a man should be. King Bill's swagger and his grandiose
manner impressed her. He was, she was convinced, a great man.
Once, shortly after he had first come to Cedar, Trent had been in this house. He
had come to get Leathers to buy supplies after the store had been closed. He remembered,
vaguely, the layout of the rooms.
The door he was now opening gently opened into the kitchen. From it, there were two
doors, one to a living room, rarely used, and one to the bedroom. In that bedroom,
Leathers would be sleeping with his wife.
Once inside the kitchen he stood very still. He could hear the breathing of two people
in the next room, the slow, heavy breathing of Elsa Leathers and the more jerky,
erratic breathing of the store keeper. The kitchen smelled faintly of onions and
of homemade soap.
Drawing a large handkerchief from his pocket, he tied it across his
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216 Louis L'AMOUR
face under his eyes. Then he slid his six-gun into his hand and tiptoed through the
door into the bedroom. For a moment, Elsa Leathers's breathing caught, hesitated,
and then went on. He heaved a sigh of relief. If she awakened, she was almost certain
to start screaming.
Alongside the bed, he stooped and put the cold muzzle of his gun under the storekeeper's
nose. Almost instantly, the man's eyes opened. Even in the darkness of the room,
Trent could see them slowly turn upward toward him. He leaned down, almost breathing
the words. "Get up, quietly!"
Very carefully, Leathers eased out of bed. Trent gestured for him to put on his pants,
and as the man drew them on, Trent watched him like a hawk. Then Trent gestured toward
the door, and Leathers tiptoed outside.
"What's the matter?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and shaking. "What do you want
me for?"
"Just a little matter of some groceries," Trent replied. "You open your store an'
give us what we want, an' you won't have any trouble. Make one squawk an' I'll bend
this gun over your noggin!"
"I ain't sat'in' anythin'!" Leathers protested. He buckled his belt and hurried toward
the store with Trent at his heels. Quince Hatfield sauntered along behind, stopping
only to pluck a blue cornflower and stick it in an empty buttonhole of his shirt.
Leathers fumbled for the lock on the door. "If my wife wakes up an' finds me gone,
mister," he said grumpily, "I ain't responsible for what happens."
"Don't you worry about that," Trent assured him dryly, "you just fill this order
an' don't make us any trouble!"
He motioned to Saul, who came forward. "As soon as you get four horses loaded, you
let Bartram take 'em back to the trail an' hold 'em there. Then if anything happens
he can take off with that much grub. "
As fast as Leathers piled out the groceries, Saul and Quince hurried to carry them
out to the horses. Trent stood by, gun in hand. "You ain't goin' to get away with
this!" Leathers stated, finally. "When Hale finds out, he's a-goin' to make somebody
sweat!"
"Yeah," Trent said quietly, "maybe he will. From all I hear he'd better wait until
he gets over one beatin' afore he starts huntin another! An' while we're talkin',
you better make up your mind, too. When this war is over, if Hale doesn't win, what
d'you suppose happens to you?"
"Huh?" Leathers straightened, his face a shade whiter. What d'you mean?"
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 217
"I mean, brother," Trent said harshly, "that you've taken sides in this fuss. An'
if Hale loses, you're goin' out of town-but fast!"
"He ain't a-goin' to lose!" Leathers brought out a sack of flour and put it down
on the floor. "Hale's got the money, an' he's got the men. Look what happened to
Smithers's place today, an' O'Hara's. An' look what happened to-"
"To Dick Moffitt?" Trent's voice was cold. "That was murder!" Quince stepped into
the door. "Somebody's comin'!" he hissed. "Watch it!"
"Let 'em come in," Trent said softly, "but no shootin' unless they shoot first."
Trent thrust a gun against Leathers. "If they come in," he whispered, "you talk right,
see? Answer any questions, but answer 'em like I tell you, because if there is any
shootin', Elsa Leathers is goin' to be a widow, but quick."
Two men walked up to the door, and one tried the knob. Then as the door opened, he
thrust his head in.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"It's me," Leathers said, and as Trent prodded him with the gun barrel, "fixin' up
an order that has to get out early."
The two men pushed on inside. "I never knew you to work this late, afore. Why, man,
it must be nearly four o'clock."
"Right," Quince stepped up with a six-gun. "You hombres invited yourself to this
party, now pick up them sacks an' cart 'em outside!" "Huh?" The two men stared stupidly.
"Why-?"
"Get movin'!" Quince snapped. "Get them sacks out there before I bend this over your
head!" The man hesitated and then obeyed, and the other followed a moment later.
It was growing gray in the east when the orders were completed. Quickly, they tied
up the two men while Leathers stood by. Then, at a motion from Trent, Saul grabbed
Leathers and he was bound and gagged. Carrying him very carefully, Trent took him
back into his cottage and placed him in bed, drawing the blankets over him. Elsa
Leathers sighed heavily, and turned in her sleep. Trent stood very still, waiting.
Then her breathing became even once more, and he tiptoed from the house.
Quince was standing in the shadow of the store, holding both horses. "They've started
up the trail," he said. Then he grinned. Gosh a' mighty, I'll bet old Leathers is
some sore!"
"There'll be a chase, most likely," Trent said. "We'd better hang back a little in
case."
Bartram was ahead, keeping the horses at a stiff trot. He was a tough, wiry young
farmer and woodsman who had spent three years convoying wagon trains over the Overland
Trail before he came south. He knew how to handle a pack train, and he showed it
now.
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218 Louis L'AMOUR
Swinging the line of pack horses from the trail, he led them into the shallow water
of Cedar Branch and walked them very rapidly through the water. Twice he stopped
to give them a breather, but kept moving at a good pace, Saul riding behind the string,
his long Kentucky rifle across his saddle.
"You pay Leathers?" Quince asked, riding close.
"Yeah," Trent nodded. "I stuck it down between him an' his wife after I put him in
bed. He'll be some surprised!"
Using every trick they knew to camouflage their trail, they worked steadily back
up into the hills. They were still five miles or more from the Hatfield place when
they heard shots in the distance.
Quince reined in, his features sharpened. "Looks like they've done attacked the place,"
he said. "What d'you think, Trent? Should we leave this to Saul an' ride up there?"
Trent hesitated and then shook his head. "No. They can hold 'em for a while. We want
to make sure this food is safe." Suddenly he reined in. "Somebody's comin' up our
back trail. Go ahead, Saul. But don't run into the attackin' party."
Saul nodded grimly, and Trent, taking a quick look around, indicated a bunch of boulders
above the trail. They rode up and swung down, and Quince gave an exclamation of satisfaction
as he noted the deep arroyo behind the boulders-a good place for their horses and
good for a getaway, if need be.
The horsemen were coming fast now. Lying behind the boulders, they could see the
dust rising above them as they wound their way through the cedars and huge rocks
that bordered the narrow trail. A hundred yards away they broke into the open.
"Dust 'em!" Trent said, and fired.
Their two rifles went off with the same sound and two puffs of dust went up in front
of the nearest horse. The horse reared sharply and spun halfway around. Trent lowered
his rifle to note the effect of their shots and then aimed high at the second horseman
and saw his sombrero lift from his head and sail into the brush. The men wheeled
and whipped their horses back into the brush.
Quince chuckled and bit off a chew. "That'll make 'em think a mite-say!" He nodded
toward a nest of rocks on the other side. "What'll you bet one of them rannies ain't
a-shinnyin' up into that nest of rocks about now?"
There was a notch in the rocks and a boulder beyond, not four feet beyond by the
look of it. Quince Hatfield lifted his Kentucky rifle, took careful aim, and then
fired.
There was a startled yell and then curses. Quince chuckled a little. "Dusted him
with granite off that boulder," he said. "They wol"t hurry to get up there again."
11 1
225
A MAN CALLED TRENT 219 Trent thought swiftly. If he took the arroyo and circled back,
he
could then get higher up on the mountain. With careful fire, he could still cover
the open spot and so give Quince a chance to retreat while he held them. Swiftly,
he told Hatfield. The big mountaineer nodded.
"Go ahead. They won't move none till you get there."
It took Trent ten minutes to work his way out of the arroyo and up the mountain.
As distance went, he wasn't so far, being not more than four hundred yards away.
He signaled his presence to Quince Hatfield by letting go with three shots into the
shelter taken by their pursuers. From above, that shelter was scarcely more than
conceal ment and not at all cover.
In a few minutes Quince joined him. They each let go with two shots and then, mounting,
rode swiftly away, out of view of the men in the brush below.
"They'll be slow about showin' themselves, I reckon," Quince said, "so we'll be nigh
to home afore they get nerve enough to move."
When they had ridden four miles, Quince reined in sharply. "Horses ahead," he advised.
"Maybe they're ours."
Approaching cautiously, they saw Bartram with the eight packhorses. He was sitting
with his rifle in his hands, watching the brush ahead. He glanced around at their
approach and then with a wave of the hand, motioned them on.
"Firing up ahead. Saul's gone up. He'll be back pretty soon." Low-voiced, Trent told
him what had happened. Then as they talked they saw Saul Hatfield coming through
the brush on foot. He walked up to them and caught his horse by the bridle.
"They got 'em stopped outside the cup," he said. "I think only one man of theirs
is down. He's a-lyin' on his face in the open not far from the boulders where O'Hara
is. There must be about a dozen of them, no more."
"Is there a way into the cup with these horses?" Trent asked.
Saul nodded. "Yeah, I reckon if they was busy over yonder for a few minutes we could
run 'em all in."
"We'll make 'em busy, eh, Quince?" Trent suggested. "Bart, you an"Saul whip 'em in
there fast as soon as we open up." He had reloaded his rifle, and the two turned
their horses and started skirting the rocks to outflank the attackers.
Trent could see what had happened. The Hatfield place lay in a cuplike depression
surrounded on three sides by high, rocky walls and on the other by scattered boulders.
Through the cliffs, there were two ways of getting into the cup. One of these, now
about to be attempted, lay partly across an open space before the cup was entered.
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220 Louis L'AMOUR
The attackers were mostly among the scattered boulders, but had been stopped and
pinned down by O'Hara and someone else. Two men there could hold that ground against
thirty. Obviously, some of the others were up in the cliffs above the cup, waiting
for any attack.
Approaching as they were, Trent and Quince were coming down from the south toward
the west end of the cup, where the scattered boulders lay. By working up close there,
they could find and dislodge the attackers or at least keep them so busy the pack
animals could get across the open to the cup.
About three acres of land lay in the bottom of the cup. There was a fine, cold spring,
the barn, horse corrals, and adequate protection. The cliffs were ringed with scattered
cedar and rocks, so men there could protect the approach to the boulder. However,
if a rifleman got into those rocks on the edge of the cup, he could render movement
in the cup impossible until he could be driven out. It was the weak spot of the stronghold.
When they had ridden several hundred yards the two men reined in and dismounted.
Slipping through the cedars, Indian fashion, they soon came to the edge of the woods
overlooking the valley of boulders. Not fifty yards away, two men lay behind boulders
facing toward the Hatfield cup.
Trent lifted his Winchester and let go with three fast shots. One, aimed at the nearest
man's feet, clipped a heel from his boot; the others threw dust in his face, and
with a yell the fellow scrambled out of there. Trent followed him with two more shots,
and the man tumbled into a gully and started to run.
The other man started to get up, and Quince Hatfield made him leap like a wild man
with a well-placed shot that burned the inside of his leg. Scattering their shots,
the two had the rest of the attackers scattering for better cover.
Chapter Vlll
Cain Brockman Rides In
Parson Hatfield walked out to meet them as they rode in. He grinned through his yellowed
handlebar mustache. "Well, I reckon we win the first round," he chuckled. "Sure was
a sight to see them punchers dustin' out of there when you all opened up on 'em!"
"Who was the man we saw down?" Trent asked.
"Gunhand they called Indian Joe. A killer. He wouldn't stop comin', so O'Hara let
him have it. Dead center."
They walked back to the cabin. "We got grub to keep us for a few days, but we got
a passel of folks here," Parson said, squatting on his
227
A MAN CALLED TRENT 221
haunches, "an' I don't reckon you're goin' to be able to hit Cedar again.
Trent nodded agreement. "We've got to get to Blazer," he said. "There isn't any two
ways about it. I wish I knew what they'd do now. If we had a couple of days' leeway-"
"You know anythin' about the celebration Hale's figurin' on down to Cedar? They's
been talk about it. He's been there ten years, an' he figures that's reason to celebrate.
"
"What's happenin'?" Trent asked.
"Horse races, horseshoe pitchin', wrestlin', footraces, an' a prize fight. King Bill's
bringing in a prizefighter. Big feller, they called him Tombull Turner."
Trent whistled. "Say, he is good! Big, too. He fought over in Abilene when I was
there. A regular bruiser."
"That may keep 'em busy," Quince said. He had a big chunk of corn pone in his hand.
"Maybe we'll get some time to get grub." Trent got up. "Me, I'm goin' to sleep!"
he said. "I'm fairly dead on
my feet. You'd better, too," he added to Quince Hatfield.
It was growing dusk when Trent awakened. He rubbed his hand over his face and got
to his feet. He had been dead tired, and no sooner had he lain down on the grass
under the trees than he had fallen asleep.
Walking over to the spring he drew a bucket of water and plunged his head into it.
Then he dried himself on a rough towel Sally handed him.
"Two more men came in," Sally told him. "Tot Wilson from down in the breaks by the
box canyon, and Jody Miller, a neighbor of his." Saul looked up as he walked into
the house. "Wilson an' Miller
were both burned out. They done killed Wilson's partner. Shot him down when he went
out to rope him a horse."
"Hi." Miller looked up at Trent. "I've seen you afore." "Could be." Trent looked
away.
This was it. He could tell by the way Miller looked at him and said, "I'd have knowed
you even if it wasn't for that hombre down to the Mecca."
What hombre?" Trent demanded.
Big feller, bigger'n you. He come in there about sundown yesterday, askin' about
a man fittin' your description. Wants you pretty bad."
"Flat face? Deep scar over one eye?"
That's him. Looks like he'd been in a lot of fights, bad ones." He was in one," Trent
said dryly. "One was enough."
Cain Brockman!
Even before he'd heard from Lee Hall he had known this would come sooner or later.
All that was almost two years behind him, but
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222 Louis L'AMOUR
Cain wasn't a man to forget. He had been one of the hard-riding, fast-shooting duo,
the Brockman twins. In a fight at Cottonwood, down in the Live Oak country, Trent,
then known by his real name, had killed Abel. Later, in a hand-to-hand fight, he
had beaten Cain Brockman into a staggering, punch-drunk hulk.
Now Brockman was here. As if it weren't enough to have the fight with King Bill Hale
on his hands!
Parson Hatfield was staring at Trent. Then he glanced at Miller. "You say you know
this feller?" he gestured at Trent. "I'd like to, myself!"
"The name," Trent said slowly, "is Lance Kilkenny." "Kilkenny!" Bartram dropped his
plate. "You're Kilkenny." "Uh-huh." He turned and walked outside and stood there
with his
hands on his hips, staring out toward the scattered boulders at the entrance to the
Hatfield cup. He was Kilkenny. The name had come back again. He dropped his hands,
and almost by magic the big guns leaped into them, and he stood there, staring at
them. Slowly,
111111 thoughtfully, he replaced them.
It meant, sooner or later, that he must shoot it out with Cain. In his reluctance
to fight the big man there was something more than his hatred of killing. He had
whipped Cain Brockman with his hands; he had killed Abel. It should be enough.
If there was to be any killing-his thoughts skipped Dunn and Ravitz, and he found
himself looking again into the blazing white eyes of a trim young man in buckskin,
Cub Hale.
He shook his head to clear it and walked toward the spring. What would King Bill
do next? He had whipped Hale. Knowing what he had done to the big man, he knew he
would still be under cover. Also, Hale's pride would be hurt badly by his beating.
Also, it was not only that he had taken a licking. He had burned out a few helpless
nesters, only to have those nesters band together and fight off his raiding party,
and in the meantime they had ridden into his own town and taken a load of supplies,
supplies he had refused them!
The power of any man is built largely on the belief of others in that power. To maintain
leadership, he must win victories, and King Bill had been whipped and his plans had
been thwarted. The answer to that seemed plain-King Bill must do something to retrieve
his losses. But what would he do?
Despite the victories the nesters had won, King Bill was still in the driver's seat.
He knew how many men they had. He knew about what supplies they had taken from the
store, and he knew the
Cain Brockman was here. The thought made him suddenly weary.
229
A MAN CALLED TRENT 223 number they had at the Hatfields' could not survive for long
without more food.
Hale could, if he wished, withdraw all his men and just sit tight across the trail
to Blazer and wait until the nesters had to move or starve. He might do that. Or
he might strike again, and in greater force.
Kilkenny-it seemed strange to be thinking of himself as Kilkenny again, he had been
Trent so long-ruled out the quick strike. By now Hale would know that the Hatfields
were strongly entrenched.
The main trail to Blazer led through Cedar Bluff. There was a trail, only occasionally
used, from the Hatfields' to the Blazer moun tain trail, but Hale knew that, and
would be covering it. There was a chance they might slip through. Yet even as he
thought of that, he found himself thinking again of the vast crater that was the
Smoky Desert. That was still a possibility.
O'Hara walked out to where he was standing under the trees. "Runyon an' Wilson want
to try the mountain trail to Blazer," he told him. "What do you think?"
"I don't think much of it," Kilkenny said truthfully, "yet we've got to have grub."
"Parson told 'em what you said about Smoky Desert. Wilson says it can't be done.
He said he done tried it."
Jackson Hight, Miller, and Wilson walked out. "We're all for tryin' the mountain
trail," Wilson said. "I don't believe Hale will have it watched this far up. What
do you say, Kilkenny?"
Kilkenny looked at his boot toe thoughtfully. They wanted to go, and they might get
through. After all, his Smoky Desert seemed an impossible dream, and even more so
to them than to him. "It's up to you," he said finally, "I won't send a man over
that trail, but if you want to try it, go ahead."
It was almost midnight when the wagon pulled out of the cup. Miller was driving,
with Wilson, Jackson Hight, and Lije Hatfield riding escort. Kilkenny was up to watch
them go, and when the sound of the wagon died away, he returned to his pallet and
turned in.
Twice during the night he awakened with a start to lie there listening in the stillness,
his body tense, his mind fraught with worry, but despite his expectations, there
were no sounds of shots, nothing.
When daybreak came he ate a hurried breakfast and swung into the saddle. He left
the cup on a lope and followed the dim trail of the wagon. He followed it past the
charred ruins of his own cabin and past those of Moffitt's cabin, yet as he neared
the Blazer trail, he slowed down, walking the buckskin and stopping frequently to
listen.
He could see by the tracks that Lije and Hight had been riding
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224 Louis L'AMOUR
ahead, scouting the way. Sometimes they were as much as a half mile ahead, and he
found several places where they had sat their horses, waiting.
Suddenly, the hills seemed to fall away and he saw the dim trail that led to Blazer,
more than forty miles away. Such a short distance, yet the trail was so bad that
fifteen miles a day was considered good.
There was no sign of the wagon or of the men. There were no tracks visible, and that
in itself was a good thing. It meant that someone, probably Lije, was remembering
they must leave no trail.
He turned the buckskin then and rode back over the trail. He took his time, and it
was the middle of the afternoon before he reached the ledge where he could look down
into the awful haze that hung over the Smoky Desert. Once, in his first trip up over
this route, it had been clearer below, and he had thought he saw a ruined wagon far
below.
Kilkenny found the place where he had stood that other day, for long since he had
marked the spot with a cairn of stones. Then
slowly and with great pains he began to seek. lime and again he was
turned back by sheer drops of hundreds of feet, and nowhere could he find even the
suggestion of a trail.
1111 1
Four hours later, with long fingers of darkness reaching out from the tall pines,
he mounted the buckskin and started down toward the cup. Jackson Hight could be correct.
Possibly he was mistaken and the Indians were wrong, and there was no trail down
to the valley below and across that wasteland. In his long search he had found nothing.
Parson met him as he rode through the notch. Ma Hatfield had come to the door and
was shading her eyes toward him.
"They got through to the trail," Kilkenny said. "Maybe they'll make it."
Sally was working over the fireplace when he walked inside. Young Bartram was sitting
close by, watching her. Kilkenny glanced at them and smiled grimly. Sally caught
his eye and flushed painfully, so he walked outside again and sat down against the
house.
Quince had gone after deer into the high meadows, and Saul was on guard. Runyon was
sleeping on the grass under the trees, and Jesse Hatfield was up on the cliffs somewhere.
Kilkenny sat for a long time against the house, and then he took his blankets over
to the grass, rolled up, and went to sleep.
Shortly after daybreak he roped a black horse -from his string, saddled up, and with
a couple of sandwiches, headed back toward the Smoky Desert. There must be a route.
There had to be one.
When he reached the rim of the cliff again, he dismounted and studied the terrain
thoughtfully. He stood on a wide ledge that
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 225
thrust itself out into space. The desert below was partially obscured, as always,
by clouds of dust or smoke, yet the rim itself was visible for some distance.
Actually, studying the rim, he could see that it bore less resemblance to the crater
he had previously imagined than to a great sink. In fact, it looked as though some
internal upheaval had caused the earth to subside at this point, breaking off the
rock of the ledge and sinking the plateau several hundred feet.
For the most part the cliffs below the rim were jagged but almost sheer, yet at places
the rim had caved away into steep rock slides that led, or seemed to lead, to the
bottom. This great rift in the plateau led for miles, causing the trail to Blazer
to swing in a wide semicircle to get around it. Actually, as best he could figure,
Blazer was almost straight across from the ledge where he now stood.
Again he began to work with painstaking care along the rim. The Indians had said
it could be crossed, that there was a way down, and Lance Kilkenny had lived in the
West long enough to know that what the Indians said was usually right.
It was almost noon before he found the path. It was scarcely three feet wide, so
he left his horse standing under the cedars and started walking. The path dipped
through some gigantic slabs of raggededged rock and then ran out to the very edge
of the cliff itself. When it seemed he was about to step right off into space, the
path turned sharply to the right and ran along the face of the cliff.
He hesitated, taking off his hat and mopping his brow. The path led right along the
face of the cliff, and at times it seemed almost broken away, but then it continued
on. One thing he knew-this was useless for his purpose, for no man could take a horse,
not even such a surefooted mountain horse as the buckskin, along this path. Yet he
walked on.
The end was abrupt. He started to work his way around a thread of path that clung
to the precipice, but when he could see around the corner, he saw the trail had ended.
An hour of walking had brought him to a dead end.
Clinging to the rock, he looked slowly around. Then his eyes riveted. There, over
three hundred feet below, on what even at this distance was obviously a trail, he
could see a wagon wheel!
Leaning out with a precarious handhold on a root, he could distinguish the half-buried
wagon from which the wheel had been broken. Of the rest of the trail, he could see
nothing. It vanished from sight under the bulge of the cliff. He drew back, sweating.
The trail was there. The wagon was there. Obviously, someone, at some time, had taken
a wagon or wagons over that trail. But where was the beginning? Had the shelf upon
which it ran broken off and ruined the trail for use?
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226 Louis L'AMOUR
Taking a point of gray rock for a landmark he retraced his steps along the path.
By the time he reached the buckskin again his feet hurt from walking over the rough
rock in his riding boots, and he was tired, dead tired. He had walked about six miles,
and that was an impossible distance to a horseman.
Chapter IX
On Short Rations
When he rode into the cup that night, Parson looked up from the rifle that he was
cleaning. "Howdy, son! You look done up!"
Kilkenny nodded and stopped beside the older man. He was tired, and his shirt stuck
to his back with sweat. For the first time he wondered if they would win. For the
first time, he doubted. Without food they were helpless. They could neither escape
nor resist. He doubted now if Hale would ever let them go, if he would ever give
them any chance of escape.
They ate short rations that night. He knew there was still a good deal of food, yet
fourteen men, if he included those who were gone, and six women had to eat there.
And there were nine children. Yet there was no word of complaint, and only on the
faces of those women who had men with the food wagon could he distinguish the thin
gray lines of worry.
"Any sign from Hale?" he asked O'Hara.
The Irishman shook his head. "Not any. He's got men out in the rocks. They ain't
tryin' to shoot nobody. Just a-watchin'. But they're there. "
"I don't think he'll try anything now until after the celebration," Bartram said.
"He's plannin' on makin' a lot of friends with that celebration. It means a lot to
him, anyway."
Jesse Hatfield pushed back his torn felt hat. "I took me a ride today," he said.
"Done slipped out through the brush. I got clean to Cedar without being' seen. I
edged up close to town, an' I could see a lot of workin' around.
"They got 'em a ring set up out in front of the livery stable near the horse corral.
Ropes an' everythin'. Lots of talk around, an' the big wonder is who's goin' to fight
Tombull Turner."
Kilkenny listened absently, not caring. His thoughts were back on that ragged rim,
working along each notch and crevice, wondering where that road reached the top of
the plateau.
"This here Dan Cooper was there, an' he done some talkin'. He
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 227
looked powerful wise, an' he says Turner ain't been brought here by accident. He's
been brought to whip one man-Kilkenny!"
"Did he say `Kilkenny'?" Kilkenny looked around to ask. "Do they know who I am?"
"He said Trent," Jesse drawled. "I don't reckon they know." Tombull Turner to beat
him? Kilkenny remembered the bullet head, the knotted cauliflower ears, the flat
nose and hard, battered face of the big bare-knuckle fighter. Tombull was a fighter.
He was more; he was a brute. He was an American who had fought much in England, and
against the best on both continents. He had even met Joe Goss and Paddy Ryan. While
he, Kilkenny, was no prizefighter.
An idle rumor. It could be no more, for he was not in Cedar Bluff, nor was he likely
to be. Studying the faces of the men around him, he could see what was on their minds.
Despite their avoidance of the subject, he knew they were all thinking of the wagon
on the road to Blazer.
The food was necessary, but four men were out there, four men they all knew, men
who had shared their work, their trials, and even the long trip west from their lands
in Kentucky, Pennsylvania, and Missouri. Lije Hatfield was gone, and knowing the
family, Kilkenny knew that if he were killed no Hatfield would stop until all the
Hales were dead or the Hatfields wiped out.
Knowing the route, he could picture the wagon rolling slowly along over the rocky
road, horsemen to the front and rear, watching, hoping, fearing. They, too, if still
alive and free, would have their worries. They would know that back here men and
women were getting close to the end of their food supply, that those men and women
were depending on them.
On the morning of the third day, Kilkenny mounted again and started for the rim.
He saw Parson Hatfield staring after him, but the old man said nothing.
This time Kilkenny had a plan. He was going back where he had been the day before,
and by some means, he was going down the face of the cliff to the wagon. Then he
would backtrack. If there was no trail back, he would have to come up the cliff.
Well, that was a bridge to he crossed later. Somewhere in that jumble of broken cliffs,
great slabs of jagged rock, and towering shoulders of stone, there must be a trail
down which that wagon had gone.
It was almost seven o'clock in the morning before he found himself, two ropes in
his hands, at the tapering edge of the trail along the face of the cliff.
Lying flat, he peered over the edge. The rock on which he lay was a bulge that thrust
out over the face of the cliff, and if he dropped 0
ver here he must use the rope purely as a safety precaution and
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228 Louis L'AMOUR
work down with his hands. There were cracks and knobs that could
the strange thickness of the air.
A gnarled cedar grew from the face of the rock, and he tested it for strength. The
thing seemed as immovable as the rocks themselves. Making his first rope fast to
the cedar, Kilkenny knotted the other end in a bowline around himself. Then he turned
himself around and backed over the edge, feeling with his feet for a toehold.
For a time, he knew, he would be almost upside down like a fly on a ceiling. Unless
he could find handholds where he could get a good grip and if necessary, hang by
them, there was small chance of making it. But there were, he had noticed, a number
of roots, probably of rock cedar, thrusting out through the rock below.
Forcing himself to think of nothing but the task at hand, he lowered himself over
the edge, and when he got the merest toehold, he swung one hand down and felt around
until he could grasp one of the roots. Then he let go with his left hand and let
himself down until he was half upside down, clinging by a precarious toehold and
his grip on the root.
Finding another hold for his left hand, he took a firm grasp and then pulled out
his left toe and felt downward. He found a crack, tested it with his toe, and then
set the foot solidly. Carefully, he released a handhold and lowered his hand to another
root, lower down. Then, sweating profusely, he lowered his weight to the lowest foot.
He resolutely kept his thoughts away from the awful depths below. He had a chance,
but a very slim one. Slowly and with great care, he shifted himself down the bulging
overhang. Every time he
moved a foot or hand his life seemed to end. He was, he knew, wringing with perspiration,
his breath was coming painfully, and he
swung himself precariously toward the sheer cliff below. Even that
great height of straight up and down cliff seemed a haven to this bulge of the overhang.
Clinging to a huge root and pressing himself as tightly to the face as he could,
he turned his head right and then left, searching the face of the bulge. There were
handholds enough here. The roots of the cedars that had grown on the ledge above
thrust through the bulge. Yet that very fact seemed to indicate that at some time
in the past huge chunks of rock had given way, leaving these roots exposed. It had
happened once, and it could happen again.
Far out in the blue sky a buzzard whirled in great, slow circles. His fingers ached
with gripping, and he lowered himself away from the face of the cliff and looked
down between his legs. A notch showed in the rock, and he worked his toe loose and
then lowered it with care until he could test the notch. He tried it.
be used. The depth below was sickening, but partially obscured by
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 229
Solid. Slowly, carefully, he began to settle weight on the ball of his foot. There
was a sudden sag beneath his foot and then a rattle of stones, and the notch gave
way under him, forcing him to grip hard with his hands to catch the additional weight.
His right foot hung free. Carefully, he began to feel with his toe for another foothold.
He found it, tried, and rested his weight again, and the stone took it. Slowly, he
shifted hands again and then lowered himself down a little more.
Glancing down again, he found himself looking at a stretch of rock at least fifteen
feet across that was absolutely smooth. No single crack or crevice showed, no projection
of stone, no root. His muscles desperate with weariness, he stared, unbelieving-to
come this far and fail.
Forcing himself to think, he studied the face of the cliff. There was, some twenty
feet below and almost that far to the left, a gnarled and twisted rock cedar growing
out of the mountainside. It was too far to the right, and there was no way of reaching
it. Yet, as he stared, he could see that a crevice, deep enough for a good foothold,
ran off at an angle from the cedar. If he could reach it
But how?
There was a way. It hit him almost at once. If he released his grip on the roots,
he would instantly swing free. As he had worked himself far to the right of the cedar
to which his lariat was tied, his release would swing him far out from the cliff,
and then as he swung back, for an instant he would be above the clump of cedar. On
each succeeding swing he would fall shorter and shorter, until finally he was suspended
in midair, hanging like a great pendulum from the cedar above.
Then all his efforts would be vain, for he would have to catch the rope over his
head and go up it, hand over hand to the cedar above, and he would have failed. On
the other hand, if he could release himself above the cedar, he would fall into it,
and unless some sharp branch injured him, the chances were the limbs would cushion
his fall.
He had his knife, and it was razor sharp. Even as these thoughts flitted through
his mind, he was drawing the knife. Luckily, before leaving his horse he had tied
a rawhide thong over each six-shooter, so his guns were secure. Yet the rope was
rawhide and tough. Could he slash through at one blow?
The answer to that was simple. He had to. If he swung out over the void below on
half or less of the strength of the lariat, there was small chance it would not break
at the extreme end of the swing, and he would go shooting out over the deadly waste
of the Smoky Desert
236
oil
230 Louis L'AMOUR
to fall, and fall-over and over into that murky cloud that obscured the depths.
He let go and shoved hard with both feet and hands. His body swept out in a long
swing over the breathtaking depths below. Then, hesitating but an instant as the
rope tore at his sides, he swept back like a giant pendulum, rushing through the
air toward the cliff! It shot toward him, and he raised his arm, and seeing the cedar
below and ahead, he cut down with a mighty slash.
He felt himself come loose and then he was hurled forward at the cedar. He hit it,
all doubled into a ball, heard a splintering crash, slipped through, and felt the
branches tearing at his clothes like angry fingers. Then he brought up with a jolt
and lay, trembling in every limb, clinging to the cedar.
How long he lay there, he did not know. Finally, he pulled himself together and crawled
out of the tree and got his feet on the narrow foothold. He worked his way along
until the ledge grew wide enough for him to walk. His breath was coming with more
regularity now. He felt gingerly of his arms and body where the rawhide rope had
burned him.
The path, if such it might be called, slanted steeply away from him, ending in some
broken slabs. He stopped when he reached them. He was, at last, on the Smoky Desert.
Chapter X
Land of Legendary Men
Lance Kilkenny stood on a dusty desert floor littered with jagged slabs of rock,
obviously fallen from the cliff above. There was no grass here, no cedar, nothing
growing at all, not even a cactus.
Above him the dark, basalt cliff lifted toward the sky, towering and ugly. Looking
off over the desert he could see only a few hundred yards, and then all became indistinct.
The reason was obvious enough. The floor of the desert was dust, fine as flour, and
even the lightest breeze lifted it into the air, where it hung for hours on end.
A strong wind would fill the air so full of these particles as to make the air thick
as a cloud, and the particles were largely silicate.
One thing he knew now. Crossing the Smoky Desert, even if there was a trail, would
be a frightful job. Unfastening the thongs that had held his guns in place, he walked
on slowly. It was still, only a little murmur from the wind among the rocks, and
nothing else.
The cliff lifted on his right, and off to the left stretched the awful expanse of
the desert, concealed behind that curtain of dust. He
237
A MAN CALLED TRENT 231 stepped over the dead and bleached bones of an ancient cedar,
fallen from above, and rounded a short bend in the cliff.
As he walked, little puffs of dust lifted from his boot soles, and his mouth grew
dry. Once, he stopped and carefully wiped his guns free of dust and then lowered
them once more into the holsters.
Then he saw the white scar of the road, tracks of vehicles filled with fine white
dust, and the rough, barely visible marks of what had been a fairly good road, dwindling
away into the gray, dusty vague ness that was the desert. He looked up and saw the
trail winding steeply up the cliff's face through a narrow draw.
Turning, he began to climb the trail. Several times he paused to roll boulders from
the path. He was already thinking in terms of a wagon and a team. It could be done.
That is, it could be done if there was still a way of getting a team onto this trail.
That might be the catch. What lay at the end?
Sweat rolled down his face, making thin rivulets through the white dust. White dust
clung to the hairs on the backs of his hands, and once when he stopped to remove
his sombrero and wipe the sweat from his brow, he saw his hat was covered with a
thin gray coat of it.
He looked ahead. He could see the road for no more than a hundred yards, but the
cliff to his right was now growing more steep, and glancing down, he could see the
trail was already far above the valley floor. He walked, making heavy work of it
in his riding boots, sweat soaking his shirt under the film of gray dust, and the
draw was narrowing.
The rock under the trail sloped steeply away into a dark, shadowy canyon now over
two hundred feet down. He walked on, plodding wearily. For over an hour he walked,
winding around and around to follow the curving walls of the canyon. Then he halted
suddenly.
Ahead of him the trail ended. It ended and explained his difficul ties in one instant.
A gigantic pine, once perched upon the edge of the cliff, had given way, its roots
evidently weakened by wind erosion. The tree had blown down and fallen across the
trail. Pines had sprung up around it and around its roots until the trail was blocked
by a dense thicket that gave no hint of the road that had once run beneath it.
Crawling over the pine, Kilkenny emerged from the thicket and walked back to his
horse. Mounting, he rode slowly homeward, and as he rode he thought he had never
been so utterly tired as he was now. But there was coolness in the breeze through
the pines, and some of their piny fragrance seemed to get into his blood. He looked
UP, feeling better as he rode slowly along the grassy trail, through the mountain
meadows and down through the columned trunks of the great old trees toward the Hatfield
cup.
Yes, it was worth fighting for, worth fighting to keep what one had
238
in this lonely land among the high peaks. It was such a country as a man would want,
a country where a man could grow and could live, and where his sons could grow.
Even as he thought of that, Kilkenny found himself remembering Nita. King Bill Hale
wanted her. Well, what would be more under standable? Certainly she was beautiful,
the most beautiful woman in Cedar Valley and many other valleys. And what did she
think? Hale had everything to offer: strength, position, wealth. She could reign
like a queen at the Castle.
And Hale himself? He was a handsome man. Cold, but yet, what man ever sees another
man as a woman sees him? The side of himself that a man shows to women is often much
different from that seen by men.
Worry began to move through him like a drug. Nita nearby was one thing, but Nita
belonging to someone else, that was another idea. He realized suddenly it was an
idea he didn't like, not even a little bit. Especially, he did not want her to belong
to the arrogant King Bill.
Hale wanted her, and regardless of what she thought, he could bring pressure to bear,
if his own eloquence failed him. He was king in Cedar Valley. Her supplies came in
over the road he controlled. He could close her business. He could even prevent her
from leaving. He might. Jaime Brigo was the reason why he might not succeed. Brigo
and himself, Kilkenny.
King Bill's lack of action disturbed him. Hale had been beaten in a fist fight. Knowing
the arrogance of the man, Kilkenny knew he would never allow that to pass. He had
refused them supplies, and they had come and taken them from under his nose.
Was Hale waiting to starve them? He knew how many they were. He knew the supplies
they had were not enough to last long. And he held the trail to Blazer. Did he know
of the trail through the Smoky Desert? Kilkenny doubted that. Even he did not know
if it were passable. The chances were Hale had never even dreamed of such a thing.
Aside from the Indian to whom he had talked, Kilkenny had heard no mention of it.
Saul Hatfield walked down from among the trees as he neared the cup. "Anything happen?"
Kilkenny asked.
Saul shook his head, staring curiously at the dust-covered Kilkenny "Nope. Not any.
Jesse took him a ride down to town. They sure are gettin' set for that celebration.
Expectin' a big crowd. They say Hale's invited some folks down from Santa Fe, some
big muckymucks.
"From Santa Fe?" Kilkenny's eyes narrowed. That was a neat bit of politics, a good
chance to entertain the officials and then tell them
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 233
casually of the outlaws in the mountains, the men who had come in and tried to take
away valuable land from King Bill.
Lance knew how persuasive such a man could be. And he would entertain like royalty,
and these men would go away impressed. That King Bill didn't intend to strengthen
his position very much would be foolhardy to imagine. Hale would know how to play
politics, how to impress these men with his influence and the power of his wealth.
The audience would all be friendly, too. They would give the visiting officials the
idea that all was well in Cedar Valley. Then, when the elimination of some outlaws
hiding in the mountains was revealed, if it ever was, the officials would imagine
it was merely that and never inquire as to the rightness or wrongness of Hale's actions.
In that moment, Kilkenny decided. He would go to Cedar Bluff for the celebration.
Yet, even as the thought occurred to him, he remembered the thick neck and beetling
brow of Tombull Turner.
For the first time he began to think of the prizefighter. He had seen the man fight.
He was a mountain of muscle, a man with a body of muscle and iron. His jaw was like
a chunk of granite. His flat nose and beetling brow were fearsome.
Kilkenny rode down into the cup and swung from his horse. Parson walked slowly toward
him, Jesse and O'Hara beside him. They stared at the dust on his clothes.
"Looks like you been places, son," Parson drawled.
"I have." Kilkenny removed the saddle and threw it on the rail. "I've been down into
Smoky Desert."
"Smoky Desert?" O'Hara stepped forward. "You found a way?" "Uh-huh. Take a little
ax work to clear it."
"Could a wagon get across?"
Kilkenny shrugged, looking up at the big Irishman. "Your guess is as good as mine.
I know I can get a wagon into the desert. I know there used to be a trail. I could
see it. There's parts of a wagon down there. Somebody has been across. Where somebody
else went, we'll go. "
"How about gettin' out?" Parson drawled.
"That," Kilkenny admitted, "is the point. You put your finger right on the sore spot.
Maybe there's a way, maybe there isn't. There was once. But I'm a-goin'. I'm goin'
over, an' with luck I'll get back. We'll have to take water. We'll have to tie cloths
over our faces and over the nostrils of the horses. Otherwise that dust will fix
us for good.?
"When you goin'?" Jesse demanded.
"Right soon. We got to make a try. If we could make it soon enough we might bring
the others back that way. I'll start tomorrow."
240
234 Louis L'AMOUR
13111111 "Leave us shorthanded," Parson suggested.
"It will." Kilkenny nodded agreement. He looked at the old moun taineer thoughtfully.
"The trouble is, Hale has time, an' we haven't. I'm bankin' that he won't try anything
until after the celebration. 1 think this is not only his tenth anniversary but a
bit of politics to get friendly with them down at Santa Fe. He'll wait until he's
solid with them before he cleans us out!"
"Maybe. Ain't nobody down to town goin' to tell our side of this. Not a soul," Hatfield
agreed.
"There will be." Kilkenny stripped off his shirt and drew a bucket of water from
the well. His powerful muscles ran like snakes beneath his tawny skin. "I'm goin'
down."
"They'll kill you, man!" O'Hara declared. "They'd shoot you like a dog. "
"No, not while those Santa Fe officials are there. I'll go. I hear they want me to
fight Tombull Turner. Well, I'm goin' down an' fight him."
"What?" Runyon shouted. "That man's a killer. He's a ringer."
"I know." Kilkenny shrugged. "But I've seen him fight. Maybe I'm a dang fool, but
I've got to get down there an' see those Santa Fe men. This is my chance."
"You think you can do any good against Hale?" Parson asked keenly. "He'll be winin'
and dinin' them folks from Santa Fe. He won't let you go nowhere close to 'em."
"But they'll be at the fight," Kilkenny told him. "I'm countin' on that. "
At daybreak the labor gang had reached the thicket of pines covering the entrance
to the road. Axes in hand, they went to work. Other men began bucking the big fallen
tree into sections to be snaked out of the way with ox teams.
Once, during a pause when he straightened his back from the saw, Quince looked over
at Kilkenny. "They should be there today," he drawled slowly. "I sure hope they make
it."
"Yeah." Lance straightened and rubbed his back. It had been a long time since he'd
used a crosscut saw. "You know Blazer?" "Uh-huh." Hatfield bit off a chew of tobacco.
"Man there named
Sodermann. Big an' fat. Mean as a wolf. He's Hale's man. Got a gunman with him name
of Rye Pitkin."
"I know him. A two-bit rustler from the Pecos country. Fair hand with a six-gun."
"There's others, too. Ratcliff an' Gaddis are worst. We can expect trouble. "
"We?" Kilkenny looked at him. "You volunteerin' for the trip?" "Sure." Quince grinned
at him. I need me a change of air.
241
A MAN CALLED TRENT 235
Gettin' old, a-settin' around. Reckon the bore of that Kentucky rifle needs a bit
of cleanin', too."
They worked on until dark, and when they stopped, the road was open. O'Hara, who
had done the work of two men with an ax, stood on the edge of the canyon in the dimming
light and looked across that awful expanse toward the distance, red ridges touched
now with light from a vanished sun. "It don't look good to me, Kilkenny," he said.
"It sure don't look good."
The wagon was loaded with water-not heavily, but three good kegs of it. With Bartram
on the driver's seat, they started. Kilkenny led the way down the steep trail, Quince
behind him. He reined in once and watched the wagon trundle over the first stones
and past the ruin of the great tree. Then he continued on. For better or worse, they
were committed now.
Chapter XI
The
Road
of Death
He led the way slowly, stopping often, for it was slow going for the wagon. He watched
it coming and watched the mules. They were good mules; Hale himself had no better.
They would need to be good.
At the bottom of the road he swung down, and standing there with Quince Hatfield,
he waited, listening to the strange, lonely sighing of the mysterious wind that flowed
like a slow current through the dusty depths of the sink.
Bartram was a hand with mules. He brought the wagon up beside them, and Kilkenny
indicated the mules. "Soak those cloths in water an' hang one over the nose of each
of them. We better each wear a handkerchief over the nose and mouth, too."
He was riding the buckskin, and he got down and hung a cloth over the horse's nostrils,
where it would stop part of the dust at least without impeding the breathing. Then
they started on.
From here, it was guesswork. He had a compass, and before leaving the cliff top he
had taken a sight on a distant peak. How closely the trail would hold to that course
he did not know, or if any `rail would be visible once they got out into the desert.
Walking the buckskin, he led off into the dust. The wind did not fowl. It blew gently
but steadily, and the dust filled the air. Much of t, he knew, was alkali. Behind
him, Quince Hatfield rode a raw )oned roan bred to the desert.
Fifteen minutes after leaving the cliff, they were out of sight of it. Jverhead the
sky was only a lighter space dimly visible through a
242
236 Louis L'AMOUR
hanging curtain of dust. Dust arose in clouds from their walking horses and from
the wagon, fine, powdery, stifling dust.
Over and around them the cloud closed in, thick and prickly when the dust settled
on the flesh. Glancing at Quince during one interval, Kilkenny saw the man's face
was covered with a film of dust; his eyelashes were thick with it; his hair was white.
When they had been going an hour, he reined in and dismounted. Taking a damp cloth,
he sponged out the buckskin's nostrils and wiped off the horse's head and ears. Quince
had drawn abreast and was doing likewise, and when the others came up, they worked
over the mules.
The dust filled the air and drew a thick veil around them, as in a blizzard. Saul
drew closer. "What if the wind comes up?" he asked. Bartram's face was stern. "I've
been thinking of that," he said. "If the wind comes up, in all of this, we're sunk."
"Where are we now?" Jackie asked, standing up on the wagon. "We should have made
about three or four miles. Maybe more, maybe less. We're right on our course so far."
They rested the mules. The wagon was heavy, even though it was not carrying a load
now. The dust and sand in places were a couple of feet deep, but usually the wheels
sank no more than six inches into the dust. The animals would all need rest, for
the air was heavy with heat, and there was no coolness here in the sink. The dust
made breathing an effort.
Kilkenny swung into the saddle and moved out. The flatness of the desert floor was
broken now, and it began to slant away from them toward the middle. Kilkenny scowled
thoughtfully, and rode more slowly. An hour later, they paused again. This time there
was no talking. All of the men were feeling the frightful pressure of the heat, and
glancing at the mules, Kilkenny could see they were breathing heavily. Streaks marred
the thick whiteness of the dust on their bodies.
"We'll have to stop more often," he told Bartram, and the farmer nodded.
They rode on, and almost another hour had passed before the buckskin stopped suddenly.
Lance touched him gently with a spur, but Buck would not move. Kilkenny swung down.
Ahead of him, and he could see for no more than fifty feet, was an even, unbroken
expanse of white. It was not even marred by the blackish upthrust of rock that had
occasionally appeared along the back trail.
Quince rode up and stopped. "What's wrong?" he asked. Then he swung down and walked
up.
"Don't know," Kilkenny said. "Buck won't go on, something wrong. He stepped forward
and felt the earth suddenly turn to jelly under his feet. He gave a cry and tried
to leap backward, but only tripped himself.
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 237
Quince helped him up. "Quicksand," he said, "an' the worst I ever see. Must be springs
under."
The wagon drew up, and then Saul and Jackie. "Stay here," Lance told them. "I'll
scout to the left."
"I'll go right," Quince suggested. "Might be a way around." Kilkenny turned the buckskin
and let him have his head. He walked at right angles to the course and then at Kilkenny's
urging, tried the surface. It was still soggy. They pulled back and rode on. In a
half hour he reined in. There was still no way around, and the edge of the quicksand
seemed to be curving back toward him. Only the sagacity of Buck had kept them out
of it. He rode back.
"Any luck?" he shouted as he saw Quince waiting with the wagon. "Uh-huh. It ends
back there about two mile. High ground, rocky." They turned the wagon and started
on once more. They would
lose at least an hour more, perhaps two, in skirting the quicksand. Hour after hour
they struggled on. Weariness made their limbs leaden. The mules were beginning to
weave a bit now, and Kilkenny found himself sagging in the saddle. His sweat-soaked
shirt had become something very like cement with its heavy coating of white dust.
They stopped oftener now, stopped for water and to sponge the nostrils of the mules
and horses.
At times the trail led through acres upon acres of great, jagged black rocks that
thrust up in long ledges that had to be skirted. All calculations on miles across
were thrown out of kilter by this continual weaving back and forth across the desert.
Time had ceased to matter, and they lived only for the quiet numbness of the halts.
All of them walked from time to time now. Time and again they had to get behind the
wagon and push, or had to dig out rocks to roll them aside to clear the only possible
trail.
The world had become a nightmare of choking, smothering, clinging dust particles,
a nightmare of sticky heat and stifling dust-filled air. Even all thought of Hale
was gone. They did not think of food or of family, but only of getting across, of
getting out of this hell of choking white.
Kilkenny was no longer sure of the compass. Mineral deposits might have made it err.
They might be wandering in circles. His only hope was that the ground seemed to rise
now, seemed to be slanting upward. Choking, coughing, they moved on into the dust
blizzard, hearing the lonely sough of the wind. Dazed with heat, dust, and weariness,
they moved on. The mules were staggering now, and they moved only a few yards at
a time.
The black upthrust of the cliff loomed at them suddenly, when all hope seemed gone.
It loomed, black and sheer, yet here at the base the dust seemed a little less, a
little thinner.
244
Louis
Kilkenny swung down and waited until the rest came up. "Well," he said hoarsely,
"we're across. Now to get up."
They rested there under the cliff for a half hour, and then his own restlessness
won over his weariness. He had never been able to stop short of a goal; there was
something in him that always drove him on, regardless of weariness, trouble, or danger.
It came to the surface now, and he lunged to his feet and started moving.
He had walked no more than a hundred yards when he found it. He stared at the incredible
fact, that through all their weaving back and forth, they had held that close to
their destination. The road looked rough, but it was a way up, and beyond the hills,
but a little way now, lay Blazer.
It was dusk when they reached the top of the cliff and drew up under the pines. Digging
a hole in the ground among some rocks, they built a fire in the bottom and warmed
some food and made coffee. The hole concealed the flames, and using dry wood, they
would make no smoke.
Kilkenny drank the strong black coffee and found his hand growing lax and his lids
heavy. He got up, staggered to his blankets, and fell asleep. He slept like he was
drugged until Saul Hatfield shook him from his slumber in the last hours of the night
to take over the watch.
Lance got up and stretched. Then he walked over to the water casks, drew water, and
bathed himself, washing the dust from his hair and ears. Stripping to the waist,
he bathed his body in the cold water. Refreshed, he crossed to the black bulk of
the rocks and seated himself.
In the darkness thoughts come easily. He sat there, his eyes open and staring restlessly
from side to side, yet his thoughts wandering back to Cedar Bluff.
They wanted him to fight Tombull Turner. He had decided to take the fight. Sitting
here in the darkness with the wind in the pines overhead, he could think clearly.
It was their only chance of getting to the Santa Fe officials. He knew how men of
all sorts and kinds admire a fighting man. The Santa Fe officials, especially if
one of them was Halloran, would be no exception. He would be going into the fight
as the underdog. Hale wanted him whipped, but King Bill's power was destroying his
shrewdness.
Halloran, or whoever came, would know about Tombull. The man had been fighting, and
winning, all through the West. Any man who went against him would be the underdog,
and the underdog always has the crowd with him. Kilkenny knew there was scarcely
a chance
'i~' I, that he would do anything but take a beating, yet he believed he
245
A MAN CALLED TRENT 239
could stay in there long enough to make some impression. And between rounds-that
would be his chance.
If ever, he would have a chance to talk then. King Bill would have his guests in
ringside seats. He would be expecting a quick victory. Coldly, Kilkenny appraised
himself. Like all fighting men, he
considered himself good. He had fought many times in the rough and tumble fistfights
of the frontier. As a boy he had fought many times in school. During the days when
he was in the East, he had taken instruction from the great Jem Mace, the English
pugilist, who was one of the most clever of all bare-knuckle fighters. Mace was a
shrewd fighter who used his head for something aside from a parking place for two
thick ears.
king Bill did not know that Kilkenny had ever boxed. Neither would Tombull know that.
Moreover, Kilkenny had for years lived a life in the open, a life that required hard
physical condition and superb strength. He had those assets, and above all, he had
his knowledge of Turner, whereas Turner knew nothing of him. Turner would be overconfident.
Nevertheless, in all honesty, Kilkenny could find little hope of victory. His one
hope was to make a game fight of it, to win the sympathy and interest of the officials
before he spoke to them, as he would.
He would rest when he returned to the cup. He would soak his hands in brine, and
he would wear driving gloves in the ring. Some of the younger fighters were wearing
skintight gloves now, and Mace had told him of their cutting ability.
There was no sound but the sound of the forest, and he relaxed, watching and awaiting
the dawn. When it came, they ate a hurried breakfast. They were rested and felt better.
Kilkenny cleaned his guns carefully, both pistols and his rifle. The others did likewise.
"Quince," Kilkenny said as he holstered his guns. "You know Blazer. What d'you think?"
Hatfield shrugged. "I reckon they won't be expectin' us from hereabouts. I been takin'
some bearin's, an' I reckon we will come into town from the opposite side. We got
us a good chance of gettin' in afore they know who we are."
"Good!" Kilkenny turned to Bartram. "You know the team. You stay by the wagon an'
keep your gun handy. Stay on the ground where you can either mount up or take cover.
"Saul, you an' Jackie hustle the grub out to the wagon, an' Quince will stand by
to cover you."
"How about you?" Bartram asked, looking up at him.
"I'm goin' to look around for sign of the other wagon. I want to know what happened
to Lije an' them. They may be all right, but I want to know."
246
VIII
240 Louis L'AMOUR
As they mounted up, he turned in his saddle. "Quince, you ride with me. Saul an'
Jackie will bring up the rear."
They started out, and less than a mile from where they had come from the desert,
they rode down into the trail to Blazer. As Quince Hatfield had suggested, they were
coming in from the opposite side.
Two rows of ramshackle saloons, cheap dance halls, and stores made up the town of
Blazer. These two rows faced each other across a river of dust that was called a
street. The usual number of town loafers sat on benches in front of the Crossroads,
the Temple of Chance, and the Wagon Wheel.
It was morning, and few horses stood at the hitching rail. There was a blood bay
with a beautifully handworked saddle standing in front of the Crossroads, and two
cow ponies stood three-legged before the Wagon Wheel.
Chapter X1I
In the Enemy's Lair
Lance Kilkenny rode past the Perkins General Store and swung down in front of the
Wagon Wheel. Bartram stopped the wagon parallel to the hitching rail and began to
fill his pipe. His rifle leaned against the seat beside him.
Saul and Jackie walked into the store, and Quince leaned against the corner of the
store and lighted a cigarette. His rifle lay in the wagon, but he wore a huge Walker
Colt slung to his belt.
A horseman came down the trail and swung down in front of the Wagon Wheel and walked
inside. Quince straightened and stared at him, and his eyes narrowed. The man was
big and had red hair and a red beard. Kilkenny stared at the man, and then, as Quince
motioned with his head, he idled over toward him.
"That hombre was wearin' an ivory-handled Colt with a chipped ivory on the right
side," Hatfield said. His narrow face was empty and his eyes bitter.
"A chipped ivory butt?" Kilkenny frowned, and then suddenly his face paled. "Why,
Jody Miller had a gun like that. An' Jody was with the first wagon."
"Uh-huh. I reckon," Hatfield said, "I better ask me a few questions."
"Wait," Kilkenny said. "I'm goin' in there. You keep your eyes open. Remember, we
need the grub first. Meantime, I'll find out somethin'."
He turned and walked over to the Wagon Wheel and ambled inside. Two cowpokes sat
at a table with the bartender and a man in
247
A MAN CALLED TRENT 241 a black coat, a huge man, enormously big and enormously fat.
That, he decided, would be Sodermann.
The red-bearded man was leaning on the bar. "Come on, Shorty," he snapped. "Give
us a drink! I'm dry."
"Take it easy, Gaddis," Shorty barked. He was a short, thickset man with an unshaven
face. "I'll be with you in a minute." Kilkenny leaned against the bar and looked
around. It didn't look
good. If the big man was Sodermann-and there was small chance of there being two
such huge men in any western town-that placed Sodermann and Gaddis. The cowpokes
might be mere cowhands, but they didn't look it. One of the men might be Ratcliff.
And there was still Rye Pitkin. But he knew Rye, and the rustler was not present.
Judging by appearances, Shorty could be counted on to side Sodermann, and if that
was Jody Miller's gun, it meant that the other wagon had been stopped, and the chances
were that the men who accompanied it had been wiped out.
Slow rage began to mount in Kilkenny at the thought of those honest, sincere men,
who asked only the right to work and build homes, being killed by such as these.
He was suddenly conscious that Sodermann was watching him.
Shorty got up and sauntered behind the bar. "What'll you have?" he asked, leaning
on the hardwood. His eyes slanted from Gaddis to Kilkenny.
"Rye," Gaddis said. He turned abruptly and gave Kilkenny a cool glance, a glance
that suddenly quickened as he noticed the dusty clothing and the tied-down guns.
He stared at Kilkenny's face, but Lance had his hat brim low, and this man had never
seen him before, anyway.
"Make mine rye, too," Kilkenny said. He turned his head and looked at Sodermann.
"You drinkin'?"
"Maybe." The fat man got up, and he moved his huge bulk with astonishing lightness.
Kilkenny's eyes sharpened. This man could move. "Maybe I will. I always likes to
know who I'm drinkin' with, howsoever. "
"Not so particular where I come from," Kilkenny said softly. "A drink's a drink."
"I reckon." Sodermann nodded affably. "You appear to be a stranger hereabouts. I
reckon every man who wears a gun like you wear yours knows Doc Sodermann."
"I've heard the name." Kilkenny let his eyes drift to the table. One of the men was
sitting up straight rolling a smoke, the other idly riffling the cards. Either could
draw fast. Red Gaddis had turned to
face them.
248
242 Louis L'AMOUR
The whole setup was too obviously ready to spring. He was going to have to relax
them a little. He would have to relieve this tension. "Heard there might be a job
up this way for a man," he said slowly, "an' I could use a job up here where it's
quiet."
"Away from the law, you mean?" Sodermann laughed until he shook all over. Kilkenny
noticed there was no laughter in his eyes. "Uh-huh. Away from everythin'."
"We got law here. King Bill Hale runs this country." "Heard of him."
"You hear a lot," Gaddis suggested. His eyes were mean. "Yeah." Kilkenny turned a
little and let his green eyes stare from under his hatbrim at the red-headed man.
"Yeah, I make it my business to hear a lot."
"Maybe you hear too much!" Gaddis snapped.
"You want to show me how much?" Kilkenny's voice was level. He spoke coolly, yet
he was sure there would be no shooting here, yet. He was wondering if Sodermann knew
Hatfield was outside beside the window.
Gaddis stepped away from the bar, and his jaw jutted. "Why, I think you're-!"
"Stop it!" Sodermann's voice was suddenly charged with anger. "You're too anxious
for trouble, Gaddis. Someday you'll get yourself killed. "
Gaddis relaxed slowly, his eyes ugly. Yet, watching the man, Kilkenny could sense
a certain relief in him also. Gaddis was a killer, but not a gunman in the sense
that he was highly skilled. He was a paid killer, a murderer, the sort of man who
would drygulch men around a wagon. And he wore a chipped gun.
"Your friend's right proddy," Kilkenny said softly. "He must have a killin' urge."
"Forget it," Sodermann said jovially. "He's all right. Just likes to fight, that's
all!"
Kilkenny stared at Gaddis. "Seems like you should be somebody I know," he drawled
slowly, "I don't recognize that face, but I do know you. But then, I never remember
a face, anyway. I got my own methods of knowin' a man. I look at the only thing that's
important to me!"
"What's that?" Sodermann asked. He was studying Kilkenny, curiosity in his eyes and
some puzzlement.
"I always remember a man's gun. Each gun has its own special look, or maybe it's
the way a man wears a gun. Take that one now, with that chipped ivory on the side
of the butt. A man wouldn't forget a gun like that in a hurry."
Gaddis stiffened, and his face turned gray. Then the tip of his
249
A MAN CALLED TRENT 243
tongue touched his lips. Before he could speak, Sodermann looked straight into Kilkenny's
eyes.
"An' where would you see that gun?"
"In Santa Fe," Kilkenny drawled, remembering that Miller had once lived there. "It
was hangin' to a man they said was comin' west to farm. His name was Jody Miller."
"You talk too much!" Gaddis snarled, his face white and his lips thin.
"It was in Santa Fe." Kilkenny was adding a touch now that he hoped would worry Sodermann.
Only a word, yet sometimes"Miller stopped off in Santa Fe to see some folks at the
fort there
an' to talk to Halloran an' Wallace. Seems they was old friends of his."
Sodermann's face sharpened, and he turned. His raised hand made Gaddis draw back
a little.
"You're talkin' a lot, stranger," he said smoothly. "You say this Miller knowed Halloran
an' Wallace?"
"Uh-huh." Kilkenny motioned to Shorty to refill his glass. "Seems he knowed them
back East. One of 'em married a sister of his, or somethin'. I heard 'em talkin'
in a saloon once. Heard Halloran say he was comin' out here to visit Miller."
Kilkenny glanced at Gaddis, his face expressionless. "I reckon you'll be plumb glad
to see him, Miller. It's mighty nice to have an official, big man like that, for
a friend."
Lance could have laughed if he hadn't known what he knew now, that the wagon had
been waylaid and that Miller was probably dead. There would be no other reason for
Gaddis looking as he did. The man was obviously afraid. Sodermann was staring keen-eyed,
yet there was uncertainty in the big man. When that uncertainty ended, there would
be danger, Kilkenny knew.
"Funny," Kilkenny said softly, "I don't remember Miller havin' red hair. Seemed to
me it was black. That's what it was. Black."
It was yel-!" Gaddis began.
"Yellow. That's right. It
was
yellow. Strange, I couldn't remember that. But you, stranger, you've got Jody Miller's
gun. How d'you explain that?"
Suddenly, the door behind Kilkenny opened. He felt the flesh along the back of his
neck tighten. He dared not turn. He had been deliberately baiting them, hoping for
more information, yet baiting them, too. Now, suddenly, there was a man behind him.
Sodermann seemed to make up his mind. Assurance returned to him, and he spoke low,
almost amused. "Why, howdy, Rye! I reckon You should come in an' meet our friend,
here. Says he recognizes this gun Red's a-wearin'."
250
°0 He wheeled the buckskin and whipped down the street. A shot
244 Louis L'AMOUR
Rye Pitkin walked past Kilkenny and then turned.
His jaw dropped as though he had seen a ghost, and he made an involuntary step backward,
his face slowly going white. "You!" he gasped. "You!"
"Why, yes," Kilkenny said. "It's me, Pitkin. Long ways from the Pecos country, isn't
it? An' a sight further from the Brazos. Now, Pitkin, I'll tell you somethin'. I'm
not real anxious to kill anybody right here an' now. If I start shootin', two of
you are goin' to die.
"That'll be you, Rye, and Sodermann here. I couldn't miss him. An' if I am still
shootin', as I will be, I'm goin' to take care of Gaddis next. Gaddis because he
killed Jody Miller. But that comes later. Right now I'm leavin', an' right now you
better impress it on your friends that reachin' for an iron won't do any good."
He stepped back toward the door, and his eyes shifted under the hatbrim from one
face to the other. Sodermann's eyes were narrowed. Pitkin's obvious fear put doubt
in the big man. Who was the stranger? Red Gaddis shifted toward the center of the
room, his eyes watchful.
Rye stiffened as Red moved. "Don't, Red! That's Kilkenny!" Gaddis stopped, and his
face turned blank with mingled astonishment and fear. Then glass tinkled from the
front of the room, and a long Kentucky rifle barrel slid into the room. Kilkenny
stepped back to the door.
"Now if you hombres are smart, you'll just hole up here for the time being'. We don't
want trouble, but we may have it!"
He stepped through the door and glanced quickly up and down the street. Bartram was
on the wagon seat, his rifle across his knees. Jackie Moffitt was standing by his
horse, his rifle in his hands, and Saul was across the street. Kilkenny smiled in
narrow-eyed apprehension. They were fighters, these men.
"Start the wagon," he said, "down the Cedar trail. Jackie, stay with Bartram. "
He walked out and swung into the saddle and then slid a rifle from the boot. "All
right, slide!"
rang out from behind him, and he twisted to look. Saul was mounted, but Quince had
turned and thrown up his rifle. He fired. A man staggered from the shelter of the
Wagon Wheel and spilled on his face in the dust. The next instant there was a fusillade
of shots from the Wagon Wheel and nearby buildings. The gunmen had slid out the back
way and were getting into action.
Kilkenny reined in behind the last building and swung to the ground. Then, with careful
fire, he covered the Hatfields as they raced up the street to join him.
251
A MAN CALLED TRENT 245
Quince was smiling, his eyes hard. "That was Red Gaddis," he said coolly. "He won't
take no more dead men's guns."
"Give the wagon a start," Kilkenny said. "We three are going to make some buzzard
bait! We have to come back to this town, and we might as well let them know what
the score is."
Every time a head moved, one of them fired. While they stayed where they were, no
man dared enter that street, and no man dared try the back way in this direction.
Leaving the two Hatfields, Kilkenny sprinted down behind the buildings toward the
Wagon Wheel. The men there were killers. He did not know what had happened to the
other wagon, but he meant to find out. It was his reason for taking the Blazer trail.
He was hoping they might not all be dead. At least, he could bury those that were.
Chapter Ambush
The rear door of the saloon was open, and there was no one in sight. He stood behind
the next building and watched for an instant. He wanted Pitkin or Ratcliff. He would
get nothing from Sodermann unless the fat man elected to tell him.
Several old boards lay on the ground behind the saloon, dry and parched. On a sudden
inspiration, he moved swiftly from the shelter of the building and holstering his
gun, hurriedly piled them together. Then, using a piece of old sacking and some parched
grass, he lit the fire.
It was away from the buildings, but the wind would blow the smoke into the saloon.
He hoped they would think he was burning them out, the last thing he wanted to do,
as they needed the town as a supply base.
As the boards caught fire, he stepped back quickly.
There was a startled exclamation as the fire began to crackle and wood smoke blew
in the back of the saloon. A second later a man stepped to the door, thrust his head
out, and then stared at the fire. He seemed puzzled. Out of sight, Kilkenny waited.
Then the man stepped out and kicked the boards apart. "All right!" Kilkenny snapped.
"Don't move!"
It was Ratcliff, and the man froze. "What's up, Kilkenny? I never done nothin' to
you."
"Start this way, walk careful, an' watch your hands."
Ratcliff was a weasel-faced man with shifty eyes. He started inov
252
19I
246 Louis L'AMOUR
ing, but shot a glance at the doorway. He held his hands wide. When he was six feet
away, Kilkenny stopped him.
"All right, talk. I want to know what happened to that other wagon. "
Ratcliff sneered. "You think I'll tell? Guess again. You don't dare shoot. If you
do, they'll be out, but fast."
With one quick step, Kilkenny grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him back
against the building. Then he lifted the pistol. "Want a pistol-whipping, man?" he
asked harshly. "If I start on
you, you'll never look the same again!"
"Leave me be," Ratcliff pleaded, his face yellow. "I'll talk." "Get at it then."
"They done loaded up with grub. We let 'em get out of town. Then Sodermann ambushed
'em. Had about six men, I think." "Who was killed?"
"We lost a man. We got Miller an' Tot Wilson in the first blast. It was Hatfield
got our man. Nailed him dead center between the eyes."
"What happened to Hatfield an' Hight?"
"They got Hight. I seen him go down. He was shot two, maybe three times. We got Hatfield,
too. But he got up, an' he dragged Hight into some rocks. We couldn't get to 'em."
"Then what?"
A voice roared from the saloon. It was Sodermann. "Ratcliff! What in time are you
doin' out there?"
"Answer me!" Kilkenny snapped. "Then what?"
"Sodermann said it'd serve 'em right. Leave 'em there to die with two men to see
they didn't move out of them rocks. They been there two days now."
"On the Blazer trail?"
"Yeah, almost to the turnoff to the peaks."
With a swift movement, Kilkenny flipped Ratcliff's pistol from its holster. "All
right, get goin'!" he snapped.
With a dive, Ratcliff started for the saloon door. And just at that instant, Sodermann
thrust his huge bulk into the open space. He glimpsed Kilkenny as he released Ratcliff,
and with a swift motion, palmed his gun and fired.
He fired from the hip, and he wasn't a good hip shot. His first bullet caught Ratcliff
square in the chest, and the weasel-faced rider stopped dead still and then dropped.
Kilkenny's gun swept up, and spraddle-legged in the open, he fired.
Sodermann's gun went off at the same instant, but Kilkenny s bullet hit him right
above the belt buckle in the middle of that vast expanse. The blow staggered Sodermann,
and his bullet clipped
253
A MAN CALLED TRENT 247 slivers from the building above Kilkenny's head and whined
angrily away into the grass back of the saloon.
The big man looked sick, and then suddenly his knees gave way and he toppled face
downward upon the steps. The pistol fell from fingers that had lost their life, and
rattled on the boards below.
Kilkenny walked toward the saloon, keeping his gun in his hand. Stepping up beside
the door, he saw Rye Pitkin and the short bartender, rifles in hand, crouched by
the front window.
"Drop 'em!" Kilkenny snapped. He stepped quickly inside. "Unbuckle your belts and
let those guns down-quick!"
Surprised into helplessness, the men did as they were told. "Rye, I've given you
a break before. I'm givin' you one again. The same for Shorty. You two mount and
ride. If I ever see either of you again, I'll kill you. I'll be back to Blazer, an'
you be doggone sure you aren't here."
Backing them away, he scooped up the guns and then backed out the door. He hurried
to the corner where the Hatfields waited. Quince was chewing on a straw. He looked
at the weapons, grinned a little, and started for his horse.
"Lije may be alive," Kilkenny told him. Then he explained quickly. Quince narrowed
his eyes. "You won't be needin' us," he said. "We'll ride on."
"Go ahead," Kilkenny said, "an' luck with you."
With a rush of hoofs, Saul and Quince Hatfield swept off down the trail. Kilkenny
watched them go. The Hatfields were hard to kill. Lije might be alive. It was like
him to have thought of Hight, even when wounded. Those lean, wiry men were tough.
He might still be alive.
He rode up to the wagon and saw Bartram's face flush with relief. Jackie was riding
beside the wagon, his old Sharps ready. His face was boyishly stern.
"What is it?" Bartram asked. "What happened?"
"We've won another round," Kilkenny said. "We can come to Blazer for supplies now...."
Dust devils danced over the desert, and the mules plodded slowly along the trail.
The wagon rumbled and bumped over the stones in the road, and Bartram dozed on the
wagon seat.
To the left the mountains lifted in rocky slopes with many upthrust edges of jagged
rock. To the right the ground sloped away toward Cedar Branch, which lay miles away
beyond the intervening sagebrush and mesquite.
Jackie Moffitt rode silently, looking from time to time at Kilkenny. Lance knew the
youngster was dying to ask him about what had
254
m
248 Louis L
'AMOUR
happened in Blazer, and he was just as loath to speak of it. He could understand
the youngster's curiosity.
He moved the buckskin over alongside the boy. "Trouble back there, jack," he said
after a minute. "Men killed back there."
"Who was it? Did you kill 'em?" Jackie asked eagerly.
"One. I had to, jack. Didn't want to. Nobody ever likes to kill a man unless there's
something wrong with him. I had to get news out of somebody. I got it from Ratcliff
and then turned him loose, but in tryin' to get me, Sodermann shot him. Then I shot
Sodermann." "What about the others?"
"Let 'em go. I told Pitkin an' Shorty to get out of the country. I think they'll
go."
"We asked 'em in the store, but they was scared. They wouldn't talk, nohow. Saul,
he asked 'em. They was afraid. But they was right nice with us."
They rode on through the heat. Occasionally they stopped to rest the mules. It was
slower this way, as the road was longer, but there was no dust, and they had to come
this way to make sure about Lije and the others.
Again and again Kilkenny found his thoughts reverting to Nita. How was she faring
with Hale? Would she marry him? The thought came to him with a pang. He was in love
with Nita. He had admitted that to himself long before this, but he knew too well
what it would mean to be the wife of a gunman, a man who never knew when he might
go down to dusty death in a lead-spattered street.
A man couldn't think only of himself. A few men seemed to be able to leave it all
behind, but they were few. Of course, he could go east, but his whole life had been
lived in the West, and he had no source of income in the East. He had been a gambler
at times and had done well, but it was nothing to build a life upon.
His thoughts moved ahead to the Hatfields. What would they find? Would the men left
behind have murdered the wounded Lije? Had Hight been dead? How many more would die
before this war was settled? Why did one man see fit to push this bloody fight upon
men who wanted only peace and time to till their fields? Why should one man desire
power so much? There was enough in the world for all to have a quiet, comfortable
living, and what more could a man desire?
The wagon rumbled over the rocks, and he lifted his eyes and let them idle over the
heat-waved distance. After the fire and blood there would be peace, and men could
come to this land and settle these hills. Perhaps someday there would be water, and
then grass would grow where now there were only cacti and sagebrush.
255
A MAN CALLED TRENT 249 Cicadas whined and sang in the mesquite until the sound became
almost the voice of the wastelands.
They camped that night in a hollow in the hills and pushed on at dawn toward the
joining of the trails. The country was rockier now. The distance closed in, pushing
the mountains nearer, and there was less breeze. The air was dead and still.
Jackie traded places with Bartram and handled the mules. Bartram rode on ahead, riding
carefully. Kilkenny watched him go, liking the
easy
way the farmer rode, and liking his cleancut honesty.
It was morning of the third day when Kilkenny saw a horseman drawing near. He recognized
him even before he came up with him. It was Saul.
"Found 'em," Saul said briefly, "both alive. Hight's plumb rid dled. Lije was hit
three times, one time pretty bad. They was holed up in some rocks, more dead than
alive."
"Anybody around?"
"Yeah. One man. He was dead. Lije must've got him, bad off as he was. The other took
out. Lije'll live. We Hatfields are tough." When they reached the cluster of rocks,
they pulled the wagon
close. Quince had both men stretched out and had rigged a shelter from the sun. Kilkenny
knelt over the men. That Hight was breath ing was a marvel, though all his wounds
showed signs of care. Lije, wounded as he was, had cared for the other man. His wounds
had been bathed and crudely bandaged. His lips seemed moist, and he had evidently
not lacked for water.
Lije Hatfield was grimly conscious. There was an unrelenting look in his eyes, enough
to show them that Lije meant to face death, if need be, as sternly and fearlessly
as he faced life and danger.
His lips were dry and parched. Even the water that Quince had given him failed to
reduce the ravages brought on by several days of thirst. Obviously, from the condition
of the two men, Lije had been giving the little water they had to Jackson Hight.
The two men were lifted carefully and placed in the wagon, with groceries piled around
them and sacks and blankets beneath them. Another blanket was placed over two barrels
to form a crude awning over their faces. Then, with Bartram handling the mules, they
started once more.
256
250 Louis
Chapter X1V
A-Goin'
to Kill Bill
Hale!"
It was quiet in the Hatfield cup when the little group rode in. The Hatfield women
did not cry. They gathered around, and they watched when the two men were lifted
from the wagon and carried within.
Parson waited, grim-faced, for Kilkenny. "That's two more, Kilkenny. Two more good
men gone, an' two that are like to die! I'm tellin' you, man, I'm a-goin' to kill
Bill Hale!"
"Not now. Wait." Kilkenny kicked a toe into the dust. "Any more trouble here?"
"Smithers ain't come back." "Where'd he go?"
"To look at his crop. He sets great store by that crop. Says he'll be back to harvest
it."
"When did he leave?"
"Yesterday mornin'. Shouldn't keep him that long, noways. I reckon he might hole
up in the hills somewhere."
Talking slowly, Lance recounted all that had transpired. He told of the bitter crossing
of the Smoky Desert, of the fight at Blazer, and of the death of Gaddis and the others.
"We can cross the desert anytime unless the wind is blowin' strong," he concluded.
"They can't bottle us up. It's a miserable trip, an' if a man was to try it an' get
caught in a windstorm, there's a good chance you'd never hear of him again. The same
if he got into that quicksand."
"I knowed that Gaddis was a bad one. Glad he's gone. The same for Sodermann."
"There's something else," Kilkenny suggested after a minute. "We've proved we could
get across, an' we slipped by their guards comin' back by the Blazer trail, but it
won't take them much time to figure what happened. They may try comin' in our back
door by that way.
Parson nodded shrewdly. "I was thinkin' of that. We'll have to be careful."
When morning came and Lance rolled out of his blankets, he looked quickly at the
house. Then he saw Saul. The tall, lean boy was walking away from the house, and
he looked sick and old. They saw each other at almost the same instant.
"Saul?" Kilkenny said. "Is-?" "He's dead. Lijah's dead."
Kilkenny turned away, and for the first time something like de spair welled up inside
of him. One of the Hatfields had died. It seemed as though something of the mountains
themselves had gone,
257
A MAN CALLED TRENT 251 for there was in those lean, hardheaded, rawboned men something
that lived on despite everything. And Lije had died.
O'Hara came out to him later, and the big Irishman's face was sullen and ugly. "An'
that doc down to Cedar. We sneaked in an' tried to get him to come. He wouldn't come,
an' he set up a squall when we tried to take him. We was lucky to get away."
"We'll remember that," Kilkenny said quietly. "We can't use a doctor who won't come
when he's called, not in this country." Parson looked at him thoughtfully and then
he looked away.
"Lance, you ever think maybe we won't win? That maybe they'll wipe us out? Suppose
you can't talk to them Santa Fe men? Supposin'
if you do, they won't listen?"
Kilkenny looked down at the ground, and then slowly he lifted his head. "There's
a man behind this, Parson," he said slowly, "a man who's gone mad with power cravin'.
His son's a-drivin' him. Parson, I've seen men murdered because they wanted homes.
There was no harm in Jody Miller, nor in Tot Wilson. They were hardworkin' men an'
honest ones. Lije, well, he was a fine boy, a real man, too. He had strength, courage,
an' all that it takes to make a man.
"There at the last, when they were holed up in the rocks, he cared for Hight when
he must've been near dead himself. He must've had to drag himself to Hight's side,
he must've had to force himself to forget his own pain.
"Those men are dead, an' they are dead because of one man, maybe two. Maybe I'm wrong,
Parson, but if all else fails, I'm ridin' to Cedar, an' I'll kill those two men!"
"An' I'll go with you!" Parson stated flatly. His old face was grim and hard. "Lije
was my son, he-"
"No, Parson, you can't go with me. You'll have to stay here, keep this bunch together,
an' see they make the most of their land. I want homes in these high meadows, Parson.
Homes, an' kids around 'em, an' cattle walkin' peaceful in the evenin'.
No, it'll be my job down there. We all, we who live by the gun, we all die in the
end. It's better for me to go alone an' then live or die by what happens then. At
least, it'll be in a good cause."
He lay in the shade of a huge Norway pine, resting and thinking of what lay ahead
of him, thinking of the fight with Tombull Turner. Lying there with his eyes shut
he could hear the sound of the
, ^ shovels as Runyon and Jesse Hatfield dug a grave for Lije. In his
mind he was taking himself back to the times when he had seen Turner fight. He was
remembering, not the battered men who went down before Turner, but every move the
big man made.
No man was without a fault. Kilkenny had been taught well. He new how he must plan,
and he ran over and over in his mind the
258
252 Louis L AMOUR
way the big man held his hands, the way his feet moved when he advanced or retreated,
the way they moved when he punched, and what Turner did when hit with a left or right.
Each fighter develops habits. A certain method of stopping or countering a punch
is easy for him, so he uses that method most, even though he may know others. A smooth
boxer, walking out into the ring and expecting a long fight, will feel out an opponent,
find how he uses a left, how he blocks one. Then he knows what to do.
If he lasted in this fight, Kilkenny knew, he would last only because of brains,
only because he could think faster, better, and more effectively than Turner or those
who handled him.
Yet again and again as he lay there thinking, his mind reverted to Nita Riordan.
The dark, voluptuous beauty of the Irish and Spanish girl at the Crystal Palace was
continually in his mind. There was something else, too. In the back of his mind loomed
the huge, ominous Cain Brockman.
On that desperate day back in Cottonwood, in the Live Oak country, he had killed
Abel, and Cain had been thrown from his rearing horse and knocked unconscious. Later,
in the Trail House, he had slugged it out and whipped Cain in a bitter knock-down-anddrag-out
fistfight. Cain had sworn to kill him. And Cain Brockman was in Cedar Bluff.
When night came, Kilkenny threw a saddle on a slim, black horse and rode out of the
cup. He was going to see Nita. Even as he rode, he admitted to himself there was
little reason to see her except that he wanted to. He had no right to take chances
with his life when it could mean so much to the cause he was aiding, yet he had to
see Nita. Also, he could find out what Hale was doing, what he was planning.
He rode swiftly, and the black horse was eager for the trail. It wasn't Buck, but
the horse was fast, with speed to spare.
It was late when he rode down to the edge of Cedar Bluff, and his thoughts went back
to Leathers, aroused out of a sound sleep and made to put up groceries, and to Dan
Cooper, the tough cowhand and gunman who had watched Leathers's store. Cooper was
a good man on the wrong side. Leathers was a man who would be on any winning side,
one of the little men who think only of immediate profits and who try to ride with
the powers that be. Well, the payoff for Leathers was coming.
Leaving his horse in the shadows of the trees beyond the Crystal Palace, Kilkenny
moved up into the shadows of the stable, and his eyes watched the Palace for a long
time. Finally he moved, ghostlike, across the open space back of the gambling hall.
Tiptoeing along the wall, he came to the door he sought. Carefully, he tried the
knob. It was locked.
259
A MAN CALLED TRENT 253
Ahead of him a curtain blew through an open window, waving a little and then sagging
back as the momentary breeze died. He paused beneath the window, listening. Inside
he could hear the steady rise and fall of a man's breathing. It was the only way
in. Hesitating only a minute, he put his foot through the open window and stepped
inside.
Almost at once there was a black shadow of movement, and a forearm slipped across
his throat in a stranglehold. Then that forearm crushed back into his throat with
tremendous power. Setting the muscles in his neck, he strained forward, agonizing
pain shooting through the growing blackness in his brain. He surged forward and felt
the man's feet lift from the floor. Then suddenly, the hold relaxed, and he felt
a hand slide down to his gun and then to the other gun. Then he was released.
"Brigo!" he said.
"Si, Senor,"
Brigo answered in a whisper. "I did not know. But only one man is so powerful as
you. When you lifted me, I knew it must be you. Then I felt your guns, and I know
them well."
"The senorita is here?"
"Si." Brigo was silent for a moment. "Senor, I fear for her. This Hale, he wants
her very much! Also, the Cub of the bear. He wants her. I fear for her. One day they
will come to take her."
Kilkenny could sense the worry in the big man's voice. "But you, Brigo?"
He could almost see the Yaqui shrug. "I see the two hombres, Dunn an' Ravitz. They
watch me always. Soon they will try to kill me. The senorita says I must not go out
to kill them, but soon I must."
"Wait, if you can," Kilkenny said. "Then act as you must. If you feel the time has
come, do not wait for the senorita to say. You do not kill heedlessly. If there is
no other way, you are to judge."
"Gracias, Senor,"
Brigo said simply. "If you will come with me?" Kilkenny followed him through the
darkness down the hall to another door, and there Brigo tapped gently. Almost at
once, he heard Nita's voice. "Jaime?"
"Si. The senor is here."
The door opened quickly, and Brigo vanished into the darkness as Kilkenny stepped
in. Nita closed the door. Her long dark hair fell about her shoulders. In the vague
light he could see the clinging of her nightgown, the rise and fall of her bosom
beneath the thin material.
"Kilkenny, what is it?" Her voice was low, and something in its timbre made his muscles
tremble. It required all the strength that was in him not to take her in his arms.
260
254 Louis L'AMOUR "I had to see you. You are all right?"
"Si. For now. He has given me until after the celebration to make up my mind. After
that, I shall have to marry him or run."
"That celebration," he said bitterly, "is the cornerstone of every thing now." Briefly,
dispassionately, he told her of all that had happened. Of the trip across the Smoky
Desert, of the deaths of Miller, Wilson, and Lije Hatfield, and then of the death
of Sodermann and the others of Hale's men.
"Does he know of that yet?" he asked.
"I doubt it. He told me there had been an attempt to get food over the Blazer trail
and that the men who made it had been wiped out. I don't think he knew more than
that."
"I am going to fight Turner," he said.
She caught her breath suddenly. "Oh, no! Kilkenny, he is a brute! I have seen him
around the Palace. So huge. And so strong. I have seen him bend silver dollars in
his fingers. I have seen him squat beside a table, take the edge in his teeth, and
lift it clear off the floor."
"I know, but I must fight him. It is my only chance to get close to Halloran." He
explained quickly. "If we can just let them know that we aren't outlaws! If they
could only realize what is happening here, that these are good men, trying only to
establish homes! To fight him is my only chance."
"I heard you would. Brigo told me the word had come that you would fight him."
"What did Brigo say?" Kilkenny suddenly found he was very anxious to know. The big
Yaqui had an instinct for judging the fighting abilities of men. Powerful, fierce,
and ruthless himself, he knew fighting men, and he had been long in lands where men
lived by courage and strength.
"He says you will win." She said it simply. "I cannot see how anyone could defeat
that man, but Brigo is sure. He has made bets. And he is the only one who dares to
bet against Turner."
"Nita, if there's a chance, say something to Halloran."
"There won't be. Hale will see to that. But if there is, I surely will."
"Nita, when the fight is over, I'll come for you. I'm going to take you away from
this. Will you go?"
"Need you ask?" She smiled up at him in the dimness. "You know I will go, Kilkenny.
Wherever you go I will go, Kilkenny. I made my choice long ago."
Kilkenny slipped from the house and returned to his horse. The black stood patiently,
and when Lance touched his bridle, he jerked up his head and was ready to go. Yet
when he reached the turn, Lance swung the black horse down the street of Cedar Bluff.
261
A MAN CALLED TRENT 255 Walking the horse, he rode slowly up to the ring. It had been
set
up in an open space near the corrals. Seats had been placed around, with several
rows close to the ringside. That would be where King Bill would sit with his friends.
The emperor would watch the gladia tors. Kilkenny smiled wryly.
A light footstep sounded at the side of the ring, and Kilkenny's gun leaped from
its holster. "Don't move!" he whispered sharply. "It's all right, Kilkenny." The
man stepped closer, his hands held wide. "It's Dan Cooper."
"So you know I'm Kilkenny?" Cooper chuckled.
"Yeah, I recognized your face that first day, but couldn't tie it to a name. It came
to me just now. Hale will be wild when he hears." "You're a good man, Cooper," Kilkenny
said suddenly. "Why stay on the wrong side?"
"Is the winnin' side the wrong side? Not for me it ain't. I ain't sayin' as to who's
right in this squabble, but for a gunhand, the winnin' side is the right one."
"No conscience, Cooper?" Kilkenny questioned, trying to see the other man's eyes
through the darkness. "Dick Moffitt was a good man. So were Jody Miller, Tot Wilson,
an' Lije Hatfield."
"Then Lije died?" Cooper's voice quickened. "That's not good, for you or us. The
Hales, they don't think much of the Hatfields. I do. I know 'em. The Hales will have
to kill every last Hatfield now or die themselves. I know them."
"You could have tried a shot at me, Cooper," Kilkenny suggested. "Me?" Cooper laughed
lightly. "I'm not the kind, Kilkenny. Not in the dark, without a warnin'. I ain't
so anxious to get you, anyway. I'd be the hombre that killed Kilkenny, an' that's
like settin' yourself up in a shootin' gallery. Anyway, I want to see the fight."
"The fight?"
"Between you and Tombull. That should be good." Cooper leaned against the platform
of the ring. "Between the two of us, I ain't envyin' you none. That hombre's poison.
He ain't human. Eats food enough for three men. Still," Cooper shoved his hat back
on his head, "you sure took King Bill, an' he was some shakes of a scrapper. "
Cooper straightened up. "Y'know, Kilkenny, just two men in town are bettin' on you."
"Two?" "Uh-huh. One's that Yaqui gunman, Brigo. The other's Cain Brockman."
"Cain Brockman?" Kilkenny was startled.
"Yeah. He says he's goin' to kill you, but he says you can whip
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256 Louis L'AMMoux
Turner first. He told Turner to his face that you was the best man. Turner was sure
mad."
Dan Cooper hitched up his belt. "Almost time for my relief. If I was you, I'd take
out. The next hombre might not be so anxious to see a good fight that he'd pass up
five thousand dollars."
"You mean there's money on my head?" Kilkenny asked.
"Yeah. Five thousand. Dead or alive." Cooper shrugged. "Cub didn't like the idea
of the reward. He figures you're staked out for him."
"Okay, Dan. Enjoyed the confab."
"Thanks. Listen, make that fight worth the money, will you? An' by the way-watch
Cub Hale. He's poison mean and faster than a strikin' rattler!"
Kilkenny rode out of town and took to the hills. The route he took homeward was not
the same as that by which he had approached the town. Long ago he had learned it
was very foolhardy to retrace one's steps. He bedded down about daylight and slept
until early afternoon.
So Cain Brockman was betting on him. For a long time, Kilkenny sat in speculation.
He lived over again that bitter, bloody afternoon in the Trail House when he had
whipped the huge Cain. It had seemed that great bulk was impervious to anything in
the shape of a human fist. Yet he had brought him down, had beaten him into helplessness.
Parson and Quince strolled over and sat down. Their faces were grave. It was like
these men to hide their grief, yet he knew that under the emotionless faces of the
men there was a feeling of family and unity stronger than any he had ever known.
These men loved each other and lived for each other.
"Kilkenny, you set on fightin' this Turner?" Parson inquired. "Yes, I am," Kilkenny
said quietly. "It's our big chance. It is more than a chance to talk to Halloran,
too. It's a chance to hit Hale another wallop. "
"To hurt him, you got to beat Turner," Quince said, staring at Kilkenny. "You got
to win."
"That's right," Kilkenny agreed. "So I'm goin' in to win. I've changed my mind about
some things. I was figurin' just on stayin' in there long enough to talk to the officials
from Santa Fe, but now I am goin' in there to win.
"If I win, I make friends. People will like to see Hale beat again. Halloran is an
Irishman, an' an Irishman loves a good fighter. Well, I got to win."
They were silent for a few minutes and Parson chewed on a straw. Then he looked up
from under his bushy gray eyebrows.
"It ain't the fight what worries me. If the good Lord wants you to
263
A MAN CALLED TRENT 257 win, you'll win. What bothers me is after-win or lose, what
happens then? Think Hale will let you go?"
Kilkenny smiled grimly. "He will, or there'll be blood on the streets of Cedar. Hale
blood!"
Chapter XV
The
Chips
Are Down
The crowds had started coming to Cedar by daylight. The miners had come, drifting
over for the rodeo and the fight. The gold camps had been abandoned for the day,
as there was rarely any celebration for them, rarely any relief from the loneliness
and the endless masculinity of the gold camps.
The cowhands from the Hale Ranch were around in force. The bars were doing a rushing
business even before noon, and the streets were jammed with people.
Kilkenny rode into town on the buckskin when the sun was high. For over an hour he
had been lying on a hillside above the town, watching the movement. It was almost
certain that King Bill would avoid trouble today. There were too many visitors, too
many people who were beyond his control. He would be on his good behavior today,
making an impression as the upright citizen and free-handed giver of celebrations.
A rider under a flag of truce had appeared in the cup the evening before with an
invitation to Kilkenny and the actual challenge for the fight. Word of Kilkenny's
willingness for the fight had seeped into town by the grapevine several days before,
so no tricks were needed. Kilkenny was to report to a man named John Bartlett, at
the Crystal Palace.
Kilkenny, accompanied by Parson Hatfield and Steve Runyon, rode down to the Palace
and dismounted. Quince Hatfield and O'Hara had already arrived in town, and they
moved up outside the Palace and loafed where they could watch the horses. Only a
few of the Hale riders actually knew them by sight.
Pushing open the batwing doors, Kilkenny stepped inside, Parson at his elbow. The
place was crowded, and all the games were going full blast. Kilkenny's quick eyes
swept the place. Jaime Brigo was in his usual chair across the room, and their eyes
met. Then Kilkenny located Price Dixon. He was dealing cards at a nearby table.
There was a warning in Dixon's eyes, and then Price made an almost imperceptible
gesture of his head. Turning his eyes, Kilkenny felt a little chill go over him.
Cain Brockman was standing at the bar, and Cain was watching him.
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258 Louis L
'AMOUR
Slowly, as though subtly aware of the tension in the room, eyes began to lift. As
if by instinct they went from the tall, broadshouldered man with the bronzed face,
clad completely in black, to the towering bruiser in the checked shirt and the worn
levis.
Then, his hands hanging carelessly at his sides, his flat-brimmed hat tipped just
a little, Kilkenny started across the room toward Cain Brockman. A deadly hush fell
over the room. Cain had turned, his wide unshaven face still marked by the scars
of his former battle with Kilkenny, marked with scars he would carry to his grave.
Through narrow eyes the big man looked at Kilkenny, watching his slow steps across
the floor, the studied ease, the grace of the man in black, the two big guns at his
hips. Unseen, Nita Riordan had come to the door of her room, and eyes wide, she watched
Kilkenny walk slowly among the tables and pause before Cain Brockman.
For a minute the two men looked at each other. Then Kilkenny spoke. "I hear you've
come to town to kill me, Cain," he said quietly. Yet in the deathly hush of the room
his voice carried to each corner.
"Well, I've another fight on my hands, with Tombull Turner. If we shoot it out, I'm
going to kill you, but you're a good man with a gun, and I reckon I'll catch some
lead. Fighting Tombull is going to be enough without carrying a crawful of lead when
I do it. So how about a truce until afterward?"
For an instant, Cain hesitated. In the small gray eyes, chill and cold, there came
a little light of reluctant admiration. He straightened. "I reckon I can wait," Cain
drawled harshly. "Let it never be said that Cain Brockman broke up a good fight!"
"Thanks." Abruptly, Kilkenny turned away, turning his back full on Cain Brockman,
and with the same slow walk crossed the room to Price Dixon. A big red-headed man
stood at the table near Price.
As he walked up to the table, the batwing doors pushed open and four men walked in.
Kilkenny noticed them and felt the flash of recognition of danger go over him. It
was King Bill Hale, Cub Hale, and the gold-dust twins, Dunn and Ravitz.
Ignoring them, Kilkenny walked up to the red-headed man. "You're John Bartlett?"
he asked. "I'm Kilkenny."
"Glad to meet you." Bartlett thrust out a huge hand. "How'd you know me?"
"Saw you in Abilene. Again in New Orleans."
"Then you've seen Turner fight?" Bartlett demanded keenly. He glanced up and down
Kilkenny with a quick, practiced eye.
"Yes. I've seen him fight."
"An' you're not afraid? He's a bruiser. He nearly killed To' Hanlon."
265
A MAN CALLED TRENT 259 Kilkenny smiled. "An' who was Tom Hanlon? A big chunk of beef
so slow he couldn't get out of his own way. I see nothing in Turner to fear."
"You'll actually fight him then?" Bartlett was incredulous.
"Fight him?" Kilkenny asked. "Fight him? I'm going to whip him!"
"That's the way to talk!" A big, black-bearded miner burst out. "I'm sick of this
big bull of a Turner struttin' around. My money goes on Kilkenny."
"Mine, too," another miner said. "I'd rather he was a miner, but I'll even bet on
a cowhand if he can fight."
Kilkenny turned and looked at the miner, and then he grinned. "Friend," he said,
"I've swung a single jack for many a day and tried a pan on half the creeks in Arizona."
Bartlett leaned forward. "This fight is for a prize of one thousand dollars in gold,
put up by King Hale. However, if you want to make a side bet-?"
"I do," Kilkenny said. He unbuttoned his shirt and took out a packet of bills. "Five
thousand dollars of it."
"Five thousand?" Bartlett swallowed and saw Hale frown. "I don't think we can cover
it."
"What?" Kilkenny looked up, and his eyes met those of King Bill. "I understood that
Hale was offering three to one, and no takers. That's the money I want. Some of that
three to one that Bill Hale is offering. "
"Three to one?" Hale demanded. "Why, I never-" The astonish ment in his voice was
plain enough, but Kilkenny knew he had him, and every move was calculated to win
the crowd, not for himself, but for the men he represented. To back down would mean
loss of prestige to Hale; to declare he knew of no three-to-one offer would make
many believe he had welshed on his bet. And if Kilkenny won, Hale would never dare
order him killed because all would think it was revenge for losing the bet. And if
Kilkenny lost, it would still put Hale in a bad light if he were suddenly murdered.
"What's the matter, Hale?" Kilkenny demanded sharply, and his voice rang loud in
the crowded room. "Are you backing down? Have you decided the man who whipped you
on your own ground can whip Turner, too? Didn't you bring Tombull Turner here to
whip me or to force me to back down?
"I'm calling you, Hale. Put up or shut up! I'm betting five thou sand against your
fifteen thousand that I win. I'm betting all I own, aside from that little claim
you're trying to take away from me, against a mere fifteen thousand. Are you backing
down?"
No, by the Lord Harry, I'm not!" Hale's face was purple with
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260 Louis L'AMOUR
anger. "I'm not going to let any fence-crawling nester throw money in my face. I'm
covering you."
Kilkenny smiled slowly. "Looks like an interesting afternoon," he said cheerfully.
Then he turned and walked slowly from the room, conscious that at every step he took,
the white cold eyes of Cub Hale followed him, their hatred almost a tangible thing.
When they got outside, Parson stared at him. "You sure made King Bill look bad in
there. You made some friends."
"You mean,
we
made friends," Kilkenny said quietly. "That's the point. We've got to make friends,
we've got to get the sympathy of these miners and the outside people Hale can't touch.
If we can get enough of them, we've got a fighting chance. Hale can't get too raw.
There's law in this country now, an' he can win only so long as he can make what
he's doin' seem right.
"If it stopped right here, an' he got me killed or took my land, a lot of people
would be asking questions. They'll remember what I said. You see, Parson, we're little
people buckin' a powerful an' wealthy man. That makes us the underdogs.
"I'm the smaller man in this fight, too. I'm a cowhand and a miner fightin' a trained
prizefighter with my fists. A good part of that crowd is goin' to be with me for
that reason, even some of Hale's cowhands."
It was midafternoon when Kilkenny walked down to the ring. The corral fence was covered
with cowhands and miners, and the intervening space was filled with them. They were
crowded along roofs and in every bit of space. Scanning the crowd, Kilkenny's eyes
glinted. The miners were out in strength, and with them had come a number of gamblers,
cowhands from outside the valley, and a few odds and ends of trappers.
The cluster of seats near the ring was empty, and two men guarded them. Kilkenny
walked down to the ringside and stripped to the waist. He slipped off his boots and
pulled on a pair of Indian moccasins that fitted snugly.
There was a roar from the crowd, and he saw Tombull Turner leaving the back door
of Leathers's store and striding toward the ring, wrapped in a blanket. As he climbed
through the ropes and walked to his corner, King Bill Hale, Cub Hale, and two men
in store clothes left the Mecca and started toward the ring. Behind them walked Dunn
and Ravitz.
Then, escorted by Jaime Brigo, Nita Riordan left the Palace and walked slowly through
the crowd toward the ring. She was beautifully dressed, in the very latest of fashion,
and carried her chin high. Men drew aside to let her pass, and those along the way
she walked removed their hats.
Nita Riordan had proved to Cedar Bluff that a woman could run a
267
A MAN CALLED TRENT 261 gambling joint and still remain a lady. Not one word had ever
been said against her character. Even the most skeptical had been con vinced, both
by her own ladylike manner and by the ever-watchful presence of Brigo.
Price Dixon walked down to Kilkenny's corner. He hesitated and then stepped forward.
"I've had some experience as a handler," he said simply, "if you'll trust a gambling
man."
Kilkenny looked at him and then smiled. "Why, I reckon we're all gambling men after
a fashion, sir. I'd be proud to have you."
He glanced around quickly. John Bartlett was to referee, and the big red-headed man
was already in the ring. Parson Hatfield, wear ing a huge Walker Colt, lounged behind
Kilkenny's corner. Runyon was a short distance away, and near him was Quince Hatfield.
O'Hara was to work in Kilkenny's corner also.
Chapter XVI
Test of Battle
Kilkenny climbed quickly into the ring and slipped off the coat he had hung around
his shoulders. He heard a low murmur from the crowd. He knew they were sizing him
up.
Tombull Turner was the larger by thirty pounds. He was taller, broader, and thicker,
a huge man with a round, bullet head set on a powerful neck and mighty shoulders.
His biceps and forearms were heavy with muscle, and the deltoid development on the
ends of his shoulders was large. His stomach was flat and solid, his legs columns
of strength.
Kilkenny was lean. His shoulders were broad and had the strength of years of living
in the open, working, fighting, and struggling. His stomach was flat and corded with
muscle and his shoulders splen didly muscled, yet beside the bigger man, he appeared
much smaller.
Actually, he weighed two hundred pounds. Yet scarcely a man present, if asked to
guess his weight, would have made it more than one hundred and eighty.
Bartlett walked to the center of the ring and raised a huge hand. The rules is no
punches below the belt. Hit as long as they have one hand free. No gouging or biting
allowed. Holding and hitting is fair. When, a man falls, is thrown, or is knocked
to the floor, the round ends. The fight is to a finish." He strode back, glancing
with piercing eyes from Turner to Kilkenny.
The call of time was made, and the two men came forward to the scratch. Instantly,
Tombull rushed, swinging with both hands. Kilkenny Weaved inside and smashed hard
with a right and left to the body.
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262 Louis L'AMOUR
Then Turner grabbed him and attempted to hurl him to the floor, but Kilkenny twisted
himself loose and struck with a lightninglike left to the bigger man's mouth.
Turner set himself and swung a left that caught Kilkenny in the chest and knocked
him back against the ropes. The crowd let out a roar, but unhurt, Kilkenny slipped
away from Turner's charge and landed twice to the ribs. The big man closed in, feinted
a left, and caught Kilkenny with a wicked overhand right that hit him on the temple.
Groggy, Kilkenny staggered into the ropes, and Turner charged like a bull and struck
twice, left and right, to Kilkenny's head. Lance clinched and hung on tight. Then,
slipping a heel behind Turner's ankle, he tripped him up and threw him hard to the
canvas!
He walked to his corner, seeing through a mist. They doused him with water, and at
the call of time he came out slowly until almost up to the scratch. Then he lunged
forward and landed with a hard left to the side of the neck. Tombull took it flat-footed
and walked in, apparently unhurt. Kilkenny evaded a right and then lashed back with
both hands, staggering the big man again.
Turner lunged forward, hitting Kilkenny with a short right, and then, slipping Kilkenny's
left, he grabbed him and threw him to the floor. The third round opened with both
men coming out fast, and walking right together they began to slug. Then Kilkenny
blocked Turner's left and hit him in the body with a right. They broke free, and
circling, Kilkenny got a look at the two men sitting with Hale.
One was Halloran. The other was a leaner, taller man. Lance evaded a rush and then
clipped Turner with a right. He had been doing well, but he was no fool. Turner was
a fighter, and the big man had not been trying yet, was just getting warmed up now.
He was quite sure Tombull was under orders to beat him, to pound him badly, but to
keep him in the ring as long as possible. Hale was to have his revenge, his bloodletting.
Tombull Turner moved in, landing a powerful left to the head and then a right to
the body. Kilkenny circled away from Turner's heavy-hitting right. Turner bored in,
striving to get his hands on the lighter man and to get his fists where he could
hit better. He liked to use short punches when standing close. Kilkenny slid away,
stabbed a long left to Turner's mouth, feinted, and when Tombull swung his right,
stepped in and smashed both hands to the body.
For all the effect the punches had he might have been hitting a huge drum. Turner
rushed, crowding Kilkenny against the ropes, where he launched a storm of crashing,
battering blows. One fist caught Kilkenny over the eye, and another crashed into
the pit of his stomach. Then a clubbing right hit Kilkenny on the kidney. He staggered
away, and Turner, his big fists poised, crowded closer.
269
A MAN CALLED TRENT 263 He swung for the head, and Kilkenny ducked the right but caught
a chopping blow from the left that started blood flowing from a cut over one eye.
Kilkenny backed away, and Turner rushed and floored Kilkenny with a smashing right.
Dixon worked over the eye rapidly and skillfully. Kilkenny found time to be surprised
at his skill. "Watch that right," O'Hara said. "It's bad."
Kilkenny moved up to scratch and then sidestepped just in time to miss Turner's bull
rush. He stepped in and stabbed a left to the head, and then Tombull got in close
and hurled him to the canvas again.
Taking the rest on the stool, Kilkenny relaxed. Then at the call, he came to the
scratch again, and suddenly, leaping in, he smashed two rocking punches to Turner's
jaw. The bigger man staggered, and before he could recover, Kilkenny stepped in,
stabbed a hard left to the mouth, and then hooked a powerful right to the body. Turner
tried to get his feet under him, but Kilkenny was relentless. He smashed a left to
the mouth and a right to the body and then landed both hands to the body as Turner
hit the ropes.
Tombull braced himself and, summoning his tremendous strength, bulled in close, literally
hurled Kilkenny across the ring, and then followed with a rush. The crowd was on
its feet now. Kilkenny feinted and then smashed a powerful right to the ribs. Turner
tried a left, and pushing it aside, Kilkenny stepped in with a wicked left uppercut
to the wind. Turner staggered.
The crowd was on its feet now, yelling for Kilkenny. He shook Turner with a right,
but Tombull set himself and threw a mighty right that caught Kilkenny coming in and
flattened him on the canvas.
When he got to his corner, he could see the crowd was excited. He was badly shaken,
but not dazed by the blow. Suddenly, he was on his feet, and before anyone could
realize what was happening, he had stepped across to the ringside where Hale sat
with the two officials.
"Gentlemen," he said swiftly, "I've little time. I am fighting here today because
it is the only way I could get to speak to you. I am one of a dozen nesters who have
filed on claims among the peaks, claims from which Hale is unlawfully trying to drive
us. One man has been cruelly murdered-"
The call of time interrupted. He wheeled to see Tombull charging, ar0 he slid away
along the ropes. Then Turner hit him and he staggered, but Turner lunged close, unwilling
to let him fall. Shoving him back against the ropes, Turner shoved a left to his
chin and then clubbed a powerful right.
270
264 Louis L'AMOUa
Blasting pain seared across Kilkenny's brain. He saw that right go up again and knew
he could never survive another such punch. With all his strength, he jerked away.
Turner intended to kill him now.
In a daze, he could see Hale was on his feet, as were the officials. Cub Hale had
a hand on his gun, and Parson Hatfield was facing him across the ring. Then Kilkenny
jerked loose.
But Turner was on him like a madman, clubbing, striking with all his mighty strength,
trying to batter Kilkenny into helplessness before the round ended. The crowd was
in a mighty uproar, and in a haze of pain and waning consciousness, Kilkenny saw
Steve Runyon had slipped behind Cub Hale and had a gun on him.
Somebody was shouting outside the ring, and then Turner hit him again and he broke
away from Tombull and crashed to the canvas. O'Hara carried him bodily to his corner,
where Dixon worked
over him like mad. The call of time came, and Kilkenny staggered to his feet and
had taken but one step toward the mark when Tombull hit him like a hurricane, sweeping
him back into the ropes with a whirlwind of staggering, pounding, battering blows.
Weaving, swaying, slipping and ducking punches, Kilkenny tried to weather the storm.
Somehow he slipped under a right to the head and got in close. Spreading his legs
wide, he began to slug both hands into the big man's body. The crowd had gone mad
now, but he was berserk. The huge man was fighting like a madman, eager for the kill,
and Kilkenny was suddenly lost to everything but the battering fury of the fight
and the lust to put the big man down and to keep him down.
Slipping a left, he smashed a wicked right to the ribs and then another and another.
Driving in, he refused to let Turner get set and smashed him with punch after punch.
Turner threw him off, but he leaped in again, got Tombull's head in chancery with
a crude headlock, and proceeded to batter blow after blow into the big man's face
before Turner did a back somersault to break free and end the round.
Panting, gasping for every breath when each stabbed like a knife, Kilkenny swung
to the ropes. "We've been refused food in Cedar!" Kilkenny shouted hoarsely at the
officials. "We sent a wagon to Blazer, and three men were waylaid and killed. On
a second attempt, we succeeded in getting a little, but only after a pitched battle.
"
The call of time came and he wheeled. Turner was on him with a rush, his face bloody
and wild. Kilkenny set himself and struck hard with a left that smashed Turner's
nose and then with a wicked right that rocked Turner to his heels. Faster than the
big man, he carried less weight and was tiring less rapidly. Also, the pounding of
his body blows had weakened the bigger man.
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 265
Close in, they began to slug, but here, too, despite Turner's massive strength, Kilkenny
was the better man. He was faster, and he was beating the big man to the punch. Smashing
a wicked left to the chin, Kilkenny stepped in and hooked both hands hard to the
body. Then he brought up an uppercut that ripped a gash across Turner's face. Before
Tombull could get set, Kilkenny drove after him with a smashing volley of hooks and
swings that had the big man reeling.
Everyone was yelling now, yelling like madmen, but Turner was gone. Kilkenny was
on him like a panther. He drove him into the ropes and, holding him there, struck
the big man three times in the face. Then Tombull broke loose and swung a right that
Kilkenny took in his stride. He smashed Turner back on his heels with a right of
his own.
The big man started to fall, and Kilkenny whipped both hands to his face with cracking
force! Turner went down, rolled over, and lay still.
In an instant, Kilkenny was across the ring. Grabbing his guns, he strapped them
on. His fists were battered and swollen, but he could still hold a gun. He caught
a quick glimpse of Nita and saw Brigo was hurrying her from the crowd. Parson and
Quincy Hatfield closed in beside him, guns drawn.
"I'll have to go with you," Dixon said. "If I stay now they'll kill me. "
"Come on," Kilkenny said grimly. "We can use you."
Backing after them, Runyon kept Cub Hale at the end of his gun. The younger Hale's
face was white. Then as the Hale cowhands began to gather, a mob of miners surged
between them.
"Go ahead," a big miner shouted. "We'll stand by you."
Kilkenny smiled suddenly, and swinging away from his men he walked directly toward
the crowding cowhands. Muttering sullenly, they broke ahead of him, and he strode
up to King Bill Hale. The big rancher was pale, and his eyes were cold as ice and
bitter. Halloran stood behind him, and the tall, cool-eyed man stood nearby.
"I will take my fifteen thousand dollars now," Kilkenny said quietly. His face sullen
and stiff, Hale counted out the money and thrust it at him. Kilkenny turned then,
bowed slightly to Halloran and the other man, and said quietly:
"What I have told you here, gentlemen, is true. I wish you would investigate the
claims of Hale to our land, and our own filings upon that land."
Turning, he walked back to the miners, mounted, and rode off with the Hatfields,
O'Hara, and Runyon close about him.
"We'll have to move fast!" Kilkenny said. "What happens will happen quick now!"
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266 Louis L"AMOUR
"What can he do now?" Runyon asked. "We got our story across." "Supposin' when they
come back to investigate, there aren't any of us left?" Kilkenny demanded. "What
could anybody do about that? There'd be no witnesses, an' even if they asked a lot
of questions it wouldn't do us any good. The big fight will come now."
They rode hard and fast, sticking to little-known trails through the brush. They
threaded the bottom of a twisted, broken canyon and curled along a path that led
along the sloping shoulder of a rocky hill among the cedars.
Kilkenny rode with his rifle across the saddle in front of him and with one hand
always ready to swing it up. He was under no misapprehension about King Bill. The
man had been defeated again, and he would be frantic now. His ego was being sadly
battered, and to prove to himself that he was still the power in the Cedar Valley
country he must wipe this trouble from the earth.
He would have lost much. Knowing the man, and knowing the white lightning that lay
beneath the surface of Cub Hale, he knew the older man must more than once have cautioned
the slower, surer method. Now Cub would be ranting for a shootout. Kilkenny knew
he had gauged that young man correctly. He was spoiled. The son of a man of power,
he had ridden wild and free and had grown more arrogant by the year, taking what
he wanted and killing those who thwarted him.
Dunn and Ravitz would be with him, he knew. That trio was poison itself. He was no
fool. He believed he could beat Hale. Yet he had no illusions about beating all three.
There was, of course, the chance of catching them off side as he had caught the Brockmans
that day in Cottonwood. The Brockmans! Like a flash he remembered Cain. The big man
was free to come gunning for him now!
Chapter XVII
Fight
in
the Gorge
Winding around a saddle trail leading into a deep gorge, they came out on the sandy
bottom, and he speeded their movement to a rapid trot. Despite himself, he was worried.
At the cup, there were only Jesse and Saul Hatfield, Bartram, and Jackie Moffitt.
Suppose Hale had taken that moment to sweep down upon them and shoot it out. With
luck, the defenders might hold the cup, but if the breaks went against themHe turned
his horse up a steep slope toward the pines. Ahead of him, suddenly, there was a
rifle shot just one. It sounded loud and clear in the canyon, yet he heard no bullet.
As if by command, the
273
A MAN CALLED TRENT 267 little cavalcade spread out and rode up through the trees.
It was Kilkenny who swept around a clump of scrub pine and saw several men scrambling
for their horses. He reined in and dropped to the ground.
A rifle shot chunked into the trunk of the pine beside him, but he fired. One of
the riders dropped his rifle and grabbed for the saddle horn, and then they swept
into the trees. He got off three carefully spaced shots, heard Runyon, off to his
left, opening up, and then, further along, Parson himself.
He wheeled the buckskin and rode the yellow horse toward the canyon, yelling his
name as he swept into the cup. What he saw sent his face white with fear! Jesse Hatfield
lay sprawled full length on the hard-packed ground of the cup, a slow curl of blood
trickling from under his arm, a bloody gash on his head.
As he reined in alongside Jesse, the door of the house burst open and Jackie Moffitt
came running out. "They hit us about two hours ago!" Jackie said excitedly. "They
nicked Bart, too!"
Kilkenny dropped to his knees beside Hatfield and turned him gently. One bullet had
grazed his scalp; another had gone through his chest, high up. He looked at the wound
and the bubbling froth on the man's lips, and his lips tightened.
Price Dixon swung down beside him. Kneeling over Hatfield, he examined the wound.
Kilkenny's eyes narrowed as he saw the gam bler's fingers working over him with almost
professional skill. He quickly cut away the cloth and examined the wound.
"We'll have to get him inside," he said gravely. "I've got to operate."
"Operate?" Parson Hatfield stared at him. "You a doe?"
Dixon smiled wryly. "I was once," he said. "Maybe I still am." Ma Hatfield came to
the door bearing a rifle. Then putting it down she turned and walked back inside,
and when they brought the wounded man in, a bed was ready for him. Her long, thin-cheeked
face was grave, and only her eyes showed pain and shock. She worked swiftly and without
hysteria. Sally Crane was working over a wound in Bartram's arm, her own face white.
Kilkenny motioned to Parson and stepped outside. "I've got to go back tonight an'
get Nita," he said quietly. "I'll go alone."
You better take help. There's enough of us now to hold this place. You'll have you
a fight down to Cedar. An' don't forget Cain Brockman. "
"I won't. By night I can make it, I think. This is all comin' to a head now, Parson.
They can't wait now. We've called their hand an' raised 'em. They never figured on
me talkin'.
They
never figured on me winnin' that fight."
All right," Parson said, "we'll stand by." He looked down at the
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268 Louis L'AMOUR
ground a moment. "I reckon," he said slowly, "we've done a good day's work. I got
me a man back on the trail, too. Jackie says Jesse got one up on the rim. A couple
more nicked. That's goin' to spoil their appetite for fightin', an' spoil it a heap!"
"Yeah," Kilkenny agreed. "I'm ridin' at sundown, Parson."
Yet it was after sundown before he got started. Jesse Hatfield was in a bad way.
Price Dixon had taken a compact packet of tools from his saddlebags, and his operation
had been quick and skilled. His gambler's work had kept his hands well, and he showed
it now. Kilkenny glanced at him, curiosity in his eyes. At one time this man had
been a fine surgeon.
He was never surprised. In the West you found strange mennoblemen from Europe, wanderers
from fine old families, veterans of several wars, schoolboys, and boys who had grown
up along the cattle trails. Doctors, lawyers, men of brilliance, and men with none,
all had thronged west, looking for what the romantic called adventure and the experienced
knew was trouble, or looking for a new home, for a change, or escaping from something.
Price Dixon was one of these. The man was observant, shrewd, and cultured. He and
Kilkenny had known each other from the first, not as men who came from the same life,
but men who came from the same stratum of society. They were men of the lost legion,
the kind who always must move.
Despite his lack of practice, Dixon's moves were sure and his hands skilled. He removed
the bullet from dangerously near the spine. When he finished he washed his hands
and looked up at Parson.
"He'll live, with rest and treatment. Beef broth, that's what he needs now, to build
strength in him."
Parson grinned behind his gray mustache. "He'll get it," he said dryly. "He'll get
it as long as King Bill Hale has a steer on the range."
Sally Crane caught Kilkenny as he was saddling the little gray horse he was riding
that night. She hurried up to him and then stopped suddenly and stood there, shifting
her feet from side to side. Kilkenny turned and looked at her curiously from under
his flatbrimmed hat.
"What's the trouble, Sally?"
"I wanted to ask-" she hesitated, and he could sense her shyness. "Do you think I'm
old enough to marry?"
"To marry?" He stopped, startled. "Why, I don't know, Sally. How old are you?"
"I'm sixteen, most nigh seventeen."
"That's young," he conceded, "but I've heard Ma Hatfield say she
275
A MAN CALLED TRENT 269 was just sixteen when she married, an' down in Kentucky and
Virginia many a girl marries at that age. Why?"
"I reckon I want to marry," Sally said shyly. "Ma Hatfield said I should ask you.
Said you was Daddy Moffitt's friend, an' you was sort've my guardian."
"Me?" He was thunderstruck. "Well, I reckon I never thought of it that way. Who wants
to marry you, Sally?"
"It's Bart."
"You love him?" he asked. He suddenly felt strangely old, and yet, looking at the
young girl standing there so shyly, he felt more than ever before the vast loneliness
there was in him, and also a strange tenderness such as he had never known before.
"Yes." Her voice was shy, but he could sense the excitement in her, and the happiness.
"Well, Sally," he said slowly, "I reckon I'm as much a guardian as you've got now.
I think if you love Bartram an' he loves you, that's all that's needed. I know him.
He's a fine, brave, serious young fellow who's goin' to do right well as soon as
this trouble clears up.
Yes, I reckon you can marry him." She was gone, running.
For a few minutes he stood there, one foot in the stirrup. Then he swung his leg
over the gray horse and shook his head in astonishment. "That's one thing, Lance,"
he told himself, "you never expected to happen to you!"
But as he turned the horse into the pines, he remembered the Hatfields digging the
grave for their brother. Men died, men were married, and the fighting and living
and working went on. So it would always go. Lije Hatfield was gone, Miller and Wilson
were gone, and Jesse Hatfield lay near to death in the cabin in the cup.
Yet Sally was to marry Tom Bartram, and they were to build a home. Yes, this was
the country, and these were its people. They had the strength to live, the strength
to endure. In such a country men would he born, men who loved liberty and would ever
fight to preserve it.
The little gray was as surefooted as a mountain goat. Even the long-legged yellow
horse could walk no more silently, no more skillfully than this little mountain horse.
He talked to it in a low whisper and watched the ears flick backward with intelligence.
This was a good horse.
Yet when he reached the edge of Cedar Bluff, he reined in sharply. Something was
wrong. There was a vague smell of smoke in the air
and an atmosphere of uneasiness seemed to hang over the
, town. He looked down, studying the place. Something was wrong. omething had changed.
It was not only the emptiness left after a
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270 Louis L'AMOUR
crowd is gone, it was something else, something that made him uneasy.
He moved the gray horse forward slowly, keeping to sandy places where the horse would
make no sound. The black bulk of a building loomed before him, and he rode up beside
it and swung down. The smell of wood smoke was stronger. Then he peered around the
corner of the building. Where the Mecca had stood was only a heap of charred ruins.
Hale's place-burned! He scowled, trying to imagine what could have happened. An accident?
It could be, yet something warned him it was not that, and more, that the town wasn't
asleep.
Keeping to the side of the buildings, he walked forward a little. There was a faint
light in Bert Leathers's store. The Crystal Palace was dark. He went back to the
gray horse and carefully skirting the troubled area, came in from behind the building
and then swung down.
A man loomed ahead of him, a huge bulk of man. His heart seemed to stop, and he froze
against the building. It was Cain Brockman!
Watching, Kilkenny saw him moving with incredible stealth, slip to the side of the
Crystal Palace, work for an instant at the door, and then disappear inside.
Like a ghost, Kilkenny crossed the alley and went in the door fast. There he flattened
against the wall. He could hear the big man ahead of him, but only his breathing.
Stealthily, he crept after.
What could Brockman be doing here? Was he after Nita? Or hoping to find him? He crept
along, closed a door after him, and lost Brockman in the stillness. Then suddenly
a candle gleamed, and another. The first person he saw was Nita. She was standing
there, in riding costume, staring at him.
"You've come, Lance?" she said softly. "Then it was you I heard?" "No," he spoke
softly, "it wasn't me. Cain Brockman's here."
A shadow moved against the curtain at the far side of the big room, and Cain Brockman
stepped into the open.
"Yeah," he said softly, "I'm here."
He continued to move, coming around the card tables until he stood near, scarcely
a dozen feet away. The curtains were drawn on all the windows, thick drapes that
kept all light within. If he lived to be a thousand, Lance Kilkenny would never forget
that room.
It was large and rectangular. Along one side ran the bar; the rest, except for the
small dance floor where they stood now, was littered with tables and chairs. Here
and there were fallen chips, cards, cigarette butts, and glasses.
A balcony surrounded the room on three sides, a balcony with curtained booths. Only
the candles flickered in the great roomy
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 271 candles that burned brightly but with a wavering uncertain
light. The girl held her candles-Nita Riordan, with her dark hair gathered against
the nape of her neck, her eyes unusually large in the dimness.
Opposite Kilkenny stood the bulk of Cain Brockman. His big black hat was shoved back
on his huge head. His thick neck descended into powerful shoulders, and the checkered
shirt was open to expose a hairy chest. Crossed gun belts and big pistols completed
the picture, guns that hung just beneath the open hands.
Cain stood there, his flat face oily and unshaven in the vague light, his stance
wide, his feet in their riding boots seeming unusually small.
"Yeah," Cain repeated. "I'm here."
Kilkenny drew a deep breath. Suddenly a wave of hopelessness spread over him. He
could kill this man. He knew it. Yet why kill him? Cain Brockman had come looking
for him, had come because it was the code of the life he had lived and because the
one anchor he had, his brother Abel, had pulled loose.
Suddenly, Kilkenny saw Cain Brockman as he had never seen him before, as a big man,
simple and earnest, a man who had drifted along the darker trails because of some
accident of fate, and whose one tie, his brother, had been cut loose. He saw him
now as big, helpless, and rather lost. To kill Kilkenny was his only purpose in lifeAbruptly,
Kilkenny dropped his hands away from his guns. "Cain," he said, "I'm not going to
shoot it out with you. I'm not going to kill you. I'm not even goin' to try. Cain,
there's no sense in you an' me shootin' it out. Not a mite."
"What d'you mean?" The big man's brow was furrowed, his eyes narrowed with thought
as he tried to decide what deception was in this.
"I don't want to kill you, Cain. You an' your brother teamed up with the wrong crowd
in Texas. Because of that, I had to kill him. You looked for me, an' I had to fight
you an' whip you. I didn't want to then, an' I don't now.
"Cain, I owe somethin' to those people up there, the Hatfields an' the rest. They
want homes out here. I've got a reason to fight for them. If I kill, it'll be for
that. If I die, it'll be to keep their land for them. There's nothin' to gain for
you or me by shootin' it out. Suppose you kill me? What will you do then?"
Cain hesitated, staring, puzzled.
"Why, ride out of here. And go back to Texas." "An' then?"
"Co to ridin', I guess."
"Maybe, for a while. Then some hombre'll come along an' you'll
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272 Louis L'AMOUR
rustle a few cows. Then you'll rob a stage, an' one time they'll get you like they
got Sam Bass. You'll get shot down or you'll hang. "I'm not goin' to shoot you, Cain.
An' you're too good a man to
draw iron on a man who won't shoot! You're a good man, Cain. Just a good man on the
wrong trail. You've got too much good stuff in you to die the way you'll die."
Cain Brockman stared at him, and in the flickering candlelight, Kilkenny waited.
He was afraid for the first time, afraid his words would fail and the big man would
go for his gun. He didn't want to kill him, and he knew that his own gunman's instinct
would make him draw if Cain went for a gun.
Cain Brockman stood stock-still in the center of the room, and then he lifted a hand
to his face and pawed at his grizzled chin. "Well, I'll be-" he muttered. "I'll be
eternally-"
He shook his head, turned unsteadily, and lurched into the darkness toward the door.
Chapter XVIII
Disaster
Stalks
Kilkenny stepped back and wiped the sweat from his brow. Nita crossed the room to
him, her face radiant with relief.
"Oh, Lance!" she exclaimed. "That was wonderful! Wonderful!" Kilkenny grinned dazedly.
"It was awful just plain awful."
He glanced around. "What's happened here? Where's Brigo?" "He's in my room, Lance,"
Nita said quickly. "I was going to tell you, but Brockman came. He's hurt, very badly."
"Brigo? Hurt?" It seemed impossible. "What happened?"
"It was those two gunmen of Hale's. Cub sent them here after me. Brigo met them right
here, and they shot it out. He killed both Dunn and Ravitz, but he was hit three
times, once through the body. "
"What happened to the Mecca? What happened in town?"
"That was before Dunn and Ravitz came. Some miners were in the Mecca, and they were
all drinking. A miner had some words with a Hale gunman about the fight and about
the nesters. The miner spoke very loudly, and I guess he said what he thought about
Hale.
"The gunman reached for a gun, and the miner hit him with a bottle, and it was awful.
It was a regular battle. Miners against the Hale hands, and it was bloody and terrible.
"Some of the Hale riders liked your fight and your attitude, and they had quit. The
miners drove the others out of the Mecca and burned it to the ground. Then the miners
and the Hale riders fought
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 273 all up and down the streets. But no one was killed. Nobody
used a gun then. I guess all of them were afraid what might happen."
"And the miners?" Kilkenny asked quickly.
"They mounted up and got into wagons and rode out of town on the way back to their
claims. It was like a ghost town then. Nobody stirred on the streets. They are littered
with bottles, broken win dows, and clubs. Then everything was quiet until Dunn and
Ravitz came."
"What about Hale? King Bill, I mean?"
"We've only heard rumors. Some of the cowhands who quit stopped by here to get drinks.
They said that Hale acts like a man who'd lost his mind. He had been here after the
fight, before he went home. He asked me to marry him, and I refused. He said he would
take me, and I told him Brigo would kill him if he tried. Then he went away. It was
afterward that Cub sent the gunmen for me. He wanted me for himself.
"Something has happened to Hale. He doesn't even look like the same man. You won
fifteen thousand dollars from him, and he paid you. He lost money to the miners,
too, and to Cain Brockman. It hit him hard. He's a man who has always won, always
had things his own way. He isn't used to being thwarted, isn't used to adversity,
and he can't take it.
"Then before he left, Halloran told him he would have to let the law decide about
the nesters, and Hale declared that he was the law. Halloran told him he would find
out he was not and that if he had ordered the killing of Dick Moffitt, he would hang."
"And then?"
"He seemed broken. He just seemed to go to pieces. I think he had ruled here these
past ten years and that he actually believed he was king, that he had the power and
that nothing could win against him. Everything had gone just as he wanted until you
came along."
"You mean," Kilkenny said dryly, "until he tried to turn some good Americans out
of their homes."
"Well, anyway, you'd managed to get food from here right under his nose. Then when
the attempt along the Blazer trail was tried, and he practically wiped your men out,
he was supremely confident. But his attack on the cup failed.
"What really did it all was your defeat of Turner, and at the moment when he had
finished paying off, he was told for the first time of the death of Sodermann at
Blazer.
"Then some of the cowhands who quit took the opportunity to drive off almost a thousand
head of cattle. These defeats and what Halloran told him have completely demoralized
the man."
What about Cub?"
He's wild. He hated you, and he was furious that some of the
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274 Louis L'AMOUR
men quit. He doesn't care about Halloran, for he's completely lawless. He's taken
a dozen of the toughest men and gone after the stolen cattle."
"Good! That means we have time." Kilkenny took her by the arms. "Nita, you can't
stay here. He might just come back. You must go to the cup and send Price Dixon down
here. He can do something for Brigo. Tell him to get here as fast as he can. And
you'll be safe there."
"But you?" Nita protested.
He smiled gently and put his hand on her head. "Don't worry about me, Nita. I've
lived this way for years. I'll do what I can for Jaime. But hurry."
She hesitated only an instant. Then, suddenly on tiptoe, she kissed him lightly on
the lips and turned toward the door.
"Just take my horse," he said. "It'll be quicker. The little gray. Give him his head
and he'll go right back to the cup. I got him from Parson Hatfield."
Nita was gone.
Kilkenny turned swiftly and took a quick look around the darkened room. Then he walked
through the door and over to the bed where Brigo lay.
The big Yaqui was asleep. He was breathing deeply, and his face was pale. When Kilkenny
laid a hand on his brow, it was hot to the touch. Yet he was resting and was better
left alone.
Kilkenny walked back into the main room and checked his guns by the candles. Then
he got Brigo's guns, reloaded them, and hunted around. He found two more rifles,
a double-barrelled shotgun and many shells, and two more pistols. He loaded them
all and placed the pistols in a neat row on the bar. One he thrust into his waistband,
leaving his own guns in their holsters.
Then he doused the candles and sat down in Brigo's chair by the door. It would be
a long time until morning.
Twice during the long hours he got up and paced restlessly about the great room,
staring out into the vague dimness of the night at the ghostly street. It was deathly
still. Once, something struck a bottle, and he was out of his chair, gun in hand.
But when he tiptoed to the window, he saw it was merely a lonely burro wandering
aimlessly in the dead street.
Toward morning he slept a little, only restlessly and in snatches, every nerve alert
for trouble or some sound that would warn of danger. When it was growing gray in
the street, he went in to look at the wounded man. Brigo had opened his eyes and
was lying there. He looked feverish. Kilkenny changed the dressing on the wound after
bathing it and then checked the two flesh wounds.
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 275 "Senor? Is it bad?" Brigo asked, turning his big black eyes
toward Kilkenny.
"Not very. You lie still. Dixon is coming down." "Dixon?" Brigo was puzzled.
"Yeah, he used to be a doctor. Good, too."
"A strange man." Sudden alarm came into Brigo's eyes. "And the senorita?"
"I sent her to the cup, to the Hatfields. She'll be safe there."
"Bueno.
Cub, he has not come?"
"No. You'd better rest and lay off the talk. Don't worry if they come. I've got plenty
of guns."
He put the water bucket close by the bed, and a tin cup on the table. Then he went
out into the saloon.
In the gray light of dawn it looked garish and tawdry. Empty glasses lay about, and
scattered poker chips. Idly, he began to straighten things up a little. Then, after
making a round of the windows, he went to the kitchen and started a fire. Then he
put on water for coffee.
Cub Hale would come. It might take him a few hours or a few days to find the herd.
He might grow impatient and return here first. He would believe Nita was still here,
and his gunmen had not returned.
Or he might send some men. Nita would not go over the trail as fast as he or the
Hatfields. If all was well at the cup, the earliest Price could get here would be
midday.
No one moved in the street. The gray dawn made it look strange and lonely in its
emptiness. Somewhere, behind one of the houses, he heard the squeaking of a pump
handle and then the clatter of a tin pail. His eyelids drooped and he felt very tired.
He shook himself awake and walked to the kitchen. The water was ready, so he made
coffee, strong and black.
Brigo was awake when he came in and the big man took the coffee gratefully.
"Bueno,"
he said.
Kilkenny noticed the man had somehow managed to reach his gun belt and had his guns
on the table.
"Any pain?" he asked.
Brigo shrugged, and after a look at him, Kilkenny walked out. Out in the main room
of the saloon, he looked thoughtfully around. Then he searched until he found a hammer
and nails. Getting some loose lumber from the back room, he nailed boards over the
windows, leaving only a narrow space as a loophole from which each side of the building
might be observed. Then he prepared breakfast.
The work on breakfast showed him how dangerously short of fooc they were. He thrust
his head in the door and saw Brigo's eyes open.
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276 Louis L'AMOUR
"We're short of grub an' might have to stand a siege. I'm goin' down to Leathers's
store."
The street was empty when he peered out of the door. He took a step out onto the
porch. One would have thought the town was deserted. There was no sound now. Even
the squeaky pump was still. He stepped down into the street and walked along slowly,
little puffs of dust rising at every step. Then he went up on the boardwalk. There
was still no sign of life.
The door to Leathers's store was closed. He rattled the knob, and there was no response.
Without further hesitation he put his shoulder to the door, picked up on the knob
and shoved. It held, but then he set himself and lunged. The lock burst and the door
swung inward. Almost instantly, Leathers appeared from the back of the store.
"Here!" he exclaimed angrily. "You can't do this!"
"When I rattled the door you should have opened it," Kilkenny said quietly. "I need
some supplies."
"I told you once I couldn't sell to you," Leathers protested. Kilkenny looked at
him with disgust. "You're a yellowbelly, Leathers," he said quietly. "Why did you
ever come west? You're built for a neat little civilized community where you can
knuckle under to authority and crawl every time somebody looks at you. We don't like
that in the West."
He picked up a slab of bacon and thrust it into a sack, and then he began piling
more groceries into the burlap sack, until it was full. He took out some money and
dropped it on the counter. He turned then to go. Leathers stood watching him angrily.
"Hale will get you for this," he snapped out.
Kilkenny turned patiently. "Leathers, you're a fool. Can't you realize that Hale
is finished? That whole setup is finished-and you sided with them, so you're finished.
"You're the kind that always has to bow to authority. You think money is everything
and power is everything. You've spent your life living in the shadow and cringing
before bigger men. A good part of it's due to that sanctimonious wife of yours. If
King Bill smiled at her she walked in a daze for hours. It's because she's a snob
and you're a weakling.
"Take a tip from me. Take what cash you've got, load up some supplies, and get out
of here-but fast."
"An' leave my store?" Leathers wailed. "What do you mean?" "What I say." Kilkenny's
voice was harsh. "There's going to be some doin's in this town before another day.
Hale's riders are comin back, an' Cub Hale will be leadin' 'em. You know how much
respect he has for property or anythin'. If he doesn't clear you out, the Hatfields
will. There's no place for you in Cedar anymore. We Want
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A MAN CALLED TRENT 277 to build from the ground up here, an' we want men who'll fight
for what they believe. You won't, an' you were against us, so get out!"
He walked back down the silent street, went into the saloon and stored his grub.
Despite himself, he was worried. The morning was early yet, and he was expecting
some of the Hale riders, and soon. The longer he waited, the more worried he became.
Brigo needed medical attention, and Doc Pollard, the Hale hench man, had gone to
the Hale ranch. He was little better than useless, anyway.
Seated at a table he riffled the cards, and the sound was loud in the room. No one
moved in the deserted street, and he played silently, smoking endless cigarettes
and waiting.
Again and again his thoughts returned to Nita. After all, should he wait? Supposing
he was killed eventually? Why not have a little happiness first? He knew without
asking that she was the girl for him, and he knew she would marry him in an instant
and be completely happy to live in a house built among the high peaks.
She was lovely, tender, thoughtful. A man could ask no more of any woman than she
had for the giving. Yet he remembered the faces of other gunmen's wives when word
came that their men had died. He remembered their faces when their men went down
into the streets, when they waited through every lonely hour, never sure whether
he would come back or not.
Bartram had Sally Crane. He remembered her sweet, youthful face, flushed with happiness.
It made him feel old and lonely.
He slipped his guns out and checked them once more.
Then he took up the cards and shuffled them again. Suddenly an idea came to him.
He got up and went to the back door, took a quick look around, and slipped out to
the stable. There were still horses there.
He had a hunch he might need them, and saddled two. Then he went back inside and
closed the door.
The place was deathly still and the air close and hot. It felt like a storm was impending.
He brushed the sweat from his brow and crossed to have a look at Brigo. The big man
was sleeping, but his face was flushed and feverish. He looked bad.
He glanced out the door at the empty street. Clouds were build ing up around the
peaks. If it rained, it was going to make it tough to move Jaime Brigo. Thunder rumbled
like a whimper of far-off trum pets and then deeper like a rolling of gigantic casks
along the floor of a cavern. He walked back inside and sat down.
284
278
Chapter XIX This
Is the Test
They came down the dusty street at high noon, a tight little caval cade of men expecting
no trouble. They rode as tired men ride, for there was dust on their horses and dust
on their clothing and dust on their wide-brimmed hats. It was only their guns that
had no dust.
There was no humor in them, for they were men for whom killing was the order of business.
The softer members of the Hale outfit were gone. These were the pick of the tough,
gun-handy crew.
Lee Wright was in the lead, riding a blood bay. At his right and a bit behind, was
Jeff Nebel, and a bit behind him were gunslick Tandy Wade and Kurt Wilde. There were
ten in all, ten tough, gun-belted men riding into Cedar Bluff when the sun was high.
Dunn and Ravitz had not returned. What that meant, they could not know, nor did they
care. They had come to get a woman, and if Dunn and Ravitz had decided to keep her,
these men would take her away. If those two had failed in their mission, they were
to take her from the protection of Brigo. They had their orders and they knew what
to do.
Near Leathers's store the group broke, and three men rode on down to the Crystal
Palace. Lee Wright, big, hard-faced and cruel, was in the lead. With him were Kurt
Wilde and Tandy Wade.
His eyes slanting up the street at the scattering men, Kilkenny let the three come
on. When they reined in and were about to swing down, Kilkenny stopped them.
"Hold it!" he said sharply. "What do you want, Wright?"
Wright froze and then settled back in the saddle. "Who is that?" he demanded, peering
to see under the darkness of the sheet-metal awning and into the vagueness of the
doorway.
"It's Kilkenny," he said. "What do you want?"
"We've come for that woman. Cub wants her," Wright said harshly. "What are you doin'
here?"
"Me?" Kilkenny chuckled quietly. His eyes were cold and watch ful. He knew these
men were uncertain. They hadn't expected him. Now they did not know what the situation
was. How many men were inside? Was Brigo there? The Hatfields? Kilkenny knew their
lack of knowledge was half his strength. "Why, I've been waitin' for you boys to
show up! Wanted to tell you that I'd slope, if I were you. The Hales are through.
"
"Are they?" Wright's eyes swept the building. Those boarded windows bothered him.
"We came after the woman. We'll get he. Kilkenny began building a smoke. "With only
ten men? It ain't
enough, Wright." He touched his tongue to the paper. "You're a
285
A MAN CALLED TRENT 279 fightin' man, Wright. Ever try to take a place like this with
no more men than you got?"
"You're bluffin'!" Wright said. "You're alone."
Kilkenny chuckled. "You reckon I'd come down here alone? Or that the Hatfields would
let me? They are right careful of me, Wright."
"Where are they?" Wright declared. "You-" The words died on his lips as there was
a tinkle of glass from down the building. Wright looked, and Kilkenny saw his face
darken. It could mean but one thing. Brigo had gotten out of bed and thrust a rifle
through the window at the right moment.
But how long could he stand there? The man was weak- Kilkenny laughed. "Well, you
can start comin' any time you want, Wright, but a lot of you boys are goin' to die
for nothin'. If you think Hale can pay off now, you're wrong."
Kurt Wilde had been sitting quietly. Now he exploded suddenly. "To hell with this!
Let's go in there!" He jumped his horse to one side and grabbed for his gun.
Kilkenny's hand swept down, and his gun was barking before it reached belt high.
The first shot cut the rearing horse's bridle at the bit and whined off into the
street. The second took Wilde in the shoulder and knocked him sprawling into the
dust.
At the same instant, Brigo fired, and Tandy Wade's horse backed up suddenly and went
down. Wade leaped clear and sprinted with Lee Wright for the shelter of the nearest
building. From up the street, there was a volley of shots, but Kilkenny was safely
inside.
With one quick look, he dodged away from the door and ran to Brigo in the other room.
The big man's face was deathly pale, and his movements had started his wounds bleeding.
"Lie down, damn it!" Kilkenny commanded. "You did your part. You fooled 'em. Now
lie down!"
"No,
Senor,
not when you fight."
"I can hold 'em now. Lie down an' rest till I need you. When they rush, I'll need
help."
Brigo hesitated and then sank back on the bed. From where he lay he could see through
a crack in the boards without moving. Lance grabbed a box of shells and dropped them
on the bed beside him and handed him another rifle. Then he went back and made a
round of the loopholes. He fired from one, skipped one, and fired from the next.
He made the rounds, hunting for targets, but trying to keep the shots mixed so they
would be in doubt.
Wilde was getting up. Kilkenny watched him, letting him go. Suddenly the man wheeled
and blasted at the door, and Brigo, lying on his bed, drilled him through the chest!
286
280 Louis L'AMOUR
"One down!" Kilkenny told himself, "an' nine to go!"
He was under no illusions. They could trade shots for a while, and he could fool
Wright and the Hale riders for a few hours, perhaps. But they were much too shrewd
to be fooled for long. Sooner or later they would guess, and then under cover of
an attack from one direction, they would drive from the other, and the whole thing
would end in a wicked red-laced blasting inside the Palace.
Kilkenny found a good place near a window where he could watch up the street toward
Leathers's store. The dusty street was empty. He waited, and suddenly he saw a man
slip around the corner of the store and dart for the door. He fired quickly, twice.
The first shot hit the man about waist high, but on the outside and probably near
his holster. He staggered, and Kilkenny fired again and saw the fellow go to one
knee. He crawled through the door. The first shot had not been a disabling one, he
was sure, but the second, when he aimed at the thigh, had brought the man down.
He got up restlessly and started for the back of the saloon. There was no movement,
but when he moved to the door, a bullet clipped the doorjamb right over his head,
and had he not been crouched, it would probably have been dead center. No chance
to get to the horses then, not by day, anyway. The afternoon wore on, and there were
only occasional shots.
They came with a rush finally.
It had been quiet. Then suddenly a volley blasted at the back of the store. Taking
a chance, Kilkenny rushed to the front just in time to see a half dozen men charging
across the street. He dropped his rifle, whipped out both guns, and leaped into the
doorway.
His first shot was dead center, a bullet fired from the hip that hit the Hale man
and knocked him rolling. His guns roaring and blasting, he smelled the acrid smell
of gunpowder, felt a red-hot whip laid across his cheek, and knew he'd been grazed.
Then he blasted again, felt a gun go empty, and still triggering the first gun, jerked
out his belt gun and opened up again.
They fell back, and he saw two men were down. He knew neither of them. His cheekbone
was burning like fire and he lifted a hand. It came away bloody. He sopped the wound
with his handkerchief and then dropped it and began reloading his guns. This time
he brought the shotgun up to the door and stuffed his pockets with shotgun shells.
The waiting was what got a man. He didn't want to wait. He wanted to go out there.
There was no firing now. The attacking party was down to seven, and one of those
was wounded. They would hesitate a little now. And he still had the shotgun. That
was his payoff weapon. He knew what it would do to a man and hated to use it. At
close range a shotgun wouldn't just make a wound. It would blast a man in two
287
A MAN CALLED TRENT 281
He showed himself at a window and got no action. He could hear loud voices in the
Leathers store. There was some kind of an argument. After all, what had they to gain?
Suddenly, Kilkenny had an idea. He wheeled and went into the bedroom. Brigo was lying
on the bed, breathing hoarsely. He looked terrible.
"Lie still an' watch," Kilkenny said. "I'm goin' out." "Out?" Brigo's eyes fired.
"You after them?"
"Si. With this." He touched the shotgun. "They are all in Leathers's store. I'm goin'
to settle this once an' for all."
He went to the door. For a long time he studied the terrain. He was worried. Price
Dixon should be here by now. The Hale men probably knew he had joined Kilkenny and
the Hatfields, so if he came back they would shoot him. And if Jaime Brigo was to
live he would need Dixon's attention.
Kilkenny waited. The sun was making a shadow under the awning, even if not much of
a one. He eased outside, listening to the loud voices, and then he left the porch
with a rush.
There was no shot. He got to the side of Leathers's store. From here it was four
good steps to the door, and there was no window to pass. He stepped up on the porch,
knowing that if they had a man across the street he was a gone gosling.
He took another step and waited. Inside, the voices continued, and he could hear
Lee Wright's voice above all the others. "Cub'll pay off, all right. If he don't,
we can always take some cows ourselves!"
"Blazes!" somebody said disgustedly. "I don't want any cows! I want money! An',"
he added, "I want out of this with a whole skin!" "Personally," a voice drawled,
"I don't see no percentage in gettin'
a hide full of lead because some other hombre wants a woman. I'll admit that Riordan
gal is somethin' to look at, but I think if she wanted to have a Hale, she'd take
one. I think the gal's crazy for this Kilkenny, an' for my money she's got the best
of the lot."
"What's it to you, Tandy?" Wright demanded. "Hale's got the money. He pays us. Besides,
that Kilkenny figgers he's too durned good."
Tandy laughed. "Why, Lee, I reckon if you'd go out there an' tell him you wanted
a shootout, he'd give it to you."
"Say!" Wright jumped to his feet. "That's it! That's the way we'll get him. I'll
go out and challenge him. Then when he comes out, pour it into him."
There was a moment of silence, but Kilkenny was just outside the screened door now.
"Lee, that sure is a polecat's idea. You know durned well I wouldn't have no part
of that. I'm a fightin' man, not a murderer."
"Tandy Wade, someday you'll-!" Wright began, angrily.
288
282 Louis L'AMOUR
"Suppose," Kilkenny said, "that I take over from here?"
Wright froze, his mouth open, his face slowly turning white. Only Tandy turned, and
he turned very slowly, keeping his hands wide. He looked at the double-barrelled
shotgun for just an instant.
"Well, Kilkenny," he said softly, "I reckon that shotgun calls my hand."
"Shotgun?" Wright gasped. Kilkenny let him turn. He knew how ugly a double-barrelled
shotgun can seem when seen at close quarters. "Buckshot in it, too," Kilkenny said
lazily. "I might not be able to
get more'n four or five of you hombres. Might be even one or two, but I'm sure goin'
to get them good. Who wants a hot taste of buckshot?"
Wright backed up, licking his lips. He didn't want any trouble now. You could see
it in his eyes that he knew that shotgun was meant for him, and he didn't want any
part of it.
"Leathers!" Kilkenny's voice cracked like a whiplash. "Come around here and get their
guns. Slap their shirts, too. I don't want any sneak guns."
The storekeeper, his face dead white, came around and began lifting the guns, and
no one said a word. When the guns were collected and all laid at Kilkenny's feet,
he stood there for a moment looking at the men.
"Wright, you wanted to trick me an' kill me. Didn't you?"
Lee Wright's eyes were wide and dark in the sickly moon of his face. "I talked too
much," he said, tight-lipped, "I wouldn't of had nerve enough for that."
"Well-" There was a sudden rattle of horses' hoofs in the street, and Kilkenny saw
Lee Wright's eyes brighten, but as he looked at Kilkenny his face went sick.
"Careful, Lee!" Kilkenny said quietly. "Don't get uneasy. If I go, you go with me."
"I ain't movin'," Wright said hoarsely. "For heaven's sake, don't shoot!"
Chapter XX
The
Last
Menace
Now the horses were walking. They stopped before the Crystal Palace. Kilkenny dared
not turn. He dared not look. Putting a toe behind the stack of guns, he pushed them
back. Then, still keeping his eyes on the men, he dragged them back further. Then
he waited.
Sweat came out on his forehead, and he felt his mouth go dry.
289
A MAN CALLED TRENT 283 They could slip up and come in. They could just walk up. And
he dared not turn, or one of these men would leap and have a gun. His only way out
was to go out fighting.
Looking at the men before him, he could see what was in their minds. Their faces
were gray and sick. A shotgun wasn't an easy way to die, and once that gun started
blasting, there was no telling who would get it. And Kilkenny, with an empty shotgun,
was still closer to the guns on the floor than they were.
The flesh seemed to crawl on the back of Kilkenny's neck, and he saw Wright's tongue
feeling his dry lips. Only Tandy Wade seemed relaxed. The tension was only in his
eyes. Any moment now might turn this room into a bloody bit of hell. The shotgun
was going to A door slammed at the Crystal Palace.
Had Brigo passed out? There was no sound, but Kilkenny knew someone was crossing
the dusty space between the buildings. He was drawing closer now. The sound of a
foot on the boardwalk made them all jump. Suddenly Leathers slipped to the floor
in a dead faint. Tandy looked down, amusedly, and then lifted his eyes as a board
creaked.
Any moment now. When that door opened, if a friendly voice didn't speak
The door creaked just a little. That was only when it opened wide. Kilkenny remembered
that door. He had eased through a crack himself. He lifted the shotgun slightly,
his own face gray.
Suddenly he knew that if this was Cub Hale he would turn this store into a shambles.
He, Kilkenny, was going to go out taking a bloody dozen with him. He had these guns,
and if the first shot didn't get him he wasn't going alone. He clicked back the hammers.
"No!" He didn't know who spoke. "No, Kilkenny! My God, no!" These men who could stand
a shootout with perfect composure were frightened and pale at the gaping muzzles
of the shotgun.
"Kilkenny?" The voice was behind him, and it was Parson Hatfield. "Yeah, Parson.
I got me a few restless hombres here."
Hatfield came in, and behind him were Bartram and Steve Runyon. "Where's Cub?" Parson
demanded sharply.
"He cut off for the ranch. He figured Dunn would have the girl there. "
"We didn't find him," Parson said. "He must've stopped off on the Way. Hale shot
hisself."
"He did?" Kilkenny turned. "What happened at the place?"
She was plumb deserted," Runyon offered. "Not a soul around. Looks as if they all
deserted like rats from a sinkin' ship. He was all alone, an' when he seen us comin',
he shot hisself. "
"What happened then?" Kilkenny asked.
290
284 Louis L'ANIouR
"We set fire to the place. Too big for any honest rancher. It's burnin' now."
"What happens to us?" Tandy demanded.
Kilkenny looked at them for a minute, but before he could speak, Parson spoke up.
"We want Jeff Nebel an' Lee Wright. They done murdered Miller, Wilson, an' Lije.
They got Smithers, too. Jeff Nebel killed him. An' they was in on the killin' of
Dick Moffitt. We got a rope for 'em!"
"Take them, then," Kilkenny said. He looked at Tandy Wade. "You're too good a man
to run with this owlhoot crowd, Wade. You better change your ways before they get
a rope on you. Get goin'!"
Wade looked at him. "Thanks, man," he said. "It's more'n I deserve."
"You," Kilkenny said to the others, "ride! If you ever come into this country again
we'll hang you."
They scrambled for the door. The Hatfields were already gone with Wright and Nebel.
Kilkenny turned away and looked at Leathers, who had recovered from his faint. "You
got twenty-four hours," he said quietly. "Take what you can an' get out of here.
Don't come back."
He walked out of the store into the dusty street. A man was coming down the street
on a rangy sorrel horse. He looked and then looked again. It was Dan Cooper. A short
distance behind him, another man rounded the corner. It was Cain Brockman. They rode
straight on until they came up to Kilkenny.
Cooper reined in and began to roll a smoke. "Looks like I backed the wrong horse,"
he said slowly. "What's the deal? Got a rope for me? Or do I draw a ticket out of
here?"
"What do you want?" Kilkenny demanded sharply. He had his thumbs in his belt, watching
the two men.
"Well," Dan said, looking up at Kilkenny, "we talked it over. We both won money on
your fight, an' we sort've had an idea we'd like to join you all an' take up some
claims ourselves."
"Right pretty places up in them meadows," Cain suggested. He sat his horse, looking
at Kilkenny. ', For a long minute Kilkenny looked from one to the other. "Sure,
he said finally. "You might find a good place up near mine, Cain. And the Moffitt
place is empty now."
He turned and walked back to the Palace. He had forgotten Brigo. Yet when he entered
the place, his worry left him. price Dixon had come, and Nita had returned with him.
She met Kilkenny at the door.
"He's asleep," she whispered. "Dixon got the bullet out, and he's going to be all
right."
291
A MAN CALLED TRENT 285 "Good." Kilkenny looked at the girl, and then he took her
in his
arms. He drew her close and her lips melted into his, and for a long time they stood
there holding each other.
"Oh, Lance," she whispered, "don't let me go. Keep me now. It's been so long, and
I've been so lonely."
"Sure," he said quietly, "I'll keep you now. I don't want to let you go-ever!"
Slowly, in the days that followed, the town came back to itself. Widows of two of
the nesters moved into the Leathers's house and took over the store. Kilkenny and
Bartram helped them get things arranged and get started. The ruins of the Mecca were
cleared away. Van Hawkins, a former actor from San Francisco, came in and bought
the Crystal Palace from Nita. Kilkenny started to build a bigger, more comfortable
house on the site of the old one that the Hales had burned for him.
Yet, over it all, there was restlessness and uneasiness. Kilkenny talked much with
Nita in the evenings and saw the dark circles under her eyes. She was sleeping little,
he knew.
The Hatfields carried their guns all the time, and Steve Runyon came and went with
a pistol strapped on. It was because of Cub Hale. No one ever mentioned his name,
yet his shadow lay over them all. He had vanished mysteriously, leaving no trace,
nothing to tell them of where he had gone, what he planned to do, or when he would
return.
Then one day Saul Hatfield rode up to Kilkenny's claim. He leaned on the saddle horn
and looked down at Lance.
"How's things?" he asked. "Seems you're doin' right well with the house."
"Yeah," Kilkenny admitted. "It's goin' up." He looked up at Saul. "How's your dad?"
"Right pert."
"Jesse goin' to dig those potatoes of Smithers's?" "I reckon."
"He'd like it. He was a savin' man." Kilkenny straightened and their eyes met. "What's
on your mind, Saul?"
"I was ridin' this mornin', down on the branch," Saul said thought
fully. "Seen some tracks where a horse crossed the stream. I was right curious. I
followed him a ways. Found some white hairs on the brush."
Cub Hale always rode a white horse. An albino, it was.
"I see." Kilkenny rubbed his jaw. "Which way was he headin'?" "Sort of circlin'.
Sizin' up the town, like."
Kilkenny nodded. "I reckon I better go down to Cedar," he said thoughtfully. "I want
to stick around town awhile."
292
286 Louis L'AMOUR
"Sure." Saul looked at him. "A body could follow them tracks," he suggested. "It
was a plain trail."
"Dangerous. He's a bad one. Maybe later. We'll see."
Kilkenny mounted the long-legged yellow horse and headed for town. Cub Hale was mean.
He wasn't going to leave. It wasn't in him to leave. He was a man who had to kill,
even if he died in the process. Kilkenny had known that. He knew that some of the
men believed Cub had lit out and left the country. He had never believed that. Cub
was prowling, licking his wounds, waiting. And the hate in him was building up.
Kilkenny rode the yellow buckskin to the little cottage where Nita Riordan and Sally
Crane were living together while Sally prepared for her wedding with Bartram. Nita
came to the door, her sewing in her hand.
"Lance," she said quickly, "is it-?"
"He's close by." He swung down from the horse. "I reckon you've got a guest for dinner."
Sitting by the window with a book, he glanced occasionally down the street. He saw
two Hatfields ride in-Quince and Saul. They dismounted at the store, and then Steve
Runyon rode in and, after him, Cain Brockman.
Brockman rode right on to the Palace, dismounted, and went in for a drink. Then he
came out and loafed on a bench by the door. He was wearing two guns.
The room was bright and cheery, with curtains at the windows and china plates. Nita
came in, drying her hands on an apron, and called him to lunch. He took a last look
down the street and then got up and walked in to the table. Sally's face was flushed
and she looked very pretty, yet he had eyes only for Nita.
He had never seen her so lovely as now. Her face looked softer and prettier than
he had ever seen it. She was happy, too, radiantly happy. Even the news of the nearness
of Cub Hale had not been able to wipe it from her face.
Bartram came in and joined them. He grinned at Kilkenny. Not often a man gets a chance
to try his wife's cooking as much as I have before he marries her!" he chuckled.
"I'll say this for her, she can sure make biscuits!"
"I didn't make them!" Sally protested. "Nita did!"
"Nita?" Kilkenny looked up, smiling. "I didn't know you could cook!"
There was a low call from the door. "Kilkenny?" It was Cain Brockman. "He's comin'.
Shall I take him?"
"No." Kilkenny touched his mouth with a napkin and drew back from the table. "It's
my job."
293
A MAN CALLED TRENT 287 His eyes met Nita's across the table. "Don't pour my coffee,"
he said quietly. "I like it hot."
He turned and walked to the door. Far down the street he could see Cub Hale. He was
on foot, and his hat was gone, his yellow hair blowing in the wind. He was walking
straight up the center of the street, looking straight ahead.
Kilkenny stepped down off the porch. The roses were blooming, and their scent was
strong in his nostrils. He could smell the rich odor of fresh earth in the sunlight,
and somewhere a magpie shrieked. He opened the gate and stepping out, closed it carefully
behind him. Then he began to walk.
He took his time. There was no hurry. There was never any hurry at a time like this.
Everything always seemed to move by slow motion, until suddenly it was over and you
wondered how it all could have happened. Saul Hatfield was standing on the steps,
his rifle in the hollow of his arm. He and Quince were just there in case he failed.
Failed? Kilkenny smiled. He had never failed. Yet, they all failed soon or late.
There was always a time when they were too slow, when their guns hung or missed fire.
The dust smelled hot, and in the distance thunder rumbled. Then a few scattered drops
fell. Odd, he hadn't even been aware it was clouding up.
Little puffs of dust lifted from his boots when he walked. He could see Cub more
clearly now. He was unshaven, and his face was scratched by brush. His fancy buckskin
jacket was gone. Only the guns were the same, and the white
eyes,
eyes that seemed to burn.
Suddenly, Hale stopped, and when he stopped, Kilkenny stopped too. He stood there
perfectly relaxed, waiting. Cub's face was white, dead. Only his eyes seemed alive,
and that burning white light was in them.
"I'm goin' to kill you!" he said, his voice sharp and strained.
It was all wrong. Kilkenny felt no tension, no alertness. He was just standing there,
and in him suddenly there welled up a tremendous feeling of pity. Why couldn't they
ever learn? There was nothing in a gun but death.
Something flickered in those white, blazing eyes, and Kilkenny, standing perfectly
erect, slapped the butt of his gun with his palm. The gun leaped up, settled into
a rocklike grip, and then bucked in his hand, once, twice.
The gun before him flowered with flame, and something stabbed, white hot, low down
on his right side. The gun flowered again, but the stabbing flame wasted itself in
the dust and Cub's knees buckled and there was a spot of blood on his chest, right
over the heart.
He fell face down and then straightened his legs, and there was silence in the long
dusty street of Cedar Bluff.
294
288 Louis L"AMOUR
Kilkenny thumbed shells into his gun, holstered it, and then turned. Steadily, quietly,
looking straight ahead, he walked back up the hill toward the cottage. It was just
a little hill, but it suddenly seemed steep. He walked on, and then he could see
Nita opening the gate and running toward him.
He stopped then and waited. There was a burning in his side, and he felt something
wet against his leg. He looked down, puzzled, and when he looked, he fell, flat on
his face in the dust.
Then Nita was turning him over, and her face was white. He tried to sit up, but they
pushed him down. Cain Brockman came over, and with Saul Hatfield they carried him
up the hill. It was only a few steps, and it had seemed so far.
He was still conscious when Price Dixon came in. Dixon made a brief examination and
then shrugged.
"He's all right. The bullet went into his side, slid off a rib, and narrowly missed
his spine. But it's nothing that we can't fix up. Shock, mostly-and bleeding."
Later, Nita came in. She looked at him and smiled. "Shall I put the coffee on now?"
she asked lightly. Her eyes were large and dark. "Let Sally put it on," he said gently.
"You stay here."
295
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The Trail to Peach Meadow Canyon
Peach
trees have been
found growing
in several
of the canyons
branching
off from the
Grand Canyon
;
they were probably planted by somebody at some time in the past
.
I ventured into a box canyon in Arizona at one time
,
a place enclosed by high
cliffs with
some sixty
acres of fairly
level ground in the bottom, a good stand
of grass, and
about three dozen peach and apricot trees
,
all old and in
bad need of
pruning. There was also a
half dugout built of logs
against the side
of a low mound,
and a stream about two
feet wide
running diago nally across the bottom
of the canyon.
Somebody had enjoyed a small corner of paradise here, probably for many years. There
was an old corral, and my suspicion was that he had kept burros rather than horses.
Not far from Mooney Falls in the Grand Canyon, there are iron ladders spiked to the
walls to enable one to climb further down.
296
297
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON
W inter snows were melting in the forests of the Kaibab, and the red-and-orange hue
of the thousand-foot Vermilion Cliffs was streaked with the dampness of melting frost.
Deer were feeding in the forest glades among the stands of ponderosa and fir, and
the trout were leaping in the streams. Where sunlight trailed through the webbed
overhang of the leaves, the water danced and sparkled.
Five deer were feeding on the grass along a mountain stream back of Finger Butte,
their coats mottled by the light and shadow of the sun shining through the trees.
A vague something moved in the woods behind them, and the five-pronged buck lifted
his regal head and stared curiously about. He turned his nose into the wind, reading
it cautiously. But his trust was betrayal, for the movement was downwind of him.
The movement came again, and a young man stepped from con cealment behind a huge
fir not twenty feet from the nearest deer. He was straight and tall in gray, fringed
buckskins, and he wore no hat. His hair was thick, black, and wavy, growing full
over the temples, and his face was lean and brown. Smiling, he walked toward the
deer with quick, lithe strides, and had taken three full steps before some tiny sound
betrayed him.
The buck's head came up and swung around, and then with a startled snort it sprang
away, the others following.
Mike Bastian stood grinning, his hands on his hips.
"Well, what do you think now, Roundy?" he called. "Could your Apache beat that? I
could have touched him if I had jumped after him("
Rance Roundy came out of the trees-a lean, wiry old man with a gray mustache and
blue eyes that were still bright with an alert awareness.
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292 Louis L'AMOUR
"No, I'll he darned if any Apache ever lived as could beat that!" he chortled. "Not
a mite of it! An' I never seen the day I could beat it, either. You're a caution,
Mike, you sure are. I'm glad you're not sneakin' up after
my
hair!" He drew his pipe from his pocket and started stoking it with tobacco. "We're
goin' back to Toadstool Canyon, Mike. Your dad sent for us."
Bastian looked up quickly. "Is there trouble, is that it?"
"No, only he wants to talk with you. Maybe"-Roundy was cautious-"he figures it's
time you went out on a job. On one of those rides."
"I think that's it," Mike nodded. "He said in the spring, and it's about time for
the first ride. I wonder where they'll go this time." "No tellin'. The deal will
be well planned, though. That dad of
yours would have made a fine general, Mike. He's got the head for it, he sure has.
Never forgets a thing, that one."
"You've been with him a long time, haven't you?"
"Sure-since before he found you. I knowed him in Mexico in the war, and that was
longer ago than I like to think. I was a boy then, my own self.
"Son," Roundy said suddenly, "look!"
He tossed a huge pinecone into the air, a big one at least nine inches long.
With a flash of movement, Mike Bastian palmed his gun, and almost as soon as it hit
his hand it belched flame-and again. The second shot spattered the cone into a bunch
of flying brown chips.
"Not bad!" Roundy nodded. "You still shoot too quick, though. You got to get over
that, Mike. Sometimes, one shot is all you'll ever get. "
Side by side the two walked through the trees, the earth spongy with a thick blanket
of pine needles. Roundy was not as tall as Mike, but he walked with the long, springy
stride of the woodsman. He smoked in silence for some distance, and then he spoke
up.
"Mike, if Ben's ready for you to go out, what will you do?"
For two steps, Bastian said nothing. Then he spoke slowly. "Why, go, I guess. What
else?"
"You're sure? You're sure you want to be an outlaw?"
"That's what I was raised for, isn't it?" There was some bitterness in Mike's voice.
"Somebody to take over what Ben Curry started?" "Yeah, that's what you were raised
for, all right. But this you want
to remember, Mike, it's your life. Ben Curry, for all his power, cant live it for
you. Moreover, times have changed since Ben and me rode into this country. It ain't
free and wild like it was, because folks are comin' in, settlin' it up, makin' homes.
Gettin' away won't be so easy, and your pards will change, too. In fact, they have
already changed.
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 293
"When Ben and me come into this country," Roundy continued, "it was every man for
himself. More than one harum-scarum fella, who was otherwise all right, got himself
the name of an outlaw. Nobody figured much about it, then. We rustled cows, but so
did half the big ranchers of the West. And if a cowpoke got hard up and stopped a
stage, nobody made much fuss unless he killed somebody. They figured it was just
high spirits. But the last few years, it ain't like that no more. And it ain't only
that the country is growin' up-it's partly Ben Curry himself."
"You mean he's grown too big?" Mike put in.
"What else? Why, your dad controls more land than there is in New York State! Got
it right under his thumb! And he's feared over half the West by those who know about
him, although not many do.
"Outside of this country around us, nobody ain't seen Ben Curry in years, not leastwise
to know him. But they've heard his name, and they know that somewhere an outlaw lives
who rules a gang of almost a thousand men. That he robs and rustles where he will,
and nobody has nerve enough to chase him.
"He's been smart, just plenty smart," old Roundy went on. "Men ride out and they
meet at a given point. The whole job is planned in every detail; it's rehearsed,
and then they pull it and scatter and meet again here. For a long time folks laid
it to driftin' cowpunchers or to gangs passin' through. The way he's set up, one
of the gangs he sends out might pull somethin' anywhere from San Antone to Los Angeles,
or from Canada to Mexico, although usually he handles it
bly done some figuring of his own."
close around.
"He's been the brains, all right, but don't ever forget it was those guns of his
that kept things in line. Lately, he hasn't used his guns. Kerb Perrin and Rigger
Molina or some of their boys handle the discipline. He's become too big, Ben Curry
has. He's like a king, and the king isn't getting any younger. How do you suppose
Perrin will take it when he hears about you takin' over? You think he'll like it?"
"I don't imagine he will," Mike replied thoughtfully. "He's proba"You bet he has!
So has Molina, and neither of them will stop short of murder to get what they want.
Your dad still has them buffaloed, I think, but that isn't going to matter when the
showdown comes. And I think it's here!"
You do?" Mike said, surprise in his voice.
"Yeah, I sure do!" Roundy hesitated. "You know, Mike, I never told you this, but
Ben Curry has a family."
"A family?"
Despite himself, Mike Bastian was startled.
"Yes, he has a wife and two daughters, and they don't have any idea he's an outlaw.
They live down near Tucson somewhere. Occa
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294 Louis L'AMOUR
sionally, they come to a ranch he owns in Red Wall Canyon, a ranch supposedly owned
by Voyle Ragan. He visits them there."
"Does anybody else know this?"
"Not a soul. And don't you be tellin' anybody. You see, Ben always wanted a son,
and he never had one. When your real dad was killed down in Mesilla, he took you
along with him, and later he told me he was going to raise you to take over whatever
he left. That was a long time ago, and since then he's spent a sight of time and
money on you.
"You can track like an Apache," Roundy said, looking at the tall lad beside him.
"In the woods you're a ghost, and I doubt if old Ben Curry himself can throw a gun
any faster than you. I'd say you could ride anything that wore hair, and what you
don't know about cards, dice, and roulette wheels ain't in it. You can handle a knife
and fight with your fists, and you can open anything a man ever made in the way of
safes and locks. Along with that, you've had a good education, and you could take
care of yourself in any company. I don't reckon there ever was a boy had the kind
of education you got, and I think Ben's ready to retire."
"You mean, to join his wife and daughters?" Mike questioned. "That's it. He's gettin'
no younger, and he wants it easy-like for the last years. He was always scared of
only one thing, and he had a lot of it as a youngster. That's poverty. Well, he's
made his pile and now he wants to step out. Still and all, he knows he can't get
out alive unless he leaves somebody behind him that's strong enough and smart enough
to keep things under control. That's where you come in."
"Why don't he let Perrin have it?"
"Mike, you know Perrin. He's dangerous, that one. He's poison mean and power crazy.
He'd have gone off the deep end a long time ago if it wasn't for Ben Curry. And Rigger
Molina is kill crazy. He would have killed fifty men if it hadn't been that he knew
Ben Curry would kill him when he got back. No, neither of them could handle this
outfit. The whole shebang would go to pieces in ninety days if they had it."
Mike Bastian walked along in silence. There was little that was new in what Roundy
was saying, but he was faintly curious as to the old man's purpose. The pair had
been much together, and they knew each other as few men ever did. They had gone through
storm and hunger and thirst together, living in the desert, mountains, and forest,
only rarely returning to the rendezvous in Toadstool Canyon.
Roundy had a purpose in his talking, and Bastian waited, listening. Yet even as he
walked he was conscious of everything that went on around him. A quail had moved
back into the tall grass near the stream, and there was a squirrel up ahead in the
crotch of a tree. Not
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 295 far back a gray wolf had crossed the path only
minutes ahead of them.
It was as Roundy had said. Mike was a woodsman, and the thought of taking over the
outlaw band filled him with unease. Always, he had been aware this time would come,
that he had been schooled for it. But before, it had seemed remote and far off. Now,
suddenly, it was at hand, it was facing him.
"Mike," Roundy went on, "the country is growin' up. Last spring some of our raids
raised merry hell, and some of the boys had a bad time gettin' away. When they start
again, there will be trouble and lots of it. Another thing, folks don't look at an
outlaw like they used to. He isn't just a wild young cowhand full of liquor, nor
a fellow who needs a poke, nor somebody buildin' a spread of his own. Now, he'll
be like a wolf, with every man huntin' him. Before you decide to go into this, you
think it over, make up your own mind.
"You know Ben Curry, and I know you like him. Well, you should! Nevertheless, Ben
had no right to raise you for an outlaw. He went his way of his own free will, and
if he saw it that way, that was his own doin'. But no man has a right to say to another,
`This you must do; this you must be.' No man has a right to train another, startin'
before he has a chance to make up his mind, and school him in any particular way."
The old man stopped to relight his pipe, and Mike kept a silence, would let Roundy
talk out what seemed to bother him.
"I think every man should have the right to decide his own destiny, insofar as he
can," Roundy said, continuing his trend of thought. "That goes for you, Mike, and
you've got the decision ahead of you. I don't know which you'll do. But if you decide
to step out of this gang, then I don't relish being' around when it happens, for
old Ben will be fit to be tied.
"Right now, you're an honest man. You're clean as a whistle. Once you become an outlaw,
a lot of things will change. You'll have to kill, too-don't forget that. It's one
thing to kill in defense of your home, your family, or your country. It's another
thing when you kill for money or for power."
"You think I'd have to kill Perrin and Molina?" Mike Bastian asked.
"If they didn't get you first!" Roundy spat. "Don't forget this, Mike, you're fast.
You're one of the finest and, aside from Ben Curry, probably the finest shot I ever
saw. But that ain't shootin' at a man who's shootin' at you. There's a powerful lot
of difference, as you'll see!
"Take Billy the Kid, this Lincoln County gunman we hear about. Frank and George Coe,
Dick Brewer, Jesse Evans-any one of them can shoot as good as him. The difference
is that the part down inside
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of him where the nerves should be was left out. When he starts shootin' and when
he's being' shot at, he's like ice! Kerb Perrin's that way, too. Perrin's the cold
type, steady as a rock. Rigger Molina's another kind of cat-he explodes all over
the place. He's white-hot, but he's deadly as a rattler."
Mike was listening intently as Roundy continued his description: "Five of them cornered
him one time at a stage station out of Julesburg. When the shootin' was over, four
of them were down and the fifth was holdin' a gun-shot arm. Molina, he rode off under
his own power. He's a shaggy wolf, that one! Wild and uncurried and big as a bear!"
Far more than Roundy realized did Mike Bastian know the facts about Ben Curry's empire
of crime. For three years now, Curry had been leading his foster son through all
the intricate maze of his planning. There were spies and agents in nearly every town
in the Southwest, and small groups of outlaws quartered here and there on ranches
who could be called upon for help at a moment's notice.
Also, there were ranches where fresh horses could be had, and changes of clothing,
and where the horses the band had ridden could be lost. At Toadstool Canyon were
less than two hundred of the total number of outlaws, and many of those, while living
under Curry's protection, were not of his band.
Also, the point Roundy raised had been in Mike's mind, festering there, an abscess
of doubt and dismay. The Ben Curry he knew was a huge, kindly man, even if grim and
forbidding at times. He had taken the homeless boy and given him kindness and care,
had, indeed, trained him as a son. Today, however, was the first inkling Mike had
of the existence of that other family. Ben Curry had planned and acted with shrewdness
and care.
Mike Bastian had a decision to make, a decision that would change his entire life,
whether for better or worse.
Here in the country around the Vermilion Cliffs was the only world he knew. Beyond
it? Well, he supposed he could punch cows. He was trained to do many things, and
probably there were jobs awaiting such a man as himself.
He could become a gambler, but he had seen and known a good many gamblers and did
not relish the idea. Somewhere beyond this wilderness was a larger, newer, wealthier
land-a land where honest men lived and reared their families.
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 297
In the massive stone house at the head of Toadstool Canyon, so called because of
the gigantic toadstool-like stone near the entrance, Ben Curry leaned his great weight
back in his chair and stared broodingly out the door over the valley below.
His big face was blunt and unlined as rock, but the shock of hair above his leonine
face was turning to gray. He was growing old. Even spring did not bring the old fire
to his veins again, and it had been long since he had ridden out on one of the jobs
he planned so shrewdly. It was time he quit.
Yet this man who had made decisions sharply and quickly was for the first time in
his life, uncertain. For six years he had ruled supreme in this remote corner north
of the Colorado. For twenty years he had been an outlaw, and for fifteen of those
twenty years he had ruled a gang that had grown and extended its ramifications until
it was an empire in itself.
Six years ago he had moved to this remote country and created the stronghold where
he now lived. Across the southern limit rolled the Colorado River, with its long
canyons and maze of rocky wilderness, a bar to any pursuit from the country south
of the river, where he operated.
As far as other men were concerned, only at Lee's Ferry was there a crossing, and
in a cabin nearby, his men watched it night and day. In fact there were two more
crossings-one that the gang used in going to and from their raids, and the other
known only to himself. It was his ace in the hole, even if not his only one.
One law of the gang, never transgressed, was that there was to be no lawless activity
in the Mormon country to the north of them. The Mormons and the Indians were left
strictly alone and were their friends. So were the few ranchers who lived in the
area. These few traded at the stores run by the gang, buying their supplies closer
to home and at cheaper prices than they could have managed elsewhere.
Ben Curry had never quite made up his mind about Kerb Perrin. He knew that Perrin
was growing restive, that he was aware that Curry was aging and was eager for the
power of leadership. Yet the one factor Curry couldn't be certain about was whether
Perrin would stand for the taking over of the band by Mike Bastian.
Well, Mike had been well trained; it would be his problem. Ben smiled grimly. He
was the old bull of the herd, and Perrin was pawing the dirt, but what would he say
when a young bull stepped in? One who had not won his spurs with the gang?
That was why Curry had sent for him, for it was time Mike be groomed for leadership,
time he moved out on his first job. And he
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had just the one. It was big, it was sudden, and it was dramatic. It would have an
excellent effect on the gang if it was brought off smoothly, and he was going to
let Mike plan the whole job himself.
. There was a sharp knock outside, and Curry smiled a little, recognizing it.
"Come in!" he bellowed.
He watched Perrin stride into the room with his quick, nervous steps, his eyes scanning
the room.
"Chief," Perrin said, "the boys are gettin' restless. It's spring, you know, and
most of them are broke. Have you got anything in mind?" "Sure, several things. But
one that's good and tough! Struck me it might be a good one to break the kid in on."
"Oh?" Perrin's eyes veiled. "You mean he'll go along?"
"No, I'm going to let him run it. The whole show. It will be good for him."
Kerb Perrin absorbed that. For the first time, he felt worry. For the first time,
an element of doubt entered his mind. He had wondered before about Bastian and what
his part would be in all this.
For years, Perrin had looked forward to the time when he could take over. He knew
there would be trouble with Rigger Molina, but he had thought that phase of it out.
He knew he could handle it. But what if Curry was planning to jump young Bastian
into leadership?
Quick, hot passion surged through Perrin, and when he looked up, it was all he could
do to keep his voice calm.
"You think that's wise?" he questioned. "How will the boys feel about goin' out with
a green kid?"
"He knows what to do," Curry said. "They'll find he's smart as any of them, and he
knows plenty. This is a big job, and a tough one." "Who goes with him?"
"Maybe I'll let him pick them," Curry said thoughtfully. "Good practice for him."
"What's the job?" Perrin asked, voice sullen. "The gold train!"
Perrin's fingers tightened, digging into his palms. This was the job
he
wanted! The shipment from the mines! It would be enormous, rich beyond anything they
had done!
Months before, in talking of this job, he had laid out his plan for it before Curry.
But it had been vetoed. He had recommended the killing of every man jack of them,
and burial of them all, so the train would vanish completely.
"You sound like Molina," Curry had said, chuckling. "Too bloody!" "Dead men don't
talk!" he had replied grimly.
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 299 "That will be tough for the kid," Perrin said
now, slowly. "Mighty tough!"
Yet, even as he spoke he was thinking of something else. He was thinking of the effect
of this upon the men of the outfit. He knew many of them liked Mike Bastian, and
more than one of them had helped train him. In a way, many of the older men were
as proud of Mike as if he had been their own son. If he stepped out now and brought
off this job, he would acquire power and prestige in the gang equal to Perrin's own.
Fury engulfed Perrin. Curry had no right to do this to him! Sidetracking him for
an untried kid. Shoving Bastian down all their throats!
Suddenly, the rage died, and in its place came resolution. It was time he acted on
his own. He would swing his own job, the one he had had in mind for so long, and
that would counteract the effect of the gold-train steal. Moreover, he would be throwing
the challenge into Ben Curry's teeth, for he would plan this job without consulting
him. If there was going to be a struggle for leadership, it could begin here and
now.
"He'll handle the job all right," Curry said confidently. "He has been trained, and
he has the mind for it. He plans well. I hadn't spoken of it before, but I asked
his advice on a few things without letting him know why, and he always came through
with the right answers. "
Kerb Perrin left the stone house filled with burning resentment but also something
of triumph. At last, after years of taking orders, he was going on his own. Yet the
still, small voice of fear was in him, too. What would Ben Curry do?
The thought made him quail. He had seen the cold fury of Curry when it was aroused,
and he had seen him use a gun. He himself was fast, but was he as fast as Ben Curry?
In his heart, he doubted it. He dismissed the thought, although storing it in his
mind. Something would have to be done about Ben Curry....
Mike Bastian stood before Ben Curry's table, and the two men stared at each other.
Ben Curry, the old outlaw chief, was huge, bearlike, and mighty, his eyes fierce
yet glowing with a kindly light now, and something of pride, too. Facing him, tall
and lithe, his shoulders broad and mighty, was Mike Bastian, child of the frontier,
grown to manhood and trained in every art of the wilds, every dishonest practice
in the books, every skill with weapons. Yet educated, too, a man who could conduct
himself well in any company.
You take four men and look over the ground yourself, Mike," Ben Curry was saying.
"I want you to plan this one. The gold train leaves
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300 Louis L'AMOUR
the mines on the twentieth. There will be five wagons, the gold distributed among
them, although there won't be a lot of it as far as quantity is concerned. That gold
train will be worth roughly five hundred thousand dollars.
"When that job is done," he continued, "I'm going to step down and leave you in command.
You knew I was planning that. I'm old, and I want to live quietly for a while, and
this outfit takes a strong hand to run it. Think you can handle it?"
"I think so," Mike Bastian said softly.
"I think so, too. Watch Perrin-he's the snaky one. Rigger is dangerous, but whatever
he does will be out in the open. Not so Perrin. He's a conniver. He never got far
with me because I was always one jump ahead of him. And I still am!"
The old man was silent for a few minutes as he stared out the window.
"Mike," he said then, doubt entering his voice, "maybe I've done wrong. I meant to
raise you the way I have. I ain't so sure what is right and wrong, and never was.
Never gave it much thought, though.
"When I come west it was dog eat dog, and your teeth had to be big. I got knocked
down and kicked around some, and then I started taking big bites myself. I organized,
and then I got bigger. In all these years nobody has ever touched me. If
you've
got a strong hand, you can do the same. Sometimes you'll have to buy men, sometimes
you'll have to frighten them, and sometimes you'll have to kill."
He shook his head as if clearing it of memories past, and then glanced up.
"Who will you take with you?" he asked. "I mean, in scouting this layout. "
Ben Curry waited, for it was judgment of men that Bastian would need most. It pleased
him that Mike did not hesitate.
"Roundy, Doc Sawyer, Colley, and Garlin."
Curry glanced at him, his eyes hard and curious. "Why?" "Roundy has an eye for terrain
like no man in this world," Mike said. "He says mine's as good, but I'll take him
along to verify or correct my judgment. Doc Sawyer is completely honest. If he thinks
I'm wrong, he'll say so. As for Colley and Garlin, they are two of the best men in
the whole outfit. They will be pleased that I ask their help, which puts them on
my side in a measure, and they can see how I work."
Curry nodded. "Smart-and you're right. Colley and Garlin are two of the best men,
and absolutely fearless." He smiled a little. "If you have trouble with Perrin or
Molina, it won't hurt to have them on your side."
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 301
Despite himself, Mike Bastian was excited. He was twenty-two years old and by frontier
standards had been a man for several years. But in all that time, aside from a few
trips into the Mormon country and one to Salt Lake, he had never been out of the
maze of canyons and mountains north of the Colorado.
Roundy led the way, for the trail was an old one to him. They were taking the secret
route south used by the gang on their raids, and as they rode toward it, Mike stared
at the country. He was always astonished by its ruggedness.
Snow still lay in some of the darker places of the forest, but as they neared the
canyon the high cliffs towered even higher and the trail dipped down through a narrow
gorge of rock. Countless centuries of erosion had carved the rock into grotesque
figures resembling those of men and animals, colored with shades of brown, pink,
gray and red, and tapering off into a pale yellow. There were shadowed pools among
the rocks, some from snow water and others from natural springs, and there were scattered
clumps of oak and piiion.
In the bottom of the gorge the sun did not penetrate except at high noon and there
the trail wound along between great jumbled heaps of boulders, cracked and broken
from their fall off the higher cliffs.
Mike Bastian followed Roundy, who rode hump shouldered on a ragged, gray horse that
seemed as old as he himself but also as surefooted and mountainwise. Mike was wearing
a black hat now, but his same buckskins. He had substituted boots for the moccasins
he usually wore, although they reposed in his saddlebags, ready at hand.
Behind them rode Doc Sawyer, his lean, saturnine face quiet, his eyes faintly curious
and interested as he scanned the massive walls of the canyon. Tubby Colley was short
and thick chested, and very confident-a hard-jawed man who had been a first-rate
ranch foreman before he shot two men and hit the outlaw trail.
Tex Carlin was tall, rangy, and quiet. He was a Texan, and little else was known
of his background, although it was said he could carve a dozen notches on his guns
if he had wished.
Suddenly, Roundy turned the gray horse and rode abruptly at the face of the cliff,
but when he came close up, the sand and boulders broke and a path showed along the
under-scoured rock. Following this for several hundred yards, they found a canyon
that cut back into the cliff itself and then turned to head toward the river.
The roar of the Colorado, high with spring freshets, was loud in their ears before
they reached it. Finally they came out on a sandy bank littered with driftwood.
Nearby was a small cabin and a plot of garden. The door of the house opened, and
a tall old man came out.
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302 Louis L'AMOUR
"Howdy!" he said. "I been expectin' somebody." His shrewd old eyes glanced from face
to face and then hesitated at sight of Mike. "Ain't seen you before," he said pointedly.
"It's all right, Bill," Roundy said. "This is Mike Bastian."
"Ben Curry's boy?" Bill stared. "I heard a sight of you, son. I sure have! Can you
shoot like they say?"
Mike flushed. "I don't know what they say," he said, grinning. "But I'll bet a lot
of money I can hit the side of that mountain if it holds still."
Garlin stared at him thoughtfully, and Colley smiled a little. "Don't take no funnin'
from him," Roundy said. "That boy can shoot!"
"Let's see some shootin', son," Bill suggested. "I always did like to see a man who
could shoot."
Bastian shook his head. "There's no reason for shootin'," he protested. "A man's
a fool to shoot unless he's got cause. Ben Curry always told me never to draw a gun
unless I meant to use it."
"Go ahead," Colley said. "Show him."
Old Bill pointed. "See that black stick end juttin' up over there? It's about fifty,
maybe sixty, paces. Can you hit it?"
"You mean that one?" Mike palmed his gun and fired, and the black stick pulverized.
It was a movement so smooth and practiced that no one of the men even guessed he
had intended to shoot. Garlin's jaws stopped their calm chewing, and he stared with
his mouth open for as long as it took to draw a breath. Then he glanced at Colley.
"Wonder what Kerb would say to that?" he said, astonished. "This kid can shoot!"
"Yeah," Colley agreed, "but the stick didn't have a gun!"
Old Bill worked the ferry out of a cave under the cliff and freighted them across
the swollen river in one hair-raising trip. With the river behind, they wound up
through the rocks and started south.
The mining and cow town of Weaver was backed up near a large hill on the banks of
a small creek. Colley and Garlin rode into the place at sundown, and an hour later
Doc Sawyer and Roundy rode in.
Carlin and Colley were leaning on the bar having a drink, and they ignored the newcomers.
Mike Bastian followed not long afterward and walked to the bar alone.
All the others in the saloon were Mexicans, except for three tough-looking white
men lounging against the bar nearby. They
I
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 303 glanced at Mike and his buckskins, and one of
them whispered something to the others, at which they all laughed.
Doc Sawyer was sitting in a poker game, and his eyes lifted. Mike leaned nonchalantly
against the bar, avoiding the stares of the three toughs who stood near him. One
of them moved over closer.
"Hi, stranger!" he said. "That's a right purty suit you got. Where could I get one
like it?"
Garlin looked up and his face stiffened. He nudged Colley. "Look!" Garlin said quickly.
"Corbus and Fletcher! An' trouble huntin'! We'd better get into this!"
Colley shook his head. "No. Let's see what the kid does."
Mike looked around, his expression mild. "You want a suit like this?" he inquired
of the stranger. His eyes were innocent, but he could see the sort of man he had
to deal with. These three were toughs, and dangerous. "Most any Navajo could make
one for you." "Just like that?" Corbus sneered.
He was drinking and in a nagging, quarrelsome mood. Mike looked altogether too neat
for his taste.
"Sure! Just like this," Mike agreed. "But I don't know what you'd want with it, though.
This suit would be pretty big for you to fill." "Huh?" Corbus's face flamed. Then
his mouth tightened. "You gettin' smart with me, kid?"
"No." Mike Bastian turned, and his voice cracked like a whip in the suddenly silent
room. "Neither am I being hurrahed by any lamebrained, liquor-guzzling saddle tramp!
You made a remark about my suit, and I answered it. Now, you can have a drink on
me, all three of you, and I'm suggesting you drink up." His voice suddenly became
soft. "I want you to drink up because I want to be very, very sure we're friends,
see?"
Corbus stared at Bastian, a cold hint of danger filtering through the normal stubbornness
of his brain. Something told him this was perilous going, yet he was stubborn, too
stubborn. He smiled slowly. "Kid," he drawled, "supposin' I don't want to drink with
no tender foot brat?"
Corbus never saw what happened. His brain warned him as Mike's left hand moved, but
he never saw the right. The left stabbed his lips and the right cracked on the angle
of his jaw, and he lifted from his feet and hit the floor on his shoulder blades,
out cold.
Fletcher and the third tough stared from Corbus to Mike. Bastian was not smiling.
"You boys want to drink?" he asked. "Or do we go on from here?"
Fletcher stared at him. "What if a man drawed a gun instead of usin' his fists?"
he demanded.
"I'd kill him," Bastian replied quietly.
Fletcher blinked. "I reckon you would," he agreed. He turned
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306 Louis L'AMOUR
it was not only because the thought went against his own grain, but because he was
thinking of Drusilla Ragan.
What a girl she was! He sobered suddenly. Yet, for all of that, she was the daughter
of an outlaw. Did she know it? From her question, he doubted it very much.
Doe Sawyer cashed in his chips and left the poker game to join Mike at the bar.
"The twentieth, all right," he said softly. "And five of them are going to carry
shotguns. There will be twelve guards in all, which looks mighty tough. The big fellow
at the poker table is one of the guards, and all of them are picked men."
Staring at his drink, Mike puzzled over his problem. What Roundy had said was of
course true. This was a turning point for him. He was still an honest man, yet when
he stepped over the boundary it would make a difference. It might make a lot of difference
to a girl like Dru Ragan, for instance.
The fact that her father also was an outlaw would make little difference. Listening
to Sawyer made him wonder. Why had such a man, brilliant, intelligent, and well educated,
ever become a criminal?
Sawyer was a gambler and a very skillful one, yet he was a doctor, too, and a fine
surgeon. His education was as good as study and money could make it, and it had been
under his guidance that Mike Bastian had studied.
"Doc," he said suddenly, "whatever made you ride a crooked trail?"
Sawyer glanced at him suddenly, a new expression in his eyes. "What do you mean,
Mike? Do you have doubts?"
"Doubts? That seems to be all I do have these last few days."
"I wondered about that," Doe said. "You have been so quiet that I never doubted but
what you were perfectly willing to go on with Ben Curry's plans for you. It means
power and money, Mike-all a man could want. If it is doubt about the future for outlaws
that disturbs you, don't let it. From now on it will be political connections and
bribes, but with the money you'll have to work with, that should be easy."
"It should be," Mike said slowly. "Only maybe just maybe-I don't want to."
"Conscience rears its ugly head!" Sawyer smiled ironically. "Can it be that Ben Curry's
instructions have fallen on fallow ground? What started this sudden feeling? The
approach of a problem? Fear?" Doe had turned toward Mike and was staring at him with
aroused interest. "Or," he added, "is there a woman? A girl?"
"Would that be so strange?"
311
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 307 "Strange? But no! I've wondered it hasn't happened
before, but then you've lived like a recluse these past years. Who is she?"
"It doesn't matter," Mike answered. "I was thinking of this before I saw her. Wondering
what I should do."
"Don't ask me," Sawyer said. "I made a mess of my own life. Partly a woman and partly
the desire for what I thought was easy money. Well, there's no such a thing as easy
money, but I found that out too late. You make your own decision. What was it Matthew
Arnold said? I think you learned the quotation."
" `No man can save his brother's soul, or pay his brother's debt.' " "Right! So you
save your own and pay your own. There's one thing to remember, Mike. No matter which
way you go, there will be killing. If you take over Ben Curry's job, you'll have
to kill Perrin and Molina, if you can. And you may have to kill them, and even Ben
Curry, if you step out."
"Not Dad," Mike said.
"Don't be sure. It isn't only what he thinks that matters, Mike. No man is a complete
ruler or dictator. His name is only the symbol. He is the mouthpiece for the wishes
of his followers, and as long as he expresses those wishes, he leads them. When he
fails, he falls. Ben Curry is the boss not only because he has power in him, but
also because he has organization, because he has made them money, because he has
offered them safety. If you left, there would be a chink in the armor. No outlaw
ever trusts another outlaw who turns honest, for he always fears betrayal."
Bastian tossed off his drink. "Let's check with Roundy. He's been on the prowl."
Roundy came to them hastily. "We've got to get out of town, quick!" he said. "Ducrow
and Fernandez just blew in, and they are drunk and raisin' the devil. Both of them
are talkin', too, and if they see us they will spill everything!"
"All right." Mike straightened. "Get our horses. Get theirs, too. We'll take them
with us."
Garlin and Colley had come to the bar. Garlin shook his head. "Ducrow's poison mean
when he's drunk, and Fernandez sides him in everything," Carlin informed. "When Ducrow
gets drunk he always pops off too much! The boss forbade him weeks ago to come down
here."
"He's a pal of Perrin's," Colley said, "so he thinks he can get away with it."
"Here they come now!" Roundy exclaimed.
"All right-drift!" Bastian ordered. "Make it quick with the horses."
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308 Louis
Saloon doors slammed open, and the two men came in. One look, and Mike could see
there was cause for worry. Tom Ducrow was drunk and ugly, and behind him was Snake
Fernandez. They were an unpleasant pair, and they had made their share of trouble
in Ben Curry's organization, though always protected by Perrin.
Bastian started forward, but he had scarcely taken a step when Ducrow saw him.
"There he is!" he bellowed loudly. "The pet! The boss's pet!" He stared around at
the people in the barroom. "You know who this man is? He's"
"Ducrow!" Mike snapped. "Shut up and go home. Now!"
"Look who's givin' orders!" Ducrow sneered. "Gettin' big for your britches, ain't
you?"
"Your horses will be outside in a minute," Mike said. "Get on them and start back,
fast!"
"Suppose," Ducrow sneered, "you make me!"
Mike had been moving toward him, and now with a pantherlike leap he was beside the
outlaw and with a quick slash from his pistol barrel, floored him.
With an oath, Snake Fernandez reached for a gun, and Mike had no choice. He shot
him in the shoulder. Fernandez staggered, the gun dropping from his fingers. Mouthing
curses, he reached for his left-hand gun.
But even as he reached, Garlin-who had stayed behind when the others went for the
horses-stepped up behind him. Jerking the gun from the man's holster, he spun him
about and shoved him through the door.
Mike pulled the groggy Ducrow to his feet and pushed him outside after Fernandez.
A big man got up hastily from the back of the room. Mike took one quick glimpse at
the star on his chest.
"What goes on here?" the sheriff demanded.
"Nothing at all," Mike said affably. "Just a couple of the boys from our ranch feeling
their oats a little. We'll take them out and off your hands."
The sheriff stared from Mike to Doc Sawyer and Colley, who had just come through
the door.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "I don't believe I know you hombres."
"That's right, sir, you don't," Mike said. "We're from the Mogo1lons, riding back
after driving some cattle through to California. It was a rough trip, and this liquor
here got to a couple of the boys."
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 309
The sheriff hesitated, looking sharply from one to the other.
"You
may be a cowhand," he said, "but
that
hombre"-he pointed to Sawyer-"looks like a gambler!"
Mike chuckled. "That's a joke on you, boy!" he said to Doc. Then he turned back to
the sheriff. "He's a doctor, sir, and quite a good one. A friend of my boss's."
A gray-haired man got up and strolled alongside the sheriff. His eyes were alive
with suspicion.
"From the Mogollons?" he queried. "That's where I'm from. Who did you say your boss
was?"
Doc Sawyer felt his scalp tighten, but Mike smiled.
"Jack McCardle," he said, "of the Flying M. We aren't his regular hands, just a bunch
passing through. Doc, here, he being an old friend of Jack's, handled the sale of
the beef."
The sheriff looked around.
"That right, Joe?" he asked the gray-haired man. "There's a Flying M over there?"
"Yes, there is." Joe was obviously puzzled. "Good man, too, but I had no idea he
was shipping beef!"
The sheriff studied Bastian thoughtfully. "Guess you're all right," he said finally.
"But you sure don't talk like a cowhand."
"As a matter of fact," Mike said, swallowing hard, "I was studying for the ministry,
but my interests began to lead me in more profane directions, so I am afraid I backslid.
It seems," he said gravely, "that a leaning toward poker isn't conducive to the correct
manner in the pulpit!"
"I should say not!" the sheriff chuckled. "All right, son, you take your pardners
with you. Let 'em sleep it off."
Mike turned, and his men followed him. Ducrow and Fernandez had disappeared. They
rode swiftly out of town and took the trail for Toadstool Canyon. It wasn't until
they were several miles on the road that Sawyer glanced at Mike.
"You'll do," he said. "I was never so sure of a fight in my life!" "That's right,
Boss!" Garlin said. "I was bettin' we'd have to shoot our way out of town! You sure
smooth talked 'em. Never heard it done prettier!"
"Sure did," Colley agreed. "I don't envy you havin' Ducrow an' Fernandez for enemies,
though."
Kerb Perrin and Rigger Molina were both in conference with Ben Curry when Mike Bastian
came up the stone steps and through the door. They both looked up sharply.
"Perrin," Bastian said, "what were Ducrow and Fernandez doing in Weaver?"
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310 Louis L'AMOUR
"In Weaver?" Perrin straightened up slowly, nettled by Mike's tone, but puzzled,
too.
"Yes, in Weaver! We nearly had to shoot our way out of town because of them. They
were down there, drunk and talking too much. When I told them to get on their horses
and go home, they made trouble."
Kerb Perrin was on dangerous ground. He well knew how harsh Ben Curry was about talkative
outlaws, and while he had no idea what the two were doing in Weaver, he knew they
were troublemakers. He also knew they were supporters of his. Ben Curry knew it,
and so did Rigger Molina.
"They made trouble?" Perrin questioned now. "How?" "Ducrow started to tell who I
was."
"What happened?"
Mike was aware that Ben Curry had tipped back in his chair and was watching him with
interest.
"I knocked him down with a pistol barrel," he said.
"You
what?"
Perrin stared. Ducrow was a bad man to tangle with. "What about Fernandez?"
"He tried to draw on me, and I put a bullet in his shoulder." "You should've killed
him," Molina said. "You'll have to, sooner or later."
Kerb Perrin was stumped. He had not expected this, or that Mike Bastian was capable
of handling such a situation. He was suddenly aware that Doc Sawyer had come into
the room.
Bastian faced Ben Curry. "We got what we went after," he said, "but another bad break
like Ducrow and Fernandez, and we'd walk into a trap!"
"There won't be another!" Curry said harshly.
When Mike had gone out, Doc Sawyer looked at Ben Curry and smiled.
"You should have seen him and heard him," he said as Molina and Perrin were leaving.
"It would have done your heart good! He had a run-in with Corbus and Fletcher, too.
Knocked Corbus out with a punch and backed Fletcher down. Oh, he'll do, that boy
of yours, he'll do! The way he talked that sheriff out of it was one of the smoothest
things I've seen!"
Ben Curry nodded with satisfaction. "I knew it! I knew he had it!" Doc Sawyer smiled,
and looked up at the chief from under his sunburned eyebrows. "He met a girl, too."
"A girl? Good for him! It's about time!"
"This was a very particular girl, Chief," Sawyer continued. "I thought you'd like
to know. If I'm any judge of men, he fell for her and fell hard. And I'm not so sure
it didn't happen both ways. He told me something about it, but I had already seen
for myself."
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 311 Something in Sawyer's tone made Curry sit up
a little.
"Who was the girl?" he demanded.
"A girl who came in on the stage." Doc spoke carefully, avoiding Curry's eyes now.
"He got the girl and her family a rig to drive them out to a ranch. Out to the V
Bar."
Ben Curry's face went white. So Doc knew! It was in every line of him, every tone
of his voice. The one thing he had tried to keep secret, the thing known only to
himself and Roundy, was known to Doc! And to how many others?
"The girl's name," Doc continued, "was Drusilla Ragan. She's a beautiful girl."
"Well, I won't have it!" Curry said in a strained voice.
Doc Sawyer looked up, faintly curious. "You mean the foster son you raised isn't
good enough for your daughter?"
"Don't say that word here!" Curry snapped, his face hard. "Who knows besides you?"
"Nobody of whom I am aware," Doc said with a shrug. "I only know by accident. You
will remember the time you were laid up with that bullet wound. You were delirious,
and that's why I took care of you myself-because you talked too much."
Doc lighted his pipe. "They made a nice-looking pair," he said. "And I think she
invited him to Red Wall Canyon."
"He won't go! I won't have any of this crowd going there!" "Chief, that boy's what
you made him, but he's not an outlaw yet," Doc said, puffing contentedly on his pipe.
"He could be, and he might be, but if he does become one the crime will lie on your
shoulders."
Curry shook himself and stared out the window.
"I said it, Chief, the boy has it in him," Sawyer went on. "You should have seen
him throw that gun on Fernandez. The kid's fast as lightning! He thinks, too. If
he takes over this gang, he'll run this country like you never ran it. I say,
if."
"He'll do it," Curry said confidently, "you know he will. He always does what I tell
him."
Doc chuckled. "He may, and again he may not. Mike Bastian has a mind of his own,
and he's doing some thinking. He may decide he doesn't want to take over. What will
you do then?"
"Nobody has ever quit this gang. Nobody ever will!" "You'd order him killed?"
Ben Curry hesitated. This was something he had never dreamed of. Something- "He'll
do what he's told!" he repeated, but he was no longer sure.
A tiny voice of doubt was arising within him, a voice that made him remember the
Mike Bastian who was a quiet, determined little
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boy who would not cry, a boy who listened and obeyed. Yet now Curry knew, and admitted
it for the first time, that Mike Bastian always had a mind of his own.
Never before had the thought occurred to him that Mike might disobey, that he might
refuse. And if he did, what then? It was a rule of the outlaw pack that no man could
leave it and live. It was a rule essential to their security. A few had tried, and
their bodies now lay in Boot Hill. But Mike, his son? No, not Mike!
Within him, there was a deeper knowledge, an awareness that here his interests and
those of the pack would divide. Even if he said no, they would say yes.
"Who would kill him, Chief? Kerb Perrin? Rigger Molina? You?" Doc Sawyer shook his
head slowly. "You
might
be able to do it, maybe one of the others, but I doubt it. You've created the man
who may destroy you, Chief, unless you join him."
Long after Doc Sawyer was gone, Ben Curry sat there staring out over the shadowed
valley. He was getting old. For the first time he was beginning to doubt his rightness,
beginning to wonder if he had not wronged Mike Bastian.
And what of Mike and Dru, his beloved, gray-eyed daughter? The girl with dash and
spirit? But why not? Slowly, he thought over Mike Bastian's life. Where was the boy
wrong? Where was he unfitted for Dru? By the teachings given him on his, Curry's,
own suggestion? His own order? Or was there yet time?
Ben Curry heaved himself to his feet and began to pace the carpeted floor. He would
have to decide. He would have to make up his mind, for a man's life and future lay
in his hands, to make or break.
What if Dru wanted him anyway, outlaw or not? Ben Curry stopped and stared into the
fireplace. If it had been Julie now, he might forbid it. But Dru? He chuckled. She
would laugh at him. Dru had too much of his own nature, and she had a mind of her
own.
Mike Bastian was restless the day after the excitement in Weaver. He rolled out of
his bunk and walked out on the terrace. Only he and Doc Sawyer slept in the stone
house where Ben Curry lived. Roundy was down in town with the rest of them, but tonight
Mike wanted to walk, to think.
There had been a thrill of excitement in outtalking the sheriff, in facing down Fletcher,
in flattening Corbus. And there had been more of it in facing Ducrow and Fernandez.
Yet, was that what he wanted? Or did he want something more stable, more worthwhile?
The something he might find with Drusilla Ragan?
Already, he had won a place with the gang. He knew the story would be all over the
outlaw camp now.
317
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 313 Walking slowly down the street of the settlement,
he turned at
right angles and drifted down a side road. He wanted to get away from things for
a little while, to think things out. He turned again and stared back into the pines,
and then he heard a voice coming from a nearby house. The words halted him.
... at Red Wall." Mike heard the ending.
Swiftly, he glided to the house and flattened against the side. Kerb Perrin was speaking:
"It's a cinch, and we'll do it on our own without anybody's say-so. There's about
two thousand cattle in the herd, and I've got a buyer for them. We can hit the place
just about sunup. Right now, they have only four hands on the place, but about the
first of next month they will start hiring. It's now or not at all."
"How many men will we take?" That was Ducrow speaking.
"A dozen. That will keep the divvy large enough, and they can swing it. Hell, that
Ragan ranch is easy! The boss won't hear about it until too late, and the chances
are he will never guess it was us."
"I wouldn't want him to," Fernandez said.
"To hell with him!" Ducrow was irritated. "I'd like a crack at that Bastian again."
"Stick with me," Perrin said, "and I'll set him up for you. Curry is about to turn
things over to him. Well, we'll beat him to it."
"You said there were girls?" Ducrow suggested.
"There's Curry's two girls and a couple of Mexican girls who work there. One older
woman. I want one of those girls myself-the youngest of the Ragan sisters. What happens
to the others is none of my business."
Mike Bastian's hand dropped to his gun, and his lips tightened. The tone of Perrin's
voice filled him with fury, and Ducrow was as bad.
"What happens if Curry does find out?" Ducrow demanded. "What would happen?" Perrin
said fiercely. "I'll kill him like I've wanted to all these years! I've hated that
man like I never hated anyone in my life!"
"What about that Bastian?" Ducrow demanded.
Perrin laughed. "That's your problem! If you and Fernandez can't figure to handle
him, then I don't know you."
"He knocked out Corbus, too," Ducrow said. "We might get him to throw in with us,
if this crowd is all afraid of old Ben Curry."
"I ain't so sure about him my own self," said another voice, which Mike placed as
belonging to an outlaw named Bayless. "He may not be so young anymore, but he's hell
on wheels with a gun!"
"Forget him!" Perrin snapped. Then: "You three, and Clatt, Panelli, Monson, Kiefer
and a few others, will go with us. All good men. There's a lot of dissatisfaction,
anyway. Molina wants to raid the
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314 Louis L'AMOUR
Mormons. They've a lot of rich stock, and there's no reason why we can't sell it
south of the river and the other stock north of it. We can get rich!"
Mike Bastian waited no longer, but eased away from the wall. He was tempted to wait
for Perrin and brace him when he came out. His first thought was to go to Ben Curry;
but he might betray his interest in Drusilla, and the time was not yet ripe for that.
What would her father say if he found the foster son he had raised to be an outlaw
was in love with his daughter?
It was foolish to think of it, yet he couldn't help it. There was time between now
and the twentieth for him to get back to Red Wall and see her.
A new thought occurred to him. Ben Curry would know the girls and their mother were
here and would be going to see them! That would be his chance to learn of Ben's secret
pass to the riverbank and how he crossed the Colorado.
Recalling other trips, Bastian knew the route must be a much quicker one than any
he knew of, and was probably farther west and south, toward the canyon country. Already
he was eager to see the girl again, and all he could think of was her trim figure,
the laughter in her eyes, the soft curve of her lips.
There were other things to be considered. If there was as much unrest in the gang
as Perrin said, things might be nearing a definite break. Certainly, outlaws were
not the men to stand hitched for long, and Ben Curry had commanded them for longer
than anyone would believe. Their loyalty was due partly to the returns from their
ventures under his guidance, and partly to fear of his far-reaching power. But he
was growing old, and there were those among them who feared he was losing his grip.
Mike felt a sudden urge to saddle his horse and be gone, to get away from all this
potential cruelty, the conniving and hatred that lay dormant here, or was seething
and ready to explode. He could ride out now by the Kaibab trail through the forest,
skirt the mountains, and find his own way through the canyon. It was a question whether
he could escape, whether Ben Curry would let him go.
To run now meant to abandon all hope of seeing Dru again, and Mike knew he could
not do that.
Returning to his quarters in the big stone house, he stopped in front of a mirror.
With deadly, flashing speed, he began to practice quick draws of his guns. Each night
he did this twenty times as swiftly as his darting hands could move.
319
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 315 Finally he sat down on his bed thinking. Roundy
first, and today
Doc Sawyer. Each seemed to be hoping he would throw up the sponge and escape this
outlaw life before it was too late. Doc said it was his life, but was it?
There was a light tap on the door. Gun in hand, he reached for the latch. Roundy
stepped in. He glanced at the gun.
"Gettin' scary, Mike?" he queried. "Things are happenin'!" "I know."
Mike went on to explain what he had overheard, and Roundy's face turned serious.
"Mike, did you ever hear of Dave Lenaker?"
Bastian looked up. "You mean the Colorado gunman?"
"That's the one. He's headed this way. Ben Curry just got word that Lenaker's on
his way to take over the Curry gang!"
"I thought he was one of Curry's ablest lieutenants?"
Roundy shrugged. "He was, Mike, but the word has gone out that
the old man is losing his grip, and outlaws are quick to sense a thing like that.
Lenaker never had any use for Perrin, and he's most likely afraid that Perrin will
climb into the saddle. Dave Lenaker's a holy terror, too. "
"Does Dad Curry know?" Mike said.
"Yeah. He's some wrought up, too," Roundy answered. "He was figurin' on being' away
for a few days, one of those trips he takes to Red Wall. Now he can't go."
Morning came cool and clear. Mike Bastian could feel disaster in the air, and he
dressed hurriedly and headed for the bunkhouse. Few of the men were eating, and those
few were silent. He knew they were all aware of impending change. He was finishing
his coffee when Kerb Perrin came in.
Instantly, Mike was on guard. Perrin walked with a strut, and his eyes were bright
and confident. He glanced at Bastian, faintly amused, and then sat down at the table
and began to eat.
Roundy came in, and then Doc Sawyer. Mike dallied over his coffee, and a few minutes
later was rewarded by seeing Ducrow come in with Kiefer, followed in a few minutes
by Rocky Clatt, Monson and Panelli.
Suddenly, with the cup half to his mouth, Mike recalled with a shock that this was
the group Perrin planned to use on his raid on the Ragan ranch! That could mean the
raid would come off today!
He looked up to see Roundy suddenly push back his chair and leave his breakfast unfinished.
The old woodsman hurried outside and vanished.
Mike put down his own cup and got up. Then he stopped, motionless. The hard muzzle
of a gun was prodding him in the back, and a voice was saying, "Don't move!"
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316 Louis L'AMOUR
The voice was that of Fernandez, and Mike saw Perrin smiling. "Sorry to surprise
you, Bastian," Perrin said. "But with Lenaker on the road we had to move fast. By
the time he gets here I'll be in the saddle. Some of the boys wanted to kill you,
but I figured you'd be a good talkin' point with the old man. He'd be a hard kernel
to dig out of that stone shell of his without you. But with you for an argument,
he'll come out, all right!"
"Have you gone crazy, Perrin? You can't get away with this!"
"I am, though. You see, Rigger Molina left this morning with ten of his boys to work
a little job they heard of. In fact, they are on their way to knock over the gold
train."
"The gold train?" Bastian exclaimed. "Why, that was
my
job! He doesn't even know the plan made for it. Or the information I got." Perrin
smiled triumphantly. "I traded with him. I told him to give
me a free hand here, and he could have the gold train. I neglected to tell him about
the twelve guards riding with it, or the number with shotguns. In fact, I told him
only five guards would be along. I think that will take care of Rigger for me."
Perrin turned abruptly. "Take his guns and tie his hands behind his back, then shove
him out into the street. I want the old man to see him."
"What about him?" Kiefer demanded, pointing a gun at Doc Sawyer.
"Leave him alone. We may need a doctor, and he knows where his bread is buttered."
Confused and angry, Mike Bastian was shoved out into the warm morning sun, then jerked
around to face up the canyon toward the stone house.
Suddenly, fierce triumph came over him. Perrin would have a time getting the old
man out of that place. The sunlight was shining down the road from over the house,
full into their faces. The only approach to the house was up thirty steps of stone,
overlooked by an upper window of the house. From that window and the doorway, the
entire settlement could be commanded by an expert rifleman.
Ben Curry had thought of everything. The front and back doors of every building in
the settlement could be commanded easily from his stronghold.
Perrin crouched behind a pile of sandbags hastily thrown up near the door of the
store.
"Come on down, Curry!" he shouted. "Give yourself up or we'11 kill Bastian!"
There was no answer from up the hill. Mike felt cold and sick in his stomach. Wind
touched his hair and blew a strand down over his face. He stared up at the stone
house and could see no movement, hear no response.
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 317
"Come on out!" Perrin roared again. "We know you're there! Come out or we'll kill
your son!"
Still no reply.
"He don't hear you," Clatt said. "Maybe he's still asleep. Let's rush the place."
"You rush it," Kiefer said. "Let me watch!"
Despite his helplessness, Mike felt a sudden glow of satisfaction. Old Ben Curry
was a wily fighter. He knew that once he showed himself or spoke, their threat would
take force. It was useless to kill Bastian unless they knew Curry was watching them.
Perrin had been so sure Curry would come out rather than sacrifice Mike, and now
they were not even sure he was hearing them! Nor, Mike knew suddenly, was anybody
sure Ben would come out even if they did warn him Mike would be killed.
"Come on out!" Perrin roared. "Give yourself up and we'll give you and Bastian each
a horse and a half mile start! Otherwise, you both die! We've got dynamite!"
Mike chuckled. Dynamite wasn't going to do them much good. There was no way to get
close to that stone house, backed up against the mountain as it was.
"Perrin," he said, "you've played the fool. Curry doesn't care whether I live or
die. He won't come out of there, and there's no way you can get at him. All he's
got to do is sit tight and wait until Dave Lenaker gets here. He will make a deal
with Dave then, and where will you be?"
"Shut up!" Perrin bellowed. But for the first time he seemed to be aware that his
plan was not working. "He'll come out, all right!" "Let's open fire on the place,"
Ducrow suggested. "Or rush it like Clatt suggested!"
"Hell!" Kiefer was disgusted. "Let's take what we can lay hands on and get out! There's
two thousand head of cattle down in those bottoms. Rigger's gone and Lenaker ain't
here yet, so let's take what we can an' get out."
"Take pennies when there's millions up there in that stone house?" Perrin demanded.
His face swelled in anger and the veins stood out on his forehead. "That strong room
has gold in it! Stacks of money! I know it's there. With all that at hand, would
you run off with a few cattle?"
Kiefer was silent but unconvinced.
Standing in the dusty street, Mike looked up at the stone house. All the loyalty
and love he felt for the old man up there in that house came back with a rush. Whatever
he was, good or bad, he owed to Ben Curry. Perhaps Curry had reared him for a life
of crime, for
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318 Louis L"AMOUR
outlawry, but to Ben Curry it was not a bad life. He lived like a feudal lord and
had respect for no law he did not make himself. Wrong he might be, but he had given
the man that was Mike
Bastian a start. Suddenly, Mike knew that he could never have been an outlaw, that
it was not in him to steal and rob and kill. But that did not mean he could be unloyal
to the old man who had reared him and given him a home when he had none.
He was suddenly, fiercely proud of the old man up there alone. Like a cornered grizzly,
he would fight to the death. He, Mike Bastian, might die here in the street, but
he hoped old Ben Curry would stay in his stone shell and defeat them all.
Kerb Perrin was stumped. He had made his plan quickly when he'd heard Dave Lenaker
was on his way here, for he knew that if Lenaker arrived it might well turn into
a bloody four-cornered fight. But with Molina out of the way, he might take over
from Ben Curry before Lenaker arrived, and kill Lenaker and the men he brought with
him in an ambush.
He had been sure that Ben Curry would reply, that he might give himself up or at
least show himself, and Perrin had a sniper concealed to pick him off if he moved
into the open. That he would get nothing but silence, he could not believe.
Mike Bastian stood alone in the center of the street. There was simply nothing he
could do. At any moment Perrin might decide to have him killed where he stood. With
his hands tied behind him, he was helpless. Mike wondered what had happened to Roundy?
The old mountain man had risen suddenly from the table and vanished. Could he be
in league with Perrin?
That was impossible. Roundy had always been Ben Curry's friend and had never liked
anything about Kerb Perrin.
"All right," Perrin said suddenly, "we'll hold Bastian. He's still a good argument.
Some men will stay here, and the rest of us will make that raid on the Ragan outfit.
I've an idea that when we come back, Curry will be ready to talk business."
Bastian was led back from the street and thrown into a room in the rear of the store.
There his feet were tied and he was left in darkness.
His mind was in a turmoil. If Perrin's men hit the ranch now
they
would take Drusilla and Juliana! He well knew how swiftly they would strike and how
helpless any ordinary ranch would be against them. And here he was tied hand and
foot, helpless to do anything!
He heaved his body around and fought the ropes that bound him,
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 319
until sweat streamed from his body. Even then, with his wrists torn by his struggles
against the rawhide thongs that made him fast, he did not stop. There was nothing
to aid him-no nail, no sharp corner, nothing at all.
The room was built of thin boards nailed to two-by-fours. He rolled himself around
until he could get his back against the boards, trying to remember where the nails
were. Bracing himself as best he could, he pushed his back against the wall. He bumped
against it until his back was sore. But with no effect.
Outside, all was still. Whether they had gone, he did not know. Yet if Perrin had
not gone on his raid, he would be soon leaving. However, if he, Mike, could escape
and find Curry's private route across the river, he might beat them to it.
He wondered where Doc Sawyer was. Perhaps he was afraid of what Perrin might do if
he tried to help. Where was Roundy?
Just when he had all but given up, he had an idea-a solution so simple that he cursed
himself for not thinking of it before. Mike rolled over and got up on his knees and
reached back with his bound hands for his spurs. Fortunately, he was wearing boots
instead of the moccasins he wore in the woods. By wedging one spur against the other,
he succeeded in holding the rowel almost immovable, and then he began to chafe the
rawhide with the prongs of the rowel.
Desperately he sawed, until every muscle was crying for relief. As he stopped he
heard the rattle of horses' hoofs. They were just going! Then he had a fighting chance
if he could get free and get his hands on a gun!
He knew he was making headway, for he could feel the notch he had already cut in
the rawhide. Suddenly footsteps sounded outside. Fearful whoever was there would
guess what he was doing, Mike rolled over on his side.
The door opened and Snake Fernandez came in, and in his hand he held a knife. His
shoulder was bandaged crudely but tightly, and the knife was held in his left hand.
He came in and closed the door.
Mike stared, horror mounting within him. Perrin was gone, and Snake Fernandez was
moving toward him, smiling wickedly.
"You think you shoot Pablo Fernandez, eh?" the outlaw said, leering. "Now, we see
who shoots! I am going to cut you to little pieces! I am going to cut you very slowly!"
Bastian lay on his shoulder and stared at Fernandez. There was murder in the outlaw's
eyes, and all the savagery in him was coming to the fore. The man stooped over him
and pricked him with the knife. Clamping his jaws, Mike held himself tense.
Rage mounted in the man. He leaned closer. "You do not jump, eh? I make you jump!"
He stabbed down hard with the knife, and Mike whipped over on
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320 Louis L'AMOUR
his shoulder blades and kicked out wickedly with his bound feet. The movement caught
the killer by surprise. Mike's feet hit him in the knees and knocked him rolling.
With a lunge, Mike rolled over and jerked at the ropes that bound him.
Something snapped, and he jerked again. Like a cat the killer was on his feet now,
circling warily. Desperately, Mike pulled at the ropes, turning on his shoulders
to keep his feet toward Fernandez. Suddenly, he rolled over and hurled himself at
the Mexican's legs, but Fernandez jerked back and stabbed.
Mike felt a sliver of pain run along his arms, and then he rolled to his feet and
jerked wildly at the thongs. His hands came loose suddenly and he hurled himself
at Fernandez's legs, grabbing one ankle.
Fernandez came down hard, and Bastian jerked at the leg and then scrambled to get
at him. One hand grasped the man's wrist, the other his throat. With all the power
that was in him, Mike shut down on both hands.
Fernandez fought like an injured wildcat, but Mike's strength was too great. Gripping
the throat with his left hand, Mike slammed the Mexican's head against the floor
again and again, his throttling grip freezing tighter and tighter.
The outlaw's face went dark with blood, and his struggles grew weaker. Mike let go
of his throat hold suddenly and slugged him three times on the chin with his fist.
Jerking the knife from the unconscious man's hand, Mike slashed at the thongs that
bound his ankles. He got to his feet shakily. Glancing down at the sprawled-out Fernandez,
he hesitated. The man was not wearing a gun, but must have had one. It could be outside
the door. Easing to the door, Mike opened it a crack.
The street was deserted as far as he could see. His hands felt awkward from their
long constraint, and he worked his fingers to loosen them up. There was no gun in
sight, so he pushed the door wider. Fernandez's gun belts hung over the chair on
the end of the porch.
He had taken two steps toward them when a man stepped out of the bunkhouse. The fellow
had a toothpick lifted to his lips, but when he saw Mike Bastian he let out a yelp
of surprise and went for his gun.
It was scarcely fifteen paces and Mike threw the knife underhanded, pitching it point
first off the palm of his hand. It flashed in the sun as the fellow's gun came up.
Then Mike could see the haft protruding from the man's middle section.
The fellow screamed and, dropping the gun, clutched at the knife hilt in an agony
of fear. His breath came in horrid gasps that Mike
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 321 could hear as he grabbed Fernandez's guns and
belted them on. Then he lunged for the mess hall, where his own guns had been taken
from him. Shoving open the door, he sprang inside, gun in hand.
Then he froze. Doc Sawyer was standing there smiling, and Doc had a shotgun on four
of Perrin's men. He looked up with relief.
"I was hoping you would escape!" he said. "I didn't want to kill these men and didn't
know how to go about tying them up by myself."
Mike caught up his own guns, removed Fernandez's gun belts, and strapped his own
on. Then he shoved the outlaw's guns inside the waistband of his pants.
"Down on the floor," he ordered. "I'll tie them, and fast!"
It was the work of only a few minutes to have the four outlaws bound hand and foot.
He gathered up their guns.
"Where's Roundy?" he asked.
"I haven't seen him since he left here," Doc said. "I've been wondering."
"Let's go up to the house. We'll get Ben Curry, and then we'll have things under
control in a hurry."
Together, they went out the back door and walked swiftly down the line of buildings.
Mike took off his hat and sailed it into the brush, knowing he could be seen from
the stone house and hoping that Ben Curry would recognize him. Sawyer was excited,
but trying to appear calm. He had been a gambler, and while handy with guns, was
not a man accustomed to violence. Always before, he had been a bystander rather than
an active participant.
Side by side, gambling against a shot from someone below, they went up the stone
stairs.
There was no sound from within the house. They walked into the wide living room and
glanced around. There was no sign of anyone. Then Mike saw a broken box of rifle
shells.
"He's been around here!" he said. Then he looked up and shouted, "Dad!"
A muffled cry reached them, and Mike was out of the room and up another staircase.
He entered the room at the top and then froze in his tracks. Sawyer was behind him,
now.
This was the fortress room, a heavy-walled stone room that had water trickling from
a spring in the wall of the cliff and running down a stone trough and out through
a pipe. There was food stored here, and plenty of ammunition.
The door was heavy and could be locked and barred from within. The walls of this
room were all of four feet thick, and nothing short of dynamite could have blasted
a way in.
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322 Louis L'AMOUR
This was Ben Curry's last resort, and he was here now. But he was sprawled on the
floor, his face contorted with pain.
"Broke my leg!" he panted. "Too heavy! Tried to move too .. . fast! Slipped on the
steps, dragged myself up here!" He looked up at Mike. "Good for you, son! I was afraid
they had killed you. You got away by yourself?"
"Yes, Dad."
Sawyer had dropped to his knees, and now he looked up.
"This is a bad break, Mike," he said. "He won't be able to move." "Get me on a bed
where I can see out of that window." Ben Curry's strength seemed to flow back with
his son's presence. "I'll stand them off. You and me, Mike, we can do it!"
"Dad," Mike said. "I can't stay. I've got to go."
Ben Curry's face went gray with shock; then slowly the blood flowed back into it.
Bastian dropped down beside him.
"Dad, I know where Perrin's going. He's gone to make a raid on the Ragan ranch. He
wants the cattle and the women."
The old man lunged so mightily that Sawyer cried out and tried to push him back.
Before he could speak, Mike said:
"Dad, you must tell me about the secret crossing of the Colorado that you know. I
must beat them to the ranch."
Ben Curry's expression changed to one of vast relief and then quick calculation.
He nodded.
"You could do it, but it'll take tall riding!" Quickly, he outlined the route, and
then added, "Now listen! At the river there's an old Navajo. He keeps some horses
for me, and he has six of the finest animals ever bred. You cross that river and
get a horse from him. He knows about you."
Mike got up. "Make him comfortable, Doc. Do all you can." Sawyer stared at Mike.
"What about Dave Lenaker? He'll kill us all!"
"I'll take care of Lenaker!" Curry flared. "I'm not dead by a danged sight! I'll
show that renegade where he heads in. The moment he comes up that street, I'm going
to kill him!" He looked at Mike again. "Son, maybe I've done wrong to raise you like
I have, but if you kill Kerb Perrin or Lenaker you would be doing the West a favor.
If I don't get Dave Lenaker, you may have to. So remember this,
watch his left hand!"
Mike ran down the steps and stopped in his room to grab his .44 Winchester. It was
the work of a minute to throw a saddle on a horse, and then he hit the trail. Ben
Curry and Doc Sawyer could, if necessary, last for days in the fortresslike room-unless,
somehow, dynamite was pitched into the window. He would have to get to the Ragan
ranch and then get back here as soon as possible.
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 323 Mike Bastian left the stable and wheeled the
gray he was riding
into the long winding trail through the stands of ponderosa and fir. The horse was
in fine fettle and ready for the trail, and he let it out. His mind was leaping over
the trail, turning each bend, trying to see how it must lay.
This was all new country to him, for he was heading southwest now into the wild,
unknown region toward the great canyons of the Colorado, a region he had never traversed
and, except for old Ben Curry, perhaps never crossed by any except Indians.
How hard the trail would be on the horse, Mike could not guess, but he knew he must
ride fast and keep going. His route was the shorter, but Kerb Perrin had a lead on
him and would be hurrying to make his strike and return.
Patches of snow still hid themselves around the roots of the brush and in the hollows
under the end of some giant deadfall. The air was crisp and chill, but growing warmer,
and by afternoon it would be hot in the sunlight. The wind of riding whipped his
black hair. He ran the horse down a long path bedded deep with pine needles and then
turned at a blazed tree and went out across the and top of a plateau.
This was the strange land he loved, the fiery, heat-blasted land of the sun. Riding
along the crest of a long ridge, he looked out over a long valley dotted with mesquite
and sagebrush. Black dots of cattle grazing offered the only life beyond the lonely,
lazy swing of a high-soaring buzzard.
He saw the white rock he had been told to look for and turned the free-running horse
into a cleft that led downward. They moved slowly here, for it was a steep slide
down the side of the mesa and out on the long roll of the hill above the valley.
Time and time again Mike's hand patted his guns, as if to reassure himself they were
there. His thoughts leaped ahead, trying to fore see what would happen. Would he
arrive only to find the buildings burned and the girls gone?
He knew only that he must get there first, that he must face them, and that at all
costs he must kill Kerb Perrin and Ducrow. Without them the others might run, might
not choose to fight it out. Mike had an idea that without Perrin, they would scatter
to the four winds.
Swinging along the hillside, he took a trail that led again to a plateau top and
ran off through the sage, heading for the smoky-blue distance of the canyon.
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324 Louis
VII
Mike's mind lost track of time and distance, leaping ahead to the river and the crossing,
and beyond it to Ragan's V Bar ranch. Down steep trails through the great, broken
cliffs heaped high with the piled-up stone of ages, and down through the wild, weird
jumble of boulders, and across the flat toplands that smelled of sage and pinon,
he kept the horse moving.
Then suddenly he was once more in the forests of the Kaibab. The dark pines closed
around him, and he rode on in the vast stillness of virgin timber, the miles falling
behind, the trail growing dim before him.
Then suddenly the forest split aside and he was on the rim of the canyon-an awful
blue immensity yawning before him that made him draw the gray to a halt in gasping
wonder. Far out over that vast, misty blue rose islands of red sandstone, islands
that were laced and crossed by bands of purple and yellow. The sunset was gleaming
on the vast plateaus and buttes and peaks with a ruddy glow, fading into the opaques
of the deeper canyon.
The gray was beaten and weary now. Mike turned the horse toward a break in the plateau
and rode down it, giving the animal its head. They came out upon a narrow trail that
hung above a vast gorge, its bottom lost in the darkness of gathering dusk. The gray
stumbled on, seeming to know its day was almost done.
Dozing in the saddle, almost two hours later Mike Bastian felt the horse come to
a halt. He jerked his head up and opened his eyes. He could feel the dampness of
a deep canyon and could hear the thundering roar of the mighty river as it charged
through the rock walled slit. In front of him was a square of light.
"Halloo, the house!" he called.
He swung down as the door opened. "Who's there?" a voice cried out.
"Mike Bastian!" he said, moving toward the house with long, swinging strides. "For
Ben Curry!"
The man backed into the house. He was an ancient Navajo, but his eyes were keen and
sharp.
"I want a horse," Mike said.
"You can't cross the river tonight." The Navajo spoke English well. "It is impossible!"
"There'll be a moon later," Mike answered. "When it comes up, I'm going across."
The Indian looked at him and then shrugged. "Then eat," he said. "You'll need it."
"There are horses?"
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THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 325
"Horses?" The Navajo chuckled. "The best a man ever saw! Do you suppose Ben Curry
would have horses here that were not the best? But they are on the other side of
the stream, and safe enough. My brother is with them."
Mike slumped into a seat. "Take care of my horse, will you? I've most killed him."
When the Indian was gone, Mike slumped over on the table, burying his head in his
arms. In a moment he was asleep, dreaming wild dreams of a mad race over a strange
misty-blue land with great crimson islands, riding a splendid black horse and carrying
a girl in his arms. He awakened with a start. The old Indian was sitting by the fireplace,
and he looked up.
"You'd better eat," he said. "The moon is rising."
They went out together, walking down the path to the water's edge. As the moon shone
down into the canyon, Mike stared at the tumbling stream in consternation. Nothing
living could swim in that water! It would be impossible.
"How do you cross?" he demanded. "No horse could swim that! And a boat wouldn't get
fifty feet before it would be dashed to pieces!"
The Indian chuckled. "That isn't the way we cross it. You are right in saying no
boat could cross here, for there is no landing over there, and the canyon is so narrow
that the water piles up back of the narrows and comes down with a great rush."
Mike looked at him again. "You talk like an educated man," he said. "I don't understand."
The Navajo shrugged. "I was for ten years with a missionary, and after I traveled
with him as an interpreter he took me back to the States, where I stayed with him
for two years. Then I lived in Santa Fe. "
He was leading the way up a steep path that skirted the cliff but was wide enough
to walk comfortably. Opposite them, the rock wall of the canyon lifted and the waters
of the tumbling river roared down through the narrow chasm.
"Ben Curry does things well, as you shall see," the guide said. "It took him two
years of effort to get this bridge built."
Mike stared. "Across there?"
"Yes. A bridge for a man with courage. It is a rope bridge, made fast to iron rings
sunk in the rock."
Mike Bastian walked on the rocky ledge at the edge of the trail and looked out across
the gorge. In the pale moonlight he could see two slim threads trailing across the
canyon high above the tumbling water. Just two ropes, and one of them four feet above
the other.
"You mean," he said, "that Ben Curry crossed on
that?"
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326 Louis L"AMOUR
"He did. I have seen him cross that bridge a dozen times, at least. "
"Have you crossed it?"
The Navajo shrugged. "Why should I? The other side is the same as this, is it not?
There is nothing over there that I want."
Mike looked at the slender strands, and then he took hold of the upper rope and tentatively
put a foot on the lower one. Slowly, carefully, he eased out above the raging waters.
One slip and he would be gone, for no man could hope to live in those angry flood
waters. He slid his foot along, then the other, advancing his handholds as he moved.
Little by little, he worked his way across the canyon.
He was trembling when he got his feet in the rocky cavern on the opposite side and
so relieved to be safely across that he scarcely was aware of the old Indian who
sat there awaiting him.
The Navajo got up and without a word started down the trail. He quickly led Mike
to a cabin built in the opening of a dry branch canyon, and tethered before the door
of the cabin was a huge bay stallion.
Waving at the Indian, Mike swung into the saddle, and the bay turned, taking to the
trail as if eager to be off.
Would Perrin travel at night? Mike doubted it, but it was possible, so he kept moving
himself. The trail led steadily upward, winding finally out of the canyon to the
plateau.
The bay stallion seemed to know the trail; it was probable that Curry had used this
horse himself. It was a splendid animal, big and very fast. Letting the horse have
his head, Mike felt the animal gather his legs under him. Then he broke into a long,
swinging lope that literally ate up the space. How long the horse could hold the
speed he did not know, but it was a good start.
It was at least a ten-hour ride to the Ragan V Bar ranch.
The country was rugged and wild. Several times, startled deer broke and ran before
him, and there were many rabbits. Dawn was breaking faintly in the east now, and
shortly after daybreak he stopped near a pool of melted snow water and made coffee.
Then he remounted the rested stallion and raced on.
Drusilla Ragan brushed her hair thoughtfully and then pinned it up. Outside, she
could hear her mother moving about and the Mexican girls who helped around the house
whenever they were visiting. Julie was up, she knew, and had been up for hours. She
was outside talking to that blond cowhand from New Mexico, the one Voyle Ragan had
hired to break horses.
Suddenly she heard Julie's footsteps, and then the door opened. "Aren't you ready
yet?" Julie asked. "I'm famished!"
331
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 327 "I'll be along in a minute." Then as Julie turned
to go: "What did
you think of him, Julie-that cowboy who got the buckboard for us? Wasn't he the handsomest
thing?"
"Oh, you mean that Mike Bastian?" Julie said. "I was wondering why you were mooning
around in here. Usually you're the first one up. Yes, I expect he is good-looking.
But did you see the way he looked when you mentioned Uncle Voyle? He acted so strange!"
"I wonder if Uncle Voyle knows anything about him? Let's ask!" "You ask," Julie replied,
laughing. "He's
your
problem!"
Voyle Ragan was a tall man, but lean and without Ben Curry's weight. He was already
seated at the table when they came in, and Dru was no sooner in her seat than she
put her question. Voyle's face became a mask.
"Mike Bastian?" he said thoughtfully. "I don't know. Where'd you meet him?"
The girls explained, and he nodded.
"In Weaver?" Voyle Ragan knew about the gold train, and his eyes narrowed. "I think
I know who he is, but I never saw him that I heard of. You probably won't see him
again, because most of those riders from up in the strip stay there most of the time.
They are a wild bunch."
"On the way down here," Julie said, "the man who drove was telling us that outlaws
live up there."
"Could be. It's wild enough." Voyle Ragan lifted his head, listen ing. For a moment
he had believed he heard horses. But it was too soon for Ben to be coming. If anyone
else came, he would have to get rid of them, and quickly.
He heard the sound again, and then he saw the cavalcade of horsemen riding into the
yard. Voyle came to his feet abruptly. "Stay here!" he snapped.
His immediate thought was of a posse, and then he saw Kerb Perrin. He had seen Perrin
many times, although Perrin had never met him. Slowly, he moved up to the door, uncertain
of his course. These were Ben's men, but Ben had always told him that none of them
was aware that he owned this ranch or that Voyle was his brother.
"Howdy!" Voyle said. "What can I do for you?"
Kerb Perrin swung down from his horse. Behind him Monson, Ducrow and Kiefer were
getting down.
"You can make as little trouble as you know how," Perrin said, his eyes gleaming.
"All you got to do is stay out of the way. Where's the girls? We want them, and we
want your cattle."
"What is this?" Voyle demanded. He wasn't wearing a gun; it was hanging from a clothes
tree in the next room. "You men can't get away with anything here!"
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330 Louis L'AMOUR
Mexican Ducrow had killed. The whole raid had been a matter of no more than two or
three minutes.
Voyle Ragan dashed from the house. "Julie's gone!" he yelled hoarsely. "I'll get
a horse!"
Bastian caught his arm. His own dark face was tense and his eyes wide.
"You'll stay here!" he said harshly. "Take care of the women and the ranch. I'll
go after Julie."
Dru ran from the house. "She's gone, Mike, she's gone! They have her!"
Mike walked rapidly to his horse, thumbing shells into his gun. Dru Ragan started
to mount another horse.
"You go back to the house!" he ordered.
Dru's chin came up. In that moment she reminded him of Ben Curry.
"She's my sister!" Dru cried. "When we find her, she may need a woman's care!"
"All right," Mike said, "but you'll have to do some riding!"
He wheeled the big bay around. The horse Dru had mounted was one of Ben Curry's beautiful
horses, bred not only for speed but for staying power.
Mike's mind leaped ahead. Would Ducrow get back with the rest of them? Would he join
Monson and Clatt? If he did, it was going to be a problem. Ducrow was a handy man
with a six-gun, and tackling the three of them, or more if they were all together,
would be nothing less than suicide.
He held the bay horse's pace down. He had taken a swift glance at the hoofmarks of
the horses he was trailing and knew them both. Would Ducrow head back for Toadstool
Canyon? Bastian considered that as he rode, and decided he would not. Ducrow did
not know that Julie was Ben Curry's daughter. But from what Mike had said, Ducrow
had cause to believe that Ben was back in the saddle again. And men who went off
on rebel raids were not lightly handled by Curry. Besides, he would want, if possible,
to keep the girl for himself.
Mike had been taught by Roundy that there was more to trailing a man than following
his tracks, for you trailed him down the devious paths of the mind as well. He tried
to put himself in Ducrow's place.
The man could not have much food, yet on his many outlaw forays he must have learned
the country and would know where there was water. Also, there were many ranch hangouts
of the outlaws that Ducrow would know. He would probably go to one of them. Remembering
the maps that Ben Curry had shown him and made him study, Mike knew the locations
of all those places.
The trail turned suddenly off through the chaparral, and Mike
333
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 331 turned to follow. Drusilla had said nothing
since they started. Once he glanced at her. Even now, with her face dusty and tear
streaked, she was lovely. Her eyes were fastened on the trail, and he noted with
a little thrill of satisfaction that she had brought her rifle along.
Dru certainly was her father's daughter, and a fit companion for any man.
Bastian turned his attention to the trail. Despite the small lead he had, Ducrow
had vanished. That taught Mike something of the nature of the man he was tracing;
his years of outlawry had taught him how to disappear when need be. The method was
simple. Turning off into the thicker desert growth, he had ridden down into a sandy
wash.
Here, because of the deep sand and the tracks of horses and cattle, tracking was
a problem and it took Mike several minutes to decide whether Ducrow had gone up or
down the wash. Then he caught a hoofprint and they were off, winding up the sandy
wash. Yet Mike knew they would not be in that sand for long. Ducrow would wish to
save his horses' strength.
True enough, the trail soon turned out. From then on, it was a nightmare. Ducrow
ran off in a straightaway and then turned at right angles, weaving about in the sandy
desert. Several times he had stopped to brush out portions of his trail, but Roundy
had not spent years training Mike Bastian in vain. He hung to the trail like 'a bloodhound.
Dru, riding behind him, saw him get off and walk, saw him pick up sign where she
could see nothing.
Hours passed, and the day slowly drew toward an end. Dru, her face pale, realized
night would come before they found her sister. She was about to speak, when Mike
looked at her.
"You wanted to come," he said, "so you'll have to take the conse quences. I'm not
stopping because of darkness."
"How can you trail them?"
"I can't," he shrugged. "But I think I know where they are going. We'll take a chance."
Darkness closed around them. Mike's shirt stuck to his body with sweat, and a chill
wind of the higher plateaus blew down through the trees. He rode on, his face grim
and his body weary with long hours in the saddle. The big bay kept on, seemingly
unhurt by the long hours of riding. Time and again he patted the big horse, and Dru
could hear him talking to it in a low voice. Suddenly at the edge of a clearing,
he reined in.
"Dru," he said, "there's a ranch ahead. It's an outlaw hangout. There may be one
or more men there. Ducrow may be there. I am going up to find out"
334
332 Louis L"AMOUR "I'll come too," the girl said impulsively.
"You'll stay here!" His voice was flat. "When I whistle, then you come. Bring my
horse along."
He swung down and, slipping off his boots, pulled on his mocca sins. Then he went
forward into the darkness. Alone, she watched him vanish toward the dark bulk of
the buildings. Suddenly a light came on-too soon for him to have arrived.
Mike weaved his way through sage and mesquite to the corral and worked his way along
the bars. Horses were there, but it was too dark to make them out. One of them stood
near, and he put his hand through the bars, touching the horse's flank. It was damp
with sweat. His face tightened.
The horse stepped away, snorting. As if waiting for just that sound, a light went
on in the house, a lamp had been lighted. By that time Mike was at the side of the
house, flattened against the wall, peering in.
He saw a heavy, square-faced man with a pistol in his hand. The man put the gun under
a towel on the table and then began pacing around the room, waiting. Mike smiled
grimly, walked around the house, and stepped up on the porch. In his moccasins, he
made no sound. He opened the door suddenly and stepped into the room.
Obviously the man had been waiting for the sound of boots or horses, or the jingle
of spurs. Even a knock. Mike Bastian's sudden appearance startled him, and he straightened
up from the table, his hand near the towel that covered the gun.
Bastian closed the door behind him. The man stared at the black haired young man
who faced him, stared with puckered brow. This man didn't look like a sheriff to
him. Not those tied-down guns or that gray buckskin stained with travel, and no hat.
"You're Walt Sutton," Mike snapped. "Get your hands off that table before I blow
you wide open! Get 'em off!"
He drew his gun and jammed the muzzle into Sutton's stomach with such force that
it doubled the man up.
Then he swept the towel from the gun on the table.
"You fool!" he said sharply. "If you'd tried that, I'd have killed you!"
Sutton staggered back, his face gray. He had never even seen Mike's hand move.
"Who are you?" he gasped, struggling to get his wind back.
"I'm Mike Bastian, Ben Curry's foster son. He owns this ranch.
335
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 333
He set you up here and gave you stock to get started with. Now you double-cross him!
Where's Ducrow?"
Sutton swallowed. "I ain't seen him!" he protested.
"You're a liar, Sutton! His horses are out in that corral. I could pistol-whip you,
but I'm not going to. You're going to tell me where he is, and now-or I'm going to
start shooting!"
Walt Sutton was unhappy. He knew Ducrow as one of Ben Curry's men who had come here
before for fresh horses. He had never seen this man who called himself Mike Bastian,
yet so far as he knew, no one but Curry himself had ever known the true facts about
his ranch. If this man was lying, how could he know?
"Listen, mister," he protested, "I don't want no trouble-least of all with old Ben.
He did set me up here. Sure, I seen Ducrow, but he told me the law was after him."
"Do I look like the law?" Mike snapped. "He's kidnapped the daughter of a friend
of Curry's, niece of Voyle Ragan. I've got to find him."
"Kidnapped Voyle's niece? Gosh, mister, I wondered why he wanted two saddle horses!"
Mike whistled sharply. "Where'd he go?" he demanded then. "Darned if I know," Sutton
answered. "He come in here maybe an hour ago, wanted two saddle horses and a packhorse
loaded with grub. He took two canteens then and lit out."
Drusilla appeared now in the doorway, and Walt Sutton's eyes went to her.
"I know you," he said. "You're one of Voyle Ragan's nieces." "She is," Mike said.
"Ducrow kidnapped the other one. I'm going to find him. Get us some grub, but fast!"
Mike paced restlessly while Sutton filled a pack and strapped it behind the saddle
of one of the fresh horses he furnished them. The horses were some of those left
at the ranch by Ben Curry's orders and were good.
"No packhorses," Mike had said. "We're traveling fast."
Now, he turned to Sutton again. "You got any idea where Ducrow might be going?"
"Well"-Sutton licked his lips-"he'd kill me if he knowed I said anything, but he
did say something about Peach Meadow Canyon." "Peach Meadow?" Bastian stared at Sutton.
The canyon was almost a legend in the Coconino country. "What did he ask you?" "If
I knowed the trail in there, an' if it was passable."
"What did you say?"
Sutton shrugged. "Well, I've heard tell of that there canyon ever since I been in
this country, an' ain't seen no part of it. I've looked, all right. Who wouldn't
look, if all they say is true?"
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336 Louis L'AMOUR
dipped into the rocky wilderness that preceded the pine forest. He could find no
signs of a camp. Julie, who lacked the fire and also the strength of Dru, must be
almost dead with weariness, for Ducrow was not stopping. Certainly, the man had more
than a possible destination before him. In fact, the farther they rode, the more
confident Mike was that the outlaw knew exactly where he was headed.
The pines closed around them, and the trail became more difficult to follow. It was
slow going, and much of it Mike Bastian walked. Suddenly he stopped, scowling.
The trail, faint as it had been, had vanished into thin air!
"Stay where you are," he told Dru. "I've got to look around a bit." Mike studied
the ground carefully. Then he walked back to the last tracks he had seen. Their own
tracks did not cover them, as he had avoided riding over them in case he needed to
examine the hoofprints once more.
Slowly, Mike paced back and forth over the pine needles. Then he stopped and studied
the surrounding timber very carefully. It seemed to be absolutely uniform in appearance.
Avoiding the trail ahead, he left the girl and circled into the woods, describing
a slow circle around the horses.
There were no tracks.
He stopped, his brow furrowed. It was impossible to lose them after following so
far-yet they were gone, and they had left no trail. He walked back to the horses
again, and Dru stared at him, her eyes wide.
"Wait a minute," he said as she began to speak. "I want to think." He studied, inch
by inch, the woods on his left, the trail ahead, and then the trail on his right.
Nothing offered a clue. The tracks of three horses had simply vanished as though
the animals and their riders had been swallowed into space.
On the left the pines stood thick, and back inside the woods the brush was so dense
as to allow no means of passing through it. That was out, then. He had studied that
brush and had walked through those woods, and if a horseman did turn that way there
would be no place to go.
The trail ahead was trackless, so it had to be on the right. Mike turned and walked
again to the woods on his right. He inched over the ground, yet there was nothing,
no track, no indication that anything heavier than a rabbit had passed that way.
It was impossible, yet it had happened.
"Could they have backtracked?" Dru asked suddenly. "Over their same trail?"
Mike shook his head. "There were no tracks," he said, "but those
337
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 337 going ahead, I think-" He stopped dead still
and then swore. "I'm a fool! A darned fool!" He grinned at her. "Lend me your hat."
Puzzled, she removed her sombrero and handed it to him. He turned and using the hat
for a fan, began to wave it over the ground to let the wind disturb the surface needles.
Patiently, he worked over the area around the last tracks seen, and then to the woods
on both sides of the trail. Suddenly, he stopped.
"Got it," he said. "Here they are!"
Dru ran to him. He pointed to a track, then several more. "Ducrow was smart," Mike
explained. "He turned at right angles and rode across the open space, and then turned
back down the way he had come, riding over on the far side. Then he dismounted and,
coming back, gathered pine needles from somewhere back in the brush and came along
here, pressing the earth down and scattering the needles to make it seem there had
been no tracks at all!"
Mounting again, they started back, and from time to time he dismounted to examine
the trail. Suddenly the tracks turned off into thick woods. Leading their horses,
they followed.
"Move as quietly as you can," Mike said softly. "We may be close, now. Or he may
wait and try to ambush us."
"You think he knows we're following him?" Dru asked.
"Sure! And he knows I'm a tracker. He'll use every trick in the books, now."
For a while, the trail was not difficult to follow, and they rode again. Mike Bastian
could not take his mind from the girl who rode with him. What would she think when
she discovered her father was an outlaw-that he was the mysterious leader of the
outlaws?
Pine trees thinned out, and before them was the vast blue and misty distance of the
canyon. Mike slid to the ground and walked slowly forward on moccasined feet. There
were a few scattered pines and the cracked and splintered rim of the canyon, breaking
sharply off to fall away into the vast depths. Carefully, he scouted the edge of
the canyon, and when he saw the trail he stopped flat-footed and stared, his heart
in his mouth.
Had they gone down
there?
He knelt on the rock. Yes, there was the scar of a horse's hoof. He walked out a
little farther, looking down.
The cliff fell away for hundreds of feet without even a hump in the wall. Then, just
a little farther along, he saw the trail. It was a rocky ledge scarcely three feet
wide that ran steeply down the side of the
338
338 Louis L'AMOUR
rock from the canyon's rim. On the left the wall, on the right the vast, astonishing
emptiness of the canyon.
Thoughtfully, he walked back and explained.
"All right, Mike," Dru nodded. "If you're ready, I am."
He hesitated to bring the horses, but decided it would be the best thing. He drew
his rifle from the saddle scabbard and jacked a shell into the chamber.
Dru looked at him, steady-eyed. "Mike, maybe he'll be waiting for us," she said.
"We may get shot. Especially you."
Bastian nodded. "That could be," he agreed.
She came toward him. "Mike, who are you? What are you? Uncle Voyle seemed to know
you, or about you, and that outlaw, Perrin. He knew you. Then I heard you say Ben
Curry had sent you to stop them from raiding the ranch. Are you an outlaw, Mike?"
For as long as a man might have counted a slow ten, Mike stared out over the canyon,
trying to make up his mind. Now, at this stage, there was only one thing he could
say.
"No, Dru, not exactly, but I was raised by an outlaw," he explained. "Ben Curry brought
me up like his own son, with the idea that I would take over the gang when he stepped
out."
"You lived with them in their hideout?"
"When I wasn't out in the woods." He nodded. "Ben Curry had me taught everything-how
to shoot, to track, to ride, even to open safes and locks."
"What's he like, this Ben Curry?" Dru asked.
"He's quite a man!" Mike Bastian said, smiling. "When he started outlawing, everybody
was rustling a few cows, and he just went a step further and robbed banks and stages,
or planned the robberies and directed them. I don't expect he really figured himself
bad. He might have done a lot of other things, for he has brains. But he killed a
man-and then in getting away, he killed another. The first one was justified. The
second one- Well, he was in a hurry."
"Are you apologizing for him?" Dru said quickly. "After all, he was an outlaw and
a killer."
He glanced at her. "He was, yes. And I am not making any apologies for him, nor would
he want them. He's a man who always stood on his own two feet. Maybe he was wrong
but there
were
the circumstances. And he was mighty good to me. I didn't have a home, no place to
go, and he took me in and treated me right."
"Was he a big man, Mike? A big old man?" He did not look her way. She knew, then?
"In many ways," he said, "he is one of the biggest men I know. We'd better get started."
339
AM
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 339 It was like stepping off into space, yet the
horses took it calmly
enough. They were mountain bred and would go anywhere as long as they could get a
foothold on something.
The red maw of the canyon gaped to receive them, and they went down, following the
narrow, switchback trail that seemed to be leading them into the very center of the
earth.
It was late afternoon before they started down, and now the shadows began to creep
up the canyon walls, reaching with ghostly fingers for the vanished sunlight. Overhead
the red blazed with the setting sun's reflection and seemed to be hurling arrows
of flame back into the sky. The depths of the canyon seemed chill after the sun on
the plateau, and Mike walked warily, always a little ahead of the horse he was leading.
Dru was riding, and when he glanced back once, she smiled
At the end, it was simple. The long chase had led to a quiet meadow, and he could
smell the grass before he reached it, could hear the babble of a small stream. The
canyon walls flared wide, and he saw, not far away, the faint sparkle of a fire.
Dru came alongside him. "Is . . . that them?" she asked, low
"It couldn't be anyone else." Her hand was on his arm and he put his own hand over
it. "I've got to go up there alone, Dru. I'll have to kill him, you know."
"Yes," she said, simply, "but don't
you
be killed!" He started to ride forward, and she caught his arm.
"Mike, why have you done all this?" she asked. "She isn't your sister. "
"No." He looked very serious in the vague light. "She's yours." He turned his head
and spoke to the horse. The animal started forward.
When, shortly, he stopped the mount, he heard a sound nearby. Dru Ragan was close
behind him.
"Dru," he whispered, "you've
got
to stay hack! Hold my horse. I'm going up on foot."
brightly at him, keeping her eyes averted from the awful depths below.
Mike had no flair for making love, for his knowledge of women was slight. He wished
now that he knew more of their ways, knew the things to say that would appeal to
a girl.
A long time later they reached the bottom, and far away on their right they could
hear the river rushing through the canyon. Mike knelt and striking a match, he studied
the trail. The tracks turned back into a long canyon that led back from the river.
He got into the saddle then, his rifle across his saddle, and rode forward.
340
340 Louis L'AMOUR
He left her like that and walked steadily forward. Even before he got to the fire,
he could see them. The girl, her head slumped over on her arms, half dead with weariness,
and Ducrow bending over the fire. From time to time Ducrow glanced at the girl. Finally,
he reached over and cuffed her on the head.
"Come on, get some of this coffee into you!" he growled. "This is where we stay-in
Peach Meadow Canyon. Might as well give up seem' that sister of yours, because you're
my woman now!" He sneered. "Monson and them, they ran like scared foxes! No bottom
to them. I come for a woman, and I got one!"
"Why don't you let me go?" Juliana protested. "My father will pay you well. He has
lots of money."
"Your pa?" Ducrow stared at her. "I thought Voyle Ragan was your uncle?"
"He is. I mean Ben Ragan. He ranches up north of the canyon." "North of the canyon?"
Ducrow laughed. "Not unless he's a Mormon, he don't. What's he look like, this pa
of yours?"
"He's a great big man, with iron-gray hair, a heavy jaw-" She stopped, staring at
Ducrow. "What's the matter with you?"
Ducrow got slowly to his feet. "Your pa-Ben Ragan? A big man with gray hair, an'
maybe a scar on his jaw-that him?"
"Oh, yes! Take me to him! He'll pay you well!"
Suddenly, Ducrow let out a guffaw of laughter. He slapped his leg and bellowed. "Man,
oh, man! Is that a good one! You're Ben Curry's daughter! Why, that old-" He sobered.
"What did you call him? Ragan? Why, honey, that old man of yours is the biggest outlaw
in the world! Or was until today! Well, of all the-"
"You've laughed enough, Ducrow!"
As Mike Bastian spoke, he stepped to the edge of the firelight. "You leave a tough
trail, but I followed it."
Ducrow turned, half crouching, his cruel eyes glaring at Bastian. "Roundy was right,"
he snarled. "You could track a snake across a flat rock! Well, now that you're here,
what are you goin' to do?"
"That depends on you, Ducrow. You can drop your guns, and I'll take you in for a
trial. Or you can shoot it out."
"Drop my guns?" Ducrow chuckled. "You'd actually take me in, too! You're too soft,
Bastian. You'd never make the boss man old Ben Curry was. He would never even of
said yes or no; he would have seen me and gone to blastin'! You got a sight to learn,
youngster. Too bad
you
ain't goin' to live long enough to learn it."
Ducrow lifted one hand carelessly and wiped it across the tobaccostained stubble
of his beard. His right hand swept down for his gun even as his left touched his
face. His gun came up, spouting flame.
341
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 341 Mike Bastian palmed his gun and momentarily
held it rigid. Then fired.
Ducrow winced like he had been slugged in the chest, and then
he lifted on his tiptoes. His gun came level again. "You're ... fast!" he gasped.
"Devilish fast!"
He fired, and then Mike triggered his gun once more. The second shot spun Ducrow
around and he fell, face down, at the edge of the fire.
Dru came running, her rifle in her hand, but when she saw Mike still standing, she
dropped the rifle and ran to him.
"Oh, mike!" she sobbed. "I was so frightened! I thought you were killed!"
Julie started to rise and then fell headlong in a faint. Dru rushed to her side.
Mike Bastian absently thumbed shells into his gun and stared down at the fallen man.
He had killed a third man. Suddenly, and profoundly, he wished with all his heart
he would never have to kill another.
He holstered his weapon and, gathering up the dead man, carried him away from the
fire. He would bury him here, in Peach Meadow Canyon.
Sunlight lay upon the empty street of the settlement in Toadstool Canyon when Mike
Bastian, his rifle crosswise on his saddle, rode slowly into the lower end of the
town.
Beside him, sitting straight in her saddle, rode Dru Ragan. Julie had stayed at the
ranch, but Dru had flatly refused. Ben Curry was her father, and she was going to
him, outlaw camp or not.
If Dave Lenaker had arrived, Mike thought, he was quiet enough, for there was no
sound. No horses stood at the hitch rails, and the doors of the saloon were wide
open.
Something fluttered on the ground, and Mike looked at it quickly. It was a torn bit
of cloth on a man's body. The man was a stranger. Dru noticed it and her face paled.
His rifle at ready, Mike rode on, eyes shifting from side to side. A man's wrist
lay in sight across a window sill, his pistol on the porch outside. There was blood
on the stoop of another house.
"There's been a fight," Mike said, "and a bad one. You'd better get set for the worst."
Dru said nothing, but her mouth held firm. At the last building, the mess hall, a
man lay dead in a doorway. They rode on and then
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342 Louis L'AMOUR
drew up at the foot of the stone steps and dismounted. Mike shoved his rifle back
in the saddle scabbard and loosened his six-guns. "Let's go!" he said.
The wide veranda was empty and still, but when he stepped into the huge living room,
he stopped in amazement, five men sat about a table playing cards.
Ben Curry's head came up and he waved at them.
"Come on in, Mike!" he called. "Who's that with you? Dru, by all that's holy!"
Doc Sawyer, Roundy, Garlin, and Colley were there. Garlin's head was bandaged, and
Colley had one foot stretched out stiff and straight, as did Ben Curry. But all were
smiling.
Dru ran to her father and fell on her knees beside him. "Oh, Dad!" she cried. "We
were so scared!"
"What happened here?" Mike demanded. "Don't sit there grinning! Did Dave Lenaker
come?"
"He sure did, and what do you think?" Doc said. "It was Rigger Molina got him! Rigger
got to Weaver and found out Perrin had double-crossed him before he ever pulled the
job. He discovered that Perrin had lied about the guards, so he rushed back. When
he found out that Ben was crippled and that Kerb Perrin had run out, he waited for
Lenaker himself.
"He was wonderful, Mike," Doc continued. "I never saw anything like it! He paced
the veranda out there like a bear in a cage, swearing and waiting for Lenaker. Muttered,
`Leave you in the lurch, will they? I'll show 'em! Lenaker thinks he can gun you
down because you're gettin' old, does he? Well, killer I may be, but I can kill him!'
And he did, Mike.
They
shot it out in the street down there. Dave Lenaker, as slim and tall as you, and
that great bear of a Molina.
"Lenaker beat him to the draw," Doc went on. "He got two bullets into the Rigger,
but Molina wouldn't go down. He stood there spraddle-legged in the street and shot
until both guns were empty. Lenaker kept shooting and must have hit Molina five times,
but when he went down, Rigger walked over to him and spat in his face. "That for
double-crossers!" he said. He was magnificent!"
"They fooled me, Mike," Roundy said, "I seen trouble a-comin an' figured I'd better
get to old Ben. I never figured they'd slip in behind you like they done. Then the
news of Lenaker comin' got me. I knowed him an' was afraid of him, so I figured to
save Ben Curry I'd get down the road and dry-gulch him. Never killed a gunslinger
like him in my life, Mike, but I was sure aimin' to! But he got by me on another
trail. After Molina killed Lenaker, his boys and some of them from here started after
the gold they'd figured was in this house."
343
THE TRAIL TO PEACH MEADOW CANYON 343 "Doc here," Garlin said, "is some fighter! I
didn't know he had it in him."
"Roundy, Doc, Garlin, an' me," Colley said, "we sided Ben Curry. It was a swell scrap
while it lasted. Garlin got one through his scalp, and I got two bullets in the leg.
Aside from that, we came out all
Briefly, then, Mike explained all that had transpired, how he had killed Perrin and
then had trailed Ducrow to Peach Meadow Canyon and the fight there.
"Where's the gang?" he demanded now. "All gone?"
"All the live ones." Ben Curry nodded grimly. "There's a few won't go anywhere. Funny,
the only man who ever fooled me was Rigger Molina. I never knew the man was that
loyal, yet he stood by me when I was in no shape to fight Lenaker. Took that fight
right off my hands. He soaked up lead like a sponge soaks water!"
Ben Curry looked quickly at Dru. "So you know you're the daugh ter of an outlaw?
Well, I'm sorry, Dru. I never aimed for you to know. I was gettin' shet of this business
and planned to settle down on a ranch with your mother and live out the rest of my
days plumb peaceful. "
"Why don't you?" Dru demanded.
He looked at her, his admiring eyes taking in her slim, well rounded figure. "You
reckon she'll have me?" he asked. "She looked a sight like you when she was younger,
Dru."
"Of course, she'll have you! She doesn't know-or didn't know until Julie told her.
But I think she guessed. I knew. I saw you talking with some men once, and later
heard they were outlaws, and then I began hearing about Ben Curry."
Curry looked thoughtfully from Dru to Mike.
"Is there something between you two? Or am I an old fool?" Mike flushed and kept
his eyes away from Dru.
"He's a fine man, Dru." Doc Sawyer said. "And well educated, if I do say so-who taught
him all he knows."
"All he knows!" Roundy stared at Doc with contempt. "Book larnin'! Where would that
gal be but for what I told him? How to read sign, how to foller a trail? Where would
she be?"
Mike took Dru out to the veranda then.
"I can read sign, all right," he said, "but I'm no hand at reading the trail to a
woman's heart. You would have to help me, Dru."
She laughed softly, and her eyes were bright as she slipped her arm through his.
"Why, Mike, you've been blazing a trail over and back and up again, ever since I
met you in the street at Weaver!"
Suddenly, she sobered. "Mike, let's get some cattle and go back to