The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour:
The Frontier Stories: Volume A
Bantam Book / November 2003
Louis L'Amour Hardcover Collection / December 2003
Published by Bantam Dell Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright ©2003 by Louis and Katherine L'Amour Trust
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written
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Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is
a trademark of Random House, Inc.
you want to purchase more of these titles, please write to: The Louis L'Amour Collection
1745 Broadway New York, NY 10019
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data is on file with the publisher.
ISBN: 0-002-10354-0
Manufactured in the United States of America Published simultaneously in Canada
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
1
 CONTENTS
The Gift of Cochise 1
That Man from The Bitter Sands 13
Desperate Men 24
Dutchman's Flat 36
From the Listening Hills 52
Trap of Gold 66
Riches Beyond Dream 73
The Lonesome Gods 76
The Skull and the Arrow 82
End of the Drive 86
Caprock Rancher 96
Dead-End Drift 106
One Night Stand 115
Marshal of Canyon Gap 120
A Husband for Janey 130
Elisha Comes to Red Horse 139
The Courting of Griselda 151
Booty for a Badman 160
The Defense of Sentinel 172
The One for the Mohave Kid 179
A Mule for Santa Fe 191
i
2
 War Party 198
Ironwood Station 210
Alkali Basin 221
Stage to Willowspring 231
Let the Cards Decide 242
Duffy's Man 251
The Strong Shall Live 260
To Make a Stand 271
Get Out of Town 282
One for the Pot 292
Beyond the Chaparral 302
Home Is the Hunter 313
Rustler Roundup 324
The Moon of the Trees Broken by Snow 418
3
 THE COLLECTED SHORT STORIES OF
LOUIS L'AMOUR
4
 i
5
 The Gift of Cochise
Tense, and white to the lips, Angie Lowe stood in the door of her cabin with a double-barreled
shotgun in her hands. Beside the door was a Winchester '73, and on the table inside
the house were two Walker Colts.
Facing the cabin were twelve Apaches on ragged calico ponies, and one of the Indians
had lifted his hand, palm outward. The Apache sitting the white-splashed bay pony
was Cochise.
Beside Angie were her seven-year-old son Jimmy and her fiveyearold daughter Jane.
Cochise sat his pony in silence; his black, unreadable eyes studied the woman, the
children, the cabin, and the small garden. He looked at the two ponies in the corral
and the three cows. His eyes strayed to the small stack of hay cut from the meadow,
and to the few steers farther up the canyon.
Three times the warriors of Cochise had attacked this solitary cabin and three times
they had been turned back. In all, they had lost seven men, and three had been wounded.
Four ponies had been killed. His braves reported that there was no man in the house,
only a woman and two children, so Cochise had come to see for himself this woman
who was so certain a shot with a rifle and who killed his fighting men.
These were some of the same fighting men who had outfought, outguessed and outrun
the finest American army on record, an army outnumbering the Apaches by a hundred
to one. Yet a lone woman with two small children had fought them off, and the woman
was scarcely more than a girl. And she was prepared to fight now. There was a glint
of admiration in the old eyes that appraised her. The Apache was a fighting man,
and he respected fighting blood.
"Where is your man?"
"He has gone to El Paso." Angle's voice was steady, but she was frightened as she
had never been before. She recognized Cochise from
6
 2 L O U I S
descriptions, and she knew that if he decided to kill or capture her it would be
done. Until now, the sporadic attacks she had fought off had been those of casual
bands of warriors who raided her in passing.
"He has been gone a long time. How long?"
Angie hesitated, but it was not in her to lie. "He has been gone four months."
Cochise considered that. No one but a fool would leave such a woman, or such fine
children. Only one thing could have prevented his return. "Your man is dead," he
said.
Angie waited, her heart pounding with heavy, measured beats. She had guessed long
ago that Ed had been killed but the way Cochise spoke did not imply that Apaches
had killed him, only that he must be dead or he would have returned.
"You fight well," Cochise said. "You have killed my young men." "Your young men attacked
me" She hesitated, then added, "They stole my horses."
"Your man is gone. Why do you not leave?"
Angie looked at him with surprise. "Leave? Why, this is my home. This land is mine.
This spring is mine. I shall not leave."
"This was an Apache spring," Cochise reminded her reasonably. "The Apache lives in
the mountains," Angie replied. "He does not need this spring. I have two children,
and I do need it."
"But when the Apache comes this way, where shall he drink? His throat is dry and
you keep him from water."
The very fact that Cochise was willing to talk raised her hopes. There had been a
time when the Apache made no war on the white man. "Cochise speaks with a forked
tongue," she said. "There is water yonder." She gestured toward the hills, where
Ed had told her there were springs. "But if the people of Cochise come in peace they
may drink at this spring.
The Apache leader smiled faintly. Such a woman would rear a nation of warriors. He
nodded at Jimmy. "The small one-does he also shoot?" "He does," Angie said proudly,
"and well, too!" She pointed to an upthrust leaf of prickly pear. "Show them, Jimmy."
The prickly pear was an easy two hundred yards away, and the Winchester was long
and heavy, but he lifted it eagerly and steadied it against the doorjamb as his father
had taught him, held his sight an in stant, then fired. The bud on top of the prickly
pear disintegrated.
There were grunts of appreciation from the dark-faced warriors. Cochise chuckled.
"The little warrior shoots well. It is well you have no man. You might raise an army
of little warriors to fight my people."
"I have no wish to fight your people," Angie said quietly. "Your peo ple have your
ways, and I have mine. I live in peace when I am left in
7
 THE G I F T O F C O C H I S E 3
peace. I did not think," she added with dignity, "that the great Cochise made war
on women!"
The Apache looked at her, then turned his pony away. "My people will trouble you
no longer," he said. "You are the mother of a strong son." "What about my two ponies?"
she called after him. "Your young men took them from me."
Cochise did not turn or look back, and the little cavalcade of riders followed him
away. Angie stepped back into the cabin and closed the door. Then she sat down abruptly,
her face white, the muscles in her legs trembling.
When morning came, she went cautiously to the spring for water. Her ponies were back
in the corral. They had been returned during the night.
Slowly, the days drew on. Angie broke a small piece of the meadow and planted it.
Alone, she cut hay in the meadow and built another stack. She saw Indians several
times, but they did not bother her. One morning, when she opened her door, a quarter
of antelope lay on the step, but no Indian was in sight. Several times, during the
weeks that followed, she saw moccasin tracks near the spring.
Once, going out at daybreak, she saw an Indian girl dipping water from the spring.
Angie called to her, and the girl turned quickly, facing her. Angie walked toward
her, offering a bright red silk ribbon. Pleased, the Apache girl left.
And the following morning there was another quarter of antelope on her step-but she
saw no Indian.
Ed Lowe had built the cabin in West Dog Canyon in the spring of 1871, but it was
Angie who chose the spot, not Ed. In Santa Fe they would have told you that Ed Lowe
was good-looking, shiftless, and agree able. He was, also, unfortunately handy with
a pistol.
Angle's father had come from County Mayo to New York and from New York to the Mississippi,
where he became a tough, brawling river boatman. In New Orleans, he met a beautiful
Cajun girl and married her. Together, they started west for Santa Fe, and Angie was
born en route. Both parents died of cholera when Angie was fourteen. She lived with
an Irish family for the following three years, then married Ed Lowe when she was
seventeen.
Santa Fe was not good for Ed, and Angie kept after him until they started south.
It was Apache country, but they kept on until they reached the old Spanish ruin in
West Dog. Here there were grass, water, and shel ter from the wind.
There was fuel, and there were pinons and game. And Angie, with an Irish eye for
the land, saw that it would grow crops.
The house itself was built on the ruins of the old Spanish building,
8
 4 L O U I S
using the thick walls and the floor. The location had been admirably cho sen for
defense. The house was built in a corner of the cliff, under the sheltering overhang,
so that approach was possible from only two direc tions, both covered by an easy
field of fire from the door and windows.
For seven months, Ed worked hard and steadily. He put in the first crop, he built
the house, and proved himself a handy man with tools. He repaired the old plow they
had bought, cleaned out the spring, and paved and walled it with slabs of stone.
If he was lonely for the carefree com panions of Santa Fe, he gave no indication
of it. Provisions were low, and when he finally started off to the south, Angie watched
him go with an ache in her heart.
SHE DID NOT know whether she loved Ed. The first flush of enthusiasm had passed,
and Ed Lowe had proved something less than she had be lieved. But he had tried, she
admitted. And it had not been easy for him. He was an amiable soul, given to whittling
and idle talk, all of which he missed in the loneliness of the Apache country. And
when he rode away, she had no idea whether she would ever see him again. She never
did.
Santa Fe was far and away to the north, but the growing village of El Paso was less
than a hundred miles to the west, and it was there Ed Lowe rode for supplies and
seed.
He had several drinks-his first in months-in one of the saloons. As the liquor warmed
his stomach, Ed Lowe looked around agreeably. For a moment, his eyes clouded with
worry as he thought of his wife and chil dren back in Apache country, but it was
not in Ed Lowe to worry for long. He had another drink and leaned on the bar, talking
to the bar tender. All Ed had ever asked of life was enough to eat, a horse to ride,
an occasional drink, and companions to talk with. Not that he had anything important
to say. He just liked to talk.
Suddenly a chair grated on the floor, and Ed turned. A lean, power ful man with a
shock of uncut black hair and a torn, weather-faded shirt stood at bay. Facing him
across the table were three hard-faced young men, obviously brothers.
Ches Lane did not notice Ed Lowe watching from the bar. He had eyes only for the
men facing him. "You done that deliberate!" The state ment was a challenge.
The broad-chested man on the left grinned through broken teeth. "That's right, Ches.
I done it deliberate. You killed Dan Tolliver on the Brazos."
"He made the quarrel." Comprehension came to Ches. He was boxed, and by three of
the fighting, blood-hungry Tollivers.
"Don't make no difference," the broad-chested Tolliver said. " `Who sheds a Tolliver's
blood, by a Tolliver's hand must die!' "
9
 T H E
Ed Lowe moved suddenly from the bar. "Three to one is long odds," he said, his voice
low and friendly. "If the gent in the corner is willin', I'll side him."
Two Tollivers turned toward him. Ed Lowe was smiling easily, his hand hovering near
his gun. "You stay out of this!" one of the brothers said harshly.
"I'm in," Ed replied. "Why don't you boys light a shuck?"
"No, by-!" The man's hand dropped for his gun, and the room thundered with sound.
Ed was smiling easily, unworried as always. His gun flashed up. He felt it leap in
his hand, saw the nearest Tolliver smashed back, and he shot him again as he dropped.
He had only time to see Ches Lane with two guns out and another Tolliver down when
something struck him through the stomach and he stepped back against the bar, suddenly
sick.
The sound stopped, and the room was quiet, and there was the acrid smell of powder
smoke. Three Tollivers were down and dead, and Ed Lowe was dying. Ches Lane crossed
to him.
"We got 'em," Ed said, "we sure did. But they got me."
Suddenly his face changed. "Oh, Lord in heaven, what'll Angie do?" And then he crumpled
over on the floor and lay still, the blood staining his shirt and mingling with the
sawdust.
Stiff faced, Ches looked up. "Who was Angie?" he asked.
"His wife," the bartender told him. "She's up northeast somewhere, in Apache country.
He was tellin' me about her. Two kids, too."
Ches Lane stared down at the crumpled, used-up body of Ed Lowe. The man had saved
his life.
One he could have beaten, two he might have beaten; three would have killed him.
Ed Lowe, stepping in when he did, had saved the life of Ches Lane.
"He didn't say where?" "No."
Ches Lane shoved his hat back on his head. "What's northeast of here?" The bartender
rested his hands on the bar. "Cochise," he said.... For more than three months, whenever
he could rustle the grub,
Ches Lane quartered the country over and back. The trouble was, he had no lead to
the location of Ed Lowe's homestead. An examination of Ed's horse revealed nothing.
Lowe had bought seed and ammunition, and the seed indicated a good water supply,
and the ammunition implied trouble. But in that country there was always trouble.
A man had died to save his life, and Ches Lane had a deep sense of obligation. Somewhere
that wife waited, if she was still alive, and it was up to him to find her and look
out for her. He rode northeast, cutting for sign, but found none. Sandstorms had
wiped out any hope of back-trailing
10
 6
Lowe. Actually, West Dog Canyon was more east than north, but this he had no way
of knowing.
North he went, skirting the rugged San Andreas Mountains. Heat baked him hot, dry
winds parched his skin. His hair grew dry and stiff and alkali-whitened. He rode
north, and soon the Apaches knew of him. He fought them at a lonely water hole, and
he fought them on the run. They killed his horse, and he switched his saddle to the
spare and rode on. They cornered him in the rocks, and he killed two of them and
escaped by night.
THEY TRAILED HIM through the White Sands, and he left two more for dead. He fought
fiercely and bitterly, and would not be turned from his quest. He turned east through
the lava beds and still more east to the Pecos. He saw only two white men, and neither
knew of a white woman.
The bearded man laughed harshly. "A woman alone? She wouldn't last a month! By now
the Apaches got her, or she's dead. Don't be a fool! Leave this country before you
die here."
Lean, wind-whipped, and savage, Ches Lane pushed on. The Mescaleros cornered him
in Rawhide Draw and he fought them to a standstill. Grimly, the Apaches clung to
his trail.
The sheer determination of the man fascinated them. Bred and born in a rugged and
lonely land, the Apaches knew the difficulties of survival; they knew how a man could
live, how he must live. Even as they tried to kill this man, they loved him, for
he was one of their own.
Lane's jeans grew ragged. Two bullet holes were added to the old black hat. The slicker
was torn; the saddle, so carefully kept until now, was scratched by gravel and brush.
At night he cleaned his guns and by day he scouted the trails. Three times he found
lonely ranch houses burned to the ground, the buzzard- and coyote-stripped bones
of their owners lying nearby.
Once he found a covered wagon, its canvas flopping in the wind, a man lying sprawled
on the seat with a pistol near his hand. He was dead and his wife was dead, and their
canteens rattled like empty skulls.
Leaner every day, Ches Lane pushed on. He camped one night in a canyon near some
white oaks. He heard a hoof click on stone and he backed away from his tiny fire,
gun in hand.
The riders were white men, and there were two of them. Joe Tompkins and Wiley Lynn
were headed west, and Ches Lane could have guessed why. They were men he had known
before, and he told them what he was doing.
Lynn chuckled. He was a thin-faced man with lank yellow hair and dirty fingers. "Seems
a mighty strange way to get a woman. There's some as comes easier."
"This ain't for fun," Ches replied shortly. "I got to find her."
11
 THE G I F T O F C O C H I S E 7
Tompkins stared at him. "Ches, you're crazy! That gent declared himself in of his
own wish and desire. Far's that goes, the gal's dead. No woman could last this long
in Apache country."
At daylight, the two men headed west, and Ches Lane turned south. Antelope and deer
are curious creatures, often led to their death by curiosity. The longhorn, soon
going wild on the plains, acquires the same characteristic. He is essentially curious.
Any new thing or strange action will bring his head up and his ears alert. Often
a longhorn, like a deer, can be lured within a stone's throw by some queer antic,
by a handkerchief waving, by a man under a hide, by a man on foot.
This character of the wild things holds true of the Indian. The lonely rider who
fought so desperately and knew the desert so well soon became a subject of gossip
among the Apaches. Over the fires of many a rancheria they discussed this strange
rider who seemed to be going nowhere, but always riding, like a lean wolf dog on
a trail. He rode across the mesas and down the canyons; he studied sign at every
water hole; he looked long from every ridge. It was obvious to the Indians that he
searched for something-but what?
COCHISE HAD COME again to the cabin in West Dog Canyon. "Little war rior too small,"
he said, "too small for hunt. You join my people. Take Apache for man."
"No." Angie shook her head. "Apache ways are good for the Apache, and the white man's
ways are good for white men-and women"
They rode away and said no more, but that night, as she had on many other nights
after the children were asleep, Angie cried. She wept silently, her head pillowed
on her arms. She was as pretty as ever, but her face was thin, showing the worry
and struggle of the months gone by, the weeks and months without hope.
The crops were small but good. Little Jimmy worked beside her. At night, Angie sat
alone on the steps and watched the shadows gather down the long canyon, listening
to the coyotes yapping from the rim of the Guadalupes, hearing the horses blowing
in the corral. She watched, still hopeful, but now she knew that Cochise was right:
Ed would not return.
But even if sh
e had been ready to give up this, the first home she had know, there could be no
escape. Here she was protected by Cochise. Other Apaches from other tribes would
not so willingly grant her peace.
At daylight she was up. The morning air was bright and balmy, but soon it would be
hot again. Jimmy went to the spring for water, and when breakfast was over, the children
played while Angie sat in the shade of a huge old cottonwood and sewed. It was a
Sunday, warm and lovely. From time to time, she lifted her eyes to look down the
canyon, half smiling at her own foolishness.
12
 8
The hard-packed earth of the yard was swept clean of dust; the pans hanging on the
kitchen wall were neat and shining. The children's hair had been clipped, and there
was a small bouquet on the kitchen table.
After a while, Angie put aside her sewing and changed her dress. She did her hair
carefully, and then, looking in her mirror, she reflected with sudden pain that she
was pretty, and that she was only a girl.
Resolutely, she turned from the mirror and, taking up her Bible, went back to the
seat under the cottonwood. The children left their playing and came to her, for this
was a Sunday ritual, their only one. Opening the Bible, she read slowly,
... though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil;
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table
before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou ..
"Mommy." Jimmy tugged at her sleeve. "Look!"
CHEs LANE HAD REACHED a narrow canyon by midafternoon and decided to make camp. There
was small possibility he would find another such spot, and he was dead tired, his
muscles sodden with fatigue. The canyon was one of those unexpected gashes in the
cap rock that gave no indica tion of its presence until you came right on it. After
some searching, Ches found a route to the bottom and made camp under a wind-hollowed
overhang. There was water, and there was a small patch of grass.
After his horse had a drink and a roll on the ground, it began crop ping eagerly
at the rich, green grass, and Ches built a smokeless fire of an cient driftwood in
the canyon bottom. It was his first hot meal in days, and when he had finished he
put out his fire, rolled a smoke, and leaned back contentedly.
Before darkness settled, he climbed to the rim and looked over the country. The sun
had gone down, and the shadows were growing long. After a half hour of study, he
decided there was no living thing within miles, except for the usual desert life.
Returning to the bottom, he moved his horse to fresh grass, then rolled in his blanket.
For the first time in a month, he slept without fear.
He woke up suddenly in the broad daylight. The horse was listening to something,
his head up. Swiftly, Ches went to the horse and led it back under the overhang.
Then he drew on his boots, rolled his blankets, and saddled the horse. Still he heard
no sound.
Climbing the rim again, he studied the desert and found nothing. Returning to his
horse, he mounted up and rode down the canyon toward the flatland beyond. Coming
out of the canyon mouth, he rode right into the middle of a war party of more than
twenty Apaches invisible until suddenly they stood up behind rocks, their rifles
leveled. And he didn't have a chance.
13
 THE G I F T O F C O C H I S E 9
Swiftly, they bound his wrists to the saddle horn and tied his feet. Only then did
he see the man who led the party. It was Cochise.
He was a lean, wiry Indian of past fifty, his black hair streaked with gray, his
features strong and clean-cut. He stared at Lane, and there was nothing in his face
to reveal what he might be thinking.
Several of the young warriors pushed forward, talking excitedly and waving their
arms. Ches Lane understood none of it, but he sat straight in the saddle, his head
up, waiting. Then Cochise spoke and the party turned, and, leading his horse, they
rode away.
The miles grew long and the sun was hot. He was offered no water and he asked for
none. The Indians ignored him. Once a young brave rode near and struck him viciously.
Lane made no sound, gave no indi cation of pain. When they finally stopped, it was
beside a huge anthill swarming with big red desert ants.
Roughly, they untied him and jerked him from his horse. He dug in his heels and shouted
at them in Spanish: "The Apaches are women! They tie me to the ants because they
are afraid to fight me!"
An Indian struck him, and Ches glared at the man. If he must die, he would show them
how it should be done. Yet he knew the unpredictable nature of the Indian, of his
great respect for courage.
"Give me a knife, and I'll kill any of your warriors!"
They stared at him, and one powerfully built Apache angrily ordered them to get on
with it. Cochise spoke, and the big warrior replied an grily.
Ches Lane nodded at the anthill. "Is this the death for a fighting man? I have fought
your strong men and beaten them. I have left no trail for them to follow, and for
months I have lived among you, and now only by accident have you captured me. Give
me a knife," he added grimly, "and I will fight
him!"
He indicated the big, black-faced Apache.
The warrior's cruel mouth hardened, and he struck Ches across the face.
The white man tasted blood and fury. "Woman!" Ches said. "Coyote! You are afraid!"
Ches turned on Cochise, as the Indians stood irresolute. "Free my hands and let me
fight!" he demanded. "If I win, let me go free"
Cochise said something to the big Indian. Instantly, there was still ness. Then an
Apache sprang forward and, with a slash of his knife, freed Lane's hands. Shaking
loose the thongs, Ches Lane chafed his wrists to bring back the circulation. An Indian
threw a knife at his feet. It was his own bowie knife.
Ches took off his riding boots. In sock feet, his knife gripped low in his hand,
its cutting edge up, he looked at the big warrior.
"I promise you nothing," Cochise said in Spanish, "but an honorable death."
14
 1 0 L O U I S
The big warrior came at him on cat feet. Warily, Ches circled. He had not only to
defeat this Apache but to escape. He permitted himself a side glance toward his horse.
It stood alone. No Indian held it.
The Apache closed swiftly, thrusting wickedly with the knife. Ches, who had learned
knife-fighting in the bayou country of Louisiana, turned his hip sharply, and the
blade slid past him. He struck swiftly, but the Apache's forward movement deflected
the blade, and it failed to pene trate. However, as it swept up between the Indian's
body and arm, it cut a deep gash in the warrior's left armpit.
The Indian sprang again, like a clawing cat, streaming blood. Ches moved aside, but
a backhand sweep nicked him, and he felt the sharp bite of the blade. Turning, he
paused on the balls of his feet.
He had had no water in hours. His lips were cracked. Yet he sweated now, and the
salt of it stung his eyes. He stared into the malevolent black eyes of the Apache,
then moved to meet him. The Indian lunged, and Ches sidestepped like a boxer and
spun on the ball of his foot.
The sudden sidestep threw the Indian past him, but Ches failed to drive the knife
into the Apache's kidney when his foot rolled on a stone. The point left a thin red
line across the Indian's back. The Indian was quick. Before Ches could recover his
balance, he grasped the white man's knife wrist. Desperately, Ches grabbed for the
Indian's knife hand and got the wrist, and they stood there straining, chest to chest.
Seeing his chance, Ches suddenly let his knees buckle, then brought up his knee and
fell back, throwing the Apache over his head to the sand. Instantly, he whirled and
was on his feet, standing over the Apache. The warrior had lost his knife, and he
lay there, staring up, his eyes black with hatred.
Coolly, Ches stepped back, picked up the Indian's knife, and tossed it to him contemptuously.
There was a grunt from the watching Indians, and then his antagonist rushed. But
loss of blood had weakened the war rior, and Ches stepped in swiftly, struck the
blade aside, then thrust the point of his blade hard against the Indian's belly.
Black eyes glared into his without yielding. A thrust, and the man would be disemboweled,
but Ches stepped back. "He is a strong man," Ches said in Spanish. "It is enough
that I have won."
Deliberately, he walked to his horse and swung into the saddle. He looked around,
and every rifle covered him.
So he had gained nothing. He had hoped that mercy might lead to mercy, that the Apache's
respect for a fighting man would win his free dom. He had failed. Again they bound
him to his horse, but they did not take his knife from him.
When they camped at last, he was given food and drink. He was bound again, and a
blanket was thrown over him. At daylight they were
15
 THE G I F T O F C O C H I S E 11
again in the saddle. In Spanish he asked where they were taking him, but they gave
no indication of hearing. When they stopped again, it was beside a pole corral, near
a stone cabin.
WHEN JIMMY SPOKE, Angie got quickly to her feet. She recognized Cochise with a start
of relief, but she saw instantly that this was a war party. And then she saw the
prisoner.
Their eyes met and she felt a distinct shock. He was a white man, a big, unshaven
man who badly needed both a bath and a haircut, his clothes ragged and bloody. Cochise
gestured at the prisoner.
"No take Apache man, you take white man. This man good for hunt, good for fight.
He strong warrior. You take 'em."
Flushed and startled, Angie stared at the prisoner and caught a faint glint of humor
in his dark eyes.
"Is this here the fate worse than death I hear tell of?" he inquired gently.
"Who are you?" she asked, and was immediately conscious that it was an extremely
silly question.
The Apaches had drawn back and were watching curiously. She could do nothing for
the present but accept the situation. Obviously they intended to do her a kindness,
and it would not do to offend them. If they had not brought this man to her, he might
have been killed.
"Name's Ches Lane, ma'am," he said. "Will you untie me? I'd feel a lot safer."
"Of course." Still flustered, she went to him and untied his hands. One Indian said
something, and the others chuckled; then, with a whoop, they swung their horses and
galloped off down the canyon.
Their departure left her suddenly helpless, the shadowy globe of her loneliness shattered
by this utterly strange man standing before her, this big, bearded man brought to
her out of the desert.
She smoothed her apron, suddenly pale as she realized what his delivery to her implied.
What must he think of her? She turned away quickly. "There's hot water," she said
hastily, to prevent his speaking. "Dinner is almost ready."
SHE WALKED QUICKLY into the house and stopped before the stove, her mind a blank-She
looked around her as if she had suddenly waked up in a strange place. She heard water
being poured into the basin by the door, and heard him take Ed's razor. She had never
moved the box. To have moved it would"Sight of work done here, ma'am."
She hesitated, then turned with determination and stepped into the doorway. "Yes,
Ed"
16
 1 2 L O U I S
"You're Angie Lowe."
Surprised, she turned toward him, and recognized his own startled awareness of her.
As he shaved, he told her about Ed, and what had hap pened that day in the saloon.
"He-Ed was like that. He never considered consequences until it was too late."
"Lucky for me he didn't."
He was younger-looking with his beard gone. There was a certain quiet dignity in
his face. She went back inside and began putting plates on the table. She was conscious
that he had moved to the door and was watching her.
"You don't have to stay," she said. "You owe me nothing. Whatever Ed did, he did
because he was that kind of person. You aren't responsible." He did not answer, and
when she turned again to the stove, she glanced swiftly at him. He was looking across
the valley.
There was a studied deference about him when he moved to a place at the table. The
children stared, wide-eyed and silent; it had been so long since a man sat at this
table.
Angie could not remember when she had felt like this. She was awk wardly conscious
of her hands, which never seemed to be in the right place or doing the right things.
She scarcely tasted her food, nor did the children.
Ches Lane had no such inhibitions. For the first time, he realized how hungry he
was. After the half-cooked meat of lonely, trailside fires, this was tender and flavored.
Hot biscuits, desert honey .. . Suddenly he looked up, embarrassed at his appetite.
"You were really hungry," she said. "Man can't fix much, out on the trail."
Later, after he'd got his bedroll from his saddle and unrolled it on the hay in the
barn, he walked back to the house and sat on the lowest step. The sun was gone, and
they watched the cliffs stretch their red shadows across the valley. A quail called
plaintively, a mellow sound of twilight.
"You needn't worry about Cochise," she said. "He'll soon be crossing into Mexico."
"I wasn't thinking about Cochise."
That left her with nothing to say, and she listened again to the quail and watched
a lone bright star.
"A man could get to like it here," he said quietly.
17
 That Man from the Bitter Sands
When Speke came at last to water, he was two days beyond death.
His cracked lips rustled like tissue paper when they moved, trying to shape a thought.
The skin of his face, long burned to a desert brown, had now taken on a patina of
crimson.
Yet his mind was awake, and alive within him was a spirit that even the desert could
not defeat. Without doubt Ross and Floren believed him dead, and this pleased him,
stirring a wry sense of humor.
The chirping of birds told him of water before he saw it. His stum bling, almost
hypnotic walk ceased, and swaying upon his feet, he turned his head slowly upon his
stiff neck.
The basin remained unchanged, only now he had reached the very bottom of the vast
depression, and a jagged knife's edge of rocks, an up thrust from a not too ancient
fracture, loomed off to his right.
He had seen a dozen such along the line of travel, yet there was a dif ference. The
faint, grayish green of the desert vegetation here took on a somewhat deeper green.
Yet without the birds he might not have no ticed. There was water near.
Through the heat-engendered haze in his skull there flickered grim humor. Floren
and Ross thought they had taken from him all that prom ised survival when they had
also taken his gold. They had robbed him of weapons, tools, canteen, food, and water.
They had left him nothing.
Better than anyone else he had known what lay before him. After they had gone he
had worked to free imself;-but when he had succeeded he did not move away. He waited
qi~ietly in the shadow of the ledge, gutted of its small hoard of gold. Only when
the sun was down did he move, and then he stepped out with a long, space-eating stride,
walking away into that vast wasteland, shadowed with evening.
They had left him two things they did not realize would matter. They
18
 14 L01"IS
had seemed but bits of debris in the looted camp: a prospector's gold pan and a storm
square from his canvas groundsheet.
Before it grew too dark to travel he had walked eight miles. Stopping then, he scooped
a shallow hole in the sand and placed in it the gold pan. Over it he stretched the
canvas, and above that he built a small pile of large stones. When his dew trap was
complete he lay down to sleep.
Scarcely a spoon of water rewarded the effort, yet he swallowed it and was grateful.
Before the sun topped the ridge he had three more miles be hind him. Near two boulders
he stopped and made a sun shade of a ru ined cedar in the space between the boulders.
He crawled into this island of coolness and lay down.
Midafternoon of the second day he found a barrel cactus, and cutting off the top
he squeezed some water from the whitish green pulp. On the second and third nights
he also built his dew traps, and each time got a lit tle water. When he first heard
the birds he thought he was losing his rea son, yet turning toward the serrated ridge,
he stumbled on. At its base, among some desert willows, was a small pool some four
feet across ... but lying in it was a dead coyote.
Swaying drunkenly, he stared hollow-eyed at the dead coyote and the poisoned water.
He could go no farther, he knew. He must drink, yet, in his weakened state, a case
of dysentery would surely kill him. It was not in him to yield, and too well he knew
the ways of the wild country and the lessons it taught.
The will that had carried him more than forty miles across the desert moved him then.
He dragged the remains of the dead coyote from the water. Then he gathered sticks
and built a fire. When he had a small heap of charcoal, he scooped up some water
with the gold pan. He covered the water until it was two inches thick with charcoal.
Then he stoked his fire and waited. Soon the water was boiling.
The desert night drew darkness around him. The firelight flickered on the rock wall
and upon the fragile boughs of the willow, and the smoke drifted and lost itself
in the night. Sparks flew upward and vanished.
With a flat stick, he skimmed off the thick scum of charcoal and co agulated impurities.
Then he added more charcoal and the water contin ued to boil. A second time he skimmed
it, and only then did he put some aside to cool.
The very presence of water seemed to help. His brain cleared and he thought. He was
now halfway across the vast bowl of desert. He was walking toward a place he knew,
a ranch with a well of cool, clear water, and a man who would lend him a horse. A
horse and a gun.
Forcing himself to ignore the water, he leaned back against the rocks. His lips rustled
together and his tongue felt like a dry stick. He closed his
19
 THAT MAN FROM THE BITTER SANDS 15
aching eyes and waited out the minutes, listening like a prisoner to the faint trickle
of water into the pool.
When an hour had passed, he allowed himself his first drink. Dipping up a little
of the water he took some in his mouth and held it there, feel ing the coolness bringing
life back to the starved, shrunken tissues. Slowly he let the water trickle down
his throat, feeling the delightful coolness all through him. Even that tiny swallow
seemed to reach into every part of his body.
He bathed his lips and face then, taking his time, and finally allowing himself another
swallow of the water. Finding in the rock a natural basin that was almost a foot
across he used it as a mold, and with a rounded stone he carefully pounded his prospecting
pan down into it, forcing the pan into a shape more like that of a bucket. Returning
to the fire he boiled more water with charcoal, then poured it into the basin in
the rock, re peating the process with his newly made pail. Adding a few more bits
of charcoal, he lay back on the ground and was almost at once asleep, know ing that
with the dawn the water would be clear and sweet.
Long ago he had established a pattern of awakening, and despite his exhaustion he
was stirring long before dawn. It was cold when he opened his eyes, and his body
was chilled with the cold of the desert night. Hurriedly, he built a fire and let
its warmth permeate his entire being. Then he drank, and after a while, drank again.
Then he turned to the desert.
A fleshy-fruited yucca grew near the water hole and he picked some of the long pods.
He ate one of them raw, then roasted the others with some bulbs of the sego lily.
When he had eaten these he took a thin, flat sheet of sandstone and began to dip
water from the hole. Despite the lit tle water there was, it took him more than an
hour to empty the hole.
From time to time he paused to rest. Once, still havinghis--tobacco, he rolled a
smoke. He would need no more water n that in his bucket, but if others came along
they would not know of the coyote and the poi soned spring. He did not know if his
actions would help, but a water hole was a precious thing, to be safeguarded by all
who passed.
When the hole was emptied he scraped the bottom with his flat stone, throwing out
huge chunks of the mud. He then enlarged the opening through which the water flowed,
still only a mere trickle, and fi nally sat down to eat more of the pods and bulbs,
and to drink more water.
Water slowly trickled back into the hole. By night it would be full, and rested,
he would start on with the first shadows.
THREE DAYS LATER, he was mounted on a horse. In the scabbard on his borrowed saddle
was a Winchester, and thrust into his waistband was a battered but capable Colt.
20
 1 6 L 0 U I S
They had insisted he remain and rest, but Speke would have none of it. Floren and
Ross had taken his gold and he had been abandoned to die, yet it was with no thought
of actual revenge that he returned to the desert. Nor did he blame his sufferings
upon the two thieves whom he had taken into his camp when they had been half dead
from thirst. The sufferings he had endured he accepted, as he accepted so much else
as a part of life in the desert, yet the gold they had taken was his, and he intended
to get it back.
Speke was not a big man but he was tough. The years and the desert had melted away
any softness he might have had, and left behind a hard core of that rawhide resilience
that the desert demands. Never a gunman, he had used weapons as a soldier in the
Apache wars, as a buffalo hunter, and in his own private skirmishes with desert Mohaves
or Pimas.
He needed no blueprint to read the plan in the minds of Floren and Ross. They would
go first to Tucson.
It was a sufficient distance away. It had whiskey, women, and for a desert town of
the era, remarkably good food.
On a sunlit morning not long after daybreak, Tom Speke rode his shambling buckskin
into the main street of Tucson. He rode past staked out pigs, dozens of yapping dogs,
a few casual, disinterested burros, and a few naked Mexican youngsters. He was a
lean man of less than six feet, not long past thirty but seasoned by the desert,
a man with dingy trousers, a buckskin jacket, a battered narrow-brimmed hat, and
a lean jawed look about him.
He swung down at the Shoo Fly, and went into the restaurant. It was a long room of
adobe, walls washed with yellow, a stamped earth floor, and tables of pine covered
with cheap tablecloths. To Tom Speke, who had sat at a table four times in two years,
the Shoo Fly represented the height of culture and gastronomic delight. He did not
order-at the Shoo Fly one accepted what the day offered, in this case jerked beef,
fri joles, tomatoes, and stewed prunes (there had recently been a series of Apache
raids on trains bringing fresh fruit from Hermosillo) and coffee. All but the coffee
and the prunes were liberally laced with chile colorados, and there was still some
honey that had been brought from the Tia Juana ranch below the border.
Tom Speke devoted himself to eating, but while he ate, he listened. The Shoo Fly
was crowded, as always at mealtimes, and there was much talk. Turning to the kid
who was clearing tables, he asked if there was any recent news of prospectors striking
it rich in the area. The kid didn't know, but a man up the table looked up and put
down his fork.
"Feller down to Congress Hall payin' for drinks with dust. Says he made him a pile
over on the Gila."
21
 THAT MAN FROM THE BITTER SANDS
"Big feller? With blond hair?" A man spoke up from the end of the bar. "Seen him.
Looks mighty like a feller from Santa Fe I run into once. They were huntin' him for
horse stealin'."
Tom Speke forked up the last piece of beef and chewed it thought fully. Then he wiped
his plate with a slab of bread and disposed of it in the same way. He gulped coffee,
then laid out his dollar and pushed back from the table. The description was that
of Floren.
The sun stopped him on the step, and he waited until his eyes adjusted themselves
to the glare. Then he walked up the street to the Congress. Pausing on the step he
eased the position of the Colt, then stepped
inside and moved away from the door. Early as it was, the place was scat tered with
people. One game gave the appearance of having been on all night. Several men stood
at the bar. One of these was a giant of a man in a stovepipe hat and a black coat.
Speke knew him for Marcus Duffield, onetime town marshal and now postal inspector,
but still the town's lead ing exponent of gun-throwing.
Speke glanced around. There was no sign of Ross, but Floren's big blond head was
visible. He was sitting in the poker game, and from the look of it, he was winning.
Speke moved down the bar to Duffield's side. He ordered a drink, then jerked his
head at Duffield. "An' one for Marcus, here."
Duffield glanced at him. "Goin' to be some shootin' here right sud den," Speke said
quietly. "I figured to tell you so's you wouldn't figure it was aimed at you." He
indicated Floren by a jerk of his head. "Feller there an' his partner come into my
camp half dead. I gave 'em grub an' water. Second day they throwed down on me, tied
me up, an' stole my outfit, includin' three pokes of gold."
"Seen the gold," Duffield said. "Didn't figure him for no miner."
He glanced over his shoulder. "Better wait'll he finishes this hand. He's holdin'
four of a kind."
Speke lifted his glass and Duffield acknowledged it. They drank, and Tom Speke turned
around and then moved down the bar. He waited there, watching the game, his eyes
cold and emotionless. Floren raked in the pot on his four queens and started to stack
the money.
And then he looked up and saw Speke.
He started to move, then stopped. His eyes stared, his face went sickly yellow.
A card player noticed his face, took a quick look at Speke, then care fully drew
back from the table. The others followed suit.
"You won that with my money, Floren," Speke said carefully. "Just leave it lay."
Floren took a quick look around. His big hands rested on the arms of
22
 1 8 L O U I S
his chair, only inches from his gun. One of the players started to interrupt, but
Duffield's bold black eyes pinned the man to the spot. "His show," Duffield said.
"That gent's a thief."
Floren touched his lips with his tongue. "Now, look," he said, "I" "Ain't aimin'
to kill you," Speke said conversationally, "nor Ross. You stole my outfit an' left
me for dead, but all I want is my money an, my outfit. Get up easy an' empty your
pockets."
Floren looked at the money, and then at Speke. Suddenly his face seemed to set, and
an ugly look flared in his eyes. He started to rise. "I'll be double d-!" His hand
dropped to his gun.
Nobody had seen Ross come in the door. He took one quick look, drew, and fired. Even
as Speke thumbed back the hammer, he was struck from behind. He staggered, then fell
forward.
Floren stood, his unfired gun in his hand, and looked down at Speke. Ross held the
room covered. Floren lifted the muzzle of his gun toward the fallen man.
"Don't do that," Duffield said, "or you'll have to kill every man in this room."
Floren looked up at him, and hesitated.
"Don't be a fool," Ross said, "pick up your money and let's go."
IT WAS TWO WEEKS before Speke could leave his bed, despite excellent care by Semig,
a Viennese doctor attached to the Army. It was a month before he could ride.
Duffield watched him mount the buckskin. "Next time don't talk," he advised. "Shoot!"
Tom Speke picked up the trail of Floren and Ross on the Hassayampa and followed them
into Camp Date Creek. Captain Dwyer of the Fifth Cavalry listened to Speke's description,
then nodded. "They were here. I ordered them out. Ross was known to have sold liquor
to the Apaches near Camp Grant. I couldn't have them around."
Swapping the weary buckskin for a zebra dun mustang, Speke returned to the trail.
At Dripping Springs Speke drew up and swung down. Cherokee Townsend came from his
cabin with a whoop of pleasure. The two had once traveled together across New Mexico.
In reply to his questions, Townsend nodded. " 'Bout two weeks back," he said. "Didn't
take to 'em much. Big fellow is ridin' a bay with three white stockings. The other
one an appaloosa with a splash of white on his right shoulder. They headed for Prescott."
Townsend was, he said, staying on. "Watch out for 'Paches," he said. "They are out
an' about. I've buried twenty-seven of them right on this place."
23
 THAT MAN FROM THE BITTER SANDS 19
Speke rode on, sparing his horse but holding to the pace. He saw much Indian sign.
In Prescott the two had remained more than a week. They had left town headed west.
Everywhere he was warned of Indians. The Apaches were out, and so were the Hualapais
and Mohaves. There were rumors of an impending outbreak at Date Creek, and General
Crook was going down to investigate.
Neither Floren nor Ross was a man of long experience in the West. During their time
in his camp, before they had robbed him, he had seen that. They were men who had
come west from Bald Knob, Missouri. Tough men and dangerous, but not desert-wise.
On the second day out of Prescott, Speke found two Indian ponies. Badly used, they
had obviously been released by Indians who had gone on with fresher, stronger horses.
Speke caught up the two ponies and led them along with him, an idea forming in his
brain.
On the third day he spotted them ahead of him, and he deliberately created dust off
to their left and behind. That night he left his own horse and rode one of the others,
and took the other unshod horse around their camp. He left four separate sets of
tracks across their trail for the follow ing day.
Moving on cat feet, he slipped down to the edge of the camp. A small fire was burning.
Floren was asleep, and Ross sat nearby. Waiting for more than an hour with Indian
patience, he finally got his chance. He slipped the muzzle of his rifle through the
strap of a canteen and withdrew it carefully. He could have stolen the other also,
but he did not. He made his way some distance, then deliberately let a small gravel
slide start. Glancing back, he saw Ross come to his feet and leap from the firelight.
It was the beginning of his plan. He watched them draw up when they reached the tracks
of the unshod ponies the following morning. To anyone, this certainly meant Indians.
Indians often rode horses shod at trading posts or stolen from the white settlers,
but white men almost never rode an unshod horse for any length of time. The tracks
were headed west and south. Floren and Ross pulled off the trail, working north.
Remembering the country ahead of them, Speke was satisfied.
In the four nights that followed, he succeeded in alarming their camp with stealthy
noises at least twice a night. He left pony tracks ahead of them and near the camp.
Steadily, they bore off to the north, trying to avoid the unseen Indians.
They were worried by the Indians they believed were congregating nearby, they had
but one canteen between them, and they were getting only disturbed sleep when they
slept at all. It was a calculated war of nerves. Twice Speke lay on a bluff or behind
a rock near the camp and heard them arguing fiercely.
24
 2 0 L 0 U I S
Ahead of them on the following morning, he built a signal fire. He used a blanket
to simulate Indian signals, then went south a few miles and did the same thing. They
were now well to the north of Ehrenberg and headed for Hardyville. At dusk he lit
two more signal fires and used the smoke, then put them out and worked closer to
the camp of the two out
Floren was thinner, haggard, hollow-eyed. Ross was tighter, snappish, and shifty.
They built a tiny fire to make coffee, and Speke waited. When Ross reached for the
pot, he fired rapidly-three times.
The first shot struck the fire and threw sparks, the second drilled the coffeepot-Speke
could see the sudden puff of steam and smoke when the coffee hit the fire-and the
third shot struck a log on which Floren was seated.
Following the shots there was silence. Evidently the firing had caught both men away
from their rifles. Moving a little, Speke watched the fire, relaxed and at ease.
He had suffered from these men, and now he ex pected to recover his gold, and to
do it, if possible, without killing.
Yet they had planned for him to die, and only the presence of Duffield and the rest
had saved him in the saloon. It was not a considera tion of mercy that moved him,
rather a complete indifference to the fate of the two men. He wanted his gold; this
he had worked for, slaved for. Whatever they had won gambling he would consider his-won
with his money and payment for this long trek.
Day dawned with low clouds and a hint of rain. He saw them move out slowly, and knew
they had spent an uncomfortable and altogether miserable night away from their bedrolls.
Twice during the day he sent them into hiding with quick shots from ambush, not aimed
to kill.
Twice he heard them bickering over the canteen, and an idea came to him. He knew
they kept the gold close to them, so to get at it was scarcely possible, but there
was something else he could get. And that night he stole one of their horses.
At dawn, after a quiet sleep on the desert, Tom Speke was awake. Gathering his horses,
he left them concealed in the shelter of an upthrust of rock, and then moved closer
to watch.
Already an argument was ensuing. One canteen, one horse, thirty pounds of gold, and
two men.
Coolly, Speke rolled a smoke. He could have written the story of what was to happen
now. Harassed beyond limit, their nerves on edge from constant attack, from sleepless
nights, and from uncertainty as to their enemies, the two were now facing each other.
In the mind of each was the thought that success and escape could belong to one man,
and one only.
Floren was saddling the horse. Then he picked up the gold and tied it
25
 THAT MAN FROM THE BITTER SANDS 21
behind the saddle. He seemed to be having trouble. Ross dropped his hand to his gun-he
failed to calculate on the shadow, and Floren turned and fired.
Ross staggered, took a step back, then yelled something wild and in coherent. He
went down to his hands and knees and Floren swung into the saddle and rode away.
Ross remained on his hands and knees. Speke drew deep on his ciga rette and watched
Floren go. He was heading northwest. Speke smiled and got up, then went back for
his own horses. When he had them he walked down to Ross. The man had fallen, and
he was breathing hoarsely.
Working with swift sureness, Speke carried the smaller man into the shade of a cedar
and, ripping open his shirt, examined the wound. Ross had been struck on the top
of the hipbone, knocking him down and temporarily shocking him into a state of partial
paralysis. The bullet had torn a hole in his side, a flesh wound, from which blood
was flowing.
Heating water, he bathed the wound. Then, making a decoction from the leaves of a
creosote bush, he used it as an antiseptic on the wound. Then he bandaged it crudely
but effectively. Ross revived while he worked, and stared at him. "You ... is it?"
"Uh-huh." "Figured we'd lost you." "Ain't likely."
"Why you helpin' me?"
Speke sat back on his heels. He nodded at the horse he had stolen. "I'm leavin' you
that horse and a canteen. You head out of here. If I ever see you again, I'll kill
you."
He got to his feet and started for the horses. Ross stared after him, then tried
to lift himself to an elbow, managed it. "You leavin' me a gun?"
.
No. "Then I'm a sittin' duck for Injuns."
Speke smiled a rare smile. "Maybe you'll be lucky."
He walked his horse away on Floren's trail. He was in no hurry. Before them lay the
breaks of the Colorado. Soon Floren would be stopped by the canyon itself. Speke
had been long in the desert, and the desert teaches patience. There was no escape
for Floren.
For days Speke had directed his smoke columns and his actions to cause the two outlaws
to pull farther and farther north, until now Floren was in a cul-de-sac from which
there was no way out except back the way he had come. But Floren would not know this.
He would waste time looking.
It was a hot still day when the search ended. A day of a high sun and the reflecting
heat from the face of vast plateaus of rock and the cedar-clad
26
 2 2 L O U I S
hillsides. Lizards panted even in the shade, their mouths held open, their sides
pumping at the hot, thin air.
Floren was hollow-eyed and frightened. Whichever way he went he faced awesome canyons,
and the only water was far, far below. Only a few drops slopped lonesomely in his
canteen, and the horse he rode was gaunt and beaten. He swung down, and his heels
hit hard, and he stared over the brink into the vast canyon below.
Trapped . . . Seven times he had found new routes, and each had ended in a cliff.
Seven times he tried and seven times he failed. And now he knew there was no way
to turn but back. He turned toward the horse, and as if expecting him, the animal
went to its knees, then rolled over on its side. Fiercely, Floren swore. He kicked
the horse. It would not rise, it could not rise. Better yet without the horse he
could take the gold and find a way down the cliffs. Then a raft . . . feverishly,
he rushed at the horse and stripped off the pack of gold. He started to take his
rifle, then shrugged. It would only be in the way.
Shouldering the gold, he walked to the cliff's edge. There was no way over at that
point. He turned, then stopped abruptly. One hundred yards away was Speke. The prospector
held a Winchester cradled in his arm.
Speke said nothing. He just stood there, silent, still, alone.
Floren touched his lips with his tongue. He held the gold sack in his right hand.
Anyway, at that range ... a pistol ... he looked toward his ri fle. Too far away.
Speke shot from the hip, and the sack jerked in Floren's hand. Another shot. Speke
moved a step forward and Floren dropped the sack and drew. He fired quickly, hastily.
He missed....
Speke fired again and Floren felt the bullet tug at his shirt. He took a hasty step
back, then fired again himself. The bullet struck far to the left. Speke swung his
rifle and fired. Rock fragments stung Floren's cheek. He jerked his head back up.
Speke said nothing. He worked the lever on his rifle and waited. Floren started forward,
and a bullet kicked up sand ahead of him. He took a hasty step back.
The edge ... could not be far behind. He glanced back and Speke fired swiftly, three
shots. They scattered rock around his feet and a rico chet burned Floren's face.
He was no more than six feet from the edge.
"You ain't goin' to make me jump!" he shouted angrily. He threw up his gun and fired.
Speke waited a minute, then walked swiftly forward and picked up the gold. He backed
away, then dropped the sack and fired. His Winchester '73 carried eleven bullets
and he was counting them.
The shot whipped by Floren's face, so close it drew blood.
Floren was frightened now. His face was drawn and white. He stared
27
 THAT MAN FROM THE BITTER SANDS 23
with wide eyes and haggard mouth. Speke picked up the gold again and backed to his
horse. Lashing it behind the saddle, he swung into the leather.
As he did so, he dropped the lead rope of one of the Indian ponies. "Help yourself,"
he said, and rode slowly away.
Floren started after him, shouting. Tom Speke did not turn his head or glance back.
He merely rode on, remembering Tucson and the Shoo Fly. He would enjoy a meal like
that now. Maybe, in a week or so ... He had lots of time ... now.
28
 Desperate
They were four desperate men, made hard by life, cruel by nature, and driven to desperation
by imprisonment. Yet the walls of Yuma Prison were strong and the rifle skill of
the guards un
questioned, so the prison held many desperate men besides these four. And when prison
walls and rifles failed, there was the desert, and the desert never failed.
Fate, however, delivered these four a chance to test the desert. In the early dawn
the land had rolled and tumbled like an ocean storm. The rocky promontory over the
river had shifted and cracked in an earthquake that drove fear into the hearts of
the toughest and most wicked men in Arizona. For a minute or two the ground had groaned
and roared, dust rained down from cracks in the roofs of the cells, and in one place
the perimeter wall had broken and slid off, down the hillside. It was as if God or
the Devil had shown them a way.
Two nights later, Otteson leaned his shaven head closer to the bars. "If you're yellow,
say so! I say we can make it! If Isager says we can make it through the desert, I
say we go!"
"We'll need money for the boatmen." Rodelo's voice was low. "Without money we will
die down there on the shores of the gulf."
All were silent, three awaiting a word from the fourth. Rydberg knew where the army
payroll was buried. The government did not know, the guards did not know, only Rydberg.
And Otteson, Isager, and Rodelo knew he knew.
He was a thin, scrawny man with a buzzard's neck and a buzzard's beak for a nose.
His bright, predatory eyes indicated his hesitation now. "How ... how much would
it take?" he asked.
"A hundred," Otteson suggested, "not more than two. If we had that much we could
be free."
Free ... no walls, no guards, no stinking food. No sweating one's life out with backbreaking
labor under the blazing sun. Free . . . women,
29
 M E N 2
whiskey, money to spend ... the click of poker chips, the whir of the wheel, a gun's
weight on the hip again. No beatings, no solitary, no lukewarm, brackish drinking
water. Free to come and go ... a horse between the knees ... women ...
He said it finally, words they had waited to hear. "There's the army payroll. We
could get that."
The taut minds of Otteson, Rodelo, and Isager relaxed slowly, easing the tension,
and within the mind of each was a thought unshared.
Gold ... fifteen thousand in gold coins for the taking! A little money split four
ways, but a lot of money for one!
Otteson leaned his bullet head nearer. "Tomorrow night"-his thick lips barely moved
as he whispered-"tomorrow night we'll go out. If we wait longer they'll have the
wall repaired."
"There's been guards posted ever since the quake," Rodelo protested. Otteson laughed.
"We'll take care of them!" From under the straw mattress he drew a crude, prison-made
knife. "Rydberg can take care of the other with his belt."
Cunningly fashioned of braided leather thongs, it concealed a length of piano wire.
When the belt was removed and held in the hands it could be bent so the loop of the
steel wire projected itself, a loop large enough to encircle a man's head . . . then
it could be jerked tight and the man would die.
Rodelo leaned closer. "How far to the gold?" "Twenty miles east. We'll need horses."
"Good!" Otteson smashed a fist into a palm. "East is good! They'll expect us to go
west into California. East after the gold, then south into the desert. They'd never
dream we'd try that! It's hot as sin and dry as Hades, but I know where the water
holes are!"
Their heads together, glistening with sweat in the hot, sticky confines of their
cells, they plotted every move, and within the mind of three of the men was another
plot: to kill the others and have the gold for himself.
"We'll need guns." Rydberg expressed their greatest worry. "They'll send Indians
after us."
The Indians were paid fifty dollars for each convict returned alivebut they had been
paid for dead convicts, too. The Yaquis knew the water holes, and fifty dollars was
twice what most of them could make in a month if they could find work at all.
"We'll have the guns of the two guards. When we get to Rocky Bay, we'll hire a fisherman
to carry us south to Guaymas"
THE FOLLOWING DAY their work seemed easy. The sun was broiling and the guards unusually
brutal. Rydberg was knocked down by a hulking giant named Johnson. Rydberg just brushed
himself off and smiled. It worried
30
 2 6
Johnson more than a threat. "What's got into him?" he demanded of the other guards.
"Has he gone crazy?"
Perryman shrugged. "Why worry about it? He's poison mean, an, those others are a
bad lot, too. Otteson's worst of all."
"He's the one I aim to get," Johnson said grimly, "but did you ever watch the way
he lifts those rocks? Rocks two of us couldn't budge he lifts like they were so many
sacks of spuds!"
It was sullen dark that night; no stars. There was thunder in the north and they
could hear the river. The heat lingered and the guards were rest less from the impending
storm. At the gap where the quake had wrecked the wall were Perryman and Johnson.
They would be relieved in two hours by other guards.
They had been an hour on the job and only now had seated them selves. Perryman lit
a cigarette and leaned back. As he straightened to say something to Johnson he was
startled to see kicking feet and clawing hands, but before he could rise, a powerful
arm came over his shoulder, closing off his breath. Then four men armed with rifles
and pistols went down the side of Prison Hill and walked eastward toward the town.
One hour before discovery. That was the most they could expect, yet in half that
time they had stolen horses and headed east. Otteson had been shrewd. He had grabbed
Perryman's hat from the ground. Both Isager and Rodelo had hats of a sort. Rydberg
was without any covering for his shaven head.
Two hours after their escape they reached the adobe. Rydberg led the way inside the
ruin, and they dug up the gold from a far corner. Each man took a sack, and then
they turned their horses to the south and the desert.
"Each year," Otteson said, "the fishermen come to Rocky Bay. They live there while
they fish, and then return to their homes down the gulf. Pablo told me, and he said
to keep Pinacate on my left and head for the coast at Flat Hill. The bay is on a
direct line between the hill and the coast."
Pablo had been killed by a blow on the head from a guard's gun, but he had been planning
escape with Otteson. Dawn came at last and the clouds slid away leaving the sun behind
... and the sun was hot.
From the Gila River to the Mexican border there was nothing. Only desert, cacti,
rocks, and the sun, always the sun. There was not even wa ter until one almost reached
the border. Water was found only in
tinajas, basins that captured rain and retained it until finally evaporated by the
sun. Some of the tinajas
were shaded and held the water for a long time, and in others there was just sand.
Sometimes water impregnated the sand at the bottom. These things a man must know
to survive on that devil's trail.
31
 DESPERATE MEN 2 7
Their route from the Gila to the border was approximately fifty miles as the buzzard
flies, but a man does not ride as the buzzard flies, not even in a lonely and empty
land. There are clusters of rock, broken lava, up thrust ledges, and clumps of cacti.
And there are always, inevitably, ar royos. Seventy miles would be closer to the
truth, seventy miles of desert in midsummer.
The border was a vague line which in theory left them free of pur suit, but in 1878
officers of the law often ignored lines of demarcation and the Indians did not notice
them at all. Actually, the border was their halfway point, for they had a rough distance
of one hundred and forty miles to traverse.
Behind them two guards lay dead, and the hostler only lived because Rodelo was not,
by nature, a killer. Rodelo had the sleeping man's hands and feet tied before he
got his eyes open. Then he gagged and left him. They stole four horses and three
canteens and filled the canteens at the pump. Otteson, Rydberg, and Isager took it
for granted the hostler had been killed.
They rode hard for twenty miles, and then they had the added weight of the gold.
Otteson knew the way from Pablo and he pointed it out oc casionally as they rode.
But he did not offer his back to his companions.
Four battered and desperate men headed south under the glaring sun. Dust lifted,
they sweated, and their lips grew dry. They pushed their horses, for distance was
important. Otteson called a halt, finally. He was a heavy man and the hard riding
sapped the strength of his horse.
"Where is it we're gonna find water?" Isager noted the hesitation be fore Otteson
replied. Isager knew the desert, but not this area. Otteson only had the knowledge
Pablo had given him and he didn't want to tell too much.
"Near Coyote Peak there's water. Maybe ten miles yet."
Isager tested the weight of his canteen. Rodelo drank several good gulps and returned
his canteen to its place behind his saddle. Rydberg, who had brought the guard's
water bottle, drank also. Otteson made a motion of drinking, but Isager watched his
Adam's apple. It did not move.
Isager was a lean man, not tall, and narrow of jaw and cheekbone. He weighed one
hundred and fifty pounds and carried no ounce of fat. He had been sent to Yuma after
killing a marshal, which would have been his sixth notch if he had been a man for
carving notches. It was noteworthy that in selecting a weapon he had taken a pistol.
Isager was nothing if not practical. The pistol was his favorite weapon, and the
four would be close together. By the time they had spread out to where a rifle might
be useful, he would have a rifle. Of that he was positive.
Rodelo knew nothing of the desert but much of men. When younger
32
 2 8 L O U I S
he had sailed to the West Coast of Africa and had seen men die of the sun. He had
replaced the bandanna that covered his head when working in the prison yard with
a hat stolen from the livery, knowing the sun would be vicious on their shaven skulls.
They depended upon Otteson, and he was not to be trusted. Isager alone he respected:
he liked none of them. Rydberg did not guess what the others knew-that they would
soon be minus a man.
They walked their horses now. Behind them was no dust, but pursuit was certain. It
was the Indians who worried them, for fifty dollars was a lot of money to an Indian.
Two hundred dollars for them all.
The air wavered and changed before them, seeming to flow and billow with heat waves.
On their right was the Gila Range, and the desert grew more rugged. Otteson watched
when Rydberg drank, when he passed his hand over his bare skull, saw him put water
on his head. Otteson was com placent, confident.
Isager's mouth was dry, but he did not touch the canteen. A mere swallow at dusk
could do more good than a bucket now. He watched the others with cat eyes. Rydberg
took another pull. The heat baked the desert and reflected in their faces like heat
from a hot stove. Twice they stopped for rest, and each time it was Otteson and Isager
who stopped in what little shade there was. Rydberg swayed as he dismounted.
"Hot!" he gasped. "How much farther to water?"
"Not far." Otteson looked at Rydberg's horse. It was the best.
Isager took water from his canteen and wiped out his horse's mouth and nostrils.
Rodelo thought this was a good idea and did likewise. "Let's wait until dark," Rydberg
suggested. "I'm hot. My head aches. That sun is killing me."
"You want to get caught by them Injuns? Or them laws from Yuma?" They moved on, and
Rydberg's skull was pocked with sun blisters. The dust grew thicker, the air was
dead, the desert a pink and red reflec tor for the sun. Rydberg swayed drunkenly,
and Rodelo swore mentally and reflected that it must be 120 degrees or more.
Rydberg began to mutter. He pulled at his dry canteen. He tried again, shook it,
and there was no sound. Otteson looked straight before him. Isager said nothing,
and only Rodelo looked around as the man swayed drunkenly in his saddle.
"I'm out of water," Rydberg said. "How about a drink?"
"On the desert," Otteson said, "each man drinks his own water. You'll have to wait."
The dust and sun and thirst turned their world into a red hell of heat waves and
blurred blue mountains. The hooves of their horses dragged. Rydberg muttered, and
once he croaked a snatch of song. He mumbled through thin, cracked lips, and the
weird face above the scraggly neck be
33
 DESPERATE MEN 2 9
came even more buzzardlike. His skull was fiery red now, and it bobbed strangely
as he weakened. Suddenly he shouted hoarsely and pointed off across the desert.
"Water!" he gabbled. "Water, over there!"
"Mirage," Rodelo said, and the others were silent, riding.
"Gimme a drink." Rydberg rode at Otteson and grabbed at his can teen.
The big man moved his horse away, striking at the skinny hand. "Go to hell," he said
coldly.
Rydberg grabbed at him, lost balance, and fell heavily into the sand. He struggled
to get up, then fell again.
Rodelo looked at him. His own canteen was empty. "The damn fool," Isager said, "why
didn't he get him a hat?"
Nobody else spoke. Then Otteson reached for the canteen on Rydberg's horse, but Isager
was closer and unhurriedly appropriated it. He also took the rifle. "Take the horse
if you like," he said, "you're a heavy man."
Otteson glared at Isager, and Rodelo moved in and took the gold. "Are you going to
leave him here like that?" he demanded.
Otteson shrugged. "He asked for it."
"He wouldn't live until night," Isager said. "Stay if you want." Rodelo drew Rydberg
into the shade of an ironwood tree. Then he mounted and followed. Why had they grabbed
the empty canteen and the rifle when they could have gotten their hands on Rydberg's
share of the gold?
A thin shadow of doubt touched him. Then the answer was plain and he cursed himself
for a fool. Nearly two hundred gold coins he now car ried, and it was considerable
weight. They preferred that he carry the ex tra gold until ... His jaw set hard,
but within him there was a cold shock of fear.
They thought he was going to die! They thought- He'd show them. From deep within
him came a hard burning defiance. He'd show them. It had been midafternoon when they
left Rydberg. It was two hours
later when they came up to Coyote Peak. Otteson was studying the rocks around and
suddenly he turned sharply left and rode into an arroyo. Twenty minutes later they
stood beside the
tinaja.
Despair mounted within Rodelo. It was only a hollow of rock with a few gallons of
water in the bottom. They filled their canteens, then wa tered the horses. When the
horses had finished the water was gone.
"We'll rest a few hours," Isager suggested, "then go on after dark." Isager ignored
the shade and lay down on his side with his face toward the two men and his weapons
and water close behind him.
Rodelo found a spot in soft sand, well back in the shadow of the
34
 3 0 L O U I S
rocks. He stared at the others and thought exhaustion had made them stupid. Both
had relaxed upon hard, rocky ground. The least move would awaken them. They would
get no rest that way. While this was soft sand.... He relaxed luxuriously.
He awakened with a start. It was cold, dark, and silent. With sudden panic, he sprang
to his feet. "Isager!" he shouted. "Ott!" And the desert gave back only echoes. He
felt for his canteen, and it was gone. He ran to where his horse had been picketed,
and it, too, was gone.
He had slept and they had left him. They had taken the gold, the horse, the canteen
... only his pistol remained. He had that only because they had feared to awaken
him.
He rushed to a rise of ground, scrambled, slipped on the rocks, and skinned his knees.
Then he got to the top and stared off to the southeast. All he could see was the
soft, velvety darkness, the cool of the desert night, and the unspeaking stars.
He was alone.
For the first time he was frightened. He was horribly, unspeakably frightened. Rodelo
hated being alone, he feared loneliness, and he knew the power of the desert to kill.
Then his fear left him, his thoughts smoothed out and the panic ended. They could
not move fast without knowing the country better than they did. They would travel
at a walk, and if they did, he might overtake them. He was younger than either, and
he was strong. He had never found a trial that could test his endurance.
A glance at the stars told him they could have no more than an hour's start. How
much would that mean at night in unfamiliar desert? Three miles? Five miles?
Doubt came. Could he make up the distance? They would never sus pect pursuit. Suppose
the day came and he was still without water? But what would waiting gain? This was
not a spring, and the
tinaja
was empty.
He could wait for death, or for capture on the verge of death, or he could fight.
He returned to the tinaja
and found perhaps a cup of water in the bottom. He thrust his head into the basin
and sucked it up. Then he straightened, glanced at the stars for direction, and struck
out for the southeast, walking steadily.
OTTESON AND ISAGER RODE side by side. Each man led a horse, and on those horses were
the gold sacks. The issue between them was clear now. Isager knew he was faster with
a gun, and Otteson knew it also. Therefore, the big man would wait for a moment when
the killing was a sure thing.
Neither man mentioned Rydberg nor Rodelo. It was like Otteson to ignore what was
past. Isager thought of Rodelo with regret-he had
35
 3 1
liked the younger man, but this was a matter of survival. They walked their horses,
careful not to tire them. Once, encountering a nest of boulders, they circled some
distance to get past them. Over the next two hours this allowed Rodelo to gain considerable
ground.
The first day netted them sixty miles of distance but twenty of it had been up the
Gila for the gold, and the next forty angling toward the border. Daylight found them
near the border and Otteson looked back. Nothing but heat waves. "They'll be coming,"
Isager said. "They'll find Rydberg by the buzzards. Then they'll find Rodelo. That
gives them a line on us even if they don't find our trail."
Ahead of them on their right was a cluster of mesas, on their left ahead high and
blue on the horizon, the bulk of Pinacate, a fifteenmilelong ridge that towered nearly
five thousand feet into the brassy sky.
The coolness left the desert as the sun lifted. Both men knew the folly of haste.
Moreover they had each other to watch. Neither wanted to go ahead, and this slowed
their pace. Isager wished it had been Otteson back there rather than Rodelo. He had
seen the big man get to his feet and had done likewise. Both had chosen stony ground,
as a sound sleep might be their last sleep. Otteson had saddled up, glanced at the
sleeping man, and then with a shrug had gathered up Rodelo's gear and horse. To stop
him would mean a shoot-out, and neither knew which side Rodelo would join if awakened
by gunfire. He had mounted up and taken Rydberg's horse. Neither had planned on abandoning
the young man when they stopped, but this was a case of survival of the fittest and
Rodelo had given them an opportunity to decrease their number by one more.
"You sure the fishermen come there at this time of the year?"
"Pablo said so. He planned to go this way himself. Rocky Bay, they call it. From
Flat Hill we go right down to the water. How could a man mistake a bay? And if the
fishermen aren't there, we'll wait."
Not long after that they came up to Tinajas Altas where they watered the horses and
refilled their canteens. Isager looked over the back trail from beside the tanks.
He saw no dust, no movement. Once he believed he saw something stir down there, but
it could have been nothing more than a coyote or a mountain sheep. A horse would
make dust.
They rested, drank water again, and ate a little of the hardtack and jerky they had
smuggled from the prison, food hoarded against this effort. An hour passed, then
a second hour. The rest meant much to them and to their horses. Otteson got up carefully,
facing Isager. "Reckon we'd better move on. I won't feel safe until we're on that
fishin' boat headed south."
Up on the mesa's side among the talus, something moved. Isager's quick eye saw it
and recognized it in the same instant with a start of inward surprise. Otteson's
back was to the talus, but he saw a flicker of
36
 3 2
something in Isager's eyes. "What's the matter?" he exclaimed, starting to turn.
He caught himself, his eyes turning ugly. "Figured I'd turn an' you'd shoot me? Don't
try nothin' like that."
Rodelo was on the slope behind and slightly above Otteson and about thirty yards
back from him. His face was ghastly and red, his prison jeans were torn from cacti
and rocks, but he clutched a businesslike .44 in his fist. He lifted it and took
careful sight, shifting his feet as he did so. A rock rolled under his foot.
Otteson whipped around, quick as a cat. His rifle blasted from the hip and he missed.
He never fired again. He went down, clawing at the rocks and gravel on which he had
fallen, blood staining their pink to deep crimson. Isager held his smoking Colt and
looked up the slope at Rodelo.
The younger man had recovered his balance and they stared at each other over their
guns.
"You might miss," Isager said. "I never do." "Why don't you shoot, then?"
"I want company. Two can make it easier than one. Much easier than three"
"Then why didn't you let him kill me?"
"Because he wanted to kill me himself. You need me. I know the desert and you don't."
Rodelo came over the rocks, stepping carefully. "All right," he said. "Gimme water."
Isager holstered his gun. "There's the tinaja.
Drink an' we'll push on." He looked at Rodelo with curious respect. "How'd you catch
up so fast?" "You rode around things. I walked straight to your dust. You rested.
I couldn't afford to."
"Good man." Isager mounted up. Nothing was said about what hap pened. "If we play
it smart now, we'll leave each other alone. Together we can make it through."
One thing they had not forgotten. The knowledge of the tinajas lay dead in the skull
of Otteson.
"We'll have to make our water last. It won't be far now. That's Pinacate." The mountain
bulked before them now, and by the time the stars were out it loomed huge on the
horizon. They slept that night and when they awakened, Rodelo looked around at Isager.
His cheekbones were slashes of red from the sun, his eyes deep sunken. Stubble of
beard cov ered his cheeks and his shirt was stiff with sweat and dust. "I smell the
sea," he said, low-voiced. "I can smell the sea."
When they started on once more, they kept the mountain between them and the sun,
saving themselves from the heat. Once they found a water hole but the mud was cracked
and dry in the bottom. Isager's
37
 DESPERATE MEN 3 3
brown face was shadowed with red, Otteson's hat pulled low over his cold eyes.
The horses were gaunt and beaten. Several times the men dismounted and led the horses
to spare them. Their hunger was a gnawing, living thing within them, and their spare
canteens were dry, their own very low. The eyes of the men were never still, searching
for water. Yet it was not enough to look. One had to know. In the desert water may
be within a few feet and give no indication of its presence. And then, from the top
of a rise, they saw the gulf!
"There it is." Rodelo stared, hollow-eyed. "Now for that bay."
A squarish flat hill was before them. They circled and saw the gulf due west of it.
"S'pose that's it?" Isager asked doubtfully.
"You can see for yourself that it's a big bay." The tension between them was back:
they were watching each other out of the corners of their eyes again.
Isager stood in his stirrups and looked south. Land stretched away un til it ended
in a point. There was a hint of sea in that direction but he was not sure. "All right,"
he said, "but I don't see any boats."
The plain sloping down to the bay was white with soda and salt. Long sand spits extended
into the milky blue water. Here and there patches showed above the surface. "Looks
mighty shallow," Rodelo said doubt fully. "Don't seem likely a boat would come in
here."
Isager hefted his canteen, feeling its lightness with fear. "We'd better hunt for
water."
South of them, the rocky bluff shouldered against the sky, dark and rugged. North
the beach lay flat and empty ... frightening in its empti ness. The horses stood,
heads down and unmoving. The rocky bluff looked promising, but the salt on his lips
frightened Isager. Behind them they heard a deep, gasping sigh and they turned. The
paint packhorse was down.
It had sunk to the sand and now it lay stretched out, the hide on its flanks hanging
like loose cloth in the hollows of its ribs.
Isager removed the gold from the horse, and with the gold off, it struggled to rise.
Isager glanced at Rodelo, hesitant to use both hands to help the horse. "Go ahead,"
Rodelo said, "help him."
Together they got the horse up, and then they turned south. The salty crust crunched
and broke beneath their feet. Sometimes they sank to their ankles; the horses broke
through at every step. They often stopped to rest and Isager glanced at Rodelo. "We
better have a truce," he said, his eyes shifting away, then back. "You couldn't make
it without me."
Rodelo's lips thinned over his white teeth. "Don't need you. You knew the desert.
I know the sea."
The desert's still with us," Isager said. Suddenly the water in
38
 3 4
Rodelo's canteen was more precious than gold. He was waiting for a chance to go for
his gun.
The white glare around them forced their eyes to thin slits, while soda dust settled
over them in a thin cloak. They stared at each other, as wild and thin as the gaunt,
skeletonlike horses, white and shadowy things that seemed to waver with unreality
in the heat. The milky water, undrink able, and taunting them, whispered secret obscenities
along the blue white beach. "There'll be a fishing boat," Isager said. "No reason
to kill each other. Maybe there's water beyond that bluff."
"There'll be no boat." Rodelo stated it flatly. "This is the wrong bay." Isager stared,
blinking slowly. "Wrong bay?" he said stupidly. "Look!" Rodelo shouted harshly. "It's
too shallow! We've come to the wrong place!"
Isager's dry tongue fought for his lips. There was no hope then. "Give me your gun,"
Rodelo said, "and I'll take you there."
"So you can kill me?" Isager drew back, his eyes cold and calculating. "I know where
the bay is," Rodelo said. "Give me your gun."
Isager stared. Was it a trick? How could he actually know?
Suddenly, Rodelo shrugged. "Come on, then! I'll take my chances on you!" He pointed
toward the dark bluff. "Look! That's a water sky. There's water beyond that point.
Another bay!"
He took a step and a bullet kicked dust at his feet. He grabbed for his gun and whirled
on Isager, but the gunfighter had already faced the hill side. Four Indians were
coming down the hill, riding hard. As Rodelo turned, Isager stepped his feet apart
and fired. An Indian's horse stumbled and went down, throwing the rider head over
heels.
Rodelo dropped to one knee and shot under the belly of his horse. He saw an Indian
drop and he fired again and missed. A bullet hit Isager and turned him half around.
He staggered, and the half-dead horse lunged clumsily away. A hoof went through the
crust and the horse fell heavily and lay panting, one white sliver of bone showing
through the hide of the broken leg.
Isager fell, pulled off balance by the fall of the horse, and Rodelo fired again
and again. His gun muzzle wavered and the shots kicked up dust. Isager rolled over
behind the downed horse. He knew from harsh experience that accuracy was more essential
than speed. He steadied his gun barrel. The Indian who had been thrown was rushing
him. The brown body loomed large and he could see sweat streaks on the man's chest.
He squeezed off his shot and saw the Indian stumble in midstride and then pitch over
on his face.
Isager pushed himself to his knees, then got up. The beach weaved slowly, sickeningly
beneath him. He turned his head stiffly and looked toward Rodelo. The fallen man
looked like a bundle of old clothes, but as
39
 DESPERATE MEN 3 5
Isager looked, the bundle moved. Rodelo uncoiled himself and got up. Blood covered
his face from a cut on his cheek. He stared at his empty gun, then clumsily began
feeding shells into the chambers.
Across the wavering sand the two men stared at each other, then Rodelo laughed hoarsely.
"You look like hell!" he said, grinning from his heat-blasted face.
Isager's brain seemed to spin queerly and he blinked. What was the matter with him?
A pain bit suddenly at his side, and he clasped the pain with his hand. His fingers
felt damp and he drew them away, staring stu pidly at the blood dripping from his
fingers.
"You copped one," Rodelo said. "You're hit."
Isager swayed. Suddenly he knew this was it, right here on this dead white beach
washed by an ugly weedy sea. It was no way for a cowhand to cash in his chips. "Beat
it," he said hoarsely. "There's more coming." "How do you know that?"
"That's why they rushed. To get us an' claim the reward. If they'd been alone they
would have taken their time." His knees felt buttery and queer. "There's one good
horse. Take the gold an' beat it. I'm done in, so I'll hold them off."
He went to his knees. "Only ..." His voice trailed off and he waited, his eyes begging
Rodelo to wait a minute longer, then he managed the words, "get some of that money
to Tom Hopkins's wife. He ... he was that marshal. Funny thing, funny ... Never meant
to kill him. He came at me an' it was just reflex ... jus' ... just drew an' shot."
"All right," Rodelo said, and he meant it. He turned and disappeared into the blinding
light.
Isager lay down behind the fallen horse. He slid the rifle from its scab bard and
waited.
SHERIFF BILL GARDEN and two Apache trackers found Isager a few hours later. Gunfire
from the advance party of six Yaquis had led them to this desolate beach. The convict
was curled up behind a dying horse, sur rounded by bright brass shells ejected from
his rifle. Two of the Apache horses were gone and only one of the horses ridden by
the convicts was alive. He was standing head down on the hillside not far away.
Horse tracks trailed away from the body of Isager, a faint trail toward the bluff
to the south. Bill Garden glanced after them. The remaining scouts were still after
the last man. He turned and looked down at Isager. "Lord a-mighty," he said. "What
a place to die!"
Far off across the water there was a flash of white, a jib shaken out to catch the
wind ... a boat had left the fishing beds at Rocky Bay and was beating its way southward
toward Guaymas.
40
 Dutchman's Flat
The dust of Dutchman's Flat had settled in a gray film upon their faces, and Neill
could see the streaks made by the sweat on their cheeks and brows and knew his own
must be the same. No man
of them was smiling and they rode with their rifles in their hands, six grim and
purposeful men upon the trail of a single rider.
They were men shaped and tempered to the harsh ways of a harsh land, strong in their
sense of justice, ruthless in their demand for punishment, relentless in pursuit.
From the desert they had carved their homes, and from the desert they drew their
courage and their code, and the desert knows no mercy.
"Where's he headin', you reckon?"
"Home, mostly likely. He'll need grub an' a rifle. He's been livin' on the old Sorenson
place."
Kimmel spat. "He's welcome to it. That place starved out four men I know of." He
stared at the hoof tracks ahead. "He's got a good horse" "Big buckskin. Reckon we'll
catch him, Hardin?"
"Sure. Not this side of his place, though. There ain't no shortcuts we can take to
head him off, and he's pointin' for home straight as a horse can travel."
"Ain't tryin' to cover his trail none."
"No use tryin'." Hardin squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun. "He knows
we figure he'll head for his ranch."
"He's no tenderfoot" Kesney expressed the thought that had been dawning upon them
all in the last two hours. "He knows how to save a horse, an' he knows a trail."
They rode on in near silence. Hardin scratched his unshaven jaw. The dust lifted
from the hooves of the horses as they weaved their way through the catclaw and mesquite.
It was a parched and sun-baked land, with only dancing heat waves and the blue distance
of the mountains to draw them on. The trail they followed led straight as a man could
ride
41
 FLAT 3 7
across the country. Only at draws or nests of rocks did it swerve, where they noticed
the rider always gave his horse the best of it.
No rider of the desert must see a man to know him, for it is enough to follow his
trail. In these things are the ways of a man made plain, his kindness or cruelty,
his ignorance or cunning, his strength and his weak ness. There are indications that
cannot escape a man who has followed trails, and in the two hours since they had
ridden out of Freedom the six had already learned much of the man they followed.
And they would learn more.
"What started it?"
The words sounded empty and alone in the vast stillness of the basin.
HARDIN TURNED HIS HEAD slightly so the words could drift back. It was
the manner of a man who rides much in the wind or rain. He shifted the rifle to his
left hand and wiped his sweaty right palm on his coarse pants leg.
,,Some loose talk. He was in the Bon Ton buyin' grub an' such. Johnny said somethin'
at which he took offense an' they had some words. Johnny was wearin' a gun, but this
Lock wasn't, so he gets him a gun an' goes over to the Longhorn.
"He pushes open the door an' shoots Johnny twice through the body. In the back."
Hardin spat. "He fired a third shot, but that missed Johnny and busted a bottle of
whiskey."
There was a moment's silence while they digested this, and then Neill looked up.
"We lynchin' him for the killin' or bustin' the whiskey?"
It was a good question, but drew no reply. The dignity of the five other riders was
not to be touched by humor. They were riders on a mis sion. Neill let his eyes drift
over the dusty copper of the desert. He had no liking for the idea of lynching any
man, and he did not know the squat ter from the Sorenson place. Living there should
be punishment enough for any man. Besides
"Who saw the shooting?" he asked.
"Nobody seen it, actually. Only he never gave Johnny a fair shake. Sam was behind
the bar, but he was down to the other end and it hap pened too fast."
"What's his name? Somebody call him Lock?" Neill asked. There was something incongruous
in lynching a man whose name you did not know. He shifted in the saddle, squinting
his eyes toward the distant lakes dancing in the mirage of heat waves.
"What's it matter? Lock, his name is. Chat Lock." "Funny name."
The comment drew no response. The dust was thicker now and Neill
42
 :3 8 I, 0 U I 5 I, ,
pulled his bandanna over his nose and mouth. His eyes were drawn back to the distant
blue of the lakes. They were enticingly cool and beautiful, lying across the way
ahead and in the basin off to the right. This was the mirage that lured many a man
from his trail to pursue the always retreat ing shoreline of the lake. It looked
like water, it really did.
Maybe there was water in the heat waves. Maybe if a man knew how, he could extract
it and drink. The thought drew his hand to his canteen, but he took it away without
drinking. The slosh water in the canteen was no longer enticing, for it was warm,
brackish, and unsatisfying.
"You know him, Kimmel?" Kesney asked. He was a wiry little man, hard as a whipstock,
with bits of sharp steel for eyes and brown muscle corded hands. "I wouldn't know
him if I saw him."
"Sure, I know him. Big feller, strong made, rusty-like hair an' maybe forty year
old. Looks plumb salty, too, an' from what I hear he's no friendly sort of man. Squattin'
on that Sorenson place looks plumb suspi cious, for no man can make him a livin'
on that dry-as-a-bone place. No fit place for man nor beast. Ever'body figures no
honest man would squat on such a place."
It seemed a strange thing, to be searching out a man whom none of them really knew.
Of course, they had all known Johnny Webb. He was a handsome, popular young man,
a daredevil and a hellion, but a very at tractive one, and a top hand to boot. They
had all known him and had all liked him. Then, one of the things that made them so
sure that this had been a wrong killing, even aside from the shots in the back, was
the fact that Johnny Webb had been the fastest man in the Spring Valley country.
Fast, and a dead shot.
Johnny had worked with all these men, and they were good men hard men, but good.
Kimmel, Hardin, and Kesney had all made some thing of their ranches, as had the others,
only somewhat less so. They had come west when the going was rough, fought Indians
and rustlers, and then battled drought, dust, and hot, hard winds. It took a strong
man to survive in this country, and they had survived. He, Neill, was the youn gest
of them all and the newest in the country. He was still looked upon with some reserve.
He had been here only five years.
Neill could see the tracks of the buckskin, and it gave him a strange feeling to
realize that the man who rode that horse would soon be dead, hanging from a noose
in one of those ropes attached to a saddle horn of Hardin or Kimmel. Neill had never
killed a man or seen one killed by an other man, and the thought made him uncomfortable.
Yet Johnny was gone, and his laughter and his jokes were a thing passed. They had
brightened more than one roundup, more than one bit ter day of heartbreaking labor
on the range. Not that he had been an
43
 angel. He had been a proper hand with a gun and could throw one. And in his time
he had had his troubles.
"He's walkin' his horse," Kesney said, "leadin' him."
"He's a heavy man," Hardin agreed, "an' he figures to give us a long
"Gone lame on him maybe," Kimmel suggested.
"No, that horse isn't limpin'. This Lock is a smart one."
They had walked out of the ankle-deep dust now and were crossing a parched, dry plain
of crusted earth. Hardin reined in suddenly and pointed. "Look there." He indicated
a couple of flecks on the face of the earth crust where something had spilled. "Water
splashed."
"Careless," Neill said. "He'll need that water."
"No," Kesney said. "He was pourin' water in a cloth to wipe out his horse's nostrils.
Bet you a dollar."
"Sure," Hardin agreed, "that's it. Horse breathes a lot better. A man runnin' could
kill a good horse on this Flat. He knows that"
THEY RODE ON, and for almost a half hour no one spoke. Neill frowned at the sun.
It had been on his left a few minutes ago, and now they rode straight into it.
"What's he doin'?" Kesney said wonderingly. "This ain't the way to his place!" The
trail had turned again, and now the sun was on their right. Then it turned again
and was at their backs. Hardin was in the lead, and he drew up and swore wickedly.
They ranged alongside him, and stared down into a draw that cracked the face of the
desert alongside the trail they had followed. Below them was a place where a horse
had stood, and across the bank something white fluttered from the parched clump of
greasewood.
Kesney slid from the saddle and crossed the wash. When he had the slip of white,
he stared at it, and then they heard him swear. He walked back and handed it to Hardin.
They crowded near.
Neill took the slip from Hardin's fingers after he had read it. It was torn from
some sort of book and the words were plain enough, scrawled with a flat rock for
a rest.
That was a fair shutin anyways six aint nowhars enuf, go fetch more men. Man on the
gray better titen his girth or heel have him a sorebacked hors.
"Why that ... I" Short swore softly. "He was lyin' within fifty yards of us when
we come by. Had him a rifle, too. I seen it in a saddle scabbard on that buckskin
in town. He could have got one of us, anyway!"
44
 4 0
"Two or three most likely," Kimmel commented. The men stared at the paper and then
looked back into the wash. The sand showed a trail, but cattle had walked here, too.
It would make the going a little slower.
Neill, his face flushed and his ears red, was tightening his saddle girth. The others
avoided his eyes. The insult to him, even if the advice was good, was an insult to
them all. Their jaws tightened. The squatter was playing Indian with them, and none
of them liked it.
"Fair shootin', yeah!" Sutter exploded. "Right in the back!"
The trail led down the wash now, and it was slower going. The occa sional puffs of
wind they had left on the desert above were gone and the heat in the bottom of the
wash was ovenlike. They rode into it, almost seeming to push their way through flames
that seared. Sweat dripped into their eyes until they smarted, and trickled in tiny
rivulets through their dust-caked beards, making their faces itch maddeningly.
The wash spilled out into a wide, flat bed of sand left by the rains of bygone years,
and the tracks were plainer now. Neill tightened his ban danna and rode on, sodden
with heat and weariness. The trail seemed de liberately to lead them into the worst
regions, for now he was riding straight toward an alkali lake that loomed ahead.
At the edge of the water, the trail vanished. Lock had ridden right into the lake.
They drew up and stared at it, unbelieving.
"He can't cross," Hardin stated flatly. "That's deep out to the middle. Durned treacherous,
too. A horse could get bogged down mighty easy." They skirted the lake, taking it
carefully, three going one way, and
three the other. Finally, glancing back, Neill caught sight of Kesney's up lifted
arm.
"They found it," he said. "Let's go back." Yet as he rode he was think ing what they
all knew. This was a delay, for Lock knew they would have to scout the shores both
ways to find his trail, and there would be a delay while the last three rejoined
the first. A small thing, but in such a chase it was important.
"Why not ride right on to the ranch?" Short suggested.
"We might," Hardin speculated. "On the other hand he might fool us an' never go nigh
it. Then we could lose him."
The trail became easier, for now Lock was heading straight into the mountains.
"Where's he goin'?" Kesney demanded irritably. "This don't make sense, nohow!"
There was no reply, the horsemen stretching out in single file, riding up the draw
into the mountains. Suddenly Kimmel, who was now in the lead, drew up. Before him
a thread of water trickled from the rock and spilled into a basin of stones.
45
 FLAT 4 1
"Huh!" Hardin stared. "I never knowed about this spring afore. Might's well have
a drink." He swung down.
They all got down and Neill rolled a smoke.
"Somebody sure fixed her up nice," he said. "That wall of stone makin' that basin
ain't so old."
"No, it ain't."
Short watched them drink and grinned.
"He's a fox, right enough. He's an old ladino, this one. A reg'lar mossy horn. It
don't take no time for one man to drink, an' one hors. But here we got six men an,
six horses to drink an' we lose more time."
"You really think he planned it that way?" Neill was skeptical. Hardin looked around
at him. "Sure. This Lock knows his way around."
When they were riding on, Neill thought about that. Lock was shrewd. He was desert-wise.
And he was leading them a chase. If not even Hardin knew of this spring, and he had
been twenty years in the Spring Valley country, then Lock must know a good deal about
the country. Of course, this range of mountains was singularly desolate, and there
was nothing in them to draw a man.
SO THEY KNEW this about their quarry. He was a man wise in the ways of desert and
trail, and one who knew the country. Also, Neill reflected, it was probable he had
built that basin himself. Nobody lived over this way but Lock, for now it was not
far to the Sorenson place.
Now they climbed a single horse trail across the starkly eroded foothills, sprinkled
with clumps of Joshua and Spanish bayonet. It was a weird and broken land, where
long fingers of black lava stretched down the hills and out into the desert as though
clawing toward the alkali lake they had left behind. The trail mounted steadily and
a little breeze touched their cheeks. Neill lifted his hand and wiped dust from his
brow and it came away in flakes, plastered by sweat.
The trail doubled and changed, now across the rock face of the burnt red sandstone,
then into the lava itself, skirting hills where the exposed ledges mounted in layers
like a vast cake of many colors. Then the way dipped down, and they wound among huge
boulders, smooth as so many waterworn pebbles. Neill sagged in the saddle, for the
hours were growing long, and the trail showed no sign of ending.
"Lucky he ain't waitin' to shoot," Kimmel commented, voicing the first remark in
over an hour. "He could pick us off like flies."
As if in reply to his comment, there was an angry whine above them and then the crack
of a rifle.
As one man they scattered for shelter, whipping rifles from their
46
 4 2 L O U I S
scabbards, for all but two had replaced them when they reached the lake. Hardin swore,
and Kimmel wormed his way to a better view of the country ahead.
Short had left the saddle in his scramble for shelter, and his horse stood in the
open, the canteen making a large lump behind the saddle. Suddenly the horse leaped
to the solid thud of a striking bullet, and then followed the crack of the rifle,
echoing over the mountainside.
Short swore viciously. "If he killed that horse ... I" But the horse, while shifting
nervously, seemed uninjured.
"Hey!" Kesney yelled. "He shot your canteen!"
It was true enough. Water was pouring onto the ground, and swearing, Short started
to get up. Sutter grabbed his arm.
"Hold it! If he could get that canteen, he could get you!"
They waited, and the trickle of water slowed, then faded to a drip. All of them stared
angrily at the unrewarding rocks ahead of them. One canteen the less. Still they
had all filled up at the spring and should have enough. Uncomfortably, however, they
realized that the object of their chase, the man called Chat Lock, knew where he
was taking them, and he had not emptied that canteen by chance. Now they understood
the nature of the man they followed. He did nothing without object.
Lying on the sand or rocks they waited, peering ahead. "He's probably ridin' off
now!" Sutter barked.
Nobody showed any disposition to move. The idea appealed to none of them, for the
shot into the canteen showed plainly enough the man they followed was no child with
a rifle. Kimmel finally put his hat on a rifle muzzle and lifted it. There was no
response. Then he tried sticking it around a corner.
Nothing happened, and he withdrew it. Almost at once, a shot hit the trail not far
from where the hat had been. The indication was plain. Lock was warning them not
only that he was still there, but that he was not to be fooled by so obvious a trick.
They waited, and Hardin suddenly slid over a rock and began a flanking movement.
He crawled, and they waited, watching his progress. The cover he had was good, and
he could crawl almost to where the hidden marksman must be. Finally, he disappeared
from their sight and they waited. Neill tasted the water in his canteen and dozed.
At last they heard a long yell, and looking up, they saw Hardin standing on a rock
far up the trail, waving them on. Mounting, they led Hardin's horse and rode on up
the trail. He met them at the trail side, and his eyes were angry.
"Gone!" he said, thrusting out a hard palm. In it lay three brass cartridge shells.
"Found 'em standing up in a line on a rock. An' look here" He pointed, and they stared
down at the trail where he indicated. A neat
47
 DUTCHMAN'S FLAT 4 3
arrow made of stones pointed down the trail ahead of the Kesneyjerked his hat from
his head and hurled it to They started on, and the horse ahead of them left a
quarter of a mile farther along, three dried pieces of mf
and scratched
LER THE SIGNS. on the face of the sandstone above it were the words: FOL
A, , a
to f h
laid in the trail form another arrow.
stared at it. This was becoming a personal matter now. He was
deliberately playing with them, and he must know how that would set with men such
as Kimmel and Hardin. It was a deliberate challenge; more, it was a sign of the utmost
contempt.
The vast emptiness of the basin they skirted now was becoming lost in the misty purple
light of late afternoon. On the right, the wall of the mountain grew steeper and
turned a deeper red. The burnt red of the earlier hours was now a bright rust red,
and here and there long fingers of quartz shot their white arrows down into the face
of the cliff.
THEY ALL SAW the next message,
but all read and averted their eyes. It was written on a blank face of the cliff.
First, there was an arrow, pointing
ahead, and then the words: SHADE, SO'S YOU DON'T GIT SUNSTROK.
They rode on, and for several mules as the shadows drew down, they followed the markers
their quarry left at intervals along the trail. All six of the men were tired and
beaten. Their horses moved slowly, and the desert air was growing chill. It had been
a long chase.
Suddenly, Kimmel and Kesney, who rode side by side, reined in. A small wall of rock
was across the trail, and an arrow pointed downward into a deep cleft.
"What do you think, Hardin? He could pick us off man by man." Hardin studied the
situation with misgivings and hesitated, lighting a smoke.
"He ain't done it yet."
Neill's remark fell into the still air like a rock into a calm pool of water. As
the rings of ripples spread wider into the thoughts of the other five, he waited.
Lock could have killed one or two of them, perhaps all of them by now. Why had he
not? Was he waiting for darkness and an easy getaway? Or was he leading them into
a trap?
The devil with it!" Hardin exclaimed impatiently. He wheeled his horse and, pistol
in hand, started down into the narrow rift in the dark.
group
"Why, that dirty ... I" He stopped, beside himself with
deliberately teasing them, indicating his trail as to a child or a tenderfoot.
tempt anger. The conof the man they pursued was obvious. He was making fools of them,
usin' a rope on him! Thinks he take pleasure in 's smart!"
"That ratty back-shootin' killer!" Short said. "I'll
plain trail, but
squire had been
48
 4 4
One by one, they followed. The darkness closed around them, and the air was damp
and chill. They rode on, and then the trail mounted steeply toward a grayness ahead
of them, and they came out in a small basin. Ahead of them they heard a trickle of
running water and saw the dark ness of trees.
Cautiously they approached. Suddenly, they saw the light of a fire. Hardin drew up
sharply and slid from his horse. The others followed. In a widening circle, they
crept toward the fire. Kesney was the first to reach it, and the sound of his swearing
rent the stillness and shattered it like thin glass. They swarmed in around him.
The fire was built close beside a small running stream, and nearby was a neat pile
of dry sticks. On a paper, laid out carefully on a rock, was a small mound of coffee,
and another of sugar. Nobody said anything for a minute, staring at the fire and
the coffee. The taunt was obvious, and they were bitter men. It was bad enough to
have a stranger make such fools of them on a trail, to treat them like tenderfeet,
but to prepare a camp for them ...
"I'll be cussed if I will!" Short said violently. "I'll go sleep on the desert first!"
"Well-" Hardin was philosophical. "Might's well make the most of it. We can't trail
him at night, no way."
Kimmel had dug a coffeepot out of his pack and was getting water from the stream
which flowed from a basin just above their camp. Several of the others began to dig
out grub, and Kesney sat down glumly, staring into the fire. He started to pick a
stick off the pile left for them and then jerked his hand as though he had seen a
snake. Getting up, he stalked back into the trees, and after a minute, he returned.
Sutter was looking around, and suddenly he spoke. "Boys, I know this place! Only
I never knew about that crack in the wall. This here's the Mormon Well!"
Hardin sat up and looked around. "Durned if it ain't," he said. "I ain't been in
here for six or seven years."
Sutter squatted on his haunches. "Look!" He was excited and eager, sketching with
a stick in the sand. "Here's Mormon Well, where we are. Right over here to the northwest
there's an old sawmill an' a tank just above it. I'll bet a side of beef that durned
killer is holed up for the night in that sawmill!"
Kesney, who had taken most to heart the taunting of the man they pursued, was on
his knees staring at the diagram drawn in the damp sand. He was nodding thoughtfully.
"He's right! He sure is. I remember that old mill! I holed up there one time in a
bad storm. Spent two days in it. If that sidewinder stays there tonight, we can get
him!"
49
 DUTCHMAN'S FLAT 4
As they ate, they talked over their plan. Traveling over the rugged mountains ahead
of them was almost impossible in the darkness, and be sides, even if Lock could go
the night without stopping, his horse could not. The buckskin must have a rest. Moreover,
with all the time Lock had been losing along the trail, he could not be far ahead.
It stood to reason that he must have planned just this, for them to stop here, and
to hole up in the sawmill himself.
"We'd better surprise him," Hardin suggested. "That sawmill is heavy timber, an'
a man in there with a rifle an' plenty of ammunition could stand us off for a week."
"Has he got plenty?"
"Sure he has," Neill told them. "I was in the Bon Ton when he bought his stuff. He's
got grub and he's got plenty of forty-fours. They do for either his Colt or his Winchester."
Unspoken as yet, but present in the mind of each man, was a growing respect for their
quarry, a respect and an element of doubt. Would such a man as this shoot another
in the back? The evidence against him was plain enough, or seemed plain enough.
YET BEYOND THE RESPECT there was something else, for it was no longer simply a matter
of justice to be done, but a personal thing. Each of them felt in some measure that
his reputation was at stake. It had not been enough for Lock to leave an obvious
trail, but he must leave markers, the sort to be used for any tenderfoot. There were
men in this group who could trail a woodtick through a pine forest.
"Well," Kimmel said reluctantly and somewhat grimly, "he left us good coffee, anyway!"
They tried the coffee and agreed. Few things in this world are so comforting and
so warming to the heart as hot coffee on a chilly night over a campfire when the
day has been long and weary. They drank, and they relaxed. And as they relaxed the
seeds of doubt began to sprout and put forth branches of speculation.
"He could have got more'n one of us today," Sutter hazarded. "This one is brush wise."
"I'll pull that rope on him!" Short stated positively. "No man makes a fool out of
me!" But in his voice there was something lacking.
"You know," Kesney suggested, "if he knows these hills like he seems to, an' if he
really wanted to lose us, we'd have to burn the stump and sift the ashes before we
found him!"
There was no reply. Hardin drew back and eased the leg of his pants away from the
skin, for the cloth had grown too hot for comfort.
Short tossed a stick from the neat pile into the fire.
That mill ain't so far away," he suggested, "shall we give her a try?"
50
 4 6
"Later." Hardin leaned back against a log and yawned. "She's been a hard day."
"Both them bullets go in Johnny's back?"
The question moved among them like a ghost. Short stirred uneasily, and Kesney looked
up and glared around. "Sure they did! Didn't they, Hardin?"
"Sure" He paused thoughtfully. "Well, no. One of them was under his left arm. Right
between the ribs. Looked like a heart shot to me. The other one went through near
his spine."
"The heck with it!" Kesney declared. "No slick, rustlin' squatter can come into this
country and shoot one of our boys! He was shot in the back, an' I seen both holes.
Johnny got that one nigh the spine, an' he must have turned and tried to draw, then
got that bullet through the heart!"
Nobody had seen it. Neill remembered that, and the thought ran kled. Were they doing
an injustice? He felt like a traitor at the thought, but secretly he had acquired
a strong tinge of respect for the man they fol lowed.
The fire flickered and the shadows danced a slow, rhythmic quadrille against the
dark background of trees. He peeled bark from the log beside him and fed it into
the fire. It caught, sparked brightly, and popped once or twice. Hardin leaned over
and pushed the coffeepot nearer the coals. Kesney checked the loads in his Winchester.
"How far to that sawmill, Hardin?" "About six miles, the way we go"
"Let's get started." Short got to his feet and brushed off the sand. "I want to get
home. Got my boys buildin' fence. You either keep a close watch or they are off gal
hootin' over the hills."
They tightened their saddle girths, doused the fire, and mounted up. With Hardin
in the lead once more, they moved off into the darkness. Neill brought up the rear.
It was damp and chill among the cliffs and
felt like the inside of a cavern. Overhead the stars were very bright. Mary was going
to be worried, for he was never home so late. Nor did he like leaving her alone.
He wanted to be home, eating a warm supper and go ing to bed in the old four-poster
with the patchwork quilt Mary's grand mother made, pulled over him. What enthusiasm
he had had for the chase was gone. The warm fire, the coffee, his own weariness,
and the growing respect for Lock had changed him.
Now they all knew he was not the manner of man they had sup posed. Justice can be
a harsh taskmaster, but Western men know their kind, and the lines were strongly
drawn. When you have slept beside a man on the trail, worked with him and with others
like him, you come to know your kind. In the trail of the man Chat Lock, each rider
of the posse was seeing the sort of man he knew, the sort he could respect.
51
 FLAT 4 7
The thought was nagging and unsubstantial, but each of them felt a growing doubt,
even Short and Kesney, who were most obdurate and resentful.
They knew how a backshooter lived and worked. He had his brand on everything he did.
The mark of this man was the mark of a man who did things, who stood upon his own
two feet, and who if he died, died facing his enemy. To the unknowing, such conclusions
might seem doubtful, but the men of the desert knew their kind.
The mill was dark and silent, a great looming bulk beside the stream and the still
pool of the millpond. They dismounted and eased close. Then according to a prearranged
plan, they scattered and surrounded it. From behind a lodgepole pine, Hardin called
out.
"We're comin' in, Lock! We want you!"
THE CHALLENGE WAS HARSH and ringing. Now that the moment had
come, something of the old suspense returned. They listened to the water babbling
as it trickled over the old dam, and then they moved. At their first step, they heard
Lock's voice.
"Don't you come in here, boys! I don't want to kill none of you, but you come an'
I will! That was a fair shootin'! You've got no call to come after me!"
Hardin hesitated, chewing his mustache. "You shot him in the back!" he yelled.
"No such thing! He was a-facin' the bar when I come in. He seen I was heeled, an'
he drawed as he turned. I beat him to it. My first shot took him in the side an'
he was knocked back against the bar. My second hit him in the back an' the third
missed as he was a-fallin'. You hombres didn't see that right."
The sound of his voice trailed off, and the water chuckled over the stones and then
sighed to a murmur among the trees. The logic of Lock's statement struck them all.
It
could have been that way.
A long moment passed, and then Hardin spoke up again. "You come in and we'll give
you a trial. Fair an' square!"
"How?" Lock's voice was a challenge. "You ain't got no witness. Neither have I. Ain't
nobody to say what happened there but me, as Johnny ain't alive."
"Johnny was a mighty good man, an' he was our friend!" Short shouted. No murderin'
squatter is goin' to move into this country an' start shootin' folks up!"
There was no reply to that, and they waited, hesitating a little. Neill leaned disconsolately
against the tree where he stood. After all, Lock might be telling the truth. How
did they know? There was no use hanging a man unless you were sure.
52
 4
"Gab!" Short's comment was explosive. "Let's move in, Hardin! Let's get him! He's
lyin'! Nobody could beat Johnny, we know that!"
"Webb was a good man in his own country!" Lock shouted in reply. The momentary silence
that followed held them, and then, almost as a man they began moving in. Neill did
not know exactly when or why he started. Inside he felt sick and empty. He was fed
up on the whole busi ness, and every instinct told him this man was no backshooter.
Carefully, they moved, for they knew this man was handy with a gun. Suddenly, Hardin's
voice rang out.
"Hold it, men! Stay where you are until daybreak! Keep your eyes open an' your ears.
If he gets out of here he'll be lucky, an' in the daylight we can get him, or fire
the mill!"
Neill sank to a sitting position behind a log. Relief was a great warmth that swept
over him. There wouldn't be any killing tonight. Not tonight, at least.
Yet as the hours passed, his ears grew more and more attuned to the darkness. A rabbit
rustled, a pinecone dropped from a tree, the wind stirred high in the pine tops,
and the few stars winked through, lone somely peering down upon the silent men.
With daylight they moved in and they went through the doors and up to the windows
of the old mill, and it was empty and still. They stared at each other, and Short
swore viciously, the sound booming in the echoing, empty room.
"Let's go down to the Sorenson place," Kimmel said. "He'll be there." And somehow
they were all very sure he would be. They knew he would be because they knew him
for their kind of man. He would retreat no farther than his own ranch, his own hearth.
There, if they were to have him and hang him, they would have to burn him out, and
men would die in the process. Yet with these men there was no fear. They felt the
drive of duty, the need for maintaining some law in this lonely desert and mountain
land. There was only doubt which had grown until each man was shaken with it. Even
Short, whom the markers by the trail had angered, and Kesney, who was the best tracker
among them, even better than Hardin, had been irritated by it, too.
The sun was up and warming them when they rode over the brow of the hill and looked
down into the parched basin where the Sorenson place lay.
But it was no parched basin. Hardin drew up so suddenly his startled horse almost
reared. It was no longer the Sorenson place.
The house had been patched and rebuilt. The roof had spots of new lumber upon it,
and the old pole barn had been made watertight and strong. A new corral had been
built, and to the right of the house was a fenced-in garden of vegetables, green
and pretty after the desert of the day before.
53
 DUTCHMAN'S FLAT 4 9
Thoughtfully, and in a tight cavalcade, they rode down the hill. The stock they saw
was fat and healthy, and the corral was filled with horses.
"Been a lot of work done here," Kimmel said. And he knew how much work it took to
make such a place attractive.
"Don't look like no killer's place!" Neill burst out. Then he flushed and drew back,
embarrassed by his statement. He was the youngest of these men and the newest in
the country.
No response was forthcoming. He had but stated what they all be lieved. There was
something stable and lasting and something real and genuine, in this place.
"I been waitin' for you."
THE REMARK from behind them stiffened every spine. Chat Lock was here, behind them.
And he would have a gun on them, and if one of them moved, he could die.
"My wife's down there fixin' breakfast. I told her I had some friends comin' in.
A posse huntin' a killer. I've told her nothin' about this trou ble. You ride down
there now, you keep your guns. You eat your break fast and then if you feel bound
and determined to get somebody for a fair shootin', I'll come out with any one of
you or all of you, but I ain't goin' to hang.
"I ain't namin' no one man because I don't want to force no fight on anybody. You
ride down there now"
They rode, and in the dooryard, they dismounted. Neill turned then, and for the first
time he saw Chat Lock.
He was a big man, compact and strong. His rusty brown hair topped a brown, sun-hardened
face, but with the warmth in his eyes it was a friendly sort of face. Not at all
what he expected.
Hardin looked at him. "You made some changes here."
"I reckon." Lock gestured toward the well. "Dug by hand. My wife worked the windlass."
He looked around at them, taking them in with one sweep of his eyes. "I've got the
grandest woman in the world."
Neill felt hot tears in his eyes suddenly and busied himself loosening his saddle
girth to keep the others from seeing. That was the way he felt about Mary.
The door opened suddenly, and they turned. The sight of a woman in this desert country
was enough to make any man turn. What they saw was not what they expected. She was
young, perhaps in her middle twen ties, and she was pretty, with brown wavy hair
and gray eyes and a few freckles on her nose. "Won't you come in? Chat told me he
had some friends coming for breakfast, and it isn't often we have anybody in."
Heavy-footed and shamefaced they walked up on the porch. Kesney saw the care and
neatness with which the hard hewn planks had been fitted.
54
 5 0
Here, too, was the same evidence of lasting, of permanence, of strength. This was
the sort of man a country needed. He thought the thought be fore he fixed his attention
on it, and then he flushed.
Inside, the room was as neat as the girl herself. How did she get the floors so clean?
Before he thought, he phrased the question. She smiled. "Oh, that was Chat's idea!
He made a frame and fastened a piece of
pumice stone to a stick. It cuts into all the cracks and keeps them very clean."
The food smelled good, and when Hardin looked at his hands, Chat motioned to the
door.
"There's water an' towels if you want to wash up."
Neill rolled up his sleeves and dipped his hands in the basin. The wa ter was soft,
and that was rare in this country, and the soap felt good on his hands. When he had
dried his hands, he walked in. Hardin and Kesney had already seated themselves, and
Lock's wife was pouring coffee.
"Men," Lock said, "this is Mary. You'll have to tell her your names. I reckon I missed
them."
Mary. Neill looked up. She was Mary, too. He looked down at his plate again and ate
a few bites. When he looked up, she was smiling at him.
"My wife's name is Mary," he said. "She's a fine girl!"
"She would be! But why don't you bring her over? I haven't talked with a woman in
so long I wouldn't know how it seemed! Chat, why haven't you invited them over?"
Chat mumbled something, and Neill stared at his coffee. The men ate in uncomfortable
silence. Hardin's eyes kept shifting around the room. That pumice stone. He'd have
to fix up a deal like that for Jane. She was always fussing about the work of keeping
a board floor clean. That wash stand inside, too, with pipes made of hollow logs
to carry the water out so she wouldn't have to be running back and forth. That was
an idea, too.
They finished their meal reluctantly. One by one they trooped out side, avoiding
each other's eyes. Chat Lock did not keep them waiting. He walked down among them.
"If there's to be shootin'," he said quietly, "let's get away from the house."
Hardin looked up. "Lock, was that right, what you said in the mill? Was it a fair
shootin'?"
Lock nodded. "It was. Johnny Webb prodded me. I didn't want trou ble, nor did I want
to hide behind the fact I wasn't packin' an iron. I walked over to the saloon not
aimin' for trouble. I aimed to give him a chance if he wanted it. He drawed an' I
beat him. It was a fair shootin'."
"All right." Hardin nodded. "That's good enough for me. I reckon you're a different
sort of man than any of us figured"
55
 DUTCHMAN'S FLAT 5 1
"Let's mount up," Short said. "I got fence to build."
Chat Lock put his hand on Hardin's saddle. "You folks come over sometime. She gets
right lonesome. I don't mind it so much, but you know how womenfolks are"
"Sure," Hardin said, "sure thing."
"An' you bring your Mary over," he told Neill.
Neill nodded, his throat full. As they mounted the hill, he glanced back. Mary Lock
was standing in the doorway, waving to them, and the sunlight was very bright in
the clean-swept dooryard.
56
 From the Listening Hills
The hunted man lay behind a crude parapet in a low-roofed, wind-eroded cave on the
north slope of Tokewanna Peak. One hundred yards down the slope, at an approximate
altitude of
eleven thousand feet, just inside a fringe of alpine fir, were scattered the hunting
men.
The bare, intervening stretch of rock was flecked here and there with patches of
snow. Within the fringe of trees but concealed from his view except for the faint
wisps of smoke, were the fires of his pursuers.
Boone Tremayne had no fire, nor at this time dared he make one, for as yet his position
was not exactly known to the armed men.
It was very cold and he lay on his stomach, favoring his left side where the first
bullet had torn an ugly wound. The second bullet had gone through his thigh, but
his crude bandages as well as the cold had caused the bleeding to stop.
A low wind moaned across the rock, stirring the icy bits of snow on the cold flanks
of the peak which arose two thousand feet above and be hind him. Within the low cave
it was still light, and Boone Tremayne clutched the stub of pencil and looked down
at the cheap tablet at his elbow.
He must write with care, for what he wrote now would be all his son, as yet unborn,
would ever know of his father and uncles. He would hear the stories others would
tell, and so it would be important for him to have some word in his father's hand.
The pencil clutched awkwardly in his chilled fingers, he began to write:
It's getting mighty cold up here, Son, and my grub's about gone. My canteen's still
half full, but it ain't no use, they've done got me.
Time to time I can hear them down in the brush. There must be a hunert of them. Seems
an awful lot of folks to git one lone man. If I only had Johnny here I wouldn't feel
so bad. Johnny, he always sort of perked a feller up no matter how bad things got.
57
 THE LISTENING HILLS 53
Except for you, I'm the last of the Tremaynes. Somehow it ain't so lonely up here
knowing there's to be a son of mine somewheres.
Now, Son, your ma is a mighty good woman as well as a pretty one. I never figured,
no way you look at it, to get such a girl as Marge. If she'd married up with Burt,
or Elisha, I'd no-ways have blamed her. They were the pick of the lot, they were.
Just had me a look down there an' I reckon they are gitting set to rush me. Wished
they wouldn't. I never aimed to kill nobody. They figured to hang me if I'm got alive,
and I promised Ma I'd never stretch no rope. Least a man can do is die with his face
toward them who aims to kill him.
Boone Tremayne put down the stub of pencil and chafed his cold fingers, peering through
the stacked flakes of rock he had heaped into a wall before the opening. The cold
was all through him now, and he knew he would never be warm again. That was okay,
he had this one last job to do ... and then he no longer cared. The wind whispered
to the snow and then he saw a man, bulky with a heavy coat, lunge from the trees
and come forward in a stumbling run.
A second man started as the first dropped behind a shelf of rock, and Boone put his
cheek against the cold stock of the Winchester and squeezed off his shot. He put
the bullet through the man's leg, saw the leg buckle and saw the man fall. Another
started and Boone dropped him with a bullet through the shoulder.
He gnawed at his lip and stared, hollow-eyed and gaunt, at the shelf of rock where
the first man had fallen. "Reckon I'd best let you git cold, too, mister," he said,
and flicked a glancing shot off the rock over the man's head. That would let him
know he had been seen, that it would be dangerous to try moving.
He shifted his position, favoring his wounded side and leg. Nobody moved, and the
afternoon was waning. At night they would probably come for him. He glanced at the
sullen gray sky. There was still time.
It started over a horse. We Tremaynes always found ourselves good horse flesh. Johnny,
he ketched this black colt in the hills near Durango. Little beauty, he was, and
Johnny learned him well and entered him in a race we always had down around there.
Dick Watson, him and his brothers, they fancied horses too and one of Dick's horses
had won that race four years running. We all bet a sight of money. Not so much, when
you figure it, but a mighty lot for us, who never had much cash in hand. Johnny's
black just ran off and left Watson's horse, and Watson was mighty put out.
He said no horse like that ever run wild, and that Johnny must
58
 4 L 0 U I S
of stole him somewheres. Johnny said no he never and that Watson's horse just wasn't
all that fast. Watson said that if Johnny wasn't such a boy, him being just sixteen,
he'd whup him good. Then our brother Burt, he stepped up. Burt was a mighty big,
fine figure of a man. He stepped up and said he wasn't no boy, if it was a fight
Watson wanted.
Well, Burt, he beat the tar out of Dick Watson. There was hard words said, and Ma,
she reckoned we all better git for home. We did, an' everything went along for a
time. Until that black was found dead. Somebody shot her down in the pasture. Shot
her from clost up.
Johnny, he was all for going to town and gitting him a man, but Ma, she said no and
Burt and Lisha, they sided with her. But Johnny ... well, it was some days for he
tuned up that mouth organ of his. And when he done it, it was all sad music.
We wasn't cattlemen, Son, not like other folks around. We was farmers and trappers,
or bee hunters, anything there was to git the coon. Mostly, them days, we farmed
and between crops we went back in the high meadows and rounded us up wild horses.
They was thousands of them, Son. Land sakes, I wished you could of seen them run!
It were a sight too beautiful for man to look upon. We rounded up a sight of them,
but we never kept but a few. We'd pick the youngest and prettiest. We'd gentle them
down with kindness and good grass and carrots, then we'd break them. My Pap, he broke
horses for a gent in Kentucky, a long time ago and he knew a goer and a stayer. I
guess none of us ever did forgit that little black mare.
Now that horse was shot clost up. It was no accident. And no man would kill a good
horse like that. Except for if he done it in pure meanness. And who had him a reason?
Dick Watson. That black mare beat Watson's horse once and he would do it again. Johnny,
he never said much, but from that day on he packed him a gun, and he never had afore.
Them boys down in the bresh is fixing to move. Gitting cold I reckon.
Boone Tremayne's head throbbed with fever and he stared through the chinks in the
flaked rock. The man under the ledge stirred cautiously and Boone put a shot down
there to keep him from stretching out too much. He rubbed his hands and blew upon
the fingers. A man moved in the brush and Boone laid a bullet in close to the ground.
Bullets hailed around his shelter, most of them glancing off the rocks, but one got
inside and ricocheted past his head. A hair closer and he would have been dead.
59
 THE LISTENING HILLS 55
Flat on his belly he stuffed the tablet and pencil in his pocket and crawled along
the bottom of the shallow cave. Painfully, he wormed his way along the cave for thirty
yards and found a place where it was a few inches deeper and where some animal or
bird had long since gathered sticks for a nest or home. Gathering some of the dead
sticks together, Boone built a fire.
The long-dead wood made little smoke and the tiny flame was com forting. Later, when
it was dark the reflection would give him away so he tried to shield it with rocks
as much as he could. He held his blue and shaking fingers almost in the flame, but
it was a long time before any warmth reached him.
They were waiting now, waiting for darkness. He must finish his let ter. There would
be no time later.
Mighty cold, Son, I've moved a mite and got me a fire. Well, the black was dead but
we had us about forty head of good horses ready to move. Sam and Lisha, they set
out for Durango. We figured to buy Ma a new dress for her birthday and to get us
some tools we needed and other fixings. Going in the boys had to drive past the DW
where the Watsons ranched. They seen Dick a-watching them, but thought nothing of
that at the time.
Well, when they got into Durango the sheriff come hightailing it up with five, six
men, all armed heavy. They tell the boys they are under arrest for stealing horses.
The boys tell them they trained them horses, that they was wild stock afore. The
sheriff and that bunch with him, one of them was a Watson, they just laughed.
Well, the boys was throwed in jail, but the sheriff, he wouldn't let them get word
to the rest of us. Only Johnny, he got to thinking and when the boys was slow gitting
back, he mounts up and heads for town. But they was ready for him, the Watsons was.
Johnny, he seen the horses in the corral, and he hightails it for the sheriff. The
sheriff is out of town, maybe a-purpose, and Johnny, he goes into the T-Diamond Saloon.
And there's three Watsons and two brothers-in-law of there's, all setting around.
These brothers-in-law, one named Ebberly, the other Boyd. This Boyd was some gun-slinger
or had that reputation. Johnny, he never knowed them at all, but he knowed the Watsons.
He asked the barkeep where was his brothers, and Dick Watson speaks up and says they
are in jail for stealing horses, where he'll soon be. Johnny, he knows what Ma would
say, and remarkable for him, keeps his head. He says nothing and turns to go and
Dick Watson says, "Like you stole that black mare."
The three Watsons are spread out and ready. He seen then it was
60
 5 6
a trap, but still he never knowed those other two which sat quiet near the door,
never saying I, yes, or no. Johnny, he says, "I trained that black mare, Watson,
an' you kilt her. You snuck up an' shot that pore little horse dead."
"I never!" Watson says, and folks say he looked mighty red in the face. "You're a
liar!"
Watson grabbed iron and so did Johnny. The Watsons, they got three bullets into Johnny,
but he still stood, so this Boyd, he shoots him in the back. Johnny went down, but
there was two Watsons on the floor, one dead, and Dick badly hurt.
Johnny, they figured for dead, and they was so busy gitting their kin to the doc
they never thought of him. He was alive and he crawled out of there. A girl he knowed
in town, she got her Pap, who was a vet, and he fixed Johnny up and hid him out.
This here girl, she run down to the jail and told Lisha and Sam through the bars.
She said they better get set, there'd be trouble. She had Johnny's gun and she passed
it through the bars and along with it a chunk of pipe standing close by.
We heard about it after. The one Watson that was on his feet, him and Ebberly, Boyd
and some half dozen others, they got them masks and come down to the jail to lynch
the other boys. They got into the jail and the jailor he just stepped aside, easy
as you please, and says, "In the second cell "
They rushed up. The boys just stood a-waiting, just like they didn't know what was
going to happen. The barred door swung open and then Lisha, he outs with his gun
and that bunch scrambled, believe you me. One of them turns to slam shut the door,
but Sam, he got his pipe betwixt the door and the jam to keep it from clos ing. That
feller dragged iron, so Sam raised the pipe and shoved it into his throat. That feller
went down. The mob beat it, and so the boys, they took out. They told that jailer
they would surrender to a U.S. Marshal, but nobody else.
Lisha and Sam, they went to the corral and got their horses, every head, and they
started out of town. By that time the story got around that the Tremayne boys had
killed two men and wounded a couple of others, then broke jail. So they fetched their
guns and come running.
They got Sam right off. Folks said he was shot nine times in that first volley. At
that, Lisha rode back to pick him up, but he couldn't get nigh the body, and could
see by the way Sam was that he must be dead. So he headed off to home with his horses.
Boone Tremayne put aside his letter and added a few tiny sticks to his lit tle fire.
It was so small a man might have held it in his two hands, but the
61
 THE L I S T E N I N G H I L L S 57
little flame looked good, and it warmed his fingers which were cramped from writing
and the cold.
An icy wind blew over the slope of the mountain. Boone looked longingly at the woods
below, and the first silver line that was the Middle Fork of the Green, which stretched
away almost due north from where he lay. If he could get.down there he might still
have a chance ... But there was no chance. The lost blood, the lack of food and the
cold had drawn upon his strength until he was only a dank shell of a man, huddled
in his worn clothes, shivering and freezing and looking down at the hunters who held
him.
Cautiously, the man under the shelf below was moving. He, too, was feeling the cold.
"Well, feel it," Boone whispered, "maybe next time you won't be so anxious to go
hunting a lone man!" He ricocheted another bullet off the rock shelf.
Several rifles replied, and suddenly angry, Boone fired a careful shot at the flash
of one of the guns. He heard a rifle rattle on rocks as it fell, and then a heavy
body tumbling into brush. More shots were fired, but now he had turned ugly; the
loneliness, the cold, the fear of death, all crowded in upon him and he shot rapidly
and frantically, at rifle flashes, and dusting the brush around the smoke of the
fires. He fired his rifle empty and re loaded and then with careful shots, proceeded
to weed the woods below.
Then he doused his fire and moved farther along the undercut rock and found another
place, almost as good as the last. Here he started an other tiny blaze, shielding
it with a large slab of flat rock.
Finished off telling how Sam was kilt. Johnny, he was shot bad and we didn't know
if he was dead for two days, then that girl, Ellie Winters, she come up the mountain
with the news. The town was mighty wrought up. Some of them was coming up after us.
We kept watch, Burt, Lisha and me. Meanwhile, we tried figur ing what to do. For
Ma's sake we would have to pull out, git up into the high meadows or west into the
wild country over the Utah line.
Now we knowed they was hunting Johnny, and Ellie's Pa was worried too. So the three
of us ups and goes down to Durango. Johnny, he mounted the horse we brought for him,
and we dusted out of there.
Slow, and careful not to leave no tracks, we moved out, leaving our cabin, our crop,
everything but the horses. We made it west northwest past Lone Cone and finally crossing
the San Miguel into Uncompahgre Plateau country. We found us a little box canyon
there with grass and water, and we moved in. By hunting we made out, but Ma was feeling
poorly so Burt, he stayed with her while Lisha and me, we mounted up and with five
head of horses, we
62
 8 L 0 U I S
headed for a little town north of us on the river. We sold our horses, bought up
supplies and come back.
Ma, she didn't get no better, and finally, she died one morning, just died a-setting
in her rocker. We'd brung that rocker along, and it had been a sight of comfort for
her. So Ma died and Johnny played his mouth organ, and we buried her. Then there
was just the four of us, with Johnny still recuperating from his bullet wounds.
We could move on, but this here was our country and we knowed it. Pa was buried back
at Durango. Sam, too, now And Ma, she was buried there in the lonely Uncompahgres,
all because of the orneriness of one man.
Them horses we sold let folks know where we was, and soon there was a posse after
us. We were figured to be outlaws, real bad hombres. We'd killed folks and we'd busted
jail. That posse cornered us in the mountains and we shot it out and got away.
That began the bad and lonely time, made pleasant only because we were together.
We drifted west into the La Balas and sold our horses except for an extry for each
of us, and then drifted into the Robber's Roost country. It was there I kilt my first
man. It was that there Boyd. The same one who shot Johnny in the back.
He'd kilt a woman in Colorado, and then her man. After that the country got too hot
to hold him so he drifted west to the Roost. There was a shack in the Roost them
days, a log shack, long and low The floor was adobe and there was a bar and a few
tables. It was low roofed, dark, and no ways pleasant. It was outside of that place
I come up to Boyd.
He seen me and he stopped. "Another one of them miserable Tremaynes!" he sneers.
Men stopped to listen and watch. "You shot Johnny in the back," I tell him, "and
I figure you're good for nothing else!" He grabs iron and about that time my gun
bucks in my hand and this gent he just curls up and folds over.
The boys come a-running and we look at that passel of rustlers, thieves and no accounts,
and a few mighty good men scattered among them. "Anybody got a argyment?" Burt asks.
One gent, his name was Cassidy, he chuckles, and says, "Boyd was no good and we knowed
it. Anyway," he grins at us, "the weight o' the artillery is on your side!" Then
he bought a round of drinks.
We drifted north through Wyoming, selling a few horses we broke and working time
to time on spreads in the Wind River and Powder River countries. We drifted north
into Montanny, and fi nally down to Deadwood. Here and there we heard rumors. Folks
said we were robbing banks and trains, which we never done. Folks
63
 THE LISTENING HILLS 59
said we had killed this man or that one, and without ever doing a thing, we got us
a name most as bad as the James boys. All on account of how people love to talk and
gossip.
The fact that I killed Boyd got back to Colorado. He'd been some shakes as a gunman,
so they now had me pegged as one. Boyd, I kilt, but if they figured he was fast,
they wasn't figuring right. In Deadwood I heard Ebberly was in town, making his brags
what he would do if he ever come up to any of the Tremaynes.
Bullet come nigh me just now. Better I tend to business for a
Boone edged over a little and peered through the chinks in the rocks but could see
only the dark line of the forest. The man he had kept under the rock shelf was off
to his right now and it was not an easy shot ... anyway, he had suffered enough.
His mouth felt dry and he rinsed it carefully with water from his canteen, then let
the cool water trickle down his parched throat. It was his first drink in many hours.
His face felt hot and there was a queer feeling around the wound in his side.
Bullets snarled and snapped, biting at the rocks, near him and farther along. He
held his fire, reluctant to give himself away. Boone found no malice in his heart
for the officers of the law. This was their job, and not theirs to decide the right
and wrong, but to bring him in. He moved, crawling back along the long undercut of
the cave. There was a little more to write. Ten ... maybe twenty minutes more. Then
it could be over ... he could finally let it be over.
Ebberly, Son, he made his brags, but we kept away from him. Only we shouldn't have.
He knowed we was in town and when we kept away he figured we was scared. Then he
seen Burt and took a shot at him. Burt shot back. Both of them missed.
Burt, he hunted him and lost him. It was me who run into Ebberly last. I come down
the street afore noon, hunting a couple of copper rivets to use in fixing my saddle.
He stepped down into the street and yells at me, "Boone Tremayne!"
He yelled, and he shot. Yet my gun come up so fast the two shots sounded like one.
Only he missed ... I didn't. I stood there, looking around. "Folks," I said, "I'm
surely Boone Tremayne. But none of us, my brothers or me, ever stole a thing off
any man. Nor we never shot at no man unless he hunted us down. We got us a bad name,
but it ain't our doing. You seen this ... he come at me with a drawn gun."
"You all better ride," a feller says. "This here Seth Bullock, our
64
 I. 0 U I S
sheriff, he'd have to take you in." So we rode out. Sam was kilt and Ma was dead
and everywhere they was after us.
We headed west, making for the Hole-in-the-Wall where men beyond the law would be
let alone. We come down Beaver Crick out of the Black Hills and we rode up Cemetery
Ridge and we drawed up there and rested our horses.
After awhile Lisha, he tunes up his old gitar and starts to play a might, and then
we saw a feller coming up the slope. He looked a mighty rough customer and when he
heerd our music he slowed up and looked us over. Then he come on up clost.
"Howdy!" he says. "Goin' far?"
"To Sundance," Burt says. "How fer is it?"
"Mebbe fifteen mile," this gent says. "Luck!" An' he rides on. "Didn't like the look
o' that hombre," Burt says, "we better ride out o' here, an' not for Sundance!" So
we mounted up and took out south, holding east of Bald Mountain right along the Wyoming-South
Dakota line.
Sure enough, Son, that gent was no good. He headed hisself right for Sundance, warning
folks at ranches as he rode. The Bloody Tremaynes was riding, he said. We seen the
first posse when we was heading to Lost Canyon, but there was no fight until they
closed in on us from three directions at Stockade Beaver Crick. We fought her out
there, kilt four of them and scratched up a few more, but we lost Burt. He had three
bullets in him when he went down, kilt two men before he died. We buried Burt there
on Stockade Beaver, and we made a marker for him, which you'll see if you ever ride
thataway.
We rode south and west with that there posse setting in the brush licking their wounds.
We made the Hole-in-the-Wall and rode through and no posse would foller us. We'd
no money, only the horses we rode. But we run into a short-handed cow outfit driving
to the Buffalo Fork. They didn't know who we was and didn't give two boots in a rain
barrel. We done our share like always, and we stuck to our own selves. The hands,
they was friendly cusses, and the boss he only asked for a man a day's work. We drove
to the Buffalo Fork and then the boss, he come over to us. "I'll be payin' you off
in the mornin'. You boys better buy what ca'tridges we got," he says, quiet-like,
"you won't find no place clost by to git 'em."
"That's right friendly o' you, Boss," Lisha says, "we take it kindly."
He stands there a mite, and then he says, "Never did b'lieve all I heerd, anyways,"
he said, and then he smiled. "We'll sure miss that
65
 FROM THE LISTENING HILLS
music you boys make. Would you strike us up some singin' afore you leave?"
So we done it. Lisha, he sung "Greensleeves," and "Brennan on the Moor," an' "On
Top of 01' Smoky" and some of the other old songs from the hills back yonder, songs
our folks fetched from Scotland and Ireland. We sang for an evening, and then loaded
up with grub and bullets, and took off. Southwest across the Blackrock and camped
at Lily Lake, and then on to the Gross Venture and into the Jackson Hole country.
Son, your Pa's hands is mighty cold now. I guess this here letter's got to end up.
Johnny, he wanted to see Ellie Winters, and Lisha, he wanted to eat fresh melons
from the patch, and I wanted to see your Ma again. I never knowed she loved me. I
never even guessed she cared or thought of me. I just figured I'd like to see her
some.
One night we was setting by the fire and Lisha he looked over at me and he says,
"Boys, the melons'll be ripe in the bottom land now, an' the horses will be headin'
up from the flats for the high mead ows." So then we knowed we was heading home.
We rode down the Snake to the Grey and down the Grey to the Bear, and we followed
her south to the border, staying clear of ranches and towns. Of a night we built
our fires small and covered them well, and then at last we come riding down to the
hills near Durango.
Lisha, he chuckles and says to me, "You all sure been a-talkin' a lot in your sleep,
boy. If'n you ever said those things to a girl awake she'd sure be bakin' your corn
pone from here on out."
Me, I git all redded up. "Don't give me that," I say, "I never talked none. Anyway,
it wouldn't matter. What woman would care for me?"
Both Lisha and Johnny looked up sharp. "You damn fool!" they says, "they'd never
git a better man, nowheres. An' that Marge, she's been eatin' her heart out for years
over you!"
Me, I just stood there ... I never figured nothing like that. I sure thought they
was wrong, but both them boys, they knowed a sight more about women than ever I would.
Lisha, he rides off to town, and he ain't gone an hour afore he comes back and then
Ellie, she and Marge comes a-running, and with them is Betts Warner, Lisha's girl.
Marge, she just stopped, took one look, and then run to me and went to crying in
my arms.
We made her a triple weddin' just two days later, but folks heerd about it, and one
morning Lisha come to the door for his horse and
66
 6 2 LOUIS L'
Dick Watson, his brother and four-five friends, they shot him down. Shot him down
with him only getting one shot off.
Betts, she come a-running to warn us, thinking of us even when her heart was gone
within her, her man laying dead back there full of Watson lead.
"Saddle up," I says to Johnny, "I'll be coming back soon." Me, I buckled on my guns.
"I'm goin' with you," Johnny says, and I told him no. He'd have to git us packed
and ready. Marge, she just looked at me strange and soft and proud. She says, "You
go along, Boone, I'll saddle up for you, and I'll be a-waiting here when you get
back."
Never a mite of complaining, never a word agin it. She was a man's woman, that one,
and she knowed my way was to ride for the man who fetched this trouble down upon
us.
It was bright noonday when I fetched up to town. I swung down from the saddle and
I asked old Jake. "You go along," I said, "and you tell that Dick Watson I'm here
to put him down."
Standin' there, I wondered if it was I'd never have me a home, or see the light in
my baby's eyes, or see the sunlight on the green corn growing, or smell the hay from
my own meadows. Them things was all I ever wanted, all I ever fixed to have, and
now it seemed like all my life I toted a gun, shooting and being shot at.
All I ever wanted in this here world was a bit of land and peace, the way man was
meant to live. Not with no gun in his hand a-killing folks.
I seen Dick Watson step from a door down the way, and I seen him start, and I pulled
down my hat and stepped out, stepped out and started walking to kill a man.
Then Watson stopped and I looked across the forty paces at him and I made my voice
strong in the street. "Dick Watson, you brung hell to my family. You was sore because
that black mare beat your horse! You lied about us stealing! You made us into outlaws
and caused my brothers to be kilt and some other men too. It'll be on your conscience
whether you live or die."
He stood there staring at me like he'd looked right in the face of death, and then
he slapped leather. His gun came up and I shot him, low down in the belly where they
die slow and hard. God forgive me, but I done it with hate in my heart. And then
... I should have knowed he'd framed it, a half dozen of his friends stepped out
and opened up on me.
Son, what come over me then I don't know I guess I went sort of crazy. When I seen
them all around me, I just tore loose and went to shooting. I went up on the porch
after them, I followed one up
67
 FROM THE LISTENING HILLS 63
the stairs and into his room. I chased another and shot him running, and then I loaded
up and turned my back on both the dead and the living and I walked down that street
to my horse. I was halfway home before I knowed I'd a bullet in me.
When I was patched up some we rode on and Betts went back to her folks, a widow almost
afore she was a wife. We fetched up, fi nal, in the Blue Mountains of Utah, and there
we built us a double cabin and we ketched wild horses and hunted desert honey, just
the two boys of us left from the five we'd been. We lived there and for months we
was happy.
Your Ma was the finest ever, Son. I never knowed what it could be like to live with
no woman, nor to have her there, always know ing how I felt inside when nobody had
ever knowed before. We walked together and talked together and day by day the running
and shooting seemed farther and farther away.
Johnny was happy, too. Them days his mouth organ laughed and cried and sang sweet
songs to the low moon and the high sun, and he played the corn out of the ground
and the good sweet melons. We hunted some and we lived quiet-like and happy. How
long? Three months, five months ... and then Marge comes to me and says Ellie's got
to go where she can have a doc. She's to have a baby and something, she's sure, ain't
right about it.
We knowed what it meant, but life must go on, Son, and you were to be born and I
aimed to give you what start I could. The same for Johnny. So we gathered our horses
and we rode out to Salt Lake with the girls. We sold our horses for cash money to
some Mormons, and then we drifted north. The girls had to stay with the Doc awhile,
so we got us a riding job each.
One day a gent comes into a bar where we was with a star on him and he sees me setting
by the window. Marge's time is coming nigh and we're all a-waiting like. This man
with the star he comes over and drops into a chair near Johnny and me. "Mighty hot
day!" he says. "Too hot to hunt outlaws, especially," he says, "when they size up
like good, God-fearin' folks.
"Like t'day," he says, "I got me a paper says them Tremaynes is hereabouts. I'm to
hunt 'em up an' arrest 'em, what do you boys think about that?"
"We reckon," Johnny says, very quiet, "them Tremaynes never bothered nobody if they
was let alone."
He nods his head. "I heard that, too," he says. "Leastways, if they've been in town
they sure been mighty quiet an' well-behaved folks. Worst of it is"-he got up, wiping
the sweat-band of his hat "I took an oath to do my duty. Now, the way I figure that
doesn't
68
 6 4
mean I have to go r'arin' out in the heat of the day. But come sundown"-he spoke
slow and careful-"I'm gonna hunt them Tremaynes up "
That sheriff, Son, he looked up at Johnny and then over at me. "I got two sons,"
he said quietly, "and if the Tremaynes left family in this town, they'd be protected
as long as me and my sons lived."
We didn't take long about saying goodbye, although we never knowed it was our last.
We never guessed we was riding out of town and right to our death.
It was fifty miles east that we passed a gent on the trail. We never knowed him but
he turned an' looked after us. And that done, he high tailed it to the nearest town
and before day a posse was in the saddle.
At noon, from a high ridge, we drawed up and looked back. We seen four separate dust
clouds. Johnny, he looked at me and grinned. "I reckon we ain't in no hurry no more,"
he said, "they got us agin the mountains." He looked up at them twelve, and thirteen
thou sand foot peaks. "I wonder if any man ever went through up there?"
"We can give her a try," I said quiet. "Not much else we can do." "Horses are shot,
Boone," he replies, "I ain't goin' to kill no good horse for those lousy coyotes
back yonder" So we got down and walked, our saddlebags loose and rifles in our hands.
Then we heard them on the trail behind and we drawed off and slipped our saddles
from the horses and cached them in the brush. Cow Hollow, Son, and that's where we
made our stand. We had a plenty of ammunition, and we weren't wasteful, making shots
count. We hunkered down among the rocks and trees and stood them off.
Morning left us and the noon, and the high hot sun bloomed in the sky, but it was
late fall, and as the afternoon drew on, a cold wind began to blow.
They come then, they come like Injuns through the woods after us, and we opened up,
and then suddenly Johnny was on his feet, he's got that old Winchester at his hip
and he shoots and then he jumps right into them clubbing with his rifle. He went
down, and I went over the rocks, both guns going, and that bunch broke and ran.
I fetched Johnny back, and he lay there looking up at me. "Good old Boone!" he said.
"Get the girls and get away. Go to Mexico, go somewheres, but get away!"
He died like that, and I sat right there and cried. Then I covered him over gentle
and I slipped out of Cow Hollow and started up the trail toward the high peaks.
It was cold, mighty cold. The sun came up and touched those white peaks and ridges
ahead of me, then the clouds covered her over and it began to snow. I walked on,
and the snow stopped but
69
 LISTENING HILLS 6 5
the wind blew colder and colder. We was getting high up, I passed the timberline
here on Tokewanna and crawled into this here place.
Son, I can't see to write no more, and there ain't no more to say. I guess I didn't
say it well, but there she is. You can read her and make up your own mind. This here
I've addressed to your mother, care of that sheriff down there. I even got a stamp
to put on so's it will be U.S. mail and no one'll dare open her up.
Be a good boy, Son, love your Ma and do like she tells you. And carry the name of
Tremayne with pride. It was honest blood, no matter what you hear from anyone.
He was stiff from the cold, but he rolled over carefully and folded the let ter and
tucked it into an envelope. On it he placed his stamp, and then scrawled the name
of his wife, in care of the sheriff. From his throat he took a black handkerchief
and fastened it to a stick so its flapping would draw attention. Near it, held down
by a rock, he left the letter.
Then he crawled out and using his rifle as a crutch, got to his feet. He still had
ammunition. He had no food. He discarded the almost empty canteen. For a long time
he looked down the cold flank of the mountain into the dark fringe of trees. Far
away among those trees flickered the ghostlike fingers of fire, where men warmed
themselves and talked, or slept.
Something blurred his eyes. His head throbbed painfully. His side gnawed with pain
and his leg was stiff. For how long he stood there he did not know, swaying gently,
not quite delirious and yet not quite ratio nal. Then he turned slowly and looked
up, two thousand feet, to the cold and icy peak, gleaming, silver and magnificent
in solemn grandeur.
He stared for a long time, and then he began to climb. It was very slow, it was very
hard. He pulled his old hat down, put the scarf lower around his ears. To the left
there was a ridge, and beyond the ridge there would be a valley.
He climbed and then he slipped, lacerating his hands on the icy rocks. He got up,
pushing himself on.
"Marge," he whispered, "Son. . ." He continued to move. Crawling ... falling ...
standing ... he felt the snow, felt his feet sink. He seemed to have enormously large
feet, enormously heavy. "Never aimed to kill no body," he said. He climbed on ...
wind stirred the icy bits of snow over the harsh flank of the mountain. He bowed
his head, and when he turned his face from the wind he looked down and saw the fires
below like tiny stars. How far he had come! How very far!
He turned, and looked up. There was the ridge, not far, not too far ... and what
was it he had thought just a moment ago? Beyond the ridge, there is always a valley.
70
 Trap of Gold
W etherton had been three months out of Horsehead before he found his first color.
At first it was a few scattered grains taken from the base of an alluvial fan where
millions of
tons of sand and silt had washed down from a chain of rugged peaks; yet the gold
was ragged under the magnifying glass.
Gold that has carried any distance becomes worn and polished by the abrasive action
of the accompanying rocks and sand, so this could not have been carried far. With
caution born of harsh experience he seated himself and lighted his pipe, yet excitement
was strong within him.
A contemplative man by nature, experience had taught him how a man may be deluded
by hope, yet all his instincts told him the source of the gold was somewhere on the
mountain above. It could have come down the wash that skirted the base of the mountain,
but the ragged con dition of the gold made that improbable.
The base of the fan was a half-mile across and hundreds of feet thick, built of silt
and sand washed down by centuries of erosion among the higher peaks. The point of
the wide V of the fan lay between two tower ing upthrusts of granite, but from where
Wetherton sat he could see that the actual source of the fan lay much higher.
Wetherton made camp near a tiny spring west of the fan, then pick eted his burros
and began his climb. When he was well over two thousand feet higher he stopped, resting
again, and while resting he dry-panned some of the silt. Surprisingly, there were
more than a few grains of gold even in that first pan, so he continued his climb,
and passed at last be tween the towering portals of the granite columns.
Above this natural gate were three smaller alluvial fans that joined at the gate
to pour into the greater fan below. Dry-panning two of these brought no results,
but the third, even by the relatively poor method of dry-panning, showed a dozen
colors, all of good size.
The head of this fan lay in a gigantic crack in a granitic upthrust that
71
 TRAP O F GOLD 6 7
resembled a fantastic ruin. Pausing to catch his breath, his gaze wan dered along
the base of this upthrust, and right before him the crum bling granite was slashed
with a vein of quartz that was literally laced with gold!
Struggling nearer through the loose sand, his heart pounding more from excitement
than from altitude and exertion, he came to an abrupt stop. The band of quartz was
six feet wide and that six feet was cob webbed with gold.
It was unbelievable, but here it was.
Yet even in this moment of success, something about the beetling cliff stopped him
from going forward. His innate caution took hold and he drew back to examine it at
greater length. Wary of what he saw, he circled the batholith and then climbed to
the ridge behind it from which he could look down upon the roof. What he saw from
there left him dry mouthed and jittery.
The granitic upthrust was obviously a part of a much older range, one that had weathered
and worn, suffered from shock and twisting until finally this tower of granite had
been violently upthrust, leaving it stand ing, a shaky ruin among younger and sturdier
peaks. In the process the rock had been shattered and riven by mighty forces until
it had become a miner's horror. Wetherton stared, fascinated by the prospect. With
enor mous wealth here for the taking, every ounce must be taken at the risk of life.
One stick of powder might bring the whole crumbling mass down in a heap, and it loomed
all of three hundred feet above its base in the fan. The roof of the batholith was
riven with gigantic cracks, literally seamed with breaks like the wall of an ancient
building that has remained standing after heavy bombing. Walking back to the base
of the tower, Wetherton found he could actually break loose chunks of the quartz
with his fingers.
The vein itself lay on the downhill side and at the very base. The outer wall of
the upthrust was sharply tilted so that a man working at the vein would be cutting
his way into the very foundations of the tower, and any single blow of the pick might
bring the whole mass down upon him. Furthermore, if the rock did fall, the vein would
be hopelessly buried un der thousands of tons of rock and lost without the expenditure
of much more capital than he could command. And at this moment Wetherton's total
of money in hand amounted to slightly less than forty dollars.
Thirty yards from the face he seated himself upon the sand and filled his pipe once
more. A man might take tons out of there without trouble, and yet it might collapse
at the first blow. Yet he knew he had no choice. He needed money and it lay here
before him. Even if he were at first suc cessful there were two things he must avoid.
The first was tolerance of
72
 8
danger that might bring carelessness; the second, that urge to go back for that "little
bit more" that could kill him.
IT WAS WELL into the afternoon and he had not eaten, yet he was not hun gry. He circled
the batholith, studying it from every angle only to reach the conclusion that his
first estimate had been correct. The only way to get at the gold was to go into the
very shadow of the leaning wall and at tack it at its base, digging it out by main
strength. From where he stood it seemed ridiculous that a mere man with a pick could
topple that mass of rock, yet he knew how delicate such a balance could be.
The tower was situated on what might be described as the military crest of the ridge,
and the alluvial fan sloped steeply away from its lower side, steeper than a steep
stairway. The top of the leaning wall overshad owed the top of the fan, and if it
started to crumble and a man had warn ing, he might run to the north with a bare
chance of escape. The soft sand in which he must run would be an impediment, but
that could be alleviated by making a walk from flat rocks sunken into the sand.
It was dusk when he returned to his camp. Deliberately, he had not permitted himself
to begin work, not by so much as a sample. He must be deliberate in all his actions,
and never for a second should he forget the mass that towered above him. A split
second of hesitation when the crash came-and he accepted it as inevitable-would mean
burial under tons of crumbled rock.
The following morning he picketed his burros on a small meadow near the spring, cleaned
the spring itself and prepared a lunch. Then he removed his shirt, drew on a pair
of gloves and walked to the face of the cliff. Yet even then he did not begin, knowing
that upon this habit of care and deliberation might depend not only his success in
the venture, but life itself. He gathered flat stones and began building his walk.
"When you start moving," he told himself, "you'll have to be fast."
FINALLY, and with infinite care, he began tapping at the quartz, enlarging cracks
with the pick, removing fragments, then prying loose whole chunks. He did not swing
the pick, but used it as a lever. The quartz was rotten, and a man might obtain a
considerable amount by this method of picking or even pulling with the hands. When
he had a sack filled with the richest quartz he carried it over his path to a safe
place beyond the shadow of the tower. Returning, he tamped a few more flat rocks
into his path, and began on the second sack. He worked with greater care than was,
perhaps, essential. He was not and had never been a gambling man.
In the present operation he was taking a careful calculated risk in which every eventuality
had been weighed and judged. He needed the money and he intended to have it; he had
a good idea of his chances of
73
 6 9
success, but knew that his gravest danger was to become too greedy, too much engrossed
in his task.
Dragging the two sacks down the hill he found a flat block of stone and with a single
jack proceeded to break up the quartz. It was a slow and a hard job but he had no
better means of extracting the gold. After break ing or crushing the quartz much
of the gold could be separated by a knife blade, for it was amazingly concentrated.
With water from the spring Wetherton panned the remainder until it was too dark to
see.
Out of his blankets by daybreak he ate breakfast and completed the extraction of
the gold. At a rough estimate his first day's work would run to four hundred dollars.
He made a cache for the gold sack and took the now empty ore sacks and climbed back
to the tower.
The air was clear and fresh, the sun warm after the chill of night, and he liked
the feel of the pick in his hands.
Laura and Tommy awaited him back in Horsehead, and if he was killed here, there was
small chance they would ever know what had be come of him. But he did not intend
to be killed. The gold he was ex tracting from this rock was for them, and not for
himself.
It would mean an easier life in a larger town, a home of their own and the things
to make the home a woman desires, and it meant an education for Tommy. For himself,
all he needed was the thought of that home to return to, his wife and son-and the
desert itself. And one was as neces sary to him as the other.
The desert would be the death of him. He had been told that many times, and did not
need to be told, for few men knew the desert as he did. The desert was to him what
an orchestra is to a fine conductor, what the human body is to a surgeon. It was
his work, his life, and the thing he knew best. He always smiled when he looked first
into the desert as he started a new trip. Would this be it?
The morning drew on and he continued to work with an even-paced swing of the pick,
a careful filling of the sack. The gold showed bright and beautiful in the crystalline
quartz which was so much more beautiful than the gold itself. From time to time as
the morning drew on, he paused to rest and to breathe deeply of the fresh, clear
air. Deliberately, he refused to hurry.
For nineteen days he worked tirelessly, eight hours a day at first, then lessening
his hours to seven, and then to six. Wetherton did not explain to himself why he
did this, but he realized it was becoming increasingly dif ficult to stay on the
job. Again and again he would walk away from the rock face on one excuse or another,
and each time he would begin to feel his scalp prickle, his steps grow quicker, and
each time he returned more reluctantly.
Three times, beginning on the thirteenth, again on the seventeenth
74
 7 0
and finally on the nineteenth day, he heard movement within the tower. Whether that
whispering in the rock was normal he did not know. Such a natural movement might
have been going on for centuries. He only knew that it happened now, and each time
it happened a cold chill went along his spine.
His work had cut a deep notch at the base of the tower, such a notch as a man might
make in felling a tree, but wider and deeper. The sacks of gold, too, were increasing.
They now numbered seven, and their total would, he believed, amount to more than
five thousand dollars-probably nearer to six thousand. As he cut deeper into the
rock the vein was grow ing richer.
HE WORKED on his knees now. The vein had slanted downward as he cut into the base
of the tower and he was all of nine feet into the rock with the great mass of it
above him. If that rock gave way while he was work ing he would be crushed in an
instant with no chance of escape. Nevertheless, he continued.
The change in the rock tower was not the only change, for he had lost weight and
he no longer slept well. On the night of the twentieth day he decided he had six
thousand dollars and his goal would be ten thousand. And the following day the rock
was the richest ever! As if to tantalize him into working on and on, the deeper he
cut the richer the ore became. By nightfall of that day he had taken out more than
a thousand dollars.
Now the lust of the gold was getting into him, taking him by the throat. He was fascinated
by the danger of the tower as well as the desire for the gold. Three more days to
go-could he leave it then? He looked again at the tower and felt a peculiar sense
of foreboding, a feeling that here he was to die, that he would never escape. Was
it his imagination, or had the outer wall leaned a little more?
On the morning of the twenty-second day he climbed the fan over a path that use had
built into a series of continuous steps. He had never counted those steps but there
must have been over a thousand of them. Dropping his canteen into a shaded hollow
and pick in hand he started for the tower.
The forward tilt did
seem somewhat more than before. Or was it the light? The crack that ran behind the
outer wall seemed to have widened and when he examined it more closely he found a
small pile of freshly run silt near the bottom of the crack. So it had moved!
Wetherton hesitated, staring at the rock with wary attention. He was a fool to go
back in there again. Seven thousand dollars was more than he had ever had in his
life before, yet in the next few hours he could take out at least a thousand dollars
more and in the next three days he could easily have the ten thousand he had set
for his goal.
75
 TRAP OF GOLD 71
He walked to the opening, dropped to his knees a narrowing, flat-roofed hole. No
sooner was he insid up into his throat. He felt trapped, stifled, but hf and loose.
when he di
h dth t fllh k
When he slowed an en stopped o i is sac he was gasping for breath,
his pick again, but before he could strike a bloc above him seemed to creak like
something tired and c
nd crawled into the
than fear climbed
were so frightened mounting panic and began to work. His first blows
nd feeble that nothing came Yet, w en e I
gan get started, he beto work with a feverish intensity that was wholly unlike him.
reath, but despite his hurry the sack was not quite full. Reluctantly, he
the gigantic mass
went through the colossal pile and then a deep grinding that turned him
sick with horror. All his plans for instant flight were frozen and it was not until
the groaning ceased that he realized he was lying on his back,
breathless with fear and expectancy. Slowly, he edged his way into the air and walked,
fighting the desire to run, away from the rock.
When he stopped near his canteen he was wringing with cold sweat and trembling in
every muscle. He sat down on the rock and fought for control. It was not until some
twenty minutes had passed that he could trust himself to get to his feet.
Despite his experience, he knew that if he did not go back now he would never go.
He had out but one sack for the day and wanted another. Circling the batholith he
examined the widening crack, endeavoring again, for the third time, to find another
means of access to the vein.
The tilt of the outer wall was obvious, and it could stand no more without toppling.
It was possible that by cutting into the wall of the column and striking down he
might tap the vein at a safer point. Yet this added blow at the foundation would
bring the tower nearer to collapse and render his other hole untenable. Even this
new attempt would not be safe, although immeasurably more secure than the hole he
had left. Hesitating, he looked back at the hole.
ONCE MORE? The ore was now fabulously rich, and the few pounds he needed to complete
the sack he could get in just a little while. He stared at the black and undoubtedly
narrower hole, then looked up at the leaning wall. He picked up his pick and, his
mouth dry, started back, drawn by a fascination that was beyond all reason.
His heart pounding, he dropped to his knees at the tunnel face. The air seemed stifling
and he could feel his scalp tingling, but once he started to crawl it was better.
The face where he now worked was at least sixteen feet from the tunnel mouth. Pick
in hand, he began to wedge chunks from their seat. The going seemed harder now and
the chunks did not come loose so easily. Above him the tower made no sound. The crushing
weight was now something tangible. He could almost feel it growing,
76
 7 2 L O V I S 1, '
increasing with every move of his. The mountain seemed resting on his shoulder, crushing
the air from his lungs.
Suddenly he stopped. His sack almost full, he stopped and lay very still, staring
up at the bulk of the rock above him.
No. He would go no farther. Now he would quit. Not another sackful. Not another pound.
He would go out now. He would go down the mountain without a backward look, and he
would keep going. His wife waiting at home, little Tommy, who would run gladly to
meet himthese were too much to gamble.
WITH THE DECISION came peace, came certainty He sighed deeply, and
relaxed, and then it seemed to him that every muscle in his body had been knotted
with strain. He turned on his side and with great deliberation gathered his lantern,
his sack, his handpick.
He had won. He had defeated the crumbling tower, he had defeated his own greed. He
backed easily, without the caution that had marked his earlier movements in the cave.
His blind, trusting foot found the projecting rock, a piece of quartz that stuck
out from the rough-hewn wall.
The blow was too weak, too feeble to have brought forth the reaction that followed.
The rock seemed to quiver like the flesh of a beast when stabbed; a queer vibration
went through that ancient rock, then a deep, gasping sigh.
He had waited too long!
Fear came swiftly in upon him, crowding him, while his body twisted, contracting
into the smallest possible space. He tried to will his muscles to move beneath the
growing sounds that vibrated through the passage. The whispers of the rock grew into
a terrifying groan, and there was a rattle of pebbles. Then silence.
The silence was more horrifying than the sound. Somehow he was crawling, even as
he expected the avalanche of gold to bury him. Abruptly, his feet were in the open.
He was out.
He ran without stopping, but behind him he heard a growing roar that he couldn't
outrace. When he knew from the slope of the land that he must be safe from falling
rock, he fell to his knees. He turned and looked back. The muted, roaring sound,
like thunder beyond mountains, continued, but there was no visible change in the
tower. Suddenly, as he watched, the whole rock formation seemed to shift and tip.
The movement lasted only seconds, but before the tons of rock had found their new
equilibrium, his tunnel and the area around it had utterly vanished from sight.
When he could finally stand Wetherton gathered up his sack of ore
d11U 111s cdI11CC11. I I1C W111U Was cool upon Ills 1JCC as 11C Wd1KCU dWdy, he did
not look back again.
77
 Riches Beyond Dream
I
t was June when they arrived at the adobe on Pinon Hill. There had been little change
since Kirby Ann had last been there ... the trees Tom Kirby planted the year before
he died were taller, and bunchgrass grew where the lawn should be.
Kirby Ann got out of the jeep and looked at Bob. The ride had tired him ... a serious
wound and a year in a Red Chinese prison camp had wrecked his health. He needed the
sun, they told him, with rest and quiet. Well, he could get that here. Maybe it was
all they could get here.
"It's a roof, honey," Bob said quietly. "We can fix up the place." He took her hand
and they walked to the edge of the hill. "I always loved it here," she said.
Before them lay the long valley, dotted now with cloud shadows, and beyond the valley
a rugged hill, and beyond more hills, more valleys, more peaks and ridges.
"Tom built for the view," Kirby Ann said, "and would you believe it? When he was
declared mentally incompetent, this was one of the reasons. Because he built an expensive
house in a lonely place, and then wouldn't allow a road to be built leading to it."
"He was a good old man," Bob said. "I liked him."
Long after Bob was asleep, Kirby lay awake, remembering. This place had been left
to her by her great-uncle Tom. It had been written into his will before his grandchildren
had him declared incompetent and took over the handling of his affairs.
They had taken his house in town, the orchard he planted with his own hands, the
ranch, and the mine. It was the silver they really wanted, and Blake, his eldest
grandson, believed it came from the longunworked Kirby Silver Mine on the edge of
town.
There was never any argument about the adobe. Nobody wanted a house in such a lonely
place. Yet when she came for her first visit she found they had been there, too,
spading up the yard and blasting rock in
78
 7 4 L O U I S
the hill, feverishly searching for the silver lode. For the source of the fabu lous
planchas de plata
he had sold to the bank in Topa.
Blake Bidwell had been coldly furious after the funeral. "The old fool! He should
have been declared incompetent years ago!"
"He was always soft in the head," Archie Moulton said sourly, "but I never dreamed
he'd die without telling us."
"And not even to tell Kirby!" Esther was aghast. Esther was always aghast. "And she
did so much for him!"
Kirby Ann had sat very still, her coffee growing cold. Not a thought for the poor
old man who had died in that narrow windowless room that smelled of disinfectant,
died still dreaming of the hills he loved so well.
He had given them all so much. Blake his first car. Archie and Esther a restaurant
business. Jake a start in the bank.
And that was to say nothing of the other, intangible things he had tried to give
them. His love of wild things, of trees, flowers, of the lonely desert and the enchanted
hills. Of them all, she alone shared his love for these. He had, because of this,
wanted her to have the adobe.
He never tired talking of the desert. Only at the end had his thoughts turned more
and more to mining. Again and again he told her how to stake a claim, build the cairn,
post the notices, and register it.
"A staked claim is property, Kirby Ann," he said, winking at her. "Lucky I didn't
have one or they'd have taken that, too.
"Now don't you forget what I've told you. Like me, you love the desert. Someday you
may find something ... someday when you need it worse than now."
Had there been a hint in that? There would never be a time when they would need it
worse than this very day. The money Bob would get from the government would help
only for a while. It would be months and months before he could work. She searched
her memory but could find nothing in the old conversations but the nostalgic wanderings
of an old man nearing death.
He had loved the desert, and he knew the lines of ancient beaches where seas and
lakes had been. He knew where lay the best beds of agate, jasper, or garnet. He had
followed the old, mysterious trails of prehistoric Indians marked by forgotten piles
of desert-varnished stones. He had known the plants of the desert, the cacti, the
flowers, the herbs and grasses.
She remembered the town's excitement when he first brought in the ore, the sheets
and balls of almost pure silver. When men failed to track him, and when his own grandchildren
failed to probe his secret, they be gan to believe he had uncovered a rich vein in
the long abandoned Kirby Silver Mine ... and he let them think so. Not long after,
the twins, Blake
79
 RICHES BEYOND DREAM 75
and Jake, working with Esther and Esther's husband, Archie Moulton, began the move
to have him declared incompetent.
They took over the mine and they spent thousands on engineers who probed and estimated
and explored to no purpose. And the old man would have no more to do with them.
When she had received the deed to the house, there had been a note inside that she
was to keep. Remembering it, Kirby Ann got it out of her overnight bag to show to
Bob in the morning.
You been good to me, Kirby Ann, patient with a tired old man. Marry Bob and spend
yourJune honeymoon here-never sell it or give it away. Enjoy the flowers, and remember
what I taught you about them. They ask only care, and they give so much in beauty,
and in riches beyond dream.
Sitting before the kitchen window, they ate their first breakfast in the adobe. "
`Mighty purty sight,' Great-uncle Tom used to say," she told Bob. " `Come June the
purtiest I ever did see.' "
"If we only had the money to fix it up," Bob agreed. "I'll work around, but I'll
have to take it slow at first."
Bob lifted his coffee cup, nodding toward the far hill. "Honey, what's the yellow
over there across the valley?"
Kirby Ann looked. "It's buckwheat. It blooms in late June.... "Bob," Kirby Ann said,
her eyes narrowing, "we were never here in
June! We postponed our wedding, and our honeymoon was in September."
He chuckled. "I know that. I didn't have any money in June, and not much more in
September."
She got to her feet. "Bob, get the jeep. We're going over there." Twenty minutes
later they stood in the patch of buckwheat, golden and beautiful in the morning sun.
It was all about them, and at their feet, thicker than elsewhere, it cloaked and
disguised an old mine working. Bob held in his hand a chunk of ore, seamed with silver.
"When I was only a child he told me," she said. "It's an old prospector's saying:
`Look where the buckwheat grows-it has affinity for
80
 The Lonesome Gods
Who can say that the desert does not live? Or that the dark, serrated ridges conceal
no spirit? Who can love the lost places, yet believe himself truly alone in the silent
hills?
How can we be sure the ancient ones were wrong when they believed each rock, each
tree, each stream or mountain possessed an active spirit? Are the gods of those vanished
peoples truly dead, or do they wait among the shadows for some touch of respect,
the ritual or sacrifice that can again give them life?
It is written in the memories of the ancient peoples that one who chooses the desert
for his enemy has chosen a bitter foe, but he who ac cepts it as friend, who will
seek to understand its moods and whims, shall feel also its mercy, shall drink deep
of its hidden waters, and the treasures of its rocks shall be opened before him.
Where one may walk in freedom and find water in the arid places, another may gasp
out his last breath un der the desert sun and mark the sands with the bones of his
ending.
Into the western wastelands, in 1807, a man walked dying. Behind him lay the bodies
of his companions and the wreck of their boat on the Colorado River. Before him lay
the desert, and somewhere beyond the desert the shores of the Pacific.
Jacob Almayer was a man of Brittany, and the Bretons are an ancient folk with roots
among the Druids and those unknown people who van ished long ago, but who lifted
the stones of Karnak to their places. He was a man who had walked much alone, a man
sensitive to the wilderness and the mores of other peoples and other times, and now
he walked into the desert with only the miles before him.
The distance was immeasurable. He was without water, without food, and the vast waste
of the desert was the sickly color of dead flesh deepening in places to rusty red
or to the hazy purple of distance. Within the limits of his knowledge lay no habitation
of men except the drowsy Spanish colonies along the coast. Yet, colonies or not,
the sea was there,
81
 LONESOME GODS 7 7
and the men of Brittany are born to the sea. So he turned his face westward and let
the distance unroll behind him.
Now he had not long to live. From the crest of the ridge he stared out across the
unbelievable expanse of the desert. The gourd that hung from his shoulder was empty
for many hours. His boots were tatters of leather, his cheeks and eyes sunken, his
lips gray and cracked.
Morning had come at last, and Jacob Almayer licked the dew from the barrel of his
rifle and looked westward. Although due west was the way he had traveled and due
west he should continue, off to his right there lay the shadow of an ancient trail,
lying like the memory of a dream across the lower slope of the mesa.
The trail was old. So old the rocks had taken the patina of desert time, so old that
it skirted the curve of an ancient beach where once lapped the waters of a vanished
sea. The old trail led away in a long, graceful sweep, toward the west-northwest,
following the high ground toward some destination he could not guess.
West was his logical route. Somewhere out there the road from Mexico to the California
missions cut diagonally across the desert. By heading directly west he might last
long enough to find that road, yet the water gourd was dry and the vast sun-baked
basin before him offered no promise. The ancient folk who made this path must have
known where water could be found, yet if the sea had vanished from this basin might
not the springs have vanished also?
Jacob Almayer was a big man, powerful in the chest and broad in the shoulders, a
fighter by instinct and a man who would, by the nature of him, die hard. He was also
a man of ironic, self-deriding humor, and it was like him to have no illusions now
And it was like him to look down the ancient trail with curious eyes. For how many
centuries had this trail been used? Walked by how many feet, dust now these hundreds
of years? And for how long had it been abandoned?
Such a path is not born in a month, nor are the stones marked in a year. Yet the
ages had not erased the marks of their passing, although without this view from the
crest it was doubtful if the trail could be seen. But once seen and recognized for
what it was, following it should not be hard. Moreover, at intervals the passing
men had dropped stones into neat piles.
To mark the miles? The intervals were irregular. To break the monotony? A ritual,
perhaps? Like a Tibetan spinning a prayer wheel? Was each stone a prayer? An invocation
to the gods of travelers? Gods abandoned for how long?
could use their help," Jacob Almayer said aloud, "I could use them now." Either path
might lead to death, and either might lead to water and life, but which way?
82
 Curiosity triumphed, or rather, his way of life triumphed. Had it not always been
so with him? And those others who preceded him? Was it not curiosity more than desire
for gain that led them on? And now, in what might be the waning hours of life, it
was no time to change.
Jacob Almayer looked down the shimmering basin and he looked along the faint but
easy sweep of the trail. He could, of course, rational ize his choice. The trail
led over high ground, along an easier route; trust an Indian to keep his feet out
of the heavy sand. Jacob Almayer turned down the trail, and as he did so he stooped
and picked up a stone from the ground.
The sun lifted into the wide and brassy sky and the basin swam with heat. The free-swinging
stride that had carried him from the Colorado was gone now, but the trail was good
and he walked steadily. He began to sweat again, and smelled the odors of his unwashed
clothes, his unbathed body; the stale smell of old sweat. Yet the air he breathed,
however hot, was like wine-like water, one could almost swallow it. Soon he came
to a pile of stones and he dropped the stone he carried and picked up an other, then
walked on.
Upon his shoulder the gourd flopped loosely, and his dry tongue fumbled at the broken
flesh of his lips. After several hours he stopped
sweating, and when he inadvertently touched the flesh of his face it felt hot and
dry. When he paused at intervals he found it becoming harder and harder to start
again but he kept on, unable to rest for long, knowing that safety if it came would
be somewhere ahead.
Sometimes his boots rolled on rocks and twisted his feet painfully, and he could
feel that his socks were stuck to his blistered feet with dried blood. Once he stumbled
and fell, catching himself on his hands, but clumsily so that the skin was torn and
lacerated. For a long minute he held himself on his hands and knees, staring drunkenly
at the path be neath him, caught in some trancelike state when he was neither quite
conscious nor quite unconscious, but for the moment was just flesh de void of animation.
Finally he got to his feet and, surprised to find himself there, he started on, walking
with sudden rapidity as if starting anew. Cicadas hummed in the cacti and greasewood,
and once he saw a rattler coil and buzz angrily, but he walked on.
Before him the thread of the trail writhed among the rocks, emerged, and then fell
away before him to a lower level, so faint yet beckoning, al ways promising, drawing
him into the distance as a magnet draws filings of iron. He no longer thought, but
only walked, hypnotized by his own movement. His mind seemed to fill with the heat
haze and he remem bered nothing but the rocks, dropping and carrying stones with
the deadly persistence of a drunken man.
83
 THE LONESOME GODS 7 9
Now the trail skirted the white line of an ancient beach, where the sand was silver
with broken shell and where at times he came upon the re mains of ancient fires,
blackened stones, charred remains of prehistoric shells and fish bones.
His eyes were bloodshot now, slow to move and hard to focus. Dust devils danced in
the desert heat waves. He clung to the thread of the path as to the one thing in
this shimmering land of mirages that was real, that was familiar.
Then he tripped.
He fell flat on his face, and he lay still, face against the gravel of the partial
slope, the only sound that of his hoarse breathing. Slowly he pushed himself up,
got into a sitting position. Drunkenly he stared at his palms, scraped and gouged
by the fall. With infinite and childish concen tration he began to pick the sand
from the wounds, and then he licked at the blood. He got up then, because it was
his nature to get up. He got up and he recovered his gun, making an issue of bending
without losing bal ance, and triumphant when he was successful.
He fell twice more in the next half hour, and each time it took him longer to rise.
Yet he knew the sun was past its noontime high, and some how he must last out the
day. He started on but his mouth was dry, his tongue musty, and the heat waves seemed
all around him. He seemed to have, at last, caught up with the mirage, for it shimmered
around him and washed over him like the sea but without freshness, only heat.
A man stood in the trail before him.
An Indian. Jacob Almayer tried to cry out but he could not. He started forward, but
the figure of the man seemed to recede as he ad vanced ... and then the Indian's
arm lifted and pointed.
Almayer turned his head slowly, looking toward the ridge of upthrust rock not far
off the trail. Almayer tried to speak, but the Indian merely pointed.
Jacob Almayer leaned back and tried to make out the looks of the Indian, but all
he could see was the brown skin, breechclout, and some sort of a band around his
head. Around his shoulders was some sort of a fur jacket.
A fur
jacket? In this heat? Almayer looked again at the rocks; when he looked back, the
Indian was gone.
The rocks were not far away and Almayer turned toward them, but first he stopped,
for where the Indian had been standing there was a pile of stones. He walked toward
it and added his stone to the pile. Then he picked up another and turned toward the
ridge. There was a trail here, too. Not quite so plain as the other, but nevertheless,
a trail.
He walked on, hesitating at times, reluctant to get away from the one possibility
of safety, but finally he reached the ridge where the trail
84
 8 0
rounded it, and he did likewise, and there in a corner of the rocks was white sand
overgrown with thin grass, a clump of mesquite, a slim cot tonwood tree, and beneath
it, a pool of water.
Jacob Almayer tasted the water and it was sweet; he put a little on his lips, and
it had the coolness of a benediction. He put some in his mouth and held it there,
letting the starved tissues of his mouth absorb the water, and then he let a little
trickle down his throat, and felt it, all the way to his stomach. After a while he
drank, and over his head the green leaves of the cottonwood brushed their green and
silver palms in whispering applause. Jacob Almayer crept into the shade and slept.
He awoke to drink, then slept again, and in the paleness of the last hours of night
he awakened and heard a faint stir upon the hillside opposite the ridge beside which
he lay. He squinted his eyes, then widened them, trying to see, and then he did see.
There were men there, men and women, and even he in his half delirium and his half-awareness
knew these were like no Indians he had seen. Each carried a basket and they were
gathering something from among the squat green trees on the hill. He started up and
called out, but they neither turned nor spoke, but finally completed their work and
walked slowly away.
Daylight came ... one instant the sky was gray, and then the shadows retreated into
the canyons and the dark places among the hills, and the sun crowned the distant
ridges with gold, then bathed them in light, and the last faltering battalions of
the shadows withered and died among the rocks and morning was there. In the early
light Jacob Almayer drank again, drank deep now, and long.
His thirst gone, hunger remained, but he stood up and looked over at the hill. Had
he seen anything? Or had it been his imagination? Had it been some fantasy of his
half-delirium? Leaving the spring he crossed the small valley toward the hillside
and climbed it. As he walked, he searched the ground. No footsteps had left their
mark, no stones unturned, no signs of a large body of people moving or working.
The trees ... he looked at them again, and then he recalled a traveler who had told
him once of how the Indians gathered the nuts from these pines ... from the pinon.
He searched for the cones and extracted some of the nuts. And then he gathered more,
and more. And that evening he killed a mountain sheep near the spring.
At daylight he resumed his walk, but this time his gourd was filled with water, and
he carried fresh meat with him, and several pounds of the nuts. As Jacob Almayer
started to walk, he picked up a stone, and then an idea came to him.
How far would an Indian walk in a day? Those who followed this trail would probably
have no reason for hurry. Would they walk fifteen miles?
85
 THE LONESOME GODS 8 1
'T'wenty? Or even thirty? Or would distance depend on the water supply? For that
was the question that intrigued him. Where they stopped there would be water. The
solution was to watch for any dim trail leading away from the main route toward the
end of the day.
Soon he found another pile of the stones, and he dropped the one he carried, and
picked up another. And at nightfall he found a dim trail that led to a flowing spring,
and he camped there, making a fire and roasting some of his meat. As he ate and drank,
as he watched his fire burn down, as he thought of the trail behind and the trail
ahead, he looked out into the darkness.
Jacob Almayer was a Breton, and the folk of Brittany are sensitive to the spirits
of the mountains and forest. He looked out into the darkness beyond the firelight
and he said aloud, "To the spirits of this place, my respects, humble as they are,
and in my heart there will always be thanks for you, as long as I shall live."
The fire fluttered then, the flames whipping down, then blazing up, brighter than
ever. From far off there came the distant sound of voices. Were they chanting, singing?
He couldn't tell ... it might have been the wind.
86
 Skull and the Arrow
H
eavy clouds hung above the iron-colored peaks, and lancets of lightning flashed and
probed. Thunder rolled like a distant avalanche in the mountain valleys.... The man
on the rocky slope was alone.
He stumbled, staggering beneath the driving rain, his face hammered and raw. Upon
his skull a wound gaped wide, upon his cheek the white bone showed through. It was
the end. He was finished, and so were they all ... they were through.
Far-off pines made a dark etching along the skyline, and that horizon marked a crossing.
Beyond it was security, a life outside the reach of his enemies, who now believed
him dead. Yet, in this storm, he knew he could go no farther. Hail laid a volley
of musketry against the rock where he leaned, so he started on, falling at times.
He had never been a man to quit, but now he had. They had beaten him, not man to
man but a dozen to one. With fists and clubs and gun barrels they had beaten him
... and now he was through. Yes, he would quit. They had taught him how to quit.
The clouds hung like dark, blowing tapestries in the gaps of the hills. The man went
on until he saw the dark opening of a cave. He turned to it for shelter then, as
men have always done. Though there are tents and wickiups, halls and palaces, in
his direst need man always returns to the cave.
He was out of the rain but it was cold within. Shivering, he gathered sticks and
some blown leaves. Among the rags of his wet and muddy clothing, he found a match,
and from the match, a flame. The leaves caught, the blaze stretched tentative, exploring
fingers and found food to its liking.
He added fuel; the fire took hold, crackled, and gave off heat. The man moved closer,
feeling the warmth upon his hands, his body. Firelight played shadow games upon the
blackened walls where the smoke from
87
 AND THE ARROW 8 3
many fires had etched their memories ... for how many generations of men'
This time he was finished. There was no use going back. His enemies were sure he
was dead, and his friends would accept it as true. So he was free. He had done his
best, so now a little rest, a little healing, and then over the pine-clad ridge and
into the sunlight. Yet in freedom there is not always contentment.
He found fuel again, and came upon a piece of ancient pottery. Dipping water from
a pool, he rinsed the pot, then filled it and brought it back to heat. He squeezed
rain from the folds of his garments, then hud dled between the fire and the cave
wall, holding tight against the cold.
There was no end to the rain ... gusts of wind whipped at the cave mouth and dimmed
the fire. It was insanity to think of returning. He had been beaten beyond limit.
When he was down they had taken turns kick ing him. They had broken ribs ... he could
feel them under the cold, a raw pain in his side.
Long after he had lain inert and helpless, they had bruised and bat tered and worried
at him. Yet he was a tough man, and he could not even find the relief of unconsciousness.
He felt every blow, every kick. When they were tired from beating him, they went
away.
He had not moved for hours, and only the coming of night and the rain revived him.
He moved, agony in every muscle, anguish in his side, a mighty throbbing inside his
skull, but somehow he managed distance. He crawled, walked, staggered, fell. He fainted,
then revived, lay for a time mouth open to the rain, eyes blank and empty.
By now his friends believed him dead.... Well, he was not dead, but he was not going
back. After all, it was their fight, had always been their fight. Each of them fought
for a home, perhaps for a wife, children, par ents. He had fought for a principle,
and because it was his nature to fight.
With the hot water he bathed his head and face, eased the pain of his bruises, washed
the blood from his hair, bathed possible poison from his cuts. He felt better then,
and the cave grew warmer. He leaned against the wall and relaxed. Peace came to his
muscles. After a while he heated more water and drank some of it.
Lightning revealed the frayed trees outside the cave, revealed the gray rain before
the cave mouth. He would need more fuel. He got up and rummaged in the farther darkness
of the cave. He found more sticks and carried them back to his fire. And then he
found the skull.
He believed its whiteness to be a stick, imbedded as it was in the sandy floor. He
tugged to get it loose, becoming more curious as its enor mous size became obvious.
It was the skull of a gigantic bear, without doubt from prehistoric times. From the
size of the skull, the creature must have weighed well over a ton.
88
Crouching by the firelight he examined it. Wedged in an eye socket was a bit of flint.
He broke it free, needing all his strength. It was a finely chipped arrowhead.
The arrow could not have killed the bear. Blinded him, yes, enraged him, but not
killed him. Yet the bear had been killed. Probably by a blow from a stone ax, for
there was a crack in the skull, and at another place, a spot near the ear where the
bone was crushed.
Using a bit of stick he dug around, finding more bones. One was a shattered foreleg
of the monster, the bone fractured by a blow. And then he found the head of a stone
ax. But nowhere did he find the bones of the man.
Despite the throbbing in his skull and the raw pain in his side, he was excited.
Within the cave, thousands of years ago, a lone man fought a battle to the death
against impossible odds ... and won.
Fought for what? Surely there was easier game? And with the bear half blinded the
man could have escaped, for the cave mouth was wide. In the whirling fury of the
fight there must have been opportunities. Yet he had not fled. He had fought on against
the overwhelming strength of the wounded beast, pitting against it only his lesser
strength, his primitive weapons, and his man-cunning.
Venturing outside the cave for more fuel, he dragged a log within, although the effort
made him gasp with agony. He drew the log along the back edge of his fire so that
it was at once fuel and reflector of heat.
Burrowing a little in the now warm sand of the cave floor, he was soon asleep.
FOR THREE WEEKS he lived in the cave, finding berries and nuts, snaring small game,
always conscious of the presence of the pine-clad ridge, yet also aware of the skull
and the arrowhead. In all that time he saw no man, either near or far ... there was,
then, no search for him.
Finally it was time to move. Now he could go over the ridge to safety. Much of his
natural strength had returned; he felt better. It was a relief to know that his fight
was over.
AT NOON of the following day he stood in the middle of a heat-baked street and faced
his enemies again. Behind him were silent ranks of simple men.
"We've come back," he said quietly. "We're going to stay. You had me beaten a few
weeks ago. You may beat us today, but some of you will die. And we'll be back. We'll
always be back."
There was silence in the dusty street, and then the line before them wavered, and
from behind it a man was walking away, and then another, and their leader looked
at him and said, "You're insane. Completely in
89
 THE ARROW 85
sane!" And then he, too, turned away and the street before them was empty'.
And the quiet men stood in the street with the light of victory in their eyes, and
the man with the battered face tossed something and caught it again, something that
gleamed for a moment in the sun.
"What was that?" someone asked.
"An arrowhead," the man said. "Only an arrowhead"
90
 End of the Drive
W e came up the trail from Texas in the spring of '74, and bed ded our herd on the
short grass beyond the railroad. We cleaned our guns and washed our necks and dusted
our
hats for town; we rode fifteen strong to the hitching rail, and fifteen strong to
the bar.
We were the Rocking K from the rough country back of the Nueces, up the trail with
three thousand head of longhorn steers, the first that spring, although the rivers
ran bank full and Comanches rode the war trail.
We buried two hands south of the Red, and two on the plains of the Nation, and a
fifth died on Kansas grass, his flesh churned under a thou sand hoofs. Four men gone
before Indian rifles, but the death-songs of the Comanches were sung in the light
of a hollow moon, and the Kiowa mourned in their lodges for warriors lost to the
men of the Rocking K.
We were the riders who drove the beef, fighting dust, hail, and light ning, meeting
stampedes and Kiowa. And we who drove the herd and fought our nameless, unrecorded
battles often rode to our deaths without glory, nor with any memory to leave behind
us.
The town was ten buildings long on the north side of the street, and seven long on
the south, with stock corrals to the east of town and Boot Hill on the west, and
an edging of Hell between.
Back of the street on the south of town were the shacks of the girls who waited for
the trail herds, and north of the street were the homes of the businessmen and merchants,
where no trail driver was permitted to go
We were lean and hard young riders, only a few of us nearing thirty, most of us nearer
to twenty. We were money to the girls of the line, and whiskey to the tenders of
bars, but to the merchants we were lean, brown young savages whose brief assaults
on their towns were tolerated for the money we brought.
That was the year I was twenty-four, and only the cook was an older
91
 END O F THE DRIVE 8 7
man, yet it was my fifth trip up the trail and I'd seen this town once before, and
others before that. And there were a couple I'd seen die, leaving their brief scars
on the prairie that new grass would soon erase.
I'd left no love in Texas, but a man at twenty-four is as much a man as he will be,
and a girl was what I wanted. A girl to rear strong sons on the high plains of Texas,
a girl to ride beside me in the summer twilight, to share the moon with me, and the
high stars over the caprock country.
For I had found a ranch, filed my claims, and put my brand on steers, and this drive
was my last for another man, the last at a foreman's wages. When I rode my horse
up to the rail that day, I saw the girl I dreamed about ... the girl I wanted.
She stood on the walk outside the store and she lifted a hand to shade her eyes,
her hair blowing light in the wind, and her figure was long and slim and the sun
caught red lights in her hair. Her eyes caught mine as I rode tall in the leather,
the first man to come up the street.
She looked grave and straight and honestly at me, and it seemed no other girl had
ever looked so far into my heart. At twenty-four the smile of a woman is a glory
to the blood and a spark to the spirit, and carries a richer wine than any sold over
a bar in any frontier saloon.
I'd had no shave for days, and the dust of the trail lay on my clothes, and sour
I was with the need of bathing and washing. When I swung from my saddle, a tall,
lonely man in a dusty black hat with spurs to my heels, she stood where I had seen
her and turned slowly away and walked into the store.
WE WENT to the bar and I had a drink, but the thing was turning over within me and
thinking of the girl left no rest for me. She was all I could think about and all
I could talk about that afternoon.
So when I turned from the bar Red Mike put a hand to my sleeve. "It's trouble you're
headed for, Tom Gavagan," he said. "It's been months since you've seen a girl. She's
a bonny lass, but you know the rule here. No trail hand can walk north of the street,
nor bother any of the citizens"
"I'm not one to be breakin' the law, Mike, but it is a poor man who will stop shy
of his destiny."
This is John Blake's town," he said.
The name had a sound of its own, for John Blake was known wherever the trails ran;
wherever they came from and where they ended. He was a hard man accustomed to dealing
with hard men, and when he spoke his voice was law. He was a square, powerful man,
with a name for fair dealing, but a man who backed his words with a gun.
It is a time for courting," I said, "although I want trouble with no an. And least
of all John Blake."
92
 8
When I turned to the door I heard Red Mike behind me. "No more drinking this day,"
he said. "We've a man to stand behind."
WHEN THE DOOR creaked on its spring a man looked around from his buying, and the
keeper of the store looked up, but the girl stood straight and tall where she was,
and did not turn. For she knew the sound of my heels on the board floor, and the
jingle of my Spanish spurs.
"I am selling the herd this night," I said, when I came to stand beside her, "and
I shall be riding south with the morning sun. I hope not to ride alone."
She looked at me with straight, measuring eyes. "You are a forward man, Tom Gavagan.
You do not know me."
"I know you," I said, "and know what my heart tells me, and I know that if you do
not ride with me when I return to Texas, I shall ride with sorrow.
"I saw you when you rode into town last year," she said, "but you did not see me."
"Had I seen you I could not have ridden away. I am a poor hand for courting, knowing
little but horses, cattle, and grass, and I have learned nothing that I can say to
a girl. I only know that when I saw you there upon the walk it seemed my life would
begin and end with you, and there would be no happiness until you rode beside me."
"You are doing well enough with your talk, Tom Gavagan, and it is a fine thing that
you do it no better or you'd be turning some poor girl's head."
She put her money on the counter and met the glance of the store keeper without embarrassment,
and then she turned and looked at me in that straight way she had and said, "My uncle
is Aaron McDonald, and he looks with no favor upon Texas men."
"It is my wish to call on you this night," I said, "and the choice of whether I come
or not belongs to you and no one else."
"The house stands among the cottonwoods at the street's far end." Then she added,
"Come if you will ... but it is north of the street." "You can expect me," I replied.
And turning upon my heel I walked from the store and heard the storekeeper say, "He
is a Texas man, Miss June, and you know about the ordinance as well as anyone!"
Once more in the sunshine I felt a strength within me that was be yond any I had
ever known, and an exhilaration. Lined along the street were fourteen riders. They
loitered at the street corners and relaxed on the benches on the walk in front of
the barber shop. A group of them waited for me before the saloon. They were my army,
battle tested and true. With them I could take on this town or any other.
93
 END OF THE DRIVE 89
Then I saw John Blake.
He wore a black frock coat and a wide-brimmed black planter's hat. His guns were
out of sight, but they were there, I had no doubt.
"Your men aren't drinking?" he commented. No.
"Red Mike," Blake said. "I remember him well from Abilene, and Tod Mulloy, Rule Carson,
and Delgado. You came ready for trouble, Gavagan."
"The Comanches were riding, and the Kiowa." "And now?"
"I will be going north of the street tonight, John, but not for trouble. I was invited."
"You know the rule here." He looked at me carefully from his hooded eyes. "It cannot
be."
"There are other ways to look, John, and I am not a trouble-hunting man.
"The people who live here have passed an ordinance. This is their town and I am charged
with enforcing their laws." He stated this flatly, and then he walked away, and I
stood there with a lightness inside me and an awareness of trouble to come.
THE CATTLE were checked and sold to Bob Wells. We rode together to the bank and when
we went in John Blake stood square on his two feet, watching.
McDonald was a narrow man, high-shouldered and thin, dry as dust and fleshless. He
looked at me and gave a brief nod and counted over the money for the cattle, which
was my employer's money, and none of it mine but wages.
He watched me put the gold and greenbacks in a sack and he said, "Your business here
is finished?"
"I've some calls to make."
"You are welcome," he said, "south of the street."
"Tonight I shall come to call on your niece. She has invited me." "You must be mistaken."
He was a cold man with his heart in his ledgers and his dollars. "You are welcome
here to do whatever business you have, and beyond that you are not welcome."
"I am not a drunk, wandering the streets and looking for trouble. I am one who has
been entrusted with these two thousand cattle and now, like you, with this money.
But, unlike you, I will carry this payment across many dangerous miles back to Texas.
My honesty and character are not in question there."
"Mr. McDonald," Wells protested, "this is a good roan. I know this man "
94
 9 0 L 0 U IS
"We put up with your kind," McDonald said, "south of the street."
I could see my attempt had been wasted on him. The issue was not character but class.
McDonald had decided to put himself above me and there was no chance he'd be seeing
it differently.
"Five times I have come over the trail," I told him, "and I have seen towns die.
Markets and conditions change, and neither of us has been in this country long enough
to be putting on airs."
"Young man, let me repeat. South of the street you and your kind are welcome, north
of it you become a subject for John Blake. As for this town ... I am the mayor and
it will not die."
"I have spoken with Mr. Blake. He is aware of my plans." I glanced over at the marshal
and deep in his eyes something glinted, but whether it was a challenge or amusement
I couldn't be sure. "I know him, Mr. McDonald," I said, "and he knows me."
ROCKING K MEN were in the saloons that night, and Rocking K men were south of the
street, but I sat at the campfire near the chuck wagon and Red Mike joined me there.
"If you'll be riding, I'll saddle your horse." "Saddle two, then."
"Ali? It's like that, is it?"
"A man must find out, Mike, one never knows. If she's the girl I want, she will ride
with me tonight."
We were young then, and the West was young, with the land broad and bright before
us. We knew, whatever the truth was, that every horse could be ridden, every man
whipped, every girl loved. We rode with the wind then, and sang in the rain, and
when we fought it was with the same savage joy as that of the Comanches who opposed
us, these fierce, proud warriors who would ride half a thousand miles to fight a
battle or raid a wagon train. And no Bruce ever rode from the Highlands with a finer
lot of fighting men than rode this day with the Rocking K.
"And John Blake?"
"Stay out of it, Mike, and keep others out. John Blake is a stubborn man, and if
we go against him there will be killing in the town. This is a personal matter and
does not concern the brand."
With a mirror nailed to the chuck wagon's side I shaved and combed my hair and made
myself ready for courting. It was much to expect of any girl, to ride to Texas with
a man she did not know, and yet in those days when men constantly moved such things
happened. There were few men from whom to choose in those wild small towns, and the
best were often moving and had to be taken on the fly. And to me this was the girl
and now was the time.
There was John Blake to consider, a man seasoned in the wars of men
95
 END O F THE DRIVE 9 1
and cattle, who knew all the dodges and all the tricks, and whatever a man aught
invent he had known before. Each herd had a man who wished to prove himself against
a trail town marshal, never grasping the difference between the skilled amateur and
the hardened professional. John Blake looked upon men with vast patience, vast understanding,
and used a gun only when necessary, but when he used it he used it coldly, ef ficiently,
and deliberately.
In a black broadcloth suit with my hat brim down, I rode up the mid dle of the street
with the reins in my left hand, my right resting on my thigh near my gun.
Tonight I was more than a Texas man a-courting, I was a challenge to the rule of
John Blake, and it was something I had no liking for. No man from the Texas trails
had been north of the street since he had been mar shal, and it was assumed that
no man would.
Outside the town a Rocking K rider dozed on the ground near his horse, and grazing
close by was another horse, saddled and bridled for travel.
John Blake was not in sight, but when I passed the livery stable Tod Mulloy was seated
under the light, minding his own business, and on the edge of the walk near the eating
house Rule Carson smoked a cigar. Inside, over coffee, were Delgado and Enright.
They would not interfere, but would be on hand if needed. Nor did I doubt that the
rest of them were scattered about town, just waiting for my call.
At the end of the street when I turned north John Blake was awaiting me. And I drew
up.
"I'd hoped it would not come to this, John, but a man must go a-courting. He must
go where his heart would take him, and I think in my place, you would go, no matter
what."
He considered that, a square black block of a man looking as solid as rock and as
immovable. "It might be," he agreed, after a moment, "but is it courting you are
about, or is this a Texas challenge to me?"
"I wouldn't go risking the lady's reputation by asking her to sneak away and meet
me after dark. This is no challenge."
He nodded. "If it was," he replied, "I'd stop you, for kill or be killed is my job
when it comes to an issue, but I'd stop no decent man from courting . . . although
if I were giving advice about the woman in question-"
"Don't," I said. "A man with his heart set isn't one to listen."
"You're not out of the woods," Blake added. "Believe me, I've noth ing against you
or any decent man making a decent call. It's the drunks and the fighting I want to
keep south of the street. However, that is a thing of yesterday for me. I have quit
my job."
Quit!"
96
 92 LOUIS L'AMOUR
"Aye. McDonald told me to keep you south of the street tonight, or lose my job. He
has grown arrogant since he took office, and I work for the town, not just the mayor.
I was hired to keep the peace, and that only. So I've quit."
The stubborn foolishness of McDonald angered me, yet in a sense I could not blame
the man, for generally we were a wild crowd and if a man did not understand us he
might easily believe us capable of any evil. At the same time I had pride in my promises,
and I had said I would call.
"If you've actually quit, I'd like to take advantage of the fact you're no longer
marshal here."
He shot me a quick look. "I want nobody hurt, Gavagan. I've quit, but I've still
a feeling for the town."
"It would be like this ..." and he listened while I explained the idea that had come
to me.
"It must be carefully done, no fighting, do you hear?"
Turning my horse I rode back to talk with Carson, Mulloy, Enright, and Delgado. Immediately
after I had finished they scattered out to talk to the others and take their positions.
"I saw them going up to the house with their rifles," Carson said. "Carpenter who
owns the store is there, with Wilson, Talcott, and some I do not know by name, but
all have businesses along the street, so I think it will work."
Circling through the darkness I rode up to the house among the poplars, but stopped
across the street. It had been quiet for the boys from the Rocking K and they ached
to blow off steam and dearly loved a joke. So this might work.
Leaving my horse I crossed the alley where the shadows were deep and drew near the
house. I heard subdued voices beneath the trees.
"I don't like it," Carpenter was saying. "Once that Texas crowd know Blake has quit
they will blow the lid off."
"It was a fool idea. John Blake has kept the peace."
"Tell that to McDonald. He would have Blake on some other excuse if not this. The
man will have nobody who won't kowtow to him." Suddenly there was a crashing and
splintering of wood from the
street, followed by a gunshot and a chorus of Texas yells that split the night wide
open, and then there was another outburst of firing and a shattering of glass.
"There they go!" Carpenter stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. "What did
I tell you?"
Down the street charged four Rocking K riders, yelling and shooting. It reminded
me of the old days when I was a youngster on my first trip LIP the trail.
97
 END O F THE DRIVE 9 3
The front door slammed open and McDonald came rushing out, an angry man by the sound
of him. "What's that? What's going on?"
The night was stabbed and slashed by the blaze of gunshots, and in termingled with
them was the smashing of glass and raucous yells. The boys were having themselves
a time.
,,You fired Blake," Carpenter said, "and the lid's off." "We'll see about that!"
McDonald said. "Come on!"
They rushed for the street in a mass, and when they did I moved closer, stepped over
the fence, and crossed the lawn to the house. Suddenly as it had started, and just
as we had planned, a blanket
dropped upon the town. Not a shout, a shot, or a whisper. By the time McDonald got
there the hands would be seated around, playing cards and talking, looking upon the
world with the wide-eyed innocence of a bunch of two-year-olds.
The door opened under my rap and June stood there in a pale blue dress, even more
lovely than I had expected.
"Why, it's you! But-!" She looked beyond me into the night. "Where is Uncle Aaron?"
"May I come in?"
Startled, she looked up at me again, then stepped back and I went in and closed the
door behind me. Hat in hand I bowed to Mrs. McDonald, who was behind her.
The room was stiff, cluttered and lacking in comfort, with plush fur niture and a
false, unused elegance. There was too much bric-a-brac, and not a place where a man
could really sit. Suddenly I remembered the spa ciousness of the old Spanish-style
houses I had known in Texas.
"We heard shooting," June said.
"Oh, that? Some confusion in town. I believe your uncle went down to put a stop to
it."
She looked at me carefully, and I seemed to sense a withdrawing, a change that I
could not quite grasp.
"You're not dressed for riding," I said.
She flushed. "You surely didn't believe ... you weren't serious?"
She looked at me in amazement. "I thought ... I mean, it was rather fun, but ...
could you imagine,
me going with you ..."
Something went out of me then and I stood there feeling the fool I undoubtedly was.
Some fine, sharp flame flickered within me as though caught in a gust of wind, then
snuffed out and left me empty and lost ... It might have been the last spark of my
boyhood. A man must grow up in so many ways.
On the street she had seemed beautiful and strong and possessed of a fine courage,
and in the romantic heart of me I had believed she was the
98
 9 4
one, that she was my dream, that she was the girl who rode in my thoughts in the
dust of the drag or the heat of the flank.
She stared at me, half astonished, and within me there was nothing at all, not sorrow,
not bitterness, certainly not anger.
"Good night," I said. "I am sorry that I intruded."
She had cost me a dream, but suddenly I was aware that she would have cost me the
dream anyway, for that was what I had been in love with ... a dream.
Opening the door, I was about to leave when Aaron McDonald pushed past me. Anger
flashed in his eyes, and his face paled with fury that was in him. "Look here!" he
shouted. "You-!"
"Shut up, you arrogant windbag," I said, and walked on out the door leaving him spluttering.
And to the others who were outside, I said, "Get out of my way," and they stepped
back and the gate creaked on rusty hinges when I stepped out.
A hand on the pommel of my saddle, I stood for a moment under the stars, cursing
myself for seven kinds of an idiot. Like any child I had been carried away ... who
did I think I was, anyway?
Yet although the fire was out the smoke lifted, and I hesitated to step into the
saddle, knowing the finality of it. The things a man will wish for are harder to
leave behind than all his wants, and who, at some time in his life, does not dream
of gathering into his arms and carrying away the girl he loves?
The men of the Rocking K came from the saloons and stood around me, and when they
looked at my face, something seemed to shadow theirs, for I think my dream was one
lived by them all, and had it come true with me then all their lonely dreaming might
be true also.
"We'll be going," I said.
Yet there was a thing that remained to be done, for as I had lost some thing this
day, I had gained something, too.
"I'll join you at the wagon," I told them, and turning at right angles I rode between
the buildings toward the south of town.
IT WAS a simple room of rough boards with one window, a small stove, and a bed. John
Blake had his coat off and he was packing, but he turned to face whoever was at the
door.
"John," I said, "she would not come and I was a fool to expect it. I have grown a
little tonight, I think."
"You have grown a little," he agreed, "but don't expect too much of it, for there
will be other times. Each time one grows, one loses a little, too." "John," I said,
"there are cattle on the plains of Texas and I've land
there. When I come north again I'll be driving my own herd. It is a big job for one
man."
99
 OF THE DRIVE 95
"There will be rivers to cross and the Comanches will be out, but there's a future
in it for the men who make the drives.
"I like the way you straddle a town, and I like a man with judgment and principle.
It is a rare thing to find a man who will stand square on what he believes, whether
it is making a rule or an exception to it. So if you'll ride with me its a partnership,
share and share alike."
A square, solid man in a striped white shirt and black sleeve garters, he looked
at me carefully from those cool gray eyes, and then he said, quite seriously, "I've
little to pack, for a man who has never had anything but a gun travels light."
100
Caprock Rancher
hen I rode up to the buffalo wallow, Pa was lying there with his leg broke and his
horse gone.
Out there on the prairie there wasn't much to make
splints with, and Pa was bad hurt. It had seemed to me the most impor tant things
for a man to know was how to ride a horse and use a gun, but now neither one was
going to do much good.
Earlier in the day Pa and me had had a mean argument, and it wasn't the first. Here
I was, man-grown and seventeen, and Pa still after me about the company I kept. He
was forever harping on Doc Sites and Kid Reese and their like ... said they were
no-goods. As if he was one to talk, a man who'd never had money nor schooling, nor
any better than a worn-out coat on his back. Anyway, Doc and Kid Reese weren't about
to be farmers or starving on a short-grass cow ranch.
Pa, he'd been at me again because I'd be dogged if I was going to waste my life away
on what little we could make, and told him so ... then I rode off to be an outlaw.
For the first two miles I was good and mad, and for the third mile I was growling
some, but I'd made most of ten miles before my good sense got the better of me and
I started back to help Pa. He had a far piece to go, and he was a lone man packing
twenty thousand dollars through some mighty rough country.
It was midafternoon of a mighty hot day when I came up to that buf falo wallow, and
Pa had been lying there four, five hours. His canteen had been on his saddle and
the horse had taken off, so I got down and gave him a swallow or two from mine.
All that argument was forgotten. Times like that a man is best off do ing one thing
at a time and not worrying around too much.
"Thanks, boy." Pa returned the canteen to me. "Looks like I played hob"
"That gray never did have a lick of sense," I said, and then I told it to
101
 RANCHER 9 7
him. ,YOU got a busted leg, but your jaw's in good shape. So you set back an' argue
with me whilst I set that bone."
"You just forget about me. All that money is in those saddlebags, and less than a
third of it ours. You forget me and hunt down that horse." That twenty thousand dollars
was from a steer herd we'd taken to
Kansas and sold, and folks back home were a-sweating until we got back with the money.
Cash money was hard to come by those times, and most of this would go to mighty poor
folks who hadn't seen a hard dollar since who flung the chunk.
"You got a broke leg. We'll take care of that first."
Nothing was growing around but short grass and some knee-high mesquite, but I got
Pa's leg set and cut mesquite with my bowie and splinted up best I knew how. All
that time he set there a-looking at me with pain in his eyes and never let out a
whimper, but the sweat stood out on both our faces, you can bet.
If you were ever seventeen years old and standing in a buffalo wallow one hundred
and fifty miles from home, and your pa with a broke leg, you know how I felt. And
only one horse between us.
With my help he got straddle of that horse and we started off with two things in
mind. To get to a creek where there was water, and to find that fool horse.
Judging by the tracks, that gray had taken off like wolves was after him, but after
half a mile he began to slow up and look back expecting to be chased. Then on, he
got the smell of water and just sort of ambled, taking a bite of grass or mesquite
beans now and again. Pa, he sat up in the leather and never said I, yes, or no. This
time it was up to me and both of us knew it.
The sun was beyond the hill and color was in the evening sky when we saw those other
tracks. They came in from the southeast and they were the tracks of three shod horses
... and they caught Pa's horse.
This was just across the border from Indian Territory and while hon est men crossed
it, aside from the Indians, few honest men lived there. To be a Deputy U.S. Marshal
in Indian Territory was like standing yourself up in the business end of a shooting
gallery. Every outlaw in the country spent time there, and we knew if those had been
good men who caught up Pa's horse, or even a decent kind of outlaw, they'd backtrack
to find the rider. In those years folks were helpful to one another, and to be afoot
in a country like that was about the worst that could happen. It left a man with
mighty few possibilities.
These men had caught up Pa's horse and checked the saddlebags, and they didn't come
looking for Pa.
"Son"-pa could read those tracks as well as me-"don't you get any
102
 98 LOLTIS L'AM OUR
notions. You ain't about to go up against three men, not with me in this condition"
"Ain't nothing to worry about. Those boys are friends of mine. One of them is Kid
Reese and another is Doc Sites. Why, I'd know those horse tracks if I saw them in
Gilead. This time of night they won't go far and we'll have your horse and money
in no time"
Pa, he just sat up there on my horse and he said nothing at all for a while, and
then he said, "Ed, you reckon those boys would give back twenty thousand dollars?"
It gave me an uneasy feeling, him saying that. Pa set no store by either of them,
but they were good boys. Free and easy, that's sure, but they were friends of mine.
When Pa and me moved into that Texas country they'd let me take up with them. We-all
were usually up to no good, but that was what you'd expect from three youngsters
caught somewheres between being boys and being men. It's true we were always talking
of standing up a stagecoach or robbing a bank, but that was mostly talk. Taking money
from a friend ... well, they weren't that kind.
It was not much of a creek. Stars were in the sky when we fetched up to it, and it
wasn't more than two, three feet wide and maybe four, five inches deep, but it was
wet water, lined with willows and cottonwoods and grass aplenty. When I helped Pa
off the horse, I bedded him down and filled the canteen for him.
"You set quiet," I said, "I'll go fetch your horse."
"Don't be a fool, Edwin," Pa said. "You say those boys are your friends, but there's
a sight of money in those saddlebags ... not many who value friendship that high."
Pa never called me Edwin unless he was downright serious. That money was important
for reasons beyond what it could buy. Pa was always holding on about the value of
a good name, and for the first time I was faced up to what it could mean. Pa was
a respected man, but if we showed up without that money a lot of folks were going
to remember that I'd been swaggering it around town with Doc Sites, Kid Reese, and
that outfit. Some of them were going to say things about us losing the money, and
Pa would take the blame as well as me.
We Fuckers never had much but an honest reputation. We were never able to get ahead.
A while back we lived in Missouri, and that was the year Pa had his first good crop,
and the year the grasshoppers ate him out. Two years of bad drought followed and
we lost the place. We settled in Texas then and worked like dogs, and when we got
our first trail herd together the Comanches came down and burned us out in the light
of the moon. They burned us out, drove off our cows, and killed Uncle Bud.
They killed Uncle Bud and they'd taken his scalp. Pa, he rode after
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them but he never got back with any cows. Somewhere along the way he found Bud's
scalp, which we buried out where the body was.
This herd we had just sold in Kansas was our first since then, and the first thing
Pa had to show for twenty years of hard work ... and the first many of our neighbors
had to show. If we'd got through to the ranch with that money we'd have had an edge
on the future.
I guess it was my fault. While we were separated that morning the gray shied and
threw him, and had I been where I should have been I'd have dropped a loop over that
gray's neck and he wouldn't have gone anywhere at all. It was lucky I'd quit sulking
and started back; I'd been mad but I wasn't ready to strike on my own yet. I was
figuring on hooking up with Kid Reese and Doc before I did anything permanent.
Those boys were friends of mine, but something was gnawing at me. What were they
doing away off up here at a time like this?
Leaving Pa alongside the creek with his pistol to hand, I mounted up and started
along the creek in the direction those tracks had taken. About a half mile from where
I'd left Pa, I smelled smoke.
They were camped on a grassy bench alongside the creek and under some big old cottonwoods.
They had a fire going and I could see the firelight on their faces, and hear the
murmur of voices. There was a third man at the fire whom I had never seen before,
but I knew who he was from his description. It was Bob Heseltine.
How many stories had they told me about the doings of Bob Heseltine? To those boys
he was big as all outdoors, and according to them he was the best rider, the best
shot, and the most fearless man who ever came down the pike. Bob Heseltine, they
told me confidentially, had held up the Garston Bank ... he had killed Sheriff Baker
in a standup gun battle, and he had backed down two-not one but two-Texas Rangers.
And all they could talk about was all they were going to do when Bob Heseltine got
back. And here he was.
He was a mite shorter than me but wide in the shoulder, the hide of his face like
tanned leather. He had deep-set blue eyes and he wore two guns tied down and sized
up like a mighty mean man. Why, I'd heard more stories about him than about Clay
Allison or Jim Courtright or Wild Bill Hickok.
Pa's horse was there and still saddled, but the saddlebags lay on the ground near
the fire and they had the money out on a blanket where they could count it. They
were going to be disappointed when they found that was our money, and belonging to
folks back home. It isn't often a man finds twenty thousand dollars riding around
on a lost horse.
Hi!" They were all so set on that money that when I hailed them they
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came up with their guns drawn. They stood there blinking their eyes at me like owls
in a hailstorm.
"It's all right, Bob," Reese said. "This here is Ed Tucker, the one we were tellin'
of. Ed, what in blazes are you doin' out here?"
"I see you found Pa's horse," I said, "and our money."
Doc's lips sort of thinned down and Heseltine's head turned real slow to look at
me again. Kid Reese, he looked everywhere but at me. Right then I began to wonder
about those boys.
Firelight flickered on their faces, on the flanks of the horses, on the gold and
silver spread on the blanket, and off their rifle barrels, setting against their
saddles. It was so quiet a body could hear the cottonwood leaves brushing their pale
green palms one agin the other, and out there beyond the light the creek water chuckled
and whispered around rocks or something in the stream.
"I'm afraid you've got this all wrong, boy," Heseltine said. "I don't know you and
I don't know whose horse this is. We found this money, and finders is keepers."
"Now wait a minute . . . Doc here, he knows Pa's horse. So does Reese. They saw it
many times down Texas way."
Heseltine turned his head to look at them. "Is that true? Do you know this horse?"
Doc Sites looked at the ground and he looked away at the creek and he shook his head.
Kid Reese, he said, "It don't look like any horse I ever saw before, Bob. It's just
a lost horse, that's all."
Seemed like a long time I sat there, looking at the firelight on that money. I'd
never seen that much money before but it didn't look like money to me, it looked
like Pa sweating over his fields back in Missouri, and like all the work we'd done,
by day and night, rounding up those cat tle and putting brands on them. It looked
like all those folks around us who shared the drive with us ... that money was there
for them.
"Stop your foolin'," I said, "Pa's back in the brush with a broke leg, broke when
this horse throwed him. I got to get back there with this horse and that money."
"You can have the horse. Take it an' welcome," Heseltine said quietly, "but the money
stays here, and you're leavin' unless you want to try to do something about it...."
All three of them were facing me now, and Heseltine was all squared around to make
his fight. Doc had a rifle in his hand and Kid Reese stood there with his thumbs
in his belt, just a-grinning at me. They would do whatever Bob Heseltine had said,
and he'd told me what to do.
"I figured we were friends" It sounded mighty weak and they could see I was backing
down. The three of them stood there looking at me and making me feel mighty small.
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"We could take him in with us," Sites said, "he's a good kid. He'll do what you tell
him, Bob."
That made me kind of mad. Here I'd been ready to ride off and leave Pa, and they
expected me to do what somebody told me.
"Half the money is mine," Heseltine said. "If you boys want to split your half with
him, to hell with you. He's your friend."
A stick fell into the fire and sparks lifted into the night. Bob Heseltine was looking
straight at me, and I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking he could kill me
and wondering if he should.
Pa, he used to tell me when a man is holding the wrong cards he shouldn't try to
buck the game. It's better to throw in your hand and wait on another deal.
Only thing that had me worried was whether I could get out of there alive.
"Looks like you got me euchred," I said then, and I started backing to my horse.
There was a minute or two when it looked like Heseltine might shoot, but he just
looked at me and turned away.
Kid Reese whispered, "You ain't gonna let him go? He'll have the law on us."
"For what?" Heseltine asked. "For finding money?"
Time to time, riding alone and thinking like a body does, I'd imagined myself in
positions like this, and each time I'd known what to do. Right off I told them, and
then I shot it out with them and always came off a winner. It beats all what a man's
imagination will do for him, and how different it is when he faces up to something
like that. Right then I felt mighty puny ... backed down by those three, and me in
the right.
Going back down the trail I kept telling myself I'd have shot it out if it hadn't
been for Pa, but deep down I wasn't so sure. If I was killed, Pa would be left to
die. Maybe I was thinking of that and maybe I was just scared.
Yet I couldn't recall being exactly scared ... only that I was in the middle of something
I'd be better out of.
PA WAS SITTING up with his back to a tree when I rode up. He had the coffeepot on,
for that had been among the stuff I left beside him when I shucked my gear at the
camp. Pa was sitting up but he looked poorly. His face was gray and tight-drawn.
"Three of them?" He studied the situation awhile. "That's our money, boy. We were
trusted with it."
We drank our coffee, and neither of us talked much, but it gave me time to sort of
get things settled down inside me. A man doesn't always know what to do when things
happen quick-like and when for the first time he's faced up with gun trouble and
no way accustomed to it. But this
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was showing me a few things and one of them was that Pa had been right about Doc
and Reese.
When it came right down to it those two shaped up like a couple of two-by-twice tinhorns.
Neither of them had nerve enough to talk up to Bob Heseltine ... but neither had
I.
"I got to go back," I said, "I got to go back and make my fight. Else I'll always
think I was scared."
"You and me, Ed," Pa said, "we've had our troubles but you never showed anything
but sand. There's scared smart and then there's scared stupid. I think that you did
the right thing." Pa reached for a stick lying among the branches of a fallen tree,
and he had out his bowie. "We're go ing back, boy, but we're going together."
We'd taken our time. Pa had a pipe after his coffee and while he smoked he worked
on a crutch. My mouth was all dry inside and my stomach was queasy, but once we decided
to go back I felt a whole lot better. It was like I'd left something unfinished back
there that just had to be done.
And I kept thinking of Sites, not willing to face up to it, and Reese, who was supposed
to be my friend, wanting to kill me.
"You did right, Ed," Pa told me, speaking around his pipe stem. "You did the smart
thing. They will think you were scared off."
"That Heseltine . . . they say he's killed a dozen men. He's robbed banks and he's
got a mean reputation."
"I like to see a mean man," Pa said. "Most of them don't cut much figger."
Pa had finished working out his crutch. It wasn't much, just a forked stick trimmed
down a mite so he could use the fork to hold under his armpit. I helped him to the
horse, and once he got a foot in the stirrup and a hand on the horn he was in that
saddle. Meanwhile I smothered our fire. Nobody wants to turn fire loose in grass
or timber unless he's a fool.
"A bank robber don't shape up to me," Pa said. "When he goes into a bank with a gun,
he don't figure to get shot at. If he expected it he'd never take the first step.
He threatens men with folks depending on them and steals money he's too lazy to work
for.
"The James boys swaggered it mighty big until a bunch of home folks up at Northfield
shot their ears off, and the Dalton gang got the same thing in Coffeyville. The McCarty
boys tried it in Colorado, and all those bold outlaws were shot down by a few quiet
men who left their glass polishing or law books to do it"
Well, all those outlaws had seemed mighty exciting until Pa put it thataway, but
what he said was true. Pa was a little man himself, only weighed a hundred and thirty
pounds, though he had the strongest hands
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1 ever did see. Strong hands from plowing, shoeing horses, and wrassling steers.
Close to midnight we fetched up to their fire.
"Help me down, Ed," Pa said, whispering. "I want to be on the ground."
We walked up to the fire, our boots making small sounds in the grass. Pa was carrying
my Colt in his right hand, and I carried a shell under the hammer of my Henry rifle.
Those boys weren't much account at keeping watch; they were setting around a blanket
playing cards for our money.
"You boys are wasting time," Pa told them. "You're playing with money that don't
belong to you."
Pa had that crutch under his left shoulder, but he held that Colt in one big hand
and it pointed like a finger at Heseltine.
"Hear you're a killing man," Pa said to him, "but you size up to me like a no-account,
yellow-bellied loafer."
"You got the drop," Heseltine said. "You got a loud mouth when you got the drop."
"The drop? You figure we're in some kind of dime novel? Ed, you keep an eye on those
others. If either of them make a move, shoot both of them and after they're laying
on the ground, shoot them again!"
Deliberately Pa lowered the muzzle until it pointed into the grass be side his foot.
"Now, Ed tells me you're a fast hand with a gun," Pa said, and he limped forward
three steps, his eyes locked on Heseltine's, "but I think you're a back-shooting
tinhorn."
Heseltine looked at Pa standing there on one leg and a crutch, and he looked at that
old pistol. He looked at Pa again and he drew a long breath and held it. Then he
let his breath go and stood there with his hands hanging.
"Nobody's got the drop now, Heseltine." Pa spoke quietly but his pale eyes blazed
in the firelight. "I'm not going back without that money. And if you try to stop
me either you're gonna die or both of us are gonna die!"
Sweat was all over Bob Heseltine's face, and it was a cool evening. He wanted to
go for his gun the worst way, but he had another want that beat that one all hollow.
He wanted to live.
Kid Reese and Doc Sites stood there looking at the big man and they couldn't believe
it, and I'm sure I couldn't. A body didn't need to read minds to guess what they
were thinking, because here was a poor old gray-haired caprock rancher on one leg
with his gun muzzle down calling the bluff of a gunman said to be among the fastest-although,
come to think of it, I never heard it said by anyone but Doc or Reese.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Pa standing there; for a little man he looked
mighty big, and I suddenly found myself thinking about
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how it was that my pa had come back with Uncle Bud's scalp. No Co manche warrior
ever left a trophy like that beside the trail. Surely no Comanche warrior would ever
let a trophy like that go without a fight to the death. It seemed all Bob Heseltine
had to do to die was lay hand on his guns.
Pa's pistol swung up. "You had your chance. Now unbuckle your gun belt and step back."
Heseltine did what he was told and I went forward and gathered his guns. Then I picked
up all that money and stuffed it in the saddlebags, and I went through their pockets
checking for more.
"Time you learned a lesson, Edwin," Pa said to me. "Time you learned that it's what's
inside a man that matters, not how fast he can draw a gun"
Pa backed off a few careful steps and without looking at me, he said, "Ed, you and
him are going to fight. He needs a whoppin' and you're go ing to give it to him,
do you hear?"
Pa gestured with the Colt. "You others stay out of this ... it's a fair fight, between
the two of them."
Well, I looked over at Heseltine; he was six or seven years older than me an' he
outweighed me by more than a few pounds. I thought of that story where he killed
the sheriff, and then I remembered that he'd just backed down to a crippled-up old
man who'd been armed with little more than a fiery force of will and my old Colt.
I put down my gun.
Heseltine took off his calfskin jacket and spat on his hands, looking over at me.
"Why, you weak-kneed little whelp, I'll-!"
Another thing Pa taught me: If you're going to fight ... fight. Talk about it after.
Lifting my left fist I fetched him a clout in the mouth with my right, and right
then I saw that a mean man could bleed.
He came at me swinging with both hands. He was strong, and he fig ured to put the
sign on me. He moved well, better than me, but he hadn't put in all those years of
hard work that I had.
He walloped me alongside the jaw and it shook me some, but not like I figured it
would. He hit me again and I saw a kind of surprised look come into his eyes, and
I knew he'd hit me as hard as he could so I fetched him right where he'd been putting
all that whiskey. He grunted, and I spread out my legs and began whopping him with
both fists ... and in that regard I take after Pa. I've got big hands.
He went down to his knees and I picked him up by the collar and looked him over to
find a place that wasn't bloody where I could fetch him again, but the fight was
all out of him and Pa said, "Let him go, Ed. Just drop him."
109
 Seemed like he would go down easier if I fetched him a clout and I did, and then
I walked back to get my gun, blowing on my sore fists.
Pa looked over at Doc Sites and Kid Reese who were staring at Heseltine like it was
a bad dream. "You two can keep your guns," he said. "This is Indian country, and
I just hope you come after us.
"Whatever you do," he added, "don't ever come back home. There will be too many who'd
like a shot at you."
Neither of us felt like camping that night with home so far away, so we rode on with
the north star behind us. Pa's leg must have been giving him what for, but he was
in a good mood, and my fists were sore and my knuckles split, but I felt like riding
on through the night.
"You know, Pa, Carlson's been wanting to sell out. He's got water and about three
hundred head, and with what we've got we could buy him out and have margin to work
on. I figure we could swing it."
"Together, we could," Pa said.
We rode south, taking our time, under a Comanche moon.
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The trickle of sand ceased, and there was silence. Then a small rock dropped from
overhead into the rubble beneath, and the flat finality of the sound put a period
to the moment.
There was a heavy odor of dust, and one of the men coughed, the dry, hacking cough
of miner's consumption. Silence hung heavily in the thick, dead air.
"Better sit still." Bert's voice was quiet and unexcited. "I'll make a light." They
waited, listening to the miner fumbling with his hand lamp. "We might dislodge something,"
he added, "and start it again."
They heard his palm strike the lamp, and he struck several times before the flint
gave off the spark to light the flame. An arrow of flame leaped from the burner.
The sudden change from the impenetrable darkness at the end of the tunnel to the
bright glare of the miner's lamp left them blinking. They sat very still, looking
slowly around, careful to disturb nothing. The suddenness of the disaster had stunned
them into quiet acceptance.
Frank's breathing made a hoarse, ugly sound, and when their eyes found him, they
could see the dark, spreading stain on his shirt front and the misshapen look of
his broken body. He was a powerful man, with blond, curly hair above a square, hard
face. There was blood on the rocks near him and blood on the jagged rock he had rolled
from his body after the cave-in.
There was a trickle of blood across Bert's face from a scalp wound but no other injuries
to anyone. Their eyes evaded the wall of fallen rock across the drift, their minds
filled with awareness.
"Hurt bad?" Bert said to Frank. "Looks like the big one hit you." "Yeah," Frank's
voice was low. "Feels like I'm stove up inside." "Better leave him alone," Joe said.
"The bleeding seems to be letting up, and there's nothing we can do."
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 DEAD-END DRIFT 1 0 7
Frank stared down at his body curiously. "I guess I'm hurt bad."
He turned his head deliberately and stared at the muck pile. The cave-in had left
a slanting pile of broken rock that reached toward them along the drift, cutting
them off completely from the outside world, from light and air. Behind them was the
face of the drift where Rody had been drilling. From the face of the drift to the
muck pile was a matter of a few feet. Frank touched his dry lips with his tongue,
remembering what lay beyond the cave-in.
It could scarcely have been the tunnel alone. Beyond it was the Big Stope. He reached
over and turned out the light. The flame winked, and darkness was upon them.
"What's the idea?" Joe demanded.
"Air," Frank said. "There's four of us, and there isn't going to be enough air. We
may be some time in getting out."
"If we get out," Joe said.
Rody shifted his weight on the rock slab where he was sitting, and they heard the
rasp of the coarse denim. "How far do you reckon she caved, Frank?"
"I don't know." Then he said what they all feared. "Maybe the Big Stope went."
"If it did," Rody commented, "we might as well fold our cards and toss in our hands.
Nobody can open that stope before the air gives out. There's not much air in here
for four men."
"I warned Tom about that stope," Joe said. "He had no right to have men working in
here. That stope was too big in the first place. Must be a hundred feet across and
no pillars, and down below there was too much weight on the stulls. The posts were
countersunk into the laggin' all of two inches, like a knife in butter."
"The point is," Frank said, "that we're here. No use talking about what should have
been. If any part of the stope went, it all went. There's a hundred feet of tunnel
to drive and timber, and workin' in loose muck isn't going to help."
No one spoke. In the utter blackness and stillness of the drift they waited. There
was no light, no sound. All had been cut off from them. Joe wiped the sweat from
his brow with the back of his hand.
The blackness of a mine, the complete darkness, had always bothered him. At night
in the outer world, no matter how clouded the sky, there is always some light, and
in time the eyes will adjust, and a man can see-a little, at any rate. Here there
was no light, and a man was completely blind.
And there was no sound. Only two hundred feet to the surface, yet it Wight as well
have been two thousand. Two hundred feet of rock between
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 1 0 8
them and the light, and that was the shortest route. By the drift or tunnel it was
a quarter of a mile to the shaft where the cage could take them to the surface.
Above them was the whole weight of the mountain, before them the
solid wall where they had been drilling, behind them the mass of the cave-in, thousands
of tons of broken rock and broken timbers.
On the surface there would be tense, frightened men, frightened not for themselves
but for those entombed below-and they could not know that anyone was alive.
The skip would be coming down now, bringing men to attack that enormous slide. On
top men would be girding for the struggle with the mountain. Around the collar of
the shaft men and equipment would be gathered to be sent below. Near the warehouse
men would be standing, and some women, tense and white, wondering about those below
And the men who were buried alive could only wait and hope.
"Got a chew, Bert?" Joe asked.
"Sure." Bert pushed his hand into the darkness, feeling for Joe's. Their hands were
steady. Joe bit off a chew, then passed the plug back, their hands fumbling in the
dark again.
"We ain't got a chance!" Rody exclaimed suddenly. "She might have caved clear to
the station. Anyway, there's no way they can get through in time. We ain't got the
air to last five hours even if they could make it that quick."
,,Forget it," Joe said. "You wouldn't do nothing but blow your money on that frowzy
blonde in Kingman if you got free."
"I was a sap for ever coming to work in this lousy hole," Rody grum bled. "I was
a sap."
"Quit crabbing," Bert said mildly. "We're here now, and we've got to like it."
There was a long silence. Somewhere the mountain creaked, and there was a distant
sound of more earth sliding.
"Say"-Frank's voice broke into the silence-"any of you guys work in Thirty-seven?"
"You mean that raise on the Three Hundred?" Bert asked. "Sure, I put in a couple
of shifts there."
"Aren't we right over it now?"
"Huh?" Joe moved quickly. "How high up were they?"
"Better than ninety feet." Frank's tone was tight, strained. He held himself, afraid
to breathe deep, afraid of the pain that would come. He was not sure what had happened
to him. Part of his body was numb, but there was a growing pain in his belly as the
shock wore off. He knew he
was in deep trouble, and the chances of his getting out alive were small. He dreaded
the thought of being moved, doubted if he would survive it.
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 DRIFT 1 0 9
"If that raise was up ninety feet" Joe spoke slowly, every word standing alone-"then
it ain't more than ten feet below us. If we could dig down-"
"Ten feet? In that kind of rock?" Rody sneered. "You couldn't dig that with a pick.
Not in a week. Anyway, Thirty-seven ain't this far along. We're thirty yards beyond
at least."
"No," Frank said, "I think we're right over it. Anyway, it's a chance. It's more
than we've got now"
There was a long silence while they turned the idea over in their minds. Then Joe
said, "Why a raise here? There's no ore body here. That's supposed to be farther
along."
"Air," Bert said. "They wanted some circulation."
He got up, and they heard him fumbling for a pick. They heard the metallic sound
as it was dragged toward him over the rock. "Better move back against the muck pile,"
he said. "I'm digging."
"You're a sap," Rody said. "You've got no chance."
"Shut up!" Joe's tone was ugly. "If you ain't willing to try, you can go to hell.
I want out of here."
"Who've you tellin' to shut up?" They heard Rody rise suddenly. "I ain't never had
no use for you, you"
"Rody!" Frank's tone was harsh. "I've got a pick handle, and I know where you are.
You go back where you were and keep your mouth shut. This is a hell of a time to
start something."
A light flared in Frank's hand, and he hitched himself a little higher to see better.
"That's right, Bert. Start right there. Some of that top stuff will just flake off."
Sweat beaded his strained white face. One big hand clutched a pick handle. Slowly,
as if he had difficulty in moving them, his eyes shifted from face to face. He stared
at Rody the longest. Rody's stiff black hair curled back from a low forehead. He
was almost as broad as Frank but thicker.
The sodden blows of the pick became the ticking clock of the passing time. It was
a slow, measured beat, for the air was already thickening, and the blows pounded
with the pulse of their blood. The flame of the carbide light ate into their small
supply of air, burning steadily.
Bert stopped, mopping his face. "She's damn hard, Frank. It's going to take the point
off this pick in a hurry."
"We've got four of them," Frank said. The whole front of him was one dark stain now.
"I always carry a pick in a mine."
Bert swung again, and they watched as the point of the pick found a place and broke
back a piece of the rock. The surface had been partly shattered by the explosions
as the drift was pushed farther into the mountain. It would be harder as they got
down farther.
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Frank's big hands were relaxed and loose. He watched the swing of the pick, and when
Joe got up to spell Bert, he asked him, "Anybody on top waitin' for you?"
"Uh-huh." Joe paused, pick in hand. "A girl."
Rody started to speak but caught Frank's eye and settled back, trying to move out
of reach of the pick handle.
"My wife's up there," Bert said. "And I've got three kids." He took off his shirt
and mopped his body with it.
"There's nobody waitin' for me," Frank said. "Nobody anywhere." "What d'you suppose
they're doing out there?" Bert said. "I'd give a lot to know"
"Depends on how far it caved." Joe leaned on the pick handle, gasp ing for breath.
"Probably they are shoring her up with timbers around the station or at the opening
into the Big Stope."
He returned to work. He swung the pick, and a fragment broke loose; a second time
and another fragment. Bert sat with his elbows on his knees, head hanging, breathing
heavily. Frank's head was tipped back against the rock, his white face glistening
like wet marble in the faint light that reached him.
It was going to be a long job, a hard job, and the air was growing worse. Being active,
they were using it more rapidly, but it was their only chance. Nobody could get through
to them in time. As Joe worked, the sweat streamed from his body, running into his
eyes and dripping from his chin. Slowly and methodically he swung the pick, deadened
to every thing but the shock of the blows. He no longer noticed what progress he
made; he had become an automaton. Bert started up to relieve him, but Joe shook his
head. He was started now, and it was like an infection in his blood. He needed the
pick. He clung to it as to a lifeline.
At last he did give way to Bert. He dropped on the rocks, his chest heaving, fighting
for air. He tried to keep from remembering Mary, but she was always with him, always
just beyond the blows of his pick. Probably she did not yet know what had happened
to them, what this sudden thing was that had come into their lives.
She would be at work now, and as the mine was forty miles from town, it might be
hours before she knew of the cave-in and even longer before she knew who was trapped
below. It would be her tragedy as well as his. Joe cursed. Tomorrow they would have
gone to the doctor. He was reliable, Frank had told him, a good man and not a quack.
Big Frank knew about Mary. He knew that with every drive of the pick it would be
a closer thing for her. There were but four of them here, underground, but outside
were Mary and Bert's wife and kids. It would be a close thing, any way it was looked
at. He, Joe, could take it. He had
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never done anything else, but Mary was in a strange town with no friends, and unless
they got to the doctor
They were fools to have gone ahead when they knew they were tak ing a chance, but
nobody expected anything like this. He had worked in mines most of his life and no
trouble until now, and then the roof fell in. The whole damned mountain came down-or
so it seemed. When he heard the crash, his first thought was for Mary. He was trapped
here, but she was trapped out there, and she was alone.
"Better take a rest," Frank said. "We've got some time."
Joe sat down, and Bert looked across at him. "We could work in the dark," he suggested.
"That flame eats up air."
Frank shook his head. "If you can't see, there's too much waste effort. You've got
to see where the pick goes. Try it with the light a little longer."
Joe's eyes went to Frank. The big man lay tense and still, gripping the rock under
his hand. He was in agony, Joe knew it and hated it. Frank was his friend.
"Will we make it, Frank?" He was thinking of Mary. What would she do? What could
she do? How could she handle it alone? It wasn't as if they were married. "Think
we'll make it?"
"We'll make it," Frank said. "We'll make it, all right."
"Listen!" Bert sat up eagerly. "I think I hear them! Wasn't that the sound of a pick?"
They listened, every muscle tense. There was no sound. Then, far away, some muck
shifted. Frank doused the light, and darkness closed in, silent and heavy like the
dead, dead air. There was no vibrancy here, no sense of living.
They heard Joe get up, heard the heavy blows of the pick. He worked on and on, his
muscles aching with weariness. Each blow and each recov ery was an effort. Then Bert
spoke, and they heard them change places. Standing once more, Bert could feel the
difference. It was much harder to breathe; his lungs labored, and his heart struggled
against the walls of his chest, as if to break through. Once he stopped and held
a hand over it, frightened.
Long since they had thrown the first two picks aside, their points worn away. They
might have to return to them, but now they were using another, sharper pick. They
were standing in a hole now. Once a flake of rock fell, and Bert held himself, expecting
a crash. It did not come.
Rody moved suddenly. Frank lit the light with a brush of his palm. Rody looked at
him, then reached for the pick. "Let me have it," Rody said. "Hell, it's better than
sittin' there suckin' my thumb. Give me the
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Bert passed it to him; then he staggered to the muck pile and fell, full length,
gasping with great throat-rasping gasps.
Rody swung the pick, attacking the bottom of the hole savagely. Sweat ran into his
eyes, and he swung, attacking the rock as if it were a flesh-and-blood enemy, feeling
an exultant fury in his blows.
Once he stopped to take five, and looking over at Frank, he said, "How goes it, big
boy?"
"Tolerable," Frank said. "You're a good man, Rody."
Rody swelled his chest, and the pick swung easily in his big hands. All of them were
lying down now because the air was better close to the muck.
"Hear anything?" Bert asked. "How long will it take them to reach us, Frank?"
"Depends on how much it caved." They had been over this before, but it was hope they
needed, any thread of it. Even talking of rescue seemed to bring it nearer. The numbness
was all gone now, and his big body throbbed with pain. He fought it, refusing to
surrender to it, trying to deny it. He held the pain as though it were some great
beast he must overcome.
Suddenly Joe sat up. "Say! What became of the air line for the ma chine?"
They stared at each other, shocked at their forgetting. "Maybe it ain't busted,"
Bert said.
Stumbling in his eagerness, Joe fell across the muck, bumping Frank as he did so,
jerking an involuntary grunt from him. Then Joe fell on his knees and began clawing
rocks away from where the end of the pipe should be, the pipe that supplied compressed
air for drilling. He found the pipe and cleared the vent, unscrewing the broken hose
to the ma chine. Trembling, he turned the valve. Cool air shot into the room, and
as they breathed deeply, it slowly died away to nothing.
"It will help," Joe said. "Even if it was a little, it will help." "Damned little,"
Rody said, "but you're right, Joe. It'll help."
"How deep are you?" Frank asked. He started to shift his body and caught himself
with a sharp gasp.
"Four feet-maybe five. She's tough going"
Joe lay with his face close to the ground. The air was close and hot, every breath
a struggle. When he breathed, he seemed to get nothing. It left him gasping, struggling
for air. The others were the same. Light and air were only a memory now, a memory
of some lost paradise.
How long had they been here? Only Frank had a watch, but it was broken, so there
was no way of calculating the time. It seemed hours since that crash. Somehow it
had been so different from what he had ex pected. He had believed it would come with
a thundering roar, but there
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was just a splintering sound, a slide of muck, a puff of wind that put their lights
out, then a long slide, a trickling of sand, a falling stone. They had lacked even
the consolation of drama.
Whatever was to come of it would not be far off now. Whatever hap pened must be soon.
There came no sound, no breath of moving air, only the thick, sticky air and the
heat. They were all panting now, gasping for each breath.
Rody sat down suddenly, the pick slipping from his fingers. "Let me," Joe said.
He swung the pick, then swung it again.
When he stopped, Bert said, "Did you hear something?" They listened, but there was
no sound.
"Maybe they ain't tryin'," Rody said. "Maybe they think we're dead. "Can you imagine
Tom Chambers spendin' his good money to get us out of here?" Rody said. "He don't
care. He can get a lot of miners."
Joe thought of those huge, weighted timbers in the Big Stope. Nothing could have
held that mass when it started to move. Probably the roof of the Big Stope had collapsed.
Up on top there would be a small crowd of waiting people now. Men, women, and children.
Still, there wouldn't be so many as in Nevada that time. After all, Bert was the
only one down here with children.
But suppose others had been trapped? Why were they thinking they were the only ones?
The dull thud of the pick sounded again. That was Rody back at work. He could tell
by the power. He listened, his mind lulled into a sort of hypnotic twilight where
there was only darkness and the sound of the pick. He heard the blows, but he knew
he was dying. It was no use. He couldn't fight it any longer.
Suddenly the dull blows ceased. Rody said, "Hey! Listen!" He struck again, and it
was a dull sound, a hollow sound.
"Hell!" Rody said. "That ain't no ten feet!"
"Let's have some light over here," Rody said, "Frank-?"
He took the light from Frank's hand. The light was down to a feeble flicker now,
no longer the proud blade of light that had initially stabbed at the darkness.
Rody peered, then passed the lamp back to Frank.
"There should be a staging down there." Frank's voice was clear. They were running
a stopper off it to put in the overhead rounds." Rody swung, then swung again, and
the pick went through. It caught
him off balance, and he fell forward, then caught himself. Cool air was rushing into
the drift end, and he took the pick and enlarged the hole. Joe sat up. "God!" he
said. "Thank God!"
"Take it easy, you guys, when you go down," Frank said. "That ladder
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 1 1 4
may have been shaken loose by blasting or the cave-in. The top of the ladder is on
the left-hand side of the raise. You'll have to drop down to the staging, though,
and take the ladder from there. It'll be about an eight- or nine-foot drop."
He tossed a small stone into the hole, and they heard it strike against the boards
down below. The flame of the light was bright now as more air came up through the
opening. Frank stared at them, sucking air into his lungs.
"Come on, Rody," Joe said. "Lend a hand. We've got to get Frank to a doctor."
"No." Frank's voice was impersonal. "You can't get me down to that platform and then
down the ladder. I'd bleed to death before you got me down the raise. You guys go
ahead. When they get the drift opened up will be time enough for me. Or maybe when
they can come back with a stretcher. I'll just sit here."
"But-" Joe protested. "Beat it," Frank said.
Bert lowered himself through the opening and dropped. "Come on!" he called. "It's
okay!"
Rody followed. Joe hesitated, mopping his face, then looked at Frank, but the big
man was staring sullenly at the dark wall.
"Frank-" Joe stopped. "Well, gee-"
He hesitated, then dropped through the hole. From the platform he said, "Frank? I
wish-"
His boots made small sounds descending the ladder.
The carbide light burned lower, and the flame flickered as the fuel ran low. Big
Frank's face twisted as he tried to move; then his mouth opened very wide, and he
sobbed just once. It was all right now. There was no one to hear. Then he leaned
back, staring toward the pile of muck, his big hands relaxed and empty.
"Nobody," he muttered. "There isn't anybody, and there never was."
119
 One Ni¢ht Stand
Stephen Malone was tall, handsome, immaculate, and broke. He lay on his back, hands
clasped behind his head, trying not to think about breakfast. Three weeks ago he
had been playing
lead roles in Hearts of Oak, Hamlet, and Davy Crockett
on successive nights. Then the bookings ran out, the play closed, and the manager
skipped town with the company funds, leaving them stranded.
For some time he had been aware of voices in the next room. A girl was speaking.
"He can't! He wouldn't dare!"
The man's tone was touched with despair. "They say he's killed four teen men. For
the kind of money Mason would pay, the Kid wouldn't hesitate to make it fifteen."
There was a pause. "Even before my hand was crippled I couldn't match him. Now I
wouldn't stand a chance."
"But Pa, if Hickok comes-?"
"If he can get here in time! He's not the kind to forget what I did for him, but
unless he shows up I'm finished. Else, I'd give a thousand dollars to see Bill Hickok
walk through that door right now!"
Stephen Malone knew a cue when he heard one. He stepped into the hall and rapped
on the door of their room.
"Who's there?" It was the man's voice. "Bill Hickok."
The door opened and he was facing a thin old man with gray hair, and a pretty, dark-haired
girl. "You aren't Bill Hickok!" The man was dis gusted.
"No," Malone said, "but for a thousand dollars I will be." "You're a gunfighter?"
Else demanded.
"I'm an actor. It is my business to make people believe I am some body else."
"This is different. This isn't playacting."
He could kill you," Else said. "You wouldn't have a chance."
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I
"Not if I'm a good enough actor. Not many men would try to draw a gun on Wild Bill
Hickok."
"It's a fool idea," the man said.
"So there's an element of risk. I've played Hamlet, Macbeth, and Shylock. Why not
Wild Bill?"
"Look, son, you've undoubtedly got nerve, and probably you're a fine actor, but this
man is a killer. Oh, I know he's a tinhorn, but you wouldn't have a chance!"
"Not if I'm a good enough actor."
"He's talking nonsense, and you both know it!" Else protested. "To play Hickok, son,
you've got to be able to shoot like Hickok" "Only if I play it badly. You say the
Kid is a tinhorn, I'll trust to your judgment and my skill."
Brady walked to the window. "It might work, you know. It just might."
"It would be suicide!" Else objected.
Brady turned from the window "I am Emmett Brady. This is my daughter, Else. Frank
Mason wants my range, and the Pioche Kid is a friend of his. He was brought here
to kill me."
"The pleasure will be mine, sir." Malone bowed.
"Did anyone see you come into the hotel?" Brady asked. "Only the man at the desk.
It was two o'clock in the morning." "Then it's all right. Jim Cooley is a friend
of mine."
"Get him to spread the story that Hickok is in town, and once the story is around,
I'll make my play."
"It's ridiculous!" Else declared. "Why should you risk your life for us?"
"Miss Brady, as much as I'd enjoy posing as Sir Galahad, I cannot. I'm no knight
in armor, just a stranded actor. But for a thousand dollars? I haven't made that
much in a whole season!"
"You've got sand, Malone. Else, fetch Jim Cooley." "You've still time to back out,"
Else warned.
"I am grateful for your concern but this will be the first time I have been offered
one thousand dollars for a single performance"
Returning to his room, Malone opened his trunk and chose a blond wig with hair to
his shoulders. He selected a drooping mustache. "... And the buckskin jacket I wore
as Davy Crockett. Then I'll remove the plume from this hat I wore in
Shenandoah"
THE PIOCHE KID stared complacently into his glass. Brady was an old with a bad right
hand. He was nothing to worry about.
Jim Cooley came through the swinging doors. "Give me a Sam." He glanced around the
room. "Wait until you boys hear who
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 ONE NIGHT STAND 1 1 7
town! Wild Bill himself! Rode in last night, all the way from Kansas be cause he
heard his old friend Emmett Brady needed help!"
The Pioche Kid went sick with shock. Somebody was asking what Brady had on Hickok.
"Nursed him back to health after a gunshot wound. Hickok nearly killed a couple of
horses getting here. He's sleep ing it off over at the hotel now."
Wild Bill Hickok!
The Kid hadn't bargained for this. He took up his whiskey and tossed it off, but
the shudder that followed was not caused by the whiskey.
"Sam ... ?" He pushed the empty glass toward him.
He could feel the excitement in the room. They were thinking they'd see the Pioche
Kid shoot it out with Wild Bill Hickok, the most famous of them all.
Somebody mentioned the fourteen men the Kid was supposed to have killed, but the
Kid himself knew there had been but four, and two of those had been drunken cowhands,
and one of them a drunken farmer who had never held a pistol before.
Suddenly, desperately, he wanted out. How had he got into this, any way? Hickok could
shoot!
He recalled the stories of Hickok's famous tar get matches with the renowned Major
Talbot, at Cheyenne.
"He's the best," Cooley was saying. "Eyes in the back of his head, seems like. Remember
the time he killed Phil Coe, then turned and killed a man running up behind him?"
Cooley smiled at the Kid. "Should be something, you and him. You've killed more than
he has if you discount those he killed while a sharpshooter in the Army. But I did
see him take four at once. Killed two, a third died later, and the fourth was never
any good for anything after."
Cooley finished his drink. "I'm gettin' out of here. I've seen too many bystanders
get gut-shot. Sorry I can't wish you luck, Kid, but Bill's a friend of mine."
Men moved to the tables, away from the bar. One hastily paid for his drink and left
the bar. The Kid was alone, isolated, cut off.
What the hell was happening? This was Hickok!
If he won they'd all slap him on the back and buy him drinks, but if he lost they'd
just stare at the body as they walked by. He mopped his face. He was soaked with
sweat, and he knew why. He was scared.
Mason was at the door. "He's comin', Kid. Be something to be known as the man who
killed Wild Bill."
Malone paused in the door to wave at someone down the street, then he walked to the
bar. All eyes were on him. "Rye, if you please."
Sam put a bottle and a glass before him. The Kid licked dry lips with a fumbling
tongue. Desperately he wanted to wipe his palm dry on his pants, but he was afraid
Hickok would think he was going for a gun. Now
122
 was the time. He should open the ball. Sweat dripped from his face to the bar. He
opened his mouth to speak, but Malone spoke first.
"Bartender, I'd like to find two men for a little job. I'll pay a dollar each. It's
a digging job."
"You said ... a digging job?"
"That's right. I want two men to dig a hole about"-he turned delib erately and looked
right at the Kid-"six feet long, six feet deep, and three wide."
"Whereabouts do you want it dug?" "On Boot Hill."
"A grave?" "Exactly." Sam motioned to two men at a nearby table. "Tom? Joe? Mr. Hickok
wants a couple of men." He hesitated ever so slightly. "To dig a grave" "And to make
a slab for a marker," Malone said.
Sam was loving every moment of it. "You want a name on it?" "Don't bother with the
name. Within the week they will have for
gotten who he was, anyway. Just carve on it HE SHOULD HAVE LEFT BE FORE THE SUN WENT
DOWN."
He finished his drink. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."
He strolled to the door, paused briefly with his hand on the door, then stepped out
on the boardwalk and turned toward the hotel.
Within the saloon a chair creaked as someone shifted weight. The Kid lifted a fumbling
hand to brush away the sweat from his face and the hand trembled. He tossed off his
drink, spilling a little on his chin. Never had death seemed so close.
What kind of a damned fool was he, anyway? What did he have to do with Brady? Let
Mason do his own killing. Suddenly all he wanted was to be away, away from those
watching eyes, staring at him, so willing to see him die.
What did he owe Mason? All he had to do was cross the street, mount his horse, and
ride. Behind his back they would sneer, but what did that matter? He owed these people
nothing, and there were a thousand towns like this. Moreover, he'd be alive
... alive!
He wanted to feel the sunshine on his face, the wind in his hair, to drink a long,
cold drink of water. He wanted to live!
Abruptly, he walked to the door. He had seen men die, seen them lie tormented in
the bloody dust. He did not want to feel the tearing agony of a bullet in his guts.
There was Hickok, his broad back to him, only a few paces away. A quick shot ...
he could always say Hickok had turned.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, dimly he remembered eyes in the back of
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 ONE NIGHT STAND 1 1 9
his head. On that other occasion Hickok had turned suddenly and fired ... dead center.
The Kid let go of his gun as if it were red hot.
Yet he could still make it. He was a pretty good shot ... well, a fair shot. He couldTwo
men emerged from the livery stable, each carrying a shovel. Tom and Joe, to dig a
grave ...
his grave?
He crossed the street, almost running, and jerked loose the tie-rope. He missed the
stirrup with his first try, made it on the second, and was almost crying when he
hit the saddle. He wheeled the horse from the hitch rail and left town at a dead
run.
His saddle was hot from the sun, but he could feel
it. The wind was in his face ... he was free! He was riding, he was living, and there
were a lot of other towns, a lot of country.
Brady turned from the window. "He's gone, Else. Malone did it." "Mason's leaving,
too," she added.
The door opened behind them and Stephen Malone stepped in, removing his hat, then
the wig and the mustache. "That's one part I never want to play again!"
"Here's your money, son. You earned it." "Thanks."
"What would you have done, Malone," Cooley asked, "if the Kid had called your hand?"
"Done? Why this-!"
His draw was surprisingly fast, and he fired at Cooley, pointblank. Cooley sprang
back, shocked. His hands clutched his abdomen.
His hands came away and he stared at them. No blood. No! Malone was smiling.
"Blanks!" Cooley exclaimed. "You faced the Kid with nothing in your gun but blanks!"
"Well, why not? It was all part of the act."
124
 Marshal of Canyon Gap
He rode down from the hills in the morning, a tall, rawboned young man with the quiet
confidence of one given to hard work and responsibility. He had a shock of rusty
brown hair,
gray eyes, and a way of moving in which there was no lost motion. Sitting in the
sunlight on the main street of Canyon Gap, I was sorry to see him come. He was a
man who looked like he'd been long on the road. He also looked like trouble aplenty,
and I was a man who didn't like trouble at all.
He rode into town on a rawboned buckskin and dismounted at Bacon's hitch rail. All
the time he was tying that horse, he was looking up and down the street while seeming
to be almighty busy with that knot.
By the time he had his horse tied he knew the location of every man on the street,
and every window. I'd not seen Jim Melette before, but he was no tenderfoot, no pilgrim.
A man isn't marshal of a cow town for ten years without sizing up the men who come
to town, and learning to esti mate their capacity for trouble.
He stepped up on the boardwalk, a big man in fringed shotgun chaps and a blue wool
shirt, wearing a black flat-brimmed hat. For a moment, his eyes caught me with full
attention, and then he turned his back on me and went into the store.
That store didn't worry me so much. What I was thinking about was the saloon. Brad
Nolan was over there with Pete Jackson and Led Murry. Brad was a headstrong, troublemaking
man who had a way of bulling
about that showed he figured he made mighty big tracks. Trouble was, he'd never done
anything to entitle him to that attitude, and he was aching for a chance. Brad was
feeling his importance, and for four or five years I'd been watching him put on muscle
and arrogance until I knew trouble couldn't be avoided.
Lately he had been swaggering around and I knew he was wondering
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how far he'd get trying me on, but he'd seen me shoot holes through too many aces
and no man wants to buck that kind of shooting.
Pete Jackson was worse because he was a talker. He never knew when to keep his mouth
shut, and never considered the results of his loose talk, and such a man can cause
more trouble than three Memphis lawyers.
Led Murry was an unknown quantity. He was new in town, and I hadn't made up my mind
what to think about Led ... there was some thing that happened a short while back
that had me wondering if he wasn't the worst of the lot, but I wasn't sure. I just
knew he never said much and he had crazy eyes, and that worried me.
Brad Nolan seemed the one inclined to start trouble, but he had seen me toss a playing
card in the air, draw, and put a hole in it dead center be fore it hit the ground.
It kept him and a lot of others from starting anything.
It was time I had some tobacco. Not that I didn't have some, but Melette was buying
supplies and I figured it might be a good thing to know more about him. Also, he
was a fine figure of a man and that Ginnie Bacon was working for her pa this morning.
Jim Melette was looking at the trousers when I came in, and Ginnie, she was looking
at him.
Lizzie Porter was there and she was talking to Ginnie like she'd been put up to it.
"Who's taking you to the pie supper, Ginnie?"
"I don't know," Ginnie said, looking at Melette. "I'm waiting to be asked."
"What about Brad? Isn't he taking you?" "Brad? Oh ... Brad. I don't know yet"
"All I can say is"-Lizzie never said all she could say, but she tried hard enough-"I
hope that Ross woman doesn't come." Melette didn't react much but I've watched a
good deal of human nature in my time and I could tell he was suddenly on point.
"Oh, she won't come! Who would bring her? Not after the way she was treated last
time." Ginnie was watching Melette, who was studying some new boots now. "She's pretty
enough if you like that snooty type, too good to talk to anyone ... and she must
be thirty, if she's a day."
Jim Melette went to the counter and took a list from his pocket, and Ginnie gave
him one of her dazzling smiles. "What's about this pie sup per?" he asked.
"It's tomorrow night." Ginnie was batting her eyes like an owl in a hailstorm and
Ginnie was a mighty pretty girl. "We'll all be there. They auction pies, you know,
and if you buy a girl's pie you get to sit with her. There's dancing, too. You do
dance, don't you?"
"Sometimes ... I can hold a girl while she dances. Who's this Ross Woman you mentioned?"
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"Her?" Ginnie wrinkled her nose. "She's nobody. She moved into the house on Cottonwood
Hill a few months ago, and the only visitor she has around seem to come of a night,
at least there's lots of horse track in and out of her gate. Nobody wants her around,
but she came to tha last social, bold as brass."
That Ginnie ... she could make a sieve out of the truth without ha trying. Truth
was, nobody did want Hanna Ross, nobody but the men
The women looked down their noses at her because she was a strange, who lived alone,
but so far as I'd seen none of them had tried to be neigh borly.
Thirty years old, Ginnie said, but Hanna Ross couldn't be a day over twenty-four,
and was one of the finest-looking girls I'd seen in a coon'; age, and believe me,
I've seen aplenty.
Ginnie saw me coming to the counter for my tobacco. It was higl time because I'd
about worn out that saddle, what with turning it anc studying it and picking at the
stitching. "Oh! Marshal, have you met Mr Melette?"
He turned around giving me a straight, hard look. "I haven't met the marshal," Melette
said, "but I've heard of him."
"Name's McLane," I said. "Folks call me Mac."
"Seems to me I remember you," Melette said. "You've walked the boards of this town
quite some time, haven't you, Marshal?"
Inside I stiffened up ... that there phrase "walked the boards" might have been an
accident, but from the smile around his eyes it seemed to me there was something
behind it.
"Ten years," I admitted, "and we've had less trouble than most towns. The way I figure
is to anticipate trouble and take steps."
"Good idea." Jim Melette gathered his supplies. "What do you dc when trouble comes
that you can't avoid?"
When he said that I had a chill ... for ten years that had been my nightmare, that
trouble might come that I couldn't sidetrack or outsmart and I wasn't as young as
I used to be.
"Don't ever worry about that," Lizzie said. "Ben McLane had killec fourteen outlaws
before he came to Canyon Gap. Many a time I've seer him toss a card in the air and
shoot the spots out."
"That's shooting," Melette agreed. "I've only seen one man whc could do that. Of
course, I was just a youngster then, must have beer thirteen, fourteen years ago."
He picked up the rest of his supplies and walked out and I stood there looking at
my hole card, and it had suddenly become a mighty smai deuce. After all these years,
while things shaped up mighty fine, I'd come to believe I was set for life in Canyon
Gap. The town liked me and I likec
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 MARSHAL O F CANYON GAP 1 2 3
the town, and one way or another, I'd kept the peace. Now it looked like the whole
show was going to bust up right in my face.
Walking to the door, I watched Melette stow his stuff in his saddle bags and a sack
he had tied behind his saddle. Then he dusted off his hands and started across the
street.
A man can only keep the peace by working at it, so I stepped out on the walk. "Melette!"
He turned slowly when I spoke his name. "I wouldn't go over there if I were you.
There's trouble over there."
Figured first off he'd tell me to mind my own affairs, but instead he walked back
to me, and then I was really scared because I thought he'd have something personal
to say, and one thing I did not want to do was talk about myself. Not to him.
"All right, McLane, I won't," he said. "Will you tell me where Hanna Ross lives?"
He had called her Hanna, although her first name had not been men tioned inside,
so my hunch was right. Trouble was coming to Canyon Gap in the person of Jim Melette.
He knew more than he was letting on. I pointed the way up the street to her house.
"For a stranger," I said, "you seem to know a lot about folks. Why do you want to
see Hanna Ross?"
He was stepping into the saddle. "Why, Mac, I think I used to know her, so I sort've
figured I'd stick around for that pie supper and if Hanna Ross will go with me, I'll
take her. You keep the peace, Mac!" And he trotted his horse off toward Cottonwood
Hill.
Standing there in the street I knew I was scared. For ten years nobody had come to
Canyon Gap who knew me, and I'd begun to believe no one ever would. The days of gun
battles were about over, tapering off, any way, and I'd begun to feel that I had
it made, as we used to say in the gold fields.
It seemed to me that I was going to get it from two directions unless I was very
careful. Ginnie Bacon had been flirtin' around Brad Nolan for the past several months
trying to see what kind of trouble she could help him get into. He was spoiling for
a fight, and from the way she'd acted toward Jim Melette there in the store, it seemed
like she might try to get the two of them to go at it.
The other thing that had me worried was that I knew who'd been leaving all those
tracks around Hanna Ross's house ... it was that crazy eyed Led Murry. I didn't know
what that meant, but I was afraid. Nolan and Murry were some trouble separately,
but together they were down right dangerous.
Something like this had happened a time or two before, but I'd been able to break
up the dangerous combinations before they realized their
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 1 2 4 L O U I S
strength. Divide and rule, that was my motto, and I made it a point to know about
people, and whenever I saw fellers getting together who might cause trouble, I got
a girl betwixt 'em, or jealousy about something else, and usually I'd managed to
split 'em up.
There's more ways to keep the peace than with a gun, and I'd proved it in Canyon
Gap, where there hadn't been a gunfight in ten years ... and in the month before
I took over there had been three. Nor in all that time had I drawn a gun on a man.
Cottonwood Hill was right up there in plain sight at the edge of town, and from town
everybody could see who came or went from the place, so Lizzie Porter saw Jim Melette
ride through the gate up there, and she went right back in to tell Ginnie.
No need for me to read the playscript to know Ginnie would get mad ... she had practically
offered herself to Melette for the pie supper, and he had walked away and gone to
see Hanna Ross.
Things were bunching up on me.
Ten years it had been, and I'm a man likes a quiet life. When I rode into this town
on the stage and saw the snow-capped mountains 'round about, the shaded streets and
pine forests on the hills around, and that stream running right through town, I decided
this was the place to spend my declining years. The fact that they mistook me for
a gunfighter and offered me the marshal's job had provided me with a living.
Now, between Hanna Ross, Ginnie Bacon, the Nolan outfit, and Jim Melette, I could
see the whole thing blowing up in my face. It was too late for me to hunt up a new
town, and I liked this one. And I never had been able to put by much in the way of
money.
Worst of all, suppose Jim Melette told around town what he knew about me?
THEY HAD ten coal-oil lamps with bright reflectors behind them to light the schoolhouse
for the pie supper and dance, and they had two fiddlers and a guitar player out there
on the floor.
Pete Jackson, Brad Nolan, and Ginnie were there, thick as thieves, the men passing
a flask back and forth, Ginnie talking fast and flashing her eyes. Led Murry was
there, too, a-settin' against the wall, missing nothing but a-watching everything.
Outside by the hitch rail I waited to fend off trouble, for I could see the storm
making up, and I wasn't thinking only of me. I was thinking of the town. There I
was when a livery rig came into the yard and Jim Melette got down and helped Hanna
Ross to the ground.
"Jim!" My thumb was tucked in my belt, gunfighter fashion. "I want to talk to you!"
Excusing himself, Jim came over to me. "Don't go in there," I said,
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 CANYON GAP 1 2 5
"as a favor to me. Brad Nolan's in there and he's spoiling for trouble. So's
"Sorry, Mac," Melette said. "I've nothing against you, but Hanna and I must go in
there. We both figure to live around here the rest of our lives, and we might as
well bring matters to a head right now"
"That's one way," I said, "but the wrong way. You two just dig in and hold on and
folks will come around. You go in there and you'll make trouble."
"We're going. You don't understand the situation," he said. "Now, look here!" It
was time to be tough. "I-!"
"Mac" Jim lowered his voice-"don't you pull that act on me. When I was no more than
thirteen I saw you on the stage in
Ticket-ofLeaveMan, and a year later I saw you in Lady of Lyons."
"So I've been an actor. That isn't all I've been. Now look!"
From my pocket I took an ace of hearts. "Boy, I want to show you something."
It was time to go into my act, and it was a good act, which had kept more than one
tough man from making me trouble.
He stopped me. "Let me show you
something," Melette said. He took the card from my hand and tossed it into the air.
He didn't draw and fire as I had so often, but when the card fell he reached over
and grasped my arm. I started to struggle, then let up, knowing it was no use. He
knew my secret and he was going to have his say about it. Jim Melette slid two fingers
into the cuff of my coat, plucking the hidden card out of its hidden clip.
"After I saw you demonstrate your shooting act in front of the theater one day I
figured you for the greatest shot ever, but then a stable boy who used to work on
the stage showed me how it was done. You just go out in the hills and shoot holes
in fifty cards at three-foot range or whatever's necessary and then just carry them
around in a holdout, and when you pick up the tossed up card, palm it and hand over
one that's already been shot."
"Nobody around here has ever guessed," I said bitterly. This was what I'd been afraid
of for years, and now just when I needed some luck, things were catching up with
me.
"What are you going to do, Melette?"
"I,m going to go in there and have it out with Led Murry. If any of the others want
a piece of it, that's their lookout."
Have it out with Led Murry.... I'd been thinking it was Brad Nolan who was going
to be the bigger problem. "You said that I didn't understand-exactly what is it that
I don't understand?" I asked.
"Jim and I are married." Hanna Ross had walked over to us. "We've been married for
three years."
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 1 2 6
"We were living near Denver, but I had to go to Mexico on busi ness. I had an accident
in a little mountain village. I was laid up a long time."
"I didn't know what had happened. I thought he was dead" She whispered it, looking
off into the night.
They told me their story. In hushed tones, Melette's voice often rough with anger,
they recounted how Led Murry had seen Hanna on the street in Denver and begun following
her around. He'd asked her if he could come courting, but when she had told him that
she was married he refused to leave her alone. He lurked around their house and spied
on her at night. When she complained to the constables he would disappear for a while,
but sooner or later he was back. All this time Jim Melette was helplessly trying
to recuperate south of the border. He tried to send Hanna letters, but was not surprised
that none of them were ever re ceived.
Then one night Led Murry broke into Jim and Hanna's house and tried to force himself
on her. She fled, and thinking that her husband was dead, she changed back to her
maiden name. Finally she found her way to my town, and became the mysterious woman
that we all knew as Hanna Ross.
The story had all the elements of a great play, and when Led Murry appeared in our
town it was obvious that that play had become a tragedy. Like a character from a
Shakespeare play, he had become a man obsessed.
"After a long time I made it back from Sonora," Jim said, "and the postmaster in
Denver helped me find where Hanna had gone. Now that I'm here, I've got to put a
stop to this.
"Led's a bad man, McLane. He's an outlaw, but the law never caught up with him but
once and he served his time for that. He's a mighty fast man with a gun. Tonight
I'm going to see how fast. I'm going to tell him to leave us alone or start shooting."
"No" I spoke sharply. "I'm marshal here, actor or not. Maybe I'm an old fraud, but
if you start trouble you'll go to jail. You leave Led Murry to me. He has assaulted
a good woman. The next jury he stands in front of will send him away for life."
Melette looked at me like he figured I'd lost my good sense, and I knew there was
no sense, good or otherwise, in what I had in mind. When a man has taken a marshal's
salary for ten years, he can't hide the first time real trouble shows. My whole life
was based on being something I wasn't, but fool that I was, I hoped I wasn't a coward,
too.
"You're crazy, McLane. You can't arrest him without shooting." "Marshal?" Hanna Ross
spoke up. "He knows ... Led Murry knows that you ... well, that you did that fake
shooting in the Buffalo Bill show
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 MARSHAL O F CANYON GAP 1 2 7
I threatened to go to you when he showed up, and he said you were fraud.
"He'll kill you," Jim Melette said. "You leave him to me."
BEFORE HE COULD say more I turned my back on him and walked to the hitch rail where
I could be alone.
This was my town. Sure, I'd become marshal because I could play the part, but in
the ten years that passed I'd bought my own home, had shade for my porch, and flowers
around the garden fence. When I walked along the street folks spoke to me with respect,
and passed the time of day.
When first I came to this town I was an old actor, a man past his prime and with
nowhere to go but down. For most of my life I'd been dressing in cold, draughty dressing
rooms, playing worn-out roles in fourth-rate casts, and all that lay ahead of me
was poorer and poorer roles and less and less work. But then I'd come to Canyon Gap.
There had been a time when I'd played with a few of the best, and in the olio between
acts I'd do card tricks, juggle eight balls or eight dinner plates, or sing a fair
song. The one thing I could still do best was juggle ... there's a place it pays
a man to keep up, keeps his hands fast and his eyes sure. Even a town marshal may
someday have to give up and go back to doing what he knows.
When I first came to town, the boy that took my bags to my room saw a Colt pistol
in my bag ... it had fourteen notches on it. That started the story that I was a
gunfighter, but it was nothing more than a prop I'd carried when I was with the Bill
show
Whatever I was in the past, I was town marshal now, and I'd been playing the role
too long to relinquish it. There was an old adage in the theater that the show must
go on. Undoubtedly, that adage was thought up by some leading man who didn't want
the understudy to get a chance at his part, but this show had to go on, and I wasn't
going to fail the people who had trusted me.
There's something about playing the same role over and over again. After a while
a man can come to believe it himself, and over most of those ten years I'd been a
good marshal because I'd come to believe I was the part I was playing. Only tonight
I could fool myself no longer. I was going up against a man whom I couldn't hope
to bluff.
So up the steps I went and into the schoolhouse, and I crossed the room to where
Led Murry was sitting with his back to the wall. And as I was crossing the room I
saw one of my problems eliminated.
Jim Melette saw me coming and knew what I was going to do, and he started across
the room to stop me. He had taken only two steps when Brad Nolan stepped out in front
of him. "Look here, Melette, I"
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 128 LOUIS
Jim Melette hit him. He hit Brad in the belly and then he hit hire on the chin, and
Brad Nolan went down and he didn't make any show of getting up. What Brad had been
looking for all these years he'd gotten in one lump, and it knocked all the muscle
out of him.
"Led." I spoke clearly. "Get on your feet. You're under arrest."
He looked at me and he started to smile, but it was a mean smile. Nothing pleasant
about it.
"Am I, now? Why, Marshal? Why me?"
"You've assaulted Hanna Ross, a citizen of this town. I'll have noth ing of the sort
in Canyon Gap. Get on your feet and drop your gun belts!"
He just sat there, smiling. "Marshal," he said, "you're a two-bit fraud. I'm going
to show this town just what a fraud you are.,,
It was dead still in that room. Sweat trickled down my cheeks and I felt sick and
empty inside. Why in the world hadn't I stayed outside and let well enough alone?
"After I get through with you, I'll have a talk with good old Jim and Miss Hanna.
But first I'm going to kill you, Marshal."
They were watching, all of them, and they were the people of Canyon Gap, the people
of my town. To them I was tall, straight, and indomi table, and though I might be
an old man, I was their marshal whom they believed to have killed fourteen men. To
myself I was a man who loved peace, who had never drawn a gun in anger, and who had
rarely fired one, and who was suddenly called upon to face the results of the role
he had created.
My audience, and an audience it was, awaited my reply. Only an in stant had passed,
and I knew how these things were done, for often I had played roles like this upon
the stage. Only to this one there could be but one end. Nonetheless, I owed it to
myself, and to the people who had kept me marshal of their town, to play the role
out.
"Led Murry," I said coolly, "stand up!"
He stared at me as if he were about to laugh, but there was a sort of astonished
respect on his face, too. He stood, and then he went for his gun.
Fear grabbed at my stomach and I heard the smashing sound of a shot. Led Murry took
an astonished step forward and fell to the floor, then rolled over on his back. The
bullet had gone through his throat and broken his spine.
Then somebody was slapping me on the back and I looked down and there was a gun in
my hand. A gun with fourteen notches filed in the butt, a gun that had fired more
blank rounds than live.
There was still the scene. Coolly, I dropped the pistol into my holster and turned
my back on Led Murry. Inside I was quivering like jelly. True,
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 MARSHAL O F CANYON GAP 1 2 9
we had been only ten feet apart, and it was also true that all my life I'd worked
at juggling, sleight of hand ... I'd had fifty years of practice. "Marshal!" It was
Lizzie Porter. "You were wonderful!"
"He was a danger to the community," I choked. "I deeply regret the necessity.
Inside I was shaking, more scared than I'd ever been in my life, but I was carrying
it off ... I hoped.
It was Jim Melette who forgot himself. "McLane," he protested, "you were on the stage!
You're no!"
"Ali, the stage!" Interrupting him as quickly as I could, I handed him an old quote
from the show, when I had appeared onstage as a companion of Buffalo Bill. " `I was
shotgun messenger for the
Butterfield
stage, scouted for George Armstrong Custer, and rode for the Pony Express!' " I squeezed
his arm hard and said, "Forget it, Jim. Please. Forget it."
And then I walked out into the night and started for home, my heels hitting the ground
too hard, my head bobbing like I was drunk. Right then it hit me, and I was scared,
scared like I'd never been in my life. I had no memory of drawing, no memory of firing
... what if I hadn't been lucky?
No question about it, I was getting too old for this. It was time to retire. Of course,
I could always run for mayor.
134
 Husband
H
e had been walking since an hour before sunup, but now the air had grown warm and
he could hear the sound of running water. Sunlight fell through the leaves and dappled
the trail
with light and shadow, and when he rounded the bend of the path he saw the girl dipping
a bucket into a mountain stream.
He was a tall boy, just turned eighteen, and four months from his home on a woods
farm in East Texas. He looked at the girl and he swal lowed, his Adam's apple bobbing
in a throat that seemed unusually long, rising as it did from the wide, too-loose
collar of his homespun shirt.
He swallowed again and cleared his throat. The girl looked up, sud denly wide-eyed,
and then she straightened, her lips drawing together and one quick hand brushing
a strand of dark hair back from her flushed cheek. "Howdy, ma'am," he said, his accent
soft with East Texas music. "Sure didn't aim to scare you none."
"It ... it's all right." Her alarm was fading with her curiosity. "Are you goin'
to the goldfields?"
A measure of pride and manly assurance came into his voice. "I reckon. I aim to git
me money to go back home to Texas an' buy a farm." They faced each other across the
stream. The boy swallowed, nervous with the silence. "You ... your pa washin' gold
about here?"
"Yes ... Well, he was ... He's gone to the settlement. He's been gone three weeks."
The boy nodded gravely. It had taken him two days to walk up from Angel's Camp, and
with that awareness that comes to those who walk the trails he knew her father was
not coming back. It was a bad time to be traveling with gold in one's poke.
"You doin' all right?" he asked. "You an' your ma?"
Janey hesitated, rubbing her palms on her apron. She was shy but she didn't want
him to go off on his way, for it was lonely with no one about
135
 HUSBAND FOR J A N E Y 1 3 1
of her own age, and without even neighbors except for Richter. "Mashe's just back
here. Would you like some coffee? We've some fresh."
He crossed the stream on the rounded stones and took her wooden bucket. "Lemme fetch
it for you," he said. "It's a big bucket for such a little girl."
She flashed her eyes at him. "I ain't ... I mean, I'm not so young! I'm sixteen!"
He grinned at her. "You're nigh to it."
MRS. PETERS LOOKED UP from the fire she was tending. She saw the two coming down
the trail and her heart seemed to catch with quick realization. And yes, with relief.
She carefully noted the boy's serious expression, and when he put the bucket down
on the flat rock she saw how his eyes went to Janey's and her quick, flirting glance.
This was a strong young man with sloping shoulders and an open, honest look about
him.
"Howdy, ma'am." He felt more sure of himself with the older woman. She reminded him
of his aunt. "My name is Meadows. Folks back home call me Tandy."
"Glad to know you, Tandy. I'm Mrs. Peters. Jane, get this young man a cup. The coffee's
hot." She looked at the boy, liking his clean, boyish face and handsome smile. "Goin'
far?"
"To the head of the crick." He slid the pack from his back and placed it on the ground,
and beside it his Roper four-shot revolving shotgun. "I figure to stake me a claim."
It was cool and pleasant under the great, arching limbs of the trees. There had been
some work done on the bench where the stream curved wide, and the cabin was back
under the trees out of the heat. A line had been strung for the washing from its
corner to the nearest tree.
He stole a glance at the girl and caught her looking at him. She smiled quickly and
looked away, flushing a little. His own face colored and he swallowed.
Em Peters filled the cup Jane brought, and he accepted it gratefully. He had started
without breakfast, not liking to take the time to fix a decent meal. Em Peters looked
at him thoughtfully. He was a well-mannered boy, and she suddenly knew, desperately,
that he must not leave. She must keep him here, for Janey.
It wasn't like back home, where there were lots of boys, nice boys from families
one had grown up with, and who would work at honest, respectable work. Out here one
never knew what sort of people would be coming around. Dave had been small protection,
but where there was a man around-well, it was a good feeling.
Dave should never have come west, of course. It was Roy Bacon who
136
 1 3 2 L O U I S
talked him into it, and they had sold their place and started out. The wagon and
team used up most of the money, and by the time they arrived in California there
was almost nothing left. Dave had been a quiet, seri ous man who needed a steady
job or business in a small town. She knew that now, although she had not tried to
dissuade him when he talked of going to California. It was the one big thing in Dave's
life, and fit for it or not, she knew he had loved it. Crossing the plains, he had
been happy. Only at the end, when they arrived, had he been frightened.
Em Peters knew with deep sadness that Dave was not coming back. When he had been
two days overdue she knew it, for Dave always had been precise about things. Nor
was he a man to drink or gamble. The first rush of the gold hunting was over and
some of the tougher men who had been unable to find a good claim, or had lacked the
energy or persistence to work one, had taken to the trails. Murders were the order
of the day even along the creeks, and in the towns it was worse, much worse.
It was not herself for whom she was worried. She would manage she always had. It
was Janey.
Em Peters had seen the speculative eyes of more than one man who came along the trail
or paused for a few minutes. Worst of all, there was Richter. She had been afraid
of him from the first. Had warned Dave he was not to be trusted, but Dave had waved
off her objections because Richter had showed him how to build a rocker, actually
helping with the work.
Only two days before, he had come to her. "Ma'am," he said, "I hate to say this here,
but I figure somethin' happened to Dave."
"I'm afraid so."
"You two," Richter said, "it ain't safe for you. I figured maybe it'd be better if
I moved over here."
Her throat had grown tight, for she could see his eyes following Janey. "We'll be
all right," she had said.
He cocked his head. "Maybe," he said, "but that there girl o' yourn, she sets a man's
blood to boilin'. If I was you, I'd find her a husband mighty quick."
"Janey has plenty of time." She forced herself to be calm, and not to answer him
as sharply as she felt like doing. "And we'll be all right." Her voice stiffened
a little. "Men in the goldfields won't allow good women to be molested. I've heard
of men being hung just for speaking the wrong thing to a woman."
Richter had heard of it, too, and he did not like the thought. It irri tated him
that she should mention it. "Oh, sure!" he said. "But you never can tell. Fact is,"
he said, rubbing his unshaven jaw, "I might marry her myself."
Em Peters had her limits, and this was it. "Why, I'd never hear of such
137
 1 3 3
a thing!" she exclaimed. "I would rather see Janey dead than married to you, Carl
Richter! You're no man for a girl like Janey!"
Angry blood darkened his cheeks and his eyes grew ugly. "You ain't so high-falutin',"
he said angrily. "Gettin' 'long by yourselves ain't goin' to be so easy. You try
it, an' see!" He had stomped off angrily, but Em had said nothing to Janey, beyond
the suggestion that she avoid him. Janey needed no urging. Richter was nearing fifty,
a big, dirty man whose cabin was a boar's nest of unwashed clothing and stale smells.
TANDY LIKED his coffee. He nursed the cup in his hands, taking his time and not wanting
to leave. Janey was suddenly very busy, stirring the fire, looking into pots, taking
clothes from the line.
Em Peters looked down at Tandy, and then her eyes went down the creek to where it
emerged from the shadowing trees into sunshine. The thought that Dave was not coming
back waited in the back of her con sciousness, waited for the night when she could
lie alone and hold her grief tightly to her. There was not time for grief now, and
she could not let Janey know that hope was gone. Janey was too young for that. She
had no experience with grief, none of the hard-found knowledge that all things change,
that nothing remains the same. In time Janey would know, but there was time.
"You ... you'll be goin' on?" she asked gently. "You have something in mind?"
"Not really, ma'am. Just aimed to find me a bench somewhere an' start workin'. I'm
a good worker," he said, looking up at her. "My aunt Esther always did say I was
the strongest boy she knew. For my age, that is," he added modestly.
Em Peters knew no way of approaching it with care. She looked now for the words,
hoping they could come, knowing that somehow they had to come. This was a good boy,
a boy from a good, simple, hardworking family He-whatever it was, she forgot, seeing
Richter coming up the path.
Richter did not notice Tandy Meadows. He was full of his own thoughts. It was stupid,
he decided, to let the woman put him off. Why, there wasn't another man in twenty
miles!
You there!" he said to Em. "Changed your mind about me marryin' Janey? If you ain't,
you better! I done made up my mind! No use this here claim standin' idle! No use
that there girl runnin' around loose, botherin' men, worryin' me."
They all froze, looking at the big man in astonishment. "Carl Richter." Em Peters's
voice was level. "You get out of here! You may go away and don't come back, or the
first time the men from the mines come by, I'll set them on you!"
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I
LOUIS
Richter laughed. "Why, that's . . ." His voice broke and trailed off, for the tall
young boy was standing there, looking at him calmly. "Who the hell are you?" Richter
demanded.
"You-all," Tandy Meadows said, in his soft East Texas voice, "heard what the lady
said. She said you should go"
Richter's eyes went cruel. He had been startled, but then he saw this was only a
boy, and a country boy at that. "Shut your trap, pup!" he said. "Beat it. I'll give
you what's coming to you 'less you git yourself down
the road."
"Ain't figurin' on it," Tandy said quietly. He moved over to stand be tween Carl
Richter and the women.
Richter hesitated. This youngster was bigger than he had thought. He had bi hands
and in the lean outhful bod there was t d, d
ligence that warned him whatever else this boy might be, he had probably done enough
fighting around school and the farms to take care of him self. All the boyish shyness
was gone now, and Tandy was sure of himself.
"You got no business here," Richter growled. "You git out while the gittin's good.
I'm coming back an' you better be out of here. If you ain't," he added, "there'll
be a shootin'."
He turned abruptly and walked away, and Tandy looked after him, faint worry in his
eyes. But Janey rushed to him at once. "Thank you!" she exclaimed. "I-I can't imagine
what got into him." She blushed with embarrassment. "He's talking like a crazy man."
"I reckon." He swallowed, his eyes going to Em. And Em Peters was frightened. What
had she drawn this poor boy into? Richter had killed men. She knew that. A man down
in town had told Dave about it. Richter had killed several men with a gun. One man
he had beaten to death with a neck yoke. He was a bitter, revengeful man.
Tandy picked up his cup. "Any more o' that there coffee, ma'am?" he asked gently.
She gave it to him, then held the pot. "Tandy," she said, "you'd better go. We'll
manage all right. I don't want any trouble."
He was still a boy, but there was steel in him. The eyes into which she looked now
were cool, but they were eyes strangely mature. "I reckon I'll stay, ma'am. Down
where I come from, we don't back water for no man.
"I figure," he added, "I'd better stick aroun' until your own man fetches back with
the supplies. Meanwhilst, I can work some on that rocker. Never worked one o' them
an' the practice won't do me harm.
He had been working for two hours when Janey came down the path with a pot of coffee
and two big sandwiches. She had changed her dress and the one she wore now was freshly
smoothed and clean. She looked at him, longing to be pretty in his eyes, and finding
that the quick wonder in them was even more than she had hoped.
g ,y y asu ie neg
she?
ing
and
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He said
he her mo Suc
anc har the thr
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139
 FOR J A N E Y 1 3 5
"Are you getting any color?" she asked. "Pa said this was one of the claims along
the creek."
"Seems good," he agreed, accepting the coffee and sandwiches. Neen bites he looked
at her. "You sparkin' anybody?" he asked.
Her chin lifted. "Who wants to know?" He said nothing to that and danced at him.
"Don't you suppose I know any boys? Don't you supthey would like me?"
There was not another boy within miles, and Janey Peters had not a boy even close
to her own age for four months, but he was not goto know
that.
"Sure. I figure so."
"Well, then. Don't you be sayin' I don't know any boys! I do so!" He looked at her
in complete astonishment. "Why ..." He was uti flabbergasted. "I didn't say that-!"
"You did so, Tandy Meadows! You did so!" Tears welled into her eyes panic tightened
in his throat.
"No, ma'am!" he protested desperately. "I never done it! I mean[, I sure didn't aim
to!"
"You needn't think you can come along here an' . . . an' . . . don't call ma'am!"
He got up. "Guess I better get back to work," he said lamely. Women! thought, who
could ever figure them out? No matter what a man , he was always in the wrong. There
was no logic in them.
Janey pouted, occasionally stealing a careful look at Tandy to be sure was feeling
sufficiently miserable. Soon she began to feel miserable elf. She turned a little
bit toward him, but he avoided her eyes. She ied her feet on the gravel, and he stole
a look at her shoes and ankles. denly aware of her scuffed shoes, she hastily drew
her feet under her t, flushing with embarrassment.
Tandy had not noticed. He dipped up water with a wooden bucket let some run into
the rocker. Then, holding the bucket with one d, he began to rock vigorously, letting
water trickle over the edge of bucket. The water and the rocking washed the smaller
sizes of gravel ,ugh the screen into the apron. The abrupt stops at the end of each
he jarred the gravel against the sides of the rocker.
Putting down the bucket, he mashed up some chunks of clay and ed them in water, agitating
the rocker as he did so. When no more isles came through the screen, he searched
the heavier gravel for any gets of a size too large to pass through the mesh. Then
he dumped the 1gs and filled the rocker once more. Sweat darkened his shirt and trickiown
his cheeks. Acutely conscious of Janey's presence, he said nothing. was sure he had
grossly offended her, but suddenly she was bending the apron. "Oh, you've got some
color!" she exclaimed. "A lot!"
140
 1 3 6
He swept the particles together and then blew out the lighter grains of sand. It
was not, he decided, a bad bit of work.
Several times Em Peters came to the edge of the bank and looked down toward the bench.
There was no more talking now. Tandy was working hard and without any breaks. Janey
hovered about him excitedly. Once they found a nugget the size of the end of his
finger and she danced with excitement.
When he cleaned the riffles and the apron after two hours of work, he had nearly
an ounce and a half of gold to put in the leather sack.
It was
a good claim. No wonder that Richter was bothering around. Trust him to be thinking
of the claim as well as Janey. Although, he de cided, beginning to show some intelligence
about girls, it would be bet ter not to suggest that to her. At sundown, when he
walked wearily back up the path to the cabin, he had two ounces of gold.
Em smiled at him. "My! You've worked hard! How did it go? Did Janey bother you?"
"Naw!" he said. "I didn't even know she was there."
Janey flared. "Oh-oh, you didn't?" She flounced away angrily and began rattling pans.
Tandy stared after her, deeply puzzled. Em put her hand on his shoul der. "That's
all right, Tandy," she said. "Girls are like that."
"That's right!" Janey called out angrily. "Take his side!" She burst into tears and
walked away toward the edge of the woods.
Tandy stared after her helplessly, and then dried his hands and fol lowed. "Look,"
he protested. "I didn't-"
"Oh, go away!" She turned half around, not looking at him. "Don't talk to me!"
He looked at the back of her neck where little whorls of hair curled against a whiteness
the sun had not reached. He hesitated, tempted to kiss her neck, but the thought
made him flush guiltily. Instead, he lifted a ten tative hand to her shoulder.
She let it rest there a minute, then jerked her shoulder away. "Don't touch me!"
she said.
He looked at her, then slowly turned and walked back to the fire where Em smiled
kindly and handed him a plate and a cup. He sat down, suddenly conscious of his hunger,
and began to eat. He was enjoying the food hugely when he saw Janey come up to the
fire, her face streaked with tears. She glared at him. "That's
it-eat! All you ever think about is eating!"
Tandy looked at her in astonishment, his mind filled with protest. Words rose to
his lips but were stifled there. He looked at his food, and suddenly his appetite
was gone. Disgustedly, he got to his feet. Whoever could figure a girl out, anyway?
What was she mad about?
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He turned back to Em. "Ma'am," he said, his eyes showing his misery, "I reckon I'm
makin' trouble here. Janey, she's some aggravated with me, so I figure you'd best
take this here gold. I'll be walkin' along."
"She's not really angry," Em said. "Girls are that way. I expect they albe. A girl
has to fuss a certain amount or she doesn't feel right."
bways will
"I don't know about that," he said doubtfully. "Sally, she"
Janey had turned on him. "So that's it! You've got a-a-" Tears rose to her eyes.
"You've got a sweetheart!"
"No such thing!" he protested.
"Well." Her head came up and her eyes flared. "I don't care!"
Janey turned away from him, her chin high. He pushed the gold sack into Em Peters's
hand and picked up his pack and shotgun and turned away. Em stared after him helplessly,
and Janey, hearing his retreating footsteps, turned sharply, pure agony in her eyes.
She took an involuntary step after him, then stopped. Tandy Meadows walked into the
brush, and they heard him moving away toward the main trail.
Wearily, Em Peters began to scrape the food from the dishes. Neither of them saw
Richter until he was close alongside them. "Pulled out, did he? I figured he would."
Em Peters faced him. "You go away, Carl Richter! I don't want you around here, nor
any of your kind!"
Richter laughed. "Don't be a fool!" he said. "I'm stayin'. You'll get used to me."
He looked around. "Janey, you pour me some of that coffee" "I'll do no such thing!"
Richter's face turned ugly. With a quick step, he grabbed for her. "I'd not be doin'
that."
All eyes turned toward Tandy Meadows, who had come silently back through the trees.
Carl Richter stood very still, choking with fury. He had thought the boy was gone.
By the-! He'd show him. He wheeled and started for his rifle.
"Go ahead.' Tandy was calm. "You pick that rifle up. That's what I want."
"I'll kill you!" Richter shouted.
"I reckon not." Tandy Meadows eared back the Roper's hammer. Not over fifteen yards
separated them. Richter considered that and four loads of buckshot in the cylinder
of the boy's shotgun and felt a little sick. He backed off warily from the rifle.
"I ain't huntin' no trouble!" he said hoarsely.
"Then you start travelin', mister. I see you along this crick again, an' I'll fill
your measly hide with buckshot. You head for Hangtown, you hear me?"
got a claim!" Richter protested.
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"You get you another one." Tandy Meadows had come from a country where there were
few girls but lots of fights. What he lacked in knowledge of the one he more than
made up with the other. "You don't get no second chance. Next time I just start ashootin'."
He stood there, watching Richter start down the trail. He felt a hand rest lightly
on his sleeve. Janey said nothing at all, watching the dark figure on the evening
trail.
"Did"-the voice was low-"did you like Sally ... very much?" "Uh-huh."
"Did ... do you like her better than me?" "Not near so much," he said.
She moved against him, her head close to his shoulder. Sally was his sister, but
he wasn't going to tell Janey that.
He was beginning to learn about women.
143
 Elisha Comes to Red Horse
There is a new church in the town of Red Horse. A clean white church of board and
bat with a stained-glass window, a tall pointed steeple, and a bell that we've been
told came all the way
from Youngstown, Ohio. Nearby is a comfortable parsonage, a two-story house with
a garreted roof, and fancy gingerbread under the eaves.
Just down the hill from the church and across from the tailings of what was once
the King James Mine is a carefully kept cemetery of white headstones and neatly fitted
crosses. It is surrounded by a spiked iron fence six feet high, and the gate is always
fastened with a heavy lock. We open it up only for funerals and when the groundskeeper
makes his rounds. Outsiders standing at the barred gate may find that a bit odd ...
but the people of Red Horse wouldn't have it any other way.
Visitors come from as far away as Virginia City to see our church, and on Sundays
when we pass the collection, why, quite a few of those strangers ante up with the
rest of us. Now Red Horse has seen its times of boom and bust and our history is
as rough as any other town in the West, but our new church has certainly become the
pride of the county.
And it is all thanks to the man that we called Brother Elisha.
HE WAS six feet five inches tall and he came into town a few years ago rid ing the
afternoon stage. He wore a black broadcloth frock coat and car ried a small valise.
He stepped down from the stage, swept off his tall black hat, spread his arms, and
lifted his eyes to the snowcapped ridges beyond the town. When he had won every eye
on the street he said, "I come to bring deliverance, and eternal life!"
And then he crossed the street to the hotel, leaving the sound of his magnificent
voice echoing against the false-fronted, unpainted buildings of our street.
In our town we've had our share of the odd ones, and many of the finest and best,
but this was something new in Red Horse.
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"A sky pilot, Marshal." Ralston spat into the dust. "We got ourselves another durned
sky pilot!"
"It's a cinch he's no cattleman," I said, "and he doesn't size up like a drummer."
"We've got a sky pilot," Brace grumbled, "and one preacher ought to balance off six
saloons, so we sure don't need another."
"I say he's a gambler," Brennen argued. "That was just a grandstand play. Red Horse
attracts gamblers like manure attracts flies. First time he gets in a game he'll
cold deck you in the most sanctified way you ever did see!"
AT DAYBREAK the stranger walked up the mountain. Years ago lightning had struck the
base of the ridge, and before rain put out the fire it burned its way up the mountain
in a wide avenue. Strangely, nothing had ever again grown on that slope. Truth to
tell, we'd had some mighty dry years after that, and nothing much had grown anywhere.
The Utes were superstitious about it. They said the lightning had put a curse on
the mountain, but we folks in Red Horse put no faith in that. Or not much.
It was almighty steep to the top of that ridge, and every step the stranger took
was in plain sight of the town, but he walked out on that spring morning and strode
down the street and up the mountain. Those long legs of his took him up like he was
walking a graded road, and when he got to the flat rock atop the butte he turned
back toward the town and lifted his arms to the heavens.
"He's prayin'," Ralston said, studying him through Brennen's glass. "He's sure enough
prayin'!"
"I maintain he's a gambler," Brennen insisted. "Why can't he do his praying in church
like other folks. Ask the reverend and see what he says." Right then the reverend
came out of the Emporium with a small sack
of groceries under his arm, and noting the size of the sack, I felt like ducking
into Brennen's Saloon. When prosperity and good weather come to Red Horse, we're
inclined to forget our preacher and sort of stave off the doctor bills, too. Only
in times of drought or low-grade ore do we at tend church regular and support the
preacher as we ought.
"What do you make of him, Preacher?" Brace asked.
The reverend squinted his eyes at the tiny figure high upon the hill. "There are
many roads to grace," he said, "perhaps he has found his" "If he's a preacher, why
don't he pray in church?" Brennen protested. "The groves were God's first temples,"
the reverend quoted. "There's no
need to pray in church. A prayer offered up anywhere is heard by the Lord." Ralston
went into the hotel, and we followed him in to see what name the man had used. It
was written plain as print:
Brother Elisha, Damascus.
We stood back and looked at each other. We'd never had anybody in
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Red Horse from Damascus. We'd never had anybody from farther away than Denver except
maybe a drummer who claimed he'd been to St. Louis ... but we never believed him.
It was nightfall before Brother Elisha came down off the mountain, and he went at
once to the hotel. Next day Brace came up to Brennen and me. "You know, I was talking
to Sampson. He says he's never even seen Brother Elisha yet."
"What of it?" Brennen says. "I still say he's a gambler."
"If he don't eat at Sampson's"-Brace paused for emphasis-"where does he eat?"
We stared at each other. Most of us had our homes and wives to cook for us, some
of the others batched it, but stoppers-by or ones who didn't favor their own cooking,
they ate at Sampson's. There just wasn't anywhere else to eat.
"There he goes now," Brennen said, "looking sanctimonious as a dog caught in his
own hen coop."
"Now see here!" Ralston protested. "Don't be talking that way, Brennen. After all,
we don't know who
he might be!"
Brother Elisha passed us by like a pay-car passes a tramp, and turning at the corner
he started up the mountain. It was a good two miles up that mountain and the man
climbed two thousand feet or more, with no switchbacks or twist-arounds, but he walked
right up it. I wouldn't say that was a steep climb, but it wasn't exactly a promenade,
either.
Brace scratched his jaw "Maybe the man's broke," he suggested. "We can't let a man
of God starve right here amongst us. What would the folks in Virginia City say?"
"Who says he's a man of God?" Brennen was always irreverent. "Just because he wears
a black suit and goes up a mountain to pray?"
"It won't do," Brace insisted, "to have it said a preacher starved right here in
Red Horse."
"The reverend," I suggested, "might offer some pointers on that." They ignored me,
looking mighty stiff and self-important.
"We could take up a collection," Ralston suggested.
Brother Elisha had sure stirred up a sight of conversation around town, but nobody
knew anything because he hadn't said two words to anybody. The boys at the hotel,
who have a way of knowing such things, said he hadn't nothing in his valise but two
shirts, some underwear, and a Bible.
That night there was rain. It was soft, pleasant spring rain, the kind We call a
growing rain, and it broke a two-year dry spell. Whenever we get a rain like that
we know that spring has surely come, for they are warm rains and they melt the snow
from the mountains and start the seeds germinating again. The snow gone from the
ridges is the first thing we notice after such a rain, but next morning it wasn't
only the snow, for
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something else had happened. Up that long-dead hillside where Brother Elisha walked,
there was a faint mist of green, like the first sign of grow_ ing grass.
Brace came out, then Ralston and some others, and we stood looking up the mountain.
No question about it, the grass was growing where no grass had grown in years. We
stared up at it with a kind of awe and won dering.
"It's him!" Brace spoke in a low, shocked voice. "Brother Elisha has done this"
"Have you gone off your head?" Brennen demanded irritably. "This is just the first
good growing weather we've had since the fire. The last few years there's been little
rain and that late, and the ground has been cold right into the summer."
"You believe what you want," Ralston said. "We know what we can see. The Utes knew
that hillside was accursed, but now he's walked on it, the curse is lifted. He said
he would bring life, and he has."
It was all over town. Several times folks tried to get into talk with Brother Elisha,
but he merely lifted a hand as if blessing them and went his way. But each time he
came down from the mountain, his cheeks were flushed with joy and his eyes were glazed
like he'd been looking into the eternity of heaven.
All this time nothing was heard from Reverend Sanderson, so what he thought about
Brother Elisha, nobody knew. Here and there we began to hear talk that he was the
new Messiah, but nobody seemed to pay much mind to that talk. Only it made a man
right uneasy ... how was one expected to act toward a Messiah?
In Red Horse we weren't used to distinguished visitors. It was out of the way, back
in the hills, off the main roads east and west. Nobody ever came to Red Horse, unless
they were coming to Red Horse.
Brennen had stopped talking. One time after he'd said something sar castic it looked
like he might be mobbed, so he kept his mouth shut, and I was just as satisfied,
although it didn't seem to me that he'd changed his opinion of Brother Elisha. He
always was a stubborn cuss.
Now personally, I didn't cater to this Messiah talk. There was a time or two when
I had the sneaking idea that maybe Brennen knew what he was talking about, but I
sure enough didn't say it out loud. Most people in Red Horse were kind of proud of
Brother Elisha even when he made them uncomfortable. Mostly I'm a man likes a hand
of poker now and again, and I'm not shy about a bottle, although not likely to get
all liquored up. On the other hand, I rarely miss a Sunday at meeting unless the
fish ing is awful good, and I contribute. Maybe not as much as I could, but I contribute.
The reverend was an understanding sort of man, but about this here
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 E L I S H A COMES T O RED HORSE 1 4 3
Brother Elisha, I wasn't sure. So I shied away from him on the street, but come Sunday
I was in church. Only a half dozen were there. That was the day Brother Elisha held
his first meeting.
There must've been three hundred people out there on that green mountainside when
Brother Elisha called his flock together. Nobody knew how the word got around, but
suddenly everybody was talking about it and most of them went out of curiosity.
By all accounts Brother Elisha turned out to be a Hell-and-damnation preacher with
fire and thunder in his voice, and even there in the meeting house while the reverend
talked we could hear those mighty tones rolling up against the rock walls of the
mountains and sounding in the canyons as Brother Elisha called on the Lord to forgive
the sinners on the Great Day coming.
Following Sunday I was in church again, but there was nobody there but old Ansel
Greene's widow who mumbled to herself and never knew which side was up ... except
about money. The old woman had it, but hadn't spent enough to fill a coffee can since
old Ansel passed on.
Just the two of us were there, and the reverend looked mighty down in the mouth,
but nonetheless he got up in the pulpit and looked down at those rows of empty seats
and announced a hymn.
Now I am one of these here folks who don't sing. Usually when hymns are sung I hang
on to a hymnal with both hands and shape the words and rock my head to the tune,
but I don't let any sound come out. But this time there was no chance of that. It
was up to me to sing or get off the spot, and I sang. The surprise came when right
behind me a rich baritone rolled out, and when I turned to look, it was Brennen.
Unless you knew Brennen this wouldn't mean much. Once an Orangeman, Brennen was an
avowed and argumentative atheist. Nothing he liked better than an argument about
the Bible, and he knew more about it than most preachers, but he scoffed at it. Since
the reverend had been in town his one great desire had been to get Brennen into church,
but Brennen just laughed at him, although like all of us he both liked and respected
the reverend.
So here was Brennen, giving voice there back of me, and I doubt if the reverend would
have been as pleased had the church been packed. Brennen sang, no nonsense about
it, and when the responses were read, he spoke out strong and sure.
At the door the reverend shook hands with him. "It is a pleasure to have you with
us, Brother Brennen"
"It's a pleasure to be here, Reverend," Brennen said. "I may not always agree with
you, Parson, but you're a good man, a very good man. You can expect me next Sunday,
sir."
Walking up the street, Brennen said, "My ideas haven't changed, but
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Sanderson is a decent man, entitled to a decent attendance at his church and his
congregation should be ashamed. Ashamed, I say!"
Brennen was alone in his saloon next day. Brother Elisha had given an impassioned
sermon on the sinfulness of man and the coming of the Great Day, and he scared them
all hollow.
You never saw such a changed town. Ralston, who spoke only two languages, American
and profane, was suddenly talking like a Baptist minister at a Bible conference and
looking so sanctimonious it would fair turn a man's stomach.
Since Brother Elisha started preaching, the two emptiest places in town were the
church and the saloon. Nor would I have you thinking wrong of the saloon. In my day
in the West, a saloon was a club, a meet ing place, a forum, and a source of news
all put together. It was the only place men could gather to exchange ideas, do business,
or hear the latest news from the outside.
And every day Brother Elisha went up the mountain.
One day when I stopped by the saloon, Brennen was outside watch ing Brother Elisha
through his field glasses.
"Is he prayin'?" I asked.
"You might say. He lifts his arms to the sky, rants around some, then he disappears
over the hill. Then he comes back and rants around some more and comes down the hill."
"I suppose he has to rest," I said. "Prayin' like that can use up a sight of energy."
"I suppose so," he said doubtfully. After a moment or two, he asked, "By the way,
Marshal, were you ever in Mobeetie?"
By that time most of that great blank space on the mountainside had grown up to grass,
and it grew greenest and thickest right where Brother Elisha walked, and that caused
more talk.
Not in all this time had Brother Elisha been seen to take on any nour ishment, not
a bite of anything, nor to drink, except water from the well. When Sunday came around
again the only two in church were Brennen
and me, but Brennen was there, all slicked up mighty like a winning gam bler, and
when the reverend's wife passed the plate, Brennen dropped in a twenty-dollar gold
piece. Also, I'd heard he'd had a big package of gro ceries delivered around to the
one-room log parsonage.
The town was talking of nothing but Brother Elisha, and it was get ting so a man
couldn't breathe the air around there, it was so filled with sanctified hypocrisy.
You never saw such a bunch of overnight gospel shouters.
Now I can't claim to be what you'd call a religious man, yet I've a re spect for
religion, and when a man lives out his life under the sun and the stars, half the
time riding alone over mountains and desert, then he usuallY
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has a religion although it may not be the usual variety. Moreover, I had a respect
for the reverend.
Brennen had his say about Brother Elisha, but I never did, although there was something
about him that didn't quite tally.
Then the miracle happened.
It was a Saturday morning and Ed Colvin was shingling the new livery barn, and in
a town the size of Red Horse nobody could get away from the sound of that hammer,
not that we cared, or minded the sound. only it was always with us.
And then suddenly we didn't hear it anymore.
Now it wasn't noontime, and Ed was a working sort of man, as we'd discovered in the
two months he'd been in town. It was not likely he'd be quitting so early.
"Gone after lumber," I suggested.
"He told me this morning," Brace said, "that he had enough laid by to last him two
days. He was way behind and didn't figure on quitting until lunchtime."
"Wait," I said, "we'll hear it again."
Only when some time passed and we heard nothing we started for the barn. Ed had been
working mighty close to the peak of what was an unusually steep roof.
We found him lying on the ground and there was blood on his head and we sent for
the doc.
Now Doc McDonald ain't the greatest doctor, but he was all we had aside from the
midwife and a squaw up in the hills who knew herbs. The doc was drunk most of the
time these days and showing up with plenty of money, so's it had been weeks since
he'd been sober.
Doc came over, just weaving a mite, and almost as steady as he usually is when sober.
He knelt by Ed Colvin and looked him over. He listened for a heartbeat and he held
a mirror over his mouth, and he got up and brushed off his knees. "What's all the
rush for? This man is dead!"
We carried him to Doc's place, Doc being the undertaker, too, and we laid him out
on the table in his back room. Ed's face was dead white except for the blood, and
he stared unblinking until the doc closed his eyes.
We walked back to the saloon feeling low We'd not known Ed too well, but he was a
quiet man and a good worker, and we needed such men around our town. Seemed a shame
for him to go when there were others, mentioning no names, who meant less to the
town.
That was the way it was until Brother Elisha came down off the mountain. He came
with long strides, staring straight before him, his face flushed with happiness that
seemed always with him these days. He was abreast of the saloon when he suddenly
stopped.
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It was the first time he had ever stopped to speak to anyone, aside from his preaching.
"What has happened?" he asked. "I miss the sound of the hammer. The sounds of labor
are blessed in the ears of the Lord."
"Colvin fell," Brace said. "He fell from the roof and was killed." Brother Elisha
looked at him out of his great dark eyes and he said, "There is no death. None pass
on but for the Glory of the Lord, and I feel this one passed before his time."
"You may think there's no death," Brace said, "but Ed Colvin looks mighty dead to
me."
He turned his eyes on Brace. "0, ye of little faith: Take me to him." When we came
into Doc McDonald's the air was foul with liquor, and Brace glared at Doc like he'd
committed a blasphemy. Brother Elisha paused briefly, his nose twitching, and then
he walked through to the back room where Ed Colvin lay.
We paused at the door, clustered there, not knowing what to expect, but Brother Elisha
walked up and bowed his head, placing the palm of his right hand on Colvin's brow,
and then he prayed. Never did I know a man who could make a prayer fill a room with
sound like Brother Elisha, but there at the last he took Ed by the shoulders and
he pulled him into a sitting position and he said, "Edward Colvin, your work upon
this earth remains unfinished. For the Glory of the Lord ...
rise!"
And I'll be forever damned if Ed Colvin didn't take a long gasping breath and sit
right up on that table. He looked mighty confused and Brother Elisha whispered in
his ear for a moment and then with a mur mur of thanks Ed Colvin got up and walked
right out of the place.
We stood there like we'd been petrified, and I don't know what we'd been expecting,
but it wasn't this. Brother Elisha said, "The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders
to perform." And then he left us.
Brace looked at me and I looked at Ralston and when I started to speak my mouth was
dry. And just then we heard the sound of a hammer. When I went outside people were
filing into the street and they were
looking up at that barn, staring at Ed Colvin, working away as if nothing had happened.
When I passed Damon, standing in the bank door, his eyes were wide open and his face
white. I spoke to him but he never even heard me or saw me. He was just standing
there staring at Colvin.
By nightfall everybody in town was whispering about it, and when Sunday morning came
they flocked to hear him preach, their faces shin ing, their eyes bright as though
with fever.
When the reverend stepped into the pulpit, Brennen was the only one there besides
me.
Reverend Sanderson looked stricken, and that morning he talked in a low voice, speaking
quietly and sincerely but lacking his usual force.
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"perhaps," he said as we left, "perhaps it is we who are wrong. The Lord gives the
power of miracles to but few."
"There are many kinds of miracles," Brennen replied, "and one mira cle is to find
a sane, solid man in a town that's running after a red wagon." As the three of us
walked up the street together we heard the great
rolling voice of Brother Elisha: "And I say unto you that the gift of life to Brother
Colvin was but a sign, for on the morning of the coming Sabbath we shall go hence
to the last resting place of your loved ones, and there I shall cause them all to
be raised, and they shall live again, and take their places among you as of old!"
You could have dropped a feather. We stood on the street in back of his congregation
and we heard what he said, but we didn't believe it, we couldn't believe it.
He was going to bring back the dead.
Brother Elisha, who had brought Ed Colvin back to life, was now go ing to empty the
cemetery, returning to life all those who had passed on ... and some who had been
helped.
"The Great Day has come!" He lifted his long arms and spread them wide, and his sonorous
voice rolled against the mountains. "And men shall live again for the Glory of All
Highest! Your wives, your mothers, your brothers and fathers, they shall walk beside
you again!"
And then he led them into the singing of a hymn and the three of us walked away.
That was the quietest Sunday Red Horse ever knew. Not a whisper, all day long. Folks
were scared, they were happy, they were inspired. The townsfolk walked as if under
a spell.
Strangely, it was Ed Colvin who said it. Colvin, the man who had gone to the great
beyond and returned ... although he claimed he had no memory of anything after his
fall.
Brace was talking about the joy of seeing his wife again, and Ed said quietly, "You'll
also be seeing your mother-in-law."
Brace's mouth opened and closed twice before he could say anything at all, and then
he didn't want to talk. He stood there like somebody had exploded a charge of powder
under his nose, and then he turned sharply around and walked off.
"I've got more reason than any of you to be thankful," Ed said, his eyes downcast.
"But I'm just not sure this is all for the best."
We all glanced at each other. "Think about it." Ed got up, looking kind of embarrassed.
"What about you, Ralston? You'll have to go back to work. Do you think your uncle
will stand for you loafing and spending the money he worked so hard to get?"
That's right," I agreed, "you'll have to give it all back."
:alston got mad. He started to shout that he wouldn't do any such
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thing, and anyway, if his uncle came back now he would be a changed man, he wouldn't
care for money any longer, he"You don't believe that," Brennen said. "You know darned
well that uncle of yours was the meanest skinflint in this part of the country. Nothing
would change him."
Ralston went away from there. Seemed to me he wanted to do some thinking.
When I turned to leave, Brennen said, "Where are you going?" "Well," I said, "seems
to me I'd better oil up my six-shooters. There's three men in that Boot Hill that
I put there. Looks like I'll have it to do over.
He laughed. "You aren't falling for this, are you?"
"Colvin sounds mighty lively to me," I said, "and come Sunday morning Brother Elisha
has got to put up or shut up."
"You don't believe that their time in the hereafter will have changed those men you
killed."
"Brennen," I said, "if I know the Hame brothers, they'll come out of their graves
like they went into them. They'll come ashootin'."
There had been no stage for several days as the trail had been washed out by a flash
flood, and the town was quiet and it was scared. Completely cut off from the outside,
all folks could do was wait and get more and more frightened as the Great Day approached.
At first everybody had been filled with happiness at the thought of the dead coming
back, and then suddenly, like Brace and Ralston, everybody was taking another thought.
There was the Widow McCann who had buried three husbands out there, all of them fighters
and all of them mean. There were a dozen others with reason to give the matter some
thought, and I knew at least two who were packed and waiting for the first stage
out of town.
Brace dropped in at the saloon for his first drink since Brother Elisha started to
preach. He hadn't shaved and he looked mighty mean. "Why'd he pick on this town?"
he burst out. "When folks are dead they should be left alone. Nobody has a right
to interfere with nature thataway."
Brennen mopped his bar, saying nothing at all.
Ed Colvin dropped around. "Wish that stage would start running. I want to leave town.
Folks treat me like I was some kind of freak." "Stick around," Brennen said. "Come
Sunday the town will be filled
with folks like you. A good carpenter will be able to stay busy, so busy he won't
care what folks say about him. Take Streeter there. He'll need a new house now that
his brother will be wanting his house back."
Streeter slammed his glass on the bar. "All right, damn it!" he shouted angrily,
"I'll build my own house!"
Ralston motioned to me and we walked outside. Brace was there, and Streeter joined
us. "Look," Ralston whispered, "Brace and me, we we
153
 talked it over. Maybe if we were to talk to Brother Elisha ... maybe he'd call the
whole thing off."
"Are you crazy?" I asked.
His eyes grew mean. "You want to try those Hame boys again? Seems to me you came
out mighty lucky the last time. How do you know you'll be so lucky again? Those boys
were pure-dee poison."
That was gospel truth, but I stood there chewing my cigar a minute and then said,
"No chance. He wouldn't listen to us."
Ed Colvin had come up. "A man doing good works," he said, "might be able to use a
bit of money. Although I suppose it would take quite a lot." Brace stood a little
straighter but when he turned to Colvin, the car
penter was hurrying off down the street. When I turned around there was Brennen leaning
on the doorjamb, and he was smiling.
Friday night when I was making my rounds I saw somebody slipping up the back stairs
of the hotel, and for a moment his face was in the light from a window. It was Brace.
Later, I saw Ralston hurrying home from the direction of the hotel, and you'd be
surprised at some of the folks I spotted slipping up those back stairs to commune
with Brother Elisha. Even Streeter, and even Damon.
Watching Damon come down those back stairs I heard a sound be hind me and turned
to see Brennen standing there in the dark. "Seems a lot of folks are starting to
think this resurrection of the dead isn't an un mixed blessing."
You know something?" I said thoughtfully. "Nobody has been atop that hill since Brother
Elisha started his walks. I think I'lljust meander up there and have a look around."
"You've surprised me," Brennen said. "I wouldn't have expected you to be a churchgoing
man. You're accustomed to sinful ways."
"Why, now," I said, "when I come into a town to live, I go to church. If the preacher
is a man who shouts against things, I never go back. I like a man who's for something.
"Like you know, I've been marshal here and there, but never had much trouble with
folks. I leave their politics and religion be. Folks can think the way they want,
act the way they please, even to acting the fool. All I ask is they don't make too
much noise and don't interfere with other people.
"They call me a peace officer, and I try to keep the peace. If a growed-up man gets
himself into a game with a crooked gambler, I don't bother them ... if he hasn't
learned up to then, he may learn, and if he doesn't learn, nothing I tell him will
do him any good."
You think Colvin was really dead?" "Doc said so."
"Suppose he was hypnotized? Suppose he wasn't really dead at all?" After Brennen
went to bed I saddled up and rode out of town.
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Circling around the mountain I rode up to where Brother Elisha used to go to pray.
Brennen had left me with a thought, and Doc had been drink ing a better brand of
whiskey lately.
Brace had drawn money from the bank, and so had Ralston, and old Mrs. Greene had
been digging out in her hen coop, and knowing about those tin cans she buried there
after her husband died kind of sudden, I had an idea what she was digging up.
I made tracks. I had some communicatin' to do and not many hours to do it in.
I spent most of those hours in the saddle. Returning to Red Horse the way I did brought
me to a place where the trail forked, and one way led over behind that mountain with
the burnt-off slope. When I had my horse out of sight I drew up and waited.
It was just growing gray when a rider came down the mountain trail and stopped at
the forks. It was Ed Colvin.
We hadn't anything to talk about right at the moment so I just kept out of sight
in the brush and then followed. He seemed like he was going to meet somebody and
I had a suspicion it was Brother Elisha. And it was. "You got it?" Ed Colvin asked.
"Of course. I told you we could fool these yokels. Now let's-" When I stepped out
of the brush I was holding a shotgun. I said, "The way of the transgressor is hard.
Give me those saddlebags, Delbert."
Brother Elisha stared at me. "I fear there is some mistake," he said with dignity.
"I am Brother Elisha."
"I found those cans and sacks up top of the hill. The ones where you kept your grub
and the grass seed you scattered." I stepped in closer. "You are Delbert Johnson,"
I added, "and the wires over at Russian
Junction say you used to deal a crooked game of faro in Mobeetie. Now give me the
saddlebags."
THE REVEREND has a new church now, and a five-room frame parsonage to replace his
tiny cabin. The dead of Red Horse sleep peacefully and there is a new iron fence
around the cemetery to keep them securely in side. Brennen still keeps his saloon,
but he also passes the collection plate of a Sunday, and the results are far better
than they used to be.
There was a lot of curiosity as to where the reverend came by the money to do the
building, and the good works that followed. Privately, the reverend told Brennen
and me about a pair of saddlebags he found in side the parsonage door that Sunday
morning. But when anyone else asked him he had an answer ready.
"The ravens have provided," he would say, smiling gently, "as they did for Elijah."
Nobody asked any more questions.
155
 The Courting of Griselda
When it came to Griselda Popley, I was down to bedrock and showing no color.
What I mean is, I wasn't getting anyplace. The only thing I'd learned since leaving
the Cumberland in Tennessee was how to work a gold placer claim, but I was doing
no better with that than I was with Griselda.
Her pa, Frank Popley, had a claim just a whoop and a holler down canyon from me.
He had put down a shaft on a flat bench at the bend of the creek and he was down
a ways and making a fair cleanup.
He was scraping rock down there and panning out sixty to seventy dollars a day, and
one time he found a crack where the gold had seeped through and filled in a space
under a layer of rock, and he cleaned out six hundred dollars in four or five minutes.
It sure does beat all how prosperity makes a man critical of all who are less prosperous.
Seems like some folks no sooner get two dollars they can rattle together than they
start looking down their noses at folks who only have two bits.
We were right friendly while Popley was sinking his shaft, but as soon as he began
bringing up gold he started giving me advice and talking me down to Griselda. From
the way he cut up, you'd have thought it was
some ability or knowledge of his that put that gold there. I never saw man get superior
so fast.
He was running me down and talking up that Arvie Wilt who had a claim nearby the
Popley place, and Arvie was a man I didn't cotton to.
He was two inches taller than my six feet and three, and where I pack one hundred
and eighty pounds on that lean a frame, most of it in my chest, shoulders, and arms,
Arvie weighed a good fifty pounds more and he swaggered it around as if almighty
impressed with himself.
He was a big, easy-smiling man that folks took to right off, and it took them a while
to learn he was a man with a streak of meanness in him
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that was nigh on to downright viciousness. Trouble was, a body never saw that mean
streak unless he was in a bind, but when trouble came to him the meanness came out.
But Arvie was panning out gold, and you'd be surprised how that in creased his social
standing there on Horse Collar Creek.
Night after night he was over to the Popleys', putting his big feet un der their
table and being waited on by Griselda. Time to time I was there, too, but they talked
gold and how much they weighed out each day while all I was weighing out was gravel.
He was panning a fine show of color and all I had was a .44 pistol gun, a Henry rifle,
and my mining tools. And as we all know it's the high card in a man's hand to be
holding money when he goes a-courting.
None of us Sacketts ever had much cash money. We were hardwork ing mountain folk
who harvested a lean corn crop off a side-hill farm, and we boys earned what clothes
weren't made at home by trapping muskrats or coon. Sometimes we'd get us a bear,
and otherwise we'd live on razorback hog meat or venison.
Never will forget the time a black bear treed old Orrin, that brother of mine, and
us caught nine miles from home and none of us carrying iron.
You ever tackle a grown bear with a club? Me and Tyrel, we done it. We chunked at
him with rocks and sticks, but he paid them no mind. He was bound and determined
to have Orrin, and there was Orrin up high in the small branches of that tree like
a possum huntin' persimmons.
Chunking did no good, so Tyrel and me cut us each a club and we had at that bear.
He was big and he was mean, but while one of us closed in on him from before, the
other lambasted him from behind. Time to time we'd stop lambasting that bear to advise
Orrin.
Finally that old bear got disgusted and walked off and Orrin came down out of that
tree and we went on to the dance at Skunk Hollow School. Orrin did his fiddling that
night from a sitting stool because the bear had most of his pants.
Right now I felt like he must have felt then. Every day that Griselda girl went a-walking
past my claim paying me no mind but switching her skirts until I was fair sweating
on my neck.
Her pa was a hard man. One time I went over there for supper like I had when I'd
been welcome, back when neither of us had anything. He would stand up there in his
new boots, consulting a new gold watch every minute or two, and talking high and
mighty about the virtues of hard work and the application of brains. And all the
time that Arvie Wilt was a-setting over there making big eyes at Griselda.
If anything, Arvie had more gold than Popley did and he was mighty welcome at table,
but for me the atmosphere was frosting over a mite, and
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 T I I I? ( ' ( ) 1 " I ' 1 ' I N ( . ( ) 1 ( : I 1 ti I : 1 , I1 ,A 1 .5 :3
the only reason I dug in and held on was that I'd scraped my pot empty of beans and
for two days I'd eaten nothing but those skimpy little wild onions.
Now when it came right down to it, Popley knew I'd worked hard as either of them,
but I was showing no color and he wanted a son-in-law who was prosperous, so needing
to find fault, he taken issue with me on fighting.
We boys from the high-up hills aren't much on bowing and scraping, but along about
fighting time, you'll find us around. Back in the Cumberland I grew up to knuckle-and-skull
fighting, and what I hadn't learned there I picked up working west on a keelboat.
Pa, he taught us boys to be honest, to give respect to womenfolk, to avoid trouble
when we could, but to stand our ground when it came to a matter of principle, and
a time or two I'd stood my ground.
That old six-shooter of mine was a caution. It looked old enough to have worn out
three men, but it shot true and worked smooth. My hands are almighty big but I could
fetch that pistol faster than you could blink. Not that I made an issue of it because
Pa taught us to live peaceable.
Only there was that time down to Elk Creek when a stranger slicked an ace off the
bottom, and I taken issue with him.
He had at me with a fourteen-inch blade and my toothpick was home stuck in a tree
where I'd left it after skinning out a deer, so I fetched him a clout alongside the
skull and took the blade from him. A friend of his hit me from behind with a chair,
which I took as unfriendly, and then he fetched out his pistol, so I came up a-shooting.
Seemed like I'd won myself a name as a bad man to trouble, and it saved me some hardship.
Folks spoke polite and men seeking disagreement took the other side of the road,
only it gave Popley something he could lay a hand to, and he began making slighting
remarks about men who got into brawls and cutting scrapes.
Words didn't come easy to me and by the time I'd thought of the right answer I was
home in bed, but when Popley talked I felt like I was disgracing Griselda by coming
a-courting.
So I went back to my claim shanty and looked into the bean pot again, but it was
still empty, and I went a-hunting wild onions.
Nobody could ever say any of us Sacketts fought shy of work, so I dug away at my
claim until I was satisfied there was nothing there but barten gravel. Climbing out
of that shaft I sat down and looked at my hole card.
There was nothing left but to load up my gear on that spavined mule I had and leave
the country. I was out of grub, out of cash money, and out of luck. Only leaving
the country meant leaving Griselda, and worst of all, it meant leaving her to Arvie
Wilt.
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Time or two I've heard folks say there's always better fish in the sea but not many
girls showed me attention. Many a time I sat lonely aloe, the wall, feared to ask
a girl to dance because I knew she'd turn me down and no girl had paid me mind for
a long time until Griselda showed up.
She was little, she was pert, and she had quick blue eyes and an up tilted nose and
freckles where you didn't mind them. She'd grown into woman and was feeling it, and
there I was, edged out by the likes of Arvi, Wilt.
Popley, he stopped by. There I was, a-setting hungry and discouraged and he came
down creek riding that big brown mule and he said, "Tell I'd take it kindly if you
stayed away from the house." He cleared his throa because I had a bleak look to my
eye. "Griselda is coming up to marrying time and I don't want her confused. You've
got nothing, and Arvie Wil is a prosperous mining man. Meaning no offense, but you
see how it is.'
He rode on down to the settlement and there was nothing for me to do but go to picking
wild onions. The trouble was, if a man picked all day with both hands he couldn't
pick enough wild onions to keep him alive
It was rough country, above the canyons, but there were scatterer trees and high
grass plains, with most of the ridges topped with crests o pine. Long about sundown
I found some deer feeding in a parklike clearing
They were feeding, and I was downwind of them, so I straightener up and started walking
toward them, taking my time. When I saw then tails start to switch, I stopped.
A deer usually feeds into the wind so he can smell danger, and when his tail starts
to wiggle he's going to look up and around, so I stood righ still. Deer don't see
all too good, so unless a body is moving they se( nothing to be afraid of. They looked
around and went back to feedin? and I moved closer until their tails started again,
and then I stopped.
Upshot of it was, I got a good big buck, butchered him, and broiler a steak right
on the spot, I was that hungry. Then I loaded the best cuts 0 meat into the hide
and started back, still munching on wild onions.
Down on the creek again the first person I saw was Griselda, anc right off she began
switching her skirts as she walked to meet me.
"I passed your claim," she said, "but you were not there"
She had little flecks of brown in her blue eyes and she stood uncon" fortably close
to a man. "No, ma'am, I've give ... given ... it up. You. pa is right. That claim
isn't up to much."
"Are you coming by tonight?"
"Seems to me I wore out my welcome. No, ma'am, I'm not cominl by. However, if you're
walking that way, I'll drop off one of these her venison steaks."
Fresh meat was scarce along that creek, and the thought occurred tha I might sell
what I didn't need, so after leaving a steak with the Popleys'
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 COURTING O F G R I S E L D A 1 5 5
quarts of beans, a pint of rice, and six pounds of flour.
Setting in my shack that night I wrassled with my problem and an idea that had come
to me. Astride that spavined mule I rode down to the settlement and spent my twelve
dollars on flour, a mite of sugar, and some other fixings, and back at the cabin
I washed out some flour sacks for aprons, and made me one of those chef hats like
I'd seen in a newspaper picture. Then I set to making bear-sign.
Least, that's what we called them in the mountains. Most folks on the flatland called
them doughnuts, and some mountain folk did, but not around our house. I made up a
batch of bear-sign and that good baking smell drifted down along the creek, and it
wasn't more than a few minutes later until a wild-eyed miner came running and falling
up from the creek, and a dozen more after him.
"Hey! Is that bear-sign we smell? Is them doughnuts?"
"Cost you," I said. "I'm set up for business. Three doughnuts for two bits."
That man set right down and ate two dollars' worth and by the time he was finished
there was a crowd around reaching for them fast as they came out of the Dutch oven.
Folks along that creek lived on skimpy bacon and beans, sometimes some soda biscuits,
and real baking was unheard-of. Back to home no woman could make doughnuts fast enough
for we Sackett boys who were all good eaters, so we took to making them ourselves.
Ma often said nobody could make bear-sign like her son, William Tell Sackett.
By noon I was off to the settlement for more makings, and by nightfall everybody
on the creek knew I was in business. Next day I sold a barrel of doughnuts, and by
nightfall I had the barrel full again and a washtub
nobody would get a bath until I'd run out of
You have to understand how tired a man can get of grease and beans to understand
how glad they were to taste some honest-to-gosh, downtoearth doughnuts.
Sun-up and here came Arvie Wilt. Arvie was a big man with a big appetite and he set
right down and ran up a bill of four dollars. I was making money.
Arvie sat there eating doughnuts and forgetting all about his claim. Come noon, Griselda
showed up. She came a-prancing and a-preening it up the road and she stayed around,
eating a few doughnuts and talking with me. The more she talked the meaner Arvie
got.
Griselda," he said, "you'd best get along home. You know how your pa feels about
you trailing around with just any drifter."
kik'Well, sir, I put down my bowl and wiped the flour off my hands.
peddled the rest of it, selling out for twelve dollars cash money, two
.,.,,v i 11dL wasnouu was one only one along one creeK, ana it iooxea 11Ke
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 1 5 6
"Are you aiming that at me?" I asked. "If you are, you just pay me my four dollars
and get off down the pike."
He was mean, like I've said, and he did what I hoped he'd do. He balled up a fist
and threw it at me. Trouble was, he took so much time getting his fist ready and
his feet in position that I knew what he was going to do, so when he flung that punch,
I just stepped inside and hit him where he'd been putting those doughnuts.
He gulped and turned green around the jowls and white around the eyes, so I knocked
down a hand he stuck at me and belted him again in the same place. Then I caught
him by the shirt front before he could fall and backhanded him twice across the mouth
for good measure.
Griselda was a-hauling at my arms. "Stop it, you awful man! You hurt him!"
"That ain't surprising, Griselda," I said. "It was what I had in mind." So I went
back to making bear-sign, and after a bit Arvie got up, with Griselda helping, and
he wiped the blood off his lips and he said, "I'll get even! I'll get even with you
if it's the last thing I do!"
"And it just might be," I said, and watched them walk off together. There went Griselda.
Right out of my life, and with Arvie Wilt, too. Two days later I was out of business
and broke. Two days later I had a
barrel of doughnuts I couldn't give away and my private gold rush was over. Worst
of all, I'd put all I'd made back into the business and there I was, stuck with it.
And it was Arvie Wilt who did it to me.
As soon as he washed the blood off his face he went down to the settlement. He had
heard of a woman down there who was a baker, and he fetched her back up the creek.
She was a big, round, jolly woman with pink cheeks, and she was a first-rate cook.
She settled down to making apple pies three inches thick and fourteen inches across
and she sold a cut of a pie for two bits and each pie made just four pieces.
She also baked cakes with high-grade all over them. In mining country rich ore is
called high-grade, so miners got to calling the icing on cake high-grade, and there
I sat with a barrel full of bear-sign and everybody over to the baker woman's buying
cake and pie and suchlike.
Then Popley came by with Griselda riding behind him on that brown mule, headed for
the baker woman's. "See what a head for business Arvie's got? He'll make a fine husband
for Griselda."
Griselda? She didn't even look at me. She passed me up like a pay-car passing a tramp,
and I felt so low I could have walked under a snake with a high hat on.
Three days later I was back to wild onions. My grub gave out, couldn't peddle my
flour, and the red ants got into my sugar. All one day I tried sifting red ants out
of sugar; as fast as I got them out they got back in until there was more ants than
sugar.
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 COURTING O F G R I S E L D A 1 5 7
So I gave up and went hunting. I hunted for two days and couldn't find a deer, nor
anything else but wild onions.
Down to the settlement they had a fandango, a real old-time square dance, and I had
seen nothing of the kind since my brother Orrin used to fiddle for them back to home.
So I brushed up my clothes and rubbed some deer grease on my boots, and I went to
that dance.
Sure enough, Griselda was there, and she was with Arvie Wilt.
Arvie was all slicked out in a black broadcloth suit that fit him a little too soon,
and black boots so tight he winced when he put a foot down. Arvie spotted me and
they fetched to a halt right beside me.
"Sackett," Arvie said, "I hear you're scraping bottom again. Now my baker woman needs
a helper to rev up her pots and pans, and if you want the job-"
"I don't."
"Just thought I'd ask,"-he grinned maliciously-"seein' you so good at woman's work."
He saw it in my eyes so he grabbed Griselda and they waltzed away, grinning. Thing
that hurt, she was grinning, too.
"That Arvie Wilt," somebody said, "there's a man will amount to something. Popley
says he has a fine head for business."
"For the amount of work he does," somebody else said, "he sure has a lot of gold.
He ain't spent a day in that shaft in a week."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Ask them down to the settlement. He does more gambling than mining, according to
some."
That baker woman was there, waltzing around like she was light as a feather, and
seeing her made me think of a Welshman I knew Now you take a genuine Welshman, he
can talk a bird right out of a tree . . . I started wondering ... how would he do
with a widow woman who was a fine baker?
That Welshman wasn't far away, and we'd talked often, the year be fore. He liked
a big woman, he said, the jolly kind and who could enjoy making good food. I sat
down and wrote him a letter.
Next morning early I met up with Griselda. "You actually marrying that Arvie?"
Her pert little chin came up and her eyes were defiant. "A girl has to think of her
future, Tell Sackett! She can't be tying herself to a-a tte'er-do-well! Mr. Wilt
is a serious man. His mine is very successful" her nose tilted-"and so is the bakery!"
She turned away, then looked back. "And if you expect any girl to like you you'd
better stop eating those onions! They're simply awful!"
And if I stopped eating wild onions, I'd starve to death. Not that I wasn't half-starved,
anyway.
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That day I went farther up the creek than ever, and the canyon nar rowed to high
walls and the creek filled the bottom, wall to wall, and I walked ankle deep in water
going through the narrows. And there on a sandy beach were deer tracks, old tracks
and fresh tracks, and I decided this was where they came to drink.
So I found a grassy ledge above the pool and alongside an outcrop ping of rock, and
there I settled down to wait for a deer. It was early after noon and a good bit of
time remained to me.
There were pines on the ridge behind me, and the wind sounded fine, humming through
their needles. I sat there for a bit, enjoying the shade, and then I reached around
and pulled a wild onion from the grass, lifting it up to brush away the sand and
gravel clinging to the roots....
IT WAS SUNDOWN when I reached my shanty, but I didn't stop, I rode on into the settlement.
The first person I saw was the Welshman. He was smiling from ear to ear, and beside
him was the baker woman.
"Married!" he said cheerfully. "Just the woman I've been looking for!"
And off down the street they went, arm in arm. Only now it didn't matter anymore.
For two days then I was busy as all get-out. I was down to the settle ment and back
up above the narrows of the canyon, and then I was down again.
Putting my few things into a pack, and putting the saddle on that old mule of mine,
I was fixing to leave the claim and shanty for the last time when who should show
up but Frank Popley.
He was riding his brown mule with Griselda riding behind him, and they rode up in
front of the shack. Griselda slid down off that mule and ran up and threw her arms
around me and kissed me right on the lips.
"Oh, Tell! We heard the news! Oh, we're so happy for you! Pa was just saying that
he always knew you had the stuff, that you had what it takes!"
Frank Popley looked over at me and beamed. "Can't keep a good man down, boy! You
sure can't! Griselda, she always said, `Pa, Tell is the best of the lot,' an' she
was sure enough right!"
Suddenly a boot crunched on gravel, and there was Arvie, looking mighty mean and
tough, and he was holding a Walker Colt in his fist, aimed right at me.
Did you ever see a Walker Colt? Only thing it lacks to be a cannon is a set of wheels.
"You ain't a-gonna do it!" Arvie said. "You can't have Griselda!" "You can have Griselda,"
I heard myself say, and was astonished to realize that I meant it.
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 THE COURTING O F G R I S E L D A 1 5 9
"You're not fooling me! You can't get away with it." And his thumb came forward to
cock that pistol.
Like I said, Arvie wasn't too smart or he'd have cocked his gun as he drew it, so
I just fetched out my six-shooter and let the hammer slip from under my thumb as
it came level.
Deliberately, I held it a little high, and the .44 slug smashed him in the shoulder.
It knocked him sidewise and he let go of that big pistol and staggered back two steps
and sat down hard.
"You're a mighty disagreeable man, Arvie," I said, "and not much ac count. When the
boys down at the settlement start finding the marks you put on those cards you'll
have to leave the country, but I reckon you an' Griselda deserve each other."
She was looking at me with big eyes and pouty lips because she'd heard the news,
but I wasn't having any.
"You-all been washing gold along the creek," I said, "but you never stopped to think
where those grains of gold started from. Well, I found and staked the mother lode,
staked her from Hell to breakfast, and one day's take will be more than you've taken
out since you started work. I figure now I'll dig me out a goodly amount of money,
then I'll sell my claims and find me some friends that aren't looking at me just
to see what I got."
They left there walking down that hill with Arvie astride the mule making pained
sounds every time it took a step.
WHEN I HAD PULLED that wild onion up there on that ledge overlooking the deer run,
there were bits of gold in the sand that clung to the roots, and when I scraped the
dirt away from the base of that outcrop, she was all there ... wire gold lying in
the rock like a jewelry store window.
Folks sometimes ask me why I called it the Wild Onion Mining Company.
164
 Booty for a Badman
W
hen my roan topped out on the ridge, the first thing I saw was that girl. She was
far off, but a man riding lonesome country gets so he can pick out anything strange
to it, and
this girl was standing up straight beside the trail like she was waiting for a stage.
Trouble was, nothing but riders or freight wagons used that trail, and seldom.
With fifty pounds of gold riding with me and three days ahead of me, I was skittish
of folks. Most times wild country is less trouble than people, no matter how rough
the country. And no woman had a right to be standing out there in that empty desert-mountain
country.
We Sacketts began carrying rifles as soon as we stood tall enough to keep both ends
off the ground.
When I was fourteen I traveled from Cumberland Gap in Tennessee down to the Pine
Log Mountains in Georgia, living on cougar meat and branch water, and I killed my
own cougars.
Man-grown at fifteen, I hoofed it north and joined up with the Union and fought at
Shiloh, and after our outfit was surrendered by a no account colonel, I was among
those exchanged to go north and fight the Sioux in Dakota.
At nineteen I saddled our roan and fetched it for the west to try my hand at gold-panning,
but I wasn't making out. Seems like everybody in camp was showing color but me, and
I was swallowing my belt notch by notch for lack of eating when those four men came
to my fire.
Worst of it was, I couldn't offer them. There I was, booting up for a fresh day with
my coffeepot on the fire so's people wouldn't know I hadn't even coffee, but all
there was in the pot was water. I dearly wanted to of fer them, but I was shamed
to admit I was fresh out of coffee-three days out, actually. And so hungry that my
stomach thought my throat had been cut.
"Tell," Squires suggested, "you've had no luck with mining, so no
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 BOOTY F O R
body would suspect you of carrying gold. If you rode out of camp today, folks would
take it for granted you had called it deep enough and quit. That way you could carry
our gold to Hardyville and nobody the wiser."
The four men facing me had taken out the most dust and, knowing about the Coopers,
they were worried men. Three of them were family men and that gold meant schooling
for their youngsters and homes for their wives and capital for themselves. They were
poor, hard-working men, deserving what they had dug up.
Thing was, how to get it past the Coopers?
"We'll give you one hundred dollars," Hodge said, "if you make it through."
With the best of luck it was a five-day ride, which figured out to twenty dollars
a day. With such a grubstake I could take out for California or come back with a
grubstake.
My belly was as empty as my prospect hole, and it didn't seem like I had much choice.
Coopers or no Coopers, it sized up like the fastest hun dred dollars I would ever
make. It was Bill Squires done it for me, as we'd talked friendly ever since I staked
claim on the creek.
Jim Hodge, Willy Mander and Tom Padgett stood there waiting for me to speak up, and
finally I said, "I'll do it, of course, and glad of the chance. Only, I am a stranger,
and-"
"Squires swears by you," Padgett interrupted, "and even if we don't know you very
well, he's known you and your family. If he says you are honest, that's all there
is to it."
"And this is a chance to get you a stake," Squires interrupted. "What can you lose?"
Well, the last two men who rode out of camp with gold were found dead alongside the
trail, shot down like you'd shoot a steer; and one of them was Jack Walker, a man
I'd known. Neither of them was carrying as much as I'd have.
"Take a pack horse," Squires suggested, "load your gear." He glanced around and lowered
his voice. "It seems like somebody here in camp in forms the Coopers, but nobody
will know about this but us, and all of us have a stake in it. "
Later, when the others had gone, Squires said, "Hope you didn't mind my saying I'd
known your family. They were willing to trust you if I did, but I wanted them to
feel better."
So I packed up and rode off, and in my saddlebags there was fifty Pounds of gold,
worth around a thousand dollars a pound at the time, and in my pocket I'd a note
signed by all four men that I was to have a hun dred dollars when the gold was delivered.
Never had I seen that much cash money, and since the war I'd not had even ten dollars
at one time.
that woman standing down there sized up like trouble
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 1 6 2
Pa, he always warned us boys to fight shy of women. "They'll trouble you," Pa said.
"Love 'em and leave 'em, that's the way. Don't you get tan gled up with no female
woman. They got more tricks they can do than a monkey on sixty feet of grapevine."
"Don't believe that, Tell," Ma would say. "You treat women right. You treat a woman
like she was your sister, you hear?"
Pa, he would say, "There's two kinds of women, Tell, good and bad, and believe me,
a good woman can cause a man more trouble than a bad one. You fight shy of them."
So I fought shy. Of mountain cats and bears, of muskrat and deer, even of horses
and cows I knew a sight, but I wasn't up on womenfolk. Orrin now-he was my brother-he
was a fiddler and a singer, and fid dlers and singers have a way with women. At home
when strange women folk showed up, I'd taken to the hills.
Looked to me like I was fair trapped this time, but I wasn't about to turn and run.
Any woman waiting in lonesome country was a woman in trouble. Only I begun to sweat.
I'd never been close to no lone woman before.
WORST OF IT WAS, there was somebody on my trail. A man like me, rid ing somewhere,
he doesn't only watch the trail ahead, he looks back. Folks get lost because when
they start back over a trail they find it looks a sight different facing the other
way. When a man travels he should keep sizing up the country, stopping time to time
to study his back trail so he recognizes the landmarks.
Looking back, I'd seen dust hanging in the air. And that dust stayed there. It had
to be somebody tracking me down, and it could mean it was the Coopers.
Right then I'd much rather have tangled with the Coopers than faced up to that woman
down there, but that no-account roan was taking me right to her.
Worst of it was, she was almighty pretty. There was a mite of sunburn on her cheekbones
and nose, but despite that, she was a fine-looking girl. "How do you do?" You'd of
thought we were meeting on the streets of Nashville. "I wonder if you could give
me a lift to Hardyville?"
My hatbrim was down over my eyes, and I sized up the country around, but there was
no sign of a horse she might have ridden to this point, nor any sign of a cabin or
camp.
f "Why, I reckon so, ma'am." I got down from the saddle, thinking'
trouble came I might have to fetch that big Colt in a hurry. "My pack horse is packing
light so I can rig that pack saddle so's you can ride it sidesaddle."
"I would be grateful," she said.
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 BOOTY FOR A BADMAN 1 6 3
First off, it shaped like a trap. Somebody knowing I had gold might have this woman
working with them, for it troubled me to guess how she
came
here. There were a sight of tracks on the ground, but all seemed to be hers. And
then I noticed a thin trail of smoke from behind a rock. "You have a fire?"
"It was quite cold last night."
When she caught my look, she smiled. "Yes, I was here all night." She looked directly
at me from those big blue eyes. "And the night before." "It ain't a likely spot."
She carried herself prim, but she was a bright, quick-to-see girl, and I cottoned
to her. The clothes she wore were of fine, store-bought goods like some I'd seen
folks wear in some of those northern cities I'd seen as a soldier. Where I came from
it was homespun, or buckskin.
"I suppose you wonder what I am doing here?"
"Well, now." I couldn't help grinning. "It did come to my mind. Like I said, it ain't
a likely spot."
"You shouldn't say `ain't.' The word is `isn't.'
"Thank you, ma'am. I had no schooling, except what ma could give me, and I never
learned to talk proper."
"Surely you can read and write?" "No, ma'am, I surely can't."
"Why, that's awful! Everybody should be able to read. I don't know what I would have
done these past months if I could not read. I believe I should have gone insane."
When the saddle was rigged, I helped her up. "Ma'am, I better warn you. There's trouble
acoming, so's you'd better have it in mind. It may not be a good thing, me helping
you this way. You may get into worse trou ble."
We started off, and I looked over my shoulder at her. "Somebody is following after
me. I figure it's them Cooper outlaws."
Worst of it was, I had lost time, and here it was coming up to night, and me with
a strange girl on my hands. Pa told me women had devious ways of getting to a man,
but I never figured one would set out alongside a lonely trail thataway. Especially
one as pretty as she was.
Moreover, she was a lady. A body could see she was quality, and she rode there beside
me, chin lifted and proud like she was riding the finest thoroughbred at a county
fair, or whatever.
"You running from something, ma'am? Not to be disrespectful, ma'am, but out in the
desert thisaway it ain't-isn't just the place a body would expect to find a lady
as pretty as you."
"Thank you." Her chin lifted a mite higher. "Yes, I am running away. I am leaving
my husband. He is a thoughtless, inconsiderate brute, and he is an Army officer at
Fort Whipple."
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 6 4 L O U I S
"He will be mighty sorry to lose you, ma'am. This here is a lonesome country. I don't
carry envy for those soldier boys out here, I surely don't."
"Well! It certainly is not a place to bring an officer's bride. I'll declare! How
could he think I could live in such a place? With a dirt floor, and all?"
"What did he say when you left?"
"He doesn't know it yet. I had been to Ehrenberg, and when we started back, I just
couldn't stand the thought, so when no one was look ing, I got out of the Army ambulance
I was riding in. I am going to catch the steamer at Hardyville and go home."
When I looked to our back trail, no dust hung in the air, and I knew we were in trouble.
If it had been soldiers looking for this girl, they would not have stopped so sudden-like,
and it looked to me like they had headed us and laid a trap, so I swung up a draw,
heading north instead of west, and slow to raise no dust.
It was a sandy wash, but a thin trail skirted the edge, made by deer or such-like
and we held to it. When we had been riding for an hour, I saw
dust in the air, hanging up there in a fair cloud about where I had come up to this
lady. Again I turned at right angles, heading back the way I had come. Off to the
north and west there was a square-topped mesa that was
part of a long, comb-like range.
"We are followed, ma'am," I said, "and those Coopers are mighty thoughtless folks.
I got to keep you out of their hands. First off, we'll run. If that doesn't work,
we'll talk or we'll fight, leaving it up to them. You hold with me, ma'am."
"They wouldn't bother me," she said. "I am the wife of an Army of ficer."
"Most Western men are careful of womenfolk," I agreed, "but don't set no truck by
being an officer's wife. The Coopers murdered two Army officers not a week ago. Murdered
them, ma'am. They just don't care a mite who you may be. And a woman like you-they
don't often see a woman pretty as you."
She rode up closer to me. "I am afraid I didn't realize." "No, ma'am, most folks
don't," I said.
It was still the best part of two days to Hardyville, and nothing much there when
we arrived. It was head of navigation on the Colorado, and last I'd seen there were
only three or four buildings there, and about that many folks.
Nobody seemed to know how many Coopers there were, but the guesses ran all the way
from five to nine. They were said to be renegades from down in the Cherokee nation
and mighty mean.
We held to low ground, keeping off skylines, finding a saddle here
1~ ~~11R and there where we could cross over ridges without topping out where
169
 BOOTY FOR A BADMAN 1 6 5
we could be seen. It was darkening by then, with long shadows reaching out, and when
we came up the eastern flank of that mesa I'd headed for, we rode in deep shadow.
When we found a way around the butte, we took it, and the western slope was all red
from the setting sun, and mighty pretty. The wind blew cool there, but I'd found
what I was hunting-a place to hole up for the night.
A man hunting a night camp with somebody trailing him has to have things in mind.
He wants a place he can get into and out of without sky lining himself or showing
up plain, and he also wants a place where he can build a fire that cannot be seen,
and something to spread out the smoke. And here it was, and by the look of it many
an Indian had seen the worth of it before this time.
The falloff from the mesa rim made a steep slope that fell away for maybe five hundred
feet. A man could ride a horse down that slope, but it would be sliding half the
time on its rump. The wall of the mesa raised up sheer for some three hundred feet,
but there at the foot of that cliff and atop the slope was a hollow behind some rocks
and brush.
Maybe it was a half-acre of ground with grass in the bottom and some scraggly cedars
at one end. We rode down into that hollow, and I reached up and handed down the lady.
"Ma'am, we'll spend the night here. Talk low and don't let any metal strike metal
or start any rock sliding."
"Are they that close?"
"I don't rightly know, ma'am, but we should hope for the best and expect the worst.
Pa said that was the way to figure."
When the saddles were off, I climbed out on one of those big rock slabs to study
the country. You've got to see country in more than one light to get the lay of it.
Shadows tell a lot, and the clear air of early morning or late evening will show
up things that are sun-blurred by day. A man scouting country had best size it up
of an evening, for shadows will tell him where low ground is, and he can spot the
likely passes if only to avoid them.
Pa, who trapped with Bridger and Carson, never lost a chance of teaching us boys
how to judge terrain, and the best time was at sundown or sunup with the shadows
falling toward you.
When I finished my study, I came down off the rock and cleared a spot of needles
and leaves under one of those cedars that sort of arched out toward us. My fire was
about the size you could hold in your two hands, for the smaller the fire, the less
smoke, and such a fire will heat up just as well if a man wants to cook. And rising
up through the branches thataway the smoke would be thinned out so much it could
not be seen.
"I'm from Tennessee," I said to her, "and my name is
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 1 6
"Oh-I am Christine Mallory, and I was born in Delaware." "Howdy, Mrs. Mallory. Mostly,
the Delawares a man meets out here
are Indians. Good trackers and good fighting men."
When I dug out what grub I had, I was ashamed it was so little. It was a mite Squires
staked me to before I taken out. The coffee was mostly ground bean and chicory, and
all else I had was jerked venison and cold flour.
When the coffee was ready I filled my cup and passed it to her. "Mrs. Mallory, this
isn't what you have been used to, but it's all we've got" She tasted it, and if she
hadn't been a lady I think she would have spit,
but she swallowed it, and then drank some more. "It's hot," she said, and smiled
at me, and I grinned back at her. Truth to tell, that was about all a body could
say for it.
"You'd better try some of this jerked venison," I said. "If you hold it in your mouth
awhile before you begin to chew, it tastes mighty whole some. All else I've got is
cold flour."
"What?" "Cold flour-it's a borrowed thing, from the Indians. Only what I have here
is white-man style. It's parched corn ground up and mixed with a mite of sugar and
cinnamon. You can mix it with water and drink it, and a man can go for miles on it.
Mighty nourishing too. Pa was in Montana one time and traveled two weeks on a couple
of dry quarts of
Last time I got up to scout the country around I caught the gleam of far-off campfire.
STANDING THERE looking across country and watching the stars come out, I thought
of that girl and wondered if I would ever have me a woman like that one, and it wasn't
likely. We Sacketts are Welsh, and a proud people, but we never had much in the way
of goods. Somehow the Lord's wealth never seemed to gather to us; all we ever had
was ourselves and our strength and a will to walk the earth with honesty and pride.
But this girl was running away, and it didn't seem right. She was hud dled to the
fire, wrapped in one of my blankets when I came down to the fire. Gathering cedar
boughs and grass, I made her a bed to one side, but close to the fire.
"The fire smells good," she said.
"That's cedar," I said, "and some creosote brush. Some folks don't like the smell
of creosote. Those Spanish men call it
hediondilla, which means little stinker. Some of the Indians use it for rheumatism."
Nobody said anything for a while, and then I said, "Creosote-brush fires flavor beans-the
best ever. You try them sometime, and no beans ever taste the same after."
171
 BOOTY FOR A BADMAN 1 6 7
The fire crackled, and I added a few small, dry sticks and then said, "It ain't right,
leaving him thisaway. He's likely worried to death."
She looked across the fire at me, all stiff and perky. "That is none of your business!"
"Mrs. Mallory, when you saddled yourself on me, you made it my business. Girl who
marries a soldier ought to think to live a soldier's life. Strikes me you've no nerve,
ma'am, you cut and run because of dirt floors. I'd figure if a girl loved a man it
wouldn't make her no mind. You're spoiled, ma'am. You surely are."
She got up, standing real stiff, coming the high and mighty on me. "If you do not
want me here, I will go."
"No, you won't. First off, you haven't an idea where you are or which way to go to
get there. You'd die of thirst, if that lion didn't get you." "Lion?"
"Yes, ma'am." I wasn't exactly lying, because somewhere in Arizona there was sure
to be a lion prowling. "There's snakes, too, and at night you can't see them until
they get stepped on."
She stood there looking unsure of herself, and I kept on with what I had to say.
"Woman needs a man out here-needs him bad. But a man needs a woman too. How do you
think that man of yours feels now? His wife has shamed him before others, taking
on like a girl-baby, running off."
She sat down by the fire, but she looked at me with a chilly expression. "I will
thank you to take me to Hardyville. I did not mean to 'saddle' myself on you, as
you put it. I will gladly pay you for your trouble." "Ain't that much money."
"Don't say `ain't'!" She snapped her eyes at me.
"Thank you, ma'am," I said, "but you better get you some shuteye. We got to ride
fifty miles tomorrow, and I can't be bothered with any tired female. You sit up on
that horse tomorrow or I'll dump you in the desert."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Yes, ma'am, I surely would. And leave you right there, and all your caterwauling
wouldn't do you a mite of good. You get some sleep. Come daylight we're taking out
of here faster than a scared owl."
Taking up my rifle I went out to scout the country, and setting up there on that
rock slab I done my looking and listening. That fire was still aburning, away off
yonder, like a star fallen out of the sky.
When I came back, she was lying on the bed I'd made, wrapped in a blanket, already
asleep. Seen like that with the firelight on her face she looked like a little girl.
It was way shy of first light when I opened my eyes, and it'd taken me only a minute
or two to throw the saddles on those broncs. Then I fixed
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 1 6 8
that pack saddle for her to ride. My outfit was skimpy, so it wasn't much extra weight,
carrying her.
When I had coffee going, I stirred her awake with a touch on the shoulder, and her
eyes flared open and she was like to scream when she saw me, not that I'd blame her.
In my sock feet I stand six-three, and I run to shoulders and hands, with high cheekbones
and a wedge face that sun had made dark as any Indian. With no shave and little sleep
I must have looked a frightening thing.
"You better eat a little," I said. "You got five minutes."
We rode out of there with the stars still in the sky, and I was pleasant over seeing
no fire over yonder where it had been the night before.
It was just shy of noon, with the sun hot in the sky, when we crossed a low saddle
and started out across a plain dotted with Joshua trees named by the Mormons who
thought they looked like Joshua lifting his arms to Heaven.
WE CAME DOWN across that country, and there had been no dust in the sky all morning,
but of a sudden four men rode up out of a draw, and it was the Coopers. Their description
had been talked around enough.
"Howdy, Coopers! You hunting something?"
They looked at Christine Mallory and then at me. "We're looking for you," one said,
"and that gold, but we'll take the lady, too, sort of a bonus-like."
Like I said, when you've quit running, you can talk or you can fight, and times like
this I run long on talk.
"You'll take nothing," I said. "You are talking to Tell Sackett William Tell Sackett,
to be exact, as my pa favored William Tell in his thinking. We Sacketts hail from
the Cumberland Gap in Tennessee, and Pa always taught us never to give up nothing
without a fight. Specially money or a woman.
"Now," I continued on before they could interrupt, "back to home, folks used to say
I wasn't much for fiddling or singing, and my
feet was too big for dancing, but along come fighting time, I'd be around.
"Couple of you boys are wearing brass buttons. I figure a forty-four slug would drive
one of those buttons so deep into your belly a doc would have to get him a search
warrant to find it."
My horse was stepping around kind of uneasy-like, and I was making a show of holding
him in.
"Anyway," I said, "this here is General James Whitfield Mallory's wife, and if you
so much as lay a hand to her, this territory wouldn't be big enough to hold you.
He's the kind to turn out the whole frontier Army just to hunt you"
My horse gave a quick sidestep about then, and when he swung his
173
 BOOTY FOR A BADMAN 1 6 9
left side to them, I used the moment to fetch out my gun, and when the roan stopped
sidestepping, I had that big Colt looking at them.
Pa, he set me to practicing getting a gun out as soon as the end of my holster quit
cutting a furrow in the ground when I walked. Pa said to me, "Son, you ever need
that gun, you'll need it in your fist, not in no hol ster.
They were surprised when they saw that gun staring them down, and this George Cooper
was mad clean through. "That ain't going to cut no ice," he said. "We want you, we'll
take you."
"One thing about this country," I said, "a man's got a right to his opinion. Case
like this here, if you're wrong, you don't get a chance to try it over. Any time
you want to give it a try," I said, "you just unlimber and have at it."
Nobody had anything to say, none of those Coopers looking any thing but mad right
about then, so I kept on, figuring when we were talking we weren't fighting.
"I got me a bet, Coopers; I got me a bet says I can kill three of you before you
clear leather-and that last man better make it a quick shot or I'll make it four."
"You talk a good fight," George Cooper said.
"You can call my hand. You got the right. One thing I promise, if I don't kill you
dead with my first shots, I'll leave you lay for the buzzards and the sun."
Those Coopers didn't like it much, but my roan was standing rock still now that I'd
quit nudging him with my spur, and at that range a man wasn't likely to miss very
often. And it's a fact that nobody wants to die very much.
"If she's Mallory's wife, what's she doing with you?"
"She was headed for Whipple," I said, "and she turned sick, and the doc said she
should go back to Ehrenberg. They asked me to take her there. Served with the general
during the war," I added. "He knows me well."
"I never heard of no General Mallory," George Cooper said.
"You never heard of General James Whitfield Mallory?"
By now I be lieved in him my own self. "He was aide to General Grant! Same class
at the Point with Phil Sheridan and Jeb Stuart. Fact is, they are talking of making
him governor of the territory just to wipe out outlaws and such.
"Begging the lady's pardon, but he's noted for being a mighty mean man-strict. And
smart? He's slicker than a black snake on a wet-clay sidehill. Last thing you want
to do is get him riled.
"Lady here was telling me if he is made territorial governor he plans to recruit
a special police force from among the Apache. He figures if those Apaches hate white
men they might as well turn it to use tracking
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 1 7 0
down outlaws-and he doesn't say anything about them bringing any body back."
"That's not human!" George Cooper protested.
"That's the general for you. He's that kind." Now that trusty Colt had stayed right
there in my fist, and so I said, "Now, we'll ride on " Motioning her on ahead, I
rode after her, but believe me, I sat side
wise in my saddle with that Colt ready for a quick shot. The last I could see they
were still a-setting there, arguing.
Most talking I'd done since leaving Tennessee, and the most lying I'd done since
who flung the chunk.
WE FETCHED up to Hardyville about sundown on the second day, and the first person
I saw when we rode up to the store was Bill Squires.
"Bill," I said, "the Coopers were a-hunting me. Only way they could have known I
had that gold was if you told them. Somebody had to ride out to tell them, and somebody
would want to be on hand to divvy up.
"Now," I said, "if you want to call me a liar, I'll take this lady inside and I'll
come right back. But you hear this: They didn't get one speck of this gold, and neither
are you"
"I panned my share of that gold!" He was looking mighty bleak. "So you did, but yours
wasn't enough; you had to try for all of it. A month or so back Jack Walker left
camp and was dry-gulched. I plan to send your gold to his widow and family, and you
can save your objections to that until I come out."
So I went inside with Christine Mallory, and there were two or three fresh Army officers
right off the boat waiting to go to Fort Whipple. "My husband is not a general,"
she said then, "and his name is Robert Mallory."
"I know that, Mrs. Mallory. Your husband is Second Lieutenant Robert Mallory, and
he's greener than meadow grass. Month or so back he came out and ordered me to get
my horse off the parade ground at Whipple. Mighty stiff-necked he was too.
"Ma'am, you haven't got you a man there, you've got a boy, but a boy sound in wind
and limb; and two or three years on the frontier will give you a man you can be proud
of. But if you run off now the chances are he will resign his commission and run
after you, and you'll have a boy for a husband as long as you live.
"You stay with him, you hear? You ain't much account, either, but give you seasoning
and you will be. Fact is, if you'd been a woman back there on that trail I might
have been less of the gentleman, but you haven't grown up to a man yet"
She had the prettiest blue eyes you ever saw, and she looked straight at
175
 me. She was mad, but she was honest, and behind those blue eyes she had a grain
of sense.
,,You may be right," she admitted, "although I'd rather slap your face than agree.
After what I have been through these past few days, that dirt floor would look very
good indeed."
"Ma'am, when my time comes to marry, I hope I find a woman as pretty as you-and with
as much backbone."
Leaving her talking to those officers, I went to the counter with my gold and checked
it in with Hardy in the names of those to whom it was credited, to Jim Hodge, Willy
Mander, Tom Padgett-and to Mrs. Jack Walker, whose address I supplied.
"And I've got a hundred dollars coming," I said.
Hardy paid it to me, and I put it in my pocket. More money than I'd seen since the
coon went up the tree.
Then I went outside like I'd promised, and Bill Squires surprised me. He was sure
enough waiting.
He shot at me and missed. I shot at him and didn't.
176
 Defense of Sentinel
When the morning came, Finn McGraw awakened into a silent world. His eyes opened
to the wide and wondering sky where a solitary cloud wandered reluctantly across
the endless blue.
At first he did not notice the silence. He had awakened, his mouth tasted like a
rain-soaked cathide, he wanted a drink, and he needed a shave. This was not an unusual
situation.
He heaved himself to a sitting position, yawned widely, scratching his ribs-and became
aware of the silence.
No sound ... no movement. No rattling of well buckets, no cackling of hens, no slamming
of doors. Sentinel was a town of silence.
Slowly, his mind filling with wonder, Finn McGraw climbed to his feet. With fifty
wasted years behind him, he had believed the world held no more surprises. But Sentinel
was empty.
Sentinel, where for six months Finn McGraw had held the unenvied position of official
town drunk. He had been the tramp, the vagabond, the useless, the dirty, dusty, unshaven,
whiskey-sodden drunk. He slept in alleys. He slept in barns-wherever he happened
to be when he passed out.
Finn McGraw was a man without a home. Without a job. Without a dime. And now he was
a man without a town.
What can be more pitiful than a townless town drunk?
Carefully, McGraw got to his feet. The world tipped edgewise and he balanced delicately
and managed to maintain his equilibrium. Negotiating the placing of his feet with
extreme caution, he succeeded in crossing the wash and stumbling up the bank on the
town side. Again, more appre hensively, he listened.
Silence. No smoke rising from chimneys, no barking dogs, no horses. The street lay
empty before him, like a street in a town of ghosts.
177
 THE D E F E N S E O F SENTINEL 1 7 3
Finn McGraw paused and stared at the phenomenon. Had he, like Rip van Winkle, slept
for twenty years?
Yet he hesitated, for well he knew the extreme lengths that Western men would go
for a good practical joke. The thought came as a relief. That was it, of course,
this was a joke. They had all gotten together to play a joke on him.
His footsteps echoed hollowly on the boardwalk. Tentatively, he tried the door of
the saloon. It gave inward, and he pushed by the inner, batwing doors and looked
around. The odor of stale whiskey mingled with cigar smoke lingered, lonesomely,
in the air. Poker chips and cards were scattered on the table, but there was nobody....
Nobody at all!
The back bar was lined with bottles. His face brightened. Whiskey! Good whiskey,
and his for the taking! At least, if they had deserted him they had left the whiskey
behind.
Caution intervened. He walked to the back office and pushed open the door. It creaked
on a rusty hinge and gave inward, to emptiness. "Hey?" His voice found only an echo
for company. "Where is everybody?"
No answer. He walked to the door and looked out upon the street. Suddenly the desire
for human companionship blossomed into a vast yearning. He rushed outside. He shouted.
His voice rang emptily in the street
against the false-fronted buildings. Wildly, he rushed from door to door. The blacksmith
shop, the livery stable, the saddle shop, the bootmaker, the general store, the jail-all
were empty, deserted.
He was alone.
ALONE! What had happened? Where was
everybody? Saloons full of whiskey, stores filled with food, blankets, clothing.
All these things had been left unguarded.
Half-frightened, Finn McGraw made his way to the restaurant. Everything there was
as it had been left. A meal half-eaten on the table, dishes unwashed. But the stove
was cold.
Aware suddenly of a need for strength that whiskey could not provide, Finn McGraw
kindled a fire in the stove. From a huge ham he cut several thick slices. He went
out back and rummaged through the nests and found a few scattered eggs. He carried
these inside and prepared a meal.
With a good breakfast under his belt, he refilled his coffee cup and rummaged around
until he found a box of cigars. He struck a match and lighted a good Havana, pocketing
several more. Then he leaned back and began to consider the situation.
Despite the excellent meal and the cigar, he was uneasy. The heavy silence worried
him, and he got up and went cautiously to the door.
178
 1 7 4 L O U I S
Suppose there was something here, something malign and evil? SupposeAngrily, he pushed
the door open. He was going to stop supposing. For the first time in his life he
had a town full of everything, and he was going to make the most of it.
Sauntering carelessly down the empty street to the Elite General Store, he entered
and coolly began examining the clothing. He found a handmedown gray suit and changed
his clothes. He selected new boots and donned them as well as a white cambric shirt,
a black string tie, and a new black hat. He pocketed a fine linen handkerchief. Next
he lighted another cigar, spat into the brass spittoon, and looked upon life with
favor.
On his right as he turned to leave the store was a long rack of rifles, shotguns,
and pistols. Thoughtfully, he studied them. In his day-that was thirty years or so
ago-he had been a sharpshooter in the Army.
He got down a Winchester '73, an excellent weapon, and loaded it with seventeen bullets.
He appropriated a fine pair of Colts, loaded them, and belted them on, filling the
loops with cartridges. Taking down a shotgun, he loaded both barrels with buckshot,
then he sauntered down to the saloon, rummaged under the bar until he came up with
Dennis Magoon's excellent Irish whiskey, and poured three fingers into a glass.
Admiring the brown, beautiful color, the somber amber, as he liked to call it, he
studied the sunlight through the glass, then tasted it.
Ali! Now that was something like it! There was a taste of bog in that! He tossed
off his drink, then refilled his glass.
The town was his-the whole town-full of whiskey, food, clothingalmost everything
a man could want.
But why? Where was everybody?
Thoughtfully, he walked outside. The silence held sway. A lonely dust devil danced
on the prairie outside of town, and the sun was warm.
At the edge of town he looked out over the prairie toward the mountains. Nothing
met his eye save a vast, unbelievable stretch of grassy plain. His eyes dropped to
the dust and with a kind of shock he remembered that he could read sign. Here were
the tracks of a half-dozen rigs, buckboards, wagons, and carts. From the horse tracks
all were headed the same direction-east.
He scowled and, turning thoughtfully, he walked back to the livery barn.
Not a horse remained. Bits of harness were dropped on the grounda spare saddle. Everything
showed evidence of a sudden and hasty departure. An hour later, having made the rounds,
Finn McGraw returned to
the saloon. He poured another glass of the Irish, lighted another Havana, but now
he had a problem.
The people of the town had not vanished into thin air, they had made a sudden, frightened,
panic-stricken rush to get away from the place.
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 DEFENSE O F SENTINEL 17
That implied there was, in the town itself, some evil.
Finn McGraw tasted the whiskey and looked over his shoulder un comfortably. He tiptoed
to the door, looked one way, then suddenly the other way.
Nothing unusual met his gaze.
He tasted his whiskey again and then, crawling from the dusty and cobwebbed convolutions
of his brain, long befuddled by alcohol, came
He remembered some talk the night before while he was trying to bum a drink. The
Ladder Five ranch had been raided and the hands had been murdered. Victorio was on
the warpath, burning, killing, maiming.
Apaches!
The Fort was east of here! Some message must have come, some word, and the inhabitants
had fled like sheep and left him behind.
Like a breath of icy air he realized that he was alone in the town, there was no
means of escape, no place to hide. And the Apaches were coming!
Thrusting the bottle of Irish into his pocket, Finn McGraw made a break for the door.
Outside, he rushed down to the Elite General Store. This building was of stone, low
and squat, and built for defense, as it had been a trading post and stage station
before the town grew up around it. Hastily, he took stock.
Moving flour barrels, he rolled them to the door to block it. Atop the barrels he
placed sacks, bales, and boxes. He barred the heavy back door, then blocked the windows.
In the center of the floor he built a circular parapet of more sacks and barrels
for a last defense. He got down an arm ful of shotguns and proceeded to load ten
of them. These he scattered around at various loopholes, with a stack of shells by
each.
Then he loaded several rifles. Three Spencer .56's, a Sharps .50, and seven Winchester
'73's.
He loaded a dozen of the Colts and opened boxes of ammunition. Then he lighted another
Havana and settled down to wait.
The morning was well nigh gone. There was food enough in the store, and the position
was a commanding one. The store was thrust out from the line of buildings in such
a way that it commanded the ap proaches of the street in both directions, yet it
was long enough so that he could command the rear of the buildings as well, by running
to the back.
The more he studied his position the more he wondered why Sentinel inhabitants had
left the town undefended. Only blind, unreasoning panic could have caused such a
flight.
At noon he prepared himself a meal from what he found in the store, and Waited. It
was shortly after high sun when the Indians came.
180
 1 7 6
The Apaches might have been scouting the place for hours; Finn had not seen them.
Now they came cautiously down the street, creeping hesitantly along.
From a window that commanded the street, old Finn McGraw waited. On the windowsill
he had four shotguns, each with two barrels loaded with buckshot. And he waited....
The Apaches, suspecting a trap, approached cautiously. They peered into empty buildings,
flattened their faces against windows, then carne on. The looting would follow later.
Now the Indians were suspicious, anxious to know if the town was deserted. They crept
forward.
Six of them bunched to talk some forty yards away. Beyond them a half dozen more
Apaches were scattered in the next twenty yards. Sighting two of his shotguns, Finn
McGraw rested a hand on each. The guns were carefully held in place by sacks weighting
them down, and he was ready. He squeezed all four triggers at once!
The concussion was terrific! With a frightful roar, the four barrels blasted death
into the little groups of Indians, and instantly, McGraw sprang to the next two guns,
swung one of them slightly, and fired again.
Then he grabbed up a heavy Spencer and began firing as fast as he could aim, getting
off four shots before the street was empty. Empty, but for the dead.
Five Apaches lay stretched in the street. Another, dragging himself with his hands,
was attempting to escape.
McGraw lunged to his feet and raced to the back of the building. He caught a glimpse
of an Indian and snapped a quick shot. The Apache dropped, stumbled to his feet,
then fell again and lay still.
That was the beginning. All through the long, hot afternoon the battle waged. Finn
McGraw drank whiskey and swore. He loaded and reloaded his battery of guns. The air
in the store was stifling. The heat increased, the store smells thickened, and over
it all hung the acrid smell of gunpowder.
Apaches came to recover their dead and died beside them. Two naked warriors tried
to cross the rooftops to his building, and he dropped them both. One lay on the blistering
roof, the other rolled off and fell heavily.
Sweat trickled into McGraw's eyes, and his face became swollen from the kick of the
guns. From the front of the store he could watch three ways, and a glance down the
length of the store allowed him to see a very limited range outside. Occasionally
he took a shot from the back window, hoping to keep them guessing.
NIGHT CAME at last, bringing a blessed coolness, and old Finn McGraw relaxed and
put aside his guns.
Who can say that he knows the soul of the Indian? Who can say what
181
 THE D E F E N S E O F SENTINEL 1 7 7
dark superstitions churn inside his skull? For no Apache will fight at night, since
he believes the souls of men killed in darkness must forever wander, homeless and
alone. Was it fear that prevented an attack now? Or was it some fear of this strange,
many-weaponed man-if man he waswho occupied the dark stone building?
And who can say with what strange expressions they stared at each other as they heard
from their fires outside the town the weird thunder of the old piano in the saloon,
and the old man's whiskey-bass rolling out the words of "The Wearing of the Green";
"Drill, Ye Tarriers, Drill"; "Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming," and "Shenandoah."
Day came and found Finn McGraw in the store, ready for battle. The old lust for battle
that is the birthright of the Irish had risen within him. Never, from the moment
he realized that he was alone in a town about to be raided by Apaches, had he given
himself a chance for survival. Yet it was the way of the Irish to fight, and the
way even of old, whiskeysoaked Finn.
An hour after dawn, a bullet struck him in the side. He spun halfaround, fell against
the flour barrels and slid to the floor. Blood flowed from the slash, and he caught
up a handful of flour and slapped it against the wound. Promptly he fired a shot
from the door, an aimless shot, to let them know he was still there. Then he bandaged
his wound.
It was a flesh wound, and would have bled badly but for the flour. Sweat trickled
into his eyes, grime and powder smoke streaked his face. But he moved and moved again,
and his shotguns and rifles stopped every attempt to approach the building. Even
looting was at a minimum, for he controlled most of the entrances, and the Apaches
soon found they must dispose of their enemy before they could profit from the town.
Sometime in the afternoon, a bullet knocked him out, cutting a furrow in his scalp,
and it was nearing dusk when his eyes opened. His head throbbed with enormous pain,
his mouth was dry. He rolled to a sitting position and took a long pull at the Irish,
feeling for a shotgun. An Apache was even then fumbling at the door.
He steadied the gun against the corner of a box. His eyes blinked. He squeezed off
both barrels and, hit in the hello, the Apache staggered
AT HIGH NOON on the fourth day, Major Magruder with a troop of cavalry, rode into
the streets of Sentinel. Behind him were sixty men of the town, all armed with rifles.
At the edge of town, Major Magruder lifted a hand. Jake Carter and Dennis Magoon
moved up beside him. "I thought you said the town was deserted?"
His extended finger indicated a dead Apache.
182
 7 8 LOUIS L ' A M
I
Their horses walked slowly forward. Another Apache sprawled there dead ... and then
they found another.
Before the store four Apaches lay in a tight cluster, another savage was stretched
at the side of the walk. Windows of the store were shattered and broken, a great
hole had been blasted in the door. At the Major's order, the troops scattered to
search the town. Magruder swung down before the store.
"I'd take an oath nobody was left behind," Carter said.
Magruder shoved open the store. The floor inside was littered with blackened cartridge
cases and strewn with empty bottles. "No one man could fire that many shells or drink
that much whiskey," Magruder said positively.
He stooped, looking at the floor and some flour on the floor. "Blood," he said.
In the saloon they found another empty bottle and an empty box of cigars.
Magoon stared dismally at the empty bottle. He had been keeping count, and all but
three of the bottles of his best Irish glory were gone. "Whoever it was," he said
sorrowfully, "drank up some of the best whiskey ever brewed."
Carter looked at the piano. Suddenly he grabbed Magoon's arm. "McGraw!" he yelled.
" 'Twas Finn McGraw!"
They looked at each other. It couldn't be! And yet-who had seen him? Where was he
now?
"Who," Magruder asked, "is McGraw?"
They explained, and the search continued. Bullets had clipped the corners of buildings,
bullets had smashed water barrels along the street. Windows were broken, and there
were nineteen dead Indians-but no sign of McGraw.
Then a soldier yelled from outside of town, and they went that way and gathered around.
Under the edge of a mesquite bush, a shotgun be side him, his new suit torn and blood-stained,
they found Finn McGraw
Beside him lay two empty bottles of the Irish. Another, partly gone, lay near his
hand. A rifle was propped in the forks of the bush, and a pis tol had fallen from
his holster. There was blood on his side and blood on his head and face.
"Dead!" Carter said. "But what a battle!"
Magruder bent over the old man, then he looked up, a faint twinkle breaking the gravity
of his face. "Dead, all right," he said. "Dead
drun!
183
 NOTE
One for the Mohave Kid
About a mile or so from camp lay Independence Rock, 120 feet high and over 2,000
feet long according to an estimate.* It is covered with the names of travellers.
A few miles further along is Devil's Gate, where the Sweetwater passes through a
cleft some 30 yards wide and 300 yards long. The rock walls tower several hundred
feet, sheer rock. There was grass for our stock. We camped at a bend of the river
just after sundown.
From a diary, August 19, 1849
Twelve years earlier a party of mountain men were camped here: "Immense num
bers of buffalo in sight ... here I am at a beautiful spring, a hot fire of buffalo
dung, a set of good, sweet hump-ribs roasting . . . I have forgotten everything but
my ribs and my sweetheart. "
* Above dimensions not accurate, LL
184
 One for the Mohave Kid
We had finished our antelope steak and beans, and the cof feepot was back on the
stove again, brewing strong, black cowpuncher coffee just like you'd make over a
creosote and ironwood fire out on the range.
Red was cleaning his carbine and Doc Lander had tipped back in his chair with a pipe
lighted. The stove was cherry red, the woodbox full, and our beds were warming up
for the night. It was early autumn, but the nights were already cool. In a holster,
hanging from the end of a bunk, was a worn-handled, single-action .44 pistol-and
the holster had seen service as well as the gun.
"Whenever," Doc Lander said, "a bad man is born, there is also born a man to take
him. For every Billy the Kid there is a Pat Garrett, an' for every Wes Hardin there's
a John Selman."
Temple picked up a piece of pinewood and flicking open the stove door, he chucked
it in. He followed it with another, and we all sat silent, watching the warm red
glow of the flames. When the door was shut again, Red looked up from his rifle. "An'
for every John Selman there's a Scarborough," he said, "an' for every Scarborough,
a Logan."
"Exactly," Doc Lander agreed, "an' for every Mohave Kid there's a ..."
SOME MEN are born to evil, and such a one was the Mohave Kid. Now I'm not saying
that environment doesn't have its influence, but some men are born with twisted minds,
just as some are born with crooked teeth. The Mohave Kid was born with a streak of
viciousness and cruelty that no kindness could eradicate. He had begun to show it
when a child, and it developed fast until the Kid had killed his first man.
It was pure, unadulterated murder. No question of fair play, although the Kid was
deadly with any kind of a gun. He shot an old Mexican, stole his outfit and three
horses which he sold near the border. And the Mohave Kid was fifteen years old when
that happened.
185
 THE ONE FOR THE M OHAV E K I D 1 8 1
By the time he was twenty-two he was wanted in four states and three territories.
He had, the records said, killed eleven men. Around the sa loons and livery stables
they said he had killed twenty-one. Actually, he had killed twenty-nine, for the
Kid had killed a few when they didn't know he was in the country, and they had been
listed as murders by Indians or travelers. Of the twenty-nine men he had killed,
nine of them had been killed with something like an even break.
But the Mohave Kid was as elusive as he was treacherous. And his mother had been
a Holdstock. There were nine families of Holdstocks scattered through Texas, New
Mexico, and Arizona, and three times that many who were kinfolk. They were a clannish
lot, given to protecting their own, even as bad an apple as the Mohave Kid.
At twenty-two, the Kid was five feet seven inches tall and weighed one hundred and
seventy pounds. He had a round, flat face, a bland ex pression, and heavy-lidded
eyes. He did not look alert, but his expression belied the truth, for he was always
wary, always keyed for trouble.
He killed for money, for horses, in quarrels, or for pure cruelty, and several of
his killings were as senseless as they were ruthless. This very fact contributed
much to the fear with which he was regarded, for there was no guessing where he might
strike next. People avoided looking at him, avoided even the appearance of talking
about him when he was around. Usually, they got out of a place when he came into
it, but as unobtru sively as possible.
Aside from the United States marshals or the Texas Rangers in their respective bailiwicks,
there was only local law. Little attention was given to arresting men for crimes
committed elsewhere, which served as excuse for officers of the law who preferred
to avoid the risks of trying to arrest the Mohave Kid.
Ab Kale was an exception. Ab was thirty-three when elected marshal of the cow town
of Hinkley, and he owned a little spread of his own three miles out of town. He ran
a few cows, raised a few horses, and made his living as marshal. For seven years
he was a good one. He kept order, never made needless arrests, and was well liked
around town. At thirty four he married Arnie Holdstock, a second cousin to the Mohave
Kid.
As the Kid's reputation grew, Kale let it be known throughout the family that he
would make no exception of the Kid, and the Kid was to stay away from Hinkley. Some
of the clan agreed this was fair enough, and the Kid received word to avoid the town.
Others took exception to Kale's refusal to abide by clan law where the Kid was concerned,
but those few dwindled rapidly as the Kid's murderous propensities became obvious.
The Holdstock clan began to realize that in the case of the Mohave Kid they had sheltered
a viper in their bosom, a wanton killer as dangerous
186
 182 L O U I S
to their well-being as to others. A few doors of the clan were closed against him,
excuses were found for not giving him shelter, and the feel ing began to permeate
the clan that the idea was a good one.
The Mohave Kid had seemed to take no exception to the hints that he avoid making
trouble for cousin Kale, yet as the months wore on, he became more sullen and morose,
and the memory of Ab Kale preyed upon his mind.
IN THE MEANTIME, no man is marshal of a western cow town without having some trouble.
Steady and considerate as Kale was, there had been those with whom he could not reason.
He had killed three men.
All were killed in fair, stand-up gunfights, all were shot cleanly and surely, and
it was talked around that Kale was some hand with a gun him self. In each case he
had allowed an even break and proved faster than the men he killed. All of this the
Mohave Kid absorbed, and here and there he heard speculation, never in front of him,
that the Mohave Kid was avoiding Hinkley because he wanted no part of Ab Kale.
Tall, well built, and prematurely gray, Kale was a fine-appearing man. His home was
small but comfortable, and he had two daughters, one his own child, one a stepdaughter
of seventeen whom he loved as his own. He had no son, and this was a matter of regret.
Ab Kale was forty when he had his showdown with the Mohave Kid. But on the day when
Riley McClean dropped off a freight train on the edge of Hinkley, the date of that
showdown was still two years away.
If McClean ever told Kale what had happened to him before he crawled out of that
empty boxcar in Hinkley, Ab never repeated it. Riley was nineteen, six feet tall,
and lean as a rail. His clothes were in bad shape, and he was unshaven and badly
used up, and somebody had given him a beating. What had happened to the other fellow
or fellows, nobody ever knew
Ab Kale saw McClean leave the train and called out to him. The boy stopped and stood
waiting. As Kale walked toward him he saw the lines of hunger in the boy's face,
saw the emaciated body, the ragged clothes, the bruises and cuts. He saw a boy who
had been roughly used, but there was still courage in his eyes.
"Where you headed for, son?"
Riley McClean shrugged. "This is as good a place as any. I'm hunting a job."
"What do you do?"
"Most anything. It don't make no difference."
Now when a man says that he can do most anything, it is a safe bet he can do nothing,
or at least, that he can do nothing well. If a man has a
r. .do l.o - 1....4 _f'- .,.,,7 - 1 .......11., loo ..,:11 ,7,. ,..-.-- inh Of
187
 THE ONE FOR THE M O H A V E K I D 1 8 3
anything else he tackles. Yet Kale reserved his opinion. And it was well that he
did.
"Better come over to my office," Kale said. "You'll need to get shaved and washed
up."
McClean went along, and somehow, he stayed. Nothing was ever said about leaving by
either of them. McClean cleaned up, ate at the marshal's expense, and then slept
the clock around. When Kale returned to the of
fice
and jail the next morning he found the place swept, mopped, and dusted, and McClean
was sitting on the cot in the open cell where he slept, repairing a broken riata.
Obviously new to the West, Riley McClean seemed new to nothing else. He had slim,
graceful hands and deft fingers. He cobbled shoes, re paired harnesses, built a chimney
for Chalfant's new house, and generally kept busy.
After he had been two weeks in Hinkley, Ab Kale was sitting at his desk one day when
Riley McClean entered. Kale opened a drawer and took out a pair of beautifully matched
.44 Russians, one of the finest guns Smith & Wesson ever made. They were thrust in
new holsters on a new belt studded with cartridges. "If you're going to live out
here, you'd better learn to use those," Kale said briefly.
After that the two rode out of town every morning for weeks, and in a narrow canyon
on the back of Kale's little ranch, Riley McClean learned how to use a six-shooter.
"Just stand naturally," Kale advised him, "and let your hand swing naturally to the
gun butt. You've probably heard about a so-called gun man's crouch. There is no such
thing among gunfighters who know their business. Stand any way that is easy to you.
Crouching may make a smaller target of you, but it also puts a man off balance and
cramps his movements. Balance is as important to a gunfighter as to a boxer. Stand
easy on your feet, let your hand swing back naturally, and take the ham mer spur
with the inside of the thumb, cocking the gun as it is grasped, the tip of the trigger
finger on the trigger."
Kale watched McClean try it. "The most important thing is a good grip. The finger
on the trigger helps to align your gun properly, and after you've practiced, you'll
see that your gun will line up perfectly with that grip."
He watched McClean keenly and was pleased. The boy had the same ease with a gun he
seemed to have with all tools, and his coordination was natural and easy. "You'll
find," he added, "in shooting from the hip that you can change your point of aim
by a slight movement of your left foot. Practice until you find just the right position
for your feet, and then go through the motions until it is second nature."
Finally, he left him alone to practice, tossing him a box of shells
188
 1 S 4
occasionally. But no day passed that Riley McClean did not take to the hills for
practice.
There are men who are born to skill, whose coordination of hand, foot, and eye is
natural and easy, who acquire skills almost as soon as they lift a tool or a weapon,
and such a man was Riley McClean. Yet he knew the value of persistence, and he practiced
consistently.
It was natural that he knew about the Mohave Kid.
Riley McClean listened and learned. He talked it around and made friends, and he
soon began to hear the speculations about the Kid and Ab Kale.
"It'll come," they all said. "It can't miss. Sooner or later him an' Kale will tangle."
As to what would happen then, there was much dispute. Of this talk Kale said nothing.
When Riley McClean had been two months in Hinkley, Kale invited him home to dinner
for the first time. It was an oc casion to be remembered.
The two months had made a change in Riley. The marks of his beat ing had soon left
him, but it had taken these weeks to fill out his frame. He had gained fifteen solid
pounds and would gain more, but he was a rugged young man, bronzed and straight,
when he walked up the gravel path to the door of the Kale home. And Ruth Kale opened
the door for him. She opened the door and she fell in love. And the feeling was mu
tual.
Ab Kale said nothing, but he smiled behind his white mustache. Later, when they had
walked back up to town, Kale said, "Riley, you've been like a son to me. If anything
should happen to me, I wish you would see that my family gets along all right."
Riley was startled and worried. "Nothing will happen to you," he protested. "You're
a young man yet."
"No," Kale replied seriously, "I'm not. I'm an old man as a cow-town peace officer.
I've lasted a long time. Longer than most."
"But you're chain lightning with a gun!" Riley protested.
"I'm fast." Kale said it simply. "And I shoot straight. I know of no man I'd be afraid
to meet face to face, although I know some who are faster than I. But they don't
always meet you face to face."
And Riley McClean knew that Ab Kale was thinking of the Mohave Kid.
HE REALIZED THEN, for the first time, that the marshal was worried about the Mohave
Kid. Worried because he knew the kind of killer the Kid
was. Deadly enough face to face, the Kid would be just as likely to from ambush.
For the Kid was a killing machine, utterly devoid of sense or fair play.
189
 THE ONE F O R THE M O H A V E KID 1 85
The people of Hinkley knew that Riley McClean had taken to carrying a gun. They looked
upon this tolerantly, believing that Riley was merely copying his adopted father.
They knew that Kale had been teaching him to shoot, but they had no idea what had
happened during those lessons. Nor had Ab Kale realized it until a few days before
the payoff.
The two were riding out to look over some cattle, and Kale remarked that it would
be nice to have some rabbit stew. "If we see a fat cottontail," he said, "we'll kill
it."
A mile farther along, he spotted one. "Rabbit!" he said, and grabbed for his gun.
His hand slapped the walnut butt, and then there was an explosion, and for an instant
he thought his own gun had gone off accidentally. And then he saw the smoking .44
in Riley McClean's hand, and the younger man was riding over to pick up the rabbit.
The distance had been thirty yards and the rabbit had lost a head.
Ab Kale was startled. He said nothing, however, and they rode on to the ranch, looked
over the cattle, and made a deal to buy them. As they started back, Kale commented,
"That was a nice shot, Riley. Could you do it again?"
"Yes, sir, I think so."
A few miles farther, another rabbit sprang up. The .44 barked and the rabbit died,
half his head and one ear blasted away. The distance was a shade greater than before.
"You've nothing to worry about, Riley," he said quietly, "but never use that gun
unless you must, and never draw it unless you mean to kill."
NOTHING MORE was said, but Ab Kale remembered. He was fast. He knew he was fast.
He knew that he rated along with the best, and yet his hand had barely slapped the
butt before that rabbit died....
The days went by slowly, and Riley McClean spent more and more time at the Kale home.
And around town he made friends. He was quiet, friendly, and had a healthy sense
of humor. He had progressed from the town handyman to opening a shop as a gunsmith,
learning his trade by applying it that way. There was no other gunsmith within two
hundred miles in any direction, so business was good.
He was working on the firing pin of a Walker Colt when he heard the door open. He
did not look up, just said, "Be with you in a minute. What's your trouble?"
"Same thing you're workin' on I reckon. Busted firm' pin."
Riley McClean looked up into a dark, flat face and flat, black eyes. He thought he
had never seen eyes so devoid of expression, never seen a face more brutal on a young
man. With a shock of realization he knew he was looking into the eyes of the Mohave
Kid.
190
 186 L O U I S
He got to his feet and picked up the gun the Kid handed him. As he picked it up,
he noticed that the Kid had his hand on his other gun. Riley merely glanced at him
and then examined the weapon. The repair job was simple, but as he turned the gun
in his hand, he thought of how many men it had killed.
"Take a while," he said. "I s'pose you're in a hurry for it?"
"You guessed it. An' be sure it's done right. I'll want to try it before I pay for
it."
Riley McClean's eyes chilled a little. There were butterflies in his stomach, but
the hackles on the back of his neck were rising. "You'll pay me before you get it,"
he said quietly. "My work is cash on the barrelhead. The job will be done right."
His eyes met the flat black ones. "If you don't like the job, you can bring it back."
For an instant, their eyes held, and then the Kid shrugged, smiling a
little. "Fair enough. An' if it doesn't work, I'll be back"
The Mohave Kid turned and walked out to the street, stopping to look both ways. Riley
McClean held the gun in his hands and watched
him. He felt cold, chilled.
Ab Kale had told the Kid to stay away from Hinkley, and now he must meet him and
order him from town. He must do that, or the Kid would know he was afraid, would
deliberately stay in town. The very fact that the Mohave Kid had come to Hinkley
was proof that he had come hunting trouble, that he had come to call Kale's bluff.
For a minute or two, Riley considered warning the marshal, but that would not help.
Kale would hear of it soon enough, and there was always a chance that the Kid would
get his gun, change his mind, and leave before Kale did know.
ing the gun so it would not fire properly crossed his mind, but there was no use
inviting trouble. Running his fingers through his dark rusty hair, he went to work.
And as he worked, an idea came to him.
Maybe he could get the Kid out of town to try the gun, and once
and while he had no idea of being as good as the Kid, he did know he could shoot
straight. He might kill the Mohave Kid even if he got killed in the process.
But he did not want to die. He was no hero, Riley McClean told himself. He wanted
to live, buy a place of his own, and marry Ruth. In fact, they had talked about it.
And there was a chance this would all blow over. The Kid might leave town before
Ab Kale heard of his arrival,
or
3rrung uowrr, i~_rrey worn w WOrK ON r.IIC ,ull. 1IIC IIVLIVII VI something might
happen. It is human to hope and human to wish for tII,
unexpected good break-and sometimes you are lucky.
As Riley was finishing work on the gun, Ruth came in. She
191 THE ONE FOR THE M O H A V E KID 1 8 7
frightened. "Riley"-she caught his arm-"the Mohave Kid's in town and Dad is looking
for him."
"I know" He stared anxiously out the window "The Kid left his gun to be repaired.
I've just finished it"
"Oh, Riley! Isn't there something we can do?" Her face was white and strained, her
eyes large.
He looked down at her, a wave of tenderness sweeping over him. "I don't know, honey,"
he said gently. "I'm afraid the thing I might do, your father wouldn't like. You
see, this is his job. If he doesn't meet the Kid and order him to leave, he will
never have the same prestige here again. Everybody knows the Kid came here on purpose."
AB KALE HAD HEARD that the Mohave Kid was in town, and in his own mind he was ready.
Seated at his desk he saw with bitter clarity what he had known all along, that sooner
or later the Kid would come to town, and then he would have to kill him or leave
the country. There could be no other choice where the Kid was concerned.
Yet he had planned well. Riley McClean was a good man, a steady man. He would make
a good husband for Ruth, and together they would see that Arnie lacked for nothing.
As far as that went, Arnie was well provided for. He checked his guns and got to
his feet. As he did so, he saw a rider go by, racing out of town.
He stopped dead still in the doorway. Why, that rider had been Riley McClean! Where
would he be going at that speed, at this hour? Or had he heard the Kid was in town
... ? Oh, no! The boy wasn't a coward. Ab knew he wasn't a coward.
He straightened his hat and touched his prematurely white mustache. His eyes studied
the street. A few loafers in front of the livery stable, a couple more at the general
store, a half-dozen horses at the hitch rails. One buckboard. He stepped out on the
walk and started slowly up the street. The Mohave Kid would be in the Trail Driver's
Saloon.
He walked slowly, with his usual measured step. One of the loafers in front of the
store got to his feet and ducked into the saloon. All right, then. The Kid knew he
was coming. If he came out in the street to meet him, so much the better.
Ruth came suddenly from Riley's shop and started toward him. He frowned and glanced
at her. No sign of the Kid yet. He must get her off the street at once.
"Hello, Dad!" Her face was strained, but she smiled brightly. "What's the hurry?"
"Don't stop me now, Ruth," he said. "I've got business up the street" "Nothing that
won't wait!" she protested. "Come in the store. I want to ask you about something."
192 L O U I S
"Not now, Ruth." There was still no sign of the Kid. "Not now.,, "Oh, come on! If
you don't," she warned, "I'll walk right up to the saloon with you."
He looked down at her, sudden panic within him. Although she was not his own daughter,
he had always felt that she was. "No!" he said sharply. "You mustn't!"
"Then come with me!" she insisted, grabbing his arm.
Still no sign of the Kid. Well, it would do no harm to wait, and he could at least
get Ruth out of harm's way. He turned aside and went into the store with her. She
had a new bridle she wanted him to see, and she wanted to know if he thought the
bit was right for her mare. Deliberately, she stalled. Once he looked up, thinking
he heard riders. Then he replied to her questions. Finally, he got away.
He stepped out into the sunlight, smelling dust in the air. Then he walked slowly
across and up the street. As he reached the center of the street, the Mohave Kid
came out of the Trail Driver and stepped off the walk, facing him.
Thirty yards separated them. Ab Kale waited, his keen blue eyes steady and cold.
He must make this definite, and if the Kid made the slightest move toward a gun,
he must kill him. The sun was very warm.
"Kid," he said, "your business in town is finished. We don't want you here. Because
of the family connection, I let you know that you weren't welcome. I wanted to avoid
a showdown. Now I see you won't accept that, so I'm giving you exactly one hour to
leave town. If you are here af
ter that hour, or if you ever come again, I'll kill you!"
The Mohave Kid started to speak, and then he stopped, frozen by a sudden movement.
From behind stores, from doorways, from alleys, stepped a dozen men. All held shotguns
or rifles, all directed at the Kid. He stared at them in shocked disbelief. Johnny
Holdstock ... Alec and Dave Holdstock ... Jim Gray, their cousin ... Webb Dixon,
a brother-in-law ... and Myron Holdstock, the old bull of the herd.
Ab Kale was petrified. Then he remembered Riley on that racing horse and that today
was old Myron's fortieth wedding anniversary, with half the family at the party.
The Mohave Kid stared at them, his face turning gray and then dark with sullen fury.
You do like the marshal says, Kid." Old Myron Holdstock's voice rang in the streets.
"We've protected ye because you're one of our'n. But you don't start trouble with
another of our'n. You git on your boss an git. Don't you ever show hide nor hair
around here again."
The Mohave Kid's face was a mask of fury. He turned deliberately nd walked to his
horse. No man could face all those guns, and being of
193 THE ONE FOR THE MOHAVE KID 189
Holdstock blood, he knew what would come if he tried to face them down. They would
kill him.
He swung into the saddle, cast one black, bleak look at Ab Kale, and then rode out
of town.
Slowly, Kale turned to Holdstock, who had been standing in the door of his shop.
"You needn't have done that," he said, "but I'm glad you
THREE DAYS WENT by slowly, and then the rains broke. It began to pour shortly before
daybreak and continued to pour. The washes were running bank full by noon, and the
street was deserted. Kale left his office early and stepped outside, buttoning his
slicker. The street was running with water, and a stream of rain was cutting a ditch
under the corner of the office. Getting a shovel from the stable, he began to divert
the water.
Up the street at the gun shop, Riley McClean got to his feet and took off the leather
apron in which he worked. He was turning toward the door when it darkened suddenly
and he looked up to see the bleak, rainwet face of the Mohave Kid.
The Kid stared at him. "I've come for my gun," he said. "That'll be two dollars,"
Riley said coolly.
"That's a lot, ain't it?" "It's my price to you."
The Kid's flat eyes stared at him, and his shoulder seemed to hunch. Then from the
tail of his eye he caught the movement of the marshal as he started to work with
the shovel. Quickly, he forked out two dollars and slapped it on the counter. Then
he fed five shells into the gun and stepped to the door. He took two quick steps
and vanished.
Surprised, Riley started around the counter after him. But as he reached the end
of the counter, he heard the Kid yell, "Ab!"
Kale, his slicker buttoned over his gun, looked around at the call. Frozen with surprise,
he saw the Mohave Kid standing there, gun in hand. The Kid's flat face was grinning
with grim triumph. And then the Kid's gun roared, and Ab Kale took a step backward
and fell, face down in the mud.
The Mohave Kid laughed, suddenly, sardonically. He dropped his gun into his holster
and started for the horse tied across the street.
He had taken but one step when Riley McClean spoke: "An right, Kid, here it is!"
The Mohave Kid whirled sharply to see the gunsmith standing in the doorway. The rain
whipping against him, Riley McClean looked at the Kid. "Ab was my friend," he said.
"I'm going to marry Ruth."
The Kid reached then, and in one awful, endless moment of realization, he knew what
Ab Kale had known for these several months, that
194 1 9 0
Riley McClean was a man born to the gun. Even as the Kid's hand slapped leather,
he saw Riley's weapon clearing and coming level. The gun steadied, and for that endless
instant the Kid stared into the black muzzle. Then his own iron was clear and swinging
up, and Riley's gun was stabbing flame.
The bullets, three of them fired rapidly, smashed the Mohave Kid in and around the
heart. He took a step back, his own gun roaring and the bullet plowing mud, and then
he went to his knees as Riley walked toward him, his gun poised for another shot.
As the Kid died, his brain flared with realization, with knowledge of death, and
he fell forward, sprawling on his face in the street. A rivulet, diverted by his
body, curved around him, ran briefly red, and then trailed on.
People were gathering, but Riley McClean walked to Ab Kale. As he reached him, the
older man stirred slightly.
Dropping to his knees, Riley turned him over. The marshal's eyes flickered open.
There was a cut from the hairline on the side of his head in front that ran all along
his scalp. The shattered end of the shovel handle told the story. Striking the shovel
handle, which had been in front of his heart at the moment of impact, the bullet
had glanced upward, knocking him out and ripping a furrow in his scalp.
Ab Kale got slowly to his feet and stared up the muddy street where the crowd clustered
about the Mohave Kid.
"You killed him?"
"Had to. I thought he'd killed you."
Ab nodded. "You've got a fast hand. I've known it for months. I hope you'll never
have to kill another man"
"I won't," Riley said quietly. "I'm not even going to carry a gun after this."
Ab Kale glanced back up the street. "So he's dead at last. I've carried that burden
a long time." He looked up, his face still white with shock. "They'll bury him. Let's
go home, son. The women will be worried"
And the two men walked down the street side by side, Ab Kale and his son....
195 Mule for Santa Fe
Sell the mules," Hassoldt advised, "you want oxen. Less water for 'em an' their feet
flatten out on the prairie country where a mule's dig in. If you get hard up for
grub you can always eat an ox.
"If I get that hungry," Scott Miles replied shortly, "I can eat a mule." Hassoldt
was an abrupt man. He turned away now, his irritation plain. "Suit yourself, Miles.
But you'll need another mule and I haven't any for sale."
Bitterly, Scott Miles turned away and went out the door. Rain lashed at his face,
for outside the building there was neither awning nor board walk. Head bowed into
the rain, he slopped along toward the Carter house where young Bill was waiting.
Hassoldt wanted those mules badly, and no wonder. There would be a big demand for
them in a few months, and nobody had mules like those of Scott Miles. They were well-bred
and well-fed, strapping big mules with plenty of power. If he could get them west
there would be money in them.
Everywhere he went they advised against the mules. On roads they were fine. On rocks
they were all right. But out on the prairie? Pembroke advised against them, too.
However, after much argument
he had agreed to accept the wagon in his company if Miles had a full team of six
mules. Four, Pembroke insisted, were not enough. Not even, he added, if the mules
were big as those of Miles's team.
There were half a dozen people in the hotel when he stepped in. Pembroke was there,
a big, fine-looking man with a tawny mustache. He was talking to Bidwell, a substantial
farmer from Ohio who had been the first to sign for Pembroke's fast wagon train.
Miles looked around and found Billy. He was talking to a pretty Woman with dark red
hair who sat in a big, leather-bound chair.
Bill saw him at once. "Pa," he said excitedly, "this is Mrs. Hance"
196 9 2
She looked up and he was immediately uneasy. She had blue eyes, not dark eyes like
Mary's had been, and there was a friendliness in them that disturbed him. "Bill's
been telling me about you, Mr. Miles. Have you found a mule?"
Glad to be on familiar ground, he shook his head. "Hassoldt won't sell. I'm afraid
I'm out of luck." He was absurdly conscious of his battered hat, its brim limp with
rain, and his unshaven jaws. He wanted to get away from her. Women like this both
irritated and disturbed him. She was too neat, too perfectly at ease. He knew what
such women were like on the trail, finicky and frightened of bugs and fussing over
trifles. Also, and he was frank to admit it to himself, he was a little jealous of
Bill's excited in terest.
"We'd better go, Bill. Say good-bye to Mrs. Hance."
HE WALKED OUT, red around the ears and conscious that somehow Bill felt he had failed
him. It was not necessary for him to have been so abrupt. Just because he looked
like a big backwoods farmer was no reason he should act like one.
They lived in the wagon. It was a big new Conestoga, and his tools were all new.
He had his plowshare, he'd make the plow when he got there, and he had two rifles
and plenty of ammunition. Bill was nine, but already he could shoot, and Scott Miles
wanted his son to grow up famil iar with weapons. He wanted him to be a good hunter,
to use guns with intelligence.
A boy needed two parents, and being an observant man Scott had not failed to notice
the wistfulness in Bill's eyes when other children, hurt or imagining a hurt, ran
to mother. Bill would never do that with him, he was too proud of being a little
man in front of his father. But it wasn't right for the boy.
Farmer Bidwell had a daughter, a pretty, flush-faced girl with corn silk hair. She
had been casting sidelong glances at him ever since their wagon rolled alongside.
Tentatively, Scott Miles touched his chin. He had better shave.
He did, and he also trimmed down his mustache. He wore it Spanish style and not like
the brush mustaches of Bidwell or so many of the com pany. He got into a clean shirt
then. Bill eyed him critically. "Gettin' all duded up," he said. "You goin' back
to see Mrs. Hance?"
"No!" He spoke sharply. "I may go to see Grace Bidwell, later." "Her?" Bill's contempt
was obvious. So obvious that Scott looked at the boy quickly. "She isn't as pretty
as Mrs. Hance."
Scott Miles sat down. "Look, Bill," he said, "we're going into a mighty rough country,
like I've told you. We won't be in a city. We'll be in the mountains where I'll have
to fell trees and trim them for a cabin.
I
197 MULE F O R SANTA F E 1 9 3
"Now I need a wife, and you need a mother. But just being pretty isn't enough. I've
got to have a wife who can cook, who can make her own clothes, if need be. A wife
who can take the rough going right with me. I need somebody who can help, not hinder."
Bill nodded, but he remained only half convinced. Scott Miles was shouldering into
his coat when Bill spoke again. "Pa"-he was frowning a little-"if we get a new mother,
shouldn't it be somebody we like, too?"
Scott Miles stared into the rain, his face grim. Then he dropped his hand to Bill's
shoulder. "Yes, son," he said quietly, "it would have to be c,,.,,Phndv we like ...
too"
THE RAIN STOPPED, but the sun did not come out. Slopping through the mud, Miles made
inquiries about mules. Yes, there was an old hardcase downriver who owned a big black
mule. The man's name was Simon Gilbride. Sell him? Not a chance! He wouldn't even
talk about it. Never theless, Scott Miles saddled his bay mare and rode south. As
he started out of town he saw Mrs. Hance on the hotel steps. She waved, and he waved
back.
He saw something else, too. Something that filled him with grave dis quiet. Hassoldt
was standing on the steps talking to three rough-looking men from the river. All
wore guns. They turned and looked at him as he passed, and Scott had the uncomfortable
feeling they had been talking about him.
Gilbride came to the door when Scott arrived. He was a tall, old man with a cold
patrician face and the clothes of a farmer. "Sell my mule? Of course not!" And that
was final.
It was dusk before Scott returned to the wagon. He was tired and he sagged in the
saddle. It was not so much physical weariness, for he was a big man and unusually
strong, but the weariness of defeat. Only a few hours remained and there was only
one mule in the country the size of his. Of course, wagons were arriving all the
time. If he could keep circu lating ...
He pulled up. There was a fire going and Bill was squatted beside it. He was laughing
and eating at the same time, and the girl who was cook ing was laughing also. "Good!"
he muttered. "Grace has finally got to him. Now things will be easier all around."
Only when she straightened from the fire it was not Grace. It was Mrs. Hance.
She smiled, a little frightened. "Oh! I didn't expect you back so soon.
was worried about Bill going without his
The food was good. Had a flavor he didn't know, but mighty good. And Bill was eating
as if he hadn't eaten in years. Of course, Bill could di gest anything.
198 1 9 4 L O U I S
"Mr. Miles," she spoke suddenly as if nerved for the effort. "I have
favor to ask. I want to ride in your wagon to Santa Fe."
He blinked. Of all things, this was the least expected. Bill had looked
up and Scott could almost feel him listening.
He shook his head. "I am sorry, Mrs. Hance. The answer is no. It is
quite impossible."
HE WALKED to the door of the hotel with her, then back to the wagon. Suddenly he
decided to check the mules and, nearing them, he was al most positive he saw a shadow
move in the darkness near where they were picketed. He waited, his gun ready, but
there was no further movement, no sound.
He waited for a long time in silence, seriously worried. Hassoldt wanted mules badly,
with a big contract to fill for the government, and he did not impress Miles as a
very scrupulous man. In such a place as this there would be thieves, and Hassoldt
impressed him as a man likely to stop at nothing to obtain something he wanted.
When he reached the hotel next morning there was no sign of Mrs. Hance. He hesitated,
faintly disappointed at not seeing her. Pembroke and Bidwell were together. "Well,
Miles." Pembroke was abrupt. "Have you found a mule? I'm sorry, of course, but if
you haven't one tomorrow we'll have to make other arrangements."
Wearily Miles walked back to camp, leading the mare. He was walk ing up to the wagon
when the mare whinnied. He looked up. Tied to a wagon wheel was a magnificent sorrel
stallion. At least sixteen hands high, it had a white face and three white stockings.
After tying the mare, Scott Miles walked admiringly around the stallion. It was one
of the finest animals he had ever seen.
Mrs. Hance came out of the trees with Bill. They hung back a little, then walked
toward him.
"This," he inquired, "is your horse?" "You like him?"
"Like him? He's splendid! All my life I've wanted to own just such a horse. Of course,"
he added quickly, "I could never afford it"
"With your mare it might be very profitable," she assured him quietly. Then she lifted
her chin. "Mr. Miles, what would you do for another mule?" He laughed grimly. "Anything
short of murder," he said, "if I got him before tomorrow."
"Even to sharing your wagon with a widow?" He chuckled. "Even that!"
"Then prepare to have a passenger. I've got a mule!"
He shook his head. "That's impossible. There isn't a mule within miles and miles
of here. I've looked."
199 A MULE FOR SANTA F E 1 9 5
"I have a mule," she said, "as big as yours. He was sold to me by Simon Gilbride."
Scott Miles sat down, and she explained very quietly. Determined to go to Santa Fe,
she had decided the only thing to do was to personally see the old man.
Gilbride, it turned out, had been in her father's command in Mexico. That, a little
pleading, and a little flattery had done the trick. "So," she said, "I have a mule.
I have the only mule. So if you go you take me. What do we do?"
Scott Miles got to his feet and bowed politely. "Mrs. Hance, will you do me the honor
of allowing me to escort you to Santa Fe?"
She curtsied gravely, then her eyes filled with mischief. "Mr. Miles," she replied
formally, "I was hoping you'd ask!"
Pembroke was in the hotel, seated with Bidwell and several others, shaping last details
of the trip.
"Count me in." Scott could scarcely keep the triumph from his tone. "I've got my
mule!"
As he explained he saw Bidwell's face stiffen. Pembroke frowned slightly, then shook
his head. "It won't do, Miles," he said. "The women would never stand for it. We
can't have an unmarried couple sharing a wagon. It just won't do"
"Look," he protested, "I-" Argument was fruitless. The answer was a flat no. Disgusted,
angry, and desperate, he started back toward the wagon. He was nearing it when he
heard a shot, then another. Running, he whipped his pistol from his waistband and
broke through the trees to the wagon.
MRS. HANCE STOOD behind the wagon with a smoking rifle. Her face was white. "They
got away," she said bitterly, "they've stolen our mules!" She continued icily, "Have
you decided to just stand there or are you going to take Admiral and go after them?"
"Admiral?" He was astonished. "They didn't get him? You mean he was tied here?"
"Behind the wagon," she said shortly. "Now take him and get started!" "He might be
killed," he warned
Her lips tightened. "Take him! We're in this together!"
It was morning when he realized he was closing in. Admiral was not merely a beautiful
horse, but one with speed and bottom. And one of the men was wounded. He had come
upon the place where they bathed and dressed his wound at daylight. He had found
fragments of a bloody shirt and fresh boot-tracks.
Two hours later he stopped on the edge of a grove and saw them disappearing into
a cluster of pinons a half mile away. They had the mules
200 1 9 6
roped together and they were moving more slowly. The wounded man was riding his mare.
He had no illusions about fair play. They would kill on sight. If he survived he
must do the same. Studying the terrain, he saw a long draw off on the right that
cut into the plain to the south. If he could get into that draw and beat them to
the plain ...
Admiral went down the bank as if mountain-bred and on the bottom he stepped out into
a run. Despite the long night of riding, the big horse had plenty left. He ran and
ran powerfully, ran with eagerness.
At the draw's opening, Scott Miles swung down. Grimly, he checked the heavy pistol
he carried. Thrusting it into his waistband, he walked along through the scattered
greasewood and pinon until he was near the
C11 1 d d h*hh
The mules came out of the draw with the men behind them. Scott
N11011111111111111 Miles drew his pistol and stepped from the pinons, but as his
foot came
entrance o t e arger raw own w is t ey were coming.
down a rock rolled and he lost balance. He fell backward, seeing the riders grabbing
for their guns. He caught himself on his left hand and fired even as a bullet whisked
by his face.
HE ROLLED to one knee and fired again. The second shot did not miss. One man lurched
in his saddle and there was blood down the back of his head, and then he fell into
the dust, his horse stampeding.
The wounded man had disappeared, but the third man leaped his horse at Scott. There
was an instant when Scott saw the flaring nostrils of the horse, saw the man lean
wide and point the gun straight at his face. And then Scott fired.
The man's body jolted, seeming to lift from the saddle, and was slammed back as the
horse leaped over Miles, one hoof missing him by a hair. The rider hit the sand and
rolled over. Taking no chances, Miles fired again.
One man left. Sitting on the sand, half-concealed by brush, Miles reloaded the empty
chambers. Then he started through the brush, moving carefully.
The wounded man sat on the ground, holding his one good arm aloft. "Don't shoot!"
he begged. "I tossed my gun away."
Scott gathered the guns, then the mules and the horses. He left one horse for the
wounded man. "You do what you like, but don't cross my trail again. Not ever."
THE MULES MADE a nice picture ahead of the big Conestoga wagon, and on the seat Scott
Miles sat beside his wife. She was not only a very pretty woman, this Laura Hance
Miles, but, as he had discovered, a useful one.
He was, he admitted, very much in love, a richer and more exciting love than he had
ever experienced. There would always be a place in his
201 FOR S A N T A F E 1 9 7
heart for Mary, but this woman was one to walk beside a man, not behind him. She
had shown it since the first day they were two together, a team, working toward a
common end. It was what he had wanted.
There had been a time, he remembered, when he had believed a man could never get
close to a woman like this. But that had been a long time ago.
And Bill had been right. It was necessary to like somebody, too.
202 War Party
e buried Pa on a sidehill out west of camp, buried him high up so his ghost could
look down the trail he'd planned to travel.
We piled the grave high with rocks because of the coyotes, and we dug the grave deep,
and some of it I dug myself, and Mr. Sampson helped, and some others.
Folks in the wagon train figured Ma would turn back, but they hadn't known Ma so
long as I had. Once she set her mind to something she wasn't about to quit.
She was a young woman and pretty, but there was strength in her. She was a lone woman
with two children, but she was of no mind to turn back. She'd come through the Little
Crow massacre in Minnesota and she knew what trouble was. Yet it was like her that
she put it up to me.
"Bud," she said, when we were alone, "we can turn back, but we've nobody there who
cares about us, and it's of you and Jeanie that I'm thinking. If we go west you will
have to be the man of the house, and you'll have to work hard to make up for Pa."
"We'll go west," I said. A boy those days took it for granted that he had work to
do, and the men couldn't do it all. No boy ever thought of himself as only twelve
or thirteen or whatever he was, being anxious to prove himself a man, and take a
man's place and responsibilities.
Ryerson and his wife were going back. She was a complaining woman and he was a man
who was always ailing when there was work to be done. Four or five wagons were turning
back, folks with their tails be twixt their legs running for the shelter of towns
where their own little ness wouldn't stand out so plain.
When a body crossed the Mississippi and left the settlements behind, something happened
to him. The world seemed to bust wide open, and suddenly the horizons spread out
and a man wasn't cramped anymore. The pinched-up villages and the narrowness of towns,
all that was gone.
203 WAR PARTY 1 9 9
The horizons simply exploded and rolled back into enormous distance, with nothing
around but prairie and sky.
Some folks couldn't stand it. They'd cringe into themselves and start hunting excuses
to go back where they came from. This was a big country needing big men and women
to live in it, and there was no place out here for the frightened or the mean.
The prairie and sky had a way of trimming folks down to size, or changing them to
giants to whom nothing seemed impossible. Men who had cut a wide swath back in the
States found themselves nothing out here. They were folks who were used to doing
a lot of talking who suddenly found that no one was listening anymore, and things
that seemed mighty important back home, like family and money, they amounted to nothing
alongside character and courage.
There was John Sampson from our town. He was a man used to being told to do things,
used to looking up to wealth and power, but when he crossed the Mississippi he began
to lift his head and look around. He squared his shoulders, put more crack to his
whip, and began to make his own tracks in the land.
Pa was always strong, an independent man given to reading at night from one of the
four or five books we had, to speaking up on matters of principle and to straight
shooting with a rifle. Pa had fought the Comanche and lived with the Sioux, but he
wasn't strong enough to last more than two days with a Kiowa arrow through his lung.
But he died knowing Ma had stood by the rear wheel and shot the Kiowa whose arrow
it was.
Right then I knew that neither Indians nor country was going to get the better of
Ma. Shooting that Kiowa was the first time Ma had shot anything but some chicken-killing
varmint-which she'd done time to time when Pa was away from home.
Only Ma wouldn't let Jeanie and me call it home. "We came here from Illinois," she
said, "but we're going home now."
"But, Ma," I protested, "I thought home was where we came from?" "Home is where we're
going now," Ma said, "and we'll know it when we find it. Now that Pa is gone we'll
have to build that home ourselves."
She had a way of saying "home" so it sounded like a rare and wonderful place and
kept Jeanie and me looking always at the horizon, just knowing it was over there,
waiting for us to see it. She had given us the dream, and even Jeanie, who was only
six, she had it too.
She might tell us that home was where we were going, but I knew home was where Ma
was, a warm and friendly place with biscuits on the table and fresh-made butter.
We wouldn't have a real home until Ma was there and we had a fire going. Only I'd
build the fire.
Mr. Buchanan, who was captain of the wagon train, came to us with
204 200 L O U I S
Tryon Burt, who was guide. "We'll help you," Mr. Buchanan said. "I know you'll be
wanting to go back, and-"
"But we are not going back" Ma smiled at them. "And don't be afraid we'll be a burden.
I know you have troubles of your own, and we will manage very well."
Mr. Buchanan looked uncomfortable, like he was trying to think of the right thing
to say. "Now, see here," he protested, "we started this trip with a rule. There has
to be a man with every wagon."
Ma put her hand on my shoulder. "I have my man. Bud is almost thirteen and accepts
responsibility. I could ask for no better man." Ryerson came up. He was thin, stooped
in the shoulder, and when
ever he looked at Ma there was a greasy look to his eyes that I didn't like. He was
a man who looked dirty even when he'd just washed in the creek. "You come along with
me, ma'am," he said. "I'll take good care of you.
"Mr. Ryerson"-Ma looked him right in the eye-"you have a wife who can use better
care than she's getting, and I have my son."
"He's nothin' but a boy."
"You are turning back, are you not? My son is going on. I believe that should indicate
who is more the man. It is neither size nor age that makes a man, Mr. Ryerson, but
something he has inside. My son has it."
Ryerson might have said something unpleasant only Tryon Burt was standing there wishing
he would, so he just looked ugly and hustled off. "I'd like to say you could come,"
Mr. Buchanan said, "but the boy couldn't stand up to a man's work."
Ma smiled at him, chin up, the way she had. "I do not believe in gambling, Mr. Buchanan,
but I'll wager a good Ballard rifle there isn't a man in camp who could follow a
child all day, running when it runs, squatting when it squats, bending when it bends,
and wrestling when it wrestles and not be played out long before the child is"
"You may be right, ma'am, but a rule is a rule."
"We are in Indian country, Mr. Buchanan. If you are killed a week from now, I suppose
your wife must return to the States?"
"That's different! Nobody could turn back from there!"
"Then," Ma said sweetly, "it seems a rule is only a rule within certain limits, and
if I recall correctly no such limit was designated in the articles of travel. Whatever
limits there were, Mr. Buchanan, must have been passed sometime before the Indian
attack that killed my husband."
"I can drive the wagon, and so can Ma," I said. "For the past two days I've been
driving, and nobody said anything until Pa died."
Mr. Buchanan didn't know what to say, but a body could see he didn't like it. Nor
did he like a woman who talked up to him the way Ma did. Tryon Burt spoke up. "Let
the boy drive. I've watched this youngster,
205 and he'll do. He has better judgment than most men in the outfit, and he stands
up to his work. If need be, I'll help."
Mr. Buchanan turned around and walked off with his back stiff the way it is when
he's mad. Ma looked at Burt, and she said, "Thank you, Mr. Burt. That was nice of
you."
Try Burt, he got all red around the gills and took off like somebody had put a bur
under his saddle.
Come morning our wagon was the second one ready to take its place jr, line, with
both horses saddled and tied behind the wagon, and me standing beside the off ox.
Any direction a man wanted to look there was nothing but grass and sky, only sometimes
there'd be a buffalo wallow or a gopher hole. We made eleven miles the first day
after Pa was buried, sixteen the next, then nineteen, thirteen and twenty-one. At
no time did the country change. On the sixth day after Pa died I killed a buffalo.
It was a young bull, but a big one, and I spotted him coning up out of a draw and
was off my horse and bellied down in the grass before Try Burt realized there was
game in sight. That bull came up from the draw and stopped there, staring at the
wagon train, which was a half-mile off. Setting a sight behind his left shoulder
I took a long breath, took in the trigger slack, then squeezed off my shot so gentle-like
the gun jumped in my hands before I was ready for it.
The bull took a step back like something had surprised him, and I
jacked another shell into the chamber and was sighting on him again when he went
down on his knees and rolled over on his side.
"You got him, Bud!" Burt was more excited than me. "That was shootin'!"
Try got down and showed me how to skin the bull, and lent me a hand. Then we cut
out a lot of fresh meat and toted it back to the wagons. Ma was at the fire when
we came up, a wisp of brown hair alongside
her cheek and her face flushed from the heat of the fire, looking as pretty as a
bay pony.
"Bud killed his first buffalo," Burt told her, looking at Ma like he could eat her
with a spoon.
"Why, Bud! That's wonderful!" Her eyes started to dance with a kind of mischief in
them, and she said, "Bud, why don't you take a piece of that meat along to Mr. Buchanan
and the others?"
With Burt to help, we cut the meat into eighteen pieces and distributed it around
the wagons. It wasn't much, but it was the first fresh meat in a couple of weeks.
John Sampson squeezed my shoulder and said, "Seems to me you and your ma are folks
to travel with. This outfit needs some hunters."
206 2 0 2 L O U I S
Each night I staked out that buffalo hide, and each day I worked at curing it before
rolling it up to pack on the wagon. Believe you me, I was some proud of that buffalo
hide. Biggest thing I'd shot until then was a cottontail rabbit back in Illinois,
where we lived when I was born. Try Burt told folks about that shot. "Two hundred
yards," he'd say, "right through the heart."
Only it wasn't more than a hundred and fifty yards the way I figured, and Pa used
to make me pace off distances, so I'd learn to judge right. But I was nobody to argue
with Try Burt telling a story-besides, two hun dred yards makes an awful lot better
sound than one hundred and fifty.
After supper the menfolks would gather to talk plans. The season was late, and we
weren't making the time we ought if we hoped to beat the snow through the passes
of the Sierras. When they talked I was there be cause I was the man of my wagon,
but nobody paid me no mind. Mr. Buchanan, he acted like he didn't see me, but John
Sampson would not, and Try Burt always smiled at me.
Several spoke up for turning back, but Mr. Buchanan said he knew of an outfit that
made it through later than this. One thing was sure. Our wagon wasn't turning back.
Like Ma said, home was somewhere ahead of us, and back in the States we'd have no
money and nobody to turn to, nor any relatives, anywhere. It was the three of us.
"We're going on," I said at one of these talks. "We don't figure to turn back for
anything."
Webb gave me a glance full of contempt. "You'll go where the rest of us go. You an'
your ma would play hob gettin' by on your own."
Next day it rained, dawn to dark it fairly poured, and we were lucky to make six
miles. Day after that, with the wagon wheels sinking into the prairie and the rain
still falling, we camped just two miles from where we started in the morning.
Nobody talked much around the fires, and what was said was apt to be short and irritable.
Most of these folks had put all they owned into the outfits they had, and if they
turned back now they'd have nothing to live on and nothing left to make a fresh start.
Except a few like Mr. Buchanan, who was well off.
"It doesn't have to be California," Ma said once. "What most of us want is land,
not gold."
"This here is Indian country," John Sampson said, "and a sight too open for me. I'd
like a valley in the hills, with running water close by." "There will be valleys
and meadows," Ma replied, stirring the stew
she was making, "and tall trees near running streams, and tall grass grow ing in
the meadows, and there will be game in the forest and on the grassy plains, and places
for homes."
"And where will we find all that?" Webb's tone was slighting.
207 WAR PARTY 2 0 3
"West," Ma said, "over against the mountains." "I suppose you've been there?" Webb
scoffed.
"No, Mr. Webb, I haven't been there, but I've been told of it. The land is there,
and we will have some of it, my children and I, and we will stay through the winter,
and in the spring we will plant our crops."
"Easy to say."
"This is Sioux country to the north," Burt said. "We'll be lucky to get through without
a fight. There was a war party of thirty or thirty-five passed this way a couple
of days ago."
"Sioux?" "Uh-huh-no women or children along, and I found where some war paint rubbed
off on the brush."
"Maybe," Mr. Buchanan suggested, "we'd better turn south a mite." "It is late in
the season," Ma replied, "and the straightest way is the best way now."
"No use to worry," White interrupted; "those Indians went on by. They won't likely
know we're around."
"They were riding southeast," Ma said, "and their home is in the north, so when they
return they'll be riding northwest. There is no way they can miss our trail."
"Then we'd best turn back," White said.
"Don't look like we'd make it this year, anyway," a woman said; "the season is late."
That started the argument, and some were for turning back and some wanted to push
on, and finally White said they should push on, but travel fast.
"Fast?" Webb asked disparagingly. "An Indian can ride in one day the distance we'd
travel in four"
That started the wrangling again and Ma continued with her cooking. Sitting there
watching her I figured I never did see anybody so graceful or quick on her feet as
Ma, and when we used to walk in the woods back home I never knew her to stumble or
step on a fallen twig or branch.
The group broke up and returned to their own fires with nothing settled, only there
at the end Mr. Buchanan looked to Burt. "Do you know the Sioux?"
"Only the Utes and Shoshonis, and I spent a winter on the Snake With the Nez Perces
one time. But I've had no truck with the Sioux. Only they tell me they're bad medicine.
Fightin' men from way back and they don't cotton to white folks in their country.
If we run into Sioux, we're in trouble."
After Mr. Buchanan had gone Tryon Burt accepted a plate and cup from Ma and settled
down to eating. After a while he looked up at her
208 2 0 4
and said, "Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but it struck me you knew a sight about trackin'
for an eastern woman. You'd spotted those Sioux your own self, an' you figured it
right that they'd pick up our trail on the way back."
She smiled at him. "It was simply an observation, Mr. Burt. I would believe anyone
would notice it. I simply put it into words"
Burt went on eating, but he was mighty thoughtful, and it didn't seem to me he was
satisfied with Ma's answer. Ma said finally, "It seems to be raining west of here.
Isn't it likely to be snowing in the mountains?"
Burt looked up uneasily. "Not necessarily so, ma'am. It could be rain ing here and
not snowing there, but I'd say there was a chance of snow." He got up and came around
the fire to the coffeepot. "What are you get tin' at, ma'am?"
"Some of them are ready to turn back or change their plans. What will you do then?"
He frowned, placing his cup on the grass and starting to fill his pipe. "No idea-might
head south for Santa Fe. Why do you ask?"
"Because we're going on," Ma said. "We're going to the mountains, and I am hoping
some of the others decide to come with us."
"You'd go alone?" He was amazed. "If necessary."
We started on at daybreak, but folks were more scary than before, and they kept looking
at the great distances stretching away on either side, and muttering. There was an
autumn coolness in the air, and we were still short of South Pass by several days
with the memory of the Donner party being talked up around us.
There was another kind of talk in the wagons, and some of it I heard. The nightly
gatherings around Ma's fire had started talk, and some of it pointed to Tryon Burt,
and some were saying other things.
We made seventeen miles that day, and at night Mr. Buchanan didn't come to our fire;
and when White stopped by, his wife came and got him. Ma looked at her and smiled,
and Mrs. White sniffed and went away beside her husband.
"Mr. Burt"-Ma wasn't one to beat around a bush-"is there talk about me?"
Try Burt got red around the ears and he opened his mouth, but couldn't find the words
he wanted. "Maybe-well, maybe I shouldn't eat here all the time. Only-well, ma'am,
you're the best cook in camp."
Ma smiled at him. "I hope that isn't the only reason you come to see us, Mr. Burt."
He got redder than ever then and gulped his coffee and took off in a hurry.
Time to time the men had stopped by to help a little, but next morning nobody came
by. We got lined out about as soon as ever, and Ma said to
209 WAR PARTY 205
me as we sat on the wagon seat, "Pay no attention, Bud. You've no call to take up
anything if you don't notice it. There will always be folks who will talk, and the
better you do in the world the more bad things they will say of you. Back there in
the settlement you remember how the dogs used to run out and bark at our wagons?"
"Yes, Ma."
"Did the wagons stop?" "No, Ma."
"Remember that, son. The dogs bark, but the wagons go on their way, and if you're
going someplace you haven't time to bother with bark ing dogs."
We made eighteen miles that day, and the grass was better, but there was a rumble
of distant thunder, whimpering and muttering off in the canyons, promising rain.
Webb stopped by, dropped an armful of wood beside the fire, then started off.
"Thank you, Mr. Webb," Ma said, "but aren't you afraid you'll be talked about?"
He looked angry and started to reply something angry, and then he grinned and said,
"I reckon I'd be flattered, Mrs. Miles."
Ma said, "No matter what is decided by the rest of them, Mr. Webb, we are going on,
but there is no need to go to California for what we want."
Webb took out his pipe and tamped it. He had a dark, devil's face on him with eyebrows
like you see on pictures of the devil. I was afraid of Mr. Webb.
"We want land," Ma said, "and there is land around us. In the moun tains ahead there
will be streams and forests, there will be fish and game, logs for houses and meadows
for grazing."
Mr. Buchanan had joined us. "That's fool talk," he declared. "What could anyone do
in these hills? You'd be cut off from the world. Left out of it."
"A man wouldn't be so crowded as in California," John Sampson re marked. "I've seen
so many go that I've been wondering what they all do there."
"For a woman," Webb replied, ignoring the others, "you've a head on you, ma'am."
"What about the Sioux?" Mr. Buchanan asked dryly.
"We'd not be encroaching on their land. They live to the north," Ma said. She gestured
toward the mountains. "There is land to be had just a few days farther on, and that
is where our wagon will stop."
A few days! Everybody looked at everybody else. Not months, but days only. Those
who stopped then would have enough of their supplies
210 206
left to help them through the winter, and with what game they could kill-and time
for cutting wood and even building cabins before the cold set in.
Oh, there was an argument, such argument as you've never heard, and the upshot of
it was that all agreed it was fool talk and the thing to do was keep going. And there
was talk I overheard about Ma being no better than she should be, and why was that
guide always hanging around her? And all those men? No decent woman- I hurried away.
At break of day our wagons rolled down a long valley with a small stream alongside
the trail, and the Indians came over the ridge to the south of us and started our
way-tall, fine-looking men with feathers in their hair.
There was barely time for a circle, but I was riding off in front with Tryon Burt,
and he said, "A man can always try to talk first, and Injuns like a palaver. You
get back to the wagons."
Only I rode along beside him, my rifle over my saddle and ready to hand. My mouth
was dry and my heart was beating so's I thought Try could hear it, I was that scared.
But behind us the wagons were making their circle, and every second was important.
Their chief was a big man with splendid muscles, and there was a scalp not many days
old hanging from his lance. It looked like Ryerson's hair, but Ryerson's wagons should
have been miles away to the east by now.
Burt tried them in Shoshoni, but it was the language of their enemies and they merely
stared at him, understanding well enough, but of no mind to talk. One young buck
kept staring at Burt with a taunt in his eye, daring Burt to make a move; then suddenly
the chief spoke, and they all turned their eyes toward the wagons.
There was a rider coming, and it was a woman. It was Ma.
She rode right up beside us, and when she drew up she started to talk, and she was
speaking their language. She was talking Sioux. We both knew what it was because
those Indians sat up and paid attention. Suddenly she directed a question at the
chief.
"Red Horse," he said, in English.
Ma shifted to English. "My husband was blood brother to Gall, the greatest warrior
of the Sioux nation. It was my husband who found Gall dying in the brush with a bayonet
wound in his chest, who took Gall to his home and treated the wound until it was
well."
"Your husband was a medicine man?" Red Horse asked.
"My husband was a warrior," Ma replied proudly, "but he made war only against strong
men, not women or children or the wounded."
She put her hand on my shoulder. "This is my son. As my husband was blood brother
to Gall, his son is by blood brotherhood the son of Gall, also."
211 WAR PARTY 2 0 7
Red Horse stared at Ma for a long time, and I was getting even more scared. I could
feel a drop of sweat start at my collar and crawl slowly down my spine. Red Horse
looked at me. "Is this one a fit son for Gall?" "He is a fit son. He has killed his
first buffalo."
Red Horse turned his mount and spoke to the others. One of the young braves shouted
angrily at him, and Red Horse replied sharply. Reluctantly, the warrior trailed off
after their chief.
"Ma'am," Burt said, "you just about saved our bacon. They were just spoilin' for
a fight."
"We should be moving," Ma said.
Mr. Buchanan was waiting for us. "What happened out there? I tried to keep her back,
but she's a difficult woman."
"She's worth any three men in the outfit," Burt replied.
That day we made eighteen miles, and by the time the wagons circled there was talk.
The fact that Ma had saved them was less important now than other things. It didn't
seem right that a decent woman could talk Sioux or mix in the affairs of men.
Nobody came to our fire, but while picking the saddle horses I heard someone say,
"Must be part Injun. Else why would they pay attention to a woman?"
"Maybe she's part Injun and leadin' us into a trap." "Hadn't been for her," Burt
said, "you'd all be dead now"
"How do you know what she said to 'em? Who savvies that lingo?" "I never did trust
that woman," Mrs. White said; "too high and mighty. Nor that husband of hers, either,
comes to that. Kept to himself too much."
The air was cool after a brief shower when we started in the morn ing, and no Indians
in sight. All day long we moved over grass made fresh by new rain, and all the ridges
were pine-clad now, and the growth along the streams heavier. Short of sundown I
killed an antelope with a running shot, dropped him mighty neat-and looked up to
see an Indian watch ing from a hill. At the distance I couldn't tell, but it could
have been Red Horse.
Time to time I'd passed along the train, but nobody waved or said anything. Webb
watched me go by, his face stolid as one of the Sioux, yet I could see there was
a deal of talk going on.
"Why are they mad at us?" I asked Burt.
"Folks hate something they don't understand, or anything seems dif ferent. Your ma
goes her own way, speaks her mind, and of an evening she doesn't set by and gossip"
He topped out on a rise and drew up to study the country, and me beside him. "You
got to figure most of these folks come from small towns where they never knew much
aside from their families, their gossip, and
212 208
their church. It doesn't seem right to them that a decent woman would find time to
learn Sioux."
Burt studied the country. "Time was, any stranger was an enemy, and if anybody came
around who wasn't one of yours, you killed him. I've seen wolves jump on a wolf that
was white or different somehow-seems like folks and animals fear anything that's
unusual."
We circled, and I staked out my horses and took the oxen to the herd. By the time
Ma had her grub-box lid down, I was fixing at a fire when here come Mr. Buchanan,
Mr. and Mrs. White, and some other folks, in cluding that Webb.
"Ma'am"-Mr. Buchanan was mighty abrupt-"we figure we ought to know what you said
to those Sioux. We want to know why they turned off just because you went out there."
"Does it matter?"
Mr. Buchanan's face stiffened up. "We think it does. There's some think you might
be an Indian your own self."
"And if I am?" Ma was amused. "Just what is it you have in mind, Mr. Buchanan?"
"We don't want no Injuns in this outfit!" Mr. White shouted. "How does it come you
can talk that language?" Mrs. White de manded. "Even Tryon Burt can't talk it."
"I figure maybe you want us to keep goin' because there's a trap up ahead!" White
declared.
I never realized folks could be so mean, but there they were facing Ma like they
hated her, like those witch-hunters Ma told me about back in Salem. It didn't seem
right that Ma, who they didn't like, had saved them from an Indian attack, and the
fact that she talked Sioux like any Indian bothered them.
"As it happens," Ma said, "I am not an Indian, athough I should not be ashamed of
it if I were. They have many admirable qualities. However, you need worry yourselves
no longer, as we part company in the morn ing. I have no desire to travel further
with you gentlemen."
Mr. Buchanan's face got all angry, and he started up to say something mean. Nobody
was about to speak rough to Ma with me standing by, so I just picked up that of rifle
and jacked a shell into the chamber. "Mr. Buchanan, this here's my ma, and she's
a lady, so you just be careful what words you use."
"Put down that rifle, you young fool!" he shouted at me.
"Mr. Buchanan, I may be little and may be a fool, but this here rifle doesn't care
who pulls its trigger."
He looked like he was going to have a stroke, but he just turned sharp around and
walked away, all stiff in the back.
213 PARTY 2 0 9
"Ma'am," Webb said, "you've no cause to like me much, but you've shown more brains
than that passel o' fools. If you'll be so kind, me and my boy would like to trail
along with you."
"I like a man who speaks his mind, Mr. Webb. I would consider it an honor to have
your company."
Tryon Burt looked quizzically at Ma. "Why, now, seems to me this is a time for a
man to make up his mind, and I'd like to be included along with Webb."
"Mr. Burt," Ma said, "for your own information, I grew up among Sioux children in
Minnesota. They were my playmates."
Come daylight our wagon pulled off to one side, pointing northwest at the mountains,
and Mr. Buchanan led off to the west. Webb followed Ma's wagon, and I sat watching
Mr. Buchanan's eyes get angrier as John Sampson, Neely Stuart, the two Shafter wagons,
and Tom Croft all fell in behind us.
Tryon Burt had been talking to Mr. Buchanan, but he left off and trotted his horse
over to where I sat my horse. Mr. Buchanan looked mighty sullen when he saw half
his wagon train gone and with it a lot of his importance as captain.
Two days and nearly forty miles farther and we topped out on a rise and paused to
let the oxen take a blow. A long valley lay across our route, with mountains beyond
it, and tall grass wet with rain, and a flat bench on the mountainside seen through
a gray veil of a light shower falling. There was that bench, with the white trunks
of aspen on the mountainside be yond it looking like ranks of slim soldiers guarding
the bench against the storms.
"Ma," I said.
"All right, Bud," she said quietly, "we've come home."
And I started up the oxen and drove down into the valley where I was to become a
man.
214 Ironwood Station
The riders met where the trails formed a Y with the main road. The man from the north
was fat, with a narrow-brimmed hat and round cheeks. He raised a hand in greeting.
"Mind if I ride
along with you? Gets mighty lonesome, ridin' alone. I ain't seen even a jackrabbit
last ten miles, an' a man can say just so much to a horse. "Figured to make Ironwood
Station before sundown. They feed pas
sengers, an' I'm mighty tired of my own cookin'." The fat man bit off a chunk of
chewing tobacco and offered the plug to the other man, who shook his head. "Long
empty stretch in here," the fat man continued. "Never see nobody 'ceptin' Utes, whom
nobody wants to see." The fat man glanced at his companion. "Ain't much for talkin',
are you?"
"Not much."
"Well, I'm ready for Dan Burnett's cookin'. That man can sure shake up a nice mess
o' vittles. Makes a man's mouth water"
"Somebody north of us," the other rider said. "Somebody who doesn't want to follow
a trail."
The fat man glanced at him. "You hear something?" "I smell dust."
"Could be Utes. This here is Ute country." The fat man was worried. "The Utes have
been killin' a lot of folks about here."
"There's three ... maybe four of them." "Now, how would you know that?"
"Dust from one horse wouldn't reach this far, but the dust from three or four would."
"My name is Jones," the fat man said. "What did you say your name was?"
"Talon ... Shawn Talon."
"Odd name. Don't reckon I ever heard that one before."
"You would in County Wicklow. My father was Irish, with an after coating of Texas."
215 IRONWOOD STATION 2 1
They rode in silence until they dipped into a hollow, and Talon drew up briefly.
"Three riders," Talon said, "on mighty fine horses. See the stride? A long stride
and good action, although they've been riding a long
time. "You read a lot from a few tracks."
"Well, they've had to be riding a long time," Talon said, smiling. "This isn't camping
country, and where would a man come from to get here?" Sun glinted on the rifle barrel
a split instant before the bullet whipped
past his ear, but the brief warning was enough. Talon slapped the spurs to his horse
and was off with a bound, the report of a rifle cutting a slash across the hot still
afternoon.
Ahead of him there was a burst of firing, and as the two men, rid ing neck and neck,
came over the rise, they saw three others in a hol low among the rocks defending
themselves against an attack by Utes. Glancing back, Talon saw several Indians closing
in from behind them. Jumping their horses into the circle of rocks, Talon rolled
on his side and began feeding shells into the Winchester. Briefly, he glanced at
the other men.
The three strangers were tough, competent-looking men. One, a slim, dark man, had
his holster tied down. He was unshaven and he glanced at Talon and grinned. "You
showed up on time, mister."
It was very hot. From time to time somebody thought they saw a tar get and fired,
and from time to time the Utes fired back ... but they were working closer. "Getting
set for a rush," Talon said aloud.
"Let 'em come," the man with the tied-down gun said. "The quicker they try it, the
quicker this will be over."
Neither of his companions had said anything. One was a short, dark man, the other
a burly fellow, huge and bearded. All three looked dirty, and showed evidence of
long days in the saddle. Talon noticed that his talkative friend was suddenly very
silent.
The rush came suddenly. Talon got in a quick shot with his rifle, and then the man
with the tied-down holster was on his feet, his six-gun rolling a cannonade of sound
into the hot afternoon. He shot fast and ac curately. With his own eyes Talon saw
three Indians drop under the gun man's fire before the attack broke. With his rifle
Talon nailed another, and saw the gunman bring down the last Indian with a fifty-yard
pistol shot. "That was some shooting," Talon commented.
The man glanced at him briefly. "It's my business," he said.
In the distance, beyond the trail, dust arose. "Thought so," the gun man said. "They're
pullin' out."
Talon waited a moment, watching the trail, and then he turned and walked toward his
horse, standing with the other horses in the low ground behind the rocks. "Let's
ride, Jones."
216 2 1 2 L O U I S
They mounted up and the three men watched them in silence. The gunman stared at Talon
as he swung his horse to ride out. "Something about you," he said. "I've seen you
before, somewhere."
"No," Talon said distinctly, "I don't believe so." "You ridin' west?"
"To Carson City, probably."
"Make it definitely ... you take my advice and don't stop this side." The gunman
grinned. "You might run into more Utes without me to protect you."
Talon said, "You know something? You're in the wrong business." He loped his horse
out of the basin without waiting for a reply, and Jones pulled in alongside him.
Jones looked back over his shoulder. "You should be careful," he said. "That was
Lute Robeck back there. He's a mighty dangerous man. You see the way he emptied that
six-gun?"
"He didn't empty it," Talon said. "He had one shot left."
The desert lay empty and still under the hot morning sun. Heat waves shimmered over
the red-brown, sun-baked rocks of the distant moun tains, but there was no other
movement until a lone dust devil danced out of the greasewood clumps and gained size
in the flatland, then died away to nothing.
IN THE BACK ROOM of the stage station at Ironwood, Dan Burnett lay on his back with
a broken hip and three broken ribs. It was close and hot in the small bedroom and
he gasped painfully with every breath.
Kate Breslin, in the big main room of the station, went to the door for the fiftieth
time and stared up the narrow, empty road that went down the flat and curved out
of sight around the hill. The road was empty ... in all that hot, vast, and brassy
silence, nothing moved.
Kate Breslin was twice a widow, once by stampede and once by the gun, but at forty-five
she was all western, with no idea of ever going else where. She had rolled into Ironwood
on the stage bound for Carson and they had found Dan Burnett dragging himself toward
the station door with a broken hip ... he had been kicked by a mule and was in bad
shape.
Immediately, she volunteered to remain until a relief man could come and somebody
to care for Dan. On impulse, Ruth Starkey had stayed with her. Now, as Ruth could
plainly see, Kate was worried, and she was worried about something other than the
injured man in the back bedroom.
"Can you handle a gun?" Kate asked suddenly. "I've shot a rifle, if that's what you
mean."
"You may need to...." Kate Breslin looked at her quickly. "You know what he told
me? There's seventy thousand dollars in gold on that westbound stage ... seventy
thousand."
217 IRONWOOD STATION 2 1 3
"Does anybody know?"
"You darned tootin', somebody knows. Trouble is, they don't know who. Feller worked
for the mining company, he suddenly took off, didn't even pick up his wages ... he
lit right out of town. They thought about holding the gold, then decided they would
be safer to ship it. That's why Dan is so worried."
"But don't they know about Dan?"
"West they do, but that gold's shipped from east of here ... and back there they'll
think Dan is on his toes. This is one place nobody will ex pect trouble."
Ruth was standing in the door. "Kate," she said, "two men are coming up the road
... from the east."
Kate Breslin joined her in the door. Two men riding toward them, both on fine, blooded
horses, definitely not the sort of horses ridden by cowhands. One man was short and
thickset, the other was a tall man.
"Be careful what you say," Kate said. "You just be careful."
When they rode up it was the tall man who spoke. "Ma'am, we've heard they served
the best food along the line at Ironwood, and we're hungry. Could you manage to serve
a meal for two?"
"I reckon," Kate said. "Get down and come in"
When they had stabled their horses, the two men came in and the fat one walked to
the bar. "I'd like a whiskey," he said, "I surely would." "Pour one for him, Ruth."
Kate was already rattling dishes in the
kitchen. "I'll feed these men so they can get on their way. I expect they're in a
hurry to get to Carson."
Talon glanced at her and then at Ruth, momentarily puzzled by the presence of the
women. His eyes strayed toward the closed door of the bedroom, but what it was or
who was there, Talon had no idea. He sensed that for some reason his presence was
not wanted, and he wondered why this was so. He was a sensitive man, aware of changes
in the atmosphere, and he was aware of a subtle coldness now
He had not expected to find women here, and the younger one, the one called Ruth,
was extremely pretty ... but an eastern girl or one who had lately been east. Disturbed,
he walked outside and went to the stable, where the mules that pulled the stage over
this rough stretch were kept. There were twelve of them, and walking past the stalls,
he suddenly lmpsed a gun, half-concealed by the hay on the barn floor.
He picked it up, a worn Remington pistol, but well kept and oiled ... the man who
owned a gun so well kept would not be one to leave it ly ing carelessly on the dirt
floor. Curious, aware of a mystery here, he looked slowly around the long building.
The fallen gun was directly be hind a stall, and at that point the dirt of the floor
was stirred up by boot marks ... he tried to work out the sign but could make nothing
of it,
218 2 1 4
although it looked like a scuffle had taken place. Whatever it was, it had made the
owner forget his pistol.
Walking outside, he looked carefully around, and there was little to see. The mules,
the barn, the corrals, and several haystacks aside from what hay was in the barn
itself. A couple of poles leaned against the side of the house with two coats buttoned
around them to make a crude stretcher. So that was it ... somebody had been hurt.
Strolling across the yard, he stopped to light a cigarette and glanced out of the
corner of his eyes at the stretcher. He was close to it now, but he could see no
signs of blood, such as would be visible if the man had been shot or injured so that
he would bleed.
Jones stepped outside. "Woman in there is Kate Breslin," he said. "Dan's off in the
hills rounding up a beef."
"Dan a friend of yours?"
"Sure ... that is, we talk friendly, and we feel friendly. I don't know Dan the best,
but I've stopped by here six, eight times."
"Doesn't make much sense, rounding up a beef when they've plenty of supplies in the
station . . . not with the Utes running wild over the country."
"Could be, though." Jones glanced at Talon. "What's wrong? You got something in mind?"
"They're hiding something." Talon jerked his head to indicate the women. "There's
something wrong around here." He slid the Remington from his belt. "You ever see
this before?"
"Sure. That's Dan's gun. I'd know it anywhere."
"Think he'd be apt to go into the mountains without it? I found it ly ing in the
barn, half-covered with hay."
"Dan's hurt ... got to be. He was a careful man with a gun, cared for 'em well, and
he never left one lyin' around careless."
Kate Breslin appeared in the door, staring at them suspiciously. "You can eat," she
said. "I don't want to hold you up any longer'n I have to." The food was good, the
usual beef, beans, and biscuits of the frontier,
but potatoes had been added, and beside each plate was a healthy slab of apple pie.
Dried apples, Talon reflected, but pie, anyway.
He glanced again at the carefully closed door. Ruth was pouring coffee, and he said,
"Burnett should be getting back. What time's the stage due?" The hands pouring the
coffee trembled a little and the girl straight ened. "There's plenty of time. Dan
will be back, all right."
" He took out the gun. "Better give this to him. I found it in the barn.
She picked up the gun quickly, almost snatched it from him, and Talon glimpsed Kate
listening in the door to the kitchen. "It's all right . . he has another."
Talon refilled his cup from the coffeepot and began to build a smoke
219 IRONWOOD STATION 2 1 5
Were they worried because they were two women alone? It might be, but he doubted
it. Maybe Ruth might worry, although she looked like a girl who could take care of
herself, but Kate Breslin wouldn't. She had been in such positions too many times
to be daunted by the presence of men, and she would know what to do. So what, then,
was wrong?
His thoughts returned suddenly to the gunman on the trail behind them. Odd, when
a man came to think of it. "I wonder what became of our friends?" he asked mildly.
Jones looked up from his pie. "On their way, prob'ly." "They were riding west when
we met them."
Jones tore off a slab of bread and began to butter it, ignoring the bis cuits. He
looked at Talon, his mouth full and chewing, then the chewing slowed and Jones looked
thoughtful. "Maybe they turned off," he sug gested lamely.
"To where? This is a big, empty country." Talon lit his cigarette. "Remember his
advice? To keep riding for Carson? He sounded like he didn't want us to stop this
side of there."
"So?" "So we've stopped ... and this might be the place he didn't want us to stop."
"I don't figure it ... what you gettin' at?"
"These women are scared about something, and this is the loneliest stage stop in
the country ... and back along the trail we meet three very handy men riding horses
no cowhand could afford, horses with speed and staying quality."
"You think they were outlaws? I noticed them horses." "What else?"
Jones stared at him thoughtfully. "Talon," he said carefully, "you ride a mighty
fine horse yourself. One with speed and staying quality."
Talon smiled. "That's right," he said quietly.
Ruth collected the dishes. "Do you plan to make Carson tonight? You can do it if
you push right along."
"You wouldn't be trying to get rid of us, would you?" Talon smiled at her. "I don't
think you women should be here alone with Dan Burnett laid up."
Ruth almost dropped the dishes. She turned sharply, but Kate spoke from the kitchen.
"Dan may be laid up, but I'm not. You ride out of here, both of you!"
Jones put his cup down hard and stared at her, his fat jowls quivering. "Now, looka
here-!" he started to protest.
"Get! ... Get goin'!"
Talon picked up the coffeepot and refilled his cup. "Like I said, you're going to
need help. Especially with a gold shipment on that coach."
220 2 1 6 L O U I S
Jones turned to stare at him, astonished. But Kate Breslin walked on into the room,
and she had Burnett's Remington in her fist. "You know about that, do you? That means
you're what I figured you were. You get goin', mister."
"What else would keep you scared?" Talon asked mildly. "Only that you were afraid
of something happening while Dan's laid up."
"We'll handle that ... Ride!"
Suddenly there was a rush of horses in the yard, and Talon said, "Now you'll really
need me. Those riders are the worst kind of trouble." "Don't give me that!" Kate
said, but she hesitated, lowering the gun a little.
"There's three men, Kate," Ruth said.
The door opened and the three men from the Indian fight came into the room. The gunman
leading them stopped and his expression hard ened when he saw Talon and Jones. "You
should have kept going," he said. "We told you."
"Tracey, isn't it?" Talon asked the bearded man. "And you," he said to the gunman,
"are Lute Robeck."
"That's right." Robeck walked to the bar and picked up a bottle. "That's two bits
a shot," Kate said.
"Shut up." Robeck merely glanced at her.
Kate started to speak, then tightened her lips and was still; her eyes went from
face to face and she walked back to the door of the bedroom and stood there, waiting.
She knew all about Robeck . . . the man was known to be a gunman, a killer, a rustler,
and occasional robber of pay rolls at outlying mines. Tracey, too, was a known man.
Her eyes went to Talon. Who was he? What was he?
"Well," Robeck said, "you're here, and the stage is due in a couple of hours, so
you'll stay, right here, until we're ready for you."
"Lute," Jones said, "you'd better take Talon's gun. I don't know who he is, but he's
too smart."
"Let him have it," Robeck said. "It may give me an excuse to kill him."
Talon glanced at Jones. "So you're one of them?"
"Sure." Jones smiled. "I worked for the mining company until they got a good shipment
ready. No use pulling holdups when there's no cash coming; we just wait until we
know they've got it. Like now."
The dark outlaw who had said nothing loitered in a corner of the room almost beyond
Talon's view. There were four of them now, four to one. "Watch that Breslin woman,"
Jones said. "She's got Burnett's gun. "Where's Burnett?" Robeck demanded.
"Back of that door. I figure he's hurt. Leastwise that's what Talon here figured
out."
221 IRONWOOD STATION 2 1 7
Robeck grinned at Talon. "I hope you try for that gun," he said. "I don't like you,
much."
Talon lifted his cup and sipped coffee slowly, watching Robeck over the cup's rim.
The outlaw walked to the door, and when Ruth made as if to stop him, he shoved her
roughly aside and opened it. He strode to the bedside and looked down at the suffering
man. "You lie quiet, Burnett," he said, "and maybe you won't be killed."
"You let me get my hands on a gun," Burnett said, "and I'll not make you any promises!"
Robeck chuckled. "Flat on his back and still full of fight." His eyes went to Ruth.
"Food, liquor, a gold shipment, and a girl ... what more can a man ask?"
"You'd be wise to let her alone."
Robeck turned his head slowly to look at Talon, who had not moved. "Don't push your
luck," he said.
Tracey got out a deck of cards and was joined by the dark man, whom he had called
Pete. Tracey began to lay out a game of solitaire. Lute Robeck walked to the now
open door and leaned against the door jamb, watching the empty road.
Four to four, Talon thought, only there were two women on his side, and a sick man.
And they were all around the room, and even when they did not appear to be, he knew
they were watching him. He also knew that he, at least, was to be killed. That was
why they had left him his gun.... Robeck fancied himself with a gun. He wanted Talon
to try it so he could test himself.
An hour went slowly by. Talon wanted to move, but hesitated to give Robeck the chance
he might be wanting. The two women had gone qui etly to work, cleaning up his table
and, at Robeck's order, preparing food for the others. At least one of them watched
the women at all times, without making an issue of it.
Talon got out the makings and rolled a smoke. He touched the ciga rette paper to
his lips and then put the cigarette in his mouth. Robeck watched him with bright
interest, but there was a matchbox on the table and Talon took out the match and
struck it on the table edge in plain sight.
Robeck chuckled. "Cagey, ain't you?" he said. "Where'd I ever see you before?"
"You never did," Talon said.
Robeck's eyes sharpened. "Maybe.... You wanted by the law?" "No." He turned his head.
"Ruth, I'd like some more coffee, if you
It was very hot and still. Perspiration stood out on their faces. He had
gun against four, and they were not worried by him.... Robeck was
222 2 1 8 L O U I s
actually anticipating trouble. "If you're going to try for that gun," he said "you'd
better have at it. When the stage comes we're going to take it away from you."
"I can wait."
Robeck chuckled, watching Ruth carry the coffee to the table. He got to his feet
and walked to the bar to pour a drink. Ruth gave Talon a look then slanted her eyes
quickly away in the direction of Robeck. She looked back and gave him a slight little
nod. She wanted him to go ahead, she was ready to take her chances.
Robeck's eyes followed the girl. "Now, there's a woman for you. Fire in her, IT bet."
He glanced at the clock on the shelf. "And we've got most of an hour yet. Maybe her
and me-"
"Leave her alone."
Robeck turned, his smile gone. Before he could speak, Talon spoke again. "Leave her
alone, Robeck. You'll get the gold if you're smart, but leave that girl alone or
I'll kill you."
"What?" Robeck was on his feet facing Talon. "You'll kill me? Get on your feet, tall
man, and I'll cut you down! Get up, you hear? Get up!" Talon did not move. He looked
at Robeck and smiled. "Don't be in a
hurry," he said. "You have some time left."
The moment died. Pete walked to the door, then stepped outside and walked toward
the barn. Ruth served the others and watched them eat. Kate Breslin had done nothing
since the gun was taken from her but to cook and remain silent. It was very hot,
and Talon loafed in his chair, waiting.
A fly buzzed on the window. Pete walked out to the road and looked off into the distance,
shading his eyes against the glare. Jones got up and walked to the window and then
turned back, and as he came back toward the table he was behind Talon. Suddenly his
gun was thrust against Talon's spine. "You may want to play games," he said to Robeck,
"I don't. That stage is due any minute." Jones reached down and took Talon's gun,
then stepped back away from him, careful not to get within reach of Talon's hands.
"All right." Robeck shrugged. "I just figured maybe he'd like to try it with me."
He grinned at Talon. "No guts."
Talon got slowly to his feet and stretched his long arms. Idly, he walked to the
bar where Robeck was seated, and poured a drink. Robeck moved back a little, watching
Talon cheerfully. "I'll still kill you if you start anything, Talon," Robeck warned.
Ruth, tense only a moment before, relaxed, accepted her fate . . . she and Kate were
one step further from safety.
IN THE KITCHEN, Kate Breslin had taken an old .31 Colt from her valise, and she slipped
it into Ruth's hand. "Only if the chance is just right," she whispered. "Then give
it to him."
223 STATION 2 1 9
Pete walked out to the road. "Not much more time, Lute."
"No." Lute glanced around the room. "They don't know the women are here, anyway.
They can't know, with the only stage since Burnett was hurt going out the other way.
We'll hide them ... put 'em in Burnett's room.
Tracey got up. "What about Talon?"
Ruth came into the room and crossed to the table where Talon sat. Lute watched her
with bright interest, never missing a move. The butt of the little Colt was visible
to Talon from under Ruth's apron, but he care fully ignored it. Ruth fussed with
the dishes, waiting, and suddenly Robeck began to laugh.
"He's yellow! Yellow! Ruthie, you picked yourself the wrong man!" Ruth turned away
from the table and instantly Robeck motioned to Tracey, who grabbed the girl and
shoved her across to Robeck, who jerked the apron from her, and the gun. "You little
fool!" He slapped her wickedly across the mouth. "Who do you think you're fooling?"
He shoved her back against the counter and slapped her again. Instantly, she lashed
out and slapped him, then kicked him on the shins. There was a momentary struggle,
and then he shoved the girl from him and slapped her again, thrusting the pistol
into his waistband.
Talon stood flat-footed, watching, but making no move away from the table. His expression
had not changed as he watched the brief strug gle. When it was over he stepped over
and helped the girl to her feet. Angrily, Ruth jerked away from him. "Don't touch
me, you coward!" she flared.
Robeck laughed.
Pete ran in from the road. "Here she comes!" he said.
Tracey grabbed Ruth and shoved her toward the bedroom door. Robeck stood watching
Talon and smiling. "No hurry," he said. "They're bringing it right to us."
Tracey ordered Kate from the kitchen and into the bedroom. "If they make a wrong
move," Robeck ordered, "use your gun barrel. And I don't care how hard you hit."
Lute Robeck walked to the door and looked out. The stage was rolling into the yard.
"All right." He gestured to Talon. "Walk out there ahead of us and don't say anything
or make a wrong move."
Whatever happened now would depend on fast thinking and breaks, and the shotgun guard
must do some fast thinking, too. He walked out side with Lute beside him; Jones and
Pete moved up behind. Talon angled toward the stage, knowing the men behind him would
spread out. If the shotgun guard started shooting, which Robeck well knew, Talon
would be the first man killed.
The stage whirled into the yard and came to an abrupt stop in a cloud
224 2 2 0
of dust. The shotgun guard was staring from the door to the waiting men and as Talon
slowly turned he saw a rifle barrel glinting from the bed room window... Tracey was
going to kill the guard.
"Holdup!" Talon yelled, and a Colt Lightning slid from under the arm of his coat.
Robeck swore and swung his gun, blasting fire. His first shot was too quick, Talon's
was not. The bullet caught Robeck over the belt buckle and he started back. Talon
fired again, then nailed Jones. Pete was already falling and suddenly there was silence
broken only by the plunging of the horses and the rattle of harness. They quieted
down and Talon got slowly to his feet.
Talon walked over to Robeck and kicked the gun from his hand, but the man was dead.
Tracey was standing in the door, his hands high. "Don't shoot!" he said. "I've quit!"
Ruth came from the door, but the shotgun guard reached Talon first. "Thanks," he
said. "When I didn't see Dan I figured something was wrong.
"I'm sorry," Ruth said, "I just thought-"
"I always carry a spare," he said. "You know, any of us in there could have been
killed. Sometimes it's better to reserve judgment ... when a man's life is on the
line, he naturally wants to wait until the time is right."
He walked to the stable for his horse. It was still a long way to Carson.
225 Alkali Basin
The stage rocked and rolled over the desert road, vainly pursued by a thick cloud
of fine white dust. It plunged down a declivity into a dry wash, then swept up the
other side and around a hair
pin curve at the top, to straighten out on the long dash across the valley. Price
Macomber, vice-president of the Overland Stage Company, was heading west on an inspection
tour accompanied by his niece and Pete Judson, the district superintendent. Price,
a round man with a round pink face and round rimless spectacles, was holding forth
on his pet theme-useless expenditures.
"It has been my experience," he was saying, "that given the slightest excuse each
driver and each station operator will come up with a number of items of utterly useless
expense, and such items must be eliminated."
He braced himself against the roll of the stage and stared out the win dow for an
instant as if collecting his thoughts. Then his eyes pinned Judson to his seat as
a collector pins a butterfly. Judson squirmed, but there was no escape.
"You understand," Macomber continued, "I'm not accusing these men of including items
for their own advantage. No doubt at the mo ment they believe the item essential,
yet when viewed logically it usually proves such claims were arrived at without due
consideration.
"Take, for example, the ridiculous request of this man Wells, at Alkali Basin. Four
times now he has written us demanding we send him blasting powder!
"Now think of that! Blasting powder, of all things! What earthly use would a station
agent have for blasting powder? In our reply to his first re quest, we suggested
he submit his reason for wanting it, and he replied that he wished to blast some
rocks.
"Were the rocks on the road? No, they were not. They were some seventy yards off
the road in the desert. The request was, without doubt,
226 2 2 2
the whimsical notion of an uneducated man at a moment when he was not thinking. By
now he no doubt realizes the absurdity of his notion.
"It is such items as this that can be eliminated. And I observed," Macomber added
severely, "that you recommended his request be granted. I was surprised, Judson.
Needless to say, I was very surprised. We expect better judgment of our district
superintendents."
Judson mopped his brow and said nothing. In the past one-hundredandten miles he had
learned it was wiser to listen and endure. Price Macomber's voice droned on into
the hot, dusty afternoon with no hint of a letup.
The best arguments Judson had offered had been riddled with logic, devastating and
inescapable. He would have liked to say that sometimes logic fell short of truth,
but lacked the words, and no argument of his could hope to dam the flow of words
that poured over the spillway of Price Macomber's lips.
Molly Macomber stared wearily at the desert. Her uncle, so polished, immaculate,
and sure of himself, had failed to materialize into the superman he had seemed in
Kansas City and St. Louis.
Against the background of the rolling grasslands, she had noticed that his stiff
white collar and neat black suit seemed somehow incongruous. Also, among the ragged,
stark ridges of the desert, his mouth seemed too prim and precise, his eyes seemed
flat and rather foolish. They were like the eyes of a goldfish staring from a bowl
at a world it neither understood nor saw clearly.
"Keep the expense down," Macomber was saying, "and the profits will take care of
themselves."
Judson stared at the desert and shifted his feet. He felt sorry for Molly, who evidently
expected glamour and beauty on this westward trek. He also felt sorry for himself.
He took a drink with his stage drivers, and played poker with them. Somehow he had
always got results.
He had visited Alkali Basin just once before, and heartily wished he would never
have to again. If Wells, keeper of the station there, wanted blasting powder, Judson
was for letting him have it. Or anything else, for that matter, including a necklace
of silver bells, a Cardinal's hat, or even a steamboat-anything to keep him contented.
In the three months before Wells took over the station at Alkai Basin, no fewer than
six station agents had attempted the job.
The first man stuck it ten days. It was a lonely post where he had only to change
horses for two stages each day, one going east, and one west. After ten days that
agent had come to town on the stage and shook his head decisively. "No!" he said
violently. "Not for any price! Not even Price Macomber!"
Four days after the next agent took over, the stage rolled into Alkali
227 ALKALI BASIN 2 2 3
Basin and found no horses awaiting it. The horses were gone from the corral, and
the agent lay across his adobe doorstep shot three times through the body, mutilated
and scalped.
Two more men had tried it, one after the other. The Apaches got the first one of
these on his second day, and the other man fought them off for a couple of hours,
then went to Mexico with two teams of six horses each, and had not been heard from
since.
Blasting powder might be somewhat extreme, but in Judson's private, and oft expressed
opinion-to everyone but Macomber-any man who would stick it out for as much as ten
days in the white dust and furnace heat of Alkali Basin, was entitled to anything
he wanted.
The man called Wells had been on the job for two solid months, and so far, except
for the powder, his only request had been for large quantities of ammunition. He
sent in a request for more by every stage.
Macomber leaned with the sway of the stage as it swung around a corner of red rock.
The movement awakened Molly who had dozed, made sleepy by the motion of the stage
and the heat. A thin film of dust had settled on her face, her neck, and her hair.
Perspiration, extremely unladylike perspiration, had left streaks on her face.
Her eyes strayed out over the white, dancing heat waves of the basin's awful expanse.
The hot sun reflected from it and the earth seemed to shimmer, unreal and somehow
ghastly. In the far distance, a column of dust arose and skipped along over the white
desolation like some weird and evil spirit. It was the only movement.
The stage reached bottom and paused briefly in the partial shade while the horses
gathered breath for the long, bitter run across the desert bottom, inches deep in
alkali.
The pursuing dust cloud caught up with and settled over the stage and the clothing
of the occupants. Even Price Macomber's dauntless volubility seemed to hesitate and
lose itself in space. He was silent, staring out the window as though totaling a
column of figures. Money saved, no doubt.
As the stage stumbled into movement once more, he glanced at Judson. "How much farther
to our stop?"
"Forty miles to a decent place. It's no more than ten miles to Alkali Basin. We change
horses there, but we'd better get food and water at Green's Creek."
The horses, as though aware of the coming rest, lunged into the harness and charged
at the heat waves.
SIX HOURS EARLIER, morning had come to Alkali Basin. The sun, as though worn from
its efforts of the previous day, pushed itself wearily over the jagged ridge in the
distance and stabbed with white hot lances at the lonely stone building and the corrals.
228 224 LOUIS
Wells, his stubble of beard whitened with alkali, stared through one of the small
windows with red-rimmed, sleepless eyes. The Apaches were still there. He couldn't
see them, but he knew without seeing. They had been there, devilish in their patience,
for eighteen hours now. They were out there in front of him, behind that low parapet
of rocks.
He was a big, rawboned man, hairy chested, and hard-bitten. His red dish hair was
a rumpled, uncombed mass, his shirt was dirty and sweat stained.
A rough board table occupied the center of the room, and on it was a candle in a
bowl, and a lantern. The coals in the fireplace were dead long since and his bunk
was a tumbled pile of odorous blankets. Close beside him as he knelt by the window
was a wooden bucket. The wood was in grained with white, and there was a milky film
in the bottom. The water looked like skim milk. It was heavy with alkali. It was
all he had.
Beside him on the floor, two boxes of shells were broken open. The floor around him
was littered with empty shells, and the skin of his right hand was broken by a furrow,
raw and bleeding, where a bullet had cut across the back of it.
He squinted his eyes at the desert sun and rolled his quid of chewing in his jaws.
Then he spat. No head showed, no hand. Then a shot hit the stone wall near the window
and whined away into the dancing heat.
He knew what they were waiting for. Eventually, he would have to sleep, but it was
not that. They were waiting for the stage. By only a few minutes they had missed
the last of yesterday's stages, and they had no in tention of missing the one coming
today. Wells believed there were only eight or ten Apaches out there now, but that
was plenty. There wouldn't be more than three or four men on the stage, and they
would be caught in the open.
From his window he could cover the front approaches to the stone barn beyond the
corrals. The horses were in the barn, hence they were reasonably secure. The Indians
had rushed him just as he had put them away, and if they had dashed for the house
instead of for him, he would have been headed off, killed, scalped and dying by now.
Shooting with his pistol, he had made a break for the house. One bullet made a flesh
wound in his side, and he had dropped two Indians. One of them was only wounded,
but Wells had finished him off as he crawled for shelter in the rocks.
It was hot and stuffy in the closed-up stage station. Sweat trickled down his face
and down his body under the sagging shirt. There was no time after daybreak that
Alkali Basin could be described as cool.
Wells was nearing forty and looked all of fifty when unshaven. None of his years
had been easy or comfortable. He had punched cows, driven a stage, placer mined.
Nobody had ever called him a pleasant man, and
229 BASIN 2 2 5
when he smiled, which was rare, his parted lips revealed yellowed and broken teeth.
His eyes were black and hard, implacable as the eyes of the Apaches he faced across
that seventy yards of alkali and sand.
No one had ever known his real name. When asked, he merely said he came from Wells,
so they called him that, and it served its purpose. The Apaches hated, feared, and
respected him. They were not concerned about his name.
In the two months of his stay at Alkali Basin, they had attacked him five times.
Nine Apaches died in those five attacks. To an Apache, who is supple as a rattler
and hard to hit as a hell diver, that meant the stage tender was a warrior of the
first order. Several more had been wounded, and two of their ponies killed. It now
was a matter of honor that he die.
Wells put a finger in the water bucket and passed it over his cracked lips. He thought
he glimpsed a toe against the white of the Alkali behind the end of the wall. Taking
careful aim, he squeezed off a shot. A startled yell rewarded him, then a hail of
bullets. The storm died as soon as it began.
He crawled to the table and picked up a chunk of dried beef and cut off a piece.
Putting it in his jaws, he went back to the window.
His battered hat lay on the floor. A pair of boots, whitened with alkali, stood in
a corner under a stringy yellow slicker. On an extra chair was a cracked enamel washbasin
containing some bloody water, a day old.
An hour passed slowly. He stared at the rocks in front of the house. They offered
the only shelter available to more than one man at a time within a quarter of a mile.
From the sides and back, there was no covered approach as the open alkali plain stretched
off as far as the eye could reach in all directions. From the station, a slow rise
of ground concealed the hills, miles away.
Almost a mile in front of the stage station lay a series of rocky ridges-foothills
of the higher mountains beyond. A tongue of scattered rocks offered occasional concealment
to a point some distance in front of the station. From there, to get within killing
range, the Apaches had to dodge from rock to rock to get behind the low, natural
wall in front of the station. Once there nothing could prevent them from lying entrenched
for days and maintaining a sporadic fire on the station.
Water was no problem for them. Among the ridges, less than a mile off was a good
spring of only slightly brackish water. It was much better than that offered by the
dug well at the station. Wells had killed one Indian going for water, but they offered
only a fleeting, flickering target, visible for no more than a moment.
I IME WAS RUNNING OUT. He knew that when he looked at the water in
the bucket-yet he knew there would still be water left when his time
230 2 2 6
was up. That would be when the stage reached the station. If it pulled up between
the Indians and himself, they could use the stage as cover from his fire to get closer,
while firing on the stage.
They knew as well as he that they had not much longer to wait. That made them careful.
A little while longer and then the stage would come rolling up to them. He could,
of course, fire a few shots to warn the stage, but it would be in the open and fairly
close up before they could hear, un less the wind was right.
Warned, they might get away, but with spent horses, and in that heat, he doubted
it. Whether they did or not, he was a gone gosling. Suddenly, his bloodshot eyes
squinted, and then slowly widened with
expectant triumph. Several feet behind the rock wall was a lone, flat faced boulder.
Lifting his rifle, Wells took aim at the face of that rock, and fired.
He was rewarded by a startled yell, and he fired three times, as rapidly as he could
squeeze off the shots. One Indian, struck by a ricocheting bullet, lunged to full
height, emitting a shrill scream, and Wells triggered his rifle again, to make sure
of that one.
The Indian toppled forward over the wall, then hastily was dragged from view.
Wells, chuckling, reloaded his rifle and fired again. An Indian lunged to his feet
and raced for the shelter of the rocks toward the ridge, and Wells let him go, content
to be rid of him. Then a second Indian left. Wells tried two more shots at the flat
rock, then lay quiet, staring with his smarting, red-rimmed eyes at the long, white
emptiness of the desert.
An hour dragged slowly by, an hour of unrelenting heat and the end less white glare.
A buzzard swung in lazy circles, high overhead. Wells left the muzzle of his rifle
leaning against the sill, and put his head against the wall near the window He dozed,
only coming out of it at intervals to stare toward the wall. They might be gone,
and they might not. He knew Apaches.
Once he tried a swallow of the thick, alkali water, but it choked him and he was
only more thirsty than before. He tried a shot at the rock, but drew no answering
fire. Then, after an interval, another shot. Silence, si lence and the heat.
It would soon be stage time. He was very sleepy. He leaned his head against the wall
and his lids grew heavy. His head bobbed loosely on his neck. Then he slept.
An instant only. His subconscious jerked him awake, frightened at what might have
happened. He fired again, three quick shots.
There was no sound, no movement.
He crawled across the floor and looked from the window facing east. Only the wheelmarks
showed, the wheelmarks that reached to the crest
231 BASIN 2 2 7
the low rise that obscured his eastern view of the long, alkali basin and
the distant hills. He returned to his vantage point and tried another shot.
WOULD GET out of this on the next stage after the one coming. She been right, of
course, those eighteen years ago when she picked Ed
instead of him. Ed settled into a quiet, easy life, but as for himself, he had lived
on, a hard, lonely life along the frontiers. He had the ranch, of course, a cozy
little place, and pleasant, but memories of her always drove him away, even after
eighteen years.
A long hour dragged away before he heard the stage. It came over the rise and swept
down upon the station with its pursuing cloud of dust, then braked to a halt. Wells
got to his feet and lounged to the door. His eyes threw a brief glance at the desert
and the wall, then he walked out to the stage.
"Howdy, Jim! How was the trip?"
"Hot." Jim climbed down from the stage top. "Where's the horses?" "Been sort of busy,"
Wells said. "I'll get them."
While Jim unhooked the spent team he went down to the stone barn. More asleep than
awake he threw the harness on the horses. Jim came down to help him.
"Got the old man aboard," he said. "Macomber." "Wonder if I'll get that powder?"
"Blazes, no! Judson says all he talks about is cuttin' expenses!"
They led the horses back and noticed that Price Macomber and his niece were out of
the stage. Judson was watching them, wearily. Some lit tle thing about the girl's
face looked familiar to Wells.
"Any fresh water, my man?" Macomber asked.
"No"-Wells looked around, his eyes bloodshot and hard-"but there's the well."
The name was the same, of course. Wells looked at the girl again. Price Macomber
was glaring at him.
"I'd think," Macomber replied testily, "you could at least have some water ready
for the passengers!"
Wells looked around, glaring. Then he saw the girl. She was standing helplessly,
staring at him. Perspiration had streaked the dust on her face. She was the first
woman he had seen in two months.
He straightened from fastening a trace chain, staring at the girl. She paled a little,
but watched him, wide-eyed and fascinated.
Macomber noticed his stare and was suddenly angry. "Here!" he de manded. "Get us
some water!"
Wells turned his head and looked at Macomber. His black eyes were cold and ugly.
"Get it yourself!" he said.
moved away from them and looked off across the alkali. She
232 2 2 8 L O U I S
heard her uncle talking, low-voiced, to Judson. She heard him say, "We'll discharge
this man!"
Judson was protesting. "Macomber, don't do it. We can't get anybody else. They are
all afraid of this station because of the Apaches!" "Nonsense! No man is indispensable!"
Molly noticed something bright and gleaming lying on the ground near a bundle of
dusty hides and clothing. Curious, she started toward it. Then she stopped sharply,
and her breath seemed to leave her. She felt as if she were going to faint. It was
not a bunch of old hides and clothing, it was a dead man. A dead Indian.
"Uncle Price!" she cried. She turned and started on a stumbling run for the stage,
her eyes great spots of darkness in her dead-white face. "What's the matter?" Price
Macomber wheeled about. "A snake?" "No," she gasped, one hand on her heart, "it's
a dead man! A deadIndian!"
Price Macomber had heard about dead Indians, but he had never seen any kind of a
dead man. He put one arm around his niece and stared at it, alarmed and fascinated.
Wells had not noticed. He was helping Jim carry bundles of food and ammunition into
the stage station. When Jim put his armload down, he glanced around, noticing the
bright brass of the empty shells. Mentally, he calculated, and then he looked up
at Wells, his eyes respectful. "Trouble?" he asked.
"Yeah." Wells peeled the wrapping off a fresh plug of chewing. "Guess I got 'em all
run off. I didn't have time to look. They hit me about noon, yesterday."
"That-?" Jim wet his dry lips with his tongue. With chill and unhappy realization
he thought of what would have happened had the stage rolled up here with the Indians
waiting. Him sitting up there on the box in plain sight, too.
They went outside. Macomber was helping his niece toward the stage. "What's up?"
Jim asked, looking at them.
Judson glanced at Wells, seeing for the first time the mark of sleeplessness, the
bullet-burned hand, the blood on his side. "You all right?" he demanded.
"Yeah," Wells replied shortly, "bring that powder?" "No," Judson said, "Macomber
says you don't need it "
MACOMBER WAS scarcely less shaken than his niece. He tried to avoid seeing the dead
Indian. From here it was just a brown and patchy-looking hump on the alkali.
Wells walked over to him. "You get me some powder," he said flatly, or get another
man, and get that powder out here by the next stage!
233 ALKALI BASIN 2 2
"See here!" Macomber's poise was shaken, but at this blow to the subject closest
to his heart as well as to the respect he believed he de served, his head came up.
"Don't be talking to me like that! I don't see any reason for any powder out here.
I told Judson that and I'll tell you now We can't waste a lot of money on useless
expenditure!"
Wells looked at him with hard, bitter eyes. "Those rocks out there" he gestured at
the wall-"need blasting out."
He turned on his heels and started for the corral. Then he stopped on a sudden hunch
and looked back. "Say," he said, "are you any relation to Edwin Macomber, of Denver?"
Price was startled. He turned around. "Why, I'm his brother. Why do you ask?"
Wells looked at him for a moment, and then he began to smile. Suddenly, he felt better.
He walked on to the corral.
Price Macomber hesitated, staring after him, then he shrugged. Judson beside him,
he walked to the wall. It was all nonsense, of course. This wall was completely out
of the way, and no earthly excuse would warrant its blasting. He felt better, despite
the smile on Wells's face, because this had proved his theory again, that most such
unexplained items were the result of the impractical whims of impractical men.
He wanted the appearance of fairness, so he would at least look at the wall, but
this was just another of the little details that proved how right he was in his theory.
The dead Indian was not explained, but that could wait. He would ask about that when
Price Macomber glanced across the wall and his face turned green. He backed away,
retching violently. When he straightened, he dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief
and stared at Judson, eyes bright with horror. There were three dead Indians beyond
the wall. Each of them had been hit several times with jagged, ricocheting bullets.
Macomber stumbled a little as he hurried back toward the stage. This was an awful
place! He must get out of here. Jim was on the box, holding the lines and waiting.
Molly was talking to Wells, showing him some thing.
Price Macomber got hurriedly into the stage and sat down beside his niece. As they
started to roll away, Judson waved to Wells. Macomber did not look back.
When they had gone a little way, he stiffened his face. "Send him that powder, Judson.
The wall is an obstruction."
A thought occurred to him, and he turned to his niece. "What were you showing him?
What did he say to you?"
She looked around. "I meant to tell you. He said he thought he knew my father and
mother, so I showed him that picture of us. This one-" Judson glanced at the picture
as she handed it to her uncle, and could
234 2 3 0
scarcely repress a smile. It was a picture of a prim-faced man who might have been
Price Macomber himself. He wore spectacles and stood beside a very fat woman with
two chins and a round, moonlike face. A face that once might have been quite pretty.
Price Macomber nodded. His brother
Ed, a solid, substantial man. He handed the picture back.
"What did he say when he saw the picture?"
She frowned, her eyes puzzled. "Why, he didn't say anything! He tood there and laughed
and laughed!"
His LOADED RIFLE beside the door, the man called Wells began to sweep up the empty
shells. "The ranch will look pretty good after this," he said aloud, "but after all,
there are worse things than Apaches!"
235 Stage to Willowspring
H e was a medium-tall man with nice hands and feet, and when he got down from the
stage he stood away from the others and lit a small Spanish cigarro. Under the brim
of the gray hat his features were an even sun-brown, his eyes gray and quiet.
Under a nondescript vest he wore a gray wool shirt, and a dark red bandanna that
was worn to exquisite softness. His boots had been freshly heeled, and when he walked
it was with the easy step of a woodsman rather than that of a rider. His gun was
thrust into a slim, old-fashioned holster almost out of sight behind the edge of
his vest.
Koons saw him there when he came out to the stage, and he took a second look, frowning
a little. There was a sense of the familiar about the man, although he was sure he
had never seen him before.
Avery was standing alongside the stage watching them load the box. Koons was pleased
to see Avery. They were carrying a small shipment of gold and he liked to have a
steady man riding shotgun.
There were five passengers to ride inside and a sixth riding the top. Everybody along
the run knew Peg Fulton. She was sixteen when her parents died and she married a
no-account gambler who soon ran off and left her. She had gone to a judge for a divorce,
an action much frowned upon. She had since been treated as a fallen woman, although
there was no evidence to prove it. Koons regretted his part in what had happened
to Peg. He had believed he was too old to marry her but the gambler, who was also
his age, had not hesitated. Peg's father had been a dry farmer named Gillis, and
she came of good stock.
Bell was a fat, solid little man who had been riding the stages for eight years,
a drummer for an arms outfit. Gagnon had a couple of rich claims in Nevada and carried
himself with the superior feeling of one who is a success-without realizing his good
fortune was compounded of ninety Percent luck. The man riding the top was a stranger,
an unwashed man
236 2 3 2 L 0 U I
with weak eyes and a few sparse hairs trying to become a beard. He car ried a Spencer
.56 and wore a Navy Colt.
The last passenger came from the stage station, and Koons looked again, surprised
at her beauty. She had dark, thick hair and the soft skin of a girl of good family
and easy living. Her traveling dress was neat and ex pensive and she had a way of
gathering her skirt when about to get into the stage that told Koons she was a lady.
Bell moved over to Koons. "See the fellow in the gray hat?" "Who is he?"
"That's Scott Roundy, the Ranger who went into Mexico after Chato."
"Him?" Koons looked again. Curiosity impelled Armodel Chase to pause on the iron
step of the stage, listening. "Of course he's not a Ranger anymore, but they say
he's killed ten men. Wonder if he knows about Todd Boysee?"
"Likely. Wonder what he's doin' up here? Seems mighty far off his range.
"Boysee will ask him."
Gagnon had been listening, and he said, "He doesn't look so tough to me.
Bell glanced at him irritably. "That's what Chato thought. That Mex killed nine,
ten men in gunfights, murdered a dozen more. Roundy fol lowed him to Hermosillo and
shot him to death in a cantina."
"I heard the Rurales don't like that sort of thing."
"Huh!" Bell said. "They were so glad to get rid of Chato they looked the other way."
Armodel gathered a skirt again, and suddenly beside her there was a low question-"May
I?"-and a hand to help her. She accepted it natu rally, without coy hesitation, then
glanced at the man. It was Scott Roundy.
He got into the stage and sat opposite her beside Peg Fulton. A whip cracked, the
stage jolted, then lunged and they were off, and the dust be gan to rise behind them.
The weather was comfortable, even slightly warm in the direct sun, but after a few
minutes the shade had a frosty bite to it that indicated winter was waiting just
beyond the horizon. This was a country of rolling hills, sparse grass, and pinon-crested
ridges. In the shallow valleys there were scattered oaks.
Peg Fulton's head nodded and after a while fell to Roundy's shoulder. Awakening with
a start, she apologized and he said quietly, "That's all right, ma'am. I don't mind"
Armodel looked at him thoughtfully but said nothing. She saw his eyes stray to her
several times, and then she dozed a little. It seemed hours later when she awakened
to find the stage had come to a stop. Dust
237 STAGE T O W I L L O W S P R I N G 2 3 3
climbed into the coach and settled upon their clothes. Koons came to the door. "Might
get down a few minutes. One of the mules is a mite sick. Thought I'd let him rest
up a little."
Avery walked to a point where he could see over the edge of the ar royo, and with
a glance toward him, Roundy moved over to Armodel. "Would you like to have a seat,
ma'am? There's a flat rock under the oak."
After she seated herself she saw Peg Fulton looking around help lessly, and she said
quickly, "Won't you sit here with me? There's room enough."
Peg thanked her and sat down. Gagnon's eyes flashed irritably and he muttered something
to Bell, who ignored it. The passenger with the Spencer had squatted on his heels
with his back to the rear wheel of the coach and was smoking.
"Are you traveling far, Mr. Roundy?" The blue-green eyes met his. "I am Armodel Chase,
and I am going to Willowspring."
"Not far.... I am stopping there also. If I can be of service, please call on me."
Gagnon spoke abruptly. "Ma'am, being new to the West I am afraid you do not know
the character of the young woman beside you. I believe I should-"
"And I believe you shouldn't!" The blue-green eyes were dark and cool. "Miss Fulton
and I are comfortable here, and I do not believe that a woman's marital misfortune
is any reason to withhold one's friendship or civility." Peg bit her lower lip and
averted her eyes, but her hand sought out Armodel's and for a moment gave it a tight
squeeze.
She caught the faint smile on Scott Roundy's face as Gagnon turned away, his back
stiff with offended righteousness.
Later, back on the stage, Armodel studied Roundy when he was not looking. His was
a quiet, thoughtful face, his smile almost shy. It was pre posterous that this man
could have killed ten men.
Gagnon broke the silence, speaking abruptly to Roundy. "What you figure to do when
Boysee braces you?"
"Excuse me, I don't know what you are talking about."
Armodel felt the chill in the Ranger's voice, saw the flicker of irrita tion there.
"Aw, you heard of Todd Boysee! He's marshal of Willowspring. Killed seventeen or
eighteen men. They say he's hell on wheels with a six-gun. He killed Lew Cole."
"Cole's been asking for it for years." "Maybe he thinks you have, too."
Scott Roundy's voice was cold. "I don't care to continue the conver sation, my friend.
Todd Boysee's business is his own. I'm sure he won't look for any trouble where there's
none to be had"
238 234 L O U I S
Gagnon could not resist a final word. "He'll meet the stage." He smiled without warmth.
"We'll see then."
Bell opened his eyes. "Nothin' to that talk, Roundy. Boysee's a good man. The men
he's killed had it comin'. He's kinda touchy about strangers wearin' guns, though."
The conversation lapsed. Atop the stage they heard the passenger with the Spencer
moving around. The air grew noticeably colder and the wind seemed to be mounting.
A gust almost lifted the stage. "A norther," Bell said, "bad place to meet it. All
flat country for miles."
Scott Roundy lifted the curtain and peered out. Darkness had fallen, but there was
sifting snow in the air, and a scattering of it on the ground. He sat back in his
seat and closed his eyes. It was always the same.
Once they knew you were a gunfighter they would not let it alone. Men had been killed
in utterly senseless battles created by idle talk, the sadistic urge to see men kill,
or the simple curiosity of mild men eager to see champions compete. It was an age-old,
timeless curiosity that would live as long as men had the courage for battle. He
had heard the endless argu ments over what would happen if Hickok shot it out with
Ben Thompson, or Wyatt Earp with John Ringo, or Boone May with Seth Bullock. Men
compared their respective talents, added up their victories, exaggerated the number
they had killed.
It was starting again now. "Charlie Storms," Gagnon was saying, "is one of the fastest
men alive. Never saw him beat. I don't think Earp would have a chance with him."
Bell, who heard everything, opened his eyes again. "Charlie Storms is dead," he said
quietly. "Luke Short killed him in Tombstone."
"Short?" Gagnon was contemptuous. "I don't believe it." "I heard it, too," Peg Fulton
said quietly.
Armodel looked again at Scott Roundy. He was leaning back and had his eyes closed,
apparently hearing nothing. Yet he was awake. She had seen his eyes open slightly
only a minute or two before. How he must feel to hear this talk. Would that man be
waiting for him? If so, what would happen? Half frightened, she looked at Roundy.
To think that he might soon be dead!
"None of them are as good as they're cracked up to be," Gagnon said, staring at Roundy.
"Meet the right man an' they take water mighty fast." Roundy's eyes opened. "Did
you ever face a gun?" he asked mildly. "No, but-"
"Wait until you do." Roundy closed his eyes and turned his shoulder away from Gagnon.
Through the crack of the curtain he could see the snow was falling fast, but most
of it was in the air. For some time now, the stage had slowed to a walk.
239 SPRING 2 3 5
was not asleep. Scott Roundy and Todd Boysee. It would be Lg to see-and something
to tell. He knew how avidly men gath
ered about to hear stories of a famous gun battle. Concannon had seen the fight between
Billy Brooks and the four brothers who came to Dodge hunting him. He had been at
the restaurant window when Brooks stepped to the door and killed all four of them
in the street. It was history now, but Concannon could hold a crowd anytime, just
telling of it. Long as he had been in the West, he had known all the great names
among gunfighters, but he had never seen a shoot-out between two top men.
This Roundy was cool. He had killed Con Bigelow at Fort Griffin, and Bigelow was
ranked with the best. Roundy beat him to the draw and put two slugs into his heart.
Bigelow had been a wanted man who laughed at the Rangers and evaded them, until that
afternoon when cor nered by Scott Roundy.
Roundy hunched into the corner. Irritably, he was thinking of the talk. They never
let up. Always after a man.
Todd Boysee . . . no longer a youngster. That meant a cagey and straight-shooting
man. But what kind of a man? Was he like Jeff Milton or Jim Gillette, who shot only
when absolutely necessary? Or was he a reputation hunter like Old John Selman who
had killed more than one man under doubtful, to say the least, circumstances. Some
of those hard bitten old town marshals felt the simplest way to maintain their position
was to kill any man who threatened it, even by his presence.
He wanted no trouble, but it would pay to be careful. Once a man had a reputation
with a gun there was no rest short of the grave.
The stage rumbled on through the night. During a momentary stop he got blankets out
and spread them over the knees of Peg and Armodel. Then he relaxed again in his corner.
There was the estate to settle, or he would just ride on through Willowspring. He
suddenly knew he did not want to stop. Yet, even if he did not want to, he must.
If the idea got around that he had taken water for any man, he would have to kill
a half dozen who would want to build reputations at his expense.
He settled down to get some sleep. Outside the snow fell and the wind rocked the
stage, moving slowly to keep to the ill-defined trail. OLD TODD BOYSEE WAS a grim
and hard-bitten man. He had found Willowspring a roistering boomtown with two and
three killings a night. He had killed four men during his first month on the job,
and two later that year. After that there had been little trouble.
Occasionally he laid a pistol barrel over the head of some malcontent who believed
he could tree the town, and once he had faced down a mob who intended to lynch a
prisoner. Lately, it was becoming difficult. Twice in the past year men had come
to town hunting him, one a pink-faced
240 2 3 6 L O U I S L ' A M O U R
youngster who believed himself a dangerous man, the other a burly loudmouth who believed,
and said, that Todd Boysee was too old for his job. Both of them were buried now,
out on Boot Hill. The boy had too
much nerve for his skill, and the loudmouth, who might have backed down at the last
minute, might also have come back to take a shot from ambush. Todd Boysee had not
lived to become fifty-four by taking chances. By the ages of gunmen he was an old
man, but his hand was sure, his aim straight.
It was snowing lightly and the wind was blowing when he walked down to the Gold Star.
A snow-covered rider was at the bar, pouring a glass of whiskey. He glanced up at
Boysee. "Here he is now," he said. "Ask him."
A heavy-set rancher with ill-fitting false teeth turned to Boysee. "Todd," he said,
"we was just a-talkin'. Who do you reckon is best man with a gun? Wyatt Earp or Scott
Roundy?"
Boysee pulled the end of his white mustache and his cold eyes measured the rancher.
He did not like talkative men. "I have no idea," he said coldly.
A thin-legged man with amazingly narrow hips and a long, loose jaw said, "Roundy's
comin' up the trail. Jess seen him gettin' on the stage." The rancher was watching
Boysee, his watery blue eyes eager.
"Wonder what he's comin' here for? He used to be a Ranger, but this ain't Texas."
Boysee ignored them, waiting for the bartender to set up his evening drink. They
were loafing, loose-mouthed men who would be better off at home. The rancher had
been one of those in the lynch mob he had stopped, and Todd Boysee had not forgotten
it. Yet when he found a rustler on his place he ran for help instead of bracing the
man then and there.
Yet, what was Scott Roundy coming here for? This was far from his usual haunts. It
made no kind of sense, and Todd Boysee had made it his business to know about men
like Roundy. The man's reputation was good. He had never killed but in performance
of his duty, although he was always in the dangerous spots. A couple of times he
had not even fired until shot at. A man who did that had a streak of weakness in
him. Given a break, men would kill you sooner or later. You had to shoot first, and
shoot to kill.
"You still goin' to meet the stage?" Jess asked.
The word "still" angered Boysee. His cold blue eyes flashed. "I'll meet it," he said.
He took up the bottle and poured a drink. It was the one drink he permitted himself.
When he closed the door behind him he heard the buzz of excited voices. The fools!
What did they know!
Bitterly, he stared into the night and the snow. There should be an
241 STAGE TO WILLOWSPRING 237
easier way to make a living, but how? It was all he knew. He was too old
now to punch cows, and who would give him a job? He had no money, only the little
house and the garden behind it. Had Mary lived, he might have broken away from this
life. She had wanted him to leave it.
What could he do, live on charity? Quitting was not an escape, any way. The name
would follow him, and they would still come hunting him, believing if they killed
Todd Boysee it would make them feared. Little did they know.
He had been a buffalo hunter at seventeen, a scout with the Army at nineteen, an
express messenger riding shotgun on the stages at twenty. At twenty-five he became
a town marshal, and he had followed it since, working a dozen towns before he had
settled in Willowspring.
Gifted with natural speed of hand and eye, he had improved by con stant practice.
For a time he savored the reputation it had given him, and then it had turned to
ashes in his mouth after he killed a man he need not have killed. Finally, even that
memory grew dim and he killed to live, to survive.
Every cow outfit that came up the trail had at least one man who fan cied himself
a gunhand. You stopped them or they stopped you. It was too bad, he reflected again,
that Mary had not lived. He was fifty-four now, but looked and acted ten years older.
Why was Roundy coming here? What was there for him in Willowspring? It was foolish
to think he was coming here to hunt him ... but was it? Those fools back in the saloon
believed it.
He walked down the street, a tall, very straight man. In this town he was the Law.
It was all he had left. He never touched a gun except against strangers. Here, all
he ever needed to do was to speak, quietly, sternly. He took out his big silver watch.
Mary had given it to him for his birthday. He had been pleased. He had always wanted
a watch. The wind moaned cold when he stopped at the corner. The sky was a flat black,
without stars. It would be bitter cold on the plains tonight.
THE STAGE WAS STOPPED when Armodel opened her eyes. Scott Roundy was gone, although
she had not heard him go. Bell was sitting up, wide awake. "What is it?" she asked.
"We're lost. The stage has been circling." "But how could they get off the trail?"
"No fences, no telegraph posts, just a couple of wheel tracks, mostly grassed over.
We're the second stage since the Indians burned the White Creek Station, last summer."
Outside in the snow, Koons stood beside Avery and Roundy. "If you're sure we passed
Three Oaks," Roundy said, "we're south of the
242 238 LOt,IS
"Didn't know you knew this country. The Wall's north of the trail, but circlin' wide
as we done we'd have hit it."
"So we're south." Roundy was sure. "Bear south some more to North Fork Canyon."
"Don't know the place," Koons said.
"I'll find it." Roundy suggested to Avery, "We go ahead and let Koons line up on
us. That would keep us in a straight line."
It had been a long time. The wind moaned along the plains, stirring snow from the
grass ... this place he would not forget, he had never for gotten, no matter how
many the years. His name was different, but he was the same.
"And when we get there?"
"A stone cabin and fuel. At least, there was fifteen years ago, and a stone cabin
doesn't rot. Anyway, the place is sheltered."
Koons turned. "All right," he said.
The stage lurched into motion and headed south, away from the wind. When they had
been proceeding slowly for almost an hour the ground suddenly began to slope away,
and after a while Roundy did not go on ahead but stood and waited, and when Avery
came up they guided the coach into the arroyo.
The stage bumped along over frozen earth and occasional rocks, and then a black cliff
reared before them, and against the face they could see the rock house. It was barely
visible under the overhang.
"Bring the mules inside!" Roundy yelled. "There's a cave back of the house and room
enough!"
The first mule balked at the dark opening, but when it finally entered the rest followed.
Koons stabled them at a tie-pole in the cave and re turned to find a fire going in
the house. Roundy was kneeling beside it, and Armodel Chase stood beside him.
Koons stared at Roundy curiously. "Never knowed of this place," he said.
Roundy nodded at the bottom bunk in the tier of two. "I was born in that bed," he
said, "in gold rush days."
Armodel stared at him, and looked again at the bunk. Her eyes went around the bare
room. There were two tiers of beds, a table, two benches, a chair. There was an iron
pot beside the fireplace. Her mind returned to her own comfortable home. Hers no
more.
"My mother is buried in the trees across the creek," he said. "She only lived a few
days"
Koons brought more fuel and added it, stick by stick, to the fire. "~ Injun country
then," he said. "Must have been."
"It was during a lull in an attack when I was born," Roundy said.
243 6 ,Wagon broke down up on the trail. The rest of them were gold-hungry and anxious.
Only one wagon would stay with us."
Avery brought coffee from the stage and they started getting water hot over the fire.
Gagnon was not talking, but Bell was curious. It was like so many tales he had heard,
yet he never tired of listening. He probably had heard more Western history in his
years of traveling than any man alive, and sometimes he passed the stories on.
"What happened?" Armodel searched the quiet face, thinking of how his mother must
have felt, dying here, never knowing if her child would live, never knowing if he
would grow up to become a man. Suddenly, she knew that gunfighter or not, his mother
would have been proud.
"My father and the people who stayed," he said, "they started Willow ?
spring. Koons shifted his feet. "Then"-he took his pipe from his mouth, suddenly
disturbed-"you must be Clete Ryan's nephew"
"Yes," he said.
Peg Fulton looked across the fire at Koons, and she started to speak, then stopped,
looking helpless. Koons got up and walked toward the back of the cave. Peg would
know, of course. Peg was a Gillis, and they had lived neighbors to the Ryans. Gillis
worked for Clete, time to time, for Dave, too, before Mary got married and Dave went
east.
He did not remember Roundy, but he remembered the story. The boy's father had been
an Army officer, and he had taken the boy to Fort Brown, Texas. After that they never
heard of them again.
The man with the Spencer rifle brought in an armful of fuel from outside and sat
down near the fire, keeping back a little, and giving the others room. Despite the
cold, the stone cabin was tight and the place was warming up.
Peg moved around and took over the coffee making from Avery. Koons watched her, his
eyes angry. This was a good girl. What else could she have done when that gambler
left her? People had talked ... thought the worst of her long ago.
"Warmin' up, Peg," he said suddenly. "Can I take your coat?"
She looked up, surprise changing to a softness and warmth. "Thank you, Alec," she
said. "I was warm."
Koons took the coat into the shadows. He was surprised to feel him self blushing.
He had not blushed in years. When he came back to the fire, Gagnon had a faintly
knowing smile on his face. Koons felt a sudden murderous fury. Say something, he
said under his breath. Make one snide re mark and I'll hurt you so badly-!
The coffee was hot, and Armodel was sitting close beside Scott
244 2 4 0 I. O U I S
Roundy. Koons squatted down near Peg Fulton and accepted the cup she handed him.
He could hear his mules stomping in the cave. They were eating their oats from the
feed bags, and already content. It didn't take much for a mule to be happy ... or
a man either, come to that.
An hour later all were fast asleep except for Alec Koons and Peg. He sat up, tending
the fire, and she tossed and turned, finally giving in to wakefulness. He smiled
at her shyly, wanting to speak but feeling clumsy and tongue-tied. Finally he cleared
his throat and, without looking up from the fire, spoke.
"Peg," he said, "four years ago I came nigh to askin' you, but I figured I was too
old for you. I'm older now, but ... well, so are you.
"Will you marry me?" He looked up at her, finally, seeking out her eyes in the firelight.
She reached out her hand and took his and held it tightly.
"Of course, Alec. I wanted you to ask me, but I thought you never saw me like that.
I'd be proud to marry you."
She fell asleep not a half hour later, comfortably in his arms.
THE STAGE TO WILLOWSPRING swung into the street at a spanking trot, al most twelve
hours late. The wind was down and the sun was out and the little snow was going fast
... a crowd waited for the stage.
Koons swung his mules up to the stage station and started to get down. Todd Boysee
stood off to one side, straight and tall, aloof and lonely in his threadbare black
coat.
Koons started to swing down-he wanted to get to Todd first-but something made him
look up. The man with the Spencer rifle was sitting unmoved atop the stage. He was
half behind Armodel Chase's trunk, and he had his rifle in his hands. He was smiling.
Scott Roundy got down from the stage and handed Armodel to the ground. Roundy felt
rather than saw the crowd draw back, and he looked up to see Todd Boysee facing him.
"Roundy!" Boysee's voice was stern. "You huntin' me?"
Scott took a step forward, sensing the old man's feelings. He put up a hand. "No,
I-"
Todd Boysee's hand dropped to his gun. Scott distinctly heard his palm slap the walnut
butt.
A dull boom slammed against the false-fronted buildings, and Todd Boysee felt the
bullet that would kill him. He took a step back-Scott Roundy had not drawn!
Boysee felt a sickness in his stomach. Something had hit him hard in the chest, and
the boom was heavy in his ears. Then he saw Scott Roundy was shooting, but not at
him. Boysee was on the ground, hold ing his fire. His eyes found focus.
245 WILLOW SPRING 2 4 1
Over the top of a trunk was the muzzle of a Spencer, and behind it and left of the
gun a white spot of brow, eye, and a hat. Todd Boysee fired, and there was a spot
over the eye and red on the face. Roundy fired again and then the man with the Spencer
rifle humped up and rolled over, falling flat and dead into the dust alongside the
stage.
Todd Boysee was down and dying. He was no fool. He had shot enough men and seen enough
of them shot. "Who ... who was it?" "Johnny Cole," a man from the crowd said. "I
guess he come to get you for killin' Lew"
"Boysee." Roundy got his arm under the old man's shoulders. "I was huntin' you. You're
my uncle. My mother was Mary Ryan's sister."
Todd Boysee was feeling better than he had expected. He always fig ured to die alone.
With Mary's nephew here it was different, somehow. There was a girl beside him....
Why, she even looked like Mary. A sight like her, in fact.
His eyes shifted to the girl and his hand gripped her wrist. "You love this boy?"
His mind was slipping, he was backing down a dark corridor whose walls he couldn't
see. "You stick with him, no matter what. It's all he'll ever have, what you can
give him."
Scott Roundy moved back from the walk and stood near Armodel. Todd Boysee had been
carried away. The blood was on the boardwalk. "Where were you goin'?" He turned to
look into her eyes.
"Just ... west."
"Is this far enough?" he asked.
"It has to be.... He gave me a job to do." "I was going to ask you," he said, "only-"
"I know," she said quietly, and she did know. She knew what she had read in the eyes
of a lonely old man, and what had been in her heart since the night by the fire.
There would be times of gladness and times of sor row, there would be fear, doubt,
and worry ... but no matter what, they would not be alone, not ever again.
246 Let the Cards Decide
Where the big drops fell, we had placed a wooden bucket re trieved from a corner
of the ancient log shack. The long, earth-floored one-room cabin smelled of wet clothing,
wood smoke, and the dampness brought on by unceasing rain. Yet there was fuel enough,
and the fire blazed bright on the hearth, slowly dis pelling the dampness and bringing
an air of warmth and comfort to the cheerless room.
Seven of us were there. Haven, who had driven the stage; Rock Wilson, a mine boss
from Hangtown; Henry, the Cherokee Strip outlaw; a slender man with light brown hair,
a sallow face, and cold eyes whom I did not at first know; the couple across the
room; and myself.
Six men and one woman-a girl.
She might have been eighteen or a year older, and she was one of those girls born
to rare beauty. She was slim, yet perfectly shaped, and when she moved it was to
unheard music, and when she smiled, it was for you alone, and with each smile she
seemed to give you something inti mate, something personal. How she had come to be
here with this man we all knew. We knew, for he was a man who talked much and talked
loud. From the first, I'd felt sorry for her, and admired her for her quiet dignity
and poise.
She was to become his wife. She was one of a number of girls and women who had come
west to find husbands, although why this girl should have been among them I could
not guess. She was a girl born for wealth and comfort, and her every word and movement
spoke of breed ing and culture. Yet here she was, and somehow she had gotten into
the hands of Sam Tallman.
He was a big fellow, wide of shoulder and girth, with big hands and an aggressive
manner. Not unhandsome in a bold way, he could appear gentle and thoughtful when
it suited him, but it was no part of the man
247 and strictly a pose. He was all the girl was not: rough, unclean, and too frank
in his way of talking to strangers of his personal affairs.
That Carol Houston was becoming disillusioned was obvious. That is, if there had
been any illusions to start. From time to time she gave him sharp, inquiring glances,
the sort one might direct at an obnoxious stranger. And she was increasingly uneasy.
The stage was headed north and was to have dropped several of us here to meet another
stage heading west. We were going to be a day late, however, for our coach had overturned
three miles back on the muddy trail.
Bruised and shaken, we had righted the stage in the driving rain and had managed
to get on as far as the shack. As we could not continue through the night, and this
place was at least warm and dry, we made the best of it.
There seemed no end to the rain, and in the few, momentary lulls we could hear the
measured fall of drops into the bucket, which would soon be full.
Now in any such place there comes a time when conversation slowly dies. The usual
things have been said, the storm discussed and compared to other storms, the accident
bewailed, and the duration of our stay sur mised. We had exchanged destinations and
told of our past lives, and all with no more than the usual amount of lying.
Dutch Henry produced some coffee, and I, ransacking the dismal depths of the farther
cabin corners, a pot and cups. So the good, rich smell of coffee permeated the room
with its friendly sense of well-being and comfort.
My name, it might be added, is Henry Duval. Born on Martinique, that distant and
so lovely island noted for explosive mountains and women. My family had been old,
respected, and until it came to me, of some wealth. By profession I had been a gambler.
This was, for a period of nearly a century, the usual profession of a young man of
family but no means. Yet from gambling I had turned to the profession of arms, or
rather, I had divided my time between them. The riverboats started me on the first,
and the revolutions and wars of freedom in Latin America on the second. Now, at thirty-five,
I was no longer occupied with either of these, but had succeeded in building a small
fortune of my own in handling mining properties.
But let us be honest. During my gambling days I had, on occasion, shall we say, encouraged
the odds? An intelligent man with a knowledge of and memory for cards, and some knowledge
of people, can usually win, and honestly-when the cards run with him-but of course,
one must have the cards. So when they failed to come of themselves, some times I
did, as I have said, encourage them a bit.
248 2 4 4 L O U I S
Haven, the stage driver, I knew slightly. He was a solid, dependable man, both honest
and fearless. Rock Wilson was of the same order, and both were of the best class
of those strong, brave, and often uneducated men who built the West. Both had followed
the boom towns-as I once had.
Dutch Henry? You may have heard of him. They hanged him finally, I believe. He was,
as I have said, an outlaw. He stole horses, and cattle, and at times robbed banks
or stages, but all without malice and without un necessary shooting. And he was a
man of rugged good nature who might steal a hundred today and give it away tomorrow.
The sallow-faced man introduced himself. His accent was that of the deep South. "My
given name is John. I once followed the practice of medicine." He coughed into a
soiled handkerchief, a deep rattling tuber cular cough. "But my ahh ... condition
made that an irony I could no longer endure." He brushed a speck of lint from the
frayed cuff of his faded frock coat. "I am now a gentleman of fortune, whatever that
may mean.
Henry made the coffee. It had the strong, healthy flavor of cow puncher coffee, the
best for a rainy night. He filled our cups, saving the best for the lady. She smiled
quickly, and that rugged gentleman of the dark trails flushed like a schoolboy.
Tallman was talking loudly. "Sure hit the jackpot! All them women, an' me gettin'
the best o' the lot! Twenty o' them there was, an' all spoke for! Out in the cold,
they said I was, but all right, I told 'em, if there's an extry, I get her! An' this
one was extry!"
The future Mrs. Tallman flushed and looked down at her hands. "How did it happen,
Miss Houston?" I asked her. "Why didn't they expect you?"
She looked up, grateful for the chance to explain and to make her po sition clearer.
She was entitled to that respect. "I wasn't one of them not at first. I was coming
west with my father, in the same wagon train, but he died of cholera and something
happened to the little money he had. We owed money and I had nothing ... well, what
could I do?"
"Perfectly right," I agreed. "I've known some fine women to come west and make good
marriages that way."
Good marriage was an expression I should not have used. Her face changed when I said
that, and she looked down at her hands.
"Should o' heard the others howl when they seen what I drawed!" Tallman crowed. "Course,
she ain't used to our rough western ways, an' she ain't much on the work, I hear,
but she'll learn! You leave that to me!"
Haven shifted angrily on his bench and Rock Wilson's face darkened and his eyes flashed
angrily. "You're not married to her yet, you say? I'd be careful if I were you. The
lady might change her mind."
249 LET THE CARDS DECIDE 24
Tallman's face grew ugly. His small eyes narrowed and hardness came into his jowls.
"Change her mind? Not likely! You reckon I'd stand for that? I paid off her debts.
One o' them young fellers back yonder had some such idea, but I knocked that out
of him mighty quick! An' if he'd gone for a gun, I'd o' killed him!" Tallman slapped
his six-shooter. "I'm no gunman," he declared, "but I get along!"
This last was said with a truculent stare around the room.
More to get the conversation away from the girl than for any other reason, I suggested
poker.
John, the ex-doctor with the sallow cheeks, looked up sharply, and a faint, wry smile
hovered about his lips. The others moved in around the table, and the girl moved
back. Somehow, over their heads, our eyes met. In hers there was a faint pleading,
an almost spoken request to do some thing ... anything ... but to get her out of
this. Had we talked an hour she could not have made her wish more clear.
In that instant my resolution was made. As John picked up the cards I placed my palm
flat down on the table in the old, international signal that I was a cardsharp. With
a slight inclination of my head, I indicated Tallman as the object of my intentions,
and saw his agreement.
Tallman played with the same aggressive manner of his talk, and kept a good eye on
the cards that were played. We shifted from draw to stud and back again from time
to time, and at first Tallman won.
When he had something good you had to pay to stay in the game, and he rode his luck
hard. At the same time, he was suspicious and wary. He watched every move closely
at first, but as the game progressed he be came more and more interested and his
vigilance waned. Yet he studied his cards carefully and took a long time in playing.
For me, there were no others in the game but Tallman and John. Once, when I had discarded,
I walked to the fire and added a few sticks, then prepared more coffee and put the
pot on the fire. Turning my head I saw Carol Houston watching me. From my chair I
got my heavy coat and brought it to her. "If you're cold," I whispered.
She smiled gratefully, then looked into the flames.
"I do not wish to intrude on something that is none of my business." I spoke as if
to the fire. "It seems that you might be more comfortable if you were free of that
man."
She smiled sadly. "Can you doubt it? But he paid bills for me. I owe him money, and
I signed an agreement to marry him."
"No one would hold you to such an agreement."
"He would. And I must pay my debts, one way or another. At the moment I can see no
other way out."
"We'll see. Wait, and don't be afraid." Adding another stick to the fire, I returned
to the table. Tallman glanced up suspiciously, for he could
250
2 4 6
have heard a murmur, although probably none of the words spoken be tween us.
It was my deal, and as I gathered the discards my eyes made note of their rank, and
swiftly I built a bottom stock, then shuffled the cards while maintaining this stock.
I placed the cards in front of Henry for the cut, then I shifted the cut smoothly
back and dealt. John gathered his cards, glanced at them, and returned them to the
table before him. Tallman studied his own, then fidgeted with his money. I tossed
in my ante and we started to build Tallman. We knew he liked to ride hard on a good
hand and we gave him his chance. Finally, I dropped out and left it to the doc tor.
Tallman had a straight, and Doc spread his cards-a full house, queens and tens.
From then on we slowly but carefully took Tallman apart. Haven and Wilson soon became
aware of what was happening. Neither John nor I stayed when either of them showed
with anything good, but both of us rode Tallman. Haven dropped out of the game first,
then Wilson. Henry stayed with us and we occasionally fed him a small pot. From time
to time Tallman won, but his winnings were just enough to keep him on edge.
Once I looked up to find Carol's eyes on mine. I smiled a little and she watched
me gravely, seriously. Did she guess what was happening here?
"Your bet, Mistah Duval." It was John's soft Georgia voice. I gathered my cards,
glanced at them, and raised. Tallman saw me and kicked it up. Henry studied his cards,
shrugged, and threw them in.
"Too rich for my blood," he said, smiling.
John kicked it up again, then Tallman raised. He was sweating now. I could see his
tongue touch his lips, and the panic in the glance he threw at John when he heard
the raise was not simulated. He waited after his raise, watching to see what I would
do, and I deliberately let him sweat it out. I was holding three aces and a pair
of sixes, and I was sure it wasn't good enough. John had dealt this hand.
My signal to John brought instant response. His hand dropped to the table, and the
signal told me he was holding an ace.
Tallman stirred impatiently. Puttering a bit, as if uncertain, I raised twenty dollars.
The Southerner threw in his hand and Tallman saw my raise, then felt in his pockets
for more money and found none. There was an instant of blank consternation, and then
he called. He was holding four queens and a trey when he spread his hand.
Hesitating only momentarily, I put my cards down, bunched to gether.
"Spread 'em!" John demanded impatiently, and reaching across the table he spread
my cards-secretly passing his ace to give me four aces and a six.
251 LET THE CARDS DECIDE 2 4 7
Tallman's eyes bulged. He swallowed and his face grew red. He glared at the cards
as if staring would change their spots. Then he swore viciously.
Coolly, I gathered in the pot, palming and discarding my extra six as my hand passed
the discards. Carefully, I began stacking my coins while John gathered the cards
together.
"I'm clean!" Tallman flattened his big hands on the table. He looked around the room.
"Who wants to stake me? I'll pay, I'm good for it!" Nobody replied. Haven was apparently
dozing. Rock Wilson was
smoking and staring into the fire. Henry yawned and looked at the one window through
which we could see. It was faintly gray. It would soon be morning.
From the ceiling a drop gathered and fell with a fat plop into the bucket. Nobody
spoke, and in the silence we realized for the first time that the rain had almost
ceased.
"What's got into you?" Tallman demanded. "You were plenty willin' to take my money!
Gimme a chance to get even!"
"No man wants to play agin his own money," Wilson commented mildly.
My winnings were stacked, part of it put away, yet of what remained the entire six
hundred dollars had been won from Tallman. "Seems early to end a game," I remarked
carelessly. "Have you got any collateral?"
He hesitated. "I've got a-!" He had started to put up his pistol, but changed his
mind suddenly. Something inside me tightened when I real ized what that might mean.
Tallman stared around, scowling. "I guess I ain't got-" It was time now, if it was
ever to be time. Yet as the moment came, I felt curiously on edge myself.
"Doesn't she owe you money?" I indicated Carol Houston. "And that agreement to marry
should be worth something."
Even as I said it, I felt like a cad, and yet this was what I had been building toward.
Tallman stared at me and his face darkened with angry blood. He started to speak,
so I let a string of gold eagles trail through my fingers and their metallic clink
arrested him, stopped his voice in his throat. His eyes fell to the gold. His tongue
touched his lips.
"Only for collateral," I suggested.
"No!" He sank back in his seat. "I'll be damned if I do!"
"Suit yourself." My shrug was indifference itself. Slowly, I got out my buckskin
money bag and began gathering the coins. "You asked for a chance. I gave it to you."
I'd played all night for this moment but I was now afraid I'd lost my chance.
Yet the sound of the dropping coins fascinated him. He started to speak, but before
he could open his mouth Carol Houston got suddenly to her feet and walked around
the table.
252 2 4 8
"If he won't play for it with you, maybe he will play with me." She looked at Tallman
and her smile was lovely to look upon. "Will you, Sam?"
He glared at her. "Sit down! This here's man's business!" His voice was rough. "Anyway,
you got no money! No tellin' what you'd be doin' if I hadn't paid off for you!"
Dutch Henry's face tightened and he started to get to his feet. John was suddenly
on the edge of his chair, his breath whistling hollowly in his throat, his eyes blazing
at the implied insult. "Sir! You are a miserable scoundrel-!"
"Wait!" Carol Houston's voice stopped us.
She turned to John. "Will you lend me six hundred dollars?"
Both Dutch Henry and I reached for our pockets but she ignored us and accepted the
money from the smaller man.
"Now, Sam. One cut of the cards. One hundred dollars against the agreement and my
IOUs ... Have you got the guts to do it?"
He started to growl a threat, but John spoke up. "You could play Duval again if you
win." His soft voice drawled, "He gave you quite a thrashing."
Yet as John spoke, his attention, as was mine, was directed at the face of Carol
Houston. What happened to our little lady? This behavior did not, somehow, seem to
fit.
Tallman hesitated, then shrugged. "Yeah? All right, but I'm warning you." He shook
his finger at John. "I'm paying no more of my wife's debts. If she loses, you lose
too. Now give me the damn cards."
She handed him the deck and he cut-a queen.
Tallman chuckled. "Reckon I've made myself a hundred," he said. "You ain't got much
chance to beat that."
Carol Houston accepted the cards. They spilled through her fingers to the table and
we helped her gather them up. She shuffled clumsily, placed the deck on the table,
then cut-an ace!
Tallman swore and started to rise.
"Sam, wait!" She put her hand on his arm. He frowned, but he dropped back into his
seat and glared at me.
Carol Houston turned to me, her eyes quietly calculating. The room was very still.
A drop of rain gathered on the ceiling and fell into the bucket-again that fat plop.
The window was almost white now ... it was day again.
"How much did you win from Sam, Mr. Duval?"
Her face was without expression. "Six hundred dollars," I replied. "Not more than
that."
She picked up the cards, trying a clumsy shuffle. "Would you gamble with me for that
money?"
253 2 4 9
John leaned back in his chair, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. Yet even as he
coughed his eyes never left the girl. Dutch Henry was lean ing forward, frankly puzzled.
Neither Wilson nor Haven said anything. This seemed a different girl, not at all
the sort of person we had
"If you wish." My voice strained hard not to betray my surprise. I was beginning
to understand that we had all been taken in.
She pushed the entire six hundred dollars she had borrowed from John into the middle
of the table. "Cut the cards once for the lot, Mr. Duval?"
I cut and turned the card faceup-the nine of clubs.
She drew the deck together, straightened it, tapped it lightly with her thumb as
she picked it up, and turned-a king!
Stunned, and more by the professional manner of the cut than its re sult, I watched
Carol Houston draw the money to her. With careful hands she counted out six hundred
dollars and returned it to John. "Thank you," she said, and smiled at him.
His expression a study, John pocketed the money.
Haven, who had left the cabin, now thrust his head back into the door. "All hitched
up! We're goin' on! Mount up, folks!"
"Mr. Haven," Carol asked quickly, "isn't there a stage going west soon?" " 'Bout
an hour, if she's on time."
The six hundred she had won from me she pushed over to Sam Tallman. Astonished, he
looked at the money, and then at her. "I-is this for me?"
"For you. It is over between us. But I want those IOUs and the mar riage contract."
"Now wait a minute!" Tallman roared, lunging up from his chair. He reached across
for her but I stopped him. "That money is more than you deserve, Tallman. I'd take
it and get out."
His hand dropped and rested on his pistol butt and his eyes narrowed. "She's goin'
with me! I'll be damned if I let any of you stop me!"
"No, suh." It was John's soft voice. "You'll just be damned. Unless you go and get
on that stage."
Tallman turned truculently toward the slighter man, all his rage sud denly ready
to vent itself on this apparently easier target.
Before he could speak, Dutch Henry spoke from the doorway. "You'll leave him alone,
Tallman, if you want to live. That's Doc Holliday!" Tallman brought up short, looking
foolish. Doc had not moved, his
right hand grasping the lapel of his coat, his gray eyes cold and level. Shocked
Tallman turned and stumbled toward the door.
"Henry Duval, you quit gambling once, did you not?"
She held my eyes. Hers were clear, lovely, grave. "Why ... yes. It has been years
... until tonieht"
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"And you gambled for me. Wasn't that it?" My ears grew red. "All right, so I'm a
fool."
Until that moment I had never known how a woman's face could light up, nor what could
be seen in it. "Not a fool," she said gently. "I meant what I said by the fire-up
to a point."
We heard the stage rattle away, and then I looked at Carol.
A smile flickered on her lips, and then she picked up the cards from the table. Deliberately,
she spread them in a beautiful fan, closed the deck, did a one-hand cut, riffled
the deck, then handed them to me. "Cut them," she said.
I cut an ace, then cut the same ace again and again. She picked up the deck, riffled
them again, and placing them upon the table, cut a red king. Picking up the deck
I glanced at the ace and king she had cut. "Slick
king and a shaved ace," I said. "Tap the deck lightly as you cut and you cut the
king every time. But where did you have them?"
"In my purse." She took my hands. "Henry, do you remember Natchez Tom Tennison?"
"Of course. We worked the riverboats together a half dozen times. A good man."
"He was my father, and he taught me what I did tonight. Both things."
"Both things?"
"How to use cards, and always to pay my debts. I didn't want to owe anything to Sam
Tallman, not even the money you took from him, and I didn't want to be the girl you
won in a poker game."
Dutch Henry, the Cherokee Strip outlaw, slapped his thigh. "Women!" he said. "If
they don't beat all!"
It was almost two hours before the westbound stage arrived ... but somehow it did
not seem that long.
255 Man
D uffy's man had been on the job just six days when trouble started. Duffy, who was
older than the gnarled pin-oak by the water
hole, knew there would be trouble when he saw Clip Hart rid ing up to the stable.
Duffy had covered a lot of miles in his time, and had forgotten nothing, man or animal,
that he had seen in his travels.
Clip Hart had killed a man seven years before in El Paso, and Duffy had seen it happen.
Since then there had been other killings in other towns, and three years in the state
pen for rustling. From time to time Hart had been investigated in connection with
robberies of one kind or another.
Hart was older, heavier, and harder now. He had the coldly watchful eye of a hunted
man. There were two men with him and one of them rode across the street to the Pine
Saloon and stood alongside his horse, watching the street.
Hart looked at the sign on the livery stable and then at the fat old man in the big
chair. "You're Duffy?" Hart measured him as he spoke.
"I'm Duffy." The old man shifted his bulk in the polished chair. "What can I do for
you?"
"The use of your stable. I've seven horses coming in tonight. They'll be kept here
in your stable, saddled all the time."
Duffy shifted himself in his seat. "None of that here. I'll not want your business.
Not here."
"You'll keep them. You don't move very fast, Duffy." Clip Hart struck a match on
the seat of his pants and held up the flame. "Your barn can't move at all." He lifted
the flame suggestively. "Where's your hostler?"
Duffy turned his head on his fat neck. He was no fool, and he knew Hart was not bluffing.
He opened his mouth to call for his hostler, and as he turned his head he saw him
there, standing in the door, his hands on his hips.
k Duffy's man was tall, lean, and wide-shouldered. His face was still.
256 2 5 2
Sometimes his eyes smiled, rarely his lips. The stubble of beard he had worn when
Duffy hired him was gone now, but he wore no hat and he still wore the worn, badly
scuffed shoes, unusual foot gear in a country of boots and spurs.
There was a small scar on one cheekbone and sometime long ago his nose had been broken.
He was probably twenty-five but he looked older, and the years behind him had probably
been rugged years.
Clip Hart stared at him. "There'll be seven horses brought here tonight. Keep them
saddled and ready to go. Understand?"
Duffy's man jerked a thumb at Duffy. "I take my orders from him." Hart's anger flared.
He was a man who could not accept resistance of any kind. It drove him to a killing
fury and Duffy knew it, and was wor ried. "You'll take my orders!" Hart said. "Get
back inside!"
Deliberately, the hostler glanced at Duffy and the old man nodded. Duffy's man turned
on his heel and went back inside.
"You'll get paid, and plenty," Hart was telling Duffy, "but no argu ments, understand?"
Then, his tone thick with contempt, he added, "Who in this town could make trouble
for us?"
When Hart crossed the street to the saloon, Duffy's man returned to the door. "You
goin' to take that?"
"We've no choice. I'm no gunslinger. There's no more than seven men in town right
now, all quiet, peaceful men. Anyway, their women folks would be scared. We've been
expectin' something of the kind for a long time." He looked around. "You're new here.
Those men are bad, real bad."
Duffy's man merely looked at him. "Are they?" he asked.
He walked back into the stable and climbed to the loft, forking hay into the mangers,
then put corn into seven feed boxes. Walking out he said, "I'll eat now," slipping
into his coat as he spoke. He did not look at Duffy. The three horses were still
across the street.
There was a sign that said MA'S KITCHEN and when he went inside there were two tables
eight feet long with a bench along each side and at each end. Clip Hart was sitting
at the end of one table with his back to the wall. Duffy's man sat down alongside
the table near the opposite end.
He had been born in the West but left with his mother when he was ten and had grown
up in the streets of New York. At fifteen, after two years working on a fishing boat
he had shipped out around the Horn. He dealt monte in a Barbary Coast dive, fought
a series of bareknuckle fights, and won them. He had become friendly with Jem Mace
and learned a lot about fighting from him, the master boxer of his time. At seventeen
he was on a windjammer in the China Sea. Back in New York again he fought several
more bareknuckle fights and won each time.
Discontented with his life he found an interest in books and began to
257 MAN 2 5 3
study with an eye to bettering himself, although without any definite idea. Running
out of money he worked his way West on the railroad and finally, dead broke, he dropped
off the stage in Westwater.
Westwater had one restaurant, one saloon, a livery stable, a blacksmith shop, a crossroads
store, and a stage station which doubled as a post office. Julie came around the
table and put a plate before him. He thanked
her and watched her fill the cup. She was a slender girl with Irish blue eyes, black
hair, and a few freckles. She left him and went around the ta ble, picking up several
dirty dishes. It looked like at least three men had left without finishing their
meals when Hart came in.
"More coffee!" Hart looked at the girl as he spoke, boldly appraising. When she went
to fill his cup he slipped an arm around her waist.
She stepped away so quickly that it jerked Hart off balance and his face turned ugly
with anger.
"Put that pot down and come here!" he said.
"Keep your hands to yourself!" Julie flared. "I'll serve you, but I won't be pawed
by you!"
Clip started to rise but Duffy's man grabbed the table and shoved hard. The end of
the table hit Hart's hip as he was turning to rise, and it caught him off balance.
He staggered, the bench behind tripped him. He fell hard, his feet flying up.
Duffy's man stood over him. "Let her alone," he said. "A man in your business can't
afford to fool around."
"You're tellin' me my business?" He gathered his feet under him but he was in no
position to argue, and something in the face of Duffy's man warned him.
At the same time he realized that what the hostler said was true. He could not afford
trouble here and now. He could wait. He got carefully to his feet. "Aw, I was just
foolin'!" he said. "No need for her to be so per snickety."
Then as he started to brush himself off, his anger flared again. "You shoved that
table!" he exclaimed.
"You catch on fast." Duffy's man spoke calmly, standing there with his hands on his
hips, just looking at Hart. The outlaw grew more and more angry. At the same time
he felt an impulse to caution. No trouble here and now. That could wait.
Without another word he drew back his bench and sat down. When he had finished eating
he threw a half-dollar on the table and went out without so much as a backward glance.
Julie filled his cup again. "He won't forget that." "I know."
"He'll kill you. He's killed other men."
258 2 5 4
Duffy's man finished his meal in silence, ever conscious of her pres ence. When he
got up he dropped two bits on the table to pay for the meal, then went to the door.
"You be careful," she warned.
He crossed the street and saw the horses the men had ridden into town were gone.
It was dark now, but he could still see Duffy seated in his big old chair.
"Horses come?"
"Not yet." Duffy's chair creaked. "What happened over there?"
"He got fresh with Julie, and I shoved him down with a table. He didn't like it very
much."
"He'll kill you."
"I'm not ready to die."
"Take a horse," Duffy advised. "Take that little bay. If you ever get the money you
can send it to me. If not, forget it. I like you, son."
"I don't need a horse." "You won't have a chance."
"You go home, Mr. Duffy, and don't come out tomorrow. Leave this to me. It's my fight."
Duffy's chair creaked as he got up. "The bay's in the box stall if you want it."
He paused near the corner of the barn. "Have you got a gun?" "No, I don't think IT
need one." He was silent, and he was aware that the old man had not moved, but stood
there in the shadows.
"The way I see it," he said, "they've got this town treed. They can do as they please.
First they will use it as a way station for fresh horses, then they'll take over
the town's business, then the people. Men will be killed and women taken."
"Maybe." "You go home now, Mr. Duffy. You stay out of this."
Duffy's man listened to the slow, retreating steps. Duffy must be nearly eighty.
The storekeeper was well past sixty. The tough young men of the town were all gone
on a cattle drive. They would be back next year, or maybe they would never come back.
The hardships of a cattle drive being what they were. It made no difference now.
He was a man who knew what had to be done and he was not accustomed to asking for
help.
He sat down in Duffy's chair and waited. There had been a man in a railroad construction
camp who was always quoting, and those quotations had a way of sticking in the mind.
Duffy's man stirred in the chair, re membering one the fellow had loved to quote.
Time and again he had said it.
They tell us, Sir, that we are weak, unable to cope with so formida ble an adversary.
But when shall we be stronger? Will it be next week? Will it be next year? Will it
be when we are totally disarmed
259 MAN 2 5 5
and a guard stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by ir resolution and
inaction? Sir, we are not weak if we make proper use of those means which the God
of nature has placed in our power.
The words had a nice sound and he said them aloud, but softly, listening to the smooth
sound of them on his lips. He had the Irishman's love of fine sounding words and
the Irishman's aptitude for rebellion. He leaned back in the chair and closed his
eyes. The fellow in the construction camp who quoted that, he had been better than
a book, and all he needed to start him off was a bit of rye whiskey.
It was past midnight when the horses came. Two riders led them up under the trees
and then across the street to the stable. One man remained outside in Duffy's chair
while the other helped Duffy's man tie them in the stalls. They were all fine, beautifully
built animals.
The man was stocky and not very tall. He lifted the lantern to the hostler's face.
"New?"
"Drifting." "You take good care these horses are ready. You do that and you'll have
no trouble. You might even find a few extra bucks in your kick when this is over.
Do you hear me?"
"I hear you."
The man walked back to the door but did not step out into the light. There was a
lantern over the door that was kept burning all night, and it threw a pale glow around
the stable door.
Duffy's man watched the glow of their cigarettes and then he went to the harness
room. There were several old saddles, odds and ends of har ness, and in a corner,
behind a dusty slicker there was something else.
It was a Colt revolving shotgun.
He peered out a crack of the door, then put the lantern on the floor between himself
and the door. Taking up the shotgun he wiped it free of dust, then he took it apart
and went to work on it.
Several times he went to the door to peer out. After almost two hours of work he
had the shotgun in firing condition. The cylinder would no longer revolve of itself
but could be turned by hand. Duffy's man fed shells into the four chambers. They
were old brass shotgun shells, and he had loaded them himself. Then he stood the
shotgun back in the corner and hung the slicker over it.
The short, stocky man was in the chair now and the other one was asleep on the hay
just inside the door. Duffy's man stopped inside the door. "What time tomorrow?"
he asked.
The fellow looked around at him. "Maybe noon. Why?" "Wonderin' if I should feed them
again. They won't run good on a full stomach."
260 2 5 6 L O U I S
"Say, that's right. Feed 'em now, I s'pose. All right?" "Yeah."
Duffy's man walked back inside and fed the horses. "They tell us, Sir, that we are
weak," he repeated, "but when shall we be stronger?"
He thought it over as he stood there, rubbing the sorrel's neck. "It has a nice sound,"
he told the horse, "a nice sound."
He walked to the door. "Soon be daylight," he said, "the sky's turn ing gray."
"Yeah." The stocky man got to his feet and stretched. Duffy's man hit him.
It was a backhand blow with his left fist that caught the stretching outlaw in the
solar plexus. Duffy's man stepped around in front of him and with the practiced ease
of the skilled boxer he uppercut with the left and crossed a right to the chin. The
outlaw never had a chance to know what was happening, and the only sound was a gasp
at the backhand to the solar plexus.
Duffy's man pulled him out of sight behind the door. Then he tied his hands and feet
and stuffed a dirty rag into his mouth for a gag, tying it there. Leaning over the
sleeping outlaw he very gently lifted the man's hand
and slipped a loop over it. His eyes flared open but the hostler grasped his upper
arm and flipped him over on his face before he realized what was happening.
Shoving the man's face into the hay and earth, he dropped on one knee on the man's
back and jerked his other wrist over to receive a second loop. Quickly, with a sailor's
skill with knots, he drew the wrists together and bound them tight, then tied his
feet and gagged him.
They might, he thought, get themselves free just when he was most busy. He dragged
them to the center of the barn where there was no loft. It was almost forty feet
to the ridgepole. Climbing the ladder to the loft he then mounted a ladder that led
to the roof and rigged two ropes over a crosspiece, then went back to the floor.
The outlaws, both conscious now, stared at him, horrified.
"Going to hang you," he said cheerfully, grinning at their agonized expressions.
"But not by the necks ... unless you struggle."
Twenty minutes later he looked up at them with appreciation. More than thirty feet
above the hard packed earth of the barn floor he had sus pended the two outlaws.
Each man had a loose noose around his neck. If they struggled to get free and the
knots started to slip they would hang themselves.
"It's up to you," he explained. "You can hang there quietly and when this shindig
is over I'll let you down easy. You struggle and you'll both be dead."
He strolled to the door. Smoke was lifting from Ma's Kitchen and
261 MAN 2 5 7
Julie was sweeping off the step. He walked across and she glanced up, smiling at
him. He saw her eyes go past him to the barn door. The chair was empty.
She got the coffeepot and filled his cup, stealing a glance at his face, which revealed
nothing. She had heard the riders come in with the horses, and she knew it meant
a bank holdup somewhere near.
The outlaws could run their horses at top speed, switch to fresh horses and be off
to the mountains. The fresh horses would assure them of escape, for any posse would
have to run their horses hard to try to catch them, and those horses would have been
extended to the utmost before reaching Westwater.
DufFy's man ate in silence. When he arose he dropped a quarter on the table. "Better
stay inside today," he told Julie, "and tell Ma."
She stopped at the end of the table. "Whatever it is you're planning," she said,
"don't do it. You don't know Clip Hart."
"There are Clip Harts wherever one goes. If you start running there's no place to
stop. I have it to do or I have to run, and I don't run easy. "Anyway"-he spoke in
a lighter tone, not looking at her-"a man
has to stop somewhere and make a start. This seems as good a place as any. A man
might even start a ranch of his own."
"That takes money."
"A man who is good with an ax might make some money cutting ties for that branch
line they're about to build. They will need ties," he added, "or they'll have to
ship them a long way."
He went out without looking back, but he heard Ma say, "I like that young man."
Julie answered, "He won't live long if he bucks Clip Hart."
At the foot of the steps Duffy's man stopped, thinking. How did one man handle seven
men? And how far behind the outlaws would the posse be? How long would it take them
to get to Westwater?
Duffy's man considered a half dozen ways of delaying the outlaws and still staying
alive. Tying their horses with hard knots? They would cut the ropes. Opening fire
as they entered the street? He didn't have shells enough to kill them all if he scored
with every shot, and they were too many. He would himself be dead.
There was no way. He had been foolish to begin what he could not end, and he was
very glad he had not tried to enlist help in his foolhardy scheme. It had been all
too easy to think of doing something, all too easy to say they would never be stronger.
Nonetheless, having started it, it was not in him to quit. What he had begun he would
finish, and he would hope to do enough damage in the process that they would come
no more to Westwater.
It was natural that he did not consider his own situation. Not that he
262 2 5 8
had not thought of it before, but he had known what his chances were, and now that
he had decided to go ahead he simply would have no chance at all. At least, none
worth considering.
Finally, he brought the horses out and tied them, according to plan, at the hitch
rail. He tied them with slipknots, tying Clip Hart's horse a little closer to the
stable and just a little apart from the others. Then he brought the shotgun from
the harness room and placed it beside the barn door, but out of sight.
He knew then he had done what he could do, and there was nothing to do but wait.
He dropped into Duffy's chair and relaxed.
Word seemed to have gotten around, for no one appeared on the street. The store was
open, as was the saloon, but nobody was in either place. Several times Julie came
to the door and looked across the street at the young man in the chair by the barn
door. Each time he was whittling. Once he even seemed to be asleep.
It was almost eleven o'clock when they heard them coming. They thun dered across
the bridge just outside of town and came racing around the bend and through the trees.
They came at a dead run, piled off their horses and rushed for the fresh horses at
the hitch rail. Hart reached his horse and grabbed at the slipknot, and Duffy's man
hit him.
There was no warning. Duffy's man had tied that horse within an easy step and his
left hook caught Hart on the chin and he went down, spun halfway around, and grabbed
for his gun.
Duffy's man slapped away the gun hand and smashed Hart with a big, work-hardened
fist. Knocking him back against the rail he proceeded to slug him in the belly, then
on the chin with both hands. Hart went down, battered and bleeding. Only then did
Duffy's man disarm him.
The other outlaws had leaped for their saddles and no sooner did they hit leather
than all hell broke loose. The horses were big, fresh, and full of corn, and they
began to pitch madly as if on signal. A girth broke, and then another. Men plunged
into the dust, and as they hit, men rushed from the stores and ran among them, clubbing
with gun barrels and rifle butts.
Duffy himself was there, moving with surprising agility for one of his age and bulk.
Only one man made a break for it. He was near the stable and his cinch did not break.
He got his horse turned and as he did so he lifted his pistol and took careful aim
at Duffy's man.
The hostler sprang for the shotgun beside the door, knowing he would never reach
it in time. Then a rifle shot rang out and as Duffy's man swung around with the shotgun
in his hands, he saw the outlaw top ple from his saddle into the dust.
He glanced around and saw Julie standing in the door with an old Sharps .50 in her
hands, a thin wraith of smoke issuing from the muzzle. As suddenly as that, it was
over. Clip Hart was staggering to his feet,
263 MAN 2 5 9
his jaw hanging and obviously broken. There was a deep cut over one eye, and his
trigger finger was broken, apparently when he fell or when the gun was slapped from
his hand.
One man was dead. Duffy himself had killed him when he stepped from the store. The
man Julie had shot had a broken shoulder and an ugly wound where the bullet had ripped
the flesh. The others had aching heads and one a broken collarbone.
Herded together in front of the livery stable, they were standing there when the
posse arrived, staring at their captors who proved to be four old men, two boys of
fourteen, a girl with an apron, and Duffy's man.
"They held up our bank and killed a cashier," the man with the badge told them. "If
they'd gotten on those fresh horses they'd have gotten clean away. What happened?"
Duffy had been removing saddles from the horses and now he lifted a saddle blanket
and lifted an ugly-looking cocklebur with blood on its stiff spines. "Somebody,"
he said, "put one of these under each blanket, and then cut the cinches halfway through."
The badge wearer looked at Duffy's man. "You did that?"
"Picked the meanest-looking burrs I could find. What else could I do? I'm no gunfighter!"
The sheriff looked at Hart. "Well, you're some kind of a fighter, and whatever it
is, you'll do. Thanks."
Duffy looked at his holster. "Thought we was too old, did you? Well, we got fight
left in us yet, ain't we, boys?"
The storekeeper gestured toward the saloon. "I'm standing for the drinks, young or
old."
"Have your drink," Duffy's man said. "I'll be along soon."
He looked over at Julie. "As I said, this seemed a good place to stop." "Are you
a good man with an ax?"
"I am. But you know, it gets mighty lonely up there in the moun tains. And it would
help if I had somebody to cook for me, too."
"Can you cook at all?" "No, ma'am."
"I can."
He gestured toward the church, half-hidden among the cottonwoods. "The preacher will
be home tomorrow. We should make an early start." "I will be ready." Suddenly, she
was embarrassed. She dried her hands on her apron. "You go along and have that drink
now."
At the saloon the men lifted their glasses to him. "Not me," he said, "I might never
have done it but for something a speaker once said"
He lifted his glass. "We drink to the speaker. To Patrick Henry," he said. "To Pat
Henry," they replied.
264 Shall Live
The land was fire beneath and the sky was brass above, but through out the day's
long riding the bound man sat erect in the saddle and cursed them for thieves and
cowards. Their blows did not silence
him, although the blood from his swollen and cracked lips had dried on his face and
neck.
Only John Sutton knew where they rode and only he knew what he planned for Cavagan,
and John Sutton sat thin and dry and tall on his long-limbed horse, leading the way.
Nine men in all, tempered to the hard ways of an unforgiving land, men strong in
the strengths needed to survive in a land that held no place for the weak or indecisive.
Eight men and a prisoner taken after a bit ter chase from the pleasant coastal lands
to the blazing desert along the Colorado River.
Cavagan had fought on when the others quit. They destroyed his crops, tore down his
fences, and burned his home. They killed his hired hand and tried to kill him. When
they burned his home he rebuilt it, and when they shot at him he shot back.
When they ambushed him and left him for dead, he crawled into the rocks like a wounded
grizzly, treated his own wounds, and then caught a horse and rode down to Sutton's
Ranch and shot out their lights during the victory celebration.
Two of Sutton's men quit in protest, for they admired a game man, and Cavagan was
winning sympathy around the country.
Cavagan was a black Irishman from County Sligo. His mother died on the Atlantic crossing
and his father was killed by Indians in Tennessee. At sixteen Cavagan fought in the
Texas war for independence, trapped in the Rockies for two years, and in the war
with Mexico he served with the Texas Rangers and learned the value of a Walker Colt.
At thirty he was a man honed by desert fires and edged by combat
265 THE STRONG SHALL LIVE 2 6 1
with fist, skull, and pistol. Back in County Sligo the name had been p'Cavagan and
the family had a reputation won in battle.
Sutton's men surrounded his house a second time thinking to catch him asleep. They
fired at the house and waited for him to come out. Cavagan had slept on the steep
hillside behind the house and from there he opened fire, shooting a man from his
saddle and cutting the lobe from Sutton's ear with a bullet intended to kill.
Now they had him, but he sat straight in the saddle and cursed them. Sutton he cursed
but he saved a bit for Beef Hannon, the Sutton fore man.
"You're a big man, Beef," he taunted, "but untie my hands and I'll pound that thick
skull of yours until the yellow runs out of your ears." Their eyes squinted against
the white glare and the blistering heat
from off the dunes, and they tried to ignore him. Among the sand dunes there was
no breeze, only the stifling heaviness of hot, motionless air. Wearily their horses
plodded along the edge of a dune where the sand fell steeply off into a deep pit
among the dunes. John Sutton drew rein. "Untie his feet," he said.
Juan Velasquez swung down and removed the rawhide thongs from Cavagan's feet, and
then stood back, for he knew the manner of man that was Cavagan.
"Get down," Sutton told Cavagan.
Cavagan stared his contempt from the slits where his eyes peered through swollen,
blackened flesh, then he swung his leg across the saddle, kicked his boot free of
the stirrup, and dropped to the ground.
Sutton regarded him for several minutes, savoring his triumph, then he put the flat
of his boot against Cavagan's back and pushed. Cavagan staggered, fought for balance,
but the sand crumbled beneath him and he fell, tumbling to the bottom of the hollow
among the dunes.
With his hands tied and his body stiff from the beatings he had taken he needed several
minutes to get to his feet. When he stood erect he stared up at Sutton. "It is what
I would have expected from you," he said.
Sutton's features stiffened, and he grew white around the mouth. "You're said to
be a tough man, Cavagan. I've heard it until I'm sick of it, so I've brought you
here to see how much is tough and how much is shanty Irish bluff. I am curious to
see how tough you will be without food or water. We're leaving you here."
Hannon started to protest. He had himself tried to kill Cavagan, but to leave a man
to die in the blazing heat of the desert without food or wa ter and with his hands
bound ... a glance at Sutton's face and the words died on his lips.
"It's sixty miles to water," he managed, at last.
266 2 6 2 L O U I S
John Sutton turned in his saddle and measured Hannon with a glance, then deliberately
he faced front and started away. Reluctantly, the others followed.
Juan Velasquez looked down into the pit at Cavagan. He carried a raw wound in his
side from a Cavagan bullet, but that pit was seventy feet deep. Slowly, thinking
as he did it, Juan unfastened his canteen and was about to toss it to Cavagan when
he caught Sutton's eyes on him.
"Throw it," Sutton suggested, "but if you do you will follow it" Juan balanced the
canteen on his palm, tempted beyond measure. Sixty miles? With the temperature at
one hundred and twenty degrees? Reluctantly, he retied the canteen to his saddle
horn. Sutton watched him, smiling his thin smile.
"I'll remember that, Juan," Cavagan said. "It was a good thought" John Sutton turned
his square thin shoulders and rode away, the oth ers following. Hannon's shoulders
were hunched as if expecting a blow
When the last of them had disappeared from sight, Cavagan stood alone at the bottom
of the sand pit.
This was 1850 and even the Indians avoided the sand hills. There was no law west
of Santa Fe or east of the coast mountains. Cavagan had set tled on land that Sutton
considered his, although he had no legal claim to it. Other would-be settlers had
been driven off, but Cavagan would not be driven. To make matters worse he courted
the girl Sutton had marked for himself.
Cavagan stood in the bottom of the sand pit, his eyes closed against the glare of
the sun on the white sand. He told himself, slowly, harshly, that he would not, he
must not die. Aloud he said, "I shall live! I shall see him die!"
There was a burning fury within him but a caution born of experi ence. Shade would
come first to the west side of the pit, so with his boot he scraped a small pit in
the sand. There, several inches below the surface, it was a little cooler. He sat
down, his back to the sun, and waited.
More than seven hours of sunlight remained. To attempt climbing from the pit or even
to fight the thongs on his wrists would cause him to perspire profusely and lessen
his chances of ultimate survival. From this moment he must be patient, he must think.
Sweat dripped from his chin, his throat was parched and the sun on his back and shoulders
was like the heat from a furnace. An hour passed, and then another. When at last
he looked up there was an inch of shadow under the western lip of the pit.
He studied the way his wrists were bound. His hands had been tied to the pommel,
so they were in front of him. He lifted his wrists to his teeth and began ever so
gently to work at the rawhide knots. It took nearly an
267 THE STRONG SHALL LIVE 2 6 3
hour, but by the time his wrists were free the shade had reached the bot tom of the
pit. He coiled the rawhide and slipped it into his pocket.
The east slope was somewhat less steep, with each step he slid back, but with each
he gained a little. Finally he climbed out and stood in the full glare of the setting
sun.
He knew where the nearest water hole lay but knew Sutton would have it guarded. His
problem was simple. He had to find water, get out of the desert, then find a horse
and weapons. He intended to destroy Sutton as he would destroy a rabid wolf.
Shadows stretched out from the mountains. To the north the myriad pinnacles of the
Chocolate Mountains crowned themselves with gold from the setting sun. He started
to walk.
It was not sixty miles to the nearest water, for Cavagan knew the desert better than
Sutton. West of him, but in a direction he dare not chance, lay Sunset Spring. Brackish
water, and off the line for him.
Twenty-five miles to the northwest among the pinnacles of the Chocolates were rock
tanks that might contain water. A Cahuilla Indian had told him of the natural reservoir,
and upon this feeble chance he rested his life.
He walked northwest, his chances a thousand to one. He must walk only in the early
hours of the morning and after sundown. During the day he must lie in the shade,
if he found any, and wait. To walk in the sun without water was to die.
The sand was heavy and at each step he sank to his ankles. Choosing a distant peak
in the Chocolates he pointed himself toward it. When the stars came out he would
choose a star above it for a guide. At night land marks have a way of losing themselves
and what was familiar by day be comes strange and unfamiliar in the darkness.
To reach the vicinity of the rock tanks was one thing, to find them quite another.
Near such tanks in the Tinajas Altas men had died of thirst within a few feet of
water, unaware of its presence. Such tanks were natu ral receptacles catching the
runoff from infrequent rains, and so shaded, that evaporation was slow. As there
was no seepage there was no vegeta tion to indicate the presence of water.
The shadows grew long and only a faint afterglow remained in the sky. On his right
and before him lay the valley dividing the dunes from the Chocolate Mountains. Now
the air was cool and here and there a star appeared. Desert air is thin and does
not retain the heat, hence it soon be comes cool, and in the middle of the night,
actually cold. These were the hours Cavagan must use.
If he could not find the tanks, or if there was no water in them, he would die. Cavagan
was a man without illusion. His great strength had
268 2 6 4
been sapped by brutal treatment, and he must conserve what strength re mained. Locating
his peak and a star above it, he walked on. A long time later, descending from the
last of the dunes, he took a diagonal course across the valley. Twice he paused to
rest, soaking up the coolness. He put a small pebble in his mouth to start the saliva
flowing. For a time it helped.
Walking in heavy sand he had made but two miles an hour, but on the valley floor
he moved faster. If he reached the tinajas and they held water he would have achieved
one goal. However, he had no way of carrying water and the next water hole was far.
Not that one can place reliance on any desert water hole. Often they were used up
or had gone dry.
His battered face throbbed with every step and his head ached. The pinnacles of the
Chocolates loomed nearer, but he was not deceived. They were miles away.
An hour before dawn he entered a wash that came down from the Chocolates. He was
dead tired, and his feet moved awkwardly. In eleven hours he had probably traveled
no more than twenty-three or -four miles and should be near the tanks. He found a
ledge that offered shade and stretched out. He was soon asleep.
The heat awakened him. His mouth was dry as parchment and he had difficulty in moving
his tongue, which seemed awkward and swollen. A glance at the sun told him it was
noon or nearly so. According to the Cahuilla he should be within a few yards of water,
certainly within a mile or so. In that maze of cliffs, boulders, rock slabs, and
arroyos, cluttered with canelike clumps of ocotillo, he would be fortunate to find
anything.
Animals would come to water but many desert creatures lived with out it, getting
what moisture they needed from succulent plants or cacti. Some insects sought water,
and he had noticed bees flying past taking the straight line that usually led to
hive or water.
His throat was raw and his mind wandered. Far off, over the desert he had recently
crossed, lay a lovely blue lake, shimmering among the heat waves ... a mirage.
Lying down again he waited for dusk. He was sweating no longer and movement was an
effort. He had been almost thirty hours without water and in intense heat.
It was almost dark when he awakened again. Staggering to his feet he started to climb.
The coolness refreshed him and gave him new strength. He pushed on, climbing higher.
His vision was uncertain and his skull throbbed painfully, but at times he felt an
almost delirious gaiety, and then he would scramble up rocks with zest and abandon.
Suddenly he sat down. With a shock of piercing clarity he realized he could die.
He rarely thought of dying, although he knew it was expected of him as of all men,
yet it was always somebody else who was dying. Suddenly he
269 THE STRONG SHALL LIVE 2 6 5
realized he had no special dispensation against death and he could die now, within
the hour.
It was faintly gray in the east when he started again. Amazingly, he found the tanks.
A sheep track directed him. It was a half-sheltered rock tank, but it was dry. Only
a faint dusting of sand lay in the bottom.
A few minutes later, and a little higher up, he found a second tank. It was bone-dry.
Soon the sun would rise and the heat would return. Cavagan stared at the empty tanks
and tried to swallow, but could not. His throat was raw, and where it was not raw
it felt like old rubber. His legs started to tremble, but he refused to sit down.
He knew if he sat now he might never get up. There was a queerness in him, a strange
lightness as if he no longer possessed weight. Through the semi-delirium induced
by heat, thirst, and exhaustion there remained a hard core of resolution, the firmness
of a course resolved upon and incomplete. If he quit now John Sutton would have won.
If he quit now the desert would have defeated him, and the desert was a friendly
place to those who knew how to live with it.
Cunning came to him. To those who knew how to live with it, not against it. No man
could fight the desert and live. A man must move with it, give with it, live by its
rules. He had done that, so what remained?
His eyes peered into the growing light, refusing to focus properly, his thoughts
prowling the foggy lowlands of his mind, seeking some forgotten thing.
Think back ... the rock tanks of the Chocolates. The Chocolates. The Chocolates were
a range running parallel to the dunes which the Mexicans called the algodones. Bit
by bit his thoughts tried to sort out something he knew, but something was missing.
Something else the Cahuilla had said. It came to him then like the Indian's voice
in his ears. "If there is no water in the tanks, there is a seep in the canyon."
Almost due west was the canyon through which ran the old Indian trail ... maybe five
miles.
It was too far. And then he got up without decision and walked away. He walked with
his head up, his mind gone off somewhere, walking with a quick, lively step. When
he had walked for some distance he fell flat on his face.
A lizard on a rock stared at him, throat throbbing. Something stirred Cavagan's muscles,
and he got his hands under him and pushed himself to his knees. Then he got up, weaving
a little. It was daylight.
A bee flew past.
He swayed a little, brow puckered, a bee flying straight ... hive or water or a hive
near water? He took a few hesitant steps in the direction
bee had flown, then stopped. After a bit another droned past and
270 2 6 6
followed, taking a sight on a clump of ocotillo some distance off. He stumbled and
fell, scarcely conscious of it until he arose and stared at his palms, lacerated
by the sharp gravel.
When he fell again he lay still for what must have been a considerable time, finally
becoming aware of a whistling sound. He pushed himself up, listening. The sound reminded
him of a cricket, yet was not a cricket. He listened, puzzled yet alerted for some
reason he did not understand.
He moved then, and under a clump of greasewood something stirred. He froze, thinking
first of a rattler, although the heat was too great for one to be out unless in a
well-shaded position. And then his eye caught a movement, and he knew why the sound
had alerted him. It was a tiny red-spotted toad.
Long ago he had learned that the red-spotted toad always lived within the vicinity
of water and never got far from it.
Awkwardly he got to his feet and looked carefully around. His eyes could not seem
to focus properly, yet down the canyon he glimpsed some galleta grass and walked
toward it, coming upon the seep quite suddenly.
Dropping to his knees he scooped water in his palm and drank it. A cold trickle down
his throat was painful on the raw flesh. With gentle fin gers he put water on his
lips, bathed his cheeks and face with it, then drank a little more.
Something inside was crying out that he was safe, but he knew he was not. He drank
a little more, then crawled into the shade of a rock and lay on his back and slept.
When he awakened he crawled out and drank more and more, his water-starved body soaking
up the moisture. He had found water but had no means of carrying it with him, and
the canyon of the seep might well become his tomb, his open tomb.
Cavagan got out the rawhide with which his wrists had been bound and rigged a snare
for small game. In placing the snare he found some seeds, which he ate. He drank
again, then sat down to think his way for ward.
From where he now sat there were two possible routes. Northeast toward the Colorado
was Red Butte Spring, but it was at least twenty-five miles away and in the wrong
direction.
The twelve miles to Chuckawalla Spring began to loom very large, and leaving the
water he had found worried him. The Chuckawalla Mountains were a thin blue line on
the northern horizon, and even if he reached them the next spring beyond was Corn
Springs, just as far away. Yet the longer he waited the more his strength would be
drained by lack of food. He had never known such exhaustion, yet he dare not wait.
On the second morning his snare caught a kangaroo rat, which he
271 THE STRONG S H A L L LIVE 26
broiled over a small fire. When he had eaten he got up abruptly, drank some more,
glanced at the notch in the Chuckawallas and started walking.
At the end of an hour he rested, then went on at a slower pace. The heat was increasing.
In midafternoon he fell on his face and did not get up. More than an hour must have
passed before he became aware of the
intense heat and began to crawl like a blind mole, seeking shade. The plants about
him were less than a foot high, and he found nothing, finally losing consciousness.
He awakened, shaking with chill. The moon cast a ghostly radiance over the desert,
the clustered canes of the ocotillo looking like the head dresses of gigantic Indians.
He got to his feet, aware of a stirring in the night. He waited, listening. A faint
click of a hoof on stone and then he saw a desert bighorn sheep walk into the wash
and then he heard a faint splash. Rising, he walked down to the wash and heard a
scurry of move ment as the sheep fled. He almost walked into the spring before he
saw it. He drank, then drank again.
Late the next afternoon he killed a chuckawalla with a well-thrown stone. He cooked
the big lizard and found the meat tender and appetiz ing. At dusk he started again,
crossing a small saddle to the north side of the mountains. It was twelve miles this
time, and it was daybreak before he reached Corn Springs. He recognized it by the
clump of palms and mesquite in the wash before reaching the spring, some clumps of
baccha ris, clusters of small twigs rising two to three feet. And then he found the
spring itself. After drinking he crawled into the shade and was asleep al most at
once.
He opened his eyes, aware of wood smoke. Rolling over quickly, he sat up.
An old man squatted near a kettle at a fire near the spring, and on the slope a couple
of burros browsed.
"Looks to me like you've had a time of it," the old man commented. "You et anything?"
"Chuckawalla ... had a kangaroo rat a couple of days ago."
The old man nodded. "Et chuck a time or two . . . ain't as bad as some folks might
figger."
Cavagan accepted a bowl of stew and ate slowly, savoring every bite. Finally, placing
the half-empty bowl on the ground he sat back. "Don't suppose a man with a pipe would
have a cigarette paper?"
"You started that Mex way of smokin'? Ain't for it, m'self. Give me a pipe ever'
time." The old man handed him his tobacco pouch and dug into his duffle for a rolled
up newspaper. "Don't tear the readin' if you can he'p. A body don't find much readin'
in the desert and sometimes I read through a newspaper five or six times."
272 2 6 8
Cavagan wiped his fingers on his pants and rolled a smoke with trem bling fingers.
Then he put the cigarette down and ate a few more bites before lighting up.
"Come far?" "Fifty-five, sixty miles."
"An' no canteen? You had yourself a time." The old man said his name was Pearson.
He volunteered no more than that. Nor did he ask questions. There were not four white
men between the San Jacintos and the Colorado River.
"I've got to get to that hot spring this side of the pass, up there by the San Jacintos,"
Cavagan said. "I can get a horse from the Cahuillas."
The old man stirred his fire and moved the coffeepot closer. "You lis ten to me you
won't go back."
"You know who I am?"
"Got no idea. Figgered you didn't get where you was by chance. Six years I been prospectin'
hereabouts an' I ain't seen nobody but a Chemehuevi or a Cahuilla in this here country.
A man would have him self an outfit, gun, knife, canteen. Strikes me somebody left
you out here apurpose.
"If you could let me have a canteen or a water sack. Maybe a knife" "How d' you figger
to get out of here?"
"West to the Hayfields, then Shaver's Well and the Yuma stage road." Pearson studied
him out of shrewd old eyes. "You ain't no pilgrim. You made it this far on nerve
an' savvy, so mayhap you'll go all the way."
He tamped his pipe. "Tell you something. You fight shy of them Hayfields. Seen a
couple of gents settin' on that water with rifles. A body could figger they was waitin'
for somebody."
The old man helped Cavagan to more stew. He rarely looked directly at Cavagan.
"Are they on the Hayfields or back up the draw?"
Pearson chuckled. "You do know this country. They're on the Hayfields, an' could
be they don't know the source of that water. Could be you're figurin' a man might
slip around them, get water, and nobody the wiser."
"If a man had a water sack he might get as far as Hidden Spring" The old man looked
up sharply. "Hidden Spring? Never heard of it." "Southwest of Shaver's . . . maybe
three miles. Better water than Shaver's."
"You must be Cavagan"
Cavagan did not reply. He finished the stew, rinsed the bowl, then filled his coffee
cup.
"Nobody knows this country like Cavagan. That's what they say.
273 2 6 9
Nobody can ride as far or shoot as straight as Cavagan. They say that, too. They
also say Cavagan is dead, left in the algodones with his hands tied. Lots of folks
set store by Cavagan. Them Californios, they like him."
Cavagan slept the day away, and the night following. Pearson made no move to leave,
but loafed about. Several times he cooked, and he watched Cavagan eat.
Cavagan found him studying some Indian writing. "Can't make head nor tail of it,"
Pearson complained. "If them Cahuillas can, they won't say.
"This was done by the Old Ones," Cavagan said, "the People Who Went Before. I've
followed their trails in the mountains and across the desert."
"They left trails?"
"A man can go from here to the Cahuilla village at Martinez. The trail follows the
canyon back of the village and goes back of Sheep Mountain. There's a branch comes
down back of Indian Wells and an other goes to the Indian village at the hot spring
at the entrance to San Gorgonio Pass. There's a way over the mountains to the coast,
too."
Back beside the fire Cavagan added coffee to what was in the pot, then more water
before putting it on the fire. Pearson watched him. "Met a damn fool once who throwed
out the grounds ... throwed away the mother. Never seen the like. Can't make proper
coffee until she's two, three days old."
He lit his pipe. "A man like you, he might know a lot about water holes. Worth a
lot to a man, knowin' things like that."
"The rock tanks in the Chocolates are dry this year," Cavagan said, "but there's
a seep in Salvation Pass." He poked twigs under the cof feepot. "Twenty, twenty-two
miles east of Chuckawalla there's a red fin ger of butte. Maybe a quarter of a mile
east of that butte there's a little canyon with a seep of water comin' out of the
rock. Good water."
"Place like that could save a man's life," Pearson commented. "Good to know things
like that."
"The Cahuillas used the old trails. They know the springs."
Wind was rustling the dry palm leaves when Cavagan crawled out in the early dawn
and stirred the coals to life to make coffee.
Pearson shook out his boots, then put on his hat. When he had his boots on he went
to the limb where his pants were hung and shook them out. A scorpion about four inches
long dropped from a trouser leg and scampered away.
"Last time it was a sidewinder in my boot. A body better shake out his clothes before
he puts 'em on."
Pearson slipped suspenders over his shoulders. "Figger you'll hit the
274 2 7 0
trail today. If you rustle through that stuff of mine you'll find you a water sack.
Crossin' that of sea bottom out there, you'll need it." He hitched his shoulders
to settle his suspenders. "Still find shells along that of beach." "Cahuillas say
a ship came in here once, a long time ago."
"If they say it," Pearson said, "it did."
Cavagan filled the bag after rinsing it, then dipped it in water from the spring.
Evaporation would keep it cool.
Pearson took a long knife from his gear. "Never catered to that one m'self, but a
body never knows when he'll need an extry."
Cavagan shouldered the sack and thrust the knife into his belt. "Look me up some
time," he said. "Just ask for Cavagan."
Pearson's back was turned, packing gear, when Cavagan spoke. He let him take a dozen
steps, and then said, "You get to Los Angeles, you go to the Calle de los Negros.
Ask for Jake. He owes me money an' I expect he might have a pistol. Get whatever
you need."
JOHN SUTTON SAT at dinner at one end of a long table in his ranch house at Calabasas.
The dinner had been enhanced by a turkey killed the day before at a cienaga a few
miles away. He was restless, but there was no rea son for it. Almost a month had
gone by. His men had returned to the al godones but found no trace of Cavagan. Nor
had they expected to. He would have died out on the desert somewhere.
Juan Velasquez saw the rider come up the canyon as he loafed near the gate, standing
guard. At the gate the rider dismounted and their eyes met in the gathering dusk.
"Buenos noches, senor," Juan said. "I had ex pected you."
"So?" "I have an uncle in Sonora, senor. He grows old, and he asks for me." "Adios,
Juan."
"Adios, senor."
Cavagan walked up the steps and into the house where John Sutton sat at dinner.
275 To Make a Stand
When the snow began to fall, Hurley was thirty-six hours beyond the last cluster
of shacks that might be called a town, and the plain around him stretched flat and
empty to the horizon.
The sullen clouds sifted sparse snow over the hard brown earth and the short, dust
gray grass. The fall of snow thickened and the horizons were blotted out, and Hurley
rode in a white and silent world where he was a man alone.
Had he dared, Hurley might have turned back, but death rode behind him, and Hurley
was a frightened man, unaccustomed to violence. He had ridden into town and arrived
to see a stranger dismounting from a horse stolen from his ranch only a month before.
Following the man into the saloon, Hurley demanded the return of the horse, and the
man reached for his gun. In a panic, Hurley grabbed frantically for his own.
His first shot ripped splinters from the floor and his second struck the thief through
the body and within minutes the man was dead.
Clumsily, Hurley reholstered his gun. Shocked by what he had done, he looked blindly
around the room like a man suddenly awakened in un familiar surroundings. Vaguely,
he felt something was expected of him.
"He asked for it," he said then, striving for that hard, confident tone that would
convince them he was a man not to be trifled with. Inside he was quivering with shock,
and yet through the startled horror with which he looked upon the man he had killed
came the realization that he had actually defended himself successfully in a gun
battle. The thought filled him with elation and excitement.
Hurley was not a man accustomed to violence. He carried a gun only because it was
the custom, and because in the daily round of activity emergencies might arise with
wild steers or half-wild horses when a gun was needed, but he had never dreamed of
actually killing a man.
276 2 7 2
From time to time he heard at the store or the post office some talk of gun battles,
but that was in another world than his, and he could remem ber few of the names he
had heard and none of the details.
Hurley had come west from Ohio, where he combined his farming with occasional carpentry
work. When he first arrived, he drove a freight team for a season. The one time their
wagon train was attacked by Indians the attack broke off before he was able to fire
a shot. Leaving the freight ing, Hurley had bought a few head of cattle and settled
on a small stream with a good spring close by, and true to his Ohio upbringing he
put in a crop of corn and a few acres of barley, and planted what was the first vegetable
garden in that part of the country. He cut hay in the nearby meadow and stacked it
for the winter feeding.
He had wanted no trouble, and expected none. He was a sober, hard working man who
had never lifted a hand in violence in his life.
"He asked for it," he repeated.
"Nobody's going to argue that." Pearson was the saloonkeeper, a man Hurley had several
times seen but never spoken to. "But what are you go ing to do about his brothers?"
Pearson looked upon Hurley with cool, measuring eyes that had looked upon many men
and assayed their worth. He found nothing spe cial in Hurley, and of the men in the
room, he alone had seen Hurley's success had been born of pure panic and unbelievable
luck.
The words failed at first to register on Hurley's stunned conscious ness, and when
they did register he looked around. "Brothers? What brothers?"
"That's Jake Talbot you killed, and Jake has four brothers, all men mighty big-talking
about how tough they are. They're just down the street to Reingold's, and they'll
be hunting you"
The momentary elation over his astonishing victory oozed out of him and left Hurley
standing empty of all pretense. He looked to Pearson in that moment like a frightened
and trapped animal.
"He stole my horse," Hurley protested. "I can prove it."
"Nobody asked for proof. You've got two choices, mister. You can dig in for a fight
or you can run."
"I'd better go see the sheriff."
Pearson looked upon him without pity. A man behind a bar cannot afford to take sides.
He was an observer, a spectator, and Pearson was not disposed to be otherwise. He
viewed all life with complete detachment except as it affected him, personally.
"The sheriff never leaves Springville," he said. "Hereabouts, folks set tle their
own difficulties."
Hurley walked to the bar and put his hands upon it. Jake Talbot ..
277 M A K E A STAND 2
the Talbot brothers. They had an outfit somewhat closer in to town than his, and
it seemed that half the stories of shootings and knifings he had heard of centered
around them. He could recall no details, only the names and their association with
violence.
Four of them . . . how could he be expected to fight four men? He was not a brave
man and had never pretended to be one. Fear washed over him and turned his stomach
sick. Turning swiftly, he went out side and stood staring down the hundred yards
of dusty street into the open prairie. Against the four Talbots he would have no
chance. He had worked hard since coming here, but had no friends to go to for help
or advice.
If they did not find him in town, they would come at once to his ranch and murder
him there. Mounting, Hurley rode west, away from town and away from his ranch.
That had been thirty-six hours ago, and now the snow was falling. Thirty of those
hours had been in the saddle, and although the bay geld ing was an excellent horse
the long miles had sapped his strength and the need for rest was desperate.
Hurley got down from the saddle and looped the reins about his arm as he walked.
However little he knew about guns and fighting, he knew a great deal about the weather,
and he knew his situation was dangerous. At this time of year such a storm as this
might be over within hours, and a bright sun might wipe away the snow as if by a
gesture. However, such a storm might last for two or three days and the resulting
snow remain for weeks.
Until now his mind had been a blank, with no thought but to escape, to get away from
the danger of tearing, ripping bullets that would spill his life's blood on the ground-and
for what?
Hurley had looked upon the dead face of Talbot and had seen himself lying there,
knowing better than most how narrow had been the margin. That he had scored with
his second shot had been luck of purest variety, for it had been aimed no more than
the first.
The snow fell steadily. The trail he followed was no longer visible, but he could
feel the frozen ruts with his feet. It was not a narrow trail, but one a hundred
yards or more wide where wagons had cut deep ruts into the prairie sod, yet once
away from the road the wagons had traveled, the prairie became flat and smooth. The
difference he could tell with his feet ... until the snow became too deep.
Night offered no warning of its coming, for in this white, swirling world of snow
there were no advancing shadows, no retreating light, not even, it seemed, a visible
darkening. Only suddenly the night was around them and upon them.
278 2 7 4 L O U I S
A faint stir of wind sent a chill through Hurley. If the wind started now there would
be a blizzard, and dressed as he was even his slim chance of survival would be lost.
He had never been farther west than the town, and rarely in town in the short time
he had been located on the ranch. From overheard conversations in the stores and
the livery stable, Hurley knew there was nothing in the direction he was going for
several days of riding.
Finally, he stumbled and stumbled again. Wearily, he turned to the horse and, brushing
off the saddle, he mounted again. There was no longer any use in trying to follow
the trail through the snow for it had be come too deep, so he simply gave the gelding
its head.
It might have been an hour or even two hours later when the gelding stopped abruptly
and awakened him from a doze. He peered through the still falling snow, and at first
he saw nothing, but then a gate, and some distance beyond it, a cluster of buildings.
Actually, they were not build ings, but merely roofs indicating the sod houses below
them.
As he got down from the saddle, his legs were so stiff he almost fell, but he managed
to fumble the gate open and get his horse inside, and to fumble the gate shut again.
He had farmed and ranched long enough to instinctively close all gates behind him.
The house was built into the side of a low hill where drainage was good, and the
door he faced was strongly built. There were two windows, both frosted over, but
behind them was a faint glow of light. Hurley lifted his fist and dropped it against
the door.
The floor creaked inside and then the door opened, and a tall old man held a rifle
in his hand. There was an oil lamp on the table, its wick turned low.
"Can you put me up? I'm lost."
The old man's eyes were cold and measuring. "Can't turn a man away in a storm. Go
put your horse up."
The door closed in his face, and Hurley turned away, blinking. There was a dug-out
and sod-faced barn not far away and he went to it, kicked back the snow, and forced
the door open. It cracked loudly, complaining against the rust and frost in its hinges,
and he led the gelding inside and fumbled to light the lantern.
It was a snug barn. The farmer in him appreciated its warmth, the solid construction
of the stalls, the strongly made feed bin, and the mangers. He tied the gelding,
stripped off saddle and bridle, and then with a hand ful of hay he wiped the snow
and damp from the horse. After he had filled the manger with hay and put a little
corn in the feed box, Hurley went to the house.
The single room was square and well built. The plank floor was an
279 T O MAKE A STAND 2 7 5
unusual feature in a soddy, and it was fitted well. Clothing hung on a row of pegs
in the wall, and against the end wall there were four bunks in two tiers, but only
one held bedding. There was a glowing kitchen range, and on top of it a teakettle.
The old man was very tall, his wide, thin shoulders slightly stooped, his face deeply
lined under the high cheekbones. The furrows in his cheeks seemed to make him look
even more grim and determined. He had started to warm some food.
"No weather to travel." Hurley cupped the coffee the old man offered him in his two
hands. "Unexpected storm"
"That's fool talk. This time of year a body can expect any kind of weather."
Hurley pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. The chair sat even on the floor,
as did the table; both were well made. There was no arguing with the man's comment,
for Hurley knew it to be true. "My name is Hurley," he said.
The old man filled his own cup and glanced over the rim at Hurley. "I'm Benton,"
he said. "What are you runnin' from?"
Hurley stiffened, half angry. He started to protest, but Benton ignored him.
"No man would be caught this far from the settlements without an outfit unless he
was runnin' from something, or somebody."
Hurley did not reply. He accepted the offered stew sullenly. He did not like the
implication that he was running away.
"I shot a man back there." He tried to make it sound bigger than it was. He wanted
to impress this old man, to get under his hide.
"If he's dead, there's no use to run. If he ain't dead, you better improve your shootin'."
"He was a Talbot ... with four brothers."
"I know those Talbots," Benton replied. "They're a pack of coyotes." They ate in
silence for several minutes. Hurley stared glumly at his coffee. Benton made it sound
petty, like nothing at all. Hurley's killing had made no impression, and the Talbots
obviously did not impress him. "Did you leave anything back there?"
"Yes," Hurley admitted, "I left a good ranch, and a good crop of corn standing, and
oats growing. A few head of cattle."
"Where you runnin' to?"
"I never gave it much thought," Hurley admitted. "There were four of them, all rated
tough men."
"Were you runnin' when you came out here, too?" Hurley put down his knife and fork.
"Now, see here-!"
Benton never looked up. "A man starts runnin', he doesn't stop. If
280 2 7 G
you run once, you'll run again. Probably you never had as much in your life as you
left back there, but you cut out and ran. All right ... something else happens, you'll
run again."
Hurley's features flushed with anger. Who did this old fool think he was? If it hadn't
been for the storm he would have taken his horse and ridden on. "There were four
of them," he repeated.
"You said that before, and it don't cut no ice. You didn't even meet up with them.
Take it from me, you get four men together and one of them has to take the lead,
and nobody wants to be that one. I'd rather face four men anytime than one real tough
man."
"Easy to talk."
Benton went to the stove for the coffeepot. "You get yourself a shot gun. You go
back there and you walk right in on them. You don't give them any chance to talk,
you just tell them if they want trouble they've got it and to cut loose their wolf.
They'll back down so fast it will make your head swim."
"And if they don't?" "Then shoot 'em."
Hurley snorted contemptuously. This old man living out here like a hermit ... what
did he know?
"A man who won't fight for what's his ain't much account," Benton said. "You take
it from me."
Hurley started to rise from the table. He was mad clear through. Benton looked up,
his hard eyes level and cold. "You set down, Mr. Hurley. Just set down. I ain't about
to be scared of no man who can be run clean out of the country by a passel of tinhorns."
The old man grinned sardonically. "Anyway, you ain't about to leave a fireside for
that storm out there."
Hurley sat down helpless and angry. Benton gathered the dishes and carried them to
the sink, then, pouring water into a dishpan from the teakettle, he began washing
the dishes.
The warmth of the room, combined with his weariness, made Hurley nod. His head bobbed
several times but he struggled to keep his eyes open. It was comfortable to relax
after his long battle against the storm, and out side the sod house he could hear
the wind blowing, enough to remind him that had he not found shelter he would have
been dead by morning.
Benton indicated a drawer in an old-fashioned bureau. "In that drawer there's blankets.
You take the other bottom bunk."
Benton was still puttering around when Hurley dropped off to sleep. Hurley's last
thought was: "At daybreak ... when daybreak comes I'll get out of here"
A blast of icy air awakened him and for an instant Hurley lay still, fighting to
find himself, to realize where he was. The room was dark,
281 MAKE A STAND 2 7 7
swirling with blown snow, and nothing was familiar. Then it all came back to him,
and he scrambled out of bed and slammed the door shut.
"What happened?" he asked into the silence, but the silence re mained unbroken. Hurley
stood still, listening, and he heard no sound but the wind.
Fumbling for his shirt, he found matches and lit one, then the lamp. Benton's bunk
was empty, but it had been slept in.
Hastily, Hurley got into his pants and boots and picked up his coat and shrugged
into it. He strapped on his gun belt and, opening a lantern that stood by the door,
he lit it. For an instant, he hesitated.
The Talbots might be out there. They might be ... but his common sense told him they
could not be. They would be holed up somewhere, waiting out the storm.
Opening the door, Hurley stepped out into the darkness. The wind was blowing a gale,
and he was almost stifled by a blast of wind that blew his breath right back down
his throat. Ducking his head, he stepped into the storm and almost tripped over a
body, half buried in swirling snow.
Stooping, Hurley picked up the man and carried him to the door, which he opened with
one hand, and stepped inside. Then he returned for the lantern.
The body was that of Benton, and a glance told him the old man's leg was broken.
Stretching him out on the bunk, Hurley covered him with blankets and then went to
the fire which had been banked against the long hours of night. Stirring the coals,
he added fuel and built a roaring blaze to warm the room. He worked swiftly, knowing
warmth would be most im portant to Benton now. Then he crossed the room to the injured
man, slit his trouser leg, and pulled the leg into place. He was binding splints
when Benton came out of it and tried to sit up.
"Lie still ... you've busted your leg."
Benton settled back, his face gray with pain. Hurley turned from him and, searching
through a cabinet, found a bottle of whiskey. He poured a slug into a glass and handed
it to Benton. "Do you good," he said. "Mighty poor stuff to drink if you're going
to stay out in the cold, but once inside it warms you up"
Benton drank the whiskey and handed the glass back to Hurley. He settled back, looking
around him. "Last thing I recall," he said, "some noise out at the barn. I started
out and slipped on the steps. I felt myself falling ... that was all."
Hurley explained how he had awakened to find the door open and snow swirling into
the room.
Then Benton's remark reached his consciousness. "You say you heard a noise at the
barn?"
282 2 7
Benton nodded. "You better go see what's wrong."
The Talbots ... they could be out there. They knew he would come for his horse, and
the barn was warm. They could be out there waiting to shoot him down as he came in
out of the morning. Or they might have made the noise on purpose to draw someone
to the stable.
"It can wait," Hurley replied sullenly. "The door's shut, I can see that."
He got down the coffee and made a pot. How long he had slept he had no idea, but
he was fully awake now. If they were really there. Benton watched him with sardonic
amusement as he made the coffee
and brought a cup to the injured man. "Don't know whether them Talbots are out there,
or not," he said. "You just got to wait and see, or you've got to go out there and
find out. Puts a man in a Jim-dandy fix." "Shut up," Hurley said irritably.
He stood over the stove, feeding sticks into the flames and trying to think it out.
Even if the storm let up a man would have no chance afoot, for aside from the distance
and the cold his tracks would be laid out plain as print for anyone to follow.
He got down the old man's Spencer and checked the loads. Seven shots. He was a good
shot with a rifle, and had hunted rabbits and squir rels back in Ohio. The distance
to the barn was no more than sixty or sev enty feet, point-blank range.
After a while Hurley put the light out and stretched out on his bunk. He could hear
deep breathing from Benton's bed and decided the old man must be asleep.
Hurley sat up so suddenly he bumped his head on the upper bunk. What about Benton?
Somehow, in the excitement of finding the old man with a broken leg, and his worry
about the Talbots being in the stable, he had given no thought to Benton.
Hurley could not leave him. He would have to stay on, he would have to stay and face
the Talbots whether they were in the stable or not. He had escaped death in the storm
to trap himself here, a sitting duck
to be killed whenever they came upon the place, and he had no chance. He got out
of the bunk and walked to the window. The wind had died down, and here and there
he could see a break in the clouds. The barn was a low, squat hovel almost buried
in snow. No tracks led to or from it, but there need be no tracks now, for it had
blown snow long af ter they would have entered.
Angrily, he stared at the barn. And then he thought of the obvious idea. He had no
business here at all. Suppose the old man had fallen when here alone? He would get
along, wouldn't he? Suppose no one had been here to carry Benton in out of the snow?
He would be dead by now. By
283 T O MAKE A STAND 2 7
bringing him in, Hurley had repaid Benton for whatever shelter he had gotten here.
From now on they were quits and he could leave.
Only he could not go.
He picked up the Spencer, then put it down. If somebody was inside, the length of
the rifle would be more of a handicap. What he needed was his pistol.
Hurley paused inside the door, taking a deep breath. Why was he go ing out there?
Was he going to get his horse and run?
He was no gunman, he was a farmer, and all he wanted to be was a farmer. Suddenly
he knew why he was going out there, and it was very simple. He was going out to feed
the stock, just as any farmer would do on any winter morning.
His stock?
For the first time he thought of his own stock. The cattle were loose to roam, and
they were used to bad weather, and this snow wasn't so deep but what they could scratch
through it for grass, and there were several haystacks to which he always let down
the bars when he left the ranch. The chance of their coming to the stacks was slight,
for usually they stayed well out on the range, but if they did there was feed.
Except for his horses, which were all in stalls, in the barn. He had told Anderson
he was going into town, and Anderson would water them if he did not see Hurley return
before dark. Anderson was a careful man, and he would realize at once that something
had gone wrong, hearing the story as soon as anyone. He would care for the horses.
Standing there in the door, Hurley remembered the house he had built with his own
hands, the cattle he owned, the horses, fine stock they were, that he had left behind.
Benton was right. He would never have as much again.
Opening the door, he stepped outside into the cold.
The sky was clearing off, and there was a red glow in the east that told him dawn
was only minutes away. Facing the barn, Hurley strode toward it. Inside his coat
he held his .44, the gun concealed, the hand warmed by contact with his body.
At the barn door he stopped.
There was snow on the door, snow around it. No sign that it had been disturbed since
he left it the night before. Unlatching the door he swung it wide, and pulling the
.44 from under his coat, he stepped quickly into the barn.
It was, he thought as he took the step, a melodramatic, obvious thing to do. And
perfectly foolish, of course, for as he entered the darkness of the barn, he was
silhouetted against the snow outside. . . . He moved quickly to one side.
Nothing happened.
284 280
From stall to stall he went, and there was no one there. He put his pis tol back
in its holster and went about feeding and watering the stock. When he had finished,
he came out and closed the door behind him. He stood for a minute in the still, cold
air watching his breath, and he re membered how long he had been tortured by doubt,
how long he had watched the barn, fearing the Talbots might be there.
Was all fear like that? Was it all, or most of it, just imagination? Was Benton right,
after all, and the way to meet fear was head-on?
He walked back to the house. On the steps he paused to stomp the snow from his boots.
As he did so the door swept open and Benton stood there with a leveled rifle.
Only the rifle was held steady against the doorjamb, and it was pointed past his
head at the ranch yard behind him.
Hurley looked up and saw the grim look on the old man's face, saw the old man had
dragged himself from bed to cover him while he fed the stock. But he saw much more.
Benton was looking past him and Benton said, "Hold it! Hold it right there!"
Hurley knew death then. He knew the Talbots were behind him, and he knew there were
four of them, and he knew he was fairly caught. But he was calm.
That, of all things, was the most astonishing. There were, he knew in that moment,
worse things than death, and there were few things worse than fear itself.
He turned slowly. "It's my fight, Benton," he said. "You get back in bed."
He stepped down off the step. He was scared. He was really scared, and yet somehow
it was not as bad as he had expected. He looked at the four shivering men on their
horses, and he smiled. "Are you boys looking for me?" he asked.
They hesitated ... they were cold and shaky from having spent the night in whatever
pitiful shelter had been available out on the prairie. And this man had beaten Jake
to the draw, and that bullet had gone dead center. It was one thing to chase down
a running man, another to face a man who was ready to fight.
"Jake Talbot was riding a horse stolen from me," Hurley spoke loud in the still air.
"When I asked him about it he went for his gun. He asked for it and he got it. Now
if you boys have anything to say, have at it."
Joe Talbot looked him over more carefully. They had figured they had him on the run,
but he did not look scared now. Not none at all.
They could get him; they were four guns to one. Or two if that old man with the rifle
declared himself in, but that fool Hurley, he might just get one of them, or even
two while they were killing him. They had taken this ride to kill a man, not to be
killed themselves, and each one had
285 TO MAKE A STAND
deep within him the feeling that the first one to pull a gun would be the one to
die.
Silence hung in the still, cold air. A horse stamped a hoof impatiently. "Jake must
have bought that horse off a thief," Joe Talbot said, at last. ,,We don't know anything
about it."
It was a retreat, and Hurley was wise enough to recognize it. He took a step nearer
to them. "You have that horse back at my place Monday morning," he said, "and we'll
call it quits. Understand?"
They did not like it. They knew what was happening to them and they did not like
it at all. After this there could be no more tough talk folks simply wouldn't pay
any attention. They were being backed down and they knew it, but no one of them wanted
to be the man to die.
"No need for neighbors to fight," Joe Talbot said. "We didn't have the straight of
it."
Joe Talbot made a move, finally, but it was to turn his horse toward the gate. And
when he turned, the others turned with him.
"Talbot?" Joe turned his head carefully to look at Hurley. "Stop by Anderson's and
ask him to feed my stock, will you? I've got to take care of my friend here. He's
got a broken leg."
At the gate one of the Talbots got down from the saddle and closed the gate carefully,
then they rode off, together. It looked like they were not very talkative.
"Hurley?" It was Benton. "Come inside and close the door! You're freezin' the place
up! Besides, I want some breakfast."
Hurley stomped his feet again and stepped up in the doorway. He glanced back at the
sky. The clouds were blowing off to the north and the sun had already started the
icicles dripping. One thing you could say for this country, it didn't take long to
clear up.
286 Get Out of Town
Ma said for me to ride into town and hire a man to help with the cows. More than
likely she figured I'd hire Johnny Loftus or Ed Shifrin, but I had no liking for
either of them.
Johnny used to wink and call Ma "that widder woman" and Ed, he worked no harder than
he had to. Man I hired I'd never seen before.
He wasn't much to look at, first off. He was smaller than Johnny Loftus by twenty
pound, and Johnny was only a mite more than half of Ed Shifrin, and this stranger
was older than either. Fact is, he was pushing forty, but he had a hard, grainy look
that made me figure he'd been up the creek and over the mountain.
He wouldn't weigh over a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, which he wasn't likely
to be in this country, and his face was narrow and dark with black eyes that sized
you up careful-like before he spoke. He was a-settin' on the platform down to the
depot with his saddle and a war bag that looked mighty empty like he was shy of clothes.
He was not say ing I, yes, or no to anybody when I rode up to town on that buckskin
Pa gave me before he was shot down in the street.
Pa let me have the pick of the horses for sale in the town corral, and I taken a
fancy to a paint filly with a blaze face.
"Son"-Pa was hunkered down on his heels watching the horses "that filly wouldn't
carry you over the hill. She looks mighty pert, but what a man wants to find in horses
or partners is stayin' quality. He wants a horse he can ride all day and all night
that will still be with him at sunup.
"Now you take that buckskin. He's tough and he's got savvy. Horse or men, son, pick
'em tough and with savvy. Don't pay no attention to the showy kind. Pick 'em to last.
Pick 'em to go all the way."
Well, I taken the buckskin, and Pa was right. Looking at that man set ting on the
edge of the platform I decided he was the man we wanted. I gave no further thought
to Johnny or Ed.
"Mister," I said, "are you rustling work?"
287
He turned those black eyes on me and studied me right careful. boy.
was pushing fourteen, but I'd been man of the house for nigh three years now. It
didn't seem to make no difference to him that I was a wet-eared "Now I just might
be. What work do you have?"
"Ma and me have a little outfit over against the foothills. We figured to roust our
cattle out of the canyons and bring 'em down to sell. There's a month of work, maybe
more. We'd pay thirty a month and found and if I do say so, Ma is the best cook anywheres
around."
He looked at me out of those black, careful eyes and he asked me, "You always hire
strangers?"
"No, sir. We usually hire Johnny Loftus or Ed Shifrin or one of the loafers around
town, but when I saw you I figured to hire you." The way he looked at me was beginning
to worry me some.
"Why me?" he asked.
So I told him what Pa said when we bought the buckskin, and for the first time he
smiled. His eyes warmed and his face crinkled up and laugh wrinkles showed at the
corners of his eyes where they must have been sleeping all the time. "Your pa was
a right smart man, son. I'd be proud to work for you."
We started for the livery stable to get him a horse to ride out to the ranch, and
Ed Shifrin was in front of the saloon. He noticed me and then the man who walked
beside me.
"Tom," Ed said, "about time your ma started the roundup. You want I should come out?"
Did me good to tell him, the way he'd loafed on the job and come it high and mighty
over me. "I done hired me a man, Ed"
Shifrin came down off the walk. "You shouldn't have done that. The Coopers ain't
goin' to like a stranger proddin' around among their cows." He turned to the man
I hired. "Stranger, you just light a shuck. I'll do the roundin' up."
The man I'd hired didn't seem a mite bothered. "The boy hired me," he said. "If he
don't want me he can fire me."
Ed wasn't inclined to be talked up to. "You're a stranger hereabouts or you'd know
better. There's been range trouble and the Coopers don't take kindly to strangers
among their stock."
"They'll get used to it," he said, and we walked away up the street. About then I
started worrying about what I'd done. We'd tried to avoid trouble. "The Coopers,"
I told him, "they're the biggest outfit around here. They sort of run things"
"Who runs your place?"
"Well. Me, sort of. Ma and me. Only she leaves it to me, because she says a boy without
a father has to learn to manage for himself."
288 2 8 4
We walked on maybe twenty yards before he said anything, and then he just said, "Seems
to me you've had uncommon smart folks, boy."
Old Man Taylor brought out the sorrel for us. While the stranger was saddling up
and I sat there enjoying the warm sunshine and the barn smells of horses and hay
and leather, Old Man Taylor came to where I sat the saddle and he asked me low-voiced,
"Where'd you find him?"
"Down to the depot. He was rustling work and I was looking for a man.
Old Man Taylor was a man noted for staying out of trouble, yet he had been friendly
to Pa. "Boy, you've hired yourself a man. Now you and your ma get set for fireworks"
What he meant I didn't know, nor did it make any kind of sense to me. My hired man
came out with the sorrel and he swung into the saddle and we went back down the street.
Only he was wearing chaps now and looked more the rider, but somehow he was different
from any cowhand I could remember.
We were almost to the end of the street when the sheriff came out of the saloon,
followed by Ed Shifrin. He walked into the street and stopped us. "Tom"-he was abrupt
like always-"your ma isn't going to like you hiring this stranger."
"Ma tells me to hire whom I've a mind to. I hired this man and I wouldn't fire any
man without he gives me cause."
Sheriff Ben Russell was a hard old man with cold blue eyes and a brusque, unfriendly
way about him, but I noticed he cottoned up to the Coopers. "Boy, this man is just
out of prison. You get rid of him"
"I'll not hold it against him. I hired him and if he doesn't stack up, I'll fire
him."
My hired hand had sat real quiet up to now. "Sheriff," he said, "you just back up
and leave this boy alone. He sizes up like pretty much of a man and it begins to
look like he really needs outside help. Seems to me there must be a reason folks
want to keep a stranger out of the country."
Sheriff Ben Russell was mad as I'd ever seen him. "You can get your self right back
in jail," he said; "you're headed for it."
My hired man was slow to rile. He looked right back at the sheriff with those cold
black eyes and he said, "Sheriff, you don't know who I am or why I was in prison.
You recognized this prison-made suit. Before you start shaping up trouble for me,
you go tell Pike Cooper to come see me first."
Nobody around our country knew a Cooper called Pike, but it was plain to see the
sheriff knew who he meant and was surprised to hear him called so. He said, "Where'd
you know Cooper?"
"You tell him. I figure he'll know me"
Seven miles out of town we forded the creek and I showed him with
289 G E T OUT O F TOWN 2
a sweep of the hand. "Our land begins here and runs back into the hills. Our stock
has a way of getting into the canyons this time of year."
"Seems plenty of good grass down here."
"This here is deeded land," I told him. "Pa, he always said the day of free range
was over, so he bought homesteads from several folks who had proved up, and he filed
on land himself. These are all grazing claims, but two of them have good water holes
and the stock fattens up mighty well."
When we rode into the ranch yard Ma came to the door, wiping her hands on her apron.
She looked at the new rider and I knew she was sur prised not to see Ed or Johnny.
The hired man got down from his saddle and removed his hat. Neither Johnny or Ed
had ever done that.
"The boy hired me, ma'am, but if you'd rather I'd not stay I'll ride back to town.
You see, I've been in prison."
Ma looked at him for a moment, but all she said was, "Tom does the hiring. I feel
he should have the responsibility."
"And rightly so, ma'am." He hesitated ever so little. "My name is Riley, ma'am."
Ma said, "Supper's ready. There's a kettle of hot water for washing." We washed our
hands in the tin basin and while he was drying his hands on the towel, Riley said,
"You didn't tell me your ma was so pretty."
"I didn't figure there was reason to," I said, kind of stiff.
He took a quick look at me and then he said, "You're right, boy. It's none of my
business." Then after a minute he said, "Only it surprised me.
She was married when she was shy of sixteen," I said.
Supper was a quiet meal. With a stranger at table there were things we didn't feel
up to talking about, and you don't ask questions of a man who has been in jail. We
made some polite talk about the lack of rain, and how the water on the ranch was
permanent, and when he'd finished eating he said, "Mind if I smoke?"
Reckon that was the first time in a while anybody had asked Ma a question like that.
Pa, he just took it for granted and other men who came around just lit up and said
nothing, but the way Ma acted you'd have thought it was every day. She said, "Please
do" It sounded right nice, come to think of it.
"You been getting good returns on your cattle?"
"The calf crop has been poor the last two, three years, but Ed and Johnny said it
was because there were so many lions in the mountains. You have to expect to lose
some to lions."
"Good range," Riley said, "and plenty of water. I'd say you should
290
When he had gone to the bunkhouse Ma started picking up the dishes. "How did you
happen to hire him, Tom?"
So I told her about the buckskin and what I thought when I saw this man, and she
smiled. "I think you learned your lesson well, Toni. I think he is a good man." And
then she added, "He may have been in prison, but he had good upbringing."
Coming from Ma there was not much more she could have said. She set great store by
proper upbringing.
A while after, I told her about the talk with Ed Shifrin and Sheriff Russell, and
when I came to the part about Riley telling Russell to tell Cooper to come see him,
I could see that worried her. Cooper had some tough hands working for him and we
didn't want them around.
Year after Pa was killed, some of them tried to court Ma, but she put a stop to that
right off.
COME DAYLIGHT just as I was pulling on a boot I heard an ax, and when I looked from
behind the curtain I saw it was Riley at the woodpile. Right off I could see he was
a hand with an ax, but what surprised me was him doing it at all, because most cowhands
resent any but riding work, even digging postholes.
The way it worked out we rode away from the place an hour earlier than I'd ever been
able to with Ed or Johnny, and by noon we had hazed seventy head down on the flat,
but we were mighty shy of young stuff. Whatever else he was, I'd hired a hand. He
was up on Pa's bay gelding and he knew how to sit a cutting horse and handle a rope.
Next three days we worked like all getout. Riley was up early and working late, and
I being boss couldn't let him best me, but work ing with him was like working with
Pa, for we shared around and helped each other and I never did see a man learn country
faster than he did. Time to time he'd top out on high ground and then he'd set a
spell and study the country. Sometimes he'd ask questions. Mostly, he just looked.
Third day we had built us a hatful of fire for coffee and shucked the wrappings off
the lunches Ma fixed. "You said your pa was killed. How'd it happen?"
"Ma and me didn't see it. Pa had been to the Coopers' on business and when he got
back to town he picked up some dress goods for Ma and a few supplies. He was tying
the sack on the saddle when he had a diffi culty with a stranger. The stranger shot
him."
"Was your pa wearing a gun?"
"Yes, sir. Pa always wore a gun, but not to use on no man. He carried it for varmints
or to shoot the horse if he got thrown and his foot caught in the stirrup."
291 OUT OF TOWN 2 8 7
"You hear that stranger's name?" "Yes, sir. His name was Cad Miller."
That afternoon we ran into Ed Shifrin and Johnny Loftus. First time
I'd seen them up thataway except when working for us, but they were coming down the
draw just as we put out our fire.
Riley heard them coming before I did, but he looked around at the mountainside like
he was expecting somebody else. He looked most care ful at the trees and rocks where
a man might take cover.
Both of them were armed, but if Riley had a gun I had seen no sign of it. He wore
that buckskin jacket that hung even with his belt, but there might have been a gun
in his waistband under the jacket. But I didn't think of guns until later.
"You still around?" Shifrin sounded like he was building trouble. "I figured you'd
be run out before this."
"I like it here" Riley talked pleasant-like. "Pretty country, nice folks. Not as
many cows as a man would expect, but they're fat."
"What d' you mean by that? Not as many cows as you'd expect?" "Maybe I should have
said calves. Not as many calves as a man would expect, but by the time the roundup
is over we'll find what happened to the others."
Shifrin looked over at Johnny. "What about the kid?" Johnny shrugged. "To hell with
the kid"
The way they talked back and forth made no sense to me, but it made sense to Riley.
"Was I you," Riley said, "I'd be mighty sure Cooper wants it this way. With the kid,
and all."
"What d' you mean by that?"
"Why, it just won't work. There's no way you can make it look right. The kid doesn't
carry a gun. You boys don't know your business like you should."
"Maybe you know it better?" Johnny sounded mean.
"Why, I do, at that. Did Sheriff Russell tell Pike what I said?" "Who's Pike?" Shifrin
asked suspiciously.
"Why, Pike Cooper. That's what they used to call him in the old days. He ever tell
you how he happened to leave Pike County, Missouri? It's quite a story."
Something about the easy way Riley talked was bothering them. They weren't quite
so sure of themselves now.
"And while you're at it," Riley added, "you get him to tell you why he left the Nation"
Neither of them seemed to know what to do next. The fact that Riley seemed to know
Cooper bothered them, and Johnny was uneasy. He kept looking at me, and I kept looking
right back at him, and that seemed to worry him too.
292 288
"You boys tell him that. You also tell him not to send boys to do a man's job."
"What's that mean?" Shifrin was sore and he shaped up like a mighty tough man. At
least, he always had. Somehow when they came up against Riley they didn't seem either
so big or so tough.
"That means you ride out of here now, and you don't stop riding un til you get to
Pike Cooper. You tell Pike if he wants a job done he'd bet ter come and do it himself."
Well, they didn't know which way was up. They wanted to be tough and they had tried
it, but it didn't seem to faze Riley in the least. They had come expecting trouble
and now neither one of them wanted to start it and take a chance on being wrong.
Or maybe it was the very fact that Riley was taking it so easy. Both of them figured
he must have the difference.
"He'll do it!" Johnny replied angrily. "Cooper will want to do this himself. You'll
see."
They rode out of there and when Riley had watched them down the slope without comment
he said, "We'd best get back to the ranch, Tom. It's early, but we'd better be in
when Cooper comes."
"He won't come. Mr. Cooper never goes anywhere unless he feels like it himself."
"He'll come," Riley said, "although he may send Cad Miller first." When he said that
name I stared right at him. "That was the name of the man who killed my father."
"RILEY, what I've seen today, I like. If this comes to a case in court I'd ad mire
to be your lawyer."
"Thank you, but I doubt if it will come to that"
We had a quiet supper. We had come in early from the range, so Riley put in the last
hour before sundown tightening a sagging gate. He was a man liked to keep busy.
At supper Riley said to Ma, "Thank you, ma'am. I am proud to work for you."
Ma blushed.
Next morning Ma came to breakfast all prettied up for town. Only thing she said was,
"Your father taught you to stand up for what you be lieve to be right, and to stand
by your own people."
There was quite a crowd in town. Word has a way of getting around and folks had a
way of being on the street or in the stores when it looked like excitement, and nobody
figured to finish their business until it was over.
We left our rig with Old Man Taylor and he leaned over to whisper, "You tell that
friend of yours Cad Miller's in town."
Ma heard it and she turned sharp around. "What does he look like, Mr. Taylor?"
293 OUT OF TOWN 2 8 9
Taylor hesitated, shifting his feet nervous-like, not wanting to say, or figuring
why Ma wanted to know. But Ma wasn't a woman you could shake off. "I asked a question,
Mr. Taylor. I believe you were a friend of my husband's."
"Well, ma'am, I figured so. I figured to be a friend of yours, too." "And so you
are. Now tell me."
So he told her.
It was a warm, still morning. We went down to the hotel, where I waited, and Ma went
out to buy some women fixin's like she won't buy with a man along.
All the chairs were taken in front of the hotel, so I leaned against the corner of
the building next to the alley. Moment later I heard Riley speak from behind my right
shoulder. He was right around the corner of the building in the alley.
"Don't turn around, boy. Is Cooper on the street?" "Not yet, but Cad Miller is in
town."
"Tom," he said, "just so you'll know. I was in prison for killing a man who'd killed
my brother. Before that, I was a deputy United States mar shal." He hesitated. "I
just wanted you to know."
Nobody on the street was talking much. A rig clattered along the street and disappeared.
The dust settled. A yellow hound ambled across the street headed toward shade. Ma
went walking up the other side of the street and just when I was wondering what she
was doing over there the Coopers turned into the upper end of the street. The boys
were riding on his flanks and the old man was driving a shining new buckboard.
Cooper pulled up in front of the hotel and got down. His boys were swaggering it,
like always, both of them grinning in appreciation of the fun. Cooper stepped up
on the walk and took a cigar from his vest pocket
and bit off the end. His hard old eyes glinted at me. "Boy, where's that hired man
of yours? I understand he was asking for me."
"He leaves town today," Andy Cooper said loudly, "or he'll be carried out."
Cooper put the cigar in his teeth. He struck a match and lifted it to light the cigar
and I heard a boot grate on the walk beside me and knew Riley was there. Cooper dropped
the match without lighting his cigar. He just stood there staring past me at Riley.
"Lark!" Cooper almost choked over the name. "I didn't know it was
"You remember what I told you when I ran you out of the Nation?" Cooper wasn't seeing
anybody but Riley, the man he had called Lark.
!e wasn't even aware of anything else. And I was staring at him, because had never
seen a big man scared before.
"I told you if you ever crossed my trail again I'd kill you."
294 290 L O U I S
"Don't do it, Lark. I've got a family-two boys. I've got a ranch. I've done well."
"This boy had a father." "Lark, don't do it"
"This boy's father has been dead three or four years. I figure you've been stealing
his cows at least two years before that. Say five hundred head."
Cooper never took his eyes off him, and the two boys acted as if they couldn't believe
what was happening.
"You write out a bill of sale for five hundred head and I'll sign it for the boy's
mother. Then you write out a check for seven thousand dollars and we'll cross the
street and cash it together."
"All right."
"And you'll testify that Cad Miller was told to kill this boy's pa" "I can't do that.
I won't do it."
"Pike," Riley said patiently, "you might beat a court trial, but you know mighty
well you ain't going to beat me. Now my gun's around the corner on my saddle. Don't
make me go get it."
Cooper looked like a man who was going to be sick. He looked like a school kid caught
cheating. I figured whatever he knew about Riley scared him bad enough so he didn't
want any argument. And that talk about a gun on the saddle-why, that might be just
talk. A man couldn't see what Riley was packing in his waistband.
"All right," Cooper said. His voice was so low you could scarce hear it. "Pa!" Andy
grabbed his arm. "What are you sayin'?"
"Shut up, you young fool! Shut up, I say!"
"Cad Miller's in town," Riley continued; "you get him out here on the street."
"He won't have to." It was Ma's voice.
The crowd moved back and Cad Miller came through with Ma right behind him, and trust
Ma to have the difference. She had a double-barreled shotgun, and she wasn't holding
that shotgun for fun. One time I'd seen her use it on a mountain lion right in the
door yard. She near cut that lion in two.
Sheriff Ben Russell wasn't liking it very much, but there was nothing he could do
but take his prisoner. Once Cooper showed yellow, those two boys of his weren't about
to make anything of it, and any man who knew our town knew Cooper was through around
here after this.
BACK AT HOME I said, "Cooper called you Lark." "My name is Larkin Riley."
"And you didn't even have a gun!"
"A man has to learn to live without a gun, and against a coward you
295 GET O U T O F TOWN 2 9 1
don't need a gun." He rolled a smoke. "Cooper knew I meant what I said."
"But you'd been in prison yourself."
He sat on the stoop and looked at the backs of his hands. "That was later. Ten or
fifteen years ago, what I did would have been the only thing to do. There are laws
to handle cases like that, and I had it to learn."
Ma came to the door. "Larkin ... Tom ... supper's ready."
We got up and Riley said, "Tom, I think tomorrow we'll work the south range."
"Yes, sir," I said.
296 One for the Pot
When Laurie reached the water hole at Rustler's Springs she knew she had missed the
trail.
Steve had explained about the shortcut across the mountains to Dry Creek Station,
and had advised her to take it if any thing happened to him. But he had warned her
about riding near the Junipers or stopping at Rustler's Springs.
By retracing her trail she might discover the turnoff she had missed, but if she
delayed any more it would be long after dark before she reached the stage station.
The logical move was to return to the ranch and make a fresh start at daybreak, as
soon as Steve had left the house. Yet if she returned now she might never again muster
the nerve to leave him. And she had already been too much trouble to Steve.
While the bay drank of the cool water Laurie slid from the saddle and tried dipping
up a drink in the palm of her hand. The swallow of water was unsatisfactory and all
she succeeded in doing was getting her face wet and spilling water on her blouse.
It was somehow symbolic of all her fail ures since coming west.
When she got to her feet there was a man standing at the edge of the brush with a
rifle cradled in his arms. How long he had been there she had no idea, but suddenly
she was keenly aware of the utter loneliness of the spot and that not even Steve
knew where she was. And her only weapon was the pistol in her saddlebag.
The man was thin and old with white hair and the coldest eyes she had ever seen looking
from a human face. Tiny wrinkles wove a pattern of harsh years across the sun-darkened
patina of his skin. It was a narrow face, high in the cheekbones ... a hawk's face
except for the blunted nose. His blue shirt was faded, his jeans worn. Only the narrow-brimmed
hat was new.
297 ONE FOR THE POT 2
HE DID NOT SPEAK, merely stared at her and waited.
"I missed the shortcut." She was surprised that she could speak so calmly. "I was
going to Dry Creek Station"
His eyes left her face for the carpetbag behind her saddle. It contained only the
few belongings she had brought to Red Tanks Ranch and to Steve Bonnet.
"You're Bonnet's woman," he said then. His voice was thin and dry. Her chin lifted.
"His wife"
"Quittin' him?"
Resentment flared. "It's none of your business!" "Don't blame you for being' skeered."
"It's not that!" she protested. "It's not that at all!"
His eyes had grown old in the reading of trail sign and the motives of men-and women.
She did not lie. Something other than fear was driving her. He could
sense the bitterness in her, the sense of failure, and the hurt.
His head jerked toward the south. "Cabin's over there," he said, "and coffee's on."
Afterward she was to wonder why she followed him. Perhaps it was to show him she
was not afraid, or it might have been hesitation to cross that last bridge that would
take her from this country and the promise it had held for her.
The cabin was old but neat. There were bunks for several men, empty of bedding save
one. The bed was neatly made and the few utensils were clean and hung in place.
Filling two enamel cups he placed one before her. Tasting the coffee she felt envy
for the first time. For this had been her greatest failure. At least, it was the
failure she was most miserable about. She could not make good coffee, not even good
enough to please herself.
It had not taken her long to discover that she was not cut out to be the wife of
a western man, but it was a mistake she could now rectify. With a little pang she
remembered Steve's face when he saw the sore
on the gelding's back. A wrinkle carelessly left in her saddle blanket had done that.
Then there was the time his spare pistol had gone off in her hand, narrowly missing
her foot. He had been furious with her, and she had cried most of the night after
he was asleep.
"Surprised you'd take out on your man," the old man said, "didn't figure you for
skeered after you throwed down on Big Lew with that shotgun"
She looked up, surprised at his knowledge. "But why should he frighten me? Besides,"
she added, "the shotgun wasn't loaded."
The cold eyes glinted with what might have been humor. "That'll
jolt Lew. You had him right
298 2 9 4 L O U I S
He pushed the coffeepot back on the fire. "Took nerve. Lew ain't no pilgrim. He's
killed hisself a few men."
"He really has?"
"Three, maybe four." He stoked his pipe, glancing out of the corners of his eyes
at her face. It was a small, heart-shaped face with large, dark eyes, and her body,
while a beautifully shaped woman's body, seemed al most too small, too childlike
for this country. Yet his mother had been a small woman, and she had borne ten children
in a rugged, frontier commu nity. "If you ain't skeered, why you takin' out?" Then
his eyes crinkled at the corners and he said wryly, "But I forgit. That ain't none
of my business."
"I'm no good to him." She looked up, her dark eyes wide. "He needs someone who can
help. All I do is make trouble for him."
The old man looked thoughtfully at his pipe. Her presence with that shotgun had prevented
Big Lew and the Millers from burning the ranch. That had been their purpose in going
to Red Tanks.
LITTLE BY LITTLE her story came out. Her father's long illness had ab sorbed their
savings, and after his death she had become a mail-order wife. Steve Bonnet had needed
a wife, and when she got off the stage and saw the tall, silent young man with the
sun-bronzed face she had felt a queer little quiver of excitement. He needed a wife,
she needed a home. It had been simple as that. They had not talked of love.
"In love with him now?"
The question startled her for she had not given it a thought. Suddenly she realized,
shocking as it was . . . "Yes," she acknowledged. "I am" The old man said nothing
then, and she watched the shadows of the
trees on the ground outside the cabin. She remembered Steve's face when he had come
home the night before, the something in his eyes when he saw her. Had it been relief?
Pleasure? What?
He refilled her cup. "Will quittin' give you rest? And how will he feel when he comes
home tonight?"
She stifled the pang. "He's better off without me."
"Nothin' nice about comin' home to an empty house. You told him you love him?"
"NO" "He told you?" "No."
"Wrong of him. Knowed a sight of women, here 'n there. Tell 'em you love 'em, pet
'em a mite, do somethin' unexpected nice time to time an' they'll break their necks
for you."
The cottonwoods brushed their pale green palms together, rustling in the still, hot
afternoon. "I wish I could make coffee like this."
299 ONE FOR THE POT 2 9 5
killed, them Millers do."
"Killed?" She was shocked. "Why, the law ..."
He looked at her, cold-eyed. "A man carries his law in his holster in this country.
Them Millers don't want no part of Steve Bonnet them selves. They hire their killin'
done when it's somebody like him. That man of yours"-the old man got to his feet-"is
plumb salty."
He was suddenly impatient. "You ain't only a wife. You're a pardner, and you're quittin'
when he needs you most"
He started for the door. "No need to go back to Six-shooter Gap. There's a trail
back of here that old Stockton used. You stay shut of the Junipers and hold to the
trail. It'll take you right to the stage station. You'll hit it near Little Dry."
She did not move. "Will you teach me how to make coffee like that?"
"Not's good as usual." She noticed how the rifle lay where he had placed it, across
the corner of the table, pointing a finger at the door. "Helps to have hot coffee
when a man gets to home."
He leaned back in his chair and lighted his pipe again. "He know you're gone?"
"No. "If them Millers come back they could burn him out. And him countin' on you."
"They won't come back."
His reply was a snort of contempt for such ignorance. "This here's a war, ma'am.
It's a fight for range ... and you're the only one your man's got on his side ...
and you quittin'."
"I'm no good to him. I can't do any of the things a wife should do out here."
"You can be home when he gets there. No man likes to stand alone. It's a sight of
comfort for a man to know he's fightin'for something." When she remained silent he
said quietly, "They figure to have him
A QUAIL WAS CALLING when she rode into the yard at Red Tanks. Steve was not back,
and she hurriedly stripped the saddle from the gelding. Then, remembering what Steve
had done, she rubbed the horse down.
An hour later, her second batch of coffee hot and ready, she watched Steve ride into
the yard. When she thought how she had nearly failed to be here to greet him she
felt a queer little wrench of dismay, and she stood there in the door, seeing him
suddenly with new eyes.
This was the man she loved. This man, this tall, narrow-hipped man with the quiet
face and the faintly amused eyes. His bronzed hair glinted in the light as he stepped
into the door, but there was no amusement in his eyes now. They were shadowed with
worry.
300 2 9 6
"Steve ... what's wrong?"
He looked at her suddenly, as if detecting a new ring in her voice. And for the first
time he shared his troubles with her. Before he had al ways brushed off her questions,
assuring her everything would be all right.
"Heard somethin' today. Old Man Miller has hired a man. A killer." She caught his
arm. "Steve? For you?"
He nodded, closing the door. He took off his hat and started for the wash basin.
Then he smelled the coffee and saw the cup freshly poured. He looked up at her. "Mine?"
She nodded, almost afraid for him to try it. Such a little thing, yet a mark for
or against her.
He dropped into the chair and she saw the sudden weariness in his face. He tasted
the coffee, then drank.
"A man named Bud Shaw. He's already here." "You've seen him?"
"Not around here." He was drinking his coffee. "I saw him in El Paso once, when I
first came west. He's a known man."
"But he kills for money? They can really hire men to kill someone?" "This is a hard
country, Laurie, and there's a war for range. Men hire out to fight as they join
armies of other countries. I don't know as I blame 'em much"
Laurie was indignant. "But to kill for money! Why, that's murder!" Steve looked up
quickly. "Yes, if they dry-gulch a man. Bud Shaw won't do that. He'll meet me somewhere,
unexpected-like, and I'll have my chance." He got up. "I shouldn't be telling you
this. The country's rough on womenfolks."
He glanced at his empty cup. "Say, how about some more coffee?" For a long time she
lay awake. How like a little boy he looked! In the vague light from the moon she
could see his face against the pillow, his hair tousled, his breathing even and steady.
Suddenly, on impulse, she touched his cheek. Almost frightened, she drew her hand
back quickly, then slid deeper under the coarse blankets and lay there, her eyes
wide open, her heart beating fast.
When breakfast was over and he had picked up his rifle, she stopped him suddenly.
"Steve ... teach me to load the shotgun"
He looked around at her and for an instant their eyes held. Suddenly, his cheeks
flushed. He turned back and picked up the shotgun, but his eyes avoided hers. Carefully,
he showed her how the shotgun functioned, then at the door, he pointed. "See that
white rock? If they come here, stop 'em beyond that. If they come closer ... shoot."
She nodded seriously, and he looked at her again, and suddenly he
301 ONE FOR THE POT 29'7
gripped her shoulder hard. "You'll do, Laurie," he said quietly, his voice shaken,
"you'll do."
SHE WAS SITTING where she could see out the door and down the trail when she heard
the horse. She got up quickly and put her sewing aside. Heart pounding, she went
to the door.
It was a lone man, riding a mouse-gray horse. A shabby old man, but he wore a neat,
narrow-brimmed hat.
He stopped on the edge of the woods and sat his horse there, one hand on the rifle,
watching the door. He let his eyes drift slowly over the place, but she had a curious
feeling that he was watching her, too, all the time his gaze wandered.
Then he let the horse walk forward and when he stopped he looked at her. "Howdy,
ma'am. Mind if I git down?"
"Please do." He swung down, then leaving his horse ground hitched, he walked up to
the door. "Passin' by," he said, "and I reckoned I'd try some of that there coffee."
When he was seated she poured a cup, and watched his expression anxiously. He tried
it, tasted it again, then nodded. "A mite more coffee, ma'am, and you got it"
He looked around the neat little cabin, then out over the yard. The corrals were
new and well built, the cabin was solidly constructed and the stable was no makeshift.
"Seen anything of Big Lew Miller?"
"No." She looked at him suddenly. "Look, did you ever hear of a man named Bud Shaw?
He's a killer. A man with a gun for hire."
The old man touched his mustache thoughtfully. "Bud Shaw? The name seems sort of
familiar." He looked up at her, his eyes veiled and cold. "A killer, you say? Where
did you hear that?"
"Steve told me today. Oh, he said that this man Bud Shaw was differ ent than some,
that he'd give a man a chance before he killed him. But I don't think that matters.
"Look"-she leaned toward him-"you know outlaws. If you didn't, you wouldn't be living
at Rustler's Springs. At least, Steve says that's a hangout for them. If you know
how I can meet Bud Shaw and talk to him, I wish you'd fix it up"
He drank coffee and then rolled a smoke. She watched the slim brown fingers, almost
like a woman's. Not one shred of tobacco spilled on the floor. When he had touched
his tongue to the cigarette he looked around at her. "What you want to see him for?"
She had a notion of talking to him. No man could be so cruel as to well, it wasn't
right to shoot people, and Steve was a good man, only trying
302 2 9 8 L 0 U I S
to build a home. That's all. And he wanted children, and ... she was ex plaining
all this when he interrupted.
"I take it you've changed your mind about runnin' off?"
She flushed. "I-I must have been mad. He does need me. You be lieve that, don't you?
I mean-you think he really does?"
At the last her voices was pleading.
"A man needs a woman. No man is right without one, believe me. And with Steve it's
got to be the right woman. He's that kind of man." "But you said you didn't know
him?"
"I don't. Not rightly, I don't. But folks hear things." His voice was suddenly sour.
"Lady, Steve Bonnet won't kill easy. Not for Bud Shaw or nobody. Why do you reckon
the Millers ain't killed him? There's four Millers. Why ain't they done it?"
He struck a match and lighted his smoke. "The Millers tried it, but there was five
of them, then. Your husband killed one Miller and put an other in the hospital"
STEVE HAD KILLED a man. Somehow the fact was not so shocking as it
might have been a day or two before. Probably that was why he hesitated to condemn
even a hired killer.
The old man got to his feet. "I'm driftin', ma'am. See you some time."
"Wait" She went to the cupboard and hurriedly took down a pan of biscuits. "I just
baked these, and some bread. Take them along." She took a brown loaf from the cupboard
and put it with the biscuits into a sack. "That is one thing I can do!" Her chin
lifted a little. "I can bake bread."
The old man looked at her thoughtfully. "Thanks, ma'am. I appreci ate this. First
time anybody has given me anything for a long time" "And don't forget, you promised
to come over and teach me how to make soap."
He actually smiled. "Sure enough, I did at that."
When he was gone she looked down the trail again. And returning to her chair, resumed
her work.
It was almost dusk when she saw the rider. For an instant she was sure it was Steve,
and then he vanished into the trees. Quickly, she got up, closed the window shutters
and got the shotgun. Then she put out the light and waited. It was not yet dark outside
and she could see clearly.
A long time later a soft rustle outside the window caused her shotgun to lift. A
man rounded into the door and her finger was tightening on her trigger when she recognized
Steve.
Frightened, she got to her feet. "Oh, Steve! I might have shot you!" He glanced at
her, his eyes wary. "You're alone?"
303 ONE F O R THE POT 2 9 9
"Why-of course! Who would be here?"
He walked to the bedroom and drew back the blanket that curtained the door. When
he returned to the kitchen he paused, looking around. "Somebody scouted the place
today. A man ridin' a small horse."
She started to explain, then caught herself. If she told about the friendly old man
then she must explain how they had met, and that she had planned to leave Steve.
That she could not bring herself to do. Not now.
He was watching her, an odd look in his eyes. Her hesitation had aroused his doubts.
"It must have been a mistake," she said guiltily. "I saw no one."
Her voice trailed off, but she knew she was a poor liar. Steve dropped into a chair
and looked at her, frowning a little. To avoid his eyes she hastily began to put
food on the table, and then, desperately, tried to open a conversation. Somehow her
words trailed off into nothing.
Each time their eyes met, Steve deliberately looked away. "Steve-what's wrong?"
He did not meet her eyes. He got up. "Nothin'. Just tired, I guess" At daylight she
was up and she got breakfast, her heart tight and cold within her. Steve said nothing,
only once when he finished combing his hair and turned away from the glass, their
eyes met. His face looked drawn and lonely. Laurie longed to run to him and ...
"You be careful," he said, sitting down at the table. "Don't let anybody in here.
The Millers-they might try anything"
"Have you seen that other man?"
"Shaw?" He shook his head, watching her fill his cup. "No. He's the one worries me.
That was no Miller horse that I tracked. That Shaw-he might try anything. All a man
knows is that he'll be where he's least expected."
HE WAITED inside the door for a long time before he went to the stable. He stood
there, just studying the place, the trees, the hills. Reluctantly, he stepped out
and then moved to the stable, flattened against the wall, then Went in.
She waited breathless for him to emerge. When he came out he took a quick look toward
the house.
He did not trust her. Laurie knew that now. He believed ... but what could he believe?
Suddenly, she started out. "Steve!" she ran toward him. "Steve! Don't go!"
He hesitated. "Work to be done. If I hide today, what about tomorrow, and the next
day? I can't hide all the time. I got to go on."
304 300
The old man came up to the house just before sundown and he was walking, carrying
his inevitable rifle. He came up to the door and waited until she saw him.
"Ma'am, I got to talk to you."
"You'd better go away." Laurie's small face was stiff with worry. "Steve saw your
tracks. He-doesn't trust me."
"You told him about me? You described me?" he asked quickly. "No. I told him I had
seen no one. He didn't believe me."
"I got to come inside, ma'am. Right away. I got to get out of sight." She looked
at him, saw the queer tightness in the parchmentlike brown skin. She hesitated only
a moment, then stepped aside. "You'll help us?" "I'll help you."
"Against Bud Shaw, too?"
He looked at her. "Yes," he said wryly, "even against him."
Then they heard the horse. A lone horse, and he was coming fast. From somewhere a
shot sounded, then a volley. Then another shot.
The old man swore viciously. He started forward, then shrank back. It was the gelding,
and Steve Bonnet was clinging to the saddle horn. He half-fell from the saddle and,
with a start of horror, Laurie saw the blood on his shirt and face, blood on his
sleeve. He lunged, tripped on the step, and then before she could move to help him,
he scrambled into the door. "Laurie!" his voice was hoarse. "The shotgun! They're
comin'!"
He grasped the door edge and half-turned, and then he saw the man standing by the
table.
Laurie saw a sudden stillness come over his face, a strange coolness. His one good
hand, his left, halted above the gun in his waistband. The butt was turned for a
right hand draw ... it was an awkward chance. "Hello, Bud," he said quietly.
Laurie cried out, a stabbing little cry. "Hello, Steve."
The man waited, looking at Steve.
"Go ahead," Steve said bitterly. "You've given me my chance. I'm ready."
BUD SHAW LOOKED at him, and nodded gravely. "Sure you are, Steve. I knew that. You'd
always be ready." He waited and Laurie could hear the clock tick, and somewhere outside
the slow movement of approaching horses with cautious riders.
"You're a lucky man, Steve," Bud said quietly, "you've got a game wife, a fine wife."
Slowly then, with conscious and obvious deliberation he turned and went out the door.
He stopped there with his feet wide.
They heard the horses coming on, then heard them stop. Steve stared
305 ONE FOR THE POT 3 0 1
at Laurie, listening. Then he dropped his hand for the shotgun and lifted it. She
could see the blood on his sleeve, reddening his right hand.
"All right, Lew"-it was Bud Shaw speaking-"you can stop right there."
"Never knowed you for a turncoat, Bud," Big Lew spoke carefully. "I told you I was
through," Bud Shaw spoke reasonably, "I told you plain."
"You said nothin' about switchin' sides."
"Well, then. Hear it now. I've switched. If you want to know why, I'll tell you.
Two things made me switch. Four yellow bellies that had to hire their killin', and
then dry-gulched a lone man. That was only part of it."
They could see him standing there, a slight old man, his shoulders thin under the
worn shirt. He had left the rifle inside and stood there with the two sixguns on
his belt, facing them.
"The other thing was a little lady who wanted nothin' so much as to make good coffee
for her man. I figure the man that little lady could love was too much of a man to
be shot down for a pack of coyotes."
Big Lew's voice was harsh. "We won't take that talk, Bud! Not even from you!"
"You'll take it"-the old man's voice was dry with patience and disgust-"you'll take
it, and I more than half wish you wouldn't."
He stood there like that in the gathering dusk and watched them ride away. When Laurie
moved close to Steve and put her arm around him, she did not know, but she was there
when the old man turned back to the door.
"Light the light, Laurie," he said gently, "and let's have a look at that shoulder."
306 Beyond the Chaparral
Jim Rossiter looked up as the boy came into the room. He smiled, a half-nostalgic
smile, for this boy reminded him of himself ... fifteen, no ... twenty years ago.
"What is it, Mike?"
The boy's eyes were worried. He hesitated, not wanting to tell what he had to tell,
yet knowing with his boyish wisdom that it was better for Rossiter to hear it from
him, now.
"Lonnie Parker's back from prison."
Jim Rossiter did not move for a long, long minute. "I see," he said. "Thanks, Mike."
When the boy had gone he got to his feet and walked to the window, watching Mike
cross the street. It was not easy to grow up in a western town when one wanted the
things Mike Hamlin wanted.
Mike Hamlin did not want to punch cows, to drive a freight wagon or a stage. He did
not want to own a ranch or even be the town marshal. Mike was a dreamer, a thinker,
a reader. He might be a young Shelley, a potential Calhoun. He was a boy born to
thought, and that in a commu nity where all the premiums were paid to action.
Jim Rossiter knew how it was with Mike, for Jim had been through it, too. He had
fought this same battle, and had, after a fashion, won.
He had punched cows, all right. And for a while he had driven a freight wagon. For
a time he had been marshal of a trail town, but always with a book in his pocket.
First it had been Plutarch-how many times had he read it? Then Plato, Thucydides,
Shakespeare, and Shelley. The books had been given to him by a drunken remittance
man, and he had passed them along to Mike. A drunken Englishman and Jim Rossiter,
bearers of the torch. He smiled wryly at the thought.
But he had won.... He had gone east, had become a lawyer, had practiced there. However,
memories of the land he left behind were al ways with him, the wide vistas, the battlements
of the mesas, the vast
307 BEYOND T H E CHAPARRAL 3 0 3
towers of lonely cloud, the fringing pines ... and the desert that gave so richly
of its colors and its spaces.
So he had come back.
A scholar and a thinker in a land of action. A dreamer in a place of violence. He
had returned because he loved the land. He stayed because he loved Magda Lane. That
love, he had found, was one of the few things that gave his life any meaning.
And now Lonnie Parker was back.
Lonnie, who had given so much to Magda when she needed it, so much of gaiety and
laughter. Lonnie Parker, who rode like a devil and fought like a madman. Lonnie,
who could dance and laugh and be gay, and who was weak-that was Magda's word.
Rossiter, who was wise in the ways of women, knew that weakness had its appeal. There
was a penalty for seeming strong, for those whose pride made it necessary to carry
on as best they could although often lonely or unhappy. No one realized-few would
take the time to look closely enough. The weak needed help . . . the strong? They
needed nothing.
Sometimes it seemed the price of strength was loneliness and unhap piness ... and
the rewards for weakness were love, tenderness, and com passion.
Now Jim Rossiter stared down the dusty street, saw the bleak faces of the old buildings,
lined with the wind etchings of years, saw the far plains and hills beyond, and knew
the depths of all that loneliness.
Now that Lonnie was back it would spell the end of everything for him. Yet in a sense
it would be a relief. Now the threat was over, the sus pense would be gone.
He had never known Lonnie Parker. But he had heard of him. "Lonnie?" they would say,
smiling a little. "There's no harm in him. Careless, maybe, but he doesn't mean anything
by it."
Rossiter looked around the bare country law office. Three years, and he had come
to love it, this quiet place, often too quiet, where he prac ticed law. He walked
back to his desk and sat down. He was supposed to call tonight ... should he?
Lonnie was back, and Magda had once told him herself, "I'm not sure, Jim. Perhaps
I love him. I ... I don't know. I was so alone then, and he understood and he needed
me. Maybe that was all it was, but I just don't know."
Jim Rossiter was a tall, quiet man with wide shoulders and narrow hips. He liked
people, and he made friends. Returning to the West he had come to this town where
he was not known, and had brought a new kind of law with him.
In the past, the law had been an instrument of the big cattleman. The
308 3 0 4 I. O U I S
small men could not afford to hire the sort of lawyers who could fight their cases
against the big money. Jim Rossiter had taken their cases, and they had paid him,
sometimes with cash, sometimes with cattle, some times with promises. Occasionally,
he lost. More often, he won.
Soon he had cattle of his own, and he ran them on Tom Frisby's place, Frisby being
one of the men for whom he had won a case. Rossiter made enemies, but he also made
friends. He rode miles to
talk to newcomers; he even took cases out of the county. He was a good listener and
his replies were always honest. There had been a mention of him for the legislature
when the territory became a state.
He had seen Magda Lane the morning he arrived, and the sight of her had stopped him
in the middle of the street.
She had been crossing toward him, a quiet, lovely girl with dark hair and gray-green
eyes. She had looked up and seen him there, a tall, young man in a gray suit and
black hat. Their eyes met, and Jim Rossiter looked quickly away, then walked on,
his mouth dry, his heart pounding.
Even in that small town it was three weeks before they met. Rossiter saw her box
handed to a younger girl to smuggle in to the box supper, and had detected the colors
of the wrappings. He spent his last four dol lars bidding on it, but he won.
They had talked then, and somehow he had found himself telling her of his boyhood,
his ambitions, and why he had returned to the West. Almost a month passed before
she told him of Lonnie. It came about
easily, a passing mention. Yet he had heard the story before. According to some,
Lonnie had held up a stage in a moment of boyish excitement. "But he didn't mean
anything by it," she told him. "He isn't a bad boy.
Later, he was shocked when he discovered that Lonnie had been twenty-seven when he
was sent to prison.
But others seemed to agree. Wild, yes ... but not bad. Not Lonnie. Had a few drinks,
maybe, they said. He'd spent most of the money in a poker game.
Only Frisby added a dissenting note. "Maybe he ain't bad," he said testily, "but
I had money on that stage. Cost me a season's work so's he could set in that game
with George Sprague."
The stolen money, Rossiter learned, had been taken in charge by the stage driver
to buy dress goods, household items, and other odds and ends for a dozen of the squatters
around Gentry. A boyish prank, some said, but it had cost the losers the few little
things they needed most, the things they had saved many nickels and dimes to buy.
Yet, on the evenings when he visited Magda, he thought not at all of Lonnie. He was
far away and Magda was here right now. They walked
309 BEYOND THE CHAPARRAL 305
together, rode together. She was a widow-her husband had been killed by Indians after
a marriage of only weeks. At a trying time in her life, Lonnie had come along and
he had been helpful, considerate.
Now Lonnie was back, and he, Jim Rossiter, was to visit Magda that evening.
IT WAS not quite dark when he opened the gate in the white picket fence and started
up the walk to the porch. He heard a low murmur of voices, then laughter. He felt
his cheeks flush, and for an instant debated turning about. Yet he went on, and his
foot was lifted for the first step up the porch when he saw them.
Lonnie was there and Magda was in his arms.
He turned abruptly and started back down the walk. He heard the door open behind,
then Magda called, "Jim! Oh, Jim, no!"
He paused at the gate, his face stiff. "Sorry. I didn't mean to inter rupt." He heard
Lonnie's low chuckle.
She called again but he did not stop. He walked down the street and out of town,
clear to the edge of the mesa. He stood there a long time in the darkness.
Leaving the restaurant at noon the next day, he saw Lonnie Parker, George Sprague,
and Ed Blick sitting on the bench near the door. They looked up as he passed, and
he had his first good look at Lonnie Parker.
He was tall and pink-cheeked, and had an easy smile. His eyes were bland, too innocent,
and when he saw Rossiter he grinned insultingly. Lonnie wore two guns, and wore them
tied down.
Sprague was a cold, silent man who rarely smiled. Ed Blick boasted of a local reputation
as a gunman.
"That's him," Blick said. "That's the gent who's been takin' care of your girl for
you, Lon."
"Much obliged," Lonnie called out. He turned to Ed Blick. "I seen him last night.
He was just leavin'."
His face burning, Rossiter walked on. Mike Hamlin was waiting for him when he reached
the office.
"Jim" He got up quickly. "You said when I was fourteen you'd give me a job. I'm fourteen
next week and I'd sure like to earn some money." Rossiter sat down. This had been
his idea, and he had talked to Mike's
mother about it. If Mike was going to college he would have to begin to save. "All
right, Mike," he said, "get on your horse and ride out to Frisby's. Tell him I sent
you. Starting tomorrow morning, you're on the payroll at thirty a month."
Thirty a month was more than any boy in Spring Valley was making. A top hand only
drew forty! Mike jumped up, full of excitement. "You'll
310 306 L0iT IS
earn it," Jim told him dryly, "and when you show you can handle it, I'll go up to
forty." He grinned suddenly. "Now get at it ... and save your money!"
During the week that followed he made no effort to see Magda, and carefully stayed
clear of the places where she was most likely to be. He avoided mail time at the
post office and began to eat more and more at home. Yet he could not close his ears
nor his eyes, and there was talk around.
Lonnie was to marry Magda, he heard that twice. He saw them on the street together,
heard them laughing. Work was piling up for him and he lost himself in it. And there
was trouble around the country. Ed Blick had returned to town from Durango, where
he had killed a man.
Lonnie spent most of his time with Sprague and Blick. He had made no effort to rustle
a job, but he seemed to have money. Once Jim saw him buying drinks in Kelly's, and
he stripped the bills from a large roll.
Rossiter was working late over a brief when Frisby came to his office. He was a solid,
hardworking man, but he looked tired now, and he was unshaven.
"Jim," he came to the point at once, "we're losin' cows. Some of yours, some of mine,
a few other brands."
During the night Mike Hamlin had heard the sound of hooves. He had gotten out of
bed in the bunkhouse and had caught up a horse. There was a smell of dust when he
hit the grass country, and at daybreak the boy had found the tracks. At least thirty
head had been driven off by four men.
"They drove into the brush east of my place. When we tried to fol low, somebody shot
at us."
East of the Frisby place was a dense thicket of the black chaparral, a thicket that
covered twenty square miles, a thorny, ugly growth of brush through which there were
few trails, and none of them used except by wild game or strays. A rider could see
no more than a few yards at any time. It was no place to ride with a rifleman waiting
for you.
"I'd better get Mike out of there," he said. "I don't want him hurt." "Don't do it,
Jim," Frisby advised. "You'd break his heart. He's might set on provin' himself to
you. He sets up night after night with them books, but he figures he's got to earn
his money, too. He's makin' a hand, Jim."
Frisby was right, of course. To take the boy off the job would hurt his pride and
deprive him of the money he would need if he were going to college. As for the cattle
... Rossiter walked across the street to the sher iff's office.
George Sprague was standing in front of Kelly's smoking a cigar, and Jim was conscious
of the man's sudden attention.
311 BEYOND THE CHAPARRAL 30 7
He had never liked Sprague, and never had known him. The man al
ways had money, and he gambled, although he never seemed to win big ... but he always
had cash. He disappeared at intervals and would be gone for several days, sometimes
a couple of weeks. His companion on these rides was usually Ed Blick. Now it was
also Lonnie Parker.
Sheriff Mulcahy was a solid, serious man. A hard worker, intent on his job. "Third
complaint this week," he said. "Folks gettin' hit mighty hard. Got any ideas?"
Rossiter hesitated the merest instant. "No," he said, "not yet." Stepping out of
the sheriff's office, he came face to face with Magda Lane.
"Jim!" Her eyes were serious. "What's happened? You haven't been to see me.
"The last time I called," he said quietly, "you seemed rather preoccu pied."
"Jim" She caught his sleeve. "I've wanted to talk to you about that. You made a mistake.
You-"
"I think I made my mistake," he said, his voice tightening, "at a box supper. Some
time ago" Abruptly he stepped around her and walked on. A moment later, he was furious
with himself. He could have listened ...
maybe there was an explanation. So many things seemed what they were not. Still,
what explanation could there be? And it was all over town that she was to marry Lonnie
Parker.
Saddling his horse, he rode out of town. The turmoil aroused by see ing her demanded
action, and he rode swiftly. He was crossing the plains toward Frisby's when, far
and away to the east, beyond the chaparral, he saw a smoke column. He drew up, watching.
The smoke was high and straight. As he watched, the column broke, puffed, then became
straight again.
Smoke signals ... but the days of the Indian outbreaks were over. He turned in his
saddle, and from the ridge back of Gentry he saw another signal. Even as he looked,
it died out and was gone. Somebody from town was signaling to somebody out there
beyond the chaparral.
Taking a sight on that first signal, he started toward it, passing Frisby's road
without turning in.
There was only one reason of which he could think for a smoke sig nal now Somebody
in town would be sending word to their rustlers that the sheriff had been notified,
or that he was riding. Probably the former. He, Rossiter reflected, was only a cow
town lawyer, and not a man to be feared.
He rode into Yucca Canyon and followed it north, then climbed the steel dust out
of it, skirted the mesa, and headed east again. He was high in the chaparral now,
where it thinned out and merged with a scattered
312 3 0 8 L O U I S
growth of juniper. Weaving his way through, he was almost to the other side when
he came upon the tracks of cattle.
It was a good-sized herd, and it had come out of the chaparral not long before. From
droppings he spotted, he judged the herd had been moved not more than four or five
hours before.
The country grew increasingly rugged. It was an area into which he had never ventured
before, a wild, broken country of canyons and mesas with rare water holes. By sundown
he was too far out to turn back. And he had no bedroll with him, no coffee, and worst
of all ... no gun.
Yet to turn back now would be worse than foolish. This was, without doubt, a rustled
herd. Time enough to return when he discovered their destination. As there were still
some minutes of daylight, he pushed on. On his right was a long tongue of a lava
flow, to the left a broken, serrated ridge of rusty rock. Before him, at some distance,
lifted the wall of the mountain range, and it seemed the cattle were being driven
into a dead end.
Coolness touched his face and the trail dipped down. The desert was gone, and there
was a sparse growth of buffalo grass that thickened and grew rich as he moved ahead.
The lava flow now towered above his head and the trail dipped down, and rounded a
shoulder of the lava. He found himself in a long, shallow valley between the flow
and the pine-clad range. And along the bottom grazed more than a hundred head of
cattle.
He swung the steel dust quickly right to get the background of the lava for concealment.
Then he walked his mount forward until he could see the thin trail of smoke from
a starting fire. Concealing his horse, he walked down the slope through the trees.
When he reached a spot near the camp the smoke had ceased, but the fire was blazing
cheerfully. A stocky man with a tough, easy manner about him worked around the fire.
He wore chaps, a faded red flannel shirt, a battered hat ... and a gun.
Rossiter turned and started back through the trees. If he cut across country he could
have Mulcahy and a posse here shortly after daybreak. A pound of hooves stopped him
and he merged his body with a pine
tree and waited, alert for trouble. Through an opening between trees he saw three
riders. Two men and a boy.
Aboy... With a tight feeling in his chest he turned abruptly about and care fully
worked his way back toward the camp. Ed Blick, George Sprague and Mike Hamlin.
Mike's face was white, but he was game. His hands were lashed to the pommel of his
saddle.
The red-shirted man looked up. "What goes on?" He glanced from the boy to Sprague.
313 THE CHAPARRAL 309
"Found him workin' our trail like an Injun."
The man with the red shirt straightened and dropped the skillet. "I don't like this,
George. I don't like it a bit"
"What else can we do?" "We can leave the country."
"For a kid?" Sprague began to build a smoke. "Don't be a fool." "Lonnie said Frisby
went to Rossiter, then Rossiter to the sheriff." Blick was talking. "I don't like
it, George."
"You afraid of Rossiter?"
"That lawyer?" Blick's contempt was obvious. "Mulcahy's the one who worries me. He's
a bulldog."
"Leave him to me"
Their conclusion had been obvious. Mike Hamlin had found their trail, and now he
had seen them. They must leave the country or kill him. And they had just said they
would not leave the country.
The red-shirted man had not moved, and Rossiter could see the in decision in his
face. Whatever else this man might be, Rossiter could see that he was no murderer.
The man did not like any part of it, but appar ently could not decide on a course
of action.
Rossiter had no gun.... He had been a fool to go unarmed, but he had intended only
to ride to Frisby's to talk to Mike and look over the situation on the spot. He had
never considered hunting the thieves him self, but there came a time when a man had
to fork his own broncs.
Whatever they would do would be done at once. There was no time to ride for help.
Blick lifted Hamlin from the saddle and put the boy on the ground some distance away.
The red-shirted man watched him, his face stiff. Then Blick and Sprague slid the
saddles from their horses and led them out to picket. Jim worked his way through
the brush until he was close to the fire.
Rossiter knew there was little time and he had to gamble. "You going to let them
kill that boy?" he asked quietly.
The man's head came up sharply. "Who's that?"
"I asked if you were going to let them kill that boy?"
He saw Rossiter now. His eyes measured him coolly. "You want them stopped," he said,
"you stop them"
"I wasn't expecting trouble. I'm not packing a gun."
It was his life he was chancing as well as Mike's. Yet he believed he knew men, and
in this one there was a basic manhood, a remnant of per sonal pride and integrity.
Each man has his code, no matter how far down the scale.
The fellow got to his feet and strolled over to his war bag. From it he took a battered
Colt. "Catch," he said, and walked back to the fire.
Jim Rossiter stepped back into the shadows, gun in hand. He had seen
314 3 1 0
Mike's eyes on him, and in Mike's eyes there had been doubt. Rossiter was a reader
of books, a thinker ... and this was time for violence.
Sprague and Blick came back to the fire and Sprague looked sharply around. "Did I
hear you talkin'?"
"To the kid. I asked if he was hungry."
Sprague studied the man for a long minute, suspicion thick upon him. "Don't waste
the grub." He started to sit down, then saw the gap in the open war bag. With a quick
stride he stepped to the boy and rolled him over, glanced at the rawhide that bound
him, then looked around on the ground.
Blick was puzzled but alert. The man in the red shirt stood very still, pale to the
lips.
The gambler straightened up and turned slowly. "Bill, where's that other gun of yours?"
"I ain't seen it."
Rossiter smelled the acrid smell of wood smoke. There was the cool ness of a low
place and damp grass around him. Out on the meadow a quail called.
"You shoved it down in your pack last night. It ain't there now." "Ain't it?"
Bill knew he was in a corner, but he was not a frightened man. It was two to one,
and he did not know whether the man in the shadows would stand by him-or even if
he was still present.
"I'm not fooling, Bill. I won't stand for a double-cross." "And I won't stand for
killin' the kid."
Sprague's mind was made up. Ed Blick knew it, and Ed moved left a little. Bill saw
that move and knew what it meant. His tongue touched his lips, and his eyes flickered
toward the pines.
Rossiter took an easy step forward, bringing him into the half-light. "If you're
looking for the gun, Sprague, here it is."
The gun was easy in hand ... Blick saw something then, and it both ered him. No lawyer
ever held a gun like that. He tried to speak, to warn Sprague, but Rossiter was speaking.
"Bill," he said, "untie that boy."
Sprague's lips had thinned down against his teeth. The corners of his mouth pulled
down, and the skin on his face looked tight and hard. "Leave him be. I'm not backing
up for no cow town lawyer."
"Watch it, George," Blick said. "I don't like this." "He doesn't dare shoot. One
of us will get him."
"Untie the kid, Bill." Rossiter's eyes were on Sprague, a corner of at tention for
Blick. He sensed that Blick was wiser at this sort of thing than Sprague. Blick was
dangerous but he would start nothing. It would be Sprague who would move first.
315 BEYOND THE. C 11 APARRA 1, 3 1
Bill walked across to Mike and, dropping on his knees, began to un tie him.
"Back off, Bill," Sprague warned, "or I'll kill you, too." He crouched a bit, bending
his knees ever so slightly. "Get ready, Ed."
"George!" There was sudden panic in Blick's voice. "Don't try-!" Sprague threw himself
left and grabbed for his gun. It was swinging up when Rossiter shot him. Rossiter
fired once, the bullet smashing Sprague in the half-parted teeth, and then he swung
the gun. He felt Blick's shot burn him, then steadied and fired. Blick backed up
two steps and sat down. Then he clasped his stomach as if with cramp and rolled over
on his side and lay there, unmoving.
Bill touched his lips with his tongue. "For a lawyer," he said sincerely, "you can
shoot."
Rossiter lowered the gun. Mike was sitting up, rubbing his arms. He walked over to
where the other man's kit lay on the ground and dropped the pistol onto a blanket.
"Much obliged, Bill. Now you'd better saddle up and ride"
"Sure." Bill turned to go, then stopped. "That gun there. I got it second hand."
He rubbed his palms down his chaps. "I'll need a road stake. You figure it's worth
twenty bucks to you?"
Rossiter drew a coin from his pocket and tossed it to Bill. It gleamed gold in the
firelight. "It's a bargain, Bill. A good buy."
Bill hesitated, then said quietly, "I never killed no kids, mister."
NOBODY WAS in the street when they rode in at daybreak. There was a rooster crowing
and somewhere a water bucket rattled, then a pump squeaked. Rossiter walked his horse
up the street, leading two others, the bodies of Sprague and Blick across them.
Mike started to turn his horse toward home, then said, "You never said you could
shoot like that, Jim."
"In a lifetime, Mike, a man does many things."
Mulcahy came from the door of his house, hair freshly combed. "Ain't a nice sight
before breakfast, Jim." Mulcahy glanced at the two dead men. "You want me to put
out a warrant for this Bill character?"
"No evidence," Rossiter replied. "Let him be. The last of them is Lonnie Parker.
I want you to let me come along."
"Tomorrow," the sheriff said.
IT WAS NOON when he got out of bed. He bathed, shaved, and dressed carefully, not
thinking of what was to come. He left Bill's gun on the dresser and went to a chest
in the corner and got out a belt, holster, and
316 3 1 2
gun. The gun was a .44 Russian, a Smith & Wesson six-shooter. He checked the loads
and the balance, then walked out into the street.
Magda was just leaving her gate. She hesitated, waiting for him. She looked from
the gun to his eyes, surprised. "Jim ... what are you doing?" He told her quietly
of what happened, and of Bill riding away. "But," she protested, "if they are dead
and Bill is gone-"
"There were four rustlers, Magda," he said gently. "I don't know what the other one
will do."
She got it then and he saw her face go white. One hand caught the gate and she stared
at him. "Jim!" Her voice was a whisper. "Oh, Jim!" He turned away. "I don't want
trouble, Mag. I'm going to try to take
care of him for you. After all," he said with grim humor, "he may need a lawyer."
Sheriff Mulcahy was waiting up the street in front of his office. The time had come.
He was gone three steps before she cried out, and then she ran to him, caught his
arm.
"Jim Rossiter, you listen to me. You take care of yourself! No matter what happens,
Jim! Jim, believe me, there was never anybody else nobody at all-not after I met
you. The night he came to town I ... I was just so glad to see him, and then you
saw us and you wouldn't talk to me. He took too much for granted, but so did you."
His eyes held hers for a long, long minute. Up the street a door slammed, and there
were boots on the boardwalk. He smiled, and squeezed her arm. "All right, Mag. I
believe you."
He turned then, and felt the sun's heat on his shoulders and felt the dust puff under
his boot soles, and he walked away up the street, seeing Lonnie Parker standing there
in the open, waiting for them. And he was not worried. He was not worried at all.
317 Home Is the Hunter
IN of even those who knew him best had ever suspected Bill Tanneman of a single human
emotion.
He had never drawn a gun but to shoot, and never shot but to kill.
He had slain his first man when a mere fourteen. He had ridden a horse without permission
and the owner had gone after him with a whip. Because of his youth and the fact that
the horse's owner was a noto
rious bully, he was released without punishment, but from that day for ward Bill
Tanneman was accepted only with reservations.
He quit school and went to herding cattle, and he worked hard. Not then nor at any
other time was he ever accused of being lazy. Yet he was keenly sensitive to the
attitudes of those around him. He became a quiet, reserved boy who accepted willingly
the hardest, loneliest jobs.
His second killing was that of a rustler caught in the act. Three of his outfit,
including the foreman, came upon the rustler with a calf down and tied, a heated
cinch ring between two sticks.
The rustler dropped the sticks and grabbed his gun, and young Bill, just turned fifteen,
shot him where he stood.
"Never seen nothin' to match it," the foreman said later. "That rustler would have
got one of us sure."
A month later he killed his third man before a dozen witnesses. The man was a stranger
who was beating a horse. Bill, whose kindness to ani mals was as widely acknowledged
as his gun skill, took the club from the stranger and knocked him down. The man got
to his feet, gun in hand, and took the first shot. He missed. Bill Tanneman did not
miss.
Despite the fact that all three killings had been accepted as self defense, people
began to avoid him. Bill devoted himself to his work, and perhaps in his kindness
to animals and their obvious affection for him he found some of that emotional release
he could never seem to find with humans.
318 3 1 4
When riding jobs became scarce, Tanneman took a job as a marshal of a tough cow town
and held it for two years. Many times he found himself striding down a dusty street
to face thieves and troublemakers of every stripe. Always he found a strange and
powerful energy building in him as he went to confront his adversaries. One look
at that challenging light in his eyes was enough to back most of them down. Surprisingly
enough, he killed not a single man in that time, but as the town was thor oughly
pacified by the end of his two years, he found himself out of a job.
At thirty years of age he was six feet three inches tall and weighed two hundred
and thirty compact and bone-tough pounds. He had killed eleven
men, but rumor reported it at twice the number. He had little money and no future,
and all he could expect was a bullet in the back and a lonely grave on Boot Hill.
Kirk Blevin was young, handsome, and had several drinks under his belt. At nineteen
he was his father's pride, an easygoing young roughneck who would someday inherit
the vast BB holdings in land and cattle. Given to the rough horseplay of the frontier,
he saw on this day a man riding toward him who wore a hard, flat-brimmed hat.
The hard hat caught his gleeful attention and a devil of humor leaped into his eyes.
His gun leaped and blasted ... a bullet hole appeared in the rim ... and Bill Tanneman
shot him out of the saddle.
Tanneman's gun held the other riders, shocked by the unexpected ac tion. From the
dust at Tanneman's feet Kirk managed a whisper. "Sorry, stranger ... never meant
... harm."
The words affected Tanneman oddly. With a queer pain in his eyes he offered the only
explanation of his life. "Figured him for some tinhorn, gunnin' for a reputation"
Milligan, who rode segundo for Old Man Blevin, nodded. "He was a damn fool, but you
better make tracks. Seventy men ride for Blevin, an' he loved this kid like nothin'
else."
That Tanneman's reason for shooting had been the best would be no help against the
sorrow and the wrath of the father. Curiously, Bill Tanneman's regret was occasioned
by two things: that Kirk had shown no resentment, and that he had been a much-loved
son.
For behind the granite-hard face of the gunfighter was a vast gulf of yearning. He
wanted a son.
To see the handsome youngster die in the road had shocked him pro foundly, and he
was disturbed about the situation in general-he had no wish to fight against the
man whose son he had accidentally killed. He thought of trying to speak to the old
man, but did not intend to die, and the idea of having to shoot his way out of such
a meeting chilled him to
319 3 1
the core. The boy had given him no choice, but further tragedy must be avoided at
all costs.
He swung swiftly into the hills, and with all the cunning of a rider of the lone
trails, he covered the tracks and headed deeper and deeper into the wild vastness
of the Guadalupes. He carried food, water, and ample ammunition, for he never started
on the trail without going prepared for a long pursuit. When a man has lived by the
gun he knows his enemies will be many and ruthless. Yet this time Bill Tanneman fled
with an ache in his heart. No matter how justified his shooting, he had killed an
inno cent if reckless young man-the one bright spot in the life of the old rancher.
For weeks he lost himself in the wilderness, traveling the loneliest trails, living
off the land, and only occasionally venturing down to an iso lated homestead or mining
claim for a brief meal and a moment or two of company.
Finally summer became autumn, and late one afternoon Bill Tanneman made his camp
by a yellow-carpeted aspen grove in the shallow valley that split the end of a long
ridge. From a rock-rimmed butte that stood like a watchtower at the end of the line
of mountains, he scanned the surround ing country. Below him the slope fell away
to a wide grass-covered basin several miles across. On the far side, against a low
ring of hills, there was a smear of wood smoke and a glint of reflected light that
indicated a town. Here and there were a few clusters of farm or ranch buildings.
Noting that human habitation was comfortingly close yet reassuringly far away, he
retired to his fire and the silence of the valley.
It was past midnight when he heard the walking horse. Swiftly he moved from under
his blankets and, pistol in hand, he waited, listening. The night was cold. Wind
stirred down the canyon and rustled softly
among the aspen. The stars were bright, and under them the walking horse made the
only sound. A weary horse, alone and unguided.
It came nearer, then, seeming to sense his presence, the horse stopped and blew gently
through his nostrils. Tanneman got cautiously to his feet. He could see the vague
outlines of a man on the horse, a man slumped far forward, and something behind him
... a child.
"What's wrong, kid?" He walked from the deeper shadows. "It's my father." The voice
trembled. "He's been shot"
Gently, Bill Tanneman lifted the wounded man from the saddle and placed him on the
blankets.
He heated water from his canteen, and while the child looked on, he bathed the wound.
It was low down and on the left side. From the look of the wound it had been a ricochet,
for it was badly torn. Tanneman made a poultice of prickly pear and tied it on, yet
even as he worked he
320 1 6 I, () F I R 11 '
knew his efforts were useless. This man had come too far, had lost too much blood.
When at last the wounded man's eyes opened, they looked at the dancing shadows on
the rock wall, then at Tanneman.
"The kid?"
"All right." Tanneman hesitated, then said deliberately, "Anybody you want to notify?"
"I was afraid ... no, there's nobody. Take care of the kid, will you?" "What happened?"
The man breathed heavily for several minutes, then seemed to gather strength. "Name's
Jack Towne. Squatted on the Centerfire. Big outfit burned me out, shot me up. It
was all I had...:'
Tanneman built a fire and prepared some stew, and when it was fin ished he dished
some up for the child. He looked again at the dying man's run-down boot heels, the
worn and patched jeans, the child's thin body. "I'll get your place back"-his voice
was rough-"for the kid."
"Thanks, anyway." The man managed a smile. "Don't try it " "What was the outfit?"
"Tom Banning's crowd. It was Rud Pickett shot me."
Rud Pickett ... a money-taking killer. But a dangerous man to meet. And Banning was
a tough old hide-hunter turned cattleman, taking every thing in sight.
"Your kid will get that ranch. I'm Bill Tanneman."
"Tanneman!" There was alarm in the man's eyes as he glanced from the big gunfighter
to the child.
The big man flushed painfully. "Don't worry, he'll be all right." He hesitated, ashamed
to make the confession even to a dying man. "I always wanted a kid."
Jack Towne stared at him, and his eyes softened. He started to speak, but the words
never came.
Bill Tanneman turned slowly toward the child. "Son, you'd better rest. I-"
"I'm not a son!" The voice was indignant. "I'm a girl!"
Tanneman watched the child with growing dread. What was he go ing to do? A little
girl would take special treatment, but he didn't even know where to start. A boy,
now ... but this was a girl. How did one talk to a girl kid? He spoke seldom, and
when he did his voice was rough. This was a situation that was going to take some
thought.
THOMPSON'S CREEK WAS a town of two hundred and fifty people, two saloons, one rooming
house, one restaurant, and a few odds and ends of shops, and at the street's end,
a livery stable.
Betty Towne and Bill Tanneman rode to town the next evening.
321 3 1 7
Tanneman remained cautious, as was his nature, but his mind was stub bornly set on
the problem of the little girl. Their horses stabled, he brushed his coat and hat
while the child gravely combed her hair, then joined him to bathe her hands at the
watering trough.
"Let's go eat," he said, when she had dried her hands.
Her little hand slipped confidently into his and Bill Tanneman felt a queer flutter
where his heart was, followed by a strange glow. A little more proudly he started
up the boardwalk, a huge man in black and a tiny girl with fine blonde hair and blue
eyes.
This had been her father's town, and it was near here that he had been shot, driven
from the ranch where he had worked to create a home. And in this town were men who
would kill Tanneman if they knew why he had come.
The life of Bill Tanneman had left him with few illusions. He knew the power of wealth,
knew the number of riders that now rode for Tom Banning, and knew the type of man
he was, and the danger that lay in Rud Pickett. Yet Tanneman was a man grown up to
danger and trouble, knowing nothing else, and for the first time he was acting with
conscious, deliberate purpose.
On the street near the cafe were tied several horses, all marked with the Banning
brand. Tanneman hesitated for a moment, then led the girl toward the door. As they
entered the cafe, he caught the startled glance of a woman who was placing dishes
on the table. The glance went from the child to the weather-beaten man with white
hair who sat at the end of the table. The man did not look up.
Also in the room there were three cowhands, one other man more difficult to place,
and a tall, graceful girl with a neat gray traveling dress and a composed, lovely
face.
At the sight of the man at the head of the table, Betty drew back and her fingers
tightened convulsively. She looked up at Tanneman with fear in her light blue eyes.
Deliberately, Tanneman walked around the table and drew back the two chairs on Banning's
right.
The rancher glanced up irritably. "Sorry, that seat's reserved." His glance flickered
to the girl and then back to Tanneman, his eyes narrowing.... Ignoring him, Tanneman
seated Betty, then drew back the chair
nearest the rancher. For an instant their eyes met, and Tom Banning felt a distinct
shock. Something within him went still and cold.
Reassured by the presence of Tanneman, Betty began to eat. Soon she was chattering
away happily. She looked up into the lovely gray eyes opposite her. "This is my Uncle
Bill," she said. "He's taking me home. At least, where we used to live. Our house
was burned down." She glanced nervously toward the head of the table, fearful that
she had said too much.
Tanneman was stirred by a grim humor. "Don't worry, honey. The
322 3 1 8
men who burned it are going to build you a new house, a much bigger, nicer one. It
will belong to you."
One of the cowhands put down his fork and looked up the table. Banning's eyes were
on Tanneman, a hard awareness growing in them. The cowhand started to rise.
"You work for Banning?" "Yeah."
"Then sit down. If you figure on lookin' up Rud Pickett, don't bother. I'll hunt
him myself."
Coolly, Tanneman helped himself to some food. "I despise a man," he stated calmly,
"who hires his killing done. I despise a man who mur ders the fathers of children.
A man like that is a white-livered scoundrel"
Tom Banning's face went white. He half started to rise, then slid back. "I'm not
packin' a gun," he said.
"Your kind doesn't." Tanneman gave him no rest. "You hide behind hired guns. Now
you listen to me: I'm here to take up for Jack Towne's daughter. You rebuild that
house you burned, you drive his stock back. You get that done right off, or you meet
me in the street with your gun. Not your hired men-you, Tom Banning."
He forked a piece of beef and chewed silently for a minute, and then he looked up.
It was obvious that he had everyone in the cafe's attention. "This here little girl's
father was murdered by riders, at Tom Banning's or ders. That will be hard to prove,
so I don't aim to try. I know it, an' every body else around here does, too.
"He robbed this little girl of her daddy and her home. I can't give back her father,
but I can give back her home."
Tom Banning's face was flushed. The girl was looking at him with horror, and he quailed
at the thought of what she must be thinking. In his youth a fire-eater, Banning had
come more and more to rely on hired guns, yet this man had called him personally,
and in such a way that he could not avoid a meeting. That the stranger had done so
deliberately was obvious. And now Tanneman pointed it even more definitely. "Ma'am"
Tanneman glanced up at the older woman-"give that fellow some more coffee." He indicated
the cowhand who had started to rise. "He's worked for Banning awhile, I take it,
and now he's got him a chance to see who his boss is, whether he's ridin' for a coward
or a game man."
The directness of the attack took Banning by surprise, and once the surprise was
over, he began to worry. This was no brash youngster, but a mature and dangerous
man. If he tried to leave the man might order him to sit down, and then he must submit
or risk actual physical combat.
Tanneman turned to the child and began cutting her meat. He talked to her quietly,
gently, and the girl across the table was touched by the dif ference in his voice.
323 3 1 9
Kate Ryerson, who owned the restaurant, offered to give the child a bed. Slipping
from her chair, Betty slipped her arms around him and kissed his rough cheek. "Good
night, Uncle Bill."
The tall girl at the table met his eyes and smiled. "You seem to have a way with
children."
Bill Tanneman felt himself blushing. "Don't guess I do, ma'am. It's that youngster.
She has a way with me."
When the child was gone, the girl with the gray eyes filled her cup. "I think this
should be investigated by the United States Marshal, and if these charges are correct
Mr. Banning should be charged with murder and theft."
Tom Banning started to speak, then held his peace. For the first time he was really
frightened. Guns, even turned against him, were something he understood and against
which he could take measures. Explaining his ruthless killings to a jury and being
torn apart by a prosecuting attorney was another thing.
When he finished his meal he got up quietly, but Bill Tanneman ig nored him. With
his cowhands, Banning walked from the room. Penelope Gray studied the big, hard-featured
man across the table
with attention. She remembered with warmth the queer wonderment in his eyes when
he looked at the child. Instinctively, she knew this man was lonely for a long time.
"You've never been married?"
"I reckon no woman would want my sort of man."
"I think you're a very good man." She touched her fingers to his sleeve. "A man who
would risk his life for the rights of a child who was no kin to him-that's a pretty
fine sort of man"
Bill Tanneman remained seated after the girl retired, one thing hold ing his attention.
Skilled at reading men, he had seen that Penny's threat of the law had frightened
Banning much more than his own warnings. Asking for pen and paper, he sat down and
wrote a letter to Dan Cooper.
It had been long since he had seen Cooper. A sheriff then, Cooper had been pursuing
him after a shooting until the sheriff's horse put a foot in a prairie dog hole and
broke a leg. It was wild country and the Comanches were riding. Tanneman had turned
back, disarmed Cooper, and let him ride double until within a mile of town. Cooper
was a judge now, and a power in Territorial politics.
At daybreak, he routed out the storekeeper and bought an express shotgun and fifty
rounds for it. He loaded the shotgun and stuffed his pockets with shells. Then he
saddled his horse and headed for the Towne place.
It was still early ... quail called in the mesquite as he rode by at a space eating
canter. He found the Towne place as Kate Ryerson had described
324 3 2 0
it, a flowing spring, a small pool, the weed-grown vegetable garden, and the charred
ruins of a cabin.
His fighter's eyes surveyed the terrain. An old buffalo wallow could be a rifle pit
... that pile of rocks ... but he must not think in terms of de fense, but of attack.
He was tying his horse in the brush behind the spring when he heard approaching hooves.
He turned swiftly, his rifle lifting. It was Penny Gray. His voice was rough when
he stepped into the open. "You shouldn't
have come. There may be trouble, and this is no place for a woman"
"I think it is, Bill. Banning and his men are coming. Anyway"-a half smile played
on her lips-"you need a woman ... more than you know." The words caught him where
he lived and he turned away angrily.
How did women know where to strike? How to hurt? Even when they did not want to hurt.
And then he heard horses, many of them.
Tom Banning and a dozen riders came into the little valley and rode toward them.
With something like panic, Bill saw Penny get her rifle from its scabbard. "Stay
out of this!" he ordered.
Banning drew up. The presence of the girl disconcerted him. He had never killed a
woman, nor did he believe his riders, other than Rud Pickett, would stand for it.
Had it just been the two of them, now ...
"Send that girl back to town!" he demanded angrily. "I'm fightin' men, not women!"
"Then don't fight, Mr. Banning." Penny's voice was serious. "Although it seems that
your morals are not so pure as you'd like to let on. You took away everything that
little girl had!" She glanced at Tanneman. "I came of my own free will. You do what
you have to."
Banning chewed his mustache, and then Tanneman said, "You try any killing here today,
Banning, and you'll never live to see it. My first bullet tears your heart out."
He raised his rifle and took the slack out of the trigger.
IIC 111xy 11V1 ULlm Vt 1111,1 lalLVJa. 1a11111.111611J 1. Y,3 tilL 1.11,14 via.,")
to a raw-boned cowhand behind Banning. "Tell him who I am" Tascosa shifted in his
saddle, liking the effect his remark would have. "Boss, this here's Bill Tanneman."
Tom Banning felt the shock of it. Tanneman ... the killer. No won der he had not
been worried by Rud Pickett.
Tom Banning sat very still feeling the cold hand of death. Whatever else he loved,
he loved living, and this man would kill him. Not all his men, all his power, all
his money and cattle could keep that bullet from his heart.
He was whipped and he knew it. He reined around. "Come on, boys"
325 3 2 1
"Banning!" He drew up but did not look around. "You've one week to start
building a six-room house with two fireplaces, corrals, and a barn. You'd best get
busy."
Dust lifted from the trail as they walked their horses away. Defeat hung heavy upon
their shoulders.
"You've won."
Tanneman shook his head. "Banning would have gambled if you were not here."
One week . . . He was stalling for his letter to reach Dan Cooper, stalling because
he did not want to kill again.
Tanneman was worried by the tall, cool-eyed young woman who rode beside him back
to town. What was her interest in this? Who was she, anyway? What was she doing here?
The town knew and the town waited. Rud Pickett was coming in.... Banning's hands
would get Tanneman. The showdown would be some thing to see.
Tanneman was used to waiting. Trouble had been his way of life.
On the second day, four Banning riders appeared and entered the sa loon. Bill Tanneman
followed them in and ordered a drink. The riders felt his presence and knew why he
was there. They respected him for it. He was letting them know that if they wanted
him, he would not be hard to find.
The fifth day dawned. It was hot, dry, brittle. The heat left a metallic taste in
the mouth, and there was no wind. Sweat broke out at the slight est move, yet men
remained indoors despite the heat. When they ap peared briefly on the street it was
to hurry.
At noon, Tom Banning rode into town with fifteen men at his back. They left their
horses at the corral and loitered along the streets, smoking idly.
Tanneman heard of their arrival and ordered another cup of coffee. Kate Ryerson brought
it to him, and Penny watched him, her lips tight and colorless.
He pushed back his chair. Betty got up quickly. "Where are you go ing, Uncle Bill?
Can I come?"
"Not this time." He touched her hair with his hand. "You stay with Penny."
It was the first time he had used her name, and when he looked up she was smiling
at him. He turned quickly away and went out, swearing at himself.
He had to do this job, but he no longer looked forward to it. Once out in the still
heat none of his old daring returned, the challenge, the urge to look death in the
eye and laugh. How long had it been since he
326 3 2 2
had felt that? That old love of a fight for a fight's sake. What happened to it?
To love a fight as he had, one had to accept death, and that was some thing he found
he could no longer do. Bill Tanneman knew what he had to do and he was ready, but
he no longer enjoyed it. All he could do was put on a good show.
Every eye saw him, every eye knew. This was Bill Tanneman, almost a living legend.
Nobody wanted to be in his shoes now, yet all envied him a little. Each one wished
that he could step out into a street of enemies with that air, and look as formidable
as he looked now.
Tom Banning waited in the saloon. Rud Pickett was beside him. They could have guessed
to the instant when Tanneman appeared on the street. And then his shadow darkened
the door.
Outside there was movement, the stir of many boots as Banning men converged on the
saloon.
Bill Tanneman faced them, faced Banning and Pickett, as they turned from the bar.
He was utterly calm, utterly still. Only his eyes moved, alert, watchful. These two
men and a dozen more. Would the dozen fight if Banning and his gunman were dead?
If they did, Tanneman would surely follow them into the grave. A grim smile tightened
across his teeth.
"Here it is, Tom," Tanneman said quietly, "and I see you're hiding be hind a hired
gun to the last."
Rud Pickett moved out a little from the bar. He was going to draw. He was going to
draw now ... only he didn't. He looked into the cold gray eyes of Bill Tanneman and
the seconds ticked by.
"Anytime, Rud."
That was it. Now ... only he was frozen. He wanted to draw, he in tended to draw
... but he did not draw.
There was a stir at the door and a tall white-mustached man stepped into the room.
His voice was sharp. "Stop this right now!"
Sweat broke out on Rud's face. Hesitantly, his eyes wide and on Tanneman's face,
he stepped back. He started to turn and saw the con tempt on the bartender's face.
Banning did not look at him.
The man with the white mustache walked to the bar between Tanneman and Banning. "I'm
Judge Dan Cooper," he said. "We'll settle this without guns"
Tom Banning cleared his throat. He was white and shaken. Slowly, Cooper began to
explain. The old days were gone. Banning would face a court in the capital. Cooper
suggested that if Banning were to do as Tanneman had asked he would recommend some
leniency to the court, but like it or not Banning would stand trial for murder. "The
sheriff'11 have to come down to make the arrest," Cooper said. "You can try to run
away if you want, but I figure with all you got you'll try to fight it out in court."
327 3 2 3
Banning walked from the room. Rud Pickett was on the steps. Banning did not pause.
"You're fired," he said, and walked on.
Rud Pickett stared at him, then turned and stumbled off the steps. The sun was not
on his shoulders as he walked slowly away up the street. He was not thinking, he
was not feeling, he was just walking away.
The bat-wing doors opened and Penny came in. "Bill? You're all right?"
The tension was slowly going out of the big man. "I'm all right. I'm going up to
my room, get myself a long night's sleep. I'd ... I'd like to see you tomorrow, maybe
go riding, if you would."
"I'd enjoy that. You just let me know when, Bill." He smiled a tired smile and turned
toward the stairs.
Thoughtfully Cooper looked from one to the other. "He's been a lot of things, miss,
but he's a good man. I've always known that."
"So do I," she replied seriously. "I knew it when I first saw him with Betty ...
and I knew he was my man."
The next morning the sound of curses and hammering echoed back from the quiet hills.
Fifteen tough cowhands were hard at work on Betty Towne's new six-room house.
328 Rustler Roundup
Judge Gardner Collins sat in his usual chair on the porch. The morning sunshine was
warm and lazy, and it felt good just to be sitting, half awake and half asleep. Yet
it was time Doc Finerty
came up the street so they could cross over to Mother Boyle's for coffee. Powis came
out of his barbershop and sat down on the step. "Nice morning," he said. Then, glancing
up the street and across, he nodded toward the black horse tied at the hitching rail
in front of the stage sta tion. "I see Finn Mahone's in town."
The judge nodded. "Rode in about an hour after daybreak. Reckon he's got another
package at the stage station."
"What's he getting in those packages?" Powis wondered. "He gets more than anybody
around here."
"Books, I reckon. He reads a lot."
Powis nodded. "I guess so" He looked around at the judge and scratched the back of
his neck thoughtfully. "Seen anything more of Miss Kastelle?"
"Remy?" The judge let the front legs of his chair down.
"Uh-huh. She was in yesterday asking me if I'd heard if Brewster or McInnis were
in town."
"I've lost some myself," Collins said. "Too many. But Pete Miller says he can't find
any sign of them, and nobody else seems to."
"You know, judge," Powis said thoughtfully, "one time two or three years back I cut
hair for a trapper. He was passing through on the stage, an' stopped overnight. He
told me he trapped in this country twenty years ago. Said there was some of the most
beautiful valleys back behind the Highbinders anybody ever saw"
"Back in the Highbinders, was it?" Judge Collins stared thoughtfully at the distant,
purple mountains. "That's Finn Mahone's country." "That's right," Powis said.
Tudee Collins looked down the street for Doc Finerty. He scowled to
329 R 0 UN D UP 3 2 5
himself, only too aware of what Powis was hinting. The vanishing cattle had to go
somewhere. If there were pastures back in the Highbinders, it would be a good place
for them to be hidden, and where they could stay hidden for years.
That could only mean Finn Mahone.
When he looked around again, he was pleased to see Doc Finerty had rounded the corner
by the Longhorn Saloon and was cutting across the street toward him. The judge got
up and strolled out to meet him and they both turned toward Mother Boyle's.
Doc Finerty was five inches shorter than judge Gardner Collins's lean six feet one
inch. He was square built, but like many short, broad men he was quick moving and
was never seen walking slow when by himself. He and the judge had been friends ever
since they first met, some fifteen years before.
Finerty was an excellent surgeon and a better doctor than would have been expected
in a western town like Laird. In the hit-and-miss manner of the frontier country,
he practiced dentistry as well.
Judge Collins had studied law after leaving college, reading in the of fice of a
frontier lawyer in Missouri. Twice, back in Kansas, he had been elected justice of
the peace. In Laird his duties were diverse and in teresting. He was the local magistrate.
He married those interested, regis tered land titles and brands, and acted as a notary
and general legal advisor.
There were five men in Laird who had considerable academic educa tion. Aside from
Judge Collins and Doc Finerty there were Pierce Logan, the town's mayor and one of
the biggest ranchers; Dean Armstrong, edi tor and publisher of The Branding Iron;
and Garfield Otis, who was, to put it less than mildly, a bum.
"I'm worried, Doc," the judge said, over their coffee. "Powis was hinting again that
Finn Mahone might be rustling."
"You think he is?" "No. Do you?"
"I doubt it. Still, you know how it is out here. Anything could be possible. He does
have a good deal of money. More than he would be ex pected to have, taking it easy
like he does"
"If it was me," Doc said, "I'd look the other way. I'd look around that bunch up
around Sonntag's place."
"They are pretty bad, all right." Judge Collins looked down at his cof fee. "Dean
was telling me that Byrn Sonntag killed a man over to Rico last week."
"Another?" Doc Finerty asked. "That's three he's killed this year. What was it you
heard?"
"Dean didn't get much. He met the stage and Calkins told him. Said
330 3 2 6
the man drew, but Sonntag killed him. Two shots, right through the heart."
"He's bad. Montana Kerr and Banty Hull are little better. Miller says he can't go
after them unless they do something he knows about. If you ask me, he doesn't want
to."
Finerty finished his cup. "I don't know as I blame him. If he did we'd need another
marshal."
The door opened and they both looked up. The man who stepped in was so big he filled
the door. His hair was long and hung around his ears, and he wore rugged outdoor
clothing that, while used, was reasonably clean and of the best manufacture.
He took off his hat as he entered, and they noted the bullet hole in the flat brim
of the gray Stetson. His two guns were worn with their butts reversed for a cross
draw, for easier access while riding and to accommo date their long barrels.
"Hi, Doc! How are you, judge?" He sat down beside them.
"Hello, Finn! That mountain life seems to agree with you!" Doc said. "I'm afraid
you'll never give me any business."
Finn Mahone looked around and smiled quizzically. His lean brown face was strong,
handsome in a rugged way. His eyes were green. "I came very near cashing in for good."
He gestured at the bullet hole. "That hap pened a few days ago over in the Highbinders"
"I didn't think anybody ever went into that country but you. Who was it?" the judge
asked.
"No idea. It wasn't quite my country. I was away over east, north of the Brewster
place on the other side of Rawhide."
"Accident?" Finerty asked.
Mahone grinned. "Does it look like it? No, I think I came on some one who didn't
want to be seen. I took out. Me, I'm not mad at any body."
The door slammed open and hard little heels tapped on the floor. "Who owns that black
stallion out here?"
"I do," Finn replied. He looked up, and felt the skin tighten around his eyes. He
had never seen Remy Kastelle before. He had not even heard of her.
She was tall, and her hair was like dark gold. Her eyes were brown, her skin lightly
tanned. Finn Mahone put his coffee cup down slowly and half turned toward her.
He had rarely seen so beautiful a woman, nor one so obviously on a mission.
"I'd like to buy him!" she said. "What's your price?"
Finn Mahone was conscious of some irritation at her impulsiveness.
331 3 2 7
"I have no price," he said, "and the horse is not for sale." A trace of a smile showed
at the corners of his mouth.
"Well," she said, "I'll give you five hundred dollars."
"Not for five thousand," he said quietly. "I wouldn't sell that horse any more ...
any more than your father would sell you."
She smiled at that. "He might ... if the price was right," she said. "It might be
a relief to him!"
She brushed on by him and sat down beside judge Collins.
"Judge," she said, "what do you know about a man named Finn Mahone? Is he a rustler?"
There was a momentary silence, but before the judge could reply, Finn spoke up. "I
doubt it, ma'am. He's too lazy. Rustlin' cows is awfully hot work."
"They've been rustling cows at night," Remy declared. "If you were from around here
you would know that."
"Yes, ma'am," he said mildly, "I guess I would. Only sometimes they do it with a
runnin' iron or a cinch ring. Then they do it by day. They just alter the brands
a little with a burn here, an' more there."
Finn Mahone got up. He said, "Ma'am, I reckon if I was going to start hunting rustlers
in this country, I'd do it with a pen and ink."
He strolled outside, turning at the door as he put his hat on to look her up and
down, very coolly, very impudently. Then he let the door slam after him. Across the
room the back door of the restaurant opened as another man entered.
Remy felt her face grow hot. She was suddenly angry. "Well! Who was that?" she demanded.
"That was Finn Mahone," Doc Finerty said gently. "Oh!" Remy Kastelle's ears reddened.
"Who?" The new voice cut across the room like a pistol shot. Texas Dowd was a tall
man, as tall as Mahone or judge Collins, but lean and wiry. His gray eyes were keen
and level, his handlebar mustache dark and neatly twisted. He might have been thirty-five,
but was nearer forty-five. He stood just inside the back door.
Stories had it that Texas Dowd was a bad man with a gun. He had been in the Laird
River country but two years, and so far as anyone knew his gun had never been out
of its holster. The Laird River country was beginning to know what Remy Kastelle
and her father had found out, that Texas Dowd knew cattle. He also knew range, and
he knew men.
"Finn Mahone," Judge Collins replied, aware that the name had found acute interest.
"Know him?"
"Probably not," Dowd said. "He live around here?"
"No, back in the Highbinders. I've never seen his place, myself. They
332 3 2 8 I,0t'Iti
call it Crystal Valley. It's a rough sixty miles from here, out beyond your place."
He nodded to Remy.
"Know where the Notch is? That rift in the wall?" Collins contin ued. "Well, the
route to his place lies up that Notch. I've heard it said that no man should travel
that trail at night, and no man by day who doesn't know it. It's said to be one of
the most beautiful places in the world. Once in a while Mahone gets started talking
about it, and he can tell you things ... but that trail would make your hair stand
on end."
"He come down here often?" Dowd asked carefully.
"No. Not often. I've known three months to go by without us seeing him. His place
is closer to Rico."
"Name sounded familiar," Dowd said. He looked around at Remy. "Are you ready to go,
ma'am?"
"Mr. Dowd," Remy said, her eyes flashing, "I want that black stallion Mahone rides.
That's the finest horse I ever saw!"
"Miss Kastelle," Finerty said, "don't get an idea Mahone's any ordi nary cowhand
or rancher. He's not. If he said he wouldn't sell that horse, he meant it. Money
means nothing to him."
Judge Collins glanced at Finerty as the two went out. "Doc, I've got an idea Dowd
knows something about Finn Mahone. You notice that look in his eye?"
"Uh-huh" Doc lit a cigar. "Could be, at that. None of us know much about him. He's
been here more than a year, too. Gettin' on for two years. And he has a sight of
money."
"Now don't you be getting like Powis!" Judge Collins exclaimed. "I like the man.
He's quiet, and he minds his own business. He also knows a good thing when he sees
it. I don't blame Remy for wanting that horse. There isn't a better one in the country!"
FINN MAHONE strode up the street to the Emporium. "Four boxes of forty-four rimfire,"
he said.
He watched while Harran got down the shells, but his mind was far away. He was remembering
the girl. It had been a long time since he had seen a woman like that. Women of any
kind were scarce in this country. For a moment, he stood staring at the shells, then
he ordered a few other things, and gathering them up, went out to the black horse.
Making a neat pack of them, he lashed them on behind the saddle. Then he turned and
started across the street.
He worried there was going to be trouble. He could feel it building up all around
him. He knew there were stories being told about him, and there was that hole in
his hat. There was little animosity yet, but it would come. If they ever got back
into the Highbinders and saw how many cat tle he had, all hell would break loose.
333 3 2 9
Stopping for a moment in the sunlight in front of the Longhorn, he finished his cigarette.
"Mahone?"
He turned.
Garfield Otis was a thin man, not tall, with a scholar's face. He had been a teacher
once, a graduate of a world-famous university, a writer of intelligent but unread
papers on the Battles of Belarius and the struggle for power in France during the
Middle Ages. Now he was a hanger-on around barrooms, drunk much of the time, kept
alive by a few odd jobs and the charity of friends.
He had no intimates, yet he talked sometimes with Collins or Finerty, and more often
with young Dean Armstrong, the editor of The Branding Iron. Armstrong had read Poe,
and he had read Lowell, and had read Goethe and Heine in the original German. He
quickly sensed much of the story behind Otis. He occasionally bought him drinks,
often food.
Otis, lonely and tired, also found friendship in the person of Lettie Mason, whose
gambling hall was opposite the Town Hall, and Finn Mahone, the strange rider from
the Highbinder Hills.
"How are you, Otis?" Finn said, smiling. "Nice morning, isn't it?" "It is," Otis
responded. He passed a trembling hand over his unshaven chin. "Finn, be careful.
They are going to make trouble for you." "Who?" Finn's eyes were intent.
"I was down at Lettie's. Alcorn was there. He's one of those ranchers from out beyond
Rawhide. One of the bunch that runs with Sonntag. He said you were a rustler."
"Thanks, Otis." Finn frowned thoughtfully. "I reckoned something like that was comin'.
Who was with him?"
"Big man named Leibman. Used to be a sort of a bruiser on the docks in New York.
Lettie doesn't take to him."
"She's a good judge of men." Finn hitched up his gun belts. "Reckon I'll trail out
of town, Otis. Thanks again"
At Lettie's he might have a run-in with some of the bunch from Rawhide, and he was
not a trouble hunter. He knew what he was when aroused, and knew what could happen
in this country. Scouting the hills as he always did, he had a very good idea of
just what was going on. There was time for one drink, then he was heading out. He
turned and walked into the Longhorn.
Red Eason was behind the bar himself this morning. He looked up as Mahone entered,
and Finn noticed the change in his eyes.
"Rye," Finn said. He waited, his hands on the bar while the drink was poured. He
was conscious of low voices in the back of the saloon and glanced up. Two men were
sitting there at one of the card tables. One was a slender man of middle age with
a lean, high-boned face. He was un shaven, and his eyes were watchful. The other
was a big man, even bigger
334 3 3 0
than Mahone was himself. The man's face was wide and flat, and his nose had been
broken.
The big man got up from the table and walked toward him. At that moment the outer
door opened and Dean Armstrong came in with Doc Finerty and Judge Collins. They halted
as they saw the big man walking toward Mahone.
Armstrong's quick eyes shifted to Banty Hull. The small man was seated in a chair
half behind the corner of the bar. If Mahone turned to face the big man who Armstrong
knew to be named Leibman, his back would be toward Hull. Dean Armstrong rarely carried
a gun, but he was glad he was packing one this morning.
Leibman stopped a few feet away from Mahone. "You Finn Mahone?" he demanded. "From
back in the Highbinders?"
Mahone looked up. "That's my name. That's where I live." He saw that the other man
had shifted until he was against the wall and Leibman was no longer between them.
"Hear you got a lot of cattle back in them hills," Leibman said. "Hear you been selling
stock over to Rico."
"That's right."
"Funny thing, you havin' so many cows an' nobody knowin' about it" "Not very funny.
I don't recall that anybody from Laird has ever been back to see me. It's a pretty
rough trail. You haven't been back there, ei ther."
"No, but I been to Rico. I seen some of them cows you sold." "Nice stock," Mahone
said calmly. He knew what was coming, but Leibman wasn't wearing a gun.
"Some funny brands," Leibman said. "Looked like some of them had been altered."
"Leibman," Finn said quietly, "you came over here huntin' trouble. You'd know if
you saw any of those cattle that none of them had but one brand. You know nobody
else has seen them, so you think you can get away with an accusation and cover it
up by trouble with me.
"You want trouble? All right, you've got it. If you say there was an al tered brand
on any of those cattle, you're a liar!"
Leibman sneered. "I ain't wearin' a gun!" he said. "Talk's cheap" "Not with me, it
isn't," Mahone said. "With me talk is right expen sive. But I don't aim to mess up
Brother Eason's bar, here. Nor do I aim to let your pal Alcorn slug me from behind
or take a shot at me.
"So what we're going to do, you and me, is go outside in the street. You don't have
a gun, so you can use your hands."
Without further hesitation he turned and walked into the street. "Judge," he said
to Collins, "I'd admire if you'd sort of keep an eye on my
335 RUSTLER R O U N D U P 3 3 1
back. Here's my guns." He unbuckled his belts and passed them to the judge.
Alcorn and Banty Hull, watched by Doc Finerty and Armstrong, looked uneasily at each
other as they moved into the street. Mahone noticed the glance. This wasn't going
the way they had planned.
Leibman backed off and pulled off his shirt, displaying a hairy and powerfully muscled
chest and shoulders.
Remy Kastelle came out of the Emporium and, noticing the crowd, was starting across
the street when Pierce Logan walked up to her.
He was a tall man, perfectly dressed, suave and intelligent. "How do you do, Miss
Kastelle!" he said, smiling.
She nodded up the street. "What's going on up there?"
Logan turned quickly, and his face tightened. "Looks like a fight starting," he said.
"That's Leibman, but who can be fighting him?"
Then he saw Mahone. "It's that fellow from the Highbinders, Mahone."
"The one they're calling a rustler?" Remy turned quickly. She failed to note the
momentary, pleased response to her reference to Mahone as a rustler. Her eyes quickened
with interest. "He tricked me. I hope he takes a good beating!"
"He will!" Logan said dryly. "Leibman is a powerful brute. A roughandtumble fighter
from the East."
"I'm not so sure." Texas Dowd had walked up behind them. He was looking past them
gravely. "I think your man Leibman is in for a whipping." Logan laughed, but glanced
sharply at Dowd. He had never liked the
Lazy K foreman. He had always had an unpleasant feeling that the tall, cold cattleman
saw too much, and saw it too clearly. There was also a sound to Dowd's voice, something
in his way of talking that caught in Logan's mind. Stirred memories of ... someone.
"Wouldn't want to bet, would you?" Logan asked. "Yes, I'll bet."
Remy glanced around, surprised and puzzled. "Why, Mr. Dowd! I would never have imagined
you to be a gambling man"
"I'm not," Dowd said.
"You think it's a sure thing, then?" Logan asked, incredulously. "Yes," Dowd replied.
"Well, I think you're wrong for a hundred dollars," Logan said.
"All right." Dowd looked at Remy. "I'll be inside, buying what we
need, Miss Remy."
"Aren't you even going to watch it?" Logan demanded.
"No," Dowd said. "I've seen it before." He turned and walked into the store
336 3 3 2
"Well!" Logan looked at Remy, astonished. "That foreman of yours is a peculiar man."
"Yes." She looked after Dowd, disturbed. "He sounded like he had known something
of Mahone before. Now let's go!"
"You aren't going to watch it?" Pierce Logan was shocked in spite of himself.
"Of course! I wouldn't miss it for the world!"
FINN MAHONE KNEW FIGHTERS of Leibman's type. The man had won
many fights. He had expected Mahone to avoid the issue, but Mahone's calm acceptance
and his complete lack of excitement were disturbing the bigger man. Mahone pulled
off his shirt.
Leibman's face hardened suddenly. If ever he had looked at a trained athlete's body,
he was looking at it now. With a faint stir of doubt he real ized he was facing no
common puncher, no backwoods brawler. Then his confidence came back. He had never
been whipped, never ...
He went in with a rush, half expecting Mahone to be the boxer type who might try
to evade him. Finn Mahone had no intention of evading anything. As Leibman rushed,
he took one step in and smashed Leibman's lips into pulp with a straight left. Then
he ducked and threw a right to the body.
Stopped in his tracks, Leibman's eyes narrowed. He feinted and clubbed Mahone with
a ponderous right. Mahone took it and never even wavered, then he leaped in, punching
with both hands!
Slugging madly, neither man giving ground, they stood spraddle legged in the dust
punching with all their power. Leibman gave ground first, but it was to draw Finn
on, and when Mahone rushed, Leibman caught him with a flying mare and threw him over
his back!
Finn hit the ground in a cloud of dust, and as a roar went up from the crowd, he
leaped to his feet and smashed Leibman back on his heels with a wicked right to the
jaw. Leibman ducked under another punch and tried to throw Mahone with a rolling
hip-lock. It failed when Mahone grabbed him and they both tumbled into the dust.
Finn was up first, and stepped back, wiping the dust from his lips. Leibman charged,
and Finn sidestepped, hooking a left to the bigger man's ear.
Leibman pulled his head down behind his shoulder. Then he rushed, feinted, and hit
Mahone with a wicked left that knocked him into the dust. He went in, trying to kick,
but Finn caught his foot and twisted, throwing Leibman off balance.
Finn was on his feet then, and the two men came together and began to slug. The big
German was tough; he had served his apprenticeship in a hard school. He took a punch
to the gut, gasped a long breath, and
337 3 3 3
lunged. Then Finn stepped back and brought up a right uppercut that broke Leibman's
nose.
Finn walked in, his left a flashing streak now. It stabbed and cut, rip ping Leibman's
face to ribbons. Suddenly, Judge Collins realized some thing that few in the crowd
understood. Until now, Mahone had been playing with the big man. What happened after
that moment was sheer murder.
The left was a lancet in the shape of a fist. The wicked right smashed again and
again into Leibman's body, or clubbed his head. Once Finn caught Leibman by the arm
and twisted him sharply, at the same time bringing up a smashing right uppercut.
Punch-drunk and swaying, Leibman was a gory, beaten mass of flesh and blood.
Finn looked at him coolly, then measured him with a left and drove a right to the
chin that sounded when it hit like an ax hitting a log. Leibman fell, all in one
piece.
Without a word or a glance around, Finn walked to his saddle and picked up his shirt.
Then he dug into his saddlebags and took out a worn towel. Judge Collins came over
to him. "Better put these on first," he said.
Finn glanced at him sharply, then smiled. "I reckon I had," he said. He mopped himself
with the towel, then slid into his shirt. With the guns strapped on his lean hips,
he felt better.
His knuckles were skinned despite the hardness of his hands. He looked up at Collins.
"Looks like they were figurin' on trouble."
"That's right. There's rumors around, son. You better watch your self."
"Thanks." Mahone swung into the saddle. As he turned the horse he glanced to the
boardwalk and saw the girl watching him. Beside her was a tall, handsome man with
powerful shoulders. He smiled grimly, and turned the horse away down the street,
walking him slowly.
Texas Dowd appeared at Logan's elbow. Pierce turned and handed him a hundred dollars.
"You'd seen him fight before?" he asked.
Dowd shrugged. "Could be. He's fought before."
"Yes," Logan said thoughtfully, "he has." He glanced at Dowd again. "What do you
know about him?"
Texas Dowd's face was inscrutable. "That he's a good man to leave alone," he said
flatly.
Dowd turned stiffly and strode away. Nettled, Logan stared after him. "Where did
you find him?" he asked.
Remy smiled faintly. "He came up over the border when I was away at school. Dad liked
the way he played poker. He started working for us, and Dad made him foreman. There
was a gunman around who was making
338 3 3 4
trouble. I never really got it straight, but the gunman died. I heard Dad telling
one of the hands about it."
Behind them Texas Dowd headed down the street. He made one brief stop at Lettie Mason's
gambling hall and emerged tucking a single playing card into his breast pocket. Then
he mounted his horse and rode hard down the trail toward the Hiahbinders....
FINN MAHONE WALKED the black only to the edge of town, then broke
the stallion into a canter and rapidly put some miles behind him. Yet no matter how
far or fast he rode, he could not leave the girl behind him. He had seen Remy Kastelle,
and something about her gave him a lift, sent fire into his veins. Several times
he was on the verge of wheeling the horse and heading back.
She was his nearest neighbor, her range running right up to the Rimrock. But beyond
the Rimrock nobody ever tried to come. Finn slowed the black to a walk again, scowling
as he rode. His holdings were eighty miles from Rawhide where Alcorn and Leibman
lived. There was no reason for them jumping him, unless they needed a scapegoat.
The talk about rustling was building up, and if they could pin it on him, there were
plenty of people who would accept it as gospel.
People were always suspicious of anyone who kept to himself. Nobody knew the Highbinder
country like he did. If they had guessed he had nearly five thousand acres of top
grassland, there might have been others trying to horn in.
Crystal Valley, watered by Crystal Creek, which flowed into the Laird, was not just
one valley, it was three. In the first, where his home was, there were scarcely three
hundred acres. In the second there were more than a thousand acres, and in the third,
over three thousand. There was always water here, even in the driest weather, and
the grass always grew tall. Three times the number of cattle he now had could never
have kept it down.
High, rocky walls with very few passes made it impossible for cattle to stray. The
passes were okay for a man on foot, or in one or two cases, a man on a mountain horse,
but nothing more.
After a while he reined in and looked off across the rolling country toward the Kastelle
spread. It was a good ranch, and Remy was making it a better one. She knew cattle,
or she had someone with her who did. He smiled bitterly because he knew just who
that someone was.
Finn Mahone got down from his horse and rolled and lighted a ciga rette. As he faced
north, he looked toward the Kastelle ranch with its Lazy K brand. Southwest of him
was McInnis and his Spur outfit. The McInnis ranch was small, but well handled, and
until lately, prosperous.
East of him was the town of Laird, and south and just a short distance west of Laird,
the P Slash L ranch of Pierce Logan.
339 3 3 5
Northeast of town was Van Brewster's Lazy S, and north of that, the hamlet of Rawhide.
Rawhide was a settlement of ranchers, small ranch ers such as Banty Hull, Alcorn,
Leibman, Ringer Cobb, Ike Hibby, Frank Salter, and Montana Kerr. It was also the
hangout of Byrn Sonntag.
He had not been joking when he suggested the best way to look for rustlers was with
a pen and ink. There are few brands that cannot be altered, and it was a curious
thing that the brands of the small group of cattlemen who centered in Rawhide could
be changed very easily into Brewster's Lazy S or McInnis's Spur.
Finn Mahone was a restless man. There was little to do on his range much of the time,
so when not reading or working around the place, he rode. And his riding had taken
him far eastward along the ridge of the Highbinders, eastward almost as far as Rawhide.
Mounting, Finn turned the stallion toward the dim trail that led toward the Notch.
It was a trail not traveled but by himself. A trail no one showed any desire to follow
Ahead of him a Joshua tree thrust itself up from the plain. It was a lone sentinel,
the only one of its kind in many miles. He glanced at it and was about to ride by
when something caught his eye. He reined the horse around and rode closer. Thrust
into the fiber of the tree was a playing card. A hole had been shot through each
corner.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he said. "Texas Dowd. He finally figured out I was here-"
His comment to the stallion stopped abruptly, and he re placed the card, looking
at it thoughtfully. Then, on a sudden inspiration, he wheeled the stallion and rode
off fifty feet or so, then turned the horse again. His hand flashed and a gun was
in it. He fired four times as rapidly as he could trigger the gun. Then he turned
the horse and rode away.
There were four more holes in the card, just inside the others. A mes sage had been
sent, and now the reply given.
THE GREAT WALL of the Rimrock loomed up on his left. It was a sheer, impossible precipice
from two to six hundred feet high and running for all of twelve miles. For twenty
miles farther there was no way over except on foot. It was wild country across the
Rim, and not even Finn Mahone had ever explored it thoroughly.
Straight ahead was the great rift in the wall. Sheer rock on one side, a steep slope
on the other. Down the bottom ran the roaring, brawling Laird River, a tumbling rapids
with many falls. The trail to Crystal Valley skirted the stream and the sheer cliff.
Eight feet wide, it narrowed to four, and ran on for three miles, never wider than
that.
After that it crossed the Laird three times, then disappeared at a long shale bank
that offered no sign of a trail. The shale had a tendency to shift and slide at the
slightest wrong move. It was that shale bank that defeated
340 3 3 6 L O U I S
ingress to the valley. There was a way across. An outlaw had shown it to Finn, and
he'd heard it from an Indian.
By sighting on the white blaze of a tree, and a certain thumblike pro jection of
rock, one could make it across. Beneath the shale at this point there was a shelf
of solid rock. A misstep and one was off into loose shale that would start to slide.
It slid, steeper and steeper, for three hundred yards, then plunged off, a hundred
feet below, into a snarl of lava pits.
Once across the slides, the trail was good for several miles, then wound through
a confusion of canyons and washes. At the end one rode through a narrow stone bottleneck
into the paradise that was Crystal Valley.
Finn Mahone dismounted at the Rimrock, and led his horse to the edge of the river.
While the black was drinking, he let his eyes roam through the trees toward the Notch,
then back over the broad miles of the Lazy K.
Remy Kastelle. The name made music in his mind. He remembered the flash of her eyes,
her quick, capable walk.
The sun was warm, and he sat down on the bank of the stream and watched the water.
Until now he had known peace, and peace was the one thing most to be desired. His
cattle grew fat on the grassy valley lands, there were beaver and mink to be trapped,
deer to be hunted. Occasionally, a little gold to be panned from corners and bends
of the old creek bank. It had been an easy, happy, but lonely life.
It would be that no longer. For months now he had seen the trouble building in Laird
Valley. He had listened to the gossip of ranch hands in Rico, the cattle buyers and
the bartenders. He had heard stories of Byrn Sonntag, of Montana Kerr, of Ringer
Cobb.
Simple ranchers? He had smiled at the idea. No man who knew the Big Bend country
would ever suggest that, nor any man who had gone up the trail to Dodge and Hays.
They were men whose names had leg ends built around them, men known for ruthless
killing.
Frank Salter was just as bad. Lean and embittered, Salter had ridden with Quantrill's
guerrillas, then he had trailed west and south. He had killed a man in Dimmit, another
in Eagle Pass. He was nearly fifty now, but a sour, unhappy man with a rankling hatred
for everything successful, everything peaceful.
Of them all, Sonntag was the worst. He was smooth, cold-blooded, with nerves like
chilled steel. He had, the legends said, killed twenty seven men.
Looking on from a distance Mahone had the perspective to see the truth. Until lately,
there had been no suspicion of rustling. No tracks had been found; there had reportedly
been no mysterious disappearances of cattle. The herds had been weeded patiently
and with intelligence.
341 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 3 7
Abraham McInnis suddenly awakened to the realization that the thou sand or more cattle
he had believed to be in the brakes were not there. The rustlers had carefully worked
cattle down on the range so there would always be cattle in sight. They had taken
only a few at a time, and they had never taken a cow without its calf, and vice versa.
McInnis had gone to town and met with Brewster, and Van had re turned to his own
ranch. For three days he covered it as he had not cov ered it since the last roundup.
At the very least, he was missing several hundred head of cattle. The same was true
of Collins, the Kastelles, and Pierce Logan.
All of this was known to Finn Mahone. Stories got around in cattle country, and he
was a man who listened much and remembered what he heard. Moreover, he could read
trail sign like most men could read a newspaper.
He mounted the stallion and started over the trail for Crustal Valley.
PIERCE LOGAN WAS DISTURBED. He was a cool, careful man who rarely made mistakes.
He had moved the outlaws into Rawhide, had made sure they all had small holdings,
had given them their brands. Then he had en gineered, from his office in town and
his ranch headquarters, the careful job of cattle theft that had been done. Byrn
Sonntag was a man who would listen, and Byrn was a man who could give orders. The
stealing had been so carefully done that it had been going on for a year before the
first rumbles of suspicion were heard.
Even then, none of that suspicion was directed toward Rawhide. When Rawhide ranchers
came to Laird they were quiet and well be haved. In Rawhide they had their own town,
their own saloon, and when they felt like a bust, they went, under orders, to Rico.
Logan had understood that sooner or later there would be trouble. He had carefully
planned what to do beforehand. He had dropped hints here and there about Finn Mahone,
choosing him simply because he lived alone and consequently was a figure of mystery
and some suspicion. He had never mentioned Finn's name in connection with rustling.
Only a couple of times he had wondered aloud what he found to do all the time, and
elsewhere he had commented that whatever he did, it seemed to pay well.
Pierce Logan had seen Mahone but once before, and that time from a distance. He had
no animosity toward him, choosing the man cold bloodedly because he was the best
possible suspect.
His plan was simple. When Mahone was either shot, hung for rustling, or run out of
the country, the pressure would be off, the ranchers would relax, and his plans could
continue for some time before suspicion built up again. If in the process of placing
the blame on Mahone he could remove
342 3 3 8
some of the competition from the picture, so much the better. He had a few plans
along those lines.
His was not a new idea. It was one he had pondered upon a good deal before he came
west to Laird. He had scouted the country with care, and then had trusted the gathering
of the men to Sonntag.
Everything had gone exactly as planned. His seeds of suspicion had fallen on fertile
soil, and his rustlers had milked the range of over five thousand head of cattle
before questions began to be asked. No big bunches had been taken, and he had been
careful to leave no bawling cows or calves on the range. The cattle had been shoved
down on the open country on the theory that as long as plenty of cattle were in sight,
few questions would be asked.
Two things disturbed him now. One of them was the fact that Finn Mahone had proved
to be a different type of man than he had believed. He had defeated Leibman easily
and thoroughly, and in so doing had become something of a local hero. Moreover, the
way he had done it had proved to Logan that he was not any ordinary small-time rancher,
to be tricked and deluded. Also, despite himself, he was worried by what Dowd had
said.
The unknown is always disturbing. Although he and Dowd had little to do with one
another, Texas Dowd had the reputation of being a tough and capable man. The fact
that he knew Mahone and had referred to him as dangerous worried Logan. In his foolproof
scheme, he might have bagged some game he didn't want.
The second disturbing factor was Texas Dowd himself. Pierce Logan's easy affability,
his personality, his money, and his carefully planned influ ence made no impression
on Dowd. Logan knew this, and also knew that Dowd was suspicious of him. He doubted
that Dowd had any reason for his suspicion. Yet, any suspicion was a dangerous thing.
Pierce Logan had been careful to see that some of his own cattle were rustled. He
had deliberately planned that. It made no difference to him how they were sold; he
got a big share of the money in any event, and it paid to avoid suspicion. Also,
he had gone easy on the Lazy K, because Texas Dowd was a restless rider, a man forever
watching his grazing land, forever noticing cattle. Also, Pierce Logan was pretty
sure he would some day own the Lazy K.
Along with his plans for the Laird Valley, two other things were known only to Pierce
Logan. One was that he was himself a fast man with a gun, with nine killings behind
him. The second was that he could handle his fists.
He had seen Leibman fight before, and had always been quite sure he could whip him,
if need be. Until today he had never seen a man he was not positive he could beat.
Finn Mahone was a puzzle. Especially as he
343 RUSTLER R O U N D L P 3 3 9
noted that Finn had never let himself go with Leibman. He had toyed with him, making
a fight of it and obviously enjoying himself. Then sud denly, dramatically, he had
cut him down.
Pierce Logan made his second decision that night. Earlier, he had de cided that Dowd
must be killed. That night he decided that his plans for Finn Mahone must be implemented
quickly. Mahone must be used and then removed from the scene, thoroughly.
He got up and put on his wide white hat, then strolled out on the boardwalk, pausing
to light a cigarette. It was a few minutes after sundown, and almost time to go to
supper at Ma Boyle's. His gray eyes shifted, and saw the man dismounting behind the
livery stable.
Logan finished his smoke, then stepped down off the porch and walked across to the
stable. His own gray nickered when it saw him, and he walked in, putting a hand on
the horse's flank. Byrn Sonntag was in the next stall.
Speaking softly, under his breath, Logan said, "Watch when Mahone makes his next
shipment. Then get some altered brands into them and let me know as soon as it's
done."
"Sure," Sonntag said. He passed over a sheaf of bills to Logan. "I al ready taken
my cut," Sonntag said.
Logan felt a sharp annoyance, but stilled it. "Dowd," he said, "looks like trouble.
Better have one of the boys take care of it."
Sonntag was quiet for a minute, then he replied, "Yeah, an' it won't be easy. Dowd's
hell on wheels with a gun."
Pierce Logan left the barn and walked slowly down the street. He scowled. It was
the first time he had ever heard Sonntag hesitate over any thing.
BYRN SONNTAG WAS PLEASED beyond measure when he encountered Mexie Roberts in the
Longhorn. He passed him the word, then went on and sat in on a poker game. When the
game broke up several hours later he was a winner by some two hundred dollars.
Mexie Roberts joined him on the trail. He was a slight, brown man with a sly face.
"You know Texas Dowd?" Sonntag demanded.
"Si. " Roberts studied Sonntag. "Kill him."
"How much?"
Sonntag hesitated. Then he drew out his winnings. "Two hundred," he said, "for a
clean job ... one hundred now."
344 340
CHAPTER
The Rimrock that divided the open range of Laird Valley from Mahone's holdings was
almost as steep and difficult to scale from the inside. Finn Mahone had often studied
the mountains, and knew there was an old, long-unused path that seemed to lead toward
the crest. His black stallion was a mountain-bred horse, and he took the trail without
hesitation.
The steep mountainside was heavily timbered with pine, mingled with cedar and manzanita.
The earth under the trees was buried deep un der years and years of pine needles,
except where here and there rock cropped out of the earth: the rough granite fingers
of the mountain.
Several times he reined in to let the stallion breathe easier, and while resting
the horse, he turned in the saddle to study the land around him. Below him, stretched
out like something seen in a dream, were the three links in the Crystal Valley chain,
and along the bottom the tumbling silver of Crystal Creek.
His stone cabin, built in a cleft of the mountain, was invisible from here, but he
could just see the top of the dead pine that towered above the forest to mark the
opening into the trail to Rico. It was a trail rarely used except when he drove his
cattle to the railroad siding in the desert town.
Rico was as turbulent as Laird was peaceful, and it was a meeting ground of the cattlemen
from Laird, the sheep men from the distant Ruby Hills, and the miners who worked
a few claims in the Furbelows. Rico had no charms for Finn Mahone, and he avoided
the town and the consequences of trouble there.
His occasional visits to Laird had built friendships. He had come to enjoy his contacts
with judge Collins, Doc Finerty, Dean Armstrong, and Otis.
Big, quiet, and slow to make friends, he had bought drinks for and accepted drinks
from these men, and had, at the insistence of Otis, gone around to see Lettie Mason.
Her house of entertainment was frowned upon by the respectable, but offered all Laird
possessed in the way of the ater and gambling. Lettie had heard Mahone was in town
and sent Otis to bring him to call.
She was a woman of thirty-four who looked several years younger. She had lived in
Richmond, New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans, and had for eight years of her
life been married to a man of old but im poverished family who had turned to gambling
as a business.
Lettie Mason had met three of the men in Laird before she came west. Two of these
were Finn Mahone and Texas Dowd, and the third was Pierce Logan.
345 RUSTLER R O U N D U P 3 4 1
Since her arrival she had been in the company of Logan many times, and he had never
acknowledged their previous meeting. After some time Lettie became convinced that
he had forgotten the one night they met. It was not surprising, since he had been
focused on the cards that her husband had been holding and she was introduced by
her married name. Dowd was a frequent visitor at the rambling frame house across
from the combination city hall and jail, but Mahone had been there only twice.
One other man in Laird knew a little about Lettie Mason. That man was Garfield Otis,
who probably knew her better than all the rest. Otis, lonely, usually broke, and
always restless, found in her the understanding and warmth he needed. She fed him
at times, gave him drinks more rarely, and confided in him upon all subjects. She
was an intelligent, astute woman who knew a good deal about men and even more about
business.
Finn Mahone, riding the mountainside above Crystal Valley, could look upon Laird
with detachment. Consequently, his perspective was better. In a town where he had
no allegiances and few friendships, he could see with clarity the shaping and aligning
of forces. He was a man whom life had left keenly sensitive to impending trouble,
and as he had seen it develop before, he knew the indications.
Until the fight with Leibman, he had believed he was merely a nottooinnocent bystander.
Now he knew he was, whether he liked it or not, a participant. Behind the rising
tide of trouble in the Laird basin there appeared to be a shrewd intelligence, the
brain of a man or woman who knew what he or she wanted and how to get it.
Understanding nothing of that plan, Mahone could still detect the tightening of strings.
Some purpose of the mind behind the trouble demanded that he, Finn Mahone, be marked
as a rustler and eliminated.
He was nearing the crest and the trail had leveled off and emerged from the pine
forest.
He must have another talk with Lettie. He knew her of old, and knew she was aware
of all that happened around her, that men talked in her presence and she listened
well. They had met in New Orleans in one of those sudden contacts deriving from the
war. He had found her taking shelter in a doorway during a riot, and escorted her
home. She was, he learned, making a success of gambling where her husband had failed.
He had died, leaving her with little, but that little was a small amount of cash
and a knowledge of gambling houses.
Her husband, who had drawn too slow in an altercation with another gambler, had tried
to beat the game on his own. Lettie won a little, and then bought into a gambling
house, preferring the house percentage to the risk of a single game. Kindhearted,
yet capable and shrewd, she made money swiftly.
346 3 4 2
Finn reined in suddenly and spoke softly to the stallion. Before him was a little
glade among the trees, a hollow where the water from a small stream gathered before
trickling off into a rippling brook that eventually reached Crystal Creek. A man
was coming out of the trees and walking down to the stream. The man lay down beside
the stream and drank. Dismounting, Finn held the big horse motionless and stood behind
a tree, watching.
When the man arose, Finn saw that he was an Indian, no longer young. Two braids fell
over his shoulders from under the battered felt hat, and there was a knife and a
pistol on his belt.
The Indian looked around slowly, then turned and started back toward the woods. Yet
some sense must have warned him he was being watched, for he stopped suddenly and
turned to stare back in Finn's di rection.
Moving carefully, Finn stepped from behind the tree and mounted his horse. Then he
walked the horse down into the glade and toward the Indian.
The fellow stood there quietly, his black eyes steady, watching Finn approach. "How
Kola?" Finn gave the Sioux greeting because he knew no other. He reined in. "Is your
camp close by?"
The Indian gestured toward the trees, then turned and led the way. Sticks had been
gathered for a fire, and some blankets were dropped on the ground. Obviously, the
Indian had just arrived. Two paint ponies stood under the trees, and the Indian's
new rifle, a Winchester, leaned against a tree.
Finn took out his tobacco and tossed it to the Indian. "Traveling far?" "Much far."
The Indian dug an old pipe from his pocket and stoked it with tobacco, then he gestured
toward the valley. "Your house?"
"Yes, my house, my cows."
The Indian lit his pipe and smoked without speaking for several min utes. Finn rolled
a cigarette and lighted it, waiting. The Indian nodded toward the valley. "My home
... once. Long time no home."
"You've come back, huh?" Finn took his cigarette from his lips and looked at the
glowing end. "Plenty of beaver here. Why not stay?"
The Indian turned his head to look at him. "Your home now," he suggested.
"Sure," Mahone said. "But there's room enough for both of us. You don't run cattle,
I don't trap beaver. You and me, friends, huh?"
The Indian studied the proposition. "Sure," he said, after a while. "Friends." Then
he added, "Me Shoshone Charlie."
"My name's Finn Mahone." He grinned at the Indian. "You been to Rawhide ... the little
town?"
"Rawhide no good. Rico no good. Plenty bad white man. Too much shootin'." Charlie
nodded. "Already see two white man, ride much along
347 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 4 3
big river. One white man tall, not much meat, bad cut like so." He indi cated a point
over the eye. "Other white man short, plenty thick. Bay pony?
Frank Salter and Banty Hull. They had been scouting the upper Laird River Canyon.
That was on this side of Rico, and beyond the Rimrock from the Laird Valley. It was
far off their own range. If they were scouting along there, the chances were they
were looking for the route he took to Rico on his cattle drives. He forded the river
in the bottom of that canyon.
"Thanks. Those men are plenty bad." Mahone watched the light changing on the mountainside
across the Crystal Valley. The Indian knew plenty, and given time, might talk. He
had a feeling he had won a friend in the old man.
"I'm headin' back," he said, "after a bit. Suppose you need sugar, to bacco? You
come to see me. Plenty of coffee, too. I always have some in the pot, and if I'm
not home, you get a cup and have some. Better not go into Rawhide, unless you have
to." The Indian watched him as he rode away.
He was restless, knowing things were coming to a head. It disturbed him that Remy
thought of him as a rustler. The girl had stirred him more deeply than he liked to
admit. Yet, even as he thought of that, he knew it went further. She was so much
the sort of person he had always wanted.
If he had read the bullet-marked playing card right, Texas Dowd fi nally knew he
was on the range. The fact that he was riding for her would account for the excellent
cattle she had, and the condition of her grass. In his months of riding the Highbinders,
he had watched with interest the shifting of the Lazy K cattle. The ground was never
grazed too long, and the cattle were moved from place to place with skill instead
of allowing them to range freely. They had been shifted to the lowlands during the
spring months and then, as hotter weather drew near, moved back where there was shade
and greener grass from subirrigated land near the hills.
Dowd would know that Finn Mahone was no rustler, whatever else he might think of
him.
Once home, he stabled his horse, gave it a brisk rub-down, and went into the house.
After a leisurely supper he brewed an extra pot of coffee, hot and black, and sat
down by the lamp. He picked up a book, but found himself thinking instead of the
girl with golden hair who had watched his fight from the boardwalk. He recalled the
flash of her eyes as he had told her he refused to sell the stallion. He sighed,
and settled in to a few hours of reading.
IN THE RAMBLING ADOBE HOUSE on the Lazy K, Remy walked into the spacious, high-ceilinged
living room, and sat down. "Dad," she asked suddenly, "have you ever heard of a man
named Mahone?"
348 3 4 4
Frenchy Kastelle sat up in his chair and put his book down. He was a lean, aristocratic
man with white hair at his temples and dark, intelligent eyes. He was French mixed
with California Spanish, and he had lived on the San Francisco waterfront in exciting
and dangerous times. Finally, he had gone into the cattle business in Texas.
His knowledge of cattle was sketchy, but he got into a country where there was free
range, and made the most of it. Yet he was just puttering along and breaking even
when Texas Dowd rode over the border on a spent horse. The two became friends, and
he hired the taciturn Texan as foreman. Few better cattlemen lived, and the ranch
prospered, but new comers began crowding in, and at Dowd's suggestion, they abandoned
the ranch and moved westward to the distant Laird River Valley.
The route had been rough, and not unmarked with incident. Texas Dowd had proved himself
a fighting man as well as a cattleman.
Frenchy knew how to appreciate a fighting man. Casual and easygo ing in bearing,
he was a wizard with cards and deadly with a gun. He was, he confessed, a man who
loved his leisure. He was willing enough to leave his ranch management to the superior
abilities and energies of Remy and Dowd.
He looked at his daughter with interest. For the past two years he had been aware
that she was no longer a child, that she was a young lady with a mind of her own.
He had looked at first with some disquiet, being en tirely foreign to the problem
of what to do about a young lady who was blossoming into such extravagant womanhood.
This was the first time she had ever manifested anything more than casual interest
in any man, although Frenchy was well aware that Pierce Logan had been taking her
to dances in Laird.
"Mahone?" He closed his book and placed it on the table. "Isn't he that chap who
lives back in the mountains? Buys a lot of books, I hear" He studied his daughter
shrewdly. "Why this sudden interest?"
"Oh, nothing. Only there was a fight today, and this Mahone fellow whipped that brute
Leibman from over at Rawhide. Gave him an awful beating."
"Whipped Leibman?" Kastelle was incredulous. "I'd like to have seen that. Leibman
used to fight on the coast, rough-and-tumble fights for a prize. He was a bruiser."
"Dowd won money on Mahone, and from the way he acts I think he knows something about
him. He seemed so sure that he would beat Leibman."
11 Then why not ask him?" Kastelle suggested.
"I know, Dad," she protested, "but he won't tell me anything. As far as that goes,
I don't even know anything about Dowd!"
"Well, it is sometimes best not to ask too much about a man; judge
349 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 4 5
him by his actions . . . that's a courtesy that I have taken advantage of as
much as anyone. Texas Dowd is the best damned cattleman that ever
came west of the Mississippi, and that includes Jesse Chisholm, Shanghai Pierce,
or any of them! What more do you want?"
"What do you know about him?" Remy demanded. "What did he
do before he came to us? He had been shot, but who had done it? Who,
in all this world, could make Texas Dowd run?"
"
A man may run from Kastelle shrugged and lifted his eyebrows.
many things, Remy. He may run from fear of killing as much as fear of
death. Fewer run for that reason, but a good man might.
"I've never asked him any questions and he hasn't volunteered any thing. However,
there are a few things one may deduce. He's been in the army at some time, as one
can see by the way he sits a horse and carries his shoulders. He's been in more than
one fight, as he is too cool in the face of trouble not to have had experience.
"Moreover, he's been around a lot. He knows New Orleans and Natchez, for instance.
He also knows something about St. Louis and Kansas City, and he's hunted buffalo.
Also, he knows a good deal about Mexico and speaks Spanish fluently. We know all
these things, but what is important is that he is not only our foreman but our friend.
He has shown us that, and that is the only thing that has any real meaning."
Remy walked out on the wide flagstone terrace in front of the ranch house. The stars
were very bright, and the breeze was cool. Looking off in the distance she could
see the dark loom of the Highbinders, jagged along the skyline. She tried to tell
herself she was only interested in Mahone because of that magnificent horse, but
she knew it was untrue.
She detected a movement near the corrals, and saw Dowd's white shirt. She left the
terrace and walked toward him across the hard-packed earth of the yard. "Texas!"
she called.
He turned, a lean, broad-shouldered figure, the moonlight silver on his hat. "Howdy,
Remy," he said. "Out late, ain't you?"
"Texas," she demanded abruptly, "what do you know about Finn Mahone?" Then hastily,
to cover up-"I mean, is he a rustler?"
Texas Dowd drew on his cigarette, and it glowed brightly. "No, ma'am, I don't guess
he is. Howsoever, men change. He wouldn't have been once, but he might be now. But
offhand, I'd say no. I'd have to be shown proof before I'd believe it."
"Where did you know him?"
"Don't rightly recall saying I did," Dowd said. "Maybe it was just a name that sounded
familiar. Maybe he just looked like somebody I used to know."
"Where?" she persisted.
"Remy," Dowd said slowly, "I want to tell you something. You stay
350 3 4 6
clear of Finn Mahone! He's a dangerous man, as dangerous to women in some respects
as he is to men! I don't believe there's a man on this range could face him with
a gun unless it was Byrn Sonntag."
"Not even you?"
He dropped his cigarette and toed it into the dust. "I don't know, Remy," he said
quietly. He drew a long breath. "The hell of it is," he said, sighing bitterly, "I
may have to find out."
He turned abruptly and walked away from her toward the bunkhouse. She started to
speak, then hesitated, staring after him.
REMY KASTELLE PRACTICALLY LIVED in the saddle. Her white mare,
Roxie, loved exploring as much as she did, but in the next few days Remy studiously
avoided the wide ranges toward the Highbinders in the west. But, time and again she
would find her eyes straying toward the high pin nacle that marked the entrance to
the Notch.
Then one day she mounted and turned her horse toward the Rimrock. As she drew closer,
her eyes lifted toward the great red wall of the mountain. It was like nothing she
had ever seen. In all her riding she had never come this far to the west, although
she was aware that Lazy K cattle fed as far as the wall itself.
When she drew near, she turned the mare and rode along toward the Notch. She was
riding in that direction when she saw the bullet-marked card on the Joshua tree.
Curiously, she stared at it. This was not the first time she had seen a card with
the corners drilled by bullets. Many times she had seen Texas Dowd shoot in just
that way. It was the first time she had ever seen the other four bullet holes. She
studied the card for a while, then shrugged and rode on. It meant nothing to her.
She rode on, and the sun was warm in her face. She knew she should be turning back,
but was determined to see the Notch at close hand. A shoulder of the rock jutted
out before her and she rounded it, and the air was suddenly filled with the rushing
roar of the Laird River. To her left was a dim trail up through the pines. Scarcely
thinking what she was do ing she turned the white mare up the trail into the Notch.
Remy told herself she was riding this way because she wanted to see the Notch, and
because she was curious about Crystal Valley. Carefully, she kept her mind away from
Finn Mahone. The tall rider could mean noth ing to her. He was just another small
rancher, and a brawler in the bargain.
Yet Dowd's warning, and his obvious respect for Mahone, stuck in her mind. Who was
Finn Mahone? What was he?
The trail dipped suddenly and she hesitated. Only eight feet wide here, and a sheer
drop off to her right. The tracks of Mahone's stallion showed plainly. "If he did
it, I can!" she told herself, and spoke to the horse. They moved on, and the trail
narrowed, almost imperceptibly. Roxie shied ner
351 3 4 7
vously at the depth to her right, and Remy bit her lip thoughtfully as she studied
the trail. It would be impossible to turn around now For better or worse, she must
keep going.
When the narrow trail finally ended she was nearing the bank of the Laird. She had
heard that three crossings must be made, and she hesitated again, looking at the
sky. There was going to be little time. The thought of going back over the trail
in the dark frightened her.
She forded the Laird and rode up the opposite bank. The side from which she had just
come was sheer cliff, towering upward to a height of nearly four hundred feet. The
trail was narrow but solid, some fifteen feet above the tumbling Laird.
The country was wild and picturesque. In all her life she had never seen such magnificent
heights of sheer rock, nor such roaring beauty as the rushing rapids below her. Tall
trees towered against the sky, and when there was a glade or open hillside on her
right the grass was green and thick. Entranced by the sheer beauty, she rode on,
passing a waterfall that let the Laird go rolling over its brink in a smooth, glassy
stream of power, thundering to the stones thirty feet below.
This was the country of which she had heard, the country that was almost unknown
to the outside world. She pressed on, forgetful of the dwindling afternoon, and thinking
only of the beauty of the landscape. She forded the Laird again, a swift, silent
stream this time, and her road came out under great trees, turning the afternoon
into a dim twilight as though she rode through a magnificent cathedral of towering
columns.
Roxie was as interested as she herself, the mare's ears forward, twitch ing and curious.
They continued, came out in a steep-walled canyon, and forded the stream for the
third time. Again it was white water, but slower than below. The trail took her out
of the canyon then, and across a valley of some fifty acres, the river, wider and
deeper, was backed up behind a natural dam until there was a small lake among the
trees. A bird flew up from the water, but she caught only a glimpse and could not
identify it.
Then suddenly the trail channeled again and she was in another narrow-mouthed canyon.
Great crags leaned over the trail here, and the river was no longer near, but had
taken a turn away to the right. Then, riding out of the canyon, she stopped, staring
across the first of the dreaded shale banks.
Evening had come, although it was still light, and there was no sound but the soft
whisper of the wind in the trees. This was a lonely land, a land where nothing seemed
to move, nothing seemed to stir, not even a leaf.
Looking up, she saw the long, steep slide of shale, and looking down, she saw that
the shale disappeared in growing darkness below But when she looked off to the right
now, there was no canyon wall, no river. There
352 3 4 8
was only a vast and empty silence, and the somber shadows of twilight ly ing over
a gloomy desert. These were the lava pits, a trackless, lifeless re gion of blowholes
and jagged rock. It lay below her, something like a hundred feet below.
Roxie shied at the bank, and backed away nervously. There was a route across. That
much Remy knew. Yet how it went, or how one knew where to enter, she could not guess.
Hopelessness overwhelmed her, and anger, too. Anger at herself for failing now, and
for persisting so long.
Fortunately, they would not be worried at home. She often rode to the McInnis ranch,
or to Brewster's. Occasionally, she stayed all night. But the thought of staying
in this lonely place at night frightened her. She did not want to turn around, yet
the slate bank was appalling in its silent un certainty.
Dismounting, she walked up to it, and stepped in with a tentative foot. Her boot
sank, and almost at once the shale began to slide under her feet. She drew back,
pale and disturbed.
Roxie pulled back nervously; the mare was obviously afraid and wanted none of it.
Standing there, trying to make up her mind, Remy was suddenly startled.
A horseman was riding out of the darkness on the far side, and he rode now up to
the edge of the awful drop-off into the lava pits. From across the distance she could
hear he was singing, some low, melancholy song.
Remy stood still, her heart caught suddenly by the loneliness of the man, and the
low, dreaming voice made the night seem suddenly alive with sadness. Stirred, she
stood still, her lips parted as though to call, watching, and listening. It was only
when he turned his horse to ride on that she became aware of herself.
She called out, and the man reined in his horse suddenly, and turned, listening.
Then she called again. "Hey, over there! How do I get across?" "What the devil?"
It was Mahone. The realization made her eyes
widen a little. "Who is it?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?" "It's Remy Kastelle!"
she said. "I started for a look at Crystal Valley! Can you help me over?"
He sat his horse, staring across the way, his face no more than a light spot in the
darkness. She could almost imagine him swearing, and then he moved his horse to a
new position. "All right," he called, "start toward me. Come straight along until
I tell you to stop. How's that mare of yours? Is she skittish?"
"A little," Remy admitted, "but I think she'll be all right." "Then come on."
Roxie hesitated, put a hoof into the shale, and snorted. Remy spoke soothingly, and
the mare quieted. Mahone called again, and the sight of
353 3 4 9
the stallion on the other side of the bank seemed to encourage the white mare. Gingerly,
she moved into the slate. It sank sickeningly, then seemed to reach solid footing.
Stepping with infinite care, the mare moved on.
When they had gone something over twenty yards, Mahone called to her, and she reined
in.
"Now be very careful!" he shouted. "See that tall pine up there? Turn her head and
ride that way. Count her steps, and when she has gone thirty steps, stop her again."
Her heart pounding, Remy spoke to the mare, and Roxie moved out, very slowly. This
was a climb, and the shale slid around her hooves. Once the mare slipped and seemed
about to fall, but scrambled and got her feet under her once more.
When they had gone thirty steps, Mahone called again. When she looked, she saw he
had shifted position. "Now ride right to me!" he said. It was so dark now she could
make him out only by his face and the
brightness of some of the studs on the stallion's bridle. She turned again, and after
stumbling and sliding for another fifty yards, the mare scrambled onto solid earth
and stopped, trembling in every limb.
Remy slid to the ground and her knees melted under her. "I wouldn't do that again,"
she protested, "for all the money in the world! How do you ever live in such a place?"
Mahone laughed. "I like it!" he said. "Wait until you see Crystal Valley!"
She started to get up and he helped her. The touch of his hand made her start, and
she looked up at him in the darkness, just distinguishing the outline of his face.
She sensed his nearness and moved back, strangely dis turbed. Something about this
man did things to her, and she was angered by it.
"But what will we do?" she protested. "Isn't there another slide? Longer than this?"
He grinned and nodded. She saw his white teeth in the darkness. "Yes, there is, but
I'll put a rope on your saddle horn for luck and lead the mare by the bridle reins."
"Are you trying to frighten me?" she flared.
"No, not a bit. If you were riding ahead of me, and my horse didn't know the trail,
I'd want your rope on my saddle horn. This next slide is a dilly!"
They started on, and he rode rapidly, eager to get the last of the dim light. The
sky was still a little gray. When they reached the edge of the slide it was abysmally
dark. He reined in abruptly. "Too dark," he told her. "We'll get off and wait until
the moon comes up. It should be over the rim in about an hour. By moonlight we can
make it."
He walked over to some trees and tied the two horses loosely.
354 3 5 0
Gathering some sticks, he built a fire. When the dry sticks blazed up, he looked
across at her and grinned. "Seems sort of strange. This is the first time a woman's
ever crossed that slate bank, unless it was some Indian."
Remy looked at him gravely, then stretched her hands toward the fire. Surprisingly,
the evening was quite cool, and the air was damp. Mahone knelt beside the fire and
fed dry sticks into it, then looked up at her. "Your name is Kastelle?" he said.
"It's an odd name. It has a ring to it, somehow"
"Perhaps you knew my father?" she suggested. "Before we came here we lived in Texas,
and before that he was a gambler in San Francisco, what used to be called the Barbary
Coast. They called him Frenchy."
He was looking at the fire. "Frenchy Kastelle?" He shook his head thoughtfully. "Seems
like I would remember."
"I gathered from what my foreman said today that you know him." Remy leaned back,
looking at the fire. "His name is Texas Dowd."
"Did this Dowd say he knew me?"
"No, he didn't, but he won money on your fight. He won a bet from Pierce Logan. Logan
was sure Leibman would win."
"This Pierce Logan must know Leibman," Mahone commented. "No man risks his money
on a stranger."
It was something she had not considered. Still, Logan got around a good deal, and
he might have met the big German. But she was not to be turned from her main interest.
"That's why I thought Dowd knew you. He seemed so sure."
"He might know me. In cattle country men get to know others by name lots of times,
or maybe you meet in a bar, or in passing."
"Were you ever in Mexico?" It was a shot in the dark, but she noticed that Finn picked
up a stick and began poking the fire. Why, she could not have guessed, but suddenly
she felt she had touched the nerve of the whole story.
"Mexico? I reckon most every man who lives along the border gets into Mexico. Right
pretty country ... some of it. Fine folks, too."
They were silent for a moment.
"What's it like in there?" Remy indicated the trail toward Crystal Valley. "Like
a little bit of heaven," he said. "Quiet, peaceful, green ... the most beautiful
spot I ever saw. There's something about living back in these hills that gives a
man time to think, to consider. Then, I like to read. Back there I can sit on my
porch for hours, or over a fire in the cabin, and read all I like."
"How about your cattle? Don't you ever work them?"
He shrugged, and poked thoughtfully at the fire. "They aren't much trouble," he said.
"No other cattle can get to them. I brand the calves while out riding around. Carry
a running iron with me all the time. That way the work never gets much behind."
355 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 5 1
He stood up. "The moon's higher. We'd better go."
Remy knew one thing. She would never forget that night ride across that mile of treacherous
shale. It was a ride she would never want to make alone, even by day. Yet she was
dozing in her saddle and half asleep when they pulled up at the cabin.
"Go on in," he said. "I'll put up the horses."
She went up the steps and opened the door. It was dark but warm in side. She was
struck at once by that warmth. An empty house, empty for hours on a chill night,
shouldn't have been warm. She struck a light, and saw the candle on the table. When
she lighted it, she turned slowly, half expecting to see someone in the room, but
it was empty.
Puzzled, she walked to the fireplace and, with the poker, stirred the coals. They
glowed red. Then she saw the coffeepot and, stooping, touched it with her hand. It
was warm, almost hot.
She straightened then, and looked around. The room was small, but comfortable, having
none of the usual marks of bachelor quarters. Surprisingly, it was neat. The few
clothes she saw were hung on pegs, the pots and pans were polished and shining, the
dishes on the shelves were neatly stacked, and all was clean. Only one cup stood
on the table. In it were a few coffee grounds.
Remy was standing there looking at that cup when Finn came in. He tossed his hat
to a peg across the room and it caught. He glanced at the cup, then at her eyes.
"We'll warm the coffee up," he said, "and then have something to eat."
She turned and looked at him thoughtfully. "The coffee," she said, and there was
a question in her voice, "is warm. Almost hot!"
"Good," he said. She stared at him while he stirred the fire. "We'll eat right away,
then."
"Can I help?"
"If you like." He got some plates down and put them on the table. Why she should
be disturbed, she didn't know Obviously, there was someone else around. She had understood
that Finn Mahone lived alone in the valley. Who was here with him? Where was she
now?
Why must it be a woman? Remy didn't know why, but she wondered if it was. There was
nothing effeminate about the room, yet it was almost too neat, too perfect. From
her experience with cattlemen and cow hands, they usually lived in something that
resembled a boar's nest. This was anything but that.
She looked up suddenly to see him watching her with a covert smile. "Would you like
to see the rest of the house?" he suggested. She had the feeling that she amused
him, and her spine stiffened.
"No, I don't think I'd care to! It isn't at all necessary!"
He grinned and picked up the candle. "Come on," he said.
356 3 5 2 L O U I S
She hesitated, then followed. She was curious.
The next room was a bedroom with a wide, spacious bed, much re sembling an old four-poster.
She thought it was, but when she drew nearer she could see it was homemade. On the
floor was an Indian rug, and here, too, there were pegs on the walls. There were
three pictures.
She started toward them, but he turned away and went into a third room. She followed
him, then stopped. Here was a wide, homemade writing desk, and around her the walls
were lined with books. The candlelight gleamed on the gold lettering, and she looked
at them curi ously. How her father would love this room! She could imagine his eyes
lighting up at the sight of so many books.
They returned to the other room and he got the coffee and filled two new cups. They
ate, almost in silence, but Remy found her eyes straying again and again to that
empty cup. If Finn Mahone noticed, he gave no sign.
When they had finished eating, she helped him stack the few dishes. Somewhere not
far off a wolf howled, a weird, yapping chorus that sounded like more than a dozen.
She stopped in the act of putting away the last of the food. "It's nice here," she
said, "but so quiet. How do you ever stand it ... alone?"
"I manage." His smile was exasperating. "It is quiet, but I like the stillness."
The problem of the night was before them, but Remy avoided the thought, trying to
appear quiet, assured. She should have been frightened or worried. She told herself
that would be the maidenly thing. Yet she wasn't. She was curious, and a little disturbed.
Sometimes she saw his eyes on her, calm and amused, and she won dered what he was
thinking. No other man had ever upset her so much, nor had she met any other who
was so difficult to read. Dowd was older, a simple, quiet man, and if he did not
talk about some things, it was some thing she could understand. Somewhere he had
been hurt, deeply hurt.
There was none of that in Finn Mahone. He was simply unreadable. "You're going to
have trouble, you know," she said suddenly. "Trouble?" He accepted the word, seemed
to revolve it in his mind.
"I think so. It's been coming for some time. But don't be sure it will only be for
me. Before this is over, there will be trouble for all of us"
She looked at him, surprised. "How do you mean?"
He tossed a stick on the fire. "How long has this rustling been going on? They say
some five thousand cattle have disappeared. I would say that is about ten percent
of what there is on the range around here, yet who has actually seen any rustlers?
"Who has seen any cattle being moved? Who has heard of any being shipped? Why were
there always cattle on the lower ranges, and none up in the canyons?"
357 RUSTLER R O U N D U P 3 5 3
"Why?" Remy watched him, curious and alert.
He looked up at her, and his eyes, she noted, were a strange darkish green. He ran
his fingers through his hair. "Why? Because the rustlers have taken cattle slowly,
carefully, a few at a time, and when they have taken them they have moved other cattle
down from the canyons where they could be seen, so no suspicion would be aroused."
He looked at her with a wry smile. "Five thousand cattle are a lot of cattle! And
they are gone. Gone like shadows or a bunch of ghosts. You think that doesn't take
planning?"
"You know who is behind it?"
"No. But now that people are accusing me, I aim to find out!" "We haven't lost many,
Dowd says."
Finn nodded. "Want to know why? Because that foreman of yours is a right restless
hombre. He keeps moving around. He's up in every canyon and draw on your range. He
knows it like the back of his hand. They don't dare take any chances with him. Whoever
is behind this rustling doesn't aim to get caught. He means to go on, handling as
many cows as he can without suspicion."
"You're a strange man," Remy said suddenly.
He turned his head and looked at her, the firelight dancing and flick ering on his
cheek. "Why?"
"Oh, living here all alone. Having all those books, and yet fighting like you did
down there in the street."
He shrugged. "It's not so strange. Many men who fight also read. As for living alone,
it's better that way." His face darkened, and he got to his feet. "It saves trouble.
I don't like killing."
"Have you killed so many?" Somehow she didn't believe so. Some how it didn't seem
possible.
"No, but there's one I don't want to kill," he said. "That's one reason I'm back
here. That's one reason I'll stay here unless I have to come out." Remy arose and
stood facing him. How tall he was! He stood over
her, and looked down, and for an instant their eyes met. She felt hot color rising
over her face, and his hands lifted as if to take her by the arms. She stood very
still, and her knees were trembling. Suddenly the room seemed to tilt, and she swayed,
her eyes wide and dark.
He dropped his hands abruptly and went around the chairs toward the porch. "You sleep
in there." He jerked a thumb toward the wide bed. "I'll stay out there with the horses
for a while, then sleep in here by the fire."
He was gone. Remy stared after him, her lips parted, her heart beat ing fast. She
knew with an awful lost and empty feeling that if he had taken hold of her at that
moment he could have done as he pleased with her. She passed a hand over her brow,
and hurried into the other room, closing the door.
358 3 5 4
CHAPTER
Pierce Logan had made his decision. A long conference with Sonntag and Frank Salter
had convinced him that the time had come to make a defi nite move.
He disliked definite moves, yet had planned for them if it became necessary. His
way had always been the careful way, to weed the range of cattle by taking a few
here and a few there, until his own wealth grew, and the others were weakened. Then,
bit by bit, to take what he wanted.
All in all the Rawhide outfit were making more money than they had ever made, but
none of them were content. They wanted a lot of money quick, and they wanted action.
"If they don't git what they want, Pierce," Sonntag said, "they'll be gin to drift.
I know every man jack of 'em! They don't like none o' this piecin' along."
"Dowd's gettin' suspicious," Salter said. His eyes were cold gray. Pierce Logan had
an idea that the old guerrilla didn't like him. "We got t' git rid of Dowd!"
"That's been seen to," Sonntag said. "Any day now"
Pierce Logan had returned to Laird filled with disquiet and anger at his plans deliberately
being altered, but it was an anger that slowly seeped away as a plan began to evolve
in his mind. A plan whereby he could come out with most of the profits himself. If
those fools insisted on start ing an out-and-out war, he would appear to be an innocent
bystander. His cowhands were men known on the range. None of them were rustlers.
Logan had been careful to see to that, and to keep the rustlers off his ranch except
when they were getting some of his own cattle. When that happened, he managed to
see that his hands were busy elsewhere.
Several of the men who worked for him, like Nick James and Bob Hunter, had ridden
for McInnis or judge Collins. They were known to be capable, trustworthy men. Carefully,
Pierce Logan examined his own position. His meetings with Sonntag had always been
secret, and there was no way anyone could connect him with the rustling.
Sonntag had done something about Texas Dowd. From what he had said, the foreman of
the Lazy K would die very soon. When Dowd was out of the picture, his most formidable
enemy would be removed. And in the meanwhile, he had the problem of pinning decisive
evidence on Mahone.
So far as anyone knew he had avoided Rawhide. His connection with those ranchers
was unknown. In any plans to move against the rustlers, as ranchers the Rawhide group
would be included, and so know all the plans made against them. While considered
a rough, tough crowd, no suspicion had been directed at them so far.
359 H01 NI)UP 3 5 5
If anyone suspected them it would be Texas Dowd.
The only other possible joker in the deck would be Finn Mahone. Now, once suspicion
was pinned on him, the Rawhide gang could hit the ranches hard, and it could be attributed
to Mahone's "gang." Logan meant to sow that thought in the minds of the Laird ranchers:
that Mahone had acquired a gang.
He was perfectly aware that judge Collins, Doc Finerty, and Dean Armstrong did not
believe Mahone a rustler. His evidence would have to convince even them.
Once the blame was saddled on the man from the Highbinders, he would turn the Rawhide
bunch loose on some wholesale raids that would break McInnis and Brewster, Collins
and Kastelle. The raids would still be carefully planned, but no longer would the
rustlers take cattle in dribbles, and they would kill anyone who saw them.
The new plan was to clean up while they had Mahone to blame it on. When the big steal
was over, when Mahone was shown to be guilty, then killed, and Logan was left in
power, he would marry Remy Kastelle and own Laird Valley.
From there, a man might go far. He might, by conniving, be ap pointed governor of
the Territory. He might do a lot of things. A man with money and no scruples could
do much, and he meant to see that none remained behind to mark the trail he had taken
to wealth.
But in all his speculations and planning he overlooked one man. He did not think
of Garfield Otis.
Otis was a drunkard. A man who practically lived on whiskey. He neither intended
nor wanted to swear off. He drank because he liked whiskey and because he wanted
to forget what he would like to have done, and live in the present. He was always
around, and a man who is al ways around and taken for granted by everyone hears a
great deal. If he is a man of intelligence, he learns much more than people give
him credit for.
Had Pierce Logan realized it, only one man in the Laird Valley sus pected him. That
man was Otis.
Texas Dowd smelled something odorous in the vicinity of Rawhide. He knew men, and
if Banty Hull, Montana Kerr, and the rest were peaceful ranchers, then he was the
next Emperor of China. He knew all about Sonntag. He did not like Logan, but did
not suspect he was the brain behind the rustling.
Neither did Otis. But stumbling along the street one evening, Otis had seen Logan
ostentatiously lighting a cigarette in front of his office. Later, he had seen him
cross the street and enter the livery stable. Seated on the edge of the walk, he
had seen Logan leave the stable, and a mo ment later a rider headed off across the
country. The rider was a big man.
Otis was only mildly curious at the moment. Yet he wondered who
360 3 5 6 L 0 U I S
the man was. The man had seemed very big, and in the Laird Valley coun try only five
men were of that size. Logan himself, judge Collins, Finn Mahone, Leibman, and Byrn
Sonntag.
Dean Armstrong was bent over the desk when Otis opened the door. He looked up. "Hi,
Otis!" he called cheerfully. "Come on back and sit down!"
"Mahone been in town?"
Dean shook his head. "Not that I know of. No, I'm sure he hasn't been back since
the fight. He said he would bring me a book he was telling me about, and he never
forgets, so I guess he hasn't been in."
Then the man wasn't Finn Mahone.
The idea had never been a practical one, anyway. What would Mahone want with Logan?
And meeting him in secret? It wouldn't make sense. It had certainly not been judge
Collins. That left only Leibman and Byrn Sonntag. Otis shoved his hands down in his
pockets and watched Armstrong's pen scratching over the paper. "Dean," he asked,
"what do you know about Pierce Logan?"
"Logan?" Armstrong put his pen down and leaned his forearms on the desk. Then he
shook his head. "Just what everyone knows. He's got one of the best ranches in the
valley. Been here about two or three years. He owns the livery stable, and has a
partnership in the hotel. I think he has a piece of the Longhorn, too."
Dean picked up his pen again, frowning at the paper. "Why?"
"Oh, just wondering. No reason. Nice-looking man. Do you sup pose he'll marry that
Kastelle girl?"
"Looks like it." Dean scowled again. Somehow the idea didn't appeal to him. "If he
does he'll control over half the range in Laird Valley."
Otis was restless. He got up. "Yes, you're right about that. And if McInnis and Brewster
decided to sell out, he would own it all." He turned to go.
"Wait a minute and I'll walk over to the Longhorn with you." Then Armstrong glanced
at Otis. "Have you eaten?"
Garfield Otis hesitated, then he turned and smiled. "Why, no. Come to think of it,
I haven't."
"Then let's stop by Ma Boyle's and eat before we have a drink." They walked out together,
and Armstrong locked the door after him. Otis started to speak, and Dean noticed
it. "What were you going to say?"
"Nothing. Just thinking what an empire Laird Valley would be if one man owned it.
The finest cattle range in the world, all hemmed in by mountains ... like a world
by itself!"
Armstrong was thoughtful. "You know," he said reflectively, "it would be one of the
biggest cattle empires in the country. Probably the biggest."
361 3 5 7
Both men were silent on the way to Ma Boyle's. When they entered, the long table,
still loaded with food at one end, was almost empty. Harran, who owned the Emporium,
was there, and Doc Finerty. So was Powis.
Armstrong, pleased with himself at getting Otis to eat, sat down alongside Finerty.
"How are you, Doc?" he asked. "Been out on the range?" "Yeah, down to the Mainses'
place. She's ailing again." He sawed at
his steak, then looked up. "Seen that durned Mexie Roberts down there. He was coyotin'
down the range on that buckskin of his."
Marshal Pete Miller had come in. Miller was a lean, rangy man with a yellow mustache.
A good officer in handling drunks and rowdy cowhands, he could do nothing about the
rustlers. He overheard Doc's comment.
"Mexie, huh? He's a bad 'un. Nobody ain't never proved nothin' on him, but I always
figgered he dry-gulched old Jack Hendry. Remember that?"
"I ought to!" Doc said. "Shot with a fifty-caliber Sharps! Never could rightly figure
how that happened. No cover or tracks around there for al most a mile."
"A Sharps'll carry that far," Miller said. "Farther, maybe. Them's a powerful shootin'
gun."
"Sure," Doc agreed, "but who could hit a mark at that distance? That big old bullet's
dropping feet, not just inches. That would take some shooting ... and he was drilled
right through the heart."
"They believed it was a stray bullet, didn't they?" Powis asked. "I re member that's
what they decided."
Garfield Otis listened thoughtfully. During the period in question he had lived in
Laird, but his memory of the details of Jack Hendry's death was sketchy at best.
One factor in the idea interested him, however. He asked a question to which he knew
the answer. "What became of Hendry's ranch?"
"Sam, that no-good son of his, sold it," Harran said. "You recall that Sam Hendry?
Probably drunk it all up by now. He sold out to Pierce Logan and took off."
"Best thing ever happened to this town!" Powis said. "Logan's really done some good
here. That livery stable and hotel never was any good until he bought 'em."
"That's right," Harran agreed. "The town's at least got a hotel a woman can stop
in now."
Otis walked to the Longhorn beside Armstrong, and they stood at the bar together
and talked of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Walt Whitman. Armstrong returned to his work,
and Garfield Otis, fortified by a few ex tra dollars, proceeded to get very, very
drunk.
He had been drunk many times, but when he was drunk he often re membered things he
had otherwise forgotten. Perhaps it was the subject
362 3 5 8 L O U I S
of discussion at supper, perhaps it was only the liquor. More likely it was a combination
of the two and Otis's worry over Finn Mahone, for out of it all came a memory. At
noon the next day, when he awakened in the haymow at the livery barn, he still remembered.
At first he had believed it was a nightmare. He had been drunk that night, too. He
had walked out on a grassy slope across the wash that ran along behind the livery
stable and the Longhorn. Lying on the grass, he had fallen into a drunken stupor.
Seemingly a long time after, he had opened his eyes and heard a mumble of voices,
and then something that sounded like a blow. He had fallen asleep again, and when
he awakened once more, he heard the sound of a shovel grating on gravel. Crawling
closer, he had seen a big man digging in the earth, and nearby lay something that
seemed to be a body.
Frightened, he had stayed where he was until long after the man had moved away. Then
he returned to his original bed and slept the night through. It wasn't until afternoon
the next day that he remembered, and then he shrugged it off as a dream. The thought
returned now, and with it came another.
For the first time, things were dovetailing in his mind. As the pieces began to fit
together, realization swept over him, but no course of action seemed plain. His brain
was muddled by liquor, and that dulled the knowledge his reason brought him, so he
did nothing.
REMY KASTELLE AWAKENED with a start. For an instant she stared around the unfamiliar
room, trying to recall where she was and all that had happened.
She bathed and combed her hair, and only then saw the folded paper thrust under the
door. She crossed the room and picked it up.
Had to take a run up to the next valley, be back about eight. There's hot wa ter
over the fire, and coffee in the pot.
When she had dressed, she poured a cup of coffee and went to the door. She stopped
dead still, her heart beating heavily and her eyes wide with wonder.
The stone cabin was on a ledge slightly above the valley, and she looked out across
a valley of green, blowing grass toward a great, rust-red cliff scarred with white.
It was crested with the deep green of cedars that at one place followed a ledge down
across the face of the cliff for several hundred yards. Through the bottom of the
valley ran Crystal Creek, sil ver and lovely under the bright morning sun. In all
her life she had seen no place more beautiful than this.
Looking down the rippling green of the grasslands, she saw the enor
363 3 5 9
mous stone towers that marked the entrance, a division in the wall that could have
been scarcely more than fifty feet wide. From out on the porch, she could look up
the valley toward where Crystal Creek cut through another entrance, this one at least
two hundred yards across, looking into a still larger valley. Scattered white-face
cattle grazed in the bottoms along the stream. Not the rawboned half-fed range cows
she knew, but fat, heavy cattle.
As she looked, she saw a horseman come through that upper open ing, a big man riding
at a fast canter on a black stallion. She watched him, and something stirred deeply
within her. So much so that, disturbed, she wrenched her eyes away and walked back
into the kitchen. Putting down her cup she went into the bedroom to get her hat.
Only then did she see the picture.
There were three, two of them landscapes. It was the third that caught her eyes.
It was a portrait of a girl with soft dark eyes and dark hair, her face demure and
lovely. Remy walked up to it, and stared thoughtfully. A sister? No. A wife? A sweetheart?
She looked at the picture first because of curiosity, and then her eyes became calculating,
as with true feminine instinct she gauged this woman's beauty against her own. Was
this the girl he loved? Was this the reason he preferred to live alone?
Memory of the cup and the warm coffee returned to her. Was he alone? The sound of
the arriving horse jerked her attention from the pic ture, and hat in hand she walked
out to the porch.
"Hi!" Mahone called. "Had some coffee?"
Remy nodded. "If you'll show me the way, I'll start back now." "Better let me show
you the rest of the valley," he suggested. "This is beautiful, but the upper valley
is even more so."
"No. I often stay away all night. Father's used to it. But I always head back early.
I stay at the Brewsters' occasionally, and sometimes with the McInnis family. Once
even at Judge Collins's ranch."
She laughed. "The judge was really nervous. I'm afraid he thought I was compromised
and that he might have to marry me!"
Finn looked at her, his eyes curious. "You're right. And I think you'd better be
sure somebody knows where you are from now on."
"You think there'll be trouble?"
"Uh-huh." He was deadly serious now. "That valley is going to be on fire from one
end to the other in a few weeks. Maybe even a few days. You mark my words"
Remy walked down to the corral while he roped Roxie and saddled her. "You know what
they think, don't you?" she said.
"That I'm a rustler?" he asked. "Sure. I know that. But look around ... why would
I rustle? And if I did, how would I get them in here?"
364 360 L O U I S
"There isn't any other way?"
"Not from Laird. I've got all the cattle I want. As long as I keep the varmints down
there's nothing to worry me here."
"If they accuse you, and try to make trouble, what will you do?" Remy asked as they
neared the slate slide again.
He shrugged, and his face was grim. "What can I do? I'll fight if I have to. I never
rustled a cow in my life, and I'm not going to take any pushing around."
She looked at Finn thoughtfully. "Texas Dowd doesn't think you're a rustler, but
he warned me to stay away from you, that you were dangerous ... to women."
Finn Mahone's head jerked around, and she could see the flare of anger in his eyes.
"Oh, he did, did he? Yes, he would think that"
"Why did he say it?" she asked.
"Ask him," Finn replied bitterly. "He'll tell you. But he's wrong, and if he says
that in public, I'll kill him!"
Remy tensed, and her eyes widened. There was something here she didn't understand.
"Shall I tell him that, too?"
"Tell him anything you want to!" he snapped. "But tell him he's hunting the wrong
man and he's a fool!"
"If there's trouble coming I'd like to think you were on our side," Remy said.
He looked at her cynically. "That cuts both ways, but Dowd wouldn't stay with you
if I was. Dowd wants to kill me, Remy."
"And what about you?"
For a moment, he did not answer, then he said simply, "No, I don't want to kill anybody."
He was silent, leading the way down to the slide. They made it now, by daylight,
without mishap, but Remy kept her eyes away from the depths beyond the rim.
"You said," Finn suggested suddenly, "that you wanted me on your side. Who do you
think is on the other side?"
They were fording the Laird, and she looked around at him. "I don't know," she protested.
"That's what makes the whole situation so bad. Nobody seems to know"
SHE LEFT Him at the opening of the Notch and rode on toward home. She was well aware
what the people of Laird would say if they knew she had spent the night in Crystal
Valley. The ranch people who knew her would think little of it, for she came and
went on the range as freely as a man. But, in town, those people would be another
matter.
She was halfway to the Lazy K ranch when she met Texas Dowd. He
365 3 6 1
was wearing his flat-brimmed black hat and a gray shirt. With him were Stub and Roolin,
two of the hands.
"We was lookin' for you, ma'am," Dowd said. "All hell's busted loose!" "What do you
mean?" Remy reined the mare around, frightened at the grimness of their manner.
"Somebody shot Abe McInnis last night. He went off up the val ley, with that cowhand
named Tony. When they didn't get back, Roolin here. who was up that way waitin' for
him, rode up after him with Nick James, that hand of Logan's.
"They found 'em back in a narrow canyon near a brandin' fire. Tony was dead, shot
three times through the belly, once in the head. McInnis had been shot twice. Doc
says he might live; he's in purty bad shape."
"Who did it? Who could have done it?"
"I don't know who done it," Roolin said suddenly, harshly, "but he took off through
the mountains ridin' a black stallion. There was another man or two with him. Abe
evidently come up on 'em, an' they went t' shootin'."
"People in Laird's some upset," Dowd said. "Miller's gone out that way to have a
look. Abe's got him a lot of friends around."
"I'd like to have a talk with Mahone!" Roolin said. "I got my own ideas about him!"
She started to speak, then hesitated. "Just when did it happen?" "Near's we can figger
it was late yesterday afternoon," Roolin offered. "Could have been evenin', but probably
was earlier."
That could have been before she met Mahone at the slide. Where had he been coming
from then? He had offered no explanation. Was there a trail out through one of the
narrow canyons that opened up near where she had first seen him? If there was, he
could have ridden the distance without trouble.
Brewster was at the ranch when she got there, accompanied by Dowd. Her father had
put his book aside and his face was grave. He was a quiet man, but she knew from
past experience that when stirred he was hard, bitterly hard, and a man who would
fight to the last shell and the last drop of blood.
Van Brewster was a burly man, deep-voiced and hard-bitten. His background was strictly
pioneer. He had spent most of his life until now working in the plains country or
the mountains, had soldiered, hunted, trapped, and fought Indians and rustlers.
"Abe was my friend!" he was saying as she entered, "and I aim to get the man responsible!"
Dowd drew back to one side of the room and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. His eyes
went from Kastelle to Brewster. He said nothing, invited
366 3 6 2
nothing. A few minutes later, horses were heard in the ranch yard. "That'll be Logan
an' Collins," Brewster said. "I told 'em we would meet here."
With them were Harran, the Emporium owner who ran a few cattle on the Collins range,
and Dan Taggart, McInnis's foreman. All were grim and hard-faced, and all carried
guns. "Miller's comin'," Taggart stated. "He's been on the range all day!"
"Find anything?" Harran asked.
"Some tracks," Taggart said, "mighty big hoss tracks. He thinks they were the tracks
o' that stallion o' Mahone's!"
Dowd pushed away from the wall, his thumbs hooked in his belt. "Find 'em close to
the body of either man? Or close to the fire?"
"Wal, no," Taggart admitted. "Not right closet. They was under some trees, maybe
fifty yards away. The horse could've been tied there, though" "It could have," Dowd
admitted, "or he could have come up there and looked around and rode off, either
before then, or later."
"If it was later, why didn't he report it?" Taggart demanded.
"Well," Collins interrupted, "if you recall, he's scarcely been welcomed around Laird.
Probably didn't figure it was any of his business! Or maybe he didn't know what was
goin' on."
"You defendin' him?" Taggart demanded. "You want t' remember my boss is a-lyin' home
durned near dead!"
"I do not want any accusations without proof!" Judge Collins said sharply. "Just
because one man's hurt and another's dead, that doesn't make Mahone guilty if he's
innocent!"
"Well," Taggart said dryly, "if I see Finn Mahone on that place again, I'm goin'
to shoot first and ask questions after!"
Dowd smiled without humor. "Better make sure it's first," he said, "or you won't
live long. Finn Mahone's no man to drag iron on unless you intend to kill him."
"You sound like you know him," Brewster suggested.
Footsteps sounded on the porch, and the door opened. Alcorn was standing there, and
with him Ike Hibby, Montana Kerr, and Ringer Cobb, all of Rawhide.
"I do," Dowd said, staring at the newcomers. "I know he's a man you hadn't better
accuse of rustlin' unless you're ready to fill your hand" Ringer Cobb was narrow-hipped
and wide-shouldered; a build typical of the western rider. His guns were slung low
and tied down. He glanced across at Dowd. "If you're talkin' about Mahone," he said
casually, "I'll accuse him! All this talk of his being' fast with a gun doesn't faze
me none. I think he's rustlin'. He or his boys."
Judge Collins studied Cobb and pulled at his mustache. "What do you mean ... his
boys?" he asked. "I've understood Mahone played a lone hand." "So have we all," Harran
agreed, "but how do we know?"
367 3 6 3
That was it, Remy admitted, how did they know? How about that cup on the table, and
the still-warm fire? Where had Mahone gone when he rode off that morning?
"How would he get cattle back into that country?" she asked. "Any of you ever tried
to go through that Notch?"
"He does it," Cobb said. He looked at the girl, his eyes speculative. "An' for all
we know, there may be another route. Nobody ever gets back into that wild country
below the Rimrock."
"Nobody but the hombre that killed Tony," Taggart said grimly. "He was in there."
"All this is gettin' us nowhere," Brewster put in. "I've lost stock. It's been taken
off my range without me ever guessin' until recent. I can't stand to lose no more."
"I think it's time we organized and did something," Alcorn spoke up. "What?" Kastelle
asked. He had been sitting back, idly shuffling cards and watching their faces as
the men talked. His eyes returned several times to Pierce Logan. "What do you think,
Logan?"
"I agree," Pierce said. He was immaculate today, perfectly groomed, and now his voice
carried with a tone of decision, almost of command. "I think we should hire someone
to handle this problem." He paused. "A range detective, and one who is good with
a gun."
"That suits me!" Ike Hibby said emphatically. "That suits me right down t' the ground.
If Mahone an' his boys are goin' t' work our cows, we got t' take steps!"
"You've said again that he has some men," Collins said. "Does anyone actually know
that?"
"I do," Alcorn replied. "I seen him an' three others back in the Highbinders, two,
three weeks ago. Strangers," he added.
Harran nodded. "He buys a powerful lot of ammunition. More than one man would use."
"Maybe," Kastelle suggested, smiling a little, "he's heard some of this kind of talk
and has been getting ready for trouble."
"It's more than one man would use," Harran insisted.
"What about this range detective?" Brewster asked. "Who could we get?"
"Why not Byrn Sonntag?" Hibby suggested. "He's in the country, and he's not busy
runnin' cows like the rest of us."
"Sonntag?" Collins burst out. "Why, the man's a notorious killer!" "What do you want?"
Cobb said. "A preacher?"
"It takes a man like that!" Brewster stated dogmatically. "If he finds a man rustlin',
why bother with a trial?"
Pierce Logan said nothing, but inside he was glowing. This couldn't be going better....
368 3 6 4 L O U I S
"You're being' quiet, Logan," Brewster said. "What do you think?" "Well," Logan said,
shrugging, "it's up to you boys, but if Miller can't
cope with it, then perhaps Sonntag could."
"Mahone's supposed t' be a bad man with a gun," Cobb said, "or so Dowd tells us.
Well, Sonntag can handle him."
Kastelle looked up. "By the way," he said, "has anyone ever seen Mahone rustling?
Has he been caught with any stolen stock? Has he been seen riding on anybody's range?
What evidence is there?"
"Well," Brewster said, uneasily, "not any, rightly, but we know-" "We know nothing!"
Collins said sharply. "Nothing at all! This suspicion stems from a lot of rumors.
Nothing more."
"Where there's smoke there's fire!" Alcorn said. "I think Sonntag would be a good
bet, myself."
"He could gather evidence," Logan admitted carefully. "We would then know what to
do."
"You've not said what you think, ma'am." Taggart looked over at Remy. "Abe sets powerful
store by what you think about stock. How do you figger this?"
"I don't believe Finn Mahone is a rustler," Remy said. "I think we should have plenty
of evidence before we make any accusations. All we know is that we've missed stock
and that Mahone keeps to himself."
Logan looked up, surprised. The feeling in Remy's voice aroused him, and he looked
at her with new eyes. In the past few months he had taken his time with Remy, feeling
he was the only man on the range at whom a girl of her type could look twice. Now,
something in her voice made him suddenly alert.
"Well," Brewster said irritably, "what's it to be? Are we goin' to do something or
just ride home no better off than when we came?"
"I'm for hirin' Sonntag," Alcorn said seriously. "Me, too," Cobb said.
"Count me in on that," Ike Hibby said. He lighted his pipe. "I'm only running a few
cattle, but I've lost too much stock!"
"Put it to a vote," Logan suggested. "That's the democratic way." Judge Gardner Collins,
Kastelle, Remy, and Texas Dowd voted against it. Alcorn, Hibby, Cobb, Brewster, and
Taggart voted for Sonntag.
"How about it, Logan?" Collins said. "Where do you stand?" "Well," he said with evident
reluctance, "if it comes to a vote, I'm with the boys on Sonntag. That looks like
action."
"Then it's settled!" Brewster said. He got to his feet. "I'm agittin' home."
"Mahone said something to me once," Remy said, in a puzzled tone. "He said the way
to look for rustlers was with a pen and ink."
Ike Hibby jerked, and looked around hastily. Ringer Cobb's eyes nar
369 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 6
rowed, and strayed to Dowd. Texas Dowd was leaning against the wall again, and he
looked back at Cobb, his eyes bright with malice.
Hibby shifted his feet. "Reckon I'll be headin' for home," he said. "Got a long ways
if go!"
Brewster picked up his hat and nodded good-bye to everyone. Alcorn and Ike glared
at Remy, Alcorn licking his lips. "I don't figure I know what you mean, ma'am. But
if anyone is accusin' anyone, it's us against Mahone. Not the other way around."
Slowly, they trooped out.
"Now what did I say?" Remy demanded, looking from her father to Dowd.
The tall Texan walked over and dropped into a chair. "You put your finger on the
sore spot," he said grimly. "You blew the lid off the trouble in Laird!"
"Why, how do you mean?" she demanded, wide-eyed. "Got a pen?" Texas said grimly.
She brought one out, and some paper. He looked up at her. "What's Abe's brand? A
Spur, ain't it? Now look, an' I'll draw a Spur. Now what's Ike Hibby's brand? IH
joined. Now just you take a look, ma'am. . She looked at the rough drawing.
"You see what I mean? You take Abe's brand, add a mite more to the sides of the Spur
to make it look like an I, then put a bar on the end of the Spur to make her look
like the outside of the H."
Remy leaned over the table, excitedly. "But then, he could steal the Spur cattle
and alter that brand without trouble!"
"Uh-huh, unless we caught him at it. Or unless we found some stock with altered brands.
We ain't done either."
"You mean to say you've known this all the time?"
"I been thinkin' about it. But thinking something and havin' evidence ain't the same
thing."
"But what about ours? The Lazy K?"
"It's probably made into a Box Diamond, and that's Ringer Cobb's brand. Brewster's
Lazy S they change into a Lazy Eight."
"But then, that Rawhide crowd must be the rustlers!" Remy exclaimed. "Uh-huh," Dowd
agreed. "That's what I thought, but what can we prove?
"Something else, too," he added gravely. "Tonight the Rawhide bunch voted their own
boss in as a paid, legal killer! Who's goin' to tell him where to stop? Or who he
kills? Who will stop him once he's started?"
370 3 6 6
CHAPTER
Finn Mahone heard of the action of the Cattleman's Association when in Rico. He had
made it a duty to visit Rico every so often, always hoping the man he had come west
to find would show himself there again.
He had never seen the man for whom he was looking close up. He knew his name, that
he had been a riverboat gambler, and that he was a wizard with cards and deadly with
a pistol. He knew also that the man carried a derringer in his sleeve and was not
above sneak-shooting a man.
Finn Mahone had trailed him from New Orleans to Natchez. All the time, the man had
ridden a stolen steel-dust gelding. The man had ridden the big horse all the way
to Santa Fe, where he traded it off for another animal. Mahone had bought the steel-dust
from the new owner on a hunch and continued on.
Then he heard that a man answering the rough description had killed a man in Rico.
But in Rico the trail was lost for good. Eventually, Finn had explored the Crystal
Valley and settled down there. He was operating on a hunch that his man was somewhere
around. He kept the big gelding, although he could not bring himself to ride it,
and the horse grazed his upper pasture even now.
Ed Wheeling was in the Gold Spike Bar when he walked in. Wheeling greeted him with
a smile. "How's it, Finn? Got any cattle? That last herd I bought from you was said
to be the finest beef in Kansas City!"
"Thanks." Finn ordered a drink. "When do you want some? I reckon I can bring over
a few. About a hundred head."
"That all you've got? I'll take them, and top prices anytime you get them over here.
What's this I hear about Sonntag being hired as a range detective?" Mahone looked
at him quickly. "Sonntag? That's bad."
"What I thought. The man's a killer. I saw him kill one man here in town only a few
weeks ago. The man had an even break, if you can ever call it even when they go against
him."
Finn turned his glass in his fingers. "Wheeling, what do you know about this rustling?"
Wheeling glanced right and left, then touched his tongue to his lips. "Nothing, if
anybody asks. Me, I don't buy any doubtful beef, but there's others do. I'll tell
you this much. There's been some queer-looking brands shipped out of here. Good jobs,
but they looked burned over to me"
"Who buys 'em?"
"Well, don't go saying I told you. Jim Hoff bought 'em, but then, he'd buy anything
he could get cheap."
"Thanks." He tossed off his drink. "This Sonntag deal is liable to be bad for those
folks over to Laird. Sonntag is boss of that Rawhide bunch."
371 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 6 7
He glanced at Wheeling. "They run the Lazy Eight, Box Diamond, and IH connected,
if that means anything to you."
"It does," Wheeling replied. "It means plenty!"
Finn left the saloon. What Wheeling had told him only confirmed what he had believed.
There was brand altering being done somewhere around. And some, at least, were being
sold in Rico. They would move against him now, he had no doubt of that. The employing
of Sonntag would give them a free rein. He wondered what the first move would be.
The noose was tightening now. Stopping in at the store he bought three hundred rounds
of .44-caliber ammunition. His pistols had been modified to use the same ammunition
as his Knight's Patent Winchester, which simplified things in that department.
He was just stowing it in his saddlebags when he saw Dean Armstrong. The newspaperman
was coming toward him. "Howdy, Dean!" he said. Armstrong's face was somber. "Watch
yourself, Finn," he said. "I
think Sonntag's gunning for you. I know Ringer Cobb is. He made his boast at the
Cattleman's meeting that he would accuse you to your face." "What happened at that
meeting?"
"It was ramrodded, in a sense. Judge Collins, Kastelle, Remy, and Dowd voted against
Sonntag. But Brewster and Taggart threw in with the Rawhide bunch."
"Taggart?" "Abe McInnis's foreman. Abe was dry-gulched, wounded badly the same time
they killed Tony Welt."
"Hadn't heard about that."
Armstrong looked at him quickly, worriedly. "Finn, they've got you pegged for that
job. It happened in one of the canyons in the wild coun try south of the Rimrock.
They found the tracks of a big horse, and some of them say they saw your stallion
in there."
"I might have been there," Finn admitted, "but not when any shoot ing took place."
He dug his toe into the dust. "Remy voted against Sonntag, huh?" "Yes. In fact, Finn,
she spoke right out in the meeting and said she didn't believe you were a rustler."
"What did Dowd say?"
"He was against Sonntag. But on the whole, he didn't have much to say. I think Texas
Dowd believes in killing his own beef."
"You're damned right he does," Mahone said sharply. "That man's got more cold-blooded
nerve than any I ever saw!"
"What's between you two, anyway?" Dean demanded, looking curi ously at Finn. "I'd
think you two would be friends!"
Mahone shrugged. "That's the way things happen. We were friends once, Dean. For a
long time. I know that man better than anyone in the
372 3 6 8 L 0 U I S
world, and he should know me, but he's powerful set in his ways, and once he gets
an idea in his head it's hell gettin' it out."
FINN MAHONE HEADED across the plateau in sooty darkness. Dean's infor mation and
what he had learned from Wheeling put the problem fairly in his hands. The Rawhide
bunch were evidently out to get him. Ringer Cobb had made his boast, and he was the
type of man to back it up if he could.
From the beginning there had been an effort to hang the rustling on him. While his
living alone would be suspicious to some, Finn had an idea that more than a little
planting of ideas had been going on over the range. There was deliberate malice behind
it. It was not Dowd's way to stoop to such tactics. Texas Dowd would say nothing.
He would wait, pa tiently, and then one of them would die.
A roving, solitary man all his life, Finn had found but one man he cared to ride
the river with. That man was Texas Dowd. They had ridden a lot of rivers, and their
two guns had blasted their way out of more than one spot of trouble.
Had there been a chance of talking to Dowd, he would have done it, but there was
too much chance the man would shoot on sight. Cold, gray, and quiet, Dowd was a man
of chilled steel, the best of friends, but the most bitter of enemies.
One thing was now clear. It was up to him to prove his innocence. It might be a help
to ride into town and see Lettie. She always knew what was going on, and was one
of the few friends he had. She, and Garfield Otis.
What was it Dean had said about Otis? "Funny about Otis, Finn," he'd said. "He hasn't
had a drink in almost a week. Got something on his mind, but he won't talk."
The trail dipped down into the Laird River Canyon, and the sound of rushing water
lifted to his ears. Rushing water and the vague dampness that lifted from the trembling
river. He should have told Ed Wheeling to say nothing about his bringing the cattle.
Ed was a talkative man, and an admirer of those fat white-faced steers of Finn's.
This would be where they would wait for him, here in the canyon. A couple of good
riflemen here could stop the passage of any herd of cat tle, or of any man.
The cabin on the ledge was very quiet when he rode in. As he swung down from the
stallion's back, he remembered the morning Remy Kastelle had stood on the steps waiting
for him, and how her hair had shone in the bright morning sun.
The cabin seemed dark and lonely when he went inside, and after he had eaten he sat
down to read, but now there was no comfort in his books. He got up and strode outside,
all the old restlessness rising within him, that
373 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 6 9
driving urge to be moving on, to be going. He knew what was coming, knew that in
what happened there would be heartbreak and sudden death.
Aware of all the tides of western change, Finn Mahone could see be hind the rustling
in Laird Valley a deep and devious plan. It was unlike any rustling he had seen before.
It was no owl-hoot gang suddenly charg ing out of the night on a wild raid, nor was
it some restless cowhands who wanted money for a splurge across the border. This
had been a care ful, soundless, and trackless weeding of herds. Had it gone on undiscov
ered, it would have left the range drained of cattle, and the cattlemen broke.
He could see how skillfully the plan had been engineered. How care ful the planning.
As he studied what Dean had told him of the Cattleman's meeting, another thought
occurred. The vote had been six to four to hire Sonntag. But what if McInnis had
been there?
The dour New England Scotsman was not one for plunging into anything recklessly.
He would never have accepted the hiring of Sonntag. Especially as Collins and the
Kastelles had voted against it. This the leader of the rustlers must have figured.
The shooting of McInnis had been de liberately planned and accomplished in cold blood.
Had McInnis been voting, Taggart either would not have been there to vote, or would
have followed Abe's lead. Brewster, hotheaded and im pulsive as he was, would have
been tempered by the McInnis's coolness. Then the vote would have been against hiring
Sonntag! At the worst, it would have been a tie, and no action.
That the meeting had been called before the shooting of Abraham McInnis, Mahone knew.
He sat down suddenly and wrote out a short note, a note that showed the vote had
McInnis been present. He added, Show this to the judge. Then he enclosed it in an
envelope, and decided he would send it to the news paper office by Shoshone Charlie.
Carefully, he oiled his guns and checked his rifle. Then he made up several small
packs of food and laid out some ammunition. He was going to be ready for trouble
now, for it was coming. He could wait, and they might never get to him, but he preferred
to strike first. Also, he had his cattle to deliver.
MEXIE ROBERTS WAS not a man who hurried. Small, dark, and careful, he moved like
an Indian in the hills. For several days now he had been study ing the Lazy K from
various vantage points. He had watched Texas Dowd carefully. Knowing the West as
he did, he knew Dowd was a man whom one might never get a chance to shoot at twice.
Mexie Roberts prided himself on never having to shoot more than once. His trade was
killing, and he knew the tricks of his trade.
374 3 7 0 L O U I S
Lying on his belly in the dust among the clumps of greasewood, he watched every soul
on the Lazy K. Shifting his glass from person to per son, he soon began to learn
their ways and their habits.
He was not worried about hitting Dowd, once he got him in his sights. The Sharps
.50 he carried was a gun he understood like the work ing of his own right hand.
There was no mercy in Mexie Roberts. Killing was born in him as it is in a weasel
or a hawk. He killed, and killed in cold blood. It was his pride that he had never
been arrested, never tried, never even accused. Some men had their suspicions, but
no man could offer evidence.
He had been given the job of killing Dowd, and there was in the job a measure of
personal pride as well as the money. Texas Dowd was to Mexie Roberts what a Bengal
tiger is to a big-game hunter. He was the final test. Hunting Dowd was hunting death
in its most virulent form.
In a few days now, perhaps a few hours, he would be ready. Then Dowd would die, and
when he died, there would be no one near to see where the shot came from, and Mexie
Roberts would have his hideaway carefully chosen.
ALL OVER LAIRD VALLEY tides of trouble and danger were rising. Men moved along the
streets of Laird with cautious eyes, scanning each new comer, watching, waiting.
In his office beside the barbershop, judge Gardner Collins moved a man into the king
row and crowned him. Doc Finerty rubbed his jaw and studied the board with thoughtful
eyes. Neither man had his mind on the game.
"It was my fault," Collins said. "I should have stopped it. Don't know why I didn't
realize how Brewster and Taggart would vote."
Dean Armstrong came in, glanced at the board, then placed a slip of paper on the
checkerboard between them. "Found this under my door this morning," he said. "It's
Mahone's handwriting."
For Against Ike Hibby Collins Ringer Cobb Kastelle Alcorn R. Kastelle Taggart Dowd
Logan
Brewster
375 R 0 U N D U P 3 7 1
Had Abe McInnis been there:
Ike Hibby Collins Ringer Cobb Kastelle Alcorn R. Kastelle Logan Dowd Brewster (?)
McInnis
Taggart (?)
Show this to the
Collins studied it thoughtfully. "I reckon he's got it figured proper," he said.
"That would make it at worst a tie vote. Taggart would have gone along with his boss,
I know that. Dan's hotheaded, but Abe always sort of calms him down and keeps him
thinking straight"
"You see what it implies, don't you?" Dean indicated. "That Abe McInnis was dry-gulched
on purpose!"
"Uh-huh," Finerty agreed, "it does. I agree."
"Let's call another meeting," Armstrong suggested, "and vote him out. You've got
some stock running with the judge, haven't you, Doc? Enough to vote?"
"It wouldn't do," Collins said. "The Rawhide bunch wouldn't meet. We couldn't get
a quorum now. No, he's in, and we might as well make the best of it. What's he been
doing, Dean?"
"Riding all over the range so far. That's all."
PIERCE LOGAN SAT in his office. He wore a neatly pressed dark gray suit and a white
vest. His white hat lay atop the safe nearby. As he sat, he fin gered his mustache
thoughtfully.
It had been a long wait, and hard work, but now he was there. Only a few more weeks
and he would be in possession of all he had hoped for. They would be shaky, dangerous
weeks, but the danger would be of the sort he understood best.
He had come out of the carpetbag riots in New Orleans with money. Enough to come
west in obvious prosperity. The little affair near New Orleans, one of those times
when the ingrown rapacity of the man had let go like an explosion, had passed over
without trouble. Since arriving in Laird he had bided his time. Now he was ready.
He was not worried about Texas Dowd. Sonntag had set something up, and it would be
taken care of soon. Sonntag was range detective, and any killings he might commit
would have a semblance of legality. There was opposition here in town, he knew. Judge
Collins would be against him, but the judge was no longer young. Finerty could not
stand against
376 3 7 z
him, and as for Armstrong ... Logan didn't like Armstrong. At the first hint of trouble
from The Branding Iron, he would have to have the presses smashed up.
His eyes shifted out the window, and suddenly, he stiffened.
A man was walking slowly along the sandy hillside beyond the livery barn and corrals.
He was walking along as though studying the ground. Now and then he would halt, kneel
down, and study it carefully, then he would rise and move on. Occasionally he would
sift a little dirt through his fingers.
The man was Garfield Otis.
Pierce Logan put a hand to his brow. He was sweating. His heart pounding, he slid
a hand in a drawer for a gun. Then drew it back. No, that wasn't the way.
But what could the old fool be looking for? Why would he be exam ining that hillside,
of all places?
It had been years ago. Certainly, Otis could know nothing. Yet he watched him, and
Logan knew for the first time what it meant to fear.
If he was discovered now, he was ruined. Not even the Rawhide bunch could save him.
It was only his power and money that held them together, and if the lid blew off
this-!
Garfield Otis was wandering back down the wash now. He would be in the saloon in
a few minutes. But no, Otis hadn't been drinking lately. And Otis was a friend of
Mahone's.
Whatever was done must be done at once, and Logan knew there was only one thing that
could be done. He got up and walked out into the street.
FINN MAHONE HAD TAKEN an old game trail east from the entrance to Crystal Valley.
It led him down, and across a corner of the lava beds, then into the wild country
of the Highbinders north of the Lazy K.
His stallion walked slowly, and Finn kept one hand near his walnut gun butt. The
chance of seeing an enemy here was slight, although he had decided against trying
the Notch. If anyone were to lie in wait for him, that would be the ideal spot.
The country in which he now rode was country where few horse men ever went. The hillsides
of the Highbinders were too grassless to draw cattle away from the fertile bottoms
of the Lazy K range. This was a broken, partly timbered, and very rocky country that
offered nothing to any man. Sheep or goats might have lived there; cattle could not.
Yet, when he was almost due north of the Lazy K ranch buildings, he stopped and swung
down.
Coming out of the woods and turning into the small trail he followed were the recent
tracks of a horse!
Finn loosened his gun in its holster and walked on, leading Fury. On
377 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 73
second thought, he turned off the trail and chose a way under the pines, avoiding
the dust where his tracks would be seen. When he had gone a little way farther, he
smelled smoke.
At first, it was just a faint suggestion, then he got a stronger whiff. Tying the
stallion to a low branch, he worked his way cautiously through the brush. He had
gone almost a hundred yards when he saw a faint blue haze rising from a hollow among
the rocks.
Crawling out on a flat-topped rock that ended in a clump of man zanita, he lay on
his belly and stared down into the hollow.
A fire, small and carefully built, burned among some stones. A cof feepot sat on
the stones, being warmed. A buckskin horse was tethered nearby, and not far away,
a grulla packhorse.
There was one man, and Finn watched him curiously. The man was small and dark, and
at the moment Finn spotted him, he was fastening a long narrow piece of white cloth
to a tree trunk. Peering at it, Finn could see that it had a cross printed on it
near the top, and then graduated mark ings running down its length. At the bottom
was a weight so that the strip would hang straight down.
When it was fastened, the small man carefully paced off a certain dis tance and marked
the spot, then he picked up his rifle, a Sharps buffalo gun. Finn's brow furrowed.
Puzzled, Mahone watched the man carry his Sharps to the mark on the ground and rest
the muzzle in the crotch of a forked stick he carried. Lying prone, the little man
carefully aimed at the cloth strip and then pro ceeded to work the screw-adjustable
peep sight that was fitted to the big gun up and down, making minute adjustments
until it was lined up with one of the marks on the cloth.
"Well, I'll be forever damned!" Finn Mahone muttered. "That's a new one on me!" The
dark man was calibrating his sights for a long shot over a previously measured distance.
When he was satisfied, the man left the rifle where it was and re turned to his fire.
He drank coffee, ate a little, and took a hurried look around. Then he put out his
fire, scattered it, and carefully wiped out all footprints with a pine bough. For
a half hour he worked until every mark of the camp had been obliterated.
Only then did he take his rifle. Mounting the buckskin, which with the packhorse
had been led into the trail, he held his rifle with great care, then he moved off,
walking the horse.
Finn Mahone got up quietly and walked back to his own horse. Moving carefully, he
followed the strange rider. The man's every action gave evidence that he had no intention
of riding far, and the only place close to them was the Lazy K ranch!
Who, then, was the killer after? For Finn had no doubts about the
378 3 7 4
man's intentions. Remy? That would serve no purpose. Frenchy Kastelle? Probably not.
Who, of all the men on this range, would be most dangerous to suc cessful rustling?
Texas Dowd. Who, on this range, might match guns with Sonntag or Ringer Cobb or Montana
Kerr? Only, aside from himself, Texas Dowd. All of which meant that this man intended
to kill Dowd.
His conclusion might be mistaken, but Finn could think of no logical alternative.
When they drew near the edge of the timber, Finn tied the stallion in a concealed
position among the trees and, rifle in hand, moved out after the unknown sharpshooter.
The man had tied his horses with a slip knot and had vanished into the brush. Finn
started to follow, then hesitated and walked back to the horses. Untying them, he
retied the knot, and lashed it hard and fast. The man who rode these horses wasn't
going to be getting away in a hurry!
Then, working with infinite care, Finn Mahone worked down along the marksman's trail.
He lost the trail on the edge of the brush. Here the man had moved into a gully,
and whether he had gone up or down, Finn could not tell. Yet from where he lay on
the side of the bluff Finn had an excellent view of the grassy field between the
Lazy K ranch buildings and the position he occupied. The sharpshooter would have
to move out into position from here, and get into place to fire on the buildings.
Suddenly, Finn saw the man. He had come out of the gully and was snaking along the
ground, keeping low in the grass, still handling his rifle with utmost care. When
the man reached the top of a low knoll, his po sition would be excellent.
Only then did Mahone realize how carefully this had been planned. The way to the
knoll was completely covered from observation from any where but this bluff. The
man could never have been seen from the ranch.
The Sharps rifle, known to kill at distances up to a thousand yards, had occasionally
been effective at even greater distances, as Billy Dixon had proved at the Battle
of Adobe Wells. It used the most powerful black powder cartridges ever made, and
fired up to 550 grains of lead with ter rific force and remarkable accuracy.
With the distance deliberately paced off, probably late at night when all were asleep,
the unknown marksman would know exactly how much his bullet would drop, and now the
finely machined sight was set for pre cisely that range. One shot would be all he'd
get at a target like Dowd, but as Finn correctly surmised, the man had no intention
of firing more than one shot.
Mahone lost him, then found him again, and when he next sighted
379 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 7
him he was on the crest of the knoll and settling into position. Finn eased his own
rifle up, and waited.
There was little movement around the Lazy K. Occasionally someone appeared, then
vanished. The man below lay perfectly still. Had Finn not known he was there, he
could never have picked him out on the grassy, boulder-strewn knoll.
Then the ranch house door opened, and Finn lifted his head. Remy was walking down
to the corrals. A hand led her white mare out, and the girl swung into the saddle
and galloped away over the plains, riding west.
Finn's eyes followed her. How beautifully she rode! He had never seen a woman ride
with such grace. Angry with himself, he wrenched his eyes away.
A man had come from the ranch house and was walking down to the corral. He wore an
old black hat, but even at that distance Finn could rec ognize the straight carriage,
the easy movement of the shoulders. Texas Dowd was a man difficult to forget and
easy to pick out.
Mahone's eyes dropped. The man below was waiting for some par ticular thing, Finn
could see that. All men are creatures of habit to some extent, and the marksman had
evidently studied Dowd until he knew his every move.
No one else was in sight. The cowhand who led out Remy's horse had vanished, and
the ranch lay hot in the glare of the sun. Dowd led out his horse and tied it to
a rail of the corral fence. Then he brought out the saddle, and threw it on the horse's
back. Dowd was standing with his back squarely to the sharpshooter now, but the man
waited. Then, slowly he eased his rifle up and Finn, even at this distance, could
almost see the man settling his cheek against the stock ready for his shot.
Finn lifted his rifle and triggered three fast shots at the figure below. Even as
he fired, he heard the big rifle boom from the knoll, but his first shot must have
come close, for the rifleman threw himself to one side.
Finn got a hasty glimpse of Dowd's horse rearing, but already his eyes were searching
the grass below for the killer. The man had vanished as if he had dropped into the
earth itself!
Riveting his eyes on the grass, Finn began to search it with infinite care, taking
it section by section, but he could see nothing of the man. He suddenly realized
this was no place for him. If Dowd was to find him here he would be sure it was Finn
who had fired, and the sharpshooter was certainly making his getaway.
Scrambling through the brush, he started back to the horses. Somehow in his rush
he took a wrong turn, and though delayed only a minute or two longer than he had
expected, he reached the horses just as the marks man appeared. The fellow rushed
to the horses and jerked at the slip
380 3 7 6
knot. It stuck, and then Finn said, "All right, turn around and throw up your hands!"
Mexie Roberts wheeled like a cornered rat and his hand flashed for his pistol. Finn's
rifle blasted and Roberts staggered back, coughing, his eyes wide and staring. He
blinked once, very slowly, then sat down and rolled over, drawing his knees up tightly,
and died.
Mahone wheeled and raced for his horse. Then he was in the saddle and heading down
range as fast as he could ride. He had no desire to see Dowd now. The Texan would
see what had happened from the tracks.
Meanwhile, there was business in town. If Sonntag was there, and looking for him,
he could find him. Laird, he felt, was the center of things. Knowing as little as
he did about all the people there, Finn had only a few ideas. He intended to learn
what he could, and there were two sources on which he could rely: Lettie Mason and
Otis.
REMY KASTELLE, riding west, heard the sharp cracking report of the Winchester, followed
by the heavy boom of the Sharps, then the Win chester twice again. She wheeled her
horse and started back on a dead run. She was just reaching the ranch house when
she saw Texas Dowd, gun in hand, leave the ranch at a gallop.
Swinging alongside she disregarded his motions to stay back, and rode on. Suddenly,
he seemed to sight something in the grass, and wheeled, riding over to the knoll.
He swung down from the horse and picked it up. It was Roberts's Sharps rifle.
He looked up at the girl, then removed his hat. The Sharps had torn a ragged gash
in the brim. "Somebody shot at him," Dowd said, "or he'd a had me sure! I heard that
first shot and jerked. This came next."
The grass was pressed down where Mexie had crushed it in his re treat. The route
by which he had approached was not the return route. Mexie had been too cagey for
that. Yet his return had been a flight, and Dowd followed, riding his horse until
he came to the two horses and Roberts's body.
He rolled the man over, and Remy drew back, her face pale. "Who ... who is it?" she
asked.
"I've seen him around. Name of Roberts. Shot twice, right through the heart." He
looked up at her. His face was bleak and hard. "Not many men shoot like that!"
Texas stepped over the body and looked at the knot. "No hombre ex pectin' to leave
in a hurry ever tied a horse like that!" he said. "Whoever shot him knew these horses
were here. He tied that knot so if he was slow gettin' back, this hombre wouldn't
get away!"
Carefully, Dowd went through his pockets. There was some ninety dollars in bills.
One, a twenty, was pasted together with a piece of pink
381 3 7 7
paper. Dowd put them in his shirt pocket. Scouting around, he found the bush where
the black stallion had been tied. His face stiffened as he looked. Then he lifted
his eyes to the girl. "It's him, damn his soul!" he said bitterly. "Who?"
"Finn Mahone! He seen this hombre cat-footin' around the hills. He followed him,
an' when he saw what he was up to, he scared him out of there. Then he got back here,
an' this hombre tried to shoot it out with him."
"Finn Mahone!" Remy stared at Dowd. "Then he saved your life, Tex!"
"Yeah." Tex stared at the tracks of the big horse. "That's the third time!" "Tex";
Remy said quickly, "what's between you and Mahone?" Texas Dowd raised his eyes and
looked at her. "He murdered my sis ter," he said coldly.
Dan Taggart loped his sorrel pony toward the McInnis ranch. At the time Mexie Roberts
was lying in wait for his shot at Dowd, Taggart had been inspecting cattle far to
the south.
Taggart was a man of nearly forty who looked ten years older. Rarely clean shaven,
he was grim, hard, and loyal. He was one of those riders who were the backbone of
the cattle business. When he rode, he rode, in the parlance of the cattle country,
"for the brand." In other words, his loyalty was not a thing to be taken lightly.
He was a man without imagination. Hardworking, ready to fight if need be, never hesitating
at long hours or miserable conditions. Abe McInnis, who knew a good man when he saw
one, had made Taggart fore man. It was the first position of responsibility Dan Taggart
had ever held. He took it seriously, and he did more work than any two of his cowhands.
That day he had seen a heifer with a fresh brand. He got a loop on her, and inspected
the brand. It was P Slash L, the Logan brand. There was nothing surprising about
it, as the cattle of the two ranches grazed the same land in this area, and had done
so without question for some time.
Nick James, who had formerly ridden for McInnis, saw Taggart pull down the heifer
and rode over. He grinned at the older man. "Figger we're rustlin', Dan?"
"Nope" Taggart released the heifer and got up. "Just havin' a look. That Kastelle
girl said somethin' the other day. Bothers me some" "What was that?" James asked.
He rolled a smoke and sat his horse, waiting.
382 3 7 8 L O U I S
Taggart rolled his quid and spat. "Said somethin' about this here Mahone feller sayin'
if we was to hunt rustlers we should do it with a pen an' ink"
Nick looked at Taggart quickly, his eyes shrewd. "Yeah," he said, carefully, "not
a bad idea. You got that Spur brand, Dan. Feller could make that over into a lot
of things."
"Uh-huh," Taggart agreed. He picked up a bit of dead mesquite root. "Like an IH connected?"
Nick James's face was expressionless. He lighted his smoke. "Yeah," he said again,
"you can do purty well with a Lazy K, too"
Taggart looked up. "Nick, I wouldn't say this to many people, but I reckon I got
stampeded into doin' somethin' foolish the other night. First time I ever went to
one of them Cattleman's meetin's, though." He looked up again. "I voted for Sonntag."
"Heard about it," Nick said gravely. "You seen The Branding Iron?" "No, why?" Taggart
looked up at Nick.
The P Slash L cowhand dug into his saddlebag. "Take a look then"
SONNTAG CHOSEN FOR RANGE INVESTIGATION
By a vote of six to four, the Cattleman's Association voted to appoint Byrn Sonntag
as range detective to investigate and deal with rustling activities. Abraham McInnis,
popular cattleman of the Spur Ranch, was unable to be present. There has been considerable
wonder about how the vote would have gone had McInnis not been confined to his bed
due to the mysterious shooting in the canyon below Rimrock. McInnis, seriously wounded
in a yet unexplained shooting, is believed by many of his friends to be opposed to
any such action as the hiring of a notorious gunman.
Dan Taggart, foreman of the Spur, voted for Sonntag in McInnis's place. Had he voted
against Sonntag the question would have been dropped for the time being.
"Looks kind of bad," Taggart admitted. "I wished that girl had spoke up before I
voted. Minute she said that, I began seem' pictures in my head of all them brands"
"Yeah," Nick agreed. "Know how you feel."
"Well," Taggart said. "P Slash L's in the clear on that, even if Logan did vote for
Sonntag. No brand in the valley can be made into a P Slash L." "That's right." Nick
James glanced off across the prairie. "It's too right."
Taggart looked up, scowling. "Huh? What did you say?"
"Dan," Nick said, "we lost some cows about a month ago. Maybe
383 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 7 9
twenty head. I'd been workin' back in Sage Canyon up until the day be fore, then
Pierce told me to start breakin' a couple of broncs we got." "What about it?"
"Those broncs could have been broke anytime, Dan."
Dan Taggart got into the saddle and watched Nick James riding away. The more he thought
about it, the surer he was that his vote had been a bad thing. He wished that McInnis
was conscious so he could talk to him. He was worried, and had no idea what course
was best.
Clouds were bunching up over the Highbinders to the north. He dug his slicker out
of his saddlebags and rode on with it lying conveniently across the saddle in front
of him.
IT WAS already pouring rain when Finn Mahone rode into Laird. On a hunch, he had
returned to Crystal Valley and thrown a hackamore on the old steel-dust gelding and
brought it with him down into town. If push came to shove in the trouble with Texas
Dowd the steel-dust might, just might, get him a fair hearing. In the past his pride
had kept him from ask ing for understanding from the man who once had been his friend.
But the situation was now different. He had just saved Dowd's life, and they were
both older and wiser. Heavy clouds loomed over the town and rain was falling in sheets.
Not knowing what sort of reception he could ex pect, he avoided the livery stable
and rode down a back street until he came to Doc Finerty's. He led the stallion and
gelding inside the doctor's barn, rubbed them dry, and got feed from the bin.
Splashing through the gathering pools of rain, he went to the back door of Lettie's
place. Turning the knob, it gave under his hand and he stepped within, loosening
the buttons on his slicker to have his guns avail able. He was standing there, dripping
water in the light that reflected from over the stairway, when Lettie came into the
hall.
"Finn!" she exclaimed. "Oh, it's good to see you."
She was a small woman, beautifully shaped, and Finn was always sur prised to find
her in such a business. She wore beautiful but conservative clothing, and always
looked smart and attractive. He knew enough of her story to admire her for her determination
and her fine independence of spirit. Nor could he blame her for choosing this business,
for when left a widow there had been only the choice between running a gambling house
or slowly falling into a pauper's life. She had not hesitated to make her decision,
heedless of her reputation.
One of those unaccountable movements that swept the tide of drift ing mankind into
some of the farthest and most unusual backwaters had brought her to Laird.
"It's good to see you again, too, Lettie." He nodded toward the par lor. "Who's in?"
384 380
"Nobody, right now. I guess the rain's keeping them home. Finn, what's been happening?
I hear Sonntag is gunning for you."
Mahone shrugged. "I haven't seen him. He in town?" "No, but Ringer Cobb is. Be careful."
"Sure. Is Otis around?"
"No, he isn't. He's wanting to see you, though. He's been acting very strange. Stopped
drinking all of a sudden, and seems to have something on his mind. You'd better see
him."
"I will. Right now I want to look up judge Collins." Lightning flashed almost without
cessation, and the rain had risen to a thundering roar. "Hombre tried to kill Tex
today," he told her. "Slim, wiry, dark fellow"
"Mexie Roberts. He comes and goes, Finn, always by himself." "Know why he would want
to kill Dowd?"
"For money. Roberts never killed anybody unless he got paid. If he tried to kill
Texas, somebody was paying him."
Mahone looked down at her. "Who d'you think, Lettie?"
She hesitated, then she looked up quickly. He could see doubt and worry in her eyes.
"I don't know, Finn. I would be wrong if I said Sonntag or Salter ... it feels like
someone is playing with everyone like they were puppets!"
"I agree, but that doesn't help me know who it is. Well, I'm going over to see Collins.
Armstrong, too."
"Be careful of Cobb!" she warned.
He went out the front door, gathering his slicker about him but not fastening the
buttons. At this time of night, judge Collins might be in the Longhorn, as there
was no light at Doc's. Or the judge might be at Ma Boyle's for coffee. At the thought
of coffee, Finn suddenly realized he was hungry.
He slopped down the street in the pelting rain, and went on past the lights of the
Longhorn. There was loud talk from within, and he hesi tated while rain ran down
his slicker and dribbled off on the walk. Otis might be in there. Collins, too. On
the other hand, Ringer Cobb was al most sure to be. For an instant longer he hesitated,
half in mind to go in and end it right then. But when he saw Ringer, if it ended
in a fight he might have to get out of town, and he had things he needed to do. He
went on down the street.
There was a light burning at The Branding Iron. He hesitated, then pushed open the
door and walked in. When he had the door closed, he looked around. "Hey, Dean?"
There was no answer. "Dean!" he called again, louder. When there was still no answer,
he walked around the high counter toward the trays of type and the desk.
Dean Anderson was lying facedown on the floor, his head bloody.
385 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 8 1
Quickly, Finn bent over him. He was alive. Hurrying to the back door he filled a
wash pan from the water bucket, grabbed up the towel that Dean kept hanging there,
and hurried back.
Lifting him, he cradled Dean's head on his arm while he put the cold towel on his
head. Gently, he sponged away the blood. It was a cut, a very nasty cut.
There was another, higher and in his hair. He sponged that off, too, and then Armstrong
began to stir and mutter. "Hold still!" Finn commanded. When Armstrong's eyes opened,
they stared about in confusion. At
this moment, without his dignity, he looked strangely young. Then he looked up and
saw Mahone.
"Finn!" he said. "Man, I'm glad to see you!" "What happened?" Mahone demanded.
"Cobb pistol-whipped me. Came in here about six, just after the rain started. Started
in half joking about what I'd said in the paper, then he hit me over the eye with
a pistol barrel."
"You mean that item about Sonntag?"
Dean shook his head, then gasped and caught it with both hands. "No, the piece I
had in today. I put out an extra edition." He looked up. "It's on the table there."
APPOINTMENT OF SONNTAG A MISTAKE
The appointment of Byrn Sonntag, notorious gunman, to investigate the cattle rustling
was a mistake. If the election was to be held again tomorrow, the result would be
against him. Since arriving in the Laird Valley country, Sonntag has killed at least
three men, and his as sociates at Rawhide can scarcely be classed as good citizens.
There are those on the range who declare it is more than a coincidence that certain
brands belonging to Rawhide ranchers are very easily devel oped from brands already
on this range. If Byrn Sonntag is to investi gate rustling, it might be a good idea
to begin in his own home town.
Finn Mahone looked up, grinning. "Dean," he said, "it took guts to write that, but
if I were you, I'd start packing a gun. Your paper gets around. Whoever is behind
all this doesn't have a chance of making it work if the news gets outside of Laird
Valley."
"That's what I thought, and that's what I wrote!" Dean said firmly. He crawled to
his feet and clutched the desk for support. "What good is a newspaper unless it tells
the truth and fights for the rights of the people?"
Mahone shrugged. "A lot of them should ask that question of them selves," he said
dryly "I'd better get Doc for you," he said. "You'll need some stitches in that head!"
386 3 8 2
"He's at Ma Boyle's," Dean said. "Or was starting for there just before Cobb showed
up."
"What are you going to do now?" Mahone asked, curiously.
"Do?" Dean demanded. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do! I'm go ing to print what
just happened, call it the cowardly attack it was, and tell who did it and why!"
"Then you'd better pack a gun," Finn advised. "This business is turn ing bad and
I don't like it. I've already killed one man today."
"You have?" Armstrong stared at him. "Who?"
"Fellow named Roberts. He tried to dry-gulch Texas Dowd."
Finn pulled his slicker around him and walked outside. Rain was still pouring down,
and the street was dark and empty. The blare of music came from the Longhorn, and
he heard shouts there, and once a yell. It sounded like Ringer Cobb.
He pushed open the door and stepped into Mother Boyle's in a gust of wind and water.
When he had the door closed, he turned his back to it and stood there, looking at
the room, a big, somber figure with his rain soaked hat, his dark slicker, and his
green eyes taking the room in with one measuring glance.
Ma Boyle was standing beside Doc Finerty with a pot of coffee, and Judge Collins
had turned as he entered. Nick James was there, the first time Mahone had seen him
since the day of the fight. James looked up, quickly and with interest. He had one
of those young-old faces, merry and friendly at times, then grave and serious. He
was scarcely more than a boy, but had been doing a man's work since he was eleven.
"Doc," Finn said, "better go have a look at Armstrong. Cobb pistol whipped him."
"I was afraid of that!" Doc said. He got up and reached for his slicker. "Keep some
coffee on, Ma!"
Finn sat down at the end of the table, between James and Collins. Collins was concerned.
"When Sonntag came in, I knew trouble was coming!"
Finn had hung his slicker and hat near the stove. He dished up some food and poured
the coffee. Briefly, and quickly, he outlined the trouble at the Lazy K, and the
outcome.
"Roberts is a paid killer." Judge Collins was puzzled. "Doesn't seem like Sonntag
would hire any killing done."
"He wouldn't," Mahone said, speaking past half a slice of bread and butter. "Not
him."
Nick James stirred his coffee and looked from one to the other. "You ever think maybe
something else was behind this?"
Judge Collins turned his head and looked at Nick. This man was shrewd, the judge
knew. James had ridden for him, and for McInnis.
387 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 8 3
He was one of the best hands in the valley. "What are you thinking, Nick?"
The young puncher shrugged, and gulped a swallow of coffee. "Ain't made up my mind.
Some things sure look funny, though."
Finn Mahone put his coffee down carefully. Suddenly he was remem bering the tall,
powerfully built man who was standing behind Remy that day he fought Leibman. "Any
rustlin' out your way?" he asked, casually.
Nick nodded. "A little, here and there. Never when anybody's around." He stirred
his coffee again. "I think I'll quit," he said suddenly.
"You can always have a job with me," Collins said. "You were the best hand I had,
Nick."
"Or with me," Mahone suggested, looking up.
Their eyes met across the table. "Didn't know you hired any hands," Nick said. "Heard
you played it alone."
"I have, but I've got some work ahead and could use help. I'd want a hand that would
sling a gun if he had to ... but not unless he had to." "I'll get my stuff tomorrow,"
James agreed. His face tightened. "An'
collect my time." Then he glanced at Mahone again. "How do I get there? They tell
me a man can't go through the Notch unless he knows the way."
"That's right, and don't try it alone. You get your gear, an' if I don't see you,
go up and camp in the Notch. There's good water, and plenty of grass. I'll be along."
The door slammed open then, and wind and rain swept into the room. The newcomer struggled
to get the door closed, then turned. It was Ringer Cobb.
Finn knew at once the man had been drinking and was in a killing mood. He was not
the type who staggered and floundered when drunk. Liquor brought out all the innate
cruelty in the man, and if anything, steadied him and made him colder.
His eyes fastened on Mahone's and a light danced in them, an ugly, dangerous light.
"You're Finn Mahone," he said, standing just inside the door, his slicker hanging
around him, his hands dangling.
Nick James pushed back gently, out of the way. Finn lifted the coffeepot and calmly
filled his cup. "That's right," Mahone replied. "An' you're Ringer Cobb. You're the
man who walked into the newspaper of fice and slapped a defenseless man with a Colt.
Makes you a pretty bad boy, doesn't it?" Cobb glared at Mahone, his teeth half bared.
"What's the matter?" Mahone said. "Don't you like the sound of the truth?"
"You should be ashamed!" Ma Boyle glared at Cobb.
"I've heard about you." Cobb took a step nearer and tried to change the subject back
to the one he had in mind. "Heard you're pretty fast with a gun. That right?"
388 3 8 4 L O U I S
"I do all right." Finn lifted the cup and sipped a little coffee. "Better sit down
and have a cup of coffee. Do you good."
"Huh?" Ringer was puzzled. Then his eyes sharpened. "Scared, huh? Think yuh can talk
me out of it."
"No," Mahone replied, and his voice hardened, "I'm just trying to talk you out of
Boot Hill, because if you reach for that gun ... I'll kill you!" Ringer Cobb took
a long breath through his nose, and his fingers
widened. Finn sat perfectly still, just looking at him, and Cobb's eyes wa vered.
He looked at Finn, and started to speak, but Mahone seemed to have lost interest,
and he remarked to Collins, "Hand me that cup, judge, and I'll pour this man some
coffee." He looked over at Cobb. "If you're not going to shoot me you might as well
have some coffee."
He took the cup and filled it. "Better have some of that cake Ma bakes, too, Ringer.
She's plenty good."
Ringer Cobb swayed a little, staring around uncertainly. Then he slumped on the bench,
and he was trembling with tension. He took the cup, and started to lift it, but some
of the coffee slopped over.
Mahone turned back to Nick. "My place is some of the best range in the world," he
said, "most of it subirrigated by water off the Highbinders. Not much erosion in
there, an' I don't run enough cattle to keep it fed down. I don't aim to get rich,
just to make enough to get along pretty well ."
"Sounds all right," Nick said.
None of them seemed to notice Cobb. Several times he started to say something, but
Finn Mahone continued to talk, calmly, easily.
Suddenly, Ringer got up, jerking to his feet so hard he tipped over his almost empty
cup. Then he wheeled and rammed through the door and was gone. Finn reached across
the table and straightened the fallen cup.
Judge Collins looked at Nick James, and James mopped the sweat from his brow. "You
backed him down!" Nick said. "Just outnerved him!" "Better than a shootin', don't
you think?"
"Awful close to a shooting, Finn," the judge said. "Awful close." Finn filled a cup,
took the cake, and, holding both under his slicker, went out the door and headed
for the print shop.
Nick James looked at Collins. "Judge," he said, "how could anybody ever figger him
for a rustler?" Then his eyes widened a little. "Suppose he an' Sonntag ... ?"
"Don't get anxious, son," the judge said. "I'm sure Finn's good, but you don't want
to be out of a job, right? If those two fight, very likely both of them will die!"
DAN TAGGART WAS a slow-thinking man. He sat in the bunkhouse on the Spur and smoked
his pipe. The other hands had turned in, but Dan sat
389 3 8 5
there, all through the pounding rain. On his return he had gone in to see Abe, but
McInnis was still unconscious, although better. Mrs. McInnis had her sister with
her now. Her sister was Mrs. Harran, wife of the storekeeper.
Unable to ask the advice of his boss, the foreman had gone back to the bunkhouse
and stayed there except for a few minutes to eat. He was vastly disturbed, afraid
he had done wrong, and wanting desperately to repair the damage he had done.
That the fault was not his alone he did not see. Brewster had voted as he had, and
so had Logan. When Logan's name came into his mind he re membered Nick's peculiar
attitude. What was it Nick said? That they had lost some cows after he had been ordered
out of Sage Canyon? That didn't make sense. Would Logan have his own cows rustled?
Taggart stirred un easily, afraid he was out of his depth, but worried and uncertain
of what to do.
He glanced around at the sleeping hands, but there was none of them he could turn
to, nor who would have been able to give the advice he wanted. Taggart felt the need
of advice from a superior, of leadership. His job as foreman was still too new. Only
one thing he knew: The voting-in of Sonntag as range detective had been a bad thing.
It had put the rustlers in the saddle.
He got up and pulled off his shirt, his pipe still in his mouth. Then he stood for
a moment, scratching his stomach. He would ride over to Kastelle's in the morning.
Abe McInnis set powerful store by Texas Dowd's opin ion, and that of Remy Kastelle.
PIERCE LOGAN WAS SITTING at his desk in a bright, rain-washed world when the door
opened and Byrn Sonntag walked in.
He had seen the man fifty times, talked with him nearly as many, and yet the man
always did something to him, something he didn't like. There was something in Sonntag's
very physical presence, his enormous vitality, the brash, raw health of him, and
his deep, somewhat overpowering voice that made Logan feel less than he liked to
feel.
Sonntag was in rare form this morning. He stamped into the office and threw his big
body into a chair. He tossed his hat to the wide, low windowsill, and stared across
at Logan.
He was a big man, weighing all of two hundred and forty pounds, with a leonine head
covered with thick, dull red hair. His sleeves were rolled up, and red hair curled
on his brawny and powerful forearms.
"Heard the news?" he demanded. His voice was harsh and rang with authority.
Logan looked at him carefully. "What news?"
"Roberts is dead. Somebody killed him when he tried to git Dowd. It wasn't Dowd.
Range folks figger it was Finn Mahone. Dowd ain't
390 386 L O U I S
talkin'. Mahone must've spotted Roberts an' trailed him down. Anyway, he got two
slugs through the heart."
Logan scowled. He had been depending on Roberts to do another job for him, too. A
job on a man much closer, and eventually more dan gerous than Texas Dowd.
"Anything else?"
"Yeah, Cobb went over to that paper an' pistol-whipped Armstrong last night. That
was my order. Then he went into the eatin' house, an' Mahone was there."
"Mahone? In town?" Pierce Logan was incredulous. "Where were you?"
"I was busy. I can't be everywhere!" Sonntag growled. "Anyway, Ringer wanted him,
an' he went after him."
"Yes?" Logan leaned forward, eagerly.
"An' nothin' happened. Mahone made a fool out of him. Bluffed him out of it. Told
him to set down an' have some coffee, an' if he drew a gun he'd kill him. Ringer
sat down an' drank the coffee!"
"The devil!" Logan got up angrily. "Only two men blocking this thing and your men
muff both of them! I tell you, Sonntag, those men have to be out of this!"
"Don't get riled up," Sonntag replied deliberately. "We'll take care of them. Anyway,"
he added, "it's all in the open now, anyway. That girl of Kastelle's spilled the
whole thing. Started people thinkin'. I knowed it was too plain-you could fool 'em
only so long as they didn't know there was any rustlin' goin' on."
"Get Dowd and Mahone out of the picture, and I don't care how wild you go," Logan
said. "I mean that. You can run off every cow on the range!"
Sonntag sat up and his eyes gleamed suddenly. "Say! That's all right! The boys would
like that!" He looked up at Logan who was pacing the floor. "By the way, Mahone was
over to Rico. He promised Ed Wheeling a shipment of cattle."
"Good! That's the only good news you've given me! Get some al tered brands among
them, I don't care whose or how Nobody will see them over here, anyway. All we want
is the story of some funny brands!"
"Fine with me." Sonntag got up to go. "Got any money? I gave Roberts three hundred
out of my own pocket."
Logan hesitated, then drew out a billfold and handed over several bills. "Better
make it four hundred," Sonntag said. "I can use it!"
Pierce Logan looked up, but Sonntag wasn't even looking at him. Logan's eyes were
ugly when he counted out the other hundred. Sonntag was getting too big for his boots,
Logan decided. Yet, he
391 3 8 7
needed the man. Only Sonntag could keep the Rawhide bunch in line. Ringer Cobb's
failure irritated him, and he got to his feet and paced the length of the office.
He would have to do some of these jobs himself.
What had frightened Cobb? The man was reputedly dangerous, and he could sling a gun,
but he had backed down cold for Mahone. Roberts was dead. That meant something would
have to be done about Dowd immediately. Too bad they couldn't all do their jobs as
neatly as he did. He, Pierce Logan, would do the job on Dowd, if necessary.
He turned and walked out of his office and down the street toward the Longhorn. Judge
Collins sat on his step, tilted back against the wall. He waved casually at Logan.
"Old fool!" Logan muttered. "I'll have all that self-importance out of him in a few
days!"
Impatience was driving him, and he realized its danger. Yet ineffi ciency always
irritated him, and he wanted this over and done with.
He saw a roan horse at the hitching rail, and Logan stared at it. What was James
doing in town? There was plenty for him to do out on the range. Logan pushed open
the door and strode into the Longhorn. Nick
looked up when he came in, and shoved his hat back. "Howdy," he said briefly.
"How are you, James?" Logan said. "Got a message for me?" "No," James said, "only
that I'm quittin'."
"Quitting?" Pierce Logan turned his head to look at Nick again. "Why?"
"No partic'lar reason. I never stay on one job too long. Sort of get off my feed
if I do."
"Sorry to lose you." Logan poured a drink from the bottle. "Going to work right away?"
"Uh-huh." Nick's voice was elaborately casual. "For Finn Mahone." Logan put the bottle
back on the bar. There might be more in this than was immediately apparent. Nick
James was smart. Maybe he was too smart. "I see"-he lifted his drink-"but I didn't
know Mahone used any hands?" "Changed his mind, I guess."
The door pushed open and Texas Dowd walked into the room. With him was Van Brewster.
"Where's Sonntag?"
Logan turned. "Haven't seen him. What's the trouble?"
"Plenty!" Dowd's eyes were chill. "Mex Roberts tried to dry-gulch me the other day.
When I went through his pockets, I found nearly a hundred dollars. That's a lot of
money for a range tramp. One o' the bills was stuck together with pink paper. Brewster
here recognized it as one he lost in a poker game to Sonntag."
"Sonntag's the type who does his own killing," Logan suggested. "You're on the wrong
track, Dowd"
392 388
"I'll make up my mind about that!" Dowd's voice was sharp. "If Sonntag hired Roberts
to kill me, he did it on orders. I want to know whose orders!"
Logan almost asked him who he believed had given the orders when he caught himself.
If he asked that question Dowd might give the right answer, and if he did, it would
mean a shooting. This was neither the time nor the place for that.
"That's an angle I hadn't thought of. Sonntag's out on the range somewhere, and I
imagine he'll be in town tonight."
"All right." Dowd turned abruptly. "Then tell him I want to see him. If he's got
an explanation, I want it!"
Dowd strode out and Logan poured another drink. He was jumpy. That damned fool Sonntag!
Why did he have to use a marked bill? This whole thing was going to bust wide open,
and unless he was mistaken, Sonntag was down at Lettie Mason's right now.
Pierce Logan returned to his office and seated himself at his desk. Abe McInnis was
down in bed and in no shape for anything. Van Brewster was a hotheaded fool. Remy
Kastelle was a mere girl, and her father a lazy ex gambler who would rather read
books than work. Judge Collins was too old, and Finerty was not a gunfighter. Dean
Armstrong could be taken care of at leisure.
It all boiled down to two men, and it always came back to them, to Dowd and Mahone.
Dan Taggart, the foreman at the Spur, was rough and ready and a fighter if he ever
made up his mind, but that was a process that ran as slow as molasses in January.
There were only a few moves left; Logan just had to make those moves pay off.
It was time he rode out to the Lazy K and had a talk with Remy. Once they were married,
he could have Dowd discharged, and the man would leave the range-if Sonntag didn't
kill him first. The time for waiting had passed, but definitely.
Pierce Logan went to his stable and threw a saddle on his horse. As he rode out of
town, he saw a horseman far ahead. It was Nick James, on his way to the Notch.
FAR AHEAD of Pierce Logan and already on Lazy K range, Banty Hull, Frank Salter,
and Montana Kerr rode side by side. They had their orders from Sonntag, and immediately
they moved out. They were after a bunch of Lazy K cattle. At the same time, far to
the north and east of them, Ike Hibby, Alcorn, Leibman, and Ringer Cobb were moving
down on one of Brewster's small herds. With two hundred head, they started for Rawhide.
This was no matter of altering brands, it was an outright, daylight steal.
Montana Kerr saw the rider first, and jerked his head at him. "Who the hell is that?"
393 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 389
Hull rode up a little, peering under his pulled-down hat brim. "Looks like Dan Taggart.
Headed for the Lazy K, I reckon."
"He's seen us."
"Yeah." Montana's voice was flat. "I never liked him anyway." Taggart's route intersected
theirs within two miles. He glanced from one to the other, and his heart began to
pound. He had never seen Rawhide riders on this range before. Something in their
eyes warned him, but Dan Taggart was not the man to back up, and even had he been,
he would not have had a chance.
"Howdy, boys" His eyes shifted from one to the other. Their faces were all grim,
hostile. Some sixth sense told him what was coming. "What's up?" "Your number," Hull
said.
"Huh?" Taggart knew he was no match for these men. If he could get some cover, with
his rifle, he might ... but there was no chance of that. It was here and now. "You
boys off your range, ain't you?"
"This is all our range," Salter said harshly. "Startin' t'day."
"I reckon other folks'll disagree," Taggart said. "Tex Dowd for in stance."
"Dowd!" Salter spat the word. "I reckon I know him. I know him from Missouri, and
I'd like t'hang his hide on a fence!"
Taggart shrugged. "Your business," he told them. "You boys go your way, an' I'll
go mine. I reckon I'll be ridin' on."
He had his hand in his lap, only inches from his gun, but he knew Montana Kerr, knew
the man was a killer, and knew that even leaving the others out, he wouldn't have
a chance. He started his horse and rode on. For a moment, he thought he would get
away with it. Then Kerr yelled at him.
Dan Taggart turned in his saddle and Kerr's hand flashed with in credible speed.
Taggart grabbed for his gun, but two slugs hit him and he went down, hitting the
ground in a heap, and dead before he hit it.
All three men emptied their guns into his body. "That'll be a lesson to 'em!" Salter's
face was vicious as he spoke. "No use to botch the job like we did on McInnis."
They swung wide and headed around the Lazy K, driving cattle ahead of them.
Behind them Dan Taggart lay sprawled in the thin prairie grass, his shirt darkly
stained with blood, and the grass beneath him red. His gun was still in its worn
holster.
His horse, after running away when Taggart's body fell from it, watched the three
riders trot their horses from the scene of the killing. Curious, and lonely without
its master, the cow horse walked back.
Taggart lay on the ground and the horse drew nearer. At the smell of blood, it shied
violently, rolling its eyes, but impelled by a curiosity
394 3 9 0 L O I I S
greater than its sense of danger, moved closer. The smell of blood was too much for
it, and jerking its head away, it trotted off a little distance.
On the crest of a rise it stopped briefly, looking back. Then, turning away, it trotted
toward home, pausing from time to time to crop a mouth ful of grass.
CHAPTER
Remy Kastelle sat on the cowhide-covered settee in the great, high ceilinged living
room of the Lazy K ranch house. The room as always was cool and still, and for this
very reason she had always loved it. There was something of a cathedral hush in the
great room, and the longer she lived in the house, the more she understood why her
father had built the room so large.
Kastelle had put his book aside and was idly riffling a deck of cards through his
fingers. He had never cared for his onetime profession, and had no longing to return
to it. Yet his life had taught him the uncertainty of things if no more, and he felt
the necessity of retaining all his old skill.
The silence in the big room was unbroken save for the ripple and snap of the cards.
Kastelle shuffled the deck quickly, ran his thumb over the edges, and in a few rapid,
easy movements, all apparently part of his shuf fling, he had selected the proper
cards and run up a couple of good hands.
He in jogged the top card, took off the bottom and shuffled off, then, locating the
break with a finger, he shuffled off again and with a neat throw had his stack on
top. Then he cut the deck, shifted the cut back, and dealt the hands, three fives
showing up in his imaginary oppo nent's hand, three jacks in his own.
From time to time he glanced at Remy, but said nothing. Her beauty always came to
him with something of a shock. The fact that he had seen her grow from a long-legged,
coltish girl, who lived only to ride, into a beautiful woman did nothing to detract
from her beauty. Her mother had been lovely, and his own mother had been a beautiful
woman, but neither of them could compare to the vivid loveliness that was his daughter.
He had never worried about her. Growing up beside him she had grown up singularly
independent, choosing her own way always, and if guided by him, the guiding was so
slight that neither of them were ever conscious of it.
Their relationship had always been more than that of father and daughter. They understood
each other as people. She knew her father's pride in his appearance, his love of
horses, his sensitive response to beauty. She knew what his life had been before
he bought the first ranch
395 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 9 1
back in Texas. She had never been ashamed that her father was a profes sional gambler.
She knew what had led to it, and knew how he felt.
The war with Mexico had ended, and Kastelle, a major in the cavalry, had found himself
discharged in a foreign country with no prospects ex cept an agile mind and a willingness
to embrace the future. He had no possessions other than the horse he rode and the
clothes he wore. Gold had recently been discovered in the foothills of the California
Sierras, and so like hundreds of other veterans he sold his horse and bought passage
on a windjammer headed to San Francisco.
Within months the town was swarming with sailors, treasure seekers, merchants, mining
speculators, and revolution plotters from Latin America. Many of them had money.
Kastelle, from then on known as Frenchy, be came a habitue of the cafes and gambling
houses.
A skillful horseman and an excellent shot, he possessed only one other skill. He
knew how to handle cards. Swiftly, in the months that fol lowed, he learned more
by applying his skill. For a professional gambler he possessed perfect equipment.
Cold nerve, an unreadable face, skillful fingers, and a shy, scholarly manner that
was deceptive. Best of all, he pos sessed no gambling instinct. He played cards to
win.
A few years before the nation tore itself apart with the war against the Confederate
States, Frenchy was briefly married. An outbreak of cholera carried off his young
wife, along with thousands of others, and left him with a baby daughter to care for.
With no other attachments in his life, he was with Remy much of the time. They talked
a lot, and he made no attempt to spare her the details of his career. He told her
of the men and women he met, sketching them coldly with words as an artist might
with a brush. It was not long until all these people lived and breathed for her.
Remy's conception of what was right and wrong, or when men and women were at their
best and worst, came entirely from these accounts of her father's. His instinct for
people was almost infallible, and she acquired much of it, growing up with a precocious
knowledge of the world and the facts of life such as few children ever have.
No matter what her troubles, she always turned to him, and she had never found him
lacking in understanding. He rarely reproved her. A sug gestion from him, or his
unspoken approval or disapproval, was all she needed. Gradually, as she grew older,
she came more and more to handle her own problems.
On this day. Kastelle sensed that something was troubling her.
was restless, uneasy. Several times he thought he detected tears in her eyes, but
he was not certain.
Remy had attracted men to her from the time she was fourteen. She was accustomed
to their interest, and she knew how to handle them. The
396 3 9 2 L O U I S
men she met had rarely attracted or interested her. Dowd seemed like an uncle or
a friend, and it wasn't until she met Pierce Logan that love and marriage entered
her mind.
Tall, handsome, and an interesting conversationalist, he had gone rid ing with her
several times, and she had entertained him at home a bit more. Occasionally, when
in town, she had eaten with him at Ma Boyle's. He was exciting and fascinating, but
she had never discussed him with her father, nor he with her. Always, she had been
a little hesitant about bring ing the matter up.
Then had come the morning she walked into Ma Boyle's and asked about the black stallion.
She had lifted her eyes and found herself looking at Finn Mahone.
She never forgot that moment. She remembered how imperiously she had swept into the
room, her riding crop in her hand, so filled with the picture of that magnificent
black stallion that she could think of nothing else.
His calm assurance nettled her, and she was actually pleased when she thought Leibman
would whip him. Only Dowd had as much assurance as that, and knowing Dowd's abilities,
she had never been put off by his manner.
The fight in the street, the ride across those awful slides, and the night in the
cabin, all had served to increase her interest. Carried away by the excitement of
the ride across the slate, and by the necessity for getting somewhere, Remy had not
fully realized that she was trapped, that she must stay alone in the cabin with him.
She was not too disturbed by it. She carried a .41 derringer that her father had
given her, and would not have hesitated to use it. She fully expected to have to
warn him away, and then he hadn't even come near her door. She had never decided
whether she was pleased or angry about that.
Texas Dowd's disclosure of his reason for hating Mahone shocked her. She wanted to
know if the picture of the beautiful woman that she had seen in Finn's bedroom had
been Dowd's sister, but his dour and for bidding reaction denied any possibility
of further talk.
His statement seemed utterly at variance with every conception she had formed of
the character of Finn Mahone. Murder of any kind seemed beyond him, and murder of
a woman was unthinkable. Killing, yes. Childhood familiarity with war and sudden
death allowed her to ac cept that. To kill in defense was one thing, however; murder
was another. Yet the statement had been made, and there was something in the flat
fi nality of it that had her believing, even while she refused to admit to her self
that it was true.
Staring out the door where the shadow of the porch cut a sharp line
397 3 9 3
across the brightness of the morning, Remy tried to analyze her feelings for Finn,
and could find no answer. She was nineteen, a young lady by all the standards of
her time, and her own mother had been married well be fore that age. Yet Remy had
had no serious romantic dealings with boys or men. The idea of love, while always
in her mind, had never become quite real to her.
Kastelle riffled his cards and waited. Sensitive to all the nuances of Remy's feelings,
he knew she was going to talk to him, that she was trou bled. It was the first time
in almost two years that she had come to him with a problem, and the interval made
the silence harder to break.
She picked up a book, then put it down. She got up and crossed to the fireplace and
idly toed a stick back off the hearthstone. She looked out the door again, then back
to him. "Did Dowd ever tell you about his sister being murdered?"
Kastelle nodded. "Why, yes, he did. It was a long time ago." "Tell me about it"
He shrugged and put the cards aside. "There is very little I can tell you. Louisiana
was in bad shape right then; the whole South was in a tur moil. Carpetbaggers were
coming in, the freed slaves were wandering about, uncertain of what to do, and there
were renegade soldiers from both armies on the loose.
"Riots and outbreaks were common in New Orleans, houses were burned on plantations,
and there was a lot of looting going on. More than one man decided it was a good
chance to get rich, and they weren't all carpetbaggers by a long shot. Renegade southerners
were just as bad in many cases.
"Dowd was living with his sister, who was about as old as you are now, on a farm
just out of New Orleans. It had belonged to his uncle, and wasn't a large place,
at all.
"It was on a bayou, and was quite lovely. He didn't tell me much about it, but it
seems there was a friend living there with him, a chap he had met in Mexico right
before the war. They had both fought in revolu tions down there, and had become friends.
"Dowd went to New Orleans on business, and while he was gone one of those riots broke
out, and he was overdue in getting home. When he did get back, his sister had been
murdered. From what he said it was pretty ugly.
"He found a button in her hand that had come off a coat this friend was wearing,
and the friend was nowhere around. The house had been
thoroughly looted. Three men who lived nearby swore they saw the friend riding away
on a horse, and he was, they said, bloody as could be.
"Dowd started after his friend, and swore he would kill him on sight. The chase followed
clear to Mexico, and Dowd lost him there, was nearly
398 3 9 4
killed by some old enemies, and returned to Texas. That was when I met him."
"He told me the friend was Finn Mahone," she said.
Kastelle looked at her quickly. Her eyes were wide and she was star ing out the door.
So that was it! He had noticed how different Remy had been acting of late, and had
wondered about it. He recalled, then, how Remy had stood up for Mahone at the Cattleman's
meeting.
"I didn't know" Remy had grown up, he realized that with a pang. He had known she
would, and had known that when she did, she would fall in love. Now it had to be
with this man ... a murderer.
"You've met Mahone?"
"Yes." Without taking her eyes from the door, she told all that had transpired. He
listened attentively, and realized when she had finished that his pipe had gone out.
He refilled and lit it.
Kastelle stared at the floor. He never knew what to say at a time like this because
there simply wasn't anything he could say. He raised his eyes to look at Remy, and
found she was gone. She had walked out of the room and he had not noticed.
He got up and walked to the door. Remy was walking dejectedly toward the corrals.
Kastelle shook his head, unaware of any way he could help her except to listen and
try to be a strong and stable presence.
Two cowhands were sitting on the steps of the bunkhouse, and one of them had a rifle
across his knees. Kastelle walked down to them. They grinned as he came up.
"Howdy!" Jody Carson said. "Dowd told us to stick around today." Kastelle nodded.
He left the ranch business strictly up to the man from Texas. "Is he expecting trouble?"
"Yeah." Carson leaned his elbows on the top step. "Pete was crossin' the Laird trail
yesterday an' run into Nick James. Nick's headin' for the Notch. He's goin' to work
for Mahone."
"Mahone's hiring hands?"
"Uh-huh. Anyway, Nick said Mahone ran a blazer on Ringer Cobb in Ma Boyle's place
an' made him back down. Story's all over town about Roberts tryin' to kill Dowd,
too."
"Where's Marshal Miller?"
"Over to the McInnis place, waitin' for Abe to talk, I reckon." He sat up suddenly.
"Hey! What's all this?"
They turned, and Kastelle's heart gave a leap. Texas Dowd was com ing in with a body
across a saddle. His face was hard. He reined in and swung down. "It's Dan Taggart,"
he said, "killed down on our south range."
Carson and Pete helped him remove the body from the saddle, and they looked at it.
Kastelle's eyes hardened as he looked. He had known
399 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 3 9 5
and liked Taggart, as these men had. The man was literally riddled with holes.
Dowd's face was grim when he looked up. "This is the beginning," he said. "God knows
where it'll end" He looked at Jody. "You an' Pete stick right here. Don't you get
off this place on no account. An' watch for that Rawhide bunch!"
Jody Carson had his own opinion of the men from Rawhide. That opinion had been bolstered
by what he'd heard from Nick James. His eyes found Dowd's. "Nick told Pete that Taggart
was sorry he voted for Sonntag. He wanted to do something about it powerful bad."
"Maybe Sonntag done this?" Pete suggested.
Dowd shook his head. "No, this was more than one man. Sonntag wouldn't have wasted
shots, either. I scouted around. There were three men, cutting north toward the Highbinders.
Happened several hours ago, I reckon."
Dowd stared at the bloody, shot-up body, and his lips tightened. Yet he was thinking
now of Finn. If only Mahone were riding with him! These men ... they meant well,
and they would try, but in the end they were not hard enough, not fast enough. Byrn
Sonntag was a bear with lightning in his hands, and he had men like Frank Salter
and Montana Kerr riding with him.
Getting that bunch would be a job for men to do, not boys. He stood there, lonely
and bitter, remembering the time in Mexico that he and Mahone had been informed by
a soldier sent out from town that they must bring themselves to the commandant at
once.
They were carrying ten thousand dollars in gold, their payment for fighting. They
well knew what would happen to their ten thousand if it ever got in the clutches
of that commandant. Mahone had looked up, and he had said in that easy, tough voice
of his, "Tell the commandant that Finn Mahone an' Tex Dowd are ridin' down the main
street of his town, an' if he wants us, or our gold, tell him to come an, get us!"
And an hour later, after a leisurely meal, they had mounted up and rid den through
the little Mexican town ... and there was not a soul in sight. Dowd knew he had to
kill Mahone. Whenever he thought of that bru
tal murder, a tide of fierce anger rose within him. Yet somehow, something held him
back. It was not only that he had not had the chance to meet Mahone since that time,
nor was it that there was no way across the slides. Something in him refused to admit
that what had happened had happened.
The dust of the same roads had pounded into their faces, and the powder smoke of
the same battles had burned their nostrils. He shook his head, and looked up. He
turned then and walked into the bunkhouse.
Resolutely, he put aside all thought of Mahone. There was planning to be done.
400 396
He had, as it was a slack time, just four hands on the ranch. With the Negro cook,
and Kastelle and himself, there were seven. The cook was a tough man and loyal, but
he was as old as Frenchy Kastelle and not in as good shape.
What was coming now was open warfare. He knew without further evidence that this
was the beginning. Or rather, Roberts's shot at him had been the beginning. Had Mahone
not killed Mexie Roberts, Dowd would be dead now. Abe McInnis was in bed, seriously
wounded. Taggart killed. On top of that, if they had killed Dowd the range would
have been open to do what they pleased.
He got up and paced the floor. Desperately, he needed someone to side him. This was
no longer a lone-wolf job. He couldn't be everywhere, and there was still Sonntag.
He was out on the range somewhere, and wherever he was, death would soon follow.
Texas Dowd knew without doubt that Sonntag would be gunning for him, and that meant
he had to kill Sonntag.
It would settle nothing. Someone else was behind this, someone who had ordered his
death.
Mahone? Dowd shook his head. Finn would do his own killing. Suddenly, he remembered
he had two men out on the range. They were riding alone ... and the killers of Taggart
had been headed north!
He lunged from the house and ran for his horse. "Stay here!" he yelled at the men
by the bunkhouse. He hit the saddle and was gone. Frenchy Kastelle walked back into
the house. Coolly, he got down
from their rack his new Winchester '73 and the Sharps .50. Then he checked their
loads and put them within easy reach of his hand. He went into his bedroom and got
his .44 and belted it on.
Kastelle snapped to with a start. Remy! Where was she? He turned and stepped to the
door and saw Jody Carson staring out over the range. "Where's Remy?" he called.
Jody ran around the corner of the bunkhouse and stared at the corral. "Her mare's
gone!" he yelled. "She must've headed out."
Kastelle stood an instant in indecision. Carson's face was a picture of worry. "Gosh,
Boss! I never give her a thought, we're so used to her comin' an' goin'!"
"I know," he said. He held himself still and tried to think where she could have
gone. Perhaps just for a ride, to ride away her own doubts and bitterness. If so,
she might have gone in any direction. Kastelle stood there, his mind curiously alert.
He tried to think of everything, tried to decide what was best to do. "We would be
foolish to look for her," he said finally. "We'll have to wait."
"Well, nobody's goin' to come up to her on that mare. That Roxie can outrun anything
on this range, unless it's that black of Mahone's."
401 3 9 7
"Dowd's out now," Carson said, "an' Bovetas an' Rifenbark are still out there. I
reckon Dowd figgered they might run into them Rawhide hands that killed Taggart."
Kastelle sat down on the porch, his Winchester close at his hand. Carson stood for
a minute, waiting, then walked back to the bunkhouse. Pete Goodale looked up. "The
boss wears those guns like he could use 'em," he said. "Never seen him wear one before."
The day drew along slowly, and the sun reached the meridian, then started its long
slide toward the distant Rimrock, a high red bulwark against the green range.
TExAs DOWD KEPT his horse at a canter to save it, and headed back up range. He saw
few cattle, and this area had been covered with them a fort night ago. His face drew
down in hard lines. He had waited too long. He should have gone to Rawhide and killed
Sonntag. If Sonntag was gone, the rest of them would fall apart ... but again he
recalled his belief that behind Sonntag was another, unknown person.
He was almost to the edge of the Highbinders when he heard a faint yell. He reined
in his horse and shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. Someone was waving
a hat. He jacked a shell into the chamber of his Winchester and rode ahead, his eyes
studying the ground. When he got a little closer, a man got up out of the grass.
It was Rifenbark.
"What happened?" Rif's head was bloody and he was limping. "Three of them Rawhide
hands. I seen 'em drivin' some cattle ahead, so I started down range. I was a ways
off. Bovetas, he seen 'em be fore I did, an' he rode down on 'em."
Rifenbark's eyes were bleak. "They never give him a chance. I seen it, an' I also
seen I wasn't goin' to do much good agin' three of 'em on a hoss. I hit dirt, an'
when they got close enough, I opened up with my rifle.
"Never did no good, though. Never even winged one. They just waved at me an' rode
on, then two of 'em circled back, an' one got in this here shot that cut my scalp.
I shot again, but didn't get neither one, al though I burned 'em up some."
"Where's your horse?"
"Yonder in them trees. I seen him movin' there a minute ago." Dowd wheeled his horse
and started for the trees. He would get Rif mounted, and then they would cut along
toward Brewster's. They might come up with the herd again.
FAR AWAY to the east, two separate riders were headed toward Brewster's as toward
the apex of a triangle. One of these was Remy Kastelle; the other was Pierce Logan.
Pierce Logan rode rapidly. He was heading for Rawhide, and he had
402 3 9 8
a few plans he wanted to put into execution, and he was looking for a man to replace
Mex Roberts. Despite himself, he was worried. He could think of no particular reason
why he should be, although he had planned to have Dowd out of the way before things
came to a head.
He had chosen Roberts to kill Sonntag when the time came, and now that chance was
gone. If Sonntag were to be killed, he must find someone else ... or do it himself.
It might come to that.
A vast impatience lay upon him. Cool planning had been his best hand, but now movement
had taken the place of thinking. He knew and approved of what the Rawhide crowd were
doing today. Before nightfall, fear would be alive on the range. As long as he had
the chance to place the blame on Mahone or his "gang" it would be all right ... but
that was touch and go so far, because they had not had a chance to mix any altered
brands into the cattle he was selling.
Pierce Logan had ridden out of town after his meeting with Dowd, and he had stayed
the night in a line shack on Brewster's range. He would stay out of sight as much
as possible. At all costs, he wished to avoid be ing forced to show his colors.
He reached the Brewster ranch to find the house in flames and the stock driven off.
There was no sign of anyone around the place. Yet he had scarcely ridden into the
yard when he heard a low moan. He swung his horse, and his pistol flashed into his
hand.
The groan sounded again, and he swung down and walked toward the barn. It had been
left standing due to the amount of feed stored there, and some valuable saddles.
Logan had been cold-blooded about that. "Might as well keep it, Byrn," he said dryly.
"We can use that stuff, and the feed will be good for our horses."
"Logan?" Pierce turned his head to the voice and saw a hand wave feebly from under
a pile of sacking. "Help!" The voice was weak.
In two strides he was beside the sacking and jerked it back. Van Brewster, his shirt
covered with blood, lay on the barn floor. His lids flut tered and he tried to speak
again. Coolly, Logan lifted his pistol. They'd botched the job, but he might as well
finish it.
Then he heard a horse's hooves. Wheeling, he saw Remy Kastelle ride into the ranch
yard on her white mare. Thrusting his gun into the holster, he called to her. "Come
here! Brewster's hurt!"
Remy dismounted and ran to him. He took her elbow and showed her the wounded man.
Then, cursing under his breath, he picked up a bucket and went for water while she
unfastened the man's rough shirt. Van Brewster was badly wounded, she could see that
at a glance. If he lived it would be more luck than anything they could do. If only
they had Doc Finerty!
"Logan ... started . . ." Brewster's mutter faded, then his eyes opened again, ".
. . shoot me," he ended.
403 R O U N D U P 3 9 9
The words made no sense. Obviously he was delirious, and she thought no more of what
he had said. An hour later, with the wounds bathed and bandaged from some supplies
she carried in her saddlebags, she stood facing Logan.
"He can't be moved, Pierce." Her voice was worried. "I'm going to stay here with
him. Why don't you ride for Doc? That horse of yours will get to him faster than
anyone else."
"Leave me with him," Logan suggested. "Your mare is fast, and you'd be safer in town
than here."
She hesitated. "No, I'll stay. Ever since this started I've been carrying a few things
with me. If he should need help, I could give it to him. I'll be all right."
"Well ..." He hesitated. She was here, alone. Why not now? In a few days ... ? Then
he told himself not to be a fool. He wanted the Lazy K. He could get a clearer title
by marriage, and besides, she would be an as set. There was plenty of time. He told
himself that coolly, while he avoided her glance. She was the loveliest girl he had
ever seen. Only one had been nearly so beautiful.
"All right, I'll go. Be careful," he advised, "and stay out of sight." This would
prevent him from going on to Rawhide, but that could wait. He would appear to be
doing more good this way. Finerty would remember it, and Brewster, if he lived. Had
Brewster seen him lift that pistol? He doubted it. Mounting, he waved good-bye and
started the bay horse at a fast canter.
Remy looked after him, wondering about him again as she often had in these last few
days. He sat his horse splendidly. He was a man a woman could be proud of. But ...
She walked back to the barn and gathered more sacks to make Brewster more comfortable.
Time and again she walked to the door, but it would be hours before Logan could return.
PIERCE LOGAN WAS in no hurry. He was going for Finerty, but he was
hoping that Brewster would die before the doctor could reach him to help. Hurrying
would only increase the chances for Brewster to live. Still, if he did live he would
be ill for a long time, and by that time the whole trouble would be settled, one
way or another.
Now that he was away from her, he was glad he had not mo lested Remy Kastelle. There
was something about being alone with a woman like that that always fired him with
some strange, burning desire. Yet, he could wait. All this, and her, would soon be
his. Only three ob stacles remained. Texas Dowd, the plan against Finn Mahone, and
Byrn Sonntag.
The Rawhide gunman was his man, but he was too powerful a force
404 400
for Logan to leave in the field. Sonntag had started changing Logan's policy when
the Rawhide boys began their outright theft. Sonntag con trolled the men doing the
rustling. So Logan had no choice but to go along with it or be sidelined. As soon
as the events in the Laird Valley came to a head, Logan and Sonntag were going to
have to find out who was boss. Yet it was a simple choice ... only one would be alive.
NORTH OF Him the clans were gathering in Rawhide. Byrn Sonntag had been sitting at
a table waiting for them. Montana Kerr came in, dusty from his long ride. Briefly,
he reported. Sonntag fingered his glass. Dan Taggart was dead. That was good, for
the man had fight in him. Bovetas was dead. That was unimportant, but it was another
gun eliminated. Brewster was dead, or so the report came in. The Brewster and McInnis
operations were out of the fight, and the bulk of their cattle were on the move.
There remained only the Lazy K.
Logan was soft on hitting the Kastelle ranch. He had some plan of his own, for he
had always told Sonntag to go easy. The reason he gave was the watchfulness of Texas
Dowd, but Sonntag suspected it had more to do with the girl. The thought of Dowd
irritated Sonntag. The man was good with a gun. But how good?
He knew Dowd slightly. Finn Mahone was still only a name to him, once or twice their
trails had crossed, but always at a distance.
Ike Hibby, Ringer Cobb, Banty Hull, and the rest of them had rid den in from the
range. The war was on, and the Rawhide riders had struck fast and hard.
He was not worried about Laird. Its citizens would have little effect outside the
town. There would be resistance, but a resistance of spirit rather than physical
power. Byrn Sonntag had nothing but contempt for resistance of the spirit. Such resistance
is of avail only so long as one's enemy is aware of things of the spirit, and aware
of public opinion. Sonntag knew that Logan wanted to keep the war bottled up in Laird
Valley. Sonntag could see the advantage in that. Yet Pierce Logan dis turbed him.
Why, he couldn't say.
Logan, he was well aware, was in the clear. At no point was Logan ob viously involved.
His skirts were clean, and there was nothing for him to worry about if the plan failed.
Sometimes Sonntag wondered if he needed Logan. Yet, he had to admit, he was better
heeled now than any time in his life, fear of reprisals was almost nonexistent, and
it looked like his men were riding to complete dominance of the valley.
TExAs DOWD, sided by Rifenbark, made a wide sweep of the Lazy K range. Mile by mile,
bitterness welled up within him. The range had been swept of cattle. Back in the
brakes there would be some, of course, but all
405 4 0 1
those in sight had been driven off. Open war had been declared, and the attack was
all to the advantage of the enemy.
Distant smoke warned him of fire at Brewster's, so the two rode on. When still some
distance away, he recognized Remy's mare and put his horse to a gallop.
Remy ran from the barn to greet him. "It was the Rawhide bunch! If Logan and I hadn't
got here!"
Dowd's interruption was quick. "Logan here? Who got here first, you or him?"
"Why, he did ... why?"
Dowd's face was expressionless. "Just wondering. This is a long ways from P Slash
L range, and a long way from Laird."
"Surely you don't suspect Pierce?" Remy was incredulous.
"I suspect everybody!" Dowd replied shortly. "Hell's broke loose! Taggart's been
murdered, an' so's Bovetas!"
Remy's face went white. Dan Taggart she knew well, and Bovie ... why, he was one
of their own boys! Tex went on to tell her about the missing cattle.
While Rif kept watch, Dowd swung down and went inside. Van Brewster was lying on
the sacks, breathing hoarsely. His face was wet with sweat and he looked bad. Texas
Dowd was familiar with the look of wounded men, and he wouldn't have given a plugged
peso for the cattleman's chances.
Without saying anything further to Remy he walked outside. A study of the earth,
where it wasn't packed too hard by sun and rain, showed him it was the same lot from
Rawhide. The fact that Rawhide was not many miles away made him no happier. They
were in no position to defend themselves if attacked. The barn was a flimsy structure,
and outnumbered as they might be, there would be almost no chance for them.
That the Kastelle ranch was in the hands of few men was bad. Dowd was a practical
fighting man, and he knew such a division of forces was often fatal. Now, when they
lacked so much in strength and were encumbered by a dying man, it was infinitely
worse. He made his decision quickly.
"Remy," he said, "get on your horse, and you and Rif head for the ranch. I'll stay
with Brewster. There's nothing more you or anybody can do until the doctor comes."
Remy shook her head. "No, we'll stay. What if they come back?" Dowd's face was like
ice. "You'll do as I say, Remy. Never since you was a little girl have I given you
an order. I'm givin' you one now! Your father's probably worried to death by now.
He's alone with just the hands at the ranch, and that's the next place they'll hit.
They've wrecked McInnis and Brewster. Believe me, if they tackle the ranch he'll
need all the help he can get. You two start back, and don't loaf on the way."
406 4 0 2 L O U I S
An instant longer she hesitated, but there was a cold logic in what Dowd said. The
ranch must not be lost, and their fighting power must be kept intact. "All right,
I'll go."
She walked out and swung into the saddle. Rifenbark hesitated, rub bing his grizzled
jaw "Gosh, Tex, I-"
"Get along," Dowd said. "I'll be all right."
When they had ridden away he stood there in front of the barn. Brewster's house was
a heap of charred ruins, still smoking. The barn was a crude building of logs, but
most of them were mere poles. It was nothing for defense. Nor was there a good spot
around. If he was tackled here ... well, he would have a damned slim chance. And
Brewster could not be moved.
He hunted around until he found Brewster's rifle; luckily, it was in the scabbard
on his saddle. With it was an ammunition belt. He brought it back into the barn,
and then got some sacks and filled them with sand. These he piled against the wall.
There were some grain-filled sacks, and he added them.
Twilight came, and then night. He sat back against the sacks and lis tened to the
hoarse breathing of the wounded man. Outside, little stars of red twinkled and sparked
among the black of the dying fire.
Pierce Logan had been here. Why? The thought got into his mind and stuck there. This
part of the range held nothing for Logan. He had made no practice of visiting surrounding
ranches. There was no reason for his being here, and the thought nettled Dowd. He
liked to have a rea son for things. He stared into the night, and then let his eyes
shift to the ruins of the house.
At that moment he heard the sound of horses' hooves. He sat still, lis tening.
They were drawing nearer, coming from the direction of Rawhide, and there were a
good-sized bunch of them. Texas Dowd got to his feet and walked to the door of the
barn. He loosened his six-guns in their holsters and picked up a rifle. His gray
eyes worked at the night, striving to see them when they first appeared.
They were talking. He distinguished a voice as the hard, nasal twang of Frank Salter.
"You git that Brewster? Was he dead, Al?"
"You was here. Why didn't you look?" Alcorn demanded queru lously. "Of course I killed
him!"
Texas Dowd had no illusions, nor any compunctions when it came to fighting outlaws
and killers. He lifted his rifle, leveled at the voice of Alcorn, and fired.
As though a bolt of lightning had struck among them, riders scattered in every direction,
and several of them fired. Dowd saw the flame stab the night, but he was watching
his target. Alcorn slid from his horse and fell loosely, heavily into the dust and
lay still.
407 R0UNI)UP 403
Tex dropped to the ground and lay quiet, listening to the shouting and swearing among
the Rawhiders. Then several shots rang out and Dowd heard a bullet strike the log
wall. He lay quiet, ignoring it. He had no intention of wasting ammunition on the
night air.
He could hear their argument, for their voices carried in the clear, still air. "Like
hell Brewster's dead! He got All"
"That wasn't him," Montana said. "Brewster might not of been dead, but he was far
gone when I last seen him! Somebody else has moved in!" The voices seemed to be centering
around one group of trees, so Dowd
lifted his rifle and fired four times, rapid fire. Curses rang out, then silence.
He chuckled to himself. "That will make them more careful!" he said. Texas Dowd settled
down behind the sandbags. It was lighter out
there, and he could see any movement if an attempt was made to cross the ranch yard.
Beside him Brewster stirred, and when Dowd looked down he saw the man's face was
gray and his breathing more labored. Van Brewster was going to die.
Dowd whispered to him, "Who shot you, Van?"
He was repeating the question a third time when Brewster's lips stirred. After a
moment, the words came. "Bant ... y Hull, Alcorn ... an' them" "I got Alcorn," Dowd
told him. "I'll get Hull for you, too." Brewster's eyes fought their way open and
he caught at Dowd's shirtfront. "Watch ... Logan. He start ... ed to shoot me."
Pierce Logan? Dowd's mind accepted the thought and turned it over. Logan, the innocent
bystander, the man on the sidelines. Why not him?
OVER IN THE DARK BRUSH, Montana Kerr was growing irritable. "Let's rush the place!
Let's dig him out of there, whoever he is!"
"Wait!" Hull suggested. "I have a better plan. We'll try fire!"
It was Pierce Logan himself, coming for Doc Finerty, who brought the first word of
the range war to Laird. As Doc threw a few necessary articles into his saddlebags,
Logan gave a brief account of what he wanted them to know Brewster was badly wounded,
perhaps dead, and his ranch house had been burned.
The second bit of news came from Nick James. He was almost at the opposite side of
the Lazy K range, heading for the Notch, when he heard the shots fired by the rustlers
at Bovetas and Rifenbark. Leaving his packhorse, he turned back, riding warily. So
it was that he arrived at the Lazy K just in time to meet Remy as she returned from
Brewster's.
408 4 0 4
Nick James headed for Laird on a fresh horse. His news, added to that brought by
Logan, had the town on its ear. The cattle had been driven off the Lazy K and Brewster's
spread in one sweep. Bovetas was dead. Taggart was dead. Brewster was wounded. Rifenbark
had recognized the Rawhide crowd.
While the streets filled with talking, excited men, Finn Mahone rolled off the bed
in the back of Ma Boyle's and pulled on his boots. There were voices in the hall
and a sudden pounding on his door. Springing to his feet, gun in hand, he opened
it wide. Lettie Mason was standing there.
"Finn!" she cried. "Come quickly! I've just found Otis and he's badly wounded. He's
been lying out in the brush where he was left for dead. He wants to see you."
On the way to her place, Lettie told him the news. Finn's mind leaped over the gaps
and saw the situation just as it was. Dowd had stayed at Brewster's with the dying
man, so he would be there alone. A danger ous position if the rustlers came back.
Finn was prepared to find Texas and explain himself. If his plan worked ... At the
thought of riding be side his old comrade again, his heart gave a leap.
Garfield Otis, his face gray and ghastly with the proximity of death, was fully conscious
when they came in. A messenger from Lettie had caught Finerty as he was leaving town.
Logan had not been with him, for Pierce had no intention of returning to Brewster's.
If Finerty was killed, it would be one more out of the way.
"Don't talk long," Finerty warned, "but it will do him good to get it off his chest,
whatever it is!"
Otis put out a hand to stop Finerty from leaving, and then he whis pered hoarsely,
"Logan shot me ... he's hand in glove with Sonntag. I've seen him talking with him,
more than once. One time I was drunk an' seen ... Logan kill a ... man. He's ...
he's ... buried on the hill back of the liv ... ery stable. It's Sam ... Hendry!"
"Hendry?" Finerty grabbed Finn's arm. "Logan must have bought the ranch from Hendry,
then stole his money back. We figured Sam went off and blew it in, but he never got
away! What do you know about that?"
"Old man Hendry was killed by a dry-gulcher," Lettie suggested. "Probably it was
Mex Roberts, so maybe we can guess who hired him?" "Looks like Logan, all right,"
Mahone admitted. "I think I'll have a talk with him."
"Finn," Lettie interrupted, "there's something else I'd better tell you. Pierce Logan
came from New Orleans. I recognized him and I've heard him talk about it. He used
another name then, Cashman ... I don't re member the first name."
409 4 0 5
Mahone turned square around. "When did Logan first come into this country? About
six months or so before I did?"
"Maybe a little less," Finerty said. He looked from Lettie to Finn. "You know something?"
Finn Mahone ignored the question, his heart racing. Pierce Logan was in town, but
what was suddenly more imperative was seeing Texas Dowd. After all these years Finn
found himself choosing friendship over vengeance. Now, more than ever, he had to
see Dowd. The past could wait!
"Let's go, Doc!" he said. "I'm riding with you. Lettie, you said Nick had come back
into town? Tell him to keep an eye on Pierce Logan. Not to get into any fight, just
keep watch. I'm coming back for him!"
He saddled the black, grabbed up the gelding, and they headed out. When they had
come most of the way, Finn turned to Finerty. "Doc, I don't like the look of that
glow in the sky! You come along as fast as you
can.
The black stretched his legs. Finn, crouching forward, kept his attention focused
tightly on riding, one hand on the reins, the other gripping the gelding's lead rope
as lightly as he dared. He didn't want to lose the horse, especially now, but if
it misstepped he would have to let go before he was jerked from the saddle. Finn's
eyes were riveted on the glow against the night sky. If they had fired that old pole
barn, Dowd would be finished.
After the horses had covered a couple of miles, he slowed them for a breather, and
then let them out again. Now he could see the fire, and it was partly the glow from
the burned house, and partly the flames from a huge haystack nearby, fired by the
rustlers to give them a better shooting light.
Mahone slowed to a canter, and then to a walk. He unlimbered his ri fle and moved
closer, and when he did, he could see what the outlaws were about.
They had a hayrack piled high with hay, and they were shoving it toward the embattled
defender of the barn, obviously planning to set it afire once it was against the
pole side of the crude structure. Whether the barn burned or not-and it would-anyone
inside would be baked by the awful heat.
Finn watched one of the dark figures moving, and then he lifted his rifle, took careful
aim, and fired!
The man screamed and fell over on the ground, and the rustlers, shocked by the sudden
attack, broke and ran for cover. Finn got in an other shot as they ran, and saw a
man stumble. Dowd must be alive, for a rifle barked from the barn as the attackers
fled.
Riding swiftly, Mahone rounded the ranch yard, keeping out of the glow of the fire,
and then emptied his Winchester into the grove of trees where the outlaws had gone.
Swiftly, and still moving, he reloaded his ri fle and checked his six-guns.
410 406 L0ITIS
Yet even as he moved in for another attack, he heard the gallop of fast moving horses,
and saw the dark band of rustlers sweep off across country. They had abandoned the
field for the moment, and were probably headed for an attack upon the Lazy K. Finn
rode close, then swung to the ground. "Tex!" he yelled. "I want to talk, Tex! Peace
talk!"
Dowd's voice rang loud over the firelit yard. "I've nothing to say to you, Mahone!"
"Tex, you're a damned, bullheaded fool!" Finn roared back at him. "You got what you
thought was evidence and jumped to conclusions. I wasn't anywhere near the plantation
when it happened!"
Silence held for several minutes, and then Dowd yelled back. "Is Finerty comin'?
Brewster's in a bad way!"
"Be here in a minute. I'm coming in, Tex! You hold your fire!" Leaving the stallion
standing ground-hitched, Finn walked out into the firelight. With quick, resolute
steps he crossed the hard-packed earth toward the barn. Dowd, hatless, his face grimy,
was waiting for him.
"The man who killed Honey is in Laird," Finn said, halting, "and I've got some proof."
Dowd's face did not change. Suspicion was still hard in every line of it. "Who?"
he demanded.
"Pierce Logan."
"Logan?" Dowd took a step nearer. "What do you mean, Finn? How could that be?"
"I trailed him, Tex. I got home before you did, and I found her. She was still alive
then, and she grabbed me. That's how she got that button. She gave me the name of
the man, for he had come by the place before. When the riots started and the country
was full of fighting and burning, he came back. He went crazy.... Well, I trailed
him. I lost him, finally, in Rico.
"Now I hear Pierce Logan hit Rico and killed a man there about that time, and then
came on over here. Lettie Mason can tell you that he's from New Orleans and the name
he was using back then."
"You said Honey knew his name-what was it?" "Cashman-remember? He was a renegade
southerner who tied up with the carpetbaggers and some of the tough crowd around
New Orleans. He lived on the Vickers place a few miles west of you for a while."
Texas Dowd stared at Finn, his bitterness ebbing. This was the one man he had loved
like a brother. "How do I know you're not lyin'?" Finn whistled between pinched fingers.
Fury trotted up into the fire
light, the steel-dust gelding following. Dowd looked from the horses to Mahone, eyes
narrowing.
"What's this?"
"Look closely. That's Vickers's gelding. You chased me quite a ways-did I take two
horses?"
411 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 40 7
"The only time I ever saw Cashman, it was off across a field, and he'd borrowed that
horse to go into town. When he fled, he stole it from Vickers. He left the horse
in Santa Fe. I bought him a couple of months later." Finn examined Dowd. "I figured
that someday I might get the chance to show him to you."
"I never seen Cashman. Heard of him, though." "I'm told he's a bad man with a gun,
Dowd."
"I'll find out." Dowd's expression was grim. His wind-darkened face was tight and
still. Then he turned to Mahone. "Thanks for getting Roberts. He would have killed
me sure."
"Ask Lettie, Tex. She can tell you his name, too." "I'd like to believe all this."
"Then believe it."
Doc Finerty rode up and swung down. Tex wheeled and guided him to Van Brewster. Finn
stared after Texas, and then a slow grin swept his face and he followed them until
Tex looked up. "Dowd, let's leave Doc and go to Rawhide. Let's burn that rathole
around their ears, just you and me."
Texas Dowd held himself thoughtfully for a moment, and then he grinned. "You always
were one for raisin' hob," he said. "All right, let's go!" The two riders covered
the distance to Rawhide at a rapid gallop.
Byrn Sonntag had ridden out a few minutes after the others had started back into
Laird Valley, so except for a few of the followers of the Rawhide crowd, few people
were around. As the two horsemen clattered down the street, a shot was fired from
a window. Dowd wheeled, putting a bullet through it, and then sprang from his horse
and went into the barroom. "Get out!" he said to the fat-faced bartender. "Get out
and quick! I'm burnin' this place down!"
"Like hell!" The bartender swung and grabbed for his shotgun, but a bullet smashed
his hand into a bloody wreck.
"Get out!" Dowd yelled. "You get the next one in your belly!"
The bartender scuttled for the door, and Dowd kicked a heap of pa pers together and
broke an oil lamp in them, then dropped a match. Down the street there was shooting,
and he rode out to find Finn Mahone standing in the street with his Winchester in
his hand. Finn looked up, a dark streak of soot along his jaw, and an angry red burn.
"Someone damn near checked me out."
"You get him?"
"Right between the eyes."
The flames inside the saloon were eating at the floor now, and creep ing along the
bar. The frame buildings, dry as ancient parchment, would go up like tinder in a
high wind.
Both men swung into their saddles, and lighting some sacks, raced
412 4 0 8
from door to door, scattering the fire. The wind caught the flames, and in a matter
of minutes the outlaw town was one great, roaring, crackling in ferno. "That will
kill a lot of rats!" Finn yelled above the sound of the flames. "Let's ride out of
here!"
Away from the town, Finn glanced at the tall Texan. "It's like old times, Dowd!"
"Sure is." The Texan stared bleakly down the road. "I'm an awful fool, Finn."
"Forget it. How could you know any different? Honey had that but ton ... and it was
Logan, all right. It checks too close not to be him. My trail petered out in Rico,
but I never knew much about Logan, and never paid much attention to him until the
day I saw him on the street with Remy Kastelle."
They rode on, heading toward Laird. Neither of them were much worried about the Lazy
K. Jody Carson, Rifenbark, and Pete Goodale were there, and aside from them there
was the cook and Kastelle himself. As for Remy, she could handle a rifle better than
most men.
The two rode on, side by side, looking toward the town of Laird. Texas Dowd eased
himself in the saddle. "I want Logan," he said carefully.
"He's yours."
Doc Finerty was standing beside the pole barn when they rode up, and there was already
a graying light in the east. "Van's in a bad way, but he's got a chance," Doc said.
He glanced from one to the other. "Where you been?"
"We burned Rawhide," Finn said. "Now we're scalp-hunting. Dowd wants Logan."
"Logan! Well, you look out for Sonntag. He's dangerous, Finn. He's the worst of them
all."
Mahone gestured at Brewster. "Would he make it to Laird in a buck board?"
"He might," Doc said dubiously. "I've been studying about it. He would have better
care there. Lettie, she'll take him in, and she's a good nurse, the best around here."
Finn got the buckboard from behind the pole barn and they roped a couple of horses
and got them hitched. The ride to town was slow and careful, and as daylight came,
the buckboard creaked to a stop outside of Lettie Mason's. Finn rounded the stallion
and faced down the street. There was no one in sight, for it was barely rising time
for the people of Laird. Smoke was beginning to lift from a couple of chimneys.
When Brewster was inside in the care of Lettie, and Doc was sitting over coffee,
Finn and Dowd walked outside. "Nick James was to keep an eye on him. Let's walk up
to Ma Boyle's."
Laird was quiet in the early morning light, and the dusty street was very
413 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 4 0 9
still. Somewhere a door slammed, and then a pump began to creak, and af terward they
heard a heavy stream of water gushing into a wooden bucket.
The two men walked up the street, then stepped on the boardwalk. Suddenly, Finn saw
that the saloon was open. He pushed through the doors. Red Eason looked up, his face
growing suddenly still, watchful as he saw who his visitors were.
"Two, and make them both rye," Finn said.
Red poured the drinks and put the bottle on the bar. He glanced from one to the other,
and he swallowed. He laid his hands on the bar in plain sight.
"Nice in California, Red," Mahone said suddenly. "You'll enjoy it there."
"Listen," Red Eason said quickly, "I never made any trouble for you fellows. I can't
leave. I . . ." His voice dwindled away as they both looked at him.
"Red"-Finn leaned his forearms on the bar-"I like this town. I feel at home here.
Dowd likes it, too. We've some mighty fine folks around here, and we want to see
the town clean and keep it a nice place for peo ple to live. Not like that Rawhide.
If this place got as bad as Rawhide, we might have to burn it, too."
"We don't want to do that," Dowd said gently, "so Finn and me, we sort of decided
to weed out the undesirable elements, as they say. We sort of figure you come under
that particular handle."
Eason's face was stiff. He was frightened, but there was still fight in him. "You
can't get away with it!" His voice was thick. "Pierce won't stand for it!"
"Don't call him that, Red," Finn said. "Call him Cashman. That's what Dowd's going
to call him when he sees him. Cashman's the name of a murderer. The murderer of Tex's
sister. He killed Sam Hendry, too. Had him drunk and then killed him and buried him
out back of the livery sta ble. Otis saw it."
Both men tossed off their drinks, then turned toward the doors. At the doors, Finn
looked back. "It's nice in California, Red. You should be able to get a lot of miles
between you and here before sundown ... if you start now!"
Ma Boyle was bustling about, putting food on the table and pouring coffee when the
two men walked in the door together. Judge Collins looked up, smiling. "How are you,
Finn? Hello, Dowd!"
"We brought Brewster to town," Mahone said. "He may pull through. Logan started to
kill him when he found him dying. Remy got there and scared Logan off."
Powis was at the table, staring at them, his eyes large.
"Logan, was it?" Collins avoided looking at Powis, and although he
414 4 1 0 L O U I S
was disgusted with himself for it, he felt a little glow of satisfaction that Powis
was there to hear it, for the man's abject worship of authority and the power of
Pierce Logan had always irritated him.
"Seen the Rawhide bunch?"
"Alcorn's dead. So is Ike Hibby. They attacked Dowd at Brewster's place. The rest
of them are off on the range, somewhere."
"You won't have to worry about Rawhide," Texas drawled. "It ain't there anymore."
The door pushed open suddenly, and Nick James came in. He glanced quickly from Dowd
to Mahone. "Finn," he said quickly, "Pierce Logan's stayed close to his place all
night. He's getting ready to come out."
"Thanks." Mahone glanced over at Texas Dowd. "All right," he said, "are you going
to take him or am I?"
Dowd turned. "I am."
Powis put his cup down. It rattled nervously in his saucer. He pushed back in his
chair and cleared his throat. "Well," he said, simulating hearti ness, "time I got
to work."
"Sit down, Powis." Gardner Collins looked less the judge and more the cowhand and
cattleman at that moment. "You stay right here. Dowd will tell Logan he wants him."
Texas turned his eyes toward the barber, and the man's face paled. Finn lifted his
cup. "He's a friend of Logan's?"
"Sort of," Collins agreed. "Seems to think he's king."
"Well," Finn said, "times are changing around here." He put his cup down. "Powis,
Red Eason is headin' for California and expects to make a lot of distance before
sundown. He might like a traveling companion."
The barber stared from one to the other. "But my business!" he protested. "Everything
I've got is here!"
Finn Mahone looked at him levelly. "You don't need anything you can't carry. Start
traveling."
Nick James had been standing by the window, holding the cup of coffee he had poured.
"Logan just came out," he said.
Dowd finished his cup, and got to his feet. "Ma," he said, "that sure is good coffee."
The sound of his boot heels echoed on the floor.
They sat very still, and the slam of the screen door made them all jump a little.
PIERCE LOGAN WAS CROSSING the street to Ma Boyle's when a door
slammed, and he looked up. Texas Dowd, tall in his blue jeans and gray shirt, was
standing on the step in front of Ma Boyle's. Instantly, Logan was apprehensive, for
there was something in Dowd's whole appearance that warned him of trouble.
415 4 1 1
As he stood there on the step before his office, looking diagonally across the street
at Texas Dowd, a peculiar awareness of life came over him. Somehow, he had never
seemed to think of the sun's easy warmth, the gray dust in the street, the worn,
sun-warped, and wind-battered frame buildings. He had never thought much of the signs
along the streets of Laird, their paint cracked and old. Now, he seemed aware of
them all, but mostly he was aware of the tall, still figure standing over there,
look ing up the street at him.
Then, the feeling passed. After all, there was no way his part in all this could
be known. He was simply getting jumpy, that was all. He was being foolish. After
he had his morning coffee, he would feel better. Why should just the appearance of
Dowd startle him so?
"Cashman!" The voice rang like a great bell in the silent, empty street, and Logan
jerked as though stabbed.
"Cashman! Start remembering before I kill you! Start remembering a girl on a plantation
in Louisiana! That girl was my sister!"
Pierce Logan stood very still. This alone he had not expected. This past was over.
It was gone. That girl ... Dowd's sister? He shook his head suddenly, remembering
that awful, bloody afternoon. His lips tightened and a kind of panic came over him,
but he stiffened suddenly. That fin ished it, then. It finished it all, unless he
could kill Dowd. His hand flashed for a gun and he drew in a single, sweeping movement,
and fired as his gun came level.
His face gray, he crouched in the street, knowing he had missed, and the tall Texan
in the gray shirt walked toward him, his long lantern jaw and his face very still,
only his cold gray eyes level and hard. In a surge of panic, Logan fired two quick
shots. One of them kicked up dust at Dowd's feet, and the other plucked at his sleeve.
Texas Dowd stopped, no more than a dozen feet away, and fired. The sound of his gun
was like the roll of a drum, and at each shot, Logan jerked as if struck by a fist.
Then, slowly, he sank to the dust, the pistol dribbling from his fingers.
Feeding shells into his gun, Texas Dowd backed slowly away from the fallen man, then
turned and walked back to Ma Boyle's. Judge Gardner Collins cleared his throat as
Dowd came in, and Finn Mahone poured a fresh cup of coffee. At no time had he risen
from the table. He didn't have to. He knew Dowd.
416 4 1 2
Finn Mahone and Texas Dowd reached the Lazy K, riding slowly for the last few miles.
Both men rode with rifles ready, uncertain as to whether they would find the ranch
safe, or besieged. As they drew near, the two men let a gap widen between them and
rode warily up to the ranch. Jody Carson was the first person they saw.
"Howdy," he said, grinning at them. "You two missed the fun." "We had some our ownselves.
What happened here?"
"That Rawhide bunch bit off more'n they could chew. Montana Kerr, Ringer Cobb, Banty
Hull, and Leibman rode in here this mornin' about sunup. They were loaded for bear
an' looked plumb salty, an' I reckon they was."
"Was?" "That's what I said." Jody put a hand on Finn's saddle horn. "You know, I
never rightly had the boss figured. He lazed around up there to the house, takin'
it easy, an' lettin' Texas here an' Remy run the whole shebang, but when we heard
the place was liable to be attacked, he r'ared up on his hind legs, strapped on some
guns, an' then he told us what was what.
"Well, sir! You should have seen them hardcases. They rode in here big as life an'
tough as all get-out. You could see it stickin' out all over them. They was just
a-takin' this here spread over, an' right now. Dowd was gone, an' he was the salty
one of the crowd, they reckoned. Well, I reckoned so, too.
"When they rode up they swung down and started for the house, but the boss, he stepped
out on the porch. `Howdy, boys,' he says, big as life an' slick as a whistle, `lookin'
for somethin'?'
" `Well, I reckon!' Kerr tells him, `we've come to take over this here place, an'
if you don't want no trouble, you stay the hell out of the way!' " `But s'posin'
I want trouble?' the boss says, an' he says it so nice that they don't take him very
serious.
" `Don't you be foolish,' Kerr says, `you can come out of this alive if you're smart!'
" `That's what I was fixin' to tell you,' Kastelle says, `you boys crawl back in
those saddles an' light out of here, an' you can go your way. We'll just make like
it never happened,' he says.
"Montana, he still can't figure Frenchy Kastelle makin' any fuss. Never guessed he
was the fightin' type. He starts to say somethin' when Cobb opens his big face. `Let's
get 'em, Monty. Why stand here palaverin'?' Then he went for his gun....
"It was a bad thing to do, Tex. Too bad them boys couldn't have lived long enough
to know their mistake. I tell you, we had our orders, an' we
417 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 4 13
were a-layin' there all set with our rifles an' shotguns. There was Pete, Rif, Wash,
an' me, with Remy up to the house. Cobb, he reached, but he was a mite slow. The
boss shot him so fast I didn't even know what hap pened. He'd told us aforetime.
He says, `If they ride off, let 'em go. If they fire one shot ... wipe 'em out!'
"Mister, we wiped 'em! When Cobb went for his gun, the boss drilled him, an' then
the whole passel of ours cut loose on 'em an' I don't think they ever knowed what
hit 'em. They must have figured we was ei ther gone, or so skeered we wouldn't fight
none.
"Pete, he and Rif are out back now, diggin' graves for the lot of them." "Anybody
hurt?"
Jody chuckled. "Nary a one! They never had a chance! Hell, if this don't scare all
the outlaws out of Laird Valley, they just ain't the smart folks we figure 'em for."
He looked up at Finn, then at Tex. "What happened to you-all?" Dowd explained briefly
about the fight at the Brewster ranch, the killing of Alcorn and Hibby, and the subsequent
raid upon Rawhide and how it had been left in flames. Mahone went on from there to
tell about the killing of Pierce Logan, and how Eason and Powis had left town.
Carson chuckled. "Well, now! Ain't that somethin'? This will sure make believers
out of those bad hombres! This will be a place to leave alone!" Suddenly, he frowned.
"What about Sonntag?"
Mahone shrugged. "Neither Sonntag nor Frank Salter have shown up. Sonntag is plenty
bad, and Salter is a fit partner for him. The two of them are poison, and while they
may have left the range, I doubt it. They'll stick around."
Finn Mahone's eyes had been straying toward the ranch house. Finally, he shoved his
hat back on his head, and his face flushed as he sug gested, "I expect I'd better
go up and tell Frenchy what happened."
Dowd chuckled. "Sure. You might tell Remy, too!"
As Finn trotted the stallion toward the house, he heard them both laughing at him,
and he grinned in spite of himself.
Remy Kastelle came out the door as he mounted the steps. "Finn! Oh, it's you! And
Tex is back! What happened?"
Frenchy had come into the doorway behind her, and Mahone ex plained the situation
as quickly as possible.
It was Remy who repeated the question. "What about Sonntag?" "Neither he nor Salter
have been heard from, but they may show up yet. I've got to get back to my place
and move some cattle. Ed Wheeling over at Rico wants to buy some stock from me."
Hours later, on the road back to Crystal Valley, Finn Mahone rode swiftly. Nick James
had left that morning and was to meet him at the Notch, and they would go on to the
valley together. With James and
418 4 1 4
Shoshone Charlie, he could manage the drive all right. Dowd had offered him a hand,
but Mahone refused.
He said nothing to them of his worries, but he had his own ideas about what had become
of Byrn Sonntag. The big redheaded gunman was probably in Rico. It would be like
him to go there, for he knew the place and they knew him. Jim Hoff, the buyer of
stolen cattle, was there; Sonntag would need money and he could sell some of the
rustled cattle to Hoff.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Finn Mahone pushed his own herd of cattle through the upper canyon
of the Laird. He had his sale to make, and he had the sense that the last act of
the Laird Valley cattle war was going to play itself out in Rico.
Finn knew there would be rustling and robbery in the Laird Valley as long as Byrn
Sonntag and Frank Salter were at large. Now that he was no longer being set up to
be a scapegoat, the rustlers would have no com punction about taking his cattle along
with those of everyone else. Texas Dowd had said little, but Mahone knew that he
felt the same.
Nick James rode by. Mopping sweat and dust from his brow, he grinned at Mahone. The
white-faced cattle moved briskly ahead, bawling and frisking, occasionally stopping
to crop disinterestedly at the sparse desert growth. Soon they were mounting the
trail to the plateau on which Rico stood.
The scattered shacks that lay around Rico appeared, and then the stockyards. A couple
of hands rode up and helped them to corral the stock. Finn left Shoshone Charlie
and Nick James to drown their thirst, and headed for the Gold Spike to see Wheeling.
When the stock buyer saw him, he almost dropped his glass. "Mahone, you'd better
be careful. Sonntag is in town selling cattle. If he sees you around, he'll think
you've come after him."
"I wouldn't want to disappoint the man," Mahone commented, grimly. "Well, that Salter
is with him, and he's mean as a burro jack and that isn't all! Frenchy Kastelle hit
town about noon, rode over from the ranch with his daughter and Texas Dowd. They're
trying to figure out where their missing stock got to. Jim Hoff saw them, and I know
he's said some thing to Sonntag."
Finn Mahone thought quickly. Byrn Sonntag would be trying to cash in on Logan's rustling
scheme. He and Salter had hundreds, if not thou sands, of stolen cattle to sell and
that meant the stakes were high enough to kill for. If the Kastelle outfit was in
town asking questions, there was a good chance they would run afoul of Sonntag and
Salter. No doubt Remy's father was as fast as Carson had assured them, and surely
Texas Dowd was as tough as they came, but in a match with a gunman of Sonntag's caliber
anyone involved was bound to get hurt.
419 4 1 5
Mahone turned and walked swiftly to the door. He glanced sharply up and down the
street, then pushed outside. Almost the first man he saw was Jim Hoff. The fat, sloppy
buyer was coming up the boardwalk toward him, but when he saw Finn, he started to
cross the street. "Hoff! Hold on a minute!"
Reluctantly, the man stopped, staring uneasily at Finn. "Where's Sonntag? Tell me,
and quick!"
"I don't know," Hoff protested.
Mahone did not wait. He slapped the buyer of stolen stock across the mouth, hard
enough to rattle his teeth. "Next time you get a pistol bar rel! Where is he?"
"Down to his shack! An' I hope he kills you!" Hoff pointed farther down the street
to a tarpaper cabin half concealed by brush.
Shoshone Charlie had come out of the saloon. "Charlie," Finn said, "keep your eye
on this hombre. If he makes a move toward a gun or to communicate with anybody, skin
him alive."
The Indian moved nearer Hoff, and the cattle buyer backed away. The Indian might
not be young, but he was wiry and tough, and his knife was good steel.
Nick James moved up. "What is it, Boss?" "Sonntag and me, when I find him!"
Door by door, Finn worked down the street. Sonntag might be at the shack, but he
might not be. Mahone also went down the street, only a glance was needed to tell
him who was in each place he visited. When he stopped at the stock corrals, and stared
down the road, he could see the dark frame shack where Sonntag lived when in Rico.
It was an ugly place to approach.
The square little house stood on a mesquite-dotted lot with nothing near it but the
crowded corrals and a small stable, not unlike the flimsy structure at the Brewster
ranch.
The road approaching it was flat and offered no cover. He could wait until Sonntag
started for town, but Finn was in no mood for waiting now If Kastelle and Remy were
in town there was every chance of them get ting hurt, for the town was small, and
Sonntag was not about to be thwarted at the last minute.
Finn stepped out from the corrals and started down the path, walking
fast.
ED WHEELING WALKED to the door of the Gold Spike and stared after Mahone, then stepped
out on the boardwalk. Slowly, the word had swept the town. Finn Mahone was going
after Sonntag and Salter.
Remy was in the general store when she heard it, and she straight ened, feeling the
blood drain from her face. She turned and started for the
420 4 1 6
door. Her father, seeing her go, was startled by her face. He followed swiftly down
the road.
The door of the square house opened, and Byrn Sonntag stepped out. He had pulled
the door closed behind him before he saw Finn Mahone. He squared around, staring
at him to make sure he saw aright. Then, step ping carefully, he started toward him.
Neither man spoke.
Seventy feet apart, they halted, as at a signal. Finn Mahone felt a queer leaping
excitement within him as he stared across the hot stretch of desert at Byrn Sonntag.
Ever since he could recall wearing a gun, he seemed to have been hearing of Sonntag,
and always his name had been spoken in awe.
Standing there, his features were frozen and hard now, and his eyes seemed to blaze
with a white light.
Sweat trickled down Mahone's cheek. He could smell the sage, and the tarlike smell
of creosote bush. The sun was very warm and the air was still. Somewhere, far off,
a train whistled.
"Heard you're sellin' cattle, Sonntag." "Just a few critters, here an' there."
"We may have to skin a few, check the brands." "No, you're not. I'm goin' to kill
you, Mahone."
Finn Mahone drew a deep breath. There was no way around this. "All right, when that
train whistles again, Sonntag, you can have it." They waited, and the silence hung
heavy in the desert air. Salter was
out there somewhere but Finn knew he couldn't fight both of them, so he put the old
guerrilla out of his mind and focused on Sonntag. Sweat trickled down Mahone's brow,
and he felt it along his body under his shirt, and then he saw the big gunman drop
into a half crouch, his body tense with listening. When the whistle came, both men
moved. In a blur of blinding speed, Finn Mahone saw Sonntag's gun sweeping up, saw
flame stab toward him, and felt a hammer blow in his stomach, but his own gun was
belching fire, and he was walking toward Sonntag, ham mering bullets into the big
redhead, one after another.
He went to his knees, and sweat came up into his face, and then his face was in the
sand, and he looked up, still clutching his guns, then he dug his elbows into the
sand, and dragged himself nearer.
Somewhere through the red haze before him he could hear the low bitter cursing of
Sonntag, and he fired at the sound. The voice caught, and gagged, and then Finn got
his feet under him, and swayed erect only to have his knees crumple under him. In
a sitting position, he could see Sonntag down, but the man was not finished. Mahone
triggered his gun, but it clicked on an empty chamber.
Sonntag fired, and the bullet plucked at Finn's trouser leg. Finn dug
421 RUSTLER ROUNDUP 4 1 7
shells from his belt and began to feed them into the chambers of his six gun. Off
to his left there was a rattle of pistol fire and the dull boom of the Spencer that
Frank Salter carried. Someone was helping Mahone out.
Sonntag was getting up, his thick shirt heavy with blood, his face half shot away.
What enormous vitality forced the man to his feet, Mahone could never imagine, but
there he was, big as a barn, seemingly indestructible.
Mahone got to his feet, and twenty feet apart they stared at each other. Finn brought
his gun up slowly.
"You're a good ... man, Mahone," Sonntag said, "but I'll kill you an' live to spit
on your grave!"
His own gun swung up swiftly, and blasted with flame, but the shot went wild, and
Finn Mahone fired three times, slowly, methodically. Sonntag staggered, and started
to fall, then pitched over on his face.
He squeezed off another shot, but it plowed a furrow in the sand.
It was awfully hot. Finn stared down at the fallen man, and felt his own gun slip
from his fingers. He started to stoop to retrieve it, and the next thing he knew
was the sound of singing in a low, lovely voice.
His lids fluttered back and he was lying on his back and Remy was bending over him.
The singing stopped. "Oh, you're awake? Don't try to talk now, you must rest."
"How long have I been here?" "A week tomorrow."
"A week? What happened to Sonntag?" "He's dead...."
"And Salter?"
"When you're better you can thank my father."
"I thought Sonntag was going to kill me," Finn said thoughtfully. "Don't think about
it now," Remy advised. "You'll be well soon." He caught her hand. "I'll be going
back to the valley, then. It's never
been the same since that morning when you were waiting on the steps for me. I think
you should come back, and stay."
"Why not?" Remy wrinkled her nose at him. "That's probably the only way I'll ever
get that black stallion!"
He caught her with his good arm and pulled her close. "Wait! That's not the way a
wounded man should act!" she protested.
Then their lips met, and she protested no longer.
422 e Moon of the Trees Broken by Snow
Cold blew the winds along the canyon, moaning in the cedars, whining softly where
the sagebrush grew. Their fire was small, and they huddled close, the firelight playing
shadow games on
the walls, the walls their grandfather's father built when he moved from the pit
house atop the mesa to the great arch of the shallow cave.
"We must go," the boy said, "there is no more wood for burning, and the strength
is gone from the earth. Our crops are thin, and when the snows have gone, the wild
ones will come again, and they will kill us."
"It is so," his mother agreed. "One by one the others fled, and we are not enough
to keep open the ditches that water our fields, nor to defend against the wild ones."
"Where will we go?" Small Sister asked.
They avoided looking at each other, their eyes hollow with fear, for they knew not
where to go. Drought lay heavy upon the land, and from north, south, east, and west
others had come seeking, no place seeming better than another. Was it not better
to die here, where they had lived?
The boy was gaunt for each day he hunted farther afield and each day found less to
hunt. Small Sister and his mother gathered brush or looted timbers from abandoned
dwellings to keep their fires alight.
The Old One stirred and mumbled. "In my sleep I saw them," he muttered, "strange
men sitting upon strange beasts."
"He is old," their mother said. "His thoughts wander."
How old he was they did not know. He had come out of the desert and they cared for
him. None knew what manner of man he was, but it was said he talked to gods, and
they with him.
"Strange men," he said, "with robes that glisten."
"How many men?" The boy asked without curiosity but because he knew that to live,
an old one must be listened to and questioned some
423 THE MOON O F THE TREE S 4 1 9
"Three," the Old One said, "no more."
Firelight flickered on the parchment of his ancient face. "Sitting upon beasts,"
he repeated.
Sitting upon? What manner of beast? And why sit upon them? The boy went to a corner
for an old timber. A hundred years ago it had been a tree; then part of a roof, now
it was fuel.
They must leave or die, and it was better to die while doing than sit ting. There
was no corn left in the storage place. Even the rats were gone. "When the light comes,"
the boy said, "we will go."
"What of the Old One? His limbs are weak."
"So are we all," the boy said. "Let him walk as far as he may."
"They followed the path," the Old One said, "a path where there was no path. They
went where the light was."
On the third day their water was gone, but the boy knew of a seep. At the foot of
the rocks he dug into the sand. When the sand grew damp, they held it against their
brows, liking its coolness. Water seeped into the hollow, and one by one they drank.
They ate of the corn they carried, but some they must not eat. It would be seed for
planting in the new place-if they found it.
During the night snow fell. They filled a water sack made of skin and started on.
With the morning the snow vanished. Here and there a few seeds still clung to the
brush. Under an ironwood they rested, picking seed from the ground. They could be
parched and eaten or ground into pinole. As they walked they did not cease from looking,
and the Old One found many seeds, although his eyes were bad.
"Where do we go?" Small Sister asked.
"We go," the boy replied, but inside he felt cold shivers as when one eats too much
of the prickly-pear fruit. He did not know where they went, and he was much afraid.
On the ninth day they ate the last of their corn but for that which must be kept
for seed. Twice the boy snared ground squirrels, and three times he killed lizards.
One day they stopped at a spring, gathering roots of a kind of wild potato that the
people to the south called iikof. His mother and the Old One dug them from the flat
below the spring.
Day after day they plodded onward, and the cold grew. It snowed again, and this time
it did not go away. The Old One lagged farther and farther behind, and each day it
took him longer to reach the fire.
The boy did not meet their eyes now, for they looked to him, and he had nothing to
promise.
"There was a path of light," the Old One muttered. "They followed the path."
424 4 2 0
He drew his worn blanket about his thin shoulders. "It is the Moon of the Limbs of
Trees Broken by Snow," he whispered, "that was the time."
11 What time, Old One?" The boy tried to be patient. "The time of the path. They
followed the path." "We have seen no path, Old One."
"The path was light. No man had walked where the path lay." "Why, then, did they
follow? Were they fools?"
"They followed the path because they heard and they believed." "Heard what? Believed
in what?"
"I do not know. It came while I slept. I do not know what they be lieved, only that
they believed."
"I believe we are lost," Small Sister said.
The mother looked to the boy. He was the man, although but a small man, and alone.
"In the morning we will go on," he said.
The Old One arose. "Come," he said. Wondering, the boy followed. Out in the night
they went, stopping where no firelight was. The Old One lifted his staff. "There!"
he said. "There lies the path!"
"I see no path," the boy said, "only a star."
"The star is the path," the Old One said, "if you believe."
It was a bright star, hanging in the southern sky. The boy looked at it, and his
lips trembled. He had but twelve summers. Yet he was the man, and he was afraid.
"The star is the path," the Old One said.
"How can one believe in a star?" the boy protested.
"You do not have to believe in the star. They traveled for a reason. We travel for
another. But you can believe in yourself, believe in the good you would do. The men
of the star were long ago and not like us. It was only a dream."
The Old One went back to the fire and left the boy alone. They trusted him, and he
did not trust himself. They had faith, and he had none. He led them into a wilderness-to
what?
He had wandered, hoping. He had found nothing. He had longed, but the longing was
empty. He found no place for planting, no food nor fuel.
He looked again. Was not that one star brighter than all the rest? Or did he only
believe it so?
The Old One had said, "They followed a star."
He looked at the star. Then stepping back of a tall spear of yucca, he looked across
it at the star. Then breaking off another spear, he set it in the sand and lined
it up on the star so he would know the direction of the star when dawn came.
To lead them, he must believe. He would believe in the star.
425 THE MOON OF THE TREES 4 2 1
When morning came, they took up their packs. Only the Old One sat withdrawn, unmoving.
"It is enough," he said. "I can go no farther."
"You will come. You taught me to have faith; you, too, must have it." Day followed
day, and night followed night. Each night the boy lined up his star with a peak,
a tree, or a rock. On three of the days they had no food, and two days were without
water. They broke the spines from cac tus and sucked on the pulp from the thick leaves.
Small Sister's feet were swollen and the flesh broken. "It is enough," his mother
said. "We can go no farther."
They had come to a place where cottonwoods grew. He dug a hole in the streambed and
found a little water. They soaked cottonwood leaves and bound them to Small Sister's
feet. "In the morning," he said, "we will go on.
' "I cannot," Small Sister said.
With dead branches from the cottonwoods he built a fire. They broiled the flesh of
a terrapin found on the desert. Little though there was, they shared it.
The boy walked out in the darkness alone. He looked up and the star was there. "All
right," he said.
When the light came, he shouldered his pack, and they looked at him. He turned to
go, and one by one they followed. The Old One was the last to rise.
Now the land was broken by canyons. There was more cedar, occa sionally a piiion.
It snowed in the night, and the ground was covered, so they found only those seeds
that still hung in their dry pods. They were very few
Often they waited for the Old One. The walking was harder now, and the boy's heart
grew small within him. At last they stopped to rest, and his mother looked at him:
"It is no use. I cannot go on."
Small Sister said nothing and the Old One took a long time coming to where they waited.
"Do you stay then?" the boy said. "I will go on " "If you do not come back?"
"Then you are better without me," he said. "If I can, I will come." Out of their
sight he sat down and put his head in his hands. He had failed them. The Old One's
medicine had failed. Yet he knew he must try. Small though he was, he was the man.
He walked on, his thoughts no longer clear. Once he fell, and again he caught himself
on a rock before falling. He straightened, blinking to clear his vision.
On the sand before him was a track, the track of a deer. He walked on and saw other
tracks, those of a raccoon, and the raccoon liked water. Not in two months had he
seen the track of an animal. They led away down the canyon.
426 4 22 LOUIs
He went out on the rocks and caught himself abruptly, almost falling over the rim.
It was a limestone sink, and it was filled with water. He took up a stone and dropped
it, and it hit the pool and sank with a deep, rich, satisfying sound. The well was
deep and wide, with a stream running from one side.
He went around the rim and lay down flat to drink of the stream. Something stirred
near him, and he looked up quickly.
They were there: his mother, Small Sister, and the Old One. He stood up, very straight,
and he said, "This is our place; we will stop here." The boy killed a deer, and they
ate. He wiped his fingers on his buck
skin leggings and said, "Those who sat upon the beasts? What did they find, following
their star?"
"A cave that smelled of animals where a baby lay on dry grass. The baby's father
and mother were there, and some other men wearing skins, who stood by with bowed
heads."
"And the shining ones who sat upon the beasts?" "They knelt before the baby and offered
it gifts."
It is a strange story," the boy said, "and at another time I will listen to it again.
Now we must think of planting."
427 About Louis L'Amour
"I think of myself in the oral tradition-as a troubadour, a village tale-teller,
the man in the shadows of the campfire. That's the way I'd like to be remembered-as
a storyteller. A good storyteller. "
It is doubtful that any author could be as at home in the world re-created in his
novels as Louis Dearborn L'Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of
the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally "walked the land my characters
walk." His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research
combined to give Mr. L'Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of peo ple, events,
and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.
Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L'Amour could trace his own family in North America
back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, "always on
the frontier." As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he
could about his family's frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather
who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L'Amour left
home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs, including seaman,
lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, and miner, and was an officer
in the transportation corps during World War II. During his "yondering" days he also
circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in
the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine
fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a
voracious reader and
428 4 2 4 ABOUT L O U I
collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L'Amour "wanted to write almost from the time I could talk." After developing
a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction
maga zines, Mr. L'Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United
States in 1953. Every one of his more than 120 books is in print; there are more
than 270 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling
authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages,
and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into fea ture films
and television movies.
His hardcover bestsellers include The Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century
historical novel), Jubal Sackett, Last of the Breed, and The Haunted Mesa. His memoir,
Education of a Wandering Man, was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations
and adaptations of many L'Amour stories are available on cassette tapes from Bantam
Audio Publishing.
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