MONUMENT ROCK
Louis L'Amour
BANTAM BOOKS BY LOUIS L'AMOUR
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Bendigo ShafterWarWar Party
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TheCaliforniosThe Quick and theisland
?3SrhTo the Far Blue
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Dark CanyonShowdown at YellowLando
Down the Long HillsButteM^jave Crossing
The Empty LandSilver CanyonMustaneMan
Fair Blows the WindSitkaJTSr 8ivM
FallenSon of a Wanted ManSi? M
The Ferguson Rifle^,8S«tTreasure Mountain
The First Fast DrawThe Tall StrangerLonely on the
!,to ...To Tame a Land^
Guns of theJ^Ve hfRide the Dark Trail
TimberlandsUnder the Sweetwater~~ c . ? ,
Hanging Woman CreekRimTneSkySrs
The Haunted MesaUtah Elainel ne bkyLmers
Heller with a GunThe Walking Drumthe hopalong cassidy
The High GradersWestward the Tidenovels
High LonesomeWhere the Long GrassThe Riders of the High Hondo BlowsRock
How the West WasThe Rustlers of West
Wonshort-story collections Fork
The Iron MarshalBowdrieThe Trail to Seven Pines
The Key-Lock ManBowdrie's LawTrouble Shooter
KidRodeloBuckskin Runnonhction
KilkennyDutchman s Flatc . . ,
KilloeEnd of the DriveS^'n *M
KilroneThe Hills of HomicideFrS g
Kiowa TrailLaw of the Desert BornT, c , .. .,
Last of the BreedLong Ride HomeThe Sackett Companion:
,.?,,.?r PA Personal Guide to
Last Stand at PapagoLomgan, s , N ,
WellsNight over theA Trail of Memories The Lonesome Gods Solomonsr^n^Mr, f
The Man Called NoonThe Outlaws ofThe Quotahons of
The Man fromMesquiteLoUls|AmOur'
SkibbereenThe Rider of the Rubycompiled by
The Man from theHillsAngehque L Amour
Broken HillsRiding for the Brandpoetry
MatagordaThe Strong Shall LiveSmoke from This Altar
Milo TalonThe Trail to Crazy Man
1
 MONUMENT ROCK
LOUIS L'AMOUR
BANTAM BOOKS NEW YORK TORONTO LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND
2
 7
MONUMENT ROCK
A Bantam Book/May 1998
All rights reserved. Copyright ©1998 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 permission in
writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
L'Amour, Louis, 1908-1988.
Monument Rock / Louis L'Amour.
p. cm. ISBN 0-553-10833-6 I. Title.
PS3523.A446M66 1998
813'.52-dc2197-43622
CIP
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
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3
 contents
i
A Man Named Utah / 1
Battle at Burnt Camp / 21
Ironwood Station / 41
Here Ends the Trail / 59
Last Day in Town / 73
Strawhouse Trail / 89
The Man from the Dead Hills / 115
Monument Rock / 141
Afterword / 251
I
4
 MONUMENT ROCK
5
 A MAN NAMED UTAH
The small glow of the lamp over the hotel register, shaded as it was, threw his cheekbones
into high relief and left his eyes hollows of darkness. The night clerk saw only
a big man, in dusty range clothes, who signed his name in the slow, cramped manner
of a man unaccustomed to the pen. Hibbs handed him his key and the man turned and
started up the steps.
As he climbed, the light traveled down over his lean hips and picked out the dull
luster of walnut-stocked guns, then slid down to worn boots and California-style
spurs. When the heels vanished, Hibbs waited no longer but turned the register and
peered at the name. Without another instant of delay he came from behind the counter,
cast one quick glance up the stairs, and bustled out the door.
The quick, upward glance did not penetrate the darkness. Had it done so, he would
have seen the stranger standing in the shadows at the head of the steps, watching
him. When Hibbs hurried across the dark street, the rider
6
 I
I
I
7
 2 / LOUIS L'AMOUR
was at his window, looking down. The clerk disappeared into an alley.
It was a small thing, but the rider knew the wheels had begun to turn. Already they
knew of his presence, and already he had gathered his first fragment of a fact. Somebody
was almighty interested in his arrival, and that somebody had a working deal with
the hotel clerk. Not much to know, but a beginning.
The clerk had hurried on for several hundred feet then turned and stopped by a window
with three inches of opening. He tapped lightly with a coin, and at a cautious response,
he whispered, "Hibbs, here. Gent just registered as Utah Elaine, El Paso."
"All right."
Disappointed at the lack of reaction, Hibbs waited for something else to be said;
then, when it did not come, he added, "He looks salty."
"All right."
Hibbs walked slowly back to the hotel. His round, rather querulous face sagged with
vague disappointment.
The man behind the darkened window rolled on his side and picked up a carefully prepared
cigarette that lay on the table by the bed. When it was lit he lay back, his head
on the bunched-up pillow. Against the vague light of the window, the cigarette glowed
and he stared up into darkness.
How much longer dared he continue? The pickings were rich, but he was feeling the
uneasiness that preceded danger. He had a bag full, no doubt about that. Maybe it
was time to pull his stakes.
He knew nothing of Elaine, yet that the man had been
8
 A man named utah / 3
asked here was evidence that someone believed he was the man for the job.
Jack Storey had been tough and fast ... a drunken miner named Peterson had been egged
into shooting him in the back. Three other marshals had preceded him and they were
buried in a neat row on the hill. The man on the bed inhaled deeply and knew he had
managed well up to now, but his luck was sure to run out.
He had the gold taken from miners, gamblers, and ca1
sual travelers and only Hibbs knew who he was, only he knew the murders and robberies
had been engineered by one man. And the clerk could be removed.
So he would quit at last. This was what he had plannedI
when he first came west, to work at a quiet job and amass a fortune by robbery and
murder-then he would quit, go east, and live a quiet, ordered life from then on.
From the beginning he had known there was a limit. So far he was unsuspected. He
was liked by many. His whole plan had depended on the crimes seeming to be unrelated
so they would be considered casual crimes rather than a series planned and carried
out by either one man or a gang.
Yet it would be foolish to continue. Three marshals ... it was too many. Not too
many lives, just too many chances. Too many risks of discovery. No matter how shrewd
this new man might be, or how dumb, it was time to quit. He would not pull even one
more job. He was through. Putting out the stub of his cigarette, he turned over and
quietly went to sleep.
A solid-looking man in a black suit and boots was sitting on the creek bank when
Utah Blaine rode up. The new
9
 4 / Louis l'amour
marshal's sun-darkened face had a shy grin that livened his features. "Hi, Tom! Mighty
good to see you."
"Sure is!" The older man gripped his hand. "Long time since the old days on the Neuces."
Blaine started to build a smoke. "So, what're you gettin' me into?"
Tom Church dug at the sand with a stick. "I don't really know. Maybe I'm crazy in
the head. We've had fourteen murders this past year, an' it worries me some. This
here town was started by my dad, an' he set store by it. We've always had the usual
cowpuncher shoot-in's an' the like of that, but something's different. No other year
since we started did we have more'n three or four."
He talked quietly and to the point while Blaine smoked. Nobody in town showed an
unusual prosperity. No toughs were hanging around town that couldn't be accounted
for. Nobody left town suddenly. Nobody hinted at secrets. The murdered man was always
alone, although in two cases he had been left alone only a matter of minutes. All
the murdered men had been carrying large sums of money.
A half-dozen men carrying smaller amounts had left town unhindered; only two of the
fourteen had made killings at gambling. Others had worked claims, sold herds of cattle
or horses. All fourteen had been killed silently, with knife, noose, or club. Which
argued "a killer who wanted no attention. "This town means a lot to us. My boys are
growin' up here, an' two of the men killed were good friends of mine. I think there's
a well-organized gang behind it."
"Got a hunch you're wrong, Tom."
"You think there's no connection?"
10
 1
A man named utah / 5
"I think they tie up, but I don't think it's a gang. I think it is just one man."
"How's that?"
"Look at it. Nobody has flashed any money and nobody has talked while drunk. That's
unusual for a gang. You know there's always one wheel that won't mesh. I'll get to
work on it."
Tom Church got up and brushed off his pants. "All right, but be careful. We've lost
three marshals in the last ten months."
It was to Utah Elaine's advantage that he did not make a big show of looking for
information. He did not throw his weight around. He let people know that he thought
the marshal's job was mighty easy if people would just let him be. And while he sat
around, he listened.
Hibbs at the hotel might be the key. Hibbs had rushed word of his coming to someone,
and Blaine had seen the street he went into. For the first four days Utah Blaine
strolled about, rode into the hills, talked little, and listened a lot. He heard
a good deal of gossip about conditions of the claims, who was making it and who wasn't.
There was talk about cattle and cattle prices. Most of this talk took place on the
worn bench outside the barbershop.
It was late on the fourth night that he received his first test as marshal.
Blaine was at a table in a back corner of the saloon when a wide-shouldered young
man with red hair smashed through the swinging doors and glared around him. Obviously,
he had been drinking, just as obviously, he was not so drunk that his speech was
slurred or his reactions slow. "Where's that two-bit marshal?" he demanded.
11
 6 / Louis L'AMOUR
"Over here. What's on your mind?"
The casual tone upset Red Williams, who was trouble-hunting. Nevertheless, he took
three quick steps toward Elaine, and Utah did not move. "You're the marshal? Well,
I hear we got to check our guns! You figurin' to take mine away from me? If you do,
get started!"
Elaine chuckled. "Red," he said conversationally, "don't you get enough trouble wrestlin'
steers? Why don't you fork your bronc and head on for home?"
Red Williams was disturbed. It was not going as expected. Instead of being a hard-eyed
marshal who immediately started for him, this man talked like another cowhand. "You
tellin' me to get out of town?" he demanded.
"Just advisin'," Utah replied casually. "If you figure to do a day's work tomorrow,
you better sleep it off." He pushed his hat back on his head. "I call to mind one
time when I rode for Shanghai Pierce. We was-"
"You rode for Shanghai?" Red's truculence was forgotten.
"Took a herd over the trail for him in 'sixty-seven," Utah said. "The next year I
took one up the trail for Slaughter."
Red Williams swallowed hard, his stomach sick with sudden realization. "You . . .
you're that
Elaine? The one who stopped the herd cuttin' north of Doan's Store?"
"Yeah," Elaine replied quietly. "That was later."
"Wow!" Red backed up, suddenly grinning. "Mister, if that's who you are, this town
is off-limits for my kind of trouble!"
Squaw Creek was impressed but not convinced. Twice Elaine quietly talked his way
out of trouble that with any other marshal would have meant shooting. Days passed
with no gunfights, no brawls, and surprisingly, no robberies and murders.
12
 A man named utah / 7
Once, sitting on the bench in front of the barbershop, he was asked about the killings
of Van Hewit and Ned Harris, the two last murders before he took the job of marshal.
He shrugged and replied, "I'll handle the crime that comes my way, but 1 say let
the dead past keep its dead."
Before the saloons opened, the benches in front of the barbershop were the usual
loafing place. It was there he stopped to gather what facts he could. "Nice idea,"
he commented. "Gives a man a place to sit and talk."
"Pickard's idea," they told him. "Built 'em for his customers to wait on."
Pickard was a man of medium height, smooth-faced but for a flowing mustache. Square-jawed
and square-mb
bodied, he was a friendly man, skillful at his trade, and a1
good listener. "Mighty fine barber," Tom Church said, "I'll"
be sorry when he goes."
"He's leavin'?" Elaine asked.
"Brother died, back in Illinois. Got to go back and manage the property."
II
It was their second meeting since Elaine's arrival, and Church was visibly disturbed.
"The rest of the city council, the men who pay your salary, Utah, they're complaining.
You've kept it quiet, or it's been quiet, but you've found no killer. I promised
that you would."
"You don't catch a killer right away any more than you take a herd to Montana by
wishin' it there."
^
He knew more than he was telling Tom Church. Things] |
*
were beginning to add up. All the killings had been within five miles of town. All
but two had taken place at night or early in the morning. The two had occurred at
midday. Five men lived on that street into which Hibbs had gone on the night of his
arrival. Childress, Hunt, Newcomb, Jones ... and Tom Church.
13
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Actually, it was a one-sided street. The houses faced south, which had them looking
across the street at the cottonwoods that line Squaw Creek. Behind those cottonwoods
were the back doors of the business buildings on Main Street. The saloon, barbershop,
marshal's office, harness shop, and general store backed up to the trees.
Hibbs lived in the hotel and did not drink. He was an odd personality, not talkative,
and yet he had a habit of always being around when a conversation developed. Unobtrusively,
Utah Elaine watched him and waited, knowing his time would come.
Hibbs was never found near the barbershop. For a man so interested in gossip, this
was interesting if not odd. Hibbs went to the barbershop only when he needed a haircut.
From the beginning Blaine had known that Hibbs was his key to the situation, yet
while watching Hibbs, he had listened and studied the town, and one by one he eliminated
the possibilities. The more men he eliminated, the more certain he became of the
killer's cunning. He had left no loose ends.
Utah Blaine had learned, long since, how to apply simple logic to a problem. Men
were creatures of habit. Therefore he must observe the habits of the possible suspects
and watch for any deviation from the usual.
Opportunity was a consideration. Not more than a half-dozen men in town would have
been free to move at the hours of the two midday crimes. Childress could not leave
his store at the noon hour, and had a wife who insisted upon his being on time for
supper. Hunt was a man who habitually drank his supper at the saloon, a convivial
soul whose absence would have been noted and commented upon. So it was with most
of the others, yet Pickard was a
14
 A man named utah / 9
bachelor. He had means of learning, through the talk around the shop, of who had
made strikes and who did not, and he could be safely absent at the hours of crimes.
Moreover, the cottonwood-cloaked creek bed back of the shop offered an easy means
of leaving and returning to town unobserved. All of these were logical reasons for
suspicion, but none of it was proof.
On the morning of his tenth day in town, Utah went to the barbershop for a shave.
Pickard had gentle hands and he worked carefully and swiftly. He was shaving Utah's
throat when Utah said, from under Pickard's left hand, "Coin' to be a break soon.
I've got a lead on the man who's been doin' the killing around here."
For only a second the razor stopped moving, and then it continued more slowly. "I
thought," Pickard said, "it was the work of casual drifters, or maybe a gang."
"No," Elaine said decidedly, "it's been one man. One mighty shrewd man. He's done
it all, and he's been smart enough to protect himself. But every man has to have
help, an' I've got a lead on that."
Pickard started to strop his razor, and then the door opened, and closed. "How are
you, Mr. Church? Elaine tells me he has a lead on those murders we used to have before
he came."
"That right, Utah?"
The razor smoothed a patch on his chin. "Yeah. Fact is, I've had a lead ever since
I came to town. From the very hour I got in, you might say."
Pickard finished his job and dusted Elaine's face with powder. Utah sat up in the
chair and felt his face. "You sure do give a fine shave, Pickard. . . . Close," he
said, looking at the barber, "but not too close."
When they had gone, Elaine and Church walking
15
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together, Pickard stared after them. A lead since the very moment... he might have
seen Hibbs!
Yet, what could he have seen? And suppose he had seen Hibbs come to him? It would
prove nothing, and Hibbs could not talk. He would not dare to talk. So there was
nothing to worry about. Nevertheless, he did worry.
He had not been fooled by Elaine. The tall gunfighter was too friendly, too casual.
His manner did not go with his cold, watchful eyes and the strong-boned face. Alone
in the apartment back of his shop, Pickard paced the floor and thought.
It was time to go, but he must be careful. Suppose Elaine was only waiting for him
to uncover his loot and so be caught with the goods? Or suppose he frightened Hibbs
in some way and forced him to talk? The more he considered, the more he worried.
He had been a fool to wait so long. He could have gone long ago. Why, he had over
sixty thousand dollars!
Slowly, he went over the problem again. Hibbs might talk, of course, but he had already
made plans for Hibbs and it was time he put them into operation. Pickard was a coolheaded
man and utterly cold-blooded. He had long known that before he left, Hibbs must die.
Aside from the knowledge of Hibbs's past, the one thing he knew was that Hibbs would
wait for him to recover the hidden loot, and then Hibbs would fry to murder him for
it. Pickard knew that idea lay in Hibbs's mind as if he himself had written it there.
And to an extent, he had.
If Hibbs betrayed him, he'd never get a chance at the money. It also allowed him
the chance to trap Hibbs. So now to prepare that trap, he had to lead Hibbs out of
town into the hills, and then kill him.
16
 A man named utah / 11
Blaine had formed the habit of riding out of town at least once each day. He varied
the times of these rides so as to allow for no easy planning of future crimes or
observation of his moves.
First, he rode to the scenes of the crimes and studied the terrain and approaches.
There were, of course, no tracks. There had been rain and wind since, but they were
not what he was searching for. Nor was he looking for any clue that might have been
dropped. He was trying to imagine how the killer would have concealed his loot, for
he would not have dared to risk being seen carrying it back into town.
The other rides were short, and they ended in a small clump of juniper atop a ridge
outside of Squaw Creek. There, with a pair of field glasses, Utah Blaine watched
the town.
The break came suddenly. On one bright and sunny Sunday morning he saw Hibbs come
from the hotel and walk across the street. Going down the alley between the buildings,
Hibbs turned suddenly into the old, abandoned store building on his right. Not two
minutes later he stepped out, only now he had a rifle and a canteen.
Utah Blaine settled himself firmly and watched with care. Hibbs went down into an
arroyo and out of town, working his way up the hill right toward Elaine's position!
Just when he was sure he must move or be seen, Hibbs stopped and, settling down,
began to wait.
Almost an hour passed and then Pickard came from the back door of the barbershop
and slid down into the creek bed. Watching, Blaine saw the man working his way downstream,
then saw him come out among
17
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some boulders. Hibbs got up and began to work his way along the flank of the mountain,
keeping Pickard in view. Keeping higher and staying among the junipers, Elaine kept
pace with Hibbs. Then the junipers grew more sparse and scattered out. Reluctantly,
Elaine swung over the crest and kept the ridge between himself and the two men. From
time to time he climbed higher and let his eyes seek out the clerk, then suddenly
the man was gone.
Elaine swore bitterly. To cross the ridge within view of either Hibbs or Pickard
would ruin the whole plan, and his only chance lay in riding ahead to intercept their
trail as it left the ridge, which ended a few miles farther along. So swinging his
horse, he rode down into the wash and followed it out until the ridge ended. It was
only then that he realized how that ridge had betrayed him.
Some distance back the ridge divided into a rough Y, and he had been following the
southernmost of the two arms, while Hibbs had obviously followed along the northern.
It was at least two miles across the bottom to the other ridge and it was very hot
now, and close to noon.
Before crossing the gap, he studied it with care, but there was no sign of either
man. He crossed as quickly as he could, then climbed the far ridge and, taking a
chance, mounted the crest. As far as the eye could reach, there was no living thing.
Irritated, he rode down the far side, scouting for tracks. He found none. The two
men, and both on foot, had lost him completely. How long since he had lost Hibbs?
He checked the sun and his memory. It must have been almost an hour, as best he could
figure. Turning back, he
18
 A man named utah / 13
rode toward town. He had gone no more than two hundred yards when he drew up sharply.
Before him on the trail lay the sprawled figure of a man, half-covered with the rocky
debris of a landslide. Blaine dropped from his horse. It was Hibbs, and he was quite
dead. Climbing the hillside, Blaine found scuff marks in the dirt where someone,
almost certainly Pickard, had sat, bracing himself while he forced a large boulder
from its socket of earth with his heels.
Pickard must have known Hibbs would follow, or had seen him, and had pushed down
these boulders, probably coming by later to make sure there was no doubt. Yet al-j]
lowing for the time it took Hibbs to get to this point on foot, it could have been
no more than twenty to thirty minutes ago that he had been killed!
If he rode swiftly now, he might overtake Pickard before he could get back to Squaw
Creek!
Yet his ride was in vain. All was quiet when he rode into town and stabled his horse.
Pickard was quietly shaving Tom Church and had the job half-done. He glanced up at
Blaine and nodded. "Hot day for riding, I guess," he said conversationally. "You
can have it. I'd rather stay in my barbershop."
Baffled and irritated, Utah did not trust himself to speak. There was no way the
man could have gotten back here that fast. It must be someone else whom he had seen,
it must- He stopped. Suppose Pickard had a horse waiting for him out there on the
ridge somewhere? And had raced back, changed shirts quickly, and returned to his
work as he did each day? But where was the horse? And where had he been concealed?
19
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Utah Elaine dropped in at the saloon for a drink and the first man he saw was Red
Williams. The latter grinned, "Howdy, Marshal! No hard feelin's?"
Elaine chuckled. "Why should there be? What are you doin' in town in the middle of
the week?"
"Come in after some horses. The boss keeps a half-dozen head of good saddle stock
down at his creek barn in case any of the boys need a change of horse."
"Creek barn? Where's that?"
"Just outside of town a ways. We got two outfits, one west of town, an' the other
seventeen miles northeast. We switch horses at the creek barn every now and again.
It's a line shack right out of town."
"You taking all the horses?"
"Nope. Just four head. We're mighty short of saddle stock right now, the boys haven't
rounded up the bunch off the west range yet. Funny thing," he said, "durned kids
been ridin' 'em, I guess. One of Tom's best horses is stove up."
Utah Elaine turned his glass in his fingers. "Red, you want to do me a favor?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"Take all those horses with you and keep 'em away from that line shack for a week.
If the boss says anything, I'll explain it."
Red shrugged. "Sure, I'll do it." He looked curiously at Utah. "Wish you'd let me
in on it, though.""
"Later. But don't even whisper it to anybody, you hear? And don't let anybody see
you if you can help it. I've got a feelin' we're goin' to make a murderin' skunk
mighty unhappy!"
20
 A man named utah / 15
The death of Hibbs was amazing to Squaw Creek only because the hotel clerk had been
out of town. The curiosity of the loafers at the barbershop was aroused and they
speculated at random on what he had been doing in that dusty wash when he was usually
at work on the hotel books.
Blaine listened thoughtfully. Then he got up and settled his hat on his head. Inside
the barbershop, Pickard was stropping a razor. "I figure he was hunting the loot
from those robberies," he said, "and he had some idea where it was ... only he was
too late."
"Too late?" Childress looked up. "You mean somebody found it?" The razor stropping
had stopped abruptly.
"Uh-huh," Utah said, weighting his words carefully. "That's just what I mean....
Well"-he stepped down off the walk-"be seem' you."
He walked away, feeling their stares on his back. It was rather obvious bait, but
would Pickard really have the choice not to bite on it? Could he coolly ignore the
possibility that all he had planned so carefully for ... killed for, might be gone?
Pickard stared out the window after Blaine. What did he mean by that? He was sure
that nobody could find the money. It was still there where he'd hidden it, it had
to be. ... He returned to his stropping of the razor, but his mind was not on his
work. He scowled. How had Blaine found Hibbs's body so soon? He must have been out
in the hills ... he might even have followed Hibbs.
Yet that could not be, for if he had, he would have been close by when Hibbs was
killed ... or had
he been close by? Suppose Blaine was less interested in finding the killer than in
finding the loot... and keeping it for himself?
21
 16 / Louis l'amour
Worried now, Pickard grew irritable and restless. If Elaine found that loot, then
all his time here was wasted. IPickard would be chained to this barber chair! He
would
Ihave killed and robbed and risked his life, for nothing!
Yet suppose it was only a trap? That might be Blaine's idea, but it would not work.
He knew how ... he glanced at the building's shadow. Two hours yet to sundown.
Alone in his shop, Pickard worked swiftly. There was no time to lose. Trap or not,
he must know whether his loot had been found, and if it was a trap . . . well, they'd
find out that their quiet town barber had teeth. He thrust a pistol into his waistband
and picked up a shotgun.
When it was dark he slipped from the back of the shop and ducked quickly into the
bed of the stream. Hurrying along it, he came out near the TO line shack and crossed
quickly to the stable. Quickly, he struck a match and picked up the lantern ... and
then he stopped. The horses were gone!
Pickard froze where he was and the match burned down to his fingers before he dropped
it. He had seen Red Williams in town, but he had no idea ... now there was no other
way. He must go on foot.
Suppose somebody came for him while he was gone? He would have to chance that. The
shop was closed and he had left everything locked tight. He started down the draw,
moving swiftly. At night and without a horse, it seemed much farther than the three
miles he had to go, yet despite his hurry, he took his time when reaching the area
where the loot was concealed. He waited, listened, then went forward.
Quickly, he moved a rock and reached into the cavity beneath. Instantly, his heart
gave a bound. The loot was
22
 A man named utah / 17
there! Elaine had been talking through his hat! It was safe! He struck a match, shielding
it with his cupped hands. All there . . . should he take it with him now, or should
he wait and pick it up, as he had planned, after leaving town?
Much of it was gold, but there was a good bit of paper money, too. It would be a
load, almost a hundred pounds of it, but he could get it back. No, he changed his
mind swiftly. He would take one sack of gold, just in case. He could always come
back after the rest.
Taking the sack out, he carefully replaced the stone, then lit a match and had a
careful look around to make sure the stone was in place and no damp earth was showing.
As the match went out his eyes caught a flicker of white on the ground and he guardedly
struck another. He stooped . . . merely some whitish-gray mud or damp earth. He dropped
the match and, picking up his bag, started back.
Pickard hurried, desperately worried for fear of discovery, and his breath was coming
hoarsely when he reached the back door of his shop. He opened the door, stepped in,
and turning, he struck a match and lighted the lamp. Just as he replaced the chimney
a shock of fear went through him ... he had left the door
lockedl
Pickard turned sharply, half-crouched like an animal at bay, a sickness turning him
faint with shock. Facing him from chairs ranged around the room were Tom Church,
Childress, Hunt, and Red Williams!
Clutched in his hand was the sack of stolen gold, and then Utah Blaine spoke. "Drop
your guns, Pickard! You are under arrest!"
His years of planning, working, scheming, his murders and robberies, the hot, stifling
nights when he waited, when he struck with the knife or club, or tossed the noose
23
 18 / Louis L'AMOUR
over a neck, and strangled ... all gone! All for nothing! All because...!
Like a cat he wheeled and plunged for the door. The move was so swift that Elaine
swung, not daring to shoot toward the other men, knelt, and thrust out his foot.
Pickard tripped and sprawled through the door onto the step. Springing to his feet,
his hands lacerated from the silvery-gray wood, he grabbed for his gun.
"Hold it!" Elaine yelled.
Pickard's gun swung up ... and he felt his finger close, and then somebody smashed
him a blow in the chest. He staggered, trying to bring his gun to bear, and another
blow hit him, half turning him around.
What... what th-! His eyes blurred and the gun would not seem to come up and then
something struck him on the back of the head and he was on the ground and he was
staring up at the stars and then the stars faded and he realized ... nothing more.
Tom Church stared at the fallen man, white-faced. "Dead center, Utah," he said quietly,
"but you had to do it."
"Yeah."
"That's only part of the stolen money," Childress said. "You reckon he spent the
rest of it?"
Utah Elaine indicated the dead man's boots, their soles stained with a muddy whitish
substance. "I figure it's cached. He left the rest of it, but those white boots will
lead us right to it."
"What is that stuff?" Church asked. "Never saw any clay like that around here."
"It's white paint," Elaine replied, "I spilled plenty of it inside the door of the
TO barn and corral. I knew he'd come there, and that white paint would leave his
marks to trail him by."
24
 A man named utah / 19
Hunt and Williams carefully picked up the body and carried it off down the street.
Elaine stood in the alley while Tom Church locked up Pickard's shop. After a moment
Childress swore softly. "What's worryin' me now," he said, "is what are we goin'
to do for a barber!"
I
J
25
 BATTLE AT BURNT CAMP
The Cactus Kid had crossed the Terlingua and was bearing right toward Black Ridge,
when he saw the girl.
She was young and she was made up and she was pretty as a bay pony with three white
stockings. She was standing beside the dim trail with her hands on her hips and her
nose red from the sun.
The Kid drew up. "Howdy," he said gravely, "goin' far?"
"Without a horse?" Her eyes flashed. "Where could anybody go in this country without
a horse? Where, I ask you?"
"Well," the Kid said seriously, "it depends on what you're lookin' for an' how far
you need to go. Would you mind tellin' a feller what you're doin' out here afoot?"
"That's none of your business!" she flared. "Are you going to give me a ride, or
not?"
The Kid looked at her sadly. "Ma'am, for one who's askin' favors you sure aren't
very polite. Where were you raised, anyway?"
26
 22 / Louis i/amour
Her eyes narrowed. "Why, you-!" She stopped, flashing a sudden smile. "I'm sorry.
It wasn't your fault at all. Please, would you give me a ride?"
"Get up behind," he said. "I'd sure not want to leave a lady out here in the desert
with nobody to fuss at but rattlers. It wouldn't be civilized!"
Putting her foot in his stirrup, she swung up behind him, and then before he could
even speak she shucked one of his guns from its holster and shoved the muzzle into
his spine. "Get off," she said coldly. "Get off, an' see how it feels to be afoot!"
"Now, look-!" The Kid started to protest, but the gun peeled hide from his spine
and he heard the hammer click back as she cocked it. "Get off!" she ordered. "One
yelp out of you and I'll shoot your ears off!"
Carefully, the Kid swung down, and without a word she slapped spurs to his horse
and started off. His lips parted in a smile, the Cactus Kid let her go, then suddenly
he pinned his lips over his teeth and whistled shrilly. The horse stopped so sharply
that the girl had no chance. She went right off over his head and fell hard. The
horse trotted back toward him.
The Kid came up on the run, and before she could retrieve his gun, he grabbed it
up. Then he caught her by the hands and twisted them behind her. With a piggin string
from his belt he tied her wrists despite her struggles. He got to his feet and wiped
the dust from Fus face and stared down at her. "There, now. That should hold you.
Now, what's the idea?"
She glared furiously. "I'll kill you for this! I'll kill you!"
"No reason to get so wrought up." The Cactus Kid coolly began to build a smoke. "What's
all the fuss? No
27
battle at burnt camp / 23
need to steal my horse an' set me afoot just because you're mad at somebody. Tell
me where you want to go an' I'll take you there."
"Untie my hands!" she demanded.
"Not a chance. You might try to steal my horse again."
"That was a nasty, vile trick!" she declared. "I skinned my nose!"
"That," he said, studying her nose critically, "won't do it any harm. I figure maybe
it's a mite too long anyway."
She glared at him. "Let me up!" she demanded. "Turn my hands loose!"
"It's up to you. Be good and you get a ride to wherever you're goin'. Keep on fussin'
an' I'll leave you right here to cook."
She stopped, still angry, but aware that he meant what he said. "All right," she
said, "but you just wait!"
This time he took her on the saddle in front of him and that made it necessary for
his arm to be around her waist, which was, he realized appreciatively, a small, firm,
and very nice waist. Her reddish hair came against his cheek and her body pressed
closely to him. This, too, he found agreeable.
She said nothing, but sat quietly. Finally, he asked, "Where do you want to go? Where's
home?"
"I want to go to Burnt Camp, in the Solitario."
Now, the Cactus Kid, whose birth certificate might have said he was Nesselrode Clay,
knew but little of the Big Bend of Texas. What he did know was that Burnt Camp in
the Solitario was no place for a beautiful girl of eighteen or so. In fact, it was
to just that place that the Kid himself was going, but for no friendly purpose. "That's
no place for a girl," he said. "I'll take you to another place."
"You'll take me there, and when they find me with my
>^
28
 24 / Louis i/amour
hands tied, it will be a sad time for you! Just wait until I tell Kit Branch about
this!"
"He your sweetheart?" The Kid wanted to know.
"Branch?" she scoffed. "He'd like to be, but he's not! I'm Kirby Brock!"
"Bully Brock's daughter?" The Kid was aghast. "Don't tell me that old blister sired
a sweet little filly like you!"
"He's my uncle! And he's not an old blister! Although I'll tell him you said that
and he'll wipe the floor with you, that's what he'll do!"
The Cactus Kid chuckled. He felt good this morning. He wore his tailored gray trousers,
a bright red shirt, and a black handkerchief tight about his throat. His hat was
black with a snake-hide band, and his boots hand-tooled. The Kid was five feet nine
and weighed exactly one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. He consulted a large
railroad watch that he kept in the pocket of his pants; it was ten forty-five in
the morning.
Black Ridge was north of them now and they cut the trail leading to the Black Tinaja.
Although the Cactus Kid had never visited the wild and lonely region called the Solitario,
he knew well the route that led to it. Leaving the tinaja, they would turn due west
and hit the canyon of the Left-hand Shutup, which would take them right into the
region.
As they rode he puzzled over the situation. What had Kirby Brock been doing out in
the desert without a horse? And how could such a girl be the niece of Bully Brock?
For years now Bully had ranched in the wild region around the canyon west of Burnt
Camp. It was an area frequented by smugglers from over the border and by rustlers.
And that was why he was coming here now. He was looking for some men.
Several days before, in San Antonio, he had left the Va-
29
 battle at burnt camp / 25
riety Theatre one night, and had seen a man behind him. Later he had seen the same
man, and knew he was being followed. And then there had been three men.
He had turned the corner near his hotel when they closed in on him, one coming toward
him, one crossing the street, and the third had come from nowhere to grab his arms.
He had been slugged, robbed, and left lying in the street.
After he recovered he devoted two days to making inquiries, only to discover finally
that the men had left town. The three were known as Farbeson, Breeden, and Jewell.
They were known thieves and rustlers, and they ran with IGt Branch.
At Del Rio, he heard about Branch and that he could be found in the Solitario, but
that a man would be some kind of a fool to try to go in after him. The Cactus Kid
was that kind of a fool. They had slugged him, which was bad enough, but they had
taken seven hundred dollars from him. It was more money than he had ever had all
at one time.
"How's it happen you're afoot?" he asked suddenly.
"My horse threw me," she replied sullenly.
At the Black Tinaja they stopped, watered the horse, and drank. The dun was feeling
the double burden, so the Kid put him on some grass and sat down in the shade. He
glanced at Kirby and smiled. "Might as well sit down," he said. "We'll have to let
that horse rest a mite."
She was looking at the ground nearby. Glancing over curiously, he saw she was intently
studying some tracks. Suddenly she looked around at him. "Let me use that gun. I
can get some horses for us." She spoke in a near whisper and appeared to tense.
"Nothing doing. You'd run off and leave me high and dry." He had untied her hands.
30
 26 / Louis i/amour
"Suit yourself," she said.
"So, Kit's bad medicine, is he? What about Jewell?"
She stiffened with surprise. "What do you know about him?"
"Not much. Not any more than I know about Breeden or Farbeson."
A slight sound made him turn, but there was no chance to draw. The man holding the
shotgun was Jewell and he was no more than fifteen feet away. At that distance he
would tear the Kid apart. His eyes widened when he saw the Kid. "You, is it? I figured
you'd still be lyin' in the street. What you doin' here?"
"Huntin' you." The Kid spoke quietly. "Huntin' you an' those louse-bound partners
of yours. I want my money."
The man laughed coarsely. "You'll git something, but it ain't gonna be what you're
lookin' for!" he promised. Then: "Where'd you meet
her?"
"Down the road a piece. Do you want to hand me over that money now or do I take it
out of your hide?"
"My hide?" Jewell stared. "Who's holdin' this shotgun, anyway?" He did not move his
eyes, but said, "Pick up his guns, Kirby. Go behind him."
He felt the girl move up behind him and felt his guns leave his holsters. His eyes
narrowed slightly as he saw the evident relief in Jewell's eyes. Slowly, the shotgun
lifted and he realized with a shock that the man was going to murder him.
"I wouldn't if I were you." Kirby Brock had the guns in her hands and was watching
Jewell. "Bring up the horses and we'll ride in. Bully will want to see this gent."
Reluctantly, Jewell lowered the gun. When he led up the horses, the Cactus Kid was
surprised to see that one of them was obviously the girl's horse. It carried a side
31
 battle at burnt camp / 27
saddle and the stirrup was just right for her. The Kid was ordered to mount and they
turned west.
It was late afternoon when they reached the houses and old stone corral at Burnt
Camp. The smoke from several fires was rising, and the Kid saw a man come out and
shade his eyes at them. They rode on into the camp and the Kid watched the big man
coming toward them. He was almost twice the size of the Kid, towering several inches
above six feet and weighing well over two hundred pounds. He had a thick black beard.
He looked at the Kid, then turned his eyes to the girl. The Cactus Kid frowned uncertainly,
for the big man seemed almost frightened when he recognized her.
Other men came forward. Farbeson was one of them. He was almost as large as Bully
Brock and he grinned when he saw the Cactus Kid. Breeden, who was standing nearby
said, "What do you think, Farb? This kid came up here to git his money?"
The others all laughed and then the crowd parted for a slender, whiplash of a man
with a narrow face and wide gash for a mouth. He came down the path and stood staring
at Kirby with a slight smile. "Didn't get far, did you?" he said. "I told you we
were meant for each other."
Breeden laughed and Farb joined in. The younger man made an inquiry about the Cactus
Kid and was told the story of what had happened both in San Antonio and here. He
listened, nodding slightly. "All right," he said, "we'll get this over with all at
once."
He turned on Brock. "Bully," he said, "you're through here. We're taking over your
ranch and all that goes with it. I"-he smiled unpleasantly-"will personally take
32
 28 / Louis l'amour
|over Kirby. We're going to show this country what we
can do."
Brock stared back at him. "You're a fool, Kit. The Rangers never bothered us here
because this was my place and they knew me. You know they can get in here an' they
will, sure as you start anything."
"The Rangers ain't comin' now that we got Kirby back. Sendin' her was a dumb idea,
Bully. You tipped your hand an' now we won't be needin' you any longer." Kit Branch
turned his hand on a gun.
The Cactus Kid was still sitting his horse, as was Jewell. Now, suddenly, he slapped
the spurs into the dun, and as the startled animal leaped, the Kid grabbed the shotgun
from Jewell's hands as the dun lunged by. Straight into the center of the crowd he
went, low over the horse's neck. Behind him a shot rang out, then another. The dun
faltered, stumbled, and then fell all sprawled out. The Kid hit the ground rolling
and came up with the shotgun at his shoulder. The first person he saw across the
sights was Breeden. He squeezed the trigger and saw the big outlaw take the full
charge in the stomach. The man gave a grunt and sat down hard and rolled over to
his face.
The Kid lunged to his feet in a spatter of bullets and ran into the rocks. He made
them, felt the tug at his shirt, and hit the ground sliding. Almost as soon as he
hit it, he was up and ducking into a thick stand of greasewood. He froze in place.
Behind him were shouts and yells, so he moved on quietly, circling toward the corral.
The men had fanned out and were working toward him. Studying the terrain, he felt
himself grow sick. No alternative awaited him. The basin was rockbound and to climb
that wall would mean that he would be picked off before he had gone a dozen steps.
Nor could he remain where he was, for they were moving in.
33
 battle at burnt camp / 29
The shotgun was a single-barreled gun, a breechloader. And he had no more shells.
The outlaws searching for him were not fooling. Obviously, they had decided to organize,
take over Brock's ranch and saloon as a hangout, and raid the country. Kirby Brock
seemed to have slipped away for help but then had lost her horse. She had probably
taken him for another outlaw.
Still clutching the shotgun, the Kid rolled behind some rocks and wormed his way
right back toward the stone corral and the houses. Several times he had to lie still
to allow men to pass within a few feet of him. When he reached a nest of rocks to
one side of the corral, he peered out.
Three men remained in the yard with Brock and the girl. Bully Brock had blood running
down his face where he had been struck with a gun barrel, and his hands were tied
behind him. The girl's hands were also tied, and Kit Branch stood nearby, with Farb
and Jewell. The body of Breeden was nowhere to be seen.
Other men were scattered out, and from time to time he could hear shouts from them.
He had succeeded in getting back through their line, but they would be doubling back
at any time and he must at all costs find a place to hole up. As he had crawled an
idea had come to him. There might yet be a chance to use the shotgun.
Beyond the stone corral, back from the scattered area of campfires and shelters,
was an ancient stone wall that appeared to be the face of a dugout. Obviously unused,
it was the place most likely to be overlooked in any search for him. Using the corral
as shelter, the Kid worked his way along the far side, then ducked into the open
door of the dugout.
It was about twenty feet long and the roof sagged dangerously. The remains of some
crude bunks and a few
34
 30 / Louis i/amour
pieces of broken bench were mingled with the litter on the floor. Working his way
back into the dugout, the Cactus Kid found it was L-shaped, and around the bend of
the L the roof was intact except at the very back, where a hole about three feet
across opened into a pile of brush, boulders and cacti.
Crouching in the half-dark of the dugout, the Kid opened the breech of the shotgun.
There had been no chance to dispense with the brass shell, for he had been moving
too fast and had nothing to replace it, anyway. Now he got out his pocketknife and
went to work. Taking several bullets from his cartridge belt, he opened them and
extracted the powder. Outside, the search continued, but in the dugout sweat poured
down the Kid's body as he worked. Several times he stopped to wipe his hands dry
and then went on with his work. He cut several of the pistol bullets into three pieces
and with a rock pounded off the rough edges of the lead and shaped the pieces into
fairly round slugs. With utmost care he pried a primer out of one of the shells and
fit it into the back of the shotgun cartridge. It was a bit loose but seemed like
it would stay centered. He now had a heavy charge of powder and twelve slugs; using
some bits of paper from an old letter in his pocket as wadding, he soon had a charge
for his shotgun. When it was reloaded he felt much better. If they got him now, he
was at least taking one man with him. At close range his contrived shotgun shell
would tear a man wide open.
As he waited, his eyes accustomed to the dim light, he looked around the interior
of the ruined dugout. The floor was a litter of old paper, sacks, bits of rawhide,
old clothes, and odds and ends of broken bottles. Suddenly he had an unaccountable
fit of depression. Unaccountable for him, for the Cactus Kid was wont to look upon
life as his par
35
 battle at burnt camp / 31
ticular bailiwick, and he had spent most of his time trying to find the bright side
of every situation.
This, he decided, was the limit of something or other. That he, the Cactus Kid, whose
cheerful grin and ready sense of humor had carried him through the worst of times,
should be hiding here in a ruined dugout in the last hours of a hot Texas day was
absolutely unacceptable. The Cactus Kid made up his mind. Come what may, he was going
out and he was going to leave his mark on this outfit-but good.
Dusk came at last and the fires were built up and soon he could smell coffee. With
nothing to eat since daybreak, that added to the Kid's disgust. In all this time
he had not dared look out, yet now, with the darkness bringing deep shadows around
the dugout, he moved to the back and thrust his head and shoulders through the hole.
He found himself looking out through a curtain of brush over the whole area of the
hideout. To his left was the stone corral, part of it almost in front of him, and
in the corral were the horses. Beyond it, on the slope and almost facing him, was
the main house. There was an old stable, open-faced and now used by some of the outlaws,
and there were four fires going. In all, he surmised there must be sixteen to twenty
men at the hideout.
Slipping out of the hole, he crawled down to the corral wall. Flipping a loop over
a horse's neck, he drew the animal to the wall and saddled it. A second horse snorted
and leaped when the rope touched it and one of the men at the fires got up. "Somethin'
botherin' the horses," he said.
"Aw! They're just fightin'!"
The outlaw stood looking toward the corral, but as all was quiet he soon subsided
and returned to his seat.
36
 32 / Louis l/amour
Swiftly, the Kid saddled the second horse and another. Then he tied the three horses
and circled the corral.
Lying flat on his stomach, he looked past the corner at the group of outlaws. If
he only had his guns! The one shot in his shotgun meant little; he could only take
one man, two at best, and then they would have him.
Suddenly the girl and her uncle were led from the house and brought down to the nearest
fire. With them was Kit Branch and Farbeson. Jewell was at the fire and he got up
as they approached, grinning at Bully Brock. "Does me good to see this!" He sneered.
"You been struttin' high-an'-mighty for a long time!"
Brock straightened his shoulders. "Branch, give Kirby a horse an' let her go. She's
done nothin' to you. Let her go back home to San Antone."
"Not a chance! We've got her an' we'll keep her. We'll keep you, too, Brock, as long
as you behave. We've got an idea that maybe you can keep the Rangers off us."
"Don't be a fool!" Brock retorted. "The only reason the Rangers stayed away was because
nobody from around here did anything but rustle a few head of cows once in a while.
They knew I was mostly honest and they didn't want to come all the way out here for
a few young fellers who they could never prove had done anything. You start somethin'
an' they'll be down on you like a flock of wolves."
Branch smiled. "You expect me to believe that, Bully? You know
folks. Come daylight we'll round up that kid. He won't get far without water or knowin'
the country."
A big man sat with his back to the Kid and not over twenty yards away. The Kid could
see the pistol in his belt. If he was going to start something, it would have to
be soon. The horses might be discovered if he waited, and the sheer surprise might
help, also; the girl and her uncle were
37
 battle at burnt camp / 33
close at hand now, but after they had eaten, they would probably be returned to the
house.
They had just come to the fire. It would be twenty minutes, thirty at most, before
they would be returned to the house. There was a chance. He drew back suddenly, straightened
to his feet, and turned.
He stumbled straight into the very same outlaw who had been bothered by the horses
acting up. The Kid's sudden rise from the ground had been a complete surprise and
now he gaped foolishly at the Kid. Then his surprise faded and he began to grin.
"Got you!" he said hoarsely. "I got you!"
"You got me?" The Kid jerked the shotgun. "What do you think this is?"
"You had one shell." The man was grinning, enjoying himself. "You killed Breeden
with it... uuhhh!"
The Cactus Kid acted suddenly. He was gripping the shotgun with both hands and he
simply jammed the end of the barrel in the man's solar plexus with wicked force.
The outlaw grunted and hit the dirt on his knees. Instantly, the Kid smashed him
on the back of the skull with the butt of the shotgun, then stripped the man's gun
from his holster. Swinging the extra cartridge belt over his shoulder, the Kid quickly
rounded the back corner of the corral toward the haystack. Dropping to his knees,
he struck a match, then another and another.
Grabbing a pitchfork as the flames leaped up, he forked two quick bunches of flaming
hay high into the grease-wood surrounding the camp. Then he went over the corral
rails with a leap, grabbed the bridle reins of the three horses, and swung into the
saddle.
"Fire!
The hay's afire!" Other voices took up the call and men charged toward the stack.
The fire scattered in the greasewood, caught, and the resinous wood and leaves
38
 34 / Louis l'amour
burst into a crackle of flame. Crouching low in the saddle, his shotgun ready, the
Kid rode for the corral gate and kicked the latch open. The balanced gate swung and
instantly he was through.
A man saw him coming and the Kid yelled, "Get the horses! Save 'em!" With a shrill
whoop he rode down on the fire where Bully Brock stood beside the girl. Her hands
were free, but his were still bound and they had been making the girl feed him, fearing
what he might attempt if he wasn't restrained.
Men were racing toward the flames, and the Kid's call made them realize the danger
of the horses without noticing who it was that yelled. Racing up to the fire, the
Kid called to Kirby. "Hit the saddle! Hit the saddle! Let's go!"
After one startled instant of hesitation Brock raced for the nearest horse and, without
even waiting to have his hands untied, jumped for the saddle and got a foot in the
stirrup. With his left hand, the Kid pulled the big man into the saddle while Kirby
swung up. Behind them there were yells and he could hear Kit Branch shouting angrily.
Turning in the saddle, the Cactus Kid saw a big man take three running steps and
stop, whipping a Winchester to his shoulder. The Kid pulled the trigger on his shotgun
and the gun boomed and slammed his shoulder. The big man staggered and the Kid wheeled,
jumping his horse away as he threw the shotgun into the face of another man. And
then they were off and running.
Behind them men raced wildly about, grabbing at the thrashing horses, the whole scene
lighted by the whipping flames. The breeze was stiff and the flames had leaped across
the greasewood until the whole hillside was a roaring flame. Kirby was leading the
way due west and the three rode desperately, crouching low in their saddles to escape
the hail of bullets.
39
 battle at burnt camp / 35
Weaving among the boulders, Bully led west, then south, then doubled back to the
north. At a stop to let the horses breathe, the Kid leaned over and cut Brock's hands
free of the top loop of rope, and Brock did the rest himself. Slowing down, the Cactus
Kid looked around and could see the loom of Solitario Peak off to the north and a
little east. Kirby was riding west, following some vague sort of trail, weaving through
some rough country. Dropping into Fresno Canyon, they turned north and kept a good
pace until the peak of Solitario was behind them to the east. Then she led them out,
going northeast. They stopped briefly at a tinaja; nearby was the dark outline of
what had once been a frame of a mine scaffold and prospector's shack, now partially
collapsed.
Bully chafed his wrists and grinned at the Cactus Kid. "You sure are hellfire when
you cut loose, mister! We'd better hightail it northwest. Maybe we can make a settlement
before they catch up to us. I'd at least like to have a gun!"
"You ride on." The Cactus Kid shoved his hat back on his head and began to build
a smoke. "I'm going back."
"Back?" Kirby cried. "Are you crazy? You want to go back there and get shot?"
"No, ma'am, I sure don't. On the other hand, those hombres took seven hundred dollars
of money off me. I want it."
"Why are you so interested in getting-!" Kirby was breathless. The moon was rising
and he could see her face in the light.
"Here, now!" Brock said mildly. "Let him alone. If he wants to go back, he wants
to go back and that's his affair. Although," he added,
"I do think it a foolish thing."
"Nevertheless," the Kid insisted stubbornly, "I am going back." He turned his horse.
"You two ride on. I've got business to attend to!"
40
 36 / Louis l'amour
Kirby stared at him, her anger fading. "Don't go back!" she pleaded. "They'll kill
you! They will! I know they will!"
Brock held up his hand. "You won't have to go back," he said gravely. "I can hear
'em coming."
"How far off?" The Kid strained his ears to listen.
"Down the canyon. It could be a mile or more."
"Hit the saddle, then," the Kid said quietly. "I'll wait for 'em. I've got a Colt
and plenty of ammunition. I'll stand 'em off."
"We'll wait," Kirby said. "Maybe we can get hold of some guns once the fighting starts."
"Then get out of the way," the Kid agreed, ". . . back near that mine. I'm going
to wait right here by the tinaja for them."
It was well after midnight, but how late he was not sure. The Kid waited, occasionally
drying his palms on his jeans. The riders were taking their time, evidently searching
the rocks as they came along. Probably they were not sure which way the Brocks had
gone with the Kid. When at last he heard them close by, there was a faint gray in
the east. The outlaws-and he decided there were at least four of them-drew up in
the blackness near the cliffs.
His horse concealed among the rocks, the Cactus Kid settled down for a wait. He could
hear voices arguing, and then a rider started forward. When he was still some thirty
yards off, the Kid spoke. "Better stay where you are. I'm heeled for trouble."
"If you hadn't butted into this"-it was Branch speaking -"everything would be all
right. Suppose you mount up an' light a shuck? We want the Brocks, not you."
"Sorry. It'll cost you to get 'em. I got a gun now."
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 battle at burnt camp / 37
"Don't be a fool!" Branch said angrily. "You won't have a chance!"
The Cactus Kid settled himself for a wait. Without doubt most of the outlaws were
awaiting daylight to hunt up their horses, and he had a hunch that Branch would wait
for day also. Well, that suited him.
An hour passed, and the gray grew stronger. Another hour, and although the sun was
not up, it was light. Behind the Kid was the canyon mouth where Bully and Kirby Brock
had taken shelter; beside the Kid was the tinaja with its store of water. Before
him the slope fell away to the bottom of a shallow canyon and somewhere across it
were Branch and the others.
Once, the Kid thought he heard a stone rattle, then a footstep. He got to his feet
and peered around but could see nothing-and then he saw Kirby, motioning violently.
"Hey!" she called. She held up a brown stick in her hands. "Blasting powder!"
Scrambling back over the rocks, he stopped beside her. "Uncle found it in the prospector's
shanty. There's almost half a box, and some caps and fuses."
The Cactus Kid grinned suddenly. "Bring 'em down! This'll be good!"
A half hour later Branch called out. He was not over thirty yards away, probably
less. "You comin' out or are we comin' after you?"
"Come and get us," the Kid said hopefully. "Come right on up." As they hesitated
he lighted a short fuse. The giant powder was tied to a rock for better throwing,
and as the fuse spattered, the Kid drew back his hand and threw, and Bully Brock,
nearby, did the same.
He never saw the dynamite. The stick hit somewhere in front of him and blew up with
a terrific concussion,
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scattering rocks and gravel. Brock's throw had been the stronger and it lit between
two head-sized rocks atop a boulder. It blasted with even greater force and scattered
rock in every direction.
Jewell came out of the rocks, running, and Farb with him. Both men had their hands
up.
"Come on, Branch!" Brock yelled. "The next one's right in your lap!"
Kit Branch came out of the rocks. He came walking toward them, his hands swinging,
and the Cactus Kid stepped out in the open. Branch stared vindictively. "Nobody gets
the best of me, boy. You're gonna get yours and I'm gonna be the one givin' it to
you."
The Kid's eyes never left those of the gunman. "Well, I'll be-!"
Branch's hand swept down for his gun. Triumph was on his face as the gun lifted and
then something struck him a wicked blow just below the breastbone. He staggered,
seeing the smoking gun in the Kid's hand, then fell over on his face.
The Cactus Kid walked over to Jewell. "All I want from you is my money," he said.
"Dish it out."
Reluctantly, the two outlaws dug out the money and handed it back. When he counted
it, the sum came to two hundred dollars more than he had lost. "For my trouble,"
he said calmly, and pocketed it. "That's all I want with you fellows. You can beat
it."
"Oh, no, they can't!" Kirby Brock walked up to Jewell and Farb. "Push me around,
will you?" She kicked Jewell right on the shins.
Farbeson bellowed with laughter, and coolly, she turned and kicked him in the same
place. With both men howling with pain, Kirby turned and gathered up the reins of
her
43
 battle at burnt camp / 39
horse. "Maybe," she said, glaring at the Cactus Kid, "that wasn't ladylike, but it
sure was satisfying!"
The Cactus Kid gathered up their weapons. Farbeson had been wearing the Kid's own
guns. Gravely, he handed guns to both Brock and Kirby.
Mounting up, he studied Kirby. "You know, ma'am," he said, "if you get a husband
who'll keep a tight rein on you, you'd make him a mighty good wife, but if you ever
get the bit in your teeth, heaven help him!"
He turned his horse and headed off up the trail.
44
 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 passengers, 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."
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"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."
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, riding neck and neck,
came over the rise, they saw three others in a hollow among the rocks defending themselves
against an attack by Utes. Glancing back, Talon
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 ironwood station / 43
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 target 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 accurately. With his own eyes Talon saw
three Indians drop under the gunman'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 gunman said. "They're
pullin' out."
Talon waited a moment, watching the trail, and then he turned and walked toward his
horse, standing with the
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other horses in the low ground behind the rocks. "Let's ride, Jones."
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, sunbaked rocks of the distant mountains, 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
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 ironwood station / 45
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 elsewhere. 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."
"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 expect trouble."
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|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 glimpsed a gun, half-concealed by the hay on the barn floor.
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 ironwood station / 47
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 lying carelessly on the dirt
floor. Curious, aware of a mystery here, he looked slowly around the long building.
The fallen gun was directly behind 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, 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 Bres-lin," 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
j|
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 48 / Louis l'amour
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 lying 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 straightened. "There's
plenty of time. Dan will be back, aU 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. 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?
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 ironwood station / 49
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 biscuits. He
looked at Talon, his mouth full and chewing, then the chewing slowed and Jones looked
thoughtful. "Maybe they turned off," he suggested 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,
I'll
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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."
Jones turned to stare at him, astonished. But Kate Bres-lin 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 hardened 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.
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"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 payrolls 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."
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.
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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 doorjamb, 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 quietly 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 cigarette 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.
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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 will."
It was very hot and still. Perspiration stood out on their faces. He had one gun
against four, and they were not worried by him ... Robeck was 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, I'll
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."
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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."
Pete walked out to the road. "Not much more time, Lute."
"No." Lute glanced around the room. "They don't
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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 carefully 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 struggle. 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,
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"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 outside 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 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 bedroom 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."
60
 ironwood station / 57
"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.
1
I
61
 1
62
 HERE ENDS THE TRAIL
Cold was the night and bitter the wind and brutal the trail behind. Hunched in the
saddle, I growled at the dark and peered through the blinding rain. The agony of
my wound was a white-hot flame from the bullet of Korry Gleason.
Dead in the corral at Seaton's he was, and a blessed good thing for the country,
too, although had I gone down instead, the gain would have been as great and the
loss no greater. Wherever he went, in whatever afterlife there may be for the Korry
Gleasons of this world, he'll carry the knowledge that he paid his score for the
killing of old Bags Robison that night in Animas.
He'd been so sure, Gleason had, that Race Mallin had bucked it out in gun smoke down
Big Band way. He'd heard the rumor all right, so he thought it safe to kill old Bags,
and he'd nothing on his mind when he walked, sloshing through the mud toward Seaton's-and
then he saw me.
He knew right off, no doubt about that. He knew before
63
 60 / Louis i/amour
he saw my face. He knew even before I spoke. "Goodbye, Korry," I said.
But the lightning flashed as I spoke and he saw me standing there, a big, lean-bodied
man wearing no slicker and guns ready to hand. He saw me there with the scar on my
jaw, put there by his own spur the night I whipped him in Mobeetie.
He swore and grabbed for his gun and I shot him through the belly, shot him low down,
where they die hard, because he'd never given old Bags a chance, old Bags who had
been like a father to me . . . who had no father and no mother, nor kith nor kin
nor anything. I shot him low down and hard and he grabbed iron and his gun swung
up and I cursed him like I've never cursed, then I sank three more shots into him,
framing the ugly heart of him with lead and taking his bullet in the process.
Oh, he was game, all right! He came of a hard clan, did Korry Gleason, big, bloody,
brutal men who killed and fought and drank and built ranches and roads and civilization
and then died because the country they built was too big for them to hold down.
So now I'd trail before me and nothing behind me but the other members of the Gleason
clan, who, even now, would be after me. The trail dipped down and the wind whipped
at my face while the pain of my wound gnawed at my side. My thoughts spun and turned
smoky and my brain struggled with the heat haze of delirium.
Gigantic thunder bottled itself up in the mighty canyons of cloud and then exploded
in jagged streaks of lightning, cannon flashes of lightning that stabbed and glanced
and shimmered among the rock-sided hills. Night and the iron rain and wet rock for
a trail and the thunder of slides and the echoing canyons where they ended, the roaring
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 here ends the trail / 61
streams below and the poised boulders, revealed starkly by some momentary flash,
then concealed but waiting to go crashing down when the moment came. And through
it I rode, more dead than alive, with a good seat in the saddle but a body that lolled
and sagged. Under me there was a bronco that was surefooted on a trail that was a
devil's nightmare.
Then there was a light.
Have you ever seen a lighted window flickering through the rain of a lonely land?
Have you ever known that sudden gush of heart-glowing warmth at such a sight? There
is no other such feeling, and so when I saw it, the weariness and pain seemed warranted
and cheap at the price of that distant, promising window.
What lay beyond that light? Warmth and food? The guns of enemies old or new? It did
not matter, for since time began, man has been drawn to the sight of human habitation,
and I was in an unknown land, and far from anywhere so far as I knew. Then in a lightning
flash I saw a house, a barn, and a corral, all black and wet in the whipping rain.
Inside the barn, there was the roar of rain on the roof and the good, friendly smells
of horses and hay, of old leather and sacks, and all the smells that make barns what
they are. So I slid from my horse and led him into the welcome stillness and closed
the door behind us. There I stripped the saddle from him and wiped the rain from
his body and shook it from his mane, and then I got fresh hay and stuffed the manger
full. "Fill your belly," I told him. "Come dawn we'll be out of here."
Under my slicker, then, I slipped the riding thong from the butt of my Colt and slid
my rifle from the saddle scabbard. The light in the window was welcoming me, but
65
 62 / Louis i/amour
whether friend or enemy waited there, I did not know. A moment after I knocked on
the door, it jerked open under my hand and I looked into the eyes of a woman.
Her eyes were magnificent and brown, and she was tall and with poise and her head
carried like a princess crowned. She looked at me and she said, "Who are you?" Her
voice was low, and when she spoke something within me quivered, and then she said,
"What do you want here?"
"Shelter," I said, "a meal if you've got the food to spare. There's trouble following
me, but I'll try to be gone before the storm clears. Will you help? Say the word,
yes or no."
What she thought I'd no idea, for what could she think of me, big, unshaven, and
scarred? And what could she think when my slicker was shed and she saw the two tied-down
guns and the mark of blood on the side and the spot where my shirt was torn by the
bullet.
"You've been shot," she said.
And then the room seemed to spin slowly in a most sickening fashion and I fell against
the wall and grabbed a hook and clung to it, gripping hard, afraid to go down for
fear I'd not again get to my feet.
She stepped in close and got her arm about my waist and helped me walk toward the
chair, as I refused the bed. I sat while she brought hot water and stripped my shirt
from me and looked down at the place where the bullet had come through, and a frighteniHg
mess it was, with blood caked to my hide and the wound an ugly sight.
She bathed the wound and she probed for the bullet and somehow she got it out. This
was something she had done before, that I could see. She treated my side with something,
or maybe it was only her lovely hands and their gentle touch, and as I watched her
I knew that here was my woman, if such there was in the world, the
66
 i
i
r
here ends the trail / 63
woman to walk beside a man, and not behind him. Not one of those who try always to
be pushing ahead and who are worth nothing at all as a woman and little as anything
else.
She started coffee then and put broth on the fire to warm, and over her shoulder
she looked at me. "Who are you, then? And where is it you come from?"
Who was I? Nobody. What was I? Less than nothing. "I'm a drifting man," I said simply
enough, "and one too handy with a gun for the good of himself or anyone. I'm riding
through. I've always been riding through."
"There's been a killing?"
"Of a man who deserved it. So now I'm running, for though he was a bad lot, there's
good men in his line and they'll be after me."
She looked at me coolly, and she said, "You've run out of one fight and into another,
unless you move quickly."
"Here?"
"Yes. We have moved in and planted crops and now a cattleman would be driving us
out. There are eleven of us-eleven that can fight, and fourteen women, who can help.
Some have been killed, my father for one. There are more than thirty tough hands
riding with the cattleman, and one of them is Sad Priest."
There was no good in Priest. Him I knew well and nothing about him I liked. "Who
is the cattleman?"
"Yanel Webb. It's a big outfit."
"I know them." By now I was eating the broth and drinking coffee and the chill was
leaving my bones, but my lids were heavy and there was a weight of sleep on my eyes.
She showed me to the bed where her father had slept and helped me off with my boots
and guns, and then what happened I never knew, for sleep folded me away into soft
darkness.
67
 1
64 / LOUIS L'AMOUR
Though I remembered but fragments, there was a fever that took me and I tossed and
turned on the bed for hours. A drink of water from a cup in her gentle hand exhausted
me and the medicine in the dressings for my wound stained the sheets. At last I faded
off into a dreamless sleep that seemed to go on forever. When next my eyes opened
to awareness, there was daylight at the window and a clear sky beyond it and the
girl was standing in the door. I had a vague memory of someone knocking on the door,
voices, and the pound of hooves receding into the distance.
"You'd best get up. They're coming."
"The Gleasons?"
"Webb and Priest, and his lot. And we're not ready for them. We're all scattered."
She dried her palms on her apron. "You'd best slip out. I've saddled your horse."
"And run?"
"It's no fight of yours."
"I'm not a running sort of man. And as to whether it's a fight of mine or not, time
will be saying, for you've done me a turn and I pay my debts when I can ... have
you coffee on?"
"My father said there must always be hot coffee in a house."
"Your father was a knowing man."
When I had my boots on and my guns I felt better, favoring my side a bit. When they
rode into the yard I was standing in the door with a cup of hbt, black coffee in
my left hand.
There were at least twenty of them, and armed for business. Tough men, these. Tough
men and hard in the belly and eyes. The first of them was Webb, of whom I'd heard
talk, and on his left, that lean rail of poison, Sad Priest.
"Morning," I said. "You're riding early."
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"We've no talk with you, whoever you are. Where's Maggie Ryan?"
"This morning I'm speaking for her. Is it trouble you're after? If it is"-I smiled
at them, feeling good inside and liking the look of them-"you've called at the right
door. However, I'll be forgivin'.
"If you turn about now and ride off, I'll be letting you go without risk."
"Let ms go?" Yanel Webb stared at me as if I was fair daft, and not a bad guess he'd
made, for daft I am and always have been, for when there's a fight in the offing,
something starts rolling around in me, something that's full of gladness and eagerness
that will not go down until there's fists or clubs or guns and somebody's won or
lost or got themselves a broken skull. "You'll let us go? Get out of here, man! Get
out while we see fit to let you!"
That made me laugh. "Leave a scrap when the Priest is in it? That I'd never do, Webb."
I stepped out onto the porch, moving toward them, knowing there's something about
closeness to a gun that turns men's insides to water and weakness. "How are you,
Sad? Forgotten me?"
He opened his scar of a mouth and said, "I've never seen you before-" His voice broke
off and he stopped. "RaceMallin..."
That made me chuckle. There'd been a change in his eyes then, for he knew me, and
I knew myself what was said about me, how I was a gun-crazy fool who had no brains
or coolness or anything, a man who wouldn't scare and wouldn't bluff and who would
walk down the avenues of hell with dynamite in his pockets and tinder in his hair.
Now, no man wants to tackle a man like that, for you know when the chips are down
and you've got to fight, he'll die hard and not alone.
69
 66 / Louis i/amour
Sad Priest was a fast hand with a gun, maybe faster than me, but there'd been other
fast men who had died as easily as anyone.
"Right you are. And it looks like some of these boys here will be able to tell it
around the bunkhouses next year, the story of how Sad Priest and Yanel Webb died
with Race Mallin in an all-out gun battle! What a story that will make for those
who yarn around the fires!
"Yanel Webb, all his cattle wasted, his ranch in other hands, his wife a widow, and
his baby son an orphan, and Sad Priest, the fastest of them all, facedown in the
dirt of a nester's yard with his belly shot full of lead bullets!"
Beyond them were the others and I grinned at them. "Oh, don't you lads worry. Some
of you favored ones will go along. How many is a guess, but you'd best remember I've
ten good bullets here, and while I've gone down three times in gunfights, it was
every time with empty guns!
"Tell them, Sad! You were on the Neuces that time when the four Chambers boys jumped
me. They put me down and filled me full of holes and I was six weeks before I could
walk, but they buried three of the Chambers and the other one left the country when
I left my bed."
"You talk a lot," Webb said sourly.
"It's a weakness of the Irish," I said.
They did not like it. None of them liked it. At such a time no man feels secure and
each one is sure you're look ing right at him. I"What are you doin' here?" Webb demanded.
"This is
no fight of yours." J"Why, any one-sided fight is my fight, Yanel," I ex
plained.
"I've a weakness for them. I could not stay out of it, and me with the Gleasons behind
me."
That I said for the smartness of it. I'm not so crazy as I sound, and wild as I get
in a scrap, I knew they'd salt me
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down if the guns opened here. But my deal was to bluff them, for no man wishes to
die, and once the bluff started, to offer them an easy out, a reason for delay.
The Gleasons made a reason. I knew they would figure that if the Gleasons were after
me, all they had to do was sit back and let the Gleasons kill me-and any gain in
time was a gain for us.
Webb hesitated, soaking it up. He didn't like it, but it was smart, and Priest said
something to him under his breath, and probably a warning to let the Gleasons come.
Then Webb said, "Why are the Gleasons after you?"
"Korry," I explained, "shot down an old friend of mine when I was down Del Rio way.
I hightailed it back and met him last night and he was a bit slow. He died back there
and the Gleasons will be after me."
"That," Webb said, "I'd like to see. We'll camp out and see what happens."
Now, that I'd not expected. I'd believed they would ride out and leave us alone,
but with them here . . . Maggie Ryan spoke beside me. "What will we do, Race? The
others will be here soon, and they are not fighting men, they are quiet, sincere
men with families and homes. If there is a fight here, some of them or all of them
will die. Webb won't stop killing once he starts."
"It isn't Webb," I said. "It's that cold image of a buzzard beside him, it's Priest
that worries me."
Strange is the world that men are born to, and strange the ways of men when trouble
comes. Yanel Webb was not a bad man, only a hard man who thought cattle were the
only way of life and would stop all others who came into the country. And those with
him-they were hard, reckless men, but cowhands, not killers. Fight they would, if
they must, but with a decent way out... and the Gleasons who were coming. Korry had
been the only bad apple in
71
 68 / Louis L'amour
that lot. They knew it as well as I, but they were honor bound to hunt me down, but
I'd no stomach for killing honest men.
Across the hard-caked earth of the yard on that morning after the rain I looked at
Sad Priest.
"Maggie," I said, "there's a chance that we can work it out, but only one chance.
What stake has Priest in this?"
"Webb's given him land and a job. He's the worst of them, I think."
"How was Webb before he came?"
"Angry, and ordering us off, but he wasn't so strong for killing."
"Maybe," I said, "if Priest were out of it, we could talk."
Then we heard the rattle of hooves on the bridge and the sound of riders and I looked
around over my shoulder and saw the Gleasons come into the yard.
There was the weakness from my wound, but no time for weakness now. There they were,
the three of them, and they were looking around at what they had ridden into. And
then I took my gamble as a man sometimes must. I'm not a talking man when the chips
are down and the love of battle is strong within me, but there was more at stake
now than me or my desires, for there was a handful of kindly folks and their farms
and wishes.
There comes a time to every man when he must drop the old ways and look ahead, so
here was I, a man who had ridden and roistered and rustled a few head, who had shot
up the wrong side of town on a Saturday night. I'd killed a few hardcases and lived
the life of a wild land growing, and now suddenly I could see a chance for my own
life: a wife, my own home, my own green and growing land, my own children about the
door-maybe all of it lay out there beyond that hot, sunbaking yard where my
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enemies stood. Twenty-odd men with reasons for killing me, and not one for helping
me stay alive.
"Maggie," I said, "I'm a changed man. I'm going out there and talk. Pray if you can,
for you're certain to have more of a voice with the Lord than I, for it's got to
be blarney rather than bullets if we come out alive from this."
So I walked out there and faced the Gleasons, three hard, tough, honest men. Three
men who had ridden here to kill me.
"Pat,"
I said, "we rode a roundup together. Mickey, you pulled me out from under a steer
one time, down Sonora way, an' you, Dave, I've bought you drinks and you've bought
them for me. That's why I ran after I'd shot Korry. He had it comin', an' deep in
the heart of you, you all know it.
"Korry got what he asked for, and had it not been me, it would have been another,
but I ran, for I'd no desire to kill any of you."
"Or to be killed, maybe."
Then I shrugged. "That's a gamble always, but the Chambers boys went down and a fool
knows no lack of confidence. Surely, I'm a fool, and a great one."
"Why the palaver?" Pat demanded. "What trick is this?"
"No trick," I said. "Only I've no wish to kill any one of you, nor to kill anyone
anymore but one man.
"These"-I gestured at the gathered riders-"are fine upstanding men who've come to
rob a girl of her home! To take the roof from a girl who's but recently lost her
father!
"They want to run out a lot of fine, homemaking men who are irrigating land and building
the country. And they've brought a killer to do their dirty work, a buzzard named
Sad Priest!
73
 70 / Louis i/amour
"I don't want to fight you. I've this fight to think of now. Never yet have I shot
an honest man, and I've no wish to begin.
"Only one thing I want now," and when I spoke my eyes went to Sad Priest across the
yard. "I want to kill the man who'd run a girl with no family from her house!"
Oh, I didn't wait for him! Nobody waits for Sad Priest! So when I spoke, I reached,
but he drew so fast his gun was up and shooting before I'd more than cleared leather.
But I'd known he'd shoot too fast and he did. His bullet tugged at my shirt and I
triggered my six-gun, two quick, hammering shots, and then ran!
Right for him, his gun spitting lead and the blood of my bullets showing on his neck
and shirtfront, but my running made him miss and only one of the bullets hit me,
taking me through the thigh, and I went down and felt another bullet whip past my
skull, and then I fired up at him and the bullet split his brisket and his knees
let go and he started down just as I rolled on my side and fired into him again at
eight feet of distance.
He hit ground then and lay there all sprawled out, and one of the Webb hands started
for me and Pat Gleason levered a shell into the barrel of his Winchester. "Hold it,
mister!" he said. "That was a fair fight!"
They stood there, all of them, nobody quite knowing what to do, and then Maggie Ryan
ran to me and with her hands under my arms I got to my feet. I stepped away from
her and pushed her back toward the house. This was not yet over. Blood was running
from my side where the other wound had started to bleed.
"Got you twice," Dave Gleason said.
"No," I told him, "the one in my side was Kerry's. Only he was a few inches too low."
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"Korry got a bullet into you?" Mickey said. "If he did that he had a fair shake.
He wasn't fast enough otherwise."
"It's his," I said. "You can see the wound's not fresh."
Yanel Webb stood there with his hands at his sides, not sure of what to say. And
his hands waited for him, for he was their boss and they rode for the brand, but
knowing their kind I knew their hearts weren't in it.
"Yanel," I said, "Priest was long overdue. Ride home. You've land enough, and when
you want eggs and fresh vegetables, come down on the creek and trade with these people.
"You and me," I said, "we've got to grow with the times. The day of the gun and the
free range is past. We've got to accept that or go like the buffalo went."
He was reluctant to leave, and he stood there, knowing the truth of what I'd said,
and knowing that nothing now stood between him and my first bullet.
"He's calling them fair," Pat Gleason said. "I stand with him on that."
Webb turned to his hands. "Well, boys," he said, "we'd best take Sad along and plant
him. I reckon we've played out our hand. These farmers best keep their crops fenced,
though." It was his final chance to bluster. "If their fields are eaten or trampled,
it's not my lookout!"
They went then, and we watched them ride, and then I faced around and looked at the
Gleasons and they looked at me. Maggie Ryan had her arm around me and then she spoke
up and said to them, "There's coffee on. Will you come in?"
So we went in and the coffee was hot and black, and there by the table there was
warm and pleasant talk of cattle and grass and what a man could do in a green growing
valley, with time on his hands.
II
75
 LAST DAY IN TOWN
T
he riders moved forward in a body, then halted. "Strike a match, Reb!" Nathan Embree's
voice trembled with triumph. "We finally got one, I heard him
fall."
Reb Farrell slid from the saddle. "I see him! He's right over here!" A match whispered
on his jeans and the light flared.
All necks craned forward. The man on the ground had a bullet through his head, but
the face of the man was placid. It was a quiet face, seamed with care and years that
had not been kind. The face of a man tired of the endless struggle of living. It
was the face of Reb Farrell's father.
Numb with horror, Reb stared down at the man they had killed, the man who had fought
to give him some little education and a sense of honor, who had fought so hard and
lost, and who now was dead, killed, possibly by a bullet from the gun of the son
he loved.
"My God!" Dave Barbot's exclamation was low. "Not Jim Farrell! It can't be!"
Nathan Embree's own shock changed to sudden, bitter
76
 74 / Louis L'AMOUR
fury. "So that was it? That was why you couldn't find any rustlers for me, Reb? Maybe
this explains how they always knew when an' where to strike! Maybe this explains
why they were always one jump ahead of us!"
Reb Farrell stared unbelievingly at the body of his father, shocked as much by his
father's presence here as by the feeling that he had himself shot him. He did not
hear the words of Nathan Embree. He did not hear Dave Barbot's refusal to agree.
"You don't believe that, Nathan!" Dave's voice was sharp. "Reb's fought them harder
than anybody! He's recovered two herds for you!"
"Uh-huh." There was cold certainty in Nathan Em-bree's voice. "Why did he find 'em
when nobody else could? Maybe it was because he was the only one who knew where to
look? When did this rustling start? Right after I made him foreman, wasn't it?"
Reb Farrell looked up. "What was that? What did you say, Nathan?"
Nathan Embree was a wealthy man and he was a driver. He was also a just man, but
hard and merciless. The moon had emerged from under a cloud and showed him the face
of his young foreman.
"You're fired, Reb! Get your gear an' get off the place! I can't prove anything against
you, but if you're still in the country within twenty-four hours, we'll hunt you
down an' you'll hang!"
Astonishment held Reb speechless for a full minute, and then as the riders began
to turn their horses to ride away, he found his voice. "You accusin' me of rustlin',
Nathan?" His eyes seemed to flare. "I won't take that from no man! Don't call me
a rustler unless you're willing to grab iron!"
Embree turned on him. "Yes," he said contemptuously,
77
 last day in town / 75
"you would try something like that! Oh, we all know you're a gunfighter, Reb, but
now that your own father's dead, you should have some sense in that head of yours!"
Reb Farrell stared, unable to believe what he heard. Em-bree had shouted at them
to fire as they heard the rush of hooves, and he had fired at the silhouette of a
man in the saddle.
"By rights you should be hangin', an' it's only because of my daughter that you ain't!
But get out, an' don't ever show your face around my place or my daughter!"
Wheeling his horse, he led the group away, and only Dave Barbot lingered. "Sorry,
Reb," he said softly. "I'm really sorry."
Alone in the darkness, Reb Farrell stood beside the body of his father and the ashes
of all that had mattered to him, and listened to the sound of their retreating hooves.
Like a man walking in his sleep, Reb caught up his own horse and then his father's.
He loaded the body across the saddle and started for home. He rode slowly, his head
hanging, devoid of thought. It was the end of everything for him. The job on the
ranch he loved, Laura, everything.
The old cabin where he had spent his boyhood was dark and silent. Dismounting, he
went inside and lighted a lamp. Without waiting for day to come, he got some loose
boards and knocked together a crude coffin, lining it with an old poncho. Sodden
with grief, he went to the place under the trees and there beside the grave of his
mother, who died when he was a child, he buried his father.
Although he had eaten nothing since morning, he had no thought of food. Slowly, he
looked around the cabin that had been his home until he moved out to the ranch. What
should he take with him? What was there to take? Though men may die, the living must
continue to live, and he must think of food, bedding, guns.
78
76 / Louis l'amour
Guns ... his father's fine old Sharps .50, the new Winchester .44 which his father
had ...
The Winchester was gone!
Reb felt a queer tingle of excitement go through him. The Sharps was in its place
on the rack, but the new Winchester was gone? And there had been no saddle scabbard
on the saddle of his father's horse. Knowing his father, Reb knew he would never
have gone out at night without taking a rifle, and that meant the Sharps. Despite
the fact that Reb had made him a present of the Winchester, his father had kept it
on the rack and held to his familiar old buffalo gun.
Aware of something wrong, Reb stood stock-still in the middle of the cabin and looked
around. Suddenly he thought of the carefully hoarded cache of money his father had.
A few hundred dollars only, it was his insurance against illness or old age. Reb
dropped on his knees and slid the board from its grooves in the floor. The money
was gone!
Slowly Reb got to his feet. No money had been in his father's pockets. Something
was wrong, but what could it all mean?
Looking around the cabin, Reb was suddenly struck by the coffeepot on the stove,
and going to it, he lifted the lid. There were still grounds in the pot. Either somebody
else had made that coffee and left the pot or Jim FarreU had been drawn from his
fire while making coffee, for Jim had habits of neatness acquired from years of living
with his wife. He never left a pot on the stove and never left a dish unwashed.
As he packed the remaining food Reb Farrell considered all the possibilities, and
slowly the conviction gathered in his mind that either his father had been somehow
alarmed and left the cabin or he had been taken from it by force.
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It was daylight when Reb Farrell finally left the cabin. He took with him two packhorses
and four head of saddle stock aside from the horse he himself rode. There were Rocking
F cattle around that belonged to him, but they would have to wait.
Reb struck for the hills above Indian Creek. He was not leaving the country, not
until he knew exactly what had happened. Of one thing he was sure. His father had
never done anything dishonest. There had been too many times in the past when he
might have profited without anyone the wiser, but Jim Farrell had not taken one single
thing that did not belong to him. Not even when, as had happened, he had a shadow
of a claim.
As Reb rode up the narrowing canyon he thought the matter over. His father had no
enemies. A kindly man, he never had trouble with anyone, working at whatever he could
to eke out his existence, and selling off little by little the once fair-sized herd
he had owned. Therefore, if his cabin had been looted, it had been by chance thieves.
Or ... the thought came to him suddenly . .. enemies of Reb's!
But who were Reb's enemies? Aside from a few fist-fights at dances, none of which
led to enmity, Reb had no enemies.
Except . . . except the rustlers themselves. Reb had found and recovered two herds
of stolen cattle, and he had upon several occasions trailed the rustlers for miles.
In fact, he had been the only man they had reason to fear. Suppose they had chosen
this way to strike at him?
Skirting South Peak, Reb Farrell rode into a narrow canyon where he had once trailed
a wounded elk, and circling into the back of the canyon, he dismounted and opened
an old corral and turned in his horses. Then he switched saddles from the animal
he had been riding to a
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long-legged zebra dun. There was plenty of grass in the corral, growing rich and
green, and a small stream flowed through one corner of it. Several years ago he had
built that corral himself, but had never expected to use it as he was now.
There was no cabin, but the deep overhang of a cliff provided all the shelter he
needed, and the firs growing before it would keep his fire from reflecting by night
and would dissipate his smoke by day, for Reb had no intention of leaving the country.
The dun was a fast and tough horse, one whose staying power and heart he had tested
before this. In the saddle, he headed for town. First, he had to see Laura Embree.
The town of Palo Seco was resting when he rode in. There were lights in the two saloons
and in a few scattered houses. One of these was Nathan Embree's town house. Knowing
well the hardheadedness of his former boss, Reb dismounted in the cottonwoods some
fifty yards from the house and walked up along the rail fence surrounding the Embree
garden. Easing into the yard, he glanced through the window.
Laura was at the piano and there was no one else in the room. Swiftly, he mounted
the porch and tapped gently on the door. A second time he tapped, and then the music
stopped. He heard the sound of steps and the door opened.
"Reb!" Laura's hand went to ner lips and her eyes widened. "If Father finds you here,
you'll be killed!"
"Maybe. But I had to see you." His eyes searched her face. "Where do you stand, Laura?
Do you believe I am a rustler?"
"I don't know, Reb," she said cautiously. "But I don't know if I can take a chance
on you either."
"You can trust me! You just watch, I'm gonna-" She
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closed the door in his face and he stood staring at it, his world collapsing around
him.
Laura, too! Stunned, he turned away and walked back to the dun. Somehow, even when
he tried to convince himself that she would think as her father did, he had not believed
it. But tonight she had looked at him as though at a stranger!
One hand on the pommel, Reb Farrell hesitated, scowling. All right, he had to begin
somewhere. He knew his father was not a rustler. He knew his father had not been
out there willingly. As long as he knew those things there was a chance to prove
himself right.
One other person, perhaps several others, knew the truth also; the rustlers knew
he or his father had been framed.
But who would be doing the rustling? The most likely person was, he knew, Lon Melchor
over on Tank Mesa. Melchor had rustled cattle before, but had always been too quick
to be caught at it. But somehow he could not believe that Lon would kill his father.
They had been on opposite sides of the fence but they had always been friendly. Regardless,
it was a place to start.
Hard riding put him at Lon's place shortly after midnight. All was dark and still.
Swinging down from the dun's saddle, Reb moved swiftly along the side hill toward
the cabin where Lon Melchor lived. All was still, but there was something about the
feel of the night that he did not like. Hesitating, he tried to resolve the feeling
into something concrete and definite.
He moved up to the corner of the house. The door was standing open, which was unusual,
for the night was cool. Straining his ears, he could hear hoarse breathing but no
other sound. He spoke softly. "Lon!"
All was still. He stepped into the door of the cabin and
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pushed the door shut, listening. Again he spoke the old rustler's name, but again
there was no sound. Then he took a chance and struck a match.
Lon Melchor was sprawled on the floor, lying in a stupor, his shirt stained with
blood!
Forgetting his mission, Reb dropped to his knees and made a quick examination of
the old man, and then he began to work swiftly. He got a fire going and put water
on the stove, and then he put a pillow under the old man's head and stretched him
out easier, rolling him over onto a blanket which he placed on the floor. When the
water was hot he bathed the wound, which was a nasty bullet burn along his left side,
and only when he had the wound bandaged did he turn to look around.
Lon's gun lay on the floor, and picking it up, Reb saw it had been fired three times.
His rifle was nowhere about, and was probably on his horse. Slipping out of the door,
Reb looked about until he found the horse. The saddle was wet where the old man had
bled, and Reb stripped the saddle from the horse and turned him into the corral.
There was water in the trough and he forked down some hay, then returned to the cabin.
Lon's eyes were open. "Reb!" he gasped. "You seen 'em? Them rustlers, I mean?"
"Who were they, Lon? Did they shoot you?"
"Yep." He stared up at the younger man, his misery showing in his face. "They got
your dad and it's my fault, too. I knowed Joe Banta was a bad-"
"My dad?" Reb Farrell leaned over the bunk. "What do you know about him?"
"He's dead. Banta come in here wantin' a hideout, maybe three weeks ago. I knowed
he was a plumb bad hombre, but I let him stay on. Fact is, I couldn't have drove
him away. Then he did leave, only to come back
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with a bunch of hardcases. They were rustlin' cattle an' slippin' them out of here
at night... you know that."
"You're durned right I do. What about my father?"
"They were talkin' about what to do about you." The old man coughed, and then grimaced
with the pain. "They wanted to warn you off.
"I waited until they left, then I took off, tried to beat 'em by going across the
mountains. I got there too late! They killed him! Dragged him right out in the yard
and shot him! I opened up at them with my Winchester and one of 'em shot me. I got
back on my horse and rode right out of thereI guess none of them followed."
"They thought he was doing it, Lon." Briefly, Reb explained all that had taken place.
The old man was angry.
"Nathan Embree was always a pigheaded fool!" he snorted. He grabbed Reb's hand. "Get
you some men, son! I know where he'll go! He'll head for the old hideout at Burro
Springs! You got to follow Dark Canyon to get there. Right up the canyon through
all them boulders! From there he can sell that herd to the minin' camps easy as pie!"
Reb hesitated, but the old man waved him on. "What're you going to do for me, boy!
I lost a sight of blood, but you ain't no doctor. You get some men and go after those
coyotes. I'll get along."
Reb wheeled and ran to the door. His horse was excited, seeming to realize what was
at stake. There was no time to go for help, and there was a chance he might get shot
on sight if he went back for it.
Day was just breaking in the east when he first found the opening into Dark Canyon
and rode down from the lip of the mesa into the deep, shadowy green recesses of this
oasis in the desert.
Long suspected as a possible hangout for rustlers, the
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canyon had been searched several times in the past year, but Lon's remark about the
boulders explained why they had found nothing. Searchers had always been stopped
by the seemingly impassable jumble of boulders, some of them so close together there
seemed no way through. Moreover, the place was exceedingly dangerous. If caught in
the canyon bottom during a heavy rain, there would be small chance of escaping the
roaring flood which came down the canyon, fifteen, sixteen, sometimes twenty feet
or more high.
Now Reb knew there was a way through those boulders, if the cattle had been taken
through, then he could go through. He rode now with extreme caution, pausing to study
the canyon ahead of him, and then pushing on. Soon the huge boulders that had hitherto
blocked all progress in the ancient riverbed were before him. Long before this point
they had always lost all tracks, a matter the occasional rains would attend to or
a few hands dragging brush behind their horses. The boulders seemed to block all
advance. Riding up to them, he searched for a way between, but try as he might, he
could find none that would allow the passage of a horse or cow. Yet with Lon Melchor's
statement to urge him on, he persisted, and it was finally a mark on the canyon wall
that tipped him off. It was such a mark as might have been made by the brushing of
a stirrup or stirrups. Riding close to the wall, ducking his head because of the
overhang, he suddenly saw the opening, only wide enough to allow for passage. He
rode through, then paused in the shadow of the cliff.
The canyon continued a jumble of boulders, and nothing could be seen for some distance
ahead. After a careful study of the rocks and earth, he rode on, then turned up a
narrow path that showed at one side of the canyon. It was a little-used trail that
looked like it was probably made by
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wild horses. It led him into the broken rock of the shattered canyon wall, and then
on to a green-topped mesa. Crossing this, he paused under some trees and looked down.
Below him, the canyon widened out into a long, green, and well-watered valley of
some five hundred acres. Two huts and a long bunkhouse or boardinghouse were against
the wall of the canyon below him. There was a stable and some corrals, and scattered
over the canyon several hundred head of cattle were feeding.
As he watched, two men came from the long building and strolled toward the corrals.
They walked as men do who have enjoyed a good meal and are in no hurry to go to work.
One of them was Joe Banta.
Banta had never been known to operate in this part of the country, and Nathan Embree
would have been the first to scoff at such an idea, yet here he was, and in plain
sight. He was a stocky man of considerable breadth and little height, a swarthy fellow
with a battered gray hat. Even at this distance Reb could recognize him without trouble.
When they turned around, Reb recognized the man with him as Ike Goodrich, a small-time
outlaw and occasional hand who had once worked for Embree.
Two hours of waiting and watching while his horse cropped grass contentedly gave
Reb Farrell the idea that at least four men were below. Aside from Banta and Ike,
there was the cook, whom Reb had seen come to the door to throw out some water, and
a thin, redheaded fellow who walked with a slight limp and appeared to favor one
leg considerably, as though it had been injured at some time not long since. This
man went to the corral and saddled four horses.
There was no time to go for help. It would take hours to get out and hours to get
back, even if he could convince somebody of the truth of his story. Barbot might
believe
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him. Embree never would, but by the time they returned, the cattle might be gone,
for it was likely there was another way out of the canyon, probably the route that
led over to the mining camps.
Leading his horse, Reb left the mesa top and made his way slowly down a back trail
into a deep draw that opened on the valley where the rustlers were holed. Leaving
his horse in the brush, Reb walked down the canyon, rifle in hand. From the mouth
he looked out over the valley. The nearest corral was not twenty yards away, the
back of the nearest shack about the same distance. The redhead was standing in front
of the stable, tightening a saddle girth.
Reb walked out of the canyon mouth and strolled along the corral bars until he was
facing the man in front of the stable. Nobody else was in sight.
"All right, Red." His voice was low but strong enough. "Unloose your gun belts and
turn around. One wrong move and you die!"
Red turned slowly, his hands wide. His face was tight with surprise. "Where'd you
come from?" he demanded.
"Unloose that belt!"
Red's hands went to the buckle, then he hurled himself to one side and grabbed his
gun. Reb's Winchester barked and Red kept falling, the gun slipping from his fingers
and sliding along the earth a foot from the outstretched hand.
A chair slammed over inside the house and Goodrich jumped into the door. Reb was
waiting for him and he fired. The shot burned Ike on the neck, cutting along that
side nearest the cabin. Goodrich jerked away and fell out the door.
From the window a bullet slammed near Reb, and Reb charged. Goodrich grabbed his
gun and rolled over. Reb chanced a running shot and saw the bullet kick dirt in
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Ike's face. While the gunman swore and grabbed at his eyes, Reb dropped his rifle,
grabbed a pistol, and lunged through the door. He took a chance/ gambling that Joe
Banta would be expecting nothing of the kind. Banta wheeled as Reb came on and both
men fired at once and both missed. Reb grabbed the edge of the table to stop his
forward movement and fired again. Banta jerked hard and his shot went wild. Then
Reb jumped at him, clubbing with his six-gun barrel. Banta went down to his hands
and knees, and started to get up when Reb hit him a second time.
Wheeling, he sprang to the door. Goodrich was crawling for the rifle Reb had dropped
and Reb put a bullet in the ground before him. Goodrich stopped, and glared at the
doorway. "You'll suffer for this! If I live a thousand years, I'll never forget it!"
A board creaked and Reb looked up. The cook was facing him across a double-barreled
shotgun. "Drop it or I'll cut you in two!"
Reb Farrell's gun was level and he did not hesitate. "You fire," he said, "and I'll
kill you. You'll get me, but I'll take you with me. Now go ahead and shoot, because
I'll not miss at this range!"
"Go ahead!" Ike shouted. "Shoot, you greasy fool!"
The cook stared, gulped, and his eyes shifted. He didn't like the situation even
a little. That Reb would not surrender in the face of the scattergun was something
of which he had never dreamed. Now it was quite obvious that while he would kill
Reb, the bullet from the pistol would unquestionably kill him. And he was not ready
to die. Moreover, Reb Farrell's very heedlessness in attacking four men when alone
was enough to prove that he just didn't care. The cook hesitated.
"Shoot," Reb said, "or drop it! I'm tired of waiting."
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The cook's eyes wavered to the man on the ground. "Yeah"-he sneered-"a lot you care
what happens to me." His eyes swung back to Reb and the six-gun was unwavering. "Never
was much of a poker player. I reckon you got me. I'd rather be alive an' in jail
than dead on the ground." He bent over and placed the shotgun carefully on the ground
and took a step back. "Hope you'll recall that when the trial comes."
Quickly, Reb gathered up the loose weapons, including the rifle he had given his
father, found inside the cabin. He tied the hands of Ike and the cook, then bandaged
Banta's wounds. The redhead was dead.
It was noon on the following day when Reb Farrell rode down the street of Palo Seco.
Doors began to open and people stepped out to look at the procession. Joe Banta,
the cook, and Ike Goodrich followed by the horse carrying the body of Red, and behind
them all, his rifle across his saddle, was Reb Farrell.
Nathan Embree stepped from the saloon and stopped. Laura was standing at the door
of the post office, her face suddenly white.
"Embree." Reb's voice rang loud in the street. "Here's your rustlers. You'll find
your cattle in Dark Canyon. This here, in case you don't know him, is Joe Banta.
They carried my dad's body out here as a warning, but when we shot they dropped the
body an' ran."
Embree's face was red. "I guess I owe you an apology," he said stiffly, "but you'll
admit that I had reasons...."
Reb Farrell looked at him. "Reason to doubt a man who had worked hard for you, for
years? Reason to suspect an old man who had harmed nobody? Embree, I'm ridin' out
of this country, but I'll be back for the trial.
And the hang
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ing." He shot a cool look at Banta. "Nathan, I hope this teaches you a lesson. Next
time don't be so quick to judge."
Laura stood beside her father, her face white, her teeth touching her lip. Suddenly
Reb felt sorry for her.
"Reb!" She put up a hand as if to hold him back.
He drew up. "I'm not blamin' you, nor anybody. I figure you never knew me real well
or you'd not have been so quick to doubt. Next time I'll think twice before I figure
someone's my gal."
Reb moved on; Dave Barbot was standing on the walk. "Dave, you were the only one
who gave me a kind word. Understand you're in the market for some cows? Well, between
Dad an' me we had maybe four hundred head."
"I'd say a few more," Dave said. "You aim to sell?"
"To you, and the price is one thousand dollars and the care of my dad's grave so
long as you live."
"A thousand, Reb?" Barbot was incredulous. "They're worth twice that!"
"That's my price. How about it?"
"Sure," Dave said, "I'd be a fool to pass it up."
Reb told him about the horses in the corral at the lone cabin. "Pick 'em up, Dave.
They are yours."
"We'll trade, Reb. Down in the livery-barn corral there's a horse you'll know. My
'paloose stallion. You always fancied that horse. Well, he's yours. Throw your saddle
over him an' take this one for a packhorse. This deal you're giving me isn't fair
to you, so let me throw this in."
"All right, then. Have the money when I come back from the jail."
On his way back down the street, Reb saw an old man standing on the edge of the porch,
leaning against the awning post. It was Lon Melchor.
"Well, all right. I ain't so strong right now, son, but I
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aim to be. I'd have to ride a mite easy the first few days, because this side pains
me some, but if you'll have me, I'll trail along."
He waved a hand at the town. "Folks here don't cotton to me and I want to see some
new country."
Reb Farrell's heart warmed to the old rustler. "Get up in your saddle, Lon. We're
headin' up to Denver to see us some of these electric lights and telephones and such."
The old man crawled painfully into the saddle and faced around. His face was strained,
but his lips smiled and there was even humor in his eyes. "Let's go! Denver it is!"
The sun was high and the mountains in the distance were a far purple. The air was
fresh and there was the 'paloose stepping out, tugging the bit.
91
 STRAWHOUSE TRAIL
He looked through his field glasses into the eyes of a dying man. A trembling hand
lifted, the fingers stirred, and the dying lips attempted to form words, trying desperately
to tell him something across the void, to deliver a final message.
Chick Bowdrie stared, struggling to interpret the words, but even as he stared he
saw the lips cease their movements and the man was no longer alive.
Lowering his glasses, Chick studied the wide sweep of the country. Without the glasses
he could see only the standing horse that had first attracted his attention. The
canyon between them was deep, but the dead man lay not more than one hundred yards
away.
Mounting his hammer-headed roan, Chick Bowdrie swung to the trail again and started
down the steep path into the canyon. By this route the man must have come. Had he
been dying then? Or had he been shot as he reached the other side? There had been
a dark blotch on the man's side that must be blood.
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Twenty minutes later he stood beside the dead man. No tracks but the man's own. Falling
from his horse, the fellow had tried to rise, had finally made it, struggled a few
steps, and then fallen, to rise no more.
Chick knelt beside the dead man. About fifty-five, one hundred and thirty pounds,
and very light-skinned for a Western man, which he obviously was. He had been shot
low down on the left side.
No ... that was where the bullet had come out. The bullet had entered in the man's
back near the spine.
Nothing in the pockets, no letters, no identification of any kind ... and only a
little money.
The jeans and shirt were new. The boots also. Only the gun belts, holster, and gun
were worn. They showed much use, and much knowing care. The trigger was tied back
... the man had been a slip-shot.
The dead man's hands were white and smooth. Not the hands of a cowhand, yet neither
was the man a gambler. Getting to his feet, Chick walked to the horse. A steel-dust
and a fine animal, selected by a man who knew horseflesh. The saddle was of the "center-fire"
California style, of hand-worked leather and with some fine leather work on the tapaderos.
The rope was an easy eighty feet long, and new.
No food, which indicated the man expected to reach his goal before night. He had
been shot not more than two hours before dusk, which implied his destination could
not be far off. Surely not more than fifteen miles or so.
A new Winchester rifle with a hundred rounds of ammunition. An equal amount for a
pistol, and then, curiously enough, a box of .32-caliber pistol ammunition. Returning
it all to the saddlebags and a pack under the slicker, Bowdrie slung the body over
the dead man's saddle, then mounted his own horse.
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Four miles from where the body had been found, the tracks of a shod horse turned
into the trail. Chick swung down and studied them. The shoes were not new and were
curiously worn on the outside. Stepping back into the leather, Chick rode on.
Valverde came to life when Chick rode down the street. A man got up from a chair
in front of the livery stable, another put down his hammer in the blacksmith shop.
A girl came from the general store. As one person, they began to move toward the
front of the Border Saloon, where Chick Bowdrie had stopped.
"Deputy sheriff here? Or marshal?"
A bulky man with a star came from the saloon. "I'm Houdon, I'm the marshal."
"Found him on the trail." Bowdrie explained as the marshal examined the body, yet
as he talked Chick's eyes strayed to the faces of the crowd. They revealed nothing.
Behind him, there was a click of heels on the boardwalk, a faint perfume, then a
gentle breathing at his shoulder.
The girl who had come from the store looked past him at the body. There was a quick
intake of breath and she turned at once and walked away. Because she had seen a body?
Or because she knew the man?
After answering questions, Bowdrie walked into the saloon. The bartender shoved the
bottle to him and commented, "Eastern man?"
"California," Bowdrie replied. "Notice his rig?"
The bartender shrugged, making no reply. Chick downed his drink, filled his glass
again, and waited, listening to the discussion in the bar.
There was, he learned, no trouble in the vicinity, and jobs were scarce. Occasionally
he helped the conversation along with a comment or a question. Most local cowhands
worked years for the same outfit, and most of them were
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Mexicans. The Bar W had let two hands go, but that was an exception. The Bar W was
in old Robber's Roost country, over against the Chisos Mountains.
"That trail I was followin'," he commented idly, "wasn't used much."
"It's the old Strawhouse Trail. Smugglers used it, a long time back. Only the old-timers
know it."
But the dead man had been riding it. Was he an old-timer returning? Chick threw down
his cigarette and crossed to the restaurant.
Pedro opened one eye and looked at Bowdrie. A fat, jolly Mexican woman came from
the kitchen. She jerked her head at the man. "He is the sleepy one! Good for nothing!"
Pedro opened the eye again. "Juana have nice restaurant, six leetle ones. Good for
nothing! Hah! What can we get you, senor?"
"How about arroz con polio?"
Chick Bowdrie dropped to a bench beside the table, considering the situation. A man
had bought an outfit, then loaded for bear, he had come to the border, a man who
knew the old trails and who probably had been here long before. From his age, however,
the sort of man who would not lightly return to the saddle.
He was eating when the girl came in and stopped near his table. She hesitated, then
abruptly, she sat down. She put her hands on the table before her and he glanced
at them, carefully kept hands, yet Western hands.
"That man ... did he say anything? I mean, was he still living when you found him?"
She was very lovely, tall, with blond hair bleached by the sunlight.
"He was alive when I first saw him through my field glasses, but by the time I had
crossed the canyon, he was dead." He tasted his coffee. It was cowpuncher coffee,
black and strong. "Did you know him?"
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"No." The suit she wore was not new. Excellent material and beautifully tailored,
but growing shabby now. "I... I thought he might be coming to see me. I'm Rose Murray."
The RM. He knew the ranch; from what he had heard earlier, he had ridden over part
of it on his way into town. He waited for her to continue, and after a minute she
said, "I'd never seen him. He ... he knew where something was, something that belongs
to my family. He was coming to get it for us."
Gradually, she told him the story. Her ranch had steadily lost money after the death
of her father. Rustlers, drought, and the usual cattle losses had depleted her stock.
With only a few hands left and badly in debt, a letter came from out of nowhere.
Long ago an outlaw band had roamed the area and they had raided the hacienda, stealing
several sacks of gold coins, a dozen gold candlesticks, a gold altar service from
the chapel, and a set of heavy table silver by a master craftsman. Owing to the weight
of the treasure and the close pursuit, the thieves had been compelled to bury the
loot. Taking only what gold coins they could safely carry, they had scattered.
Two of the six had been slain in a gun battle with the posse and another had been
shot down on a dark El Paso street a few weeks later. The writer of the letter, who
had not given his name, had gone west. He had fallen in love, married, and gone straight.
Hearing of the collapse of the once great fortune and the dire straits of the girl,
his conscience troubled him. His own wife had died and he was once more alone. Some
word had come to him from Texas that worried him, so he had written the girl that
he was coming to her.
"He mentioned no children?"
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"There was a son."
When Rose had gone, Chick crossed to the stable for his horse. The hostler walked
back with him. "Ain't you that Castroville Ranger? Name of Bowdrie?"
Bowdrie nodded, waiting.
The old man nodded widely. "Figured so. Gent comes in askin' who your hoss belonged
to. Seemed mighty interested. I told him I didn't know."
"What did this fellow look like?"
"Oldish feller, shabby kind of. Thin hair, gray eyes. No color to him but his guns.
They seen plenty of use."
The hostler pointed out the inquirer's horse. Chick looked it over thoughtfully.
Dusty and tired. He put a hand on the horse. "So, boy," he said gently, "so . . ."
The horse was too tired to resent his hand as he picked up the hoof. Holding it an
instant to let the horse get used to it, he turned it up and examined the shoe. It
was badly worn on the outside. So were the others.
Bowdrie straightened. "Thanks. Do you a favor some time."
At daylight he was out of town and riding for the border. Crossing the river, he
pulled up at the house of an old Mexican he knew in Boquillas.
Miguel watched Bowdrie as he came up the walk from the gate where he had tied his
horse. He started to rise, but Chick put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't get up, my
friend. I have come to talk to the one who remembers all."
"You flatter an old man, senor. What is it you wish to know?"
When he explained the old man nodded. "Si,
I have not forgotten, but it was long ago." He leaned forward. "It was the Chilton
gang, amigo. There were six, I was among
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those who fought the two who were killed. Before one died he told us one of the others
was Bill Radcliff."
"The Chilton gang ..."
Bowdrie remembered them from the files of the Rangers. Dan Chilton, Bill Radcliff,
and Andy Short had been the core of the group. Robbing payrolls had been their game,
at ranches, mines, and the railroad. "One was killed in El Paso," he said.
"Radcliff." Miguel lighted a fresh cigarette. "The killer was never known. Some thought
John Selman. He was marshal then. I do not think so."
"Chilton?"
Miguel shrugged. "Who knows? He was the best of them. Wild, but a good man. My brother
knew him. Short was the worst. A killer."
They talked into the hot afternoon about the border and«i
bad men and Indians and wars. It was only with great re11
luctance that Bowdrie got up to leave.
"Vaya con Dios."
"Adios, amigo. Till next time ..."
Bowdrie rode toward Glen Springs Draw. He thought again of Andy Short... it could
have been the name the dead man had been saying, shaping the name with his lips as
he died.
Sunlight flashed on a distant hillside, and instantly Chick Bowdrie reined the roan
over and slapped spurs to his ribs. The horse jumped just as the bullet whiffed past
Bowdrie's head, but the roan was startled and the second bullet missed by yards.
Only the sunlight on a rifle barrel had saved his life.
The shot had come from the slopes of Talley Mountain, and Chick kept the roan running,
dodging from arroyo to
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 96 / Louis L'AMOUR
arroyo and swinging back toward the mountain whence the bullet had come. Suddenly
he eased to a canter, then a walk.
Dust in his nostrils, a settling of dust in the road, and the tracks of a horse ...
with shoes worn on the outside!
Making no attempt to follow, he turned his horse into the trail that led to the Bar
W and the RM. Both outfits had headquarters beyond the ridge, and the trail swung
suddenly left into a narrow cut. Hesitating only briefly, Bow-drie started into the
opening. The sheer walls offered no place for a sniper, and the low rocks within
the cut gave no shelter. He rode slowly, however, his six-gun in hand, and suddenly
drew up, aware of a clicking. The sound stopped, and he started on. It began again.
Suddenly he smiled ruefully. His horse's hooves were scraping against the eroded
stones that lined the base of each wall....
Shortly before sundown he walked the roan into the yard of the Bar W. The old adobe
house, the pole corrals, the sagging roof of the barn gave no evidence of life. Then
a rusty hinge creaked and Bowdrie saw a man step from the barn.
He saw Bowdrie in the same instant, and for a moment he hesitated, as if half-inclined
to drop the bucket he was carrying and grab for a gun.
Unshaven, big and rough, his shirt was dirty and he had a narrow-eyed look like a
surly hound.
There were, Bowdrie noted, six mules in the corral, and several fine horses... he
took out the makings. "Howdy"- his voice matter-of-fact-"takin' on any hands?"
"No." He jerked his head. "Go try the RM."
Bowdrie continued working with his smoke, taking his time. "Old place," he commented,
"could stand some work. Figured there might be a job."
"You figured wrong."
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"Don't rush me, amigo. I'm interested in old places. Why, I'd bet this one was here
in the days o' the Chilton
gang-"
The name brought no reaction. "Never heard of 'em."
"Some years back. Nobody ever did find all that loot."
The big man was interested now. He walked toward Chick. "What loot?"
It was possible, Bowdrie decided, to drop a pebble in this pool and see what happened
to the widening ripples. It might cause dissension in the ranks of the enemy. Or
create a diversion. "A quarter of a million in gold and jewels," he said carefully.
"It was cached. Somebody right close about knows where it is."
"You don't say!" The man was interested now. "So, what's the yarn?"
Bowdrie explained, then added, "Ticklish business, huntin' for it. Two of the outlaws
must be still alive."
The man was greedy and interested, but obviously a hired hand who knew nothing. Chick
reined his horse around. "Your boss probly knows the story. Oldish man, isn't he?"
"Not more'n twenty-six or seven." The big man grinned maliciously. "An' pure D poison
with a six-gun. You maybe heard of Rad Yates."
Bowdrie had ... no definite record. Bought and sold cattle, gambled a good bit, usually
consorting with outlaws and men along the fringe. He had killed, according to report,
nine men. All had been in what were apparently fair fights.
Yates was not old enough to have been one of the Chilton gang, but the Strawhouse
Trail pointed right at the Bar W ... or the RM. Scowling, Bowdrie considered that
as he headed off, down the trail.
Somebody had attempted to dry-gulch him, and that
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somebody rode a horse with worn shoes, as had the killer of the man in Venado Canyon.
That somebody had come from this direction.
Tracks in the dust stopped him. Again the worn shoes... and the tracks were fresh!
He skirted wide around a clump of mesquite, then spotted the rider ahead of him,
just disappearing down a slight declivity. Swinging wide again, he took the roan
at a run toward the wash. Sliding into it, he put the horse up the far side along
a trail cattle had taken. Dust hung in the air, and it followed the rider he was
seeking. He swung around and drew up at the trailside. There were no tracks ... and
then he heard the hoofbeats of a cantering horse.
The rider rounded a low knoll, and Bowdrie stepped his horse forward, gun in hand.
"All right. Get your hands up!"
He stared into the astonished eyes of Rose Murray.
His astonishment matched hers, but he was quick to note the rifle in her scabbard.
After all, what did he know about her? She had been curious about the dead man, and
a woman can squeeze off a shot as well as a man. He lowered his gun.
"Can flower my hands?" Bowdrie nodded. "Who did you expect to see?"
"Not you . . ." He hesitated only briefly. "Riding home?"
As they rode he explained about the mysterious rifle shots and his visit to the Bar
W.
"Rad Yates seems very nice," Rose said. "He's called at the ranch."
They rode into the yard and swung down. Bowdrie caught a vague movement up the mountainside.
There was a man there, his clothing blending perfectly with the background. Only
his movement had betrayed him. Rose
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had just stepped inside, so he followed, getting a corner of the barn between the
hill and the door as he reached it.
A Mexican woman brought coffee, and after a
few minutes Bowdrie asked, casually, "Had that horse long? The one you were riding?"
"He was born from one of my mares. Nobody has ever ridden him but me."
There had been her chance and she had passed it up. She seemed to have no suspicion
of his reason for asking the question. In fact, she was not suspicious as a guilty
person should be.
A drum of hooves and a hail. The Mexican woman answered the door and a moment later
a big young man walked in. He had brown hair and a bold, handsome face. He walked
with a casual swagger and his guns were tied down.
This would be Rad Yates. He was not the man on the hill; his clothing was bright
and colorful. He grinned when he saw Bowdrie. "Heard you were out at the place,"
he said. He turned and spoke to Rose, and Chick moved where he could see Yates's
horse. It was a flashy paint.
Rose came over to him, followed by Yates. "We're going towards Rad's place to start
a tally on the cattle in those canyons," she said. "I'm sorry I can't stay to entertain
you. Would you like to come along with us?"
Chick Bowdrie looked thoughtfully from one to the other. His dark eyes showed one
of their rare flashes of amusement. The pieces were beginning to fall into place
now. "Maybe," he said. Then he shifted to the attack. "Sure he's got himself in place
yet, Yates?"
Rad Yates tightened and his head lowered a little. His smile remained, but became
set and hard. "What're you talkin' about?"
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"That gent up on the mountain with the rifle."
Yates was caught flat-footed. "What gent? I don't know what you're talking about."
Bowdrie's hands were on his hips, only inches from his guns. "Your first name is
Radcliff, isn't it? Maybe the son of Bill Radcliff? Or his nephew?"
"And if it is?"
"Well, it's an interesting point, Yates. But even more interesting if you and the
gent up the hill get what you're lookin' for. Then what happens? You shoot it out?"
Rose was looking from one to the other, frankly puzzled. "What are you two talking
about?"
Bowdrie smiled. "Why, Rose, we're talkin' about the loot from this ranch stolen and
buried by the Chilton gang. Andy Short was one of them and Bill Radcliff another.
Unless I miss my guess, that's Andy up there on the mountain right now, waitin' for
me with a rifle."
Yates had recovered himself. "Rose, I reckon these Rangers are suspicious of ever'body.
We'd better forget the ride. All right if I come over tomorrow?"
"Of course, Rad." Her voice chilled. "But I expect that Mr. Bowdrie will be leaving
now."
She turned on him when they were alone. "You've no right to accuse on so little evidence.
Rad is one of my best friends."
"Yes, ma'am," Bowdrie said. "But I would bear in mind that a man's been murdered
for coming to help you. You should be careful."
Rad Yates was frankly stumped. When they learned a Ranger had come upon the body
of the dead man, they were worried. For the first time an unforeseen element had
intruded upon what seemed a perfect plan.
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Almost a year before, Andy Short, only recently released from prison, had come upon
Yates in an El Paso saloon. A casual word had told Yates who Short was, and he was
disappointed to discover that Short did not know the whereabouts of the loot. Only
Dan Chilton actually knew ... and nobody knew where Dan Chilton was.
Yet Andy Short had an idea. Using Yates's place as a base, he had searched the hills
to no avail. He could not locate the hidden loot. But on a casual visit to the RM,
Rad Yates had seen the letter from the mysterious man in California and had gone
at once to Short.
Short, a slender man, gray of face and cold of eye, had been immediately excited.
"Chilton!" He slammed his fist on the table. "He's comin' to give that loot back!
He was always a nambypamby!"
Chilton had had a map. Short took it from the body af_i
ter the shooting, mounted his horse, and rode off. Froml|
the side of a distant hill he glanced back and suddenly he was frightened.
Dan Chilton's body was gone!
Swinging back, he had seen the bloodstains and the tracks of a staggering man. Somehow,
Chilton was still alive, and he had gotten into the saddle again.
Short had gone after him, but Chilton had disappeared. When he saw him again it was
in the streets of Valverde and Chick Bowdrie was explaining to Houdon.
Had Chilton lived to talk?
Carefully, they remained away from the location of the loot, waiting to let the Ranger
move first. He would show his hand if he knew anything. If he came after the loot,
they could kill him. They watched and waited, and then, on Bowdrie's return from
Mexico, they had tried and failed.
Now he was here. And he had known, somehow, about Andy Short being on the mountain.
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The plan had been simple enough. Yates would get him out on the mountainside, Short
would do the shooting, then Rad would make a show of chasing the killer. He'd impress
Rose and then he and Andy Short would go dig up the loot. But the Ranger was onto
them, somehow, and he had posed a disturbing question. What would happen when they
got the money? Was he ready to kill to get it all? Was he ready to kill simply to
keep his part of it?
When Chick Bowdrie had scouted the area to be sure he was not to be the target of
a hidden marksman, he rode away and took back trails for town. His warnings to Rose
Murray had gone unheeded. That she liked Rad Yates was obvious, that she did not
appreciate Bowdrie's seemingly unfounded suggestions was equally obvious.
The existence of at least two sets of shoes worn in an identical manner damaged what
little case he had and left him without evidence. For a supposedly abandoned route,
the section of the Strawhouse Trail through the sandstone bottoms got more use than
he would have expected. The horse Rose Murray had ridden was not the horse he had
seen in town. Neither was the horse ridden by Yates.
Valverde was somber with darkness when he dismounted at the stable. The hostler took
his horse. "I'll give him a bait of oats," he offered. Pausing, he added, "Stranger
in town. Tall young feller. Askin' about the dead man."
Over a late supper, Chick pondered his problems. He had stumbled upon the body of
a murdered man, yet he was no further along than in the beginning. Andy Short could
be the killer. If he was actually around. On the other hand, so could Rad Yates.
And Rose? That was still an
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open question. There might be more to this than appeared on the surface.
A quicker solution might be reached if he found the loot. The outlaws had been hotly
pursued. Implying little time to conceal the treasure. No time to dig a deep hole.
If it had not been recovered by the surviving members of the gang-and he was positive
it had not-then that implied a place not too easy of access or too easy to guess.
The outlaws' line of flight had been from the hacienda through the Chisos Mountains,
but by the time they reached Rough Run the loot had already been cached. That left
many miles of country to be searched. Yet, there could not be too many possible hideaways
on that route.
The door opened and he looked up. A tall young man had entered the room. He was blond
and deeply tanned. "You're Mr. Bowdrie?"
"And you'll be Dan Chilton's son."
The blond young man was surprised. "Why, yes. As a matter of fact, that's my name,
too. I didn't expect you to know me."
Chick Bowdrie was thinking swiftly. Chilton was an attractive young man, and more
attractive, if he was any judge, than Rad Yates. He grinned suddenly. "Look," he
said, "your father was trying to do a good deed out here, that's what got him killed.
. . ." Bowdrie carefully explained to the young man what he knew and what he suspected.
He ended by asking for young Dan Chilton's help. "Rad Yates is involved somehow,
and he's currying favor with Rose Murray. You go down there, and no matter what happens,
stick close to her. I don't know what his scheme is, but you'll be in his way."
Chilton nodded. "And what excuse will I give? The son of the man who robbed her family?"
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"Just that. You want to atone for what your father did. He was returning to help
her; you want to carry on. She'll listen."
He hesitated, trying his coffee. "Can you use a gun?"
"I have one. A thirty-two Smith & Wesson."
That explained the ammunition. Bowdrie nodded. "It's small, but it will have to do.
Don't use it unless you have to." He explained about Yates, who and what he was.
Chilton nodded, offering no comment.
In their conversation Chilton had been able to tell him very little, but Bowdrie
sat alone over his coffee in the now silent town and pieced that little together
with what he knew.
The searchers, old Dan had told his son, had all looked in the Chisos Mountains,
and that was the wrong place. This narrowed the distance by more than half. The old
trail led from Oak Spring at the foot of the mountains to the Rock Hut at the base
of Burro Mesa. I'll lay two to one it wasn't cached far from that Rock Hut, he told
himself.
One thing he decided. If, as he believed, the presence of Chilton at the RM would
keep Rad Yates around Rose's ranch, it would leave him free to hunt down Andy Short.
For he no longer had any idea of waiting to be shot at. Now he was going to hunt
the hunter.
Finishing his coffee, he got up and walked to the door. Pedro and his spouse had
long since retired, so he merely blew out the light and turned the knob. For several
minutes he waited, listening to the night sounds in the empty street of Valverde.
A sign creaked rustily in the vague wind. A paper brushed along the street. All was
still.
Suddenly a horseman appeared at the end of the street and started forward, coming
along toward the saloon. Bowdrie stepped through the door and eased it shut be
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hind him. Then he shifted away from the door and stood flat against the building.
The rider reached the marshal's office near the saloon and drew up. His saddle creaked
as he swung down. Chick strained his eyes in the dim light and could see only that
this was a big man, vaguely familiar.
Taking a careful look around, the man eased his gun in his holster and moved forward,
and suddenly Chick knew him. It was the big cowhand from the Bar W!
Frowning, Chick waited. This ... it simply did not fit. Unless the man had discovered
something.
Opposite the door of the marshal's office, the big man paused. The man was in the
darker shadow now, away from the gray of the street, and Chick only knew he was there,
he could see nothing.
A flicker of movement drew Bowdrie's eyes and suddenly he realized there was another
person-man or woman-in the space between the saloon and the office. Chick Bowdrie,
suddenly comprehending, stepped out of the shadow and started forward.
Even as he moved he saw the big man, warned by some vague sound, grab frantically
for his gun. Another gun boomed heavily between the buildings and the big man staggered,
then fell back off the boardwalk. He tried to get up, and a shot nailed him to the
spot. Chick tried a fast shot at the darkness whence the gun flashes had come, and
a return shot whipped past his face.
Running, he dashed forward, hearing a door slam open and a shouted question. He reached
the alleyway and plunged recklessly into it. At the far end of the dark alley a horse
and rider lunged suddenly, running away behind the buildings. When Chick reached
the spot, the rider was gone ... out of sight. Only a drum of running hooves fading
in the night.
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Breathing hard, he walked back. It was utterly impossible, yet the gunman had somehow
outdistanced him. He turned again, looking down the long alley.
Rad Yates?
It simply could not have been Andy Short. No man of the age he had to be could sprint
sixty feet while Chick Bowdrie was covering less than thirty. And yet the man was
gone.
Several men were gathered around the body and one had lighted a match to examine
him. Pedro came from the back door of the restaurant, stuffing his shirt into too
tight jeans. Closer by, Houdon came from his office, buckling his belt.
Without doubt the big cowhand had learned something, and he had come to town with
it. Someone had followed him, not wanting him alive to repeat what he knew.
Easing away from the circle of talkers around the body, Chick walked back through
the alley to where he had seen the horse. Distance was hard to estimate, and the
horse might have been right behind the saloon. Yet when he reached the spot, two
struck matches revealed nothing.
Not far away was a huge cottonwood, and near it, several smaller trees. It was the
logical place. Here Chick found more hoof tracks than he had expected. He also found
five cigarette butts. Here a man had waited, at least an hour ... for what?
This man was here before
the big cowhand arrived in town. He must have been here most of the time Chick was
in the restaurant. Could he have followed him there? But that did not make sense,
because from under the trees the watcher could not have seen the cafe.
What, then, had he waited for? And the tracks were those of a horse with shoes worn
on the outside.
Houdon was waiting for him when he walked back to
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the street. The body of the man had been moved. The marshal jerked his head toward
the street. "What did Jake want at this time of night?"
Houdon was unshaven and he looked tired and irritable. He stared at Chick and absently
scratched his stomach. Briefly, Bowdrie outlined the situation, identifying himself
to the marshal for the first time. Nothing seemed to arouse the marshal until Bowdrie
mentioned the man who had lurked under the cottonwoods.
"Somebody else," he said, nodding his big head ponderously. "After me, I betcha.
Man makes enemies in this here job." He looked shrewdly at Bowdrie. "Folks sometimes
don't take kindly to the law."
"I think," Chick suggested, "it was Andy Short."
The scratching fingers paused momentarily. Other than this there was no reaction.
Houdon shrugged. "Ain't from around here, I reckon. You see him, you let me know."
At daylight Bowdrie was getting a quick cup of coffee and some breakfast at Pedro's.
The fat Mexican leaned his big elbows on the oilcloth-covered table. "You savvy Burro
Mesa?" he asked suddenly.
Startled, Bowdrie looked up. Pedro glanced around, yawned widely, and put a stubby
finger on a spot on the oilcloth. "Here," he said, "is the Rock Hut. And here is
the||
trail across the mesa. On the west side is another spring. My compadre, he ride in
last night. He say a man camps in the brush near that spring."
It was high noon when Bowdrie rode the hammer-headed roan into the scrub near Oak
Spring. Burro Mesa loomed on the skyline only a short distance ahead. The morning
ride had been a long one and both horse and man were tired.
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Well back in the brush, Bowdrie made a fire of dry sticks that gave off no smoke,
and prepared a meal of coffee, bacon, and sourdough flapjacks. He stretched out after
eating and lighted a smoke. Above him a pin oak was shelter from the blazing sun.
Half-asleep and completely relaxed, some half hour later, he heard a horse approaching.
Instantly he was alert. His hand touched the roan and the horse relaxed slowly. He
waited, listening. The horse was coming through the pass from the Chisos.
It slowed ... a saddle creaked ... with a warning signal to the roan, Chick eased
himself forward on cat feet.
The horse was drinking at the spring, and as he watched, the rider got up from the
ground. It was Rose Murray. She wiped the water from her mouth and looked carefully
around.
What was she doing here? And where were Yates and Chilton?
He watched her step into the leather and turn west, then mounted his own horse. Was
she involved in the plotting? Or had she come upon some clue?
Holding a course that kept him inside the brush, he worked his way along the mountainside
in the direction Rose had chosen. Suddenly he drew up.
A horse with shoes badly worn on the outside had come off the mesa from the west.
A blade of grass in one of the hoofprints was just springing into place. This could
be the mysterious camper in the brush of whom Pedro had told him.
Chick Bowdrie followed on, but slowly. He had good reason to know the skill and trickiness
of Andy Short. The quiet, gray-faced man in the nondescript clothes, described to
him by the hostler, but whom he had never
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seen. That the man was a gunman, Bowdrie knew from the Rangers' Bible-his agency's
file of outlaws.
At the edge of the pin oaks he drew up, scanned the empty country before him, then
moved ahead, alert for trouble. His eyes roved, and suddenly held.
The Rock Hut.
And two horses standing near a mesquite tree. One was the horse Rose had ridden.
The other was the horse he had seen once before, the horse of the mysterious rider.
He waited, studying the lay of the land. There was a door, obviously, from the path,
leading from the front of the building toward where the horses stood. There was no
window on this side, but there was a window behind. A small window.
Swinging down, he moved carefully, closing in. From the window came half-heard voices.
"So, you trailed young Radcliff. What a joke! He's back at your place taking care
of Chilton's greenhorn son."
The girl spoke, too softly.
"You just sit there, Missy. We'll figure out . . ." The man's voice dissolved into
a murmur.
Chick started to move closer, then he dropped to his haunches behind a boulder and
some brush. A hard-ridden horse was coming down the trail. It was Rad Yates.
Chick moved away then stepped out from the brush as Yates slid his horse to a stop.
His face was a study in cold fury. Bowdrie knew how tricky the situation was. "Rad."
He spoke quietly, striving to keep his voice casual and calm on the other man. "Whatever
you're figurin' on, don't do it." Yates's head snapped around.
Before Rad could speak, he continued, "Think now! You're clean. Nobody has anything
on you. We have plenty on Short. Why butt into something where you're
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not wanted? Turn around and ride out of here a free man. Stay, and you become an
outlaw."
The view was so eminently reasonable that Rad Yates hesitated. What Bowdrie said
was true. He was still on the right side of the law. If he went ahead, there would
be no return trail.
But the lure of the gold was strong. "No." He spoke slowly. "I've come too far-waited
too long." He swung to the ground. As he turned he drew.
Whatever he planned failed to materialize. In the instant he swung down, Bowdrie
had closed in. As Rad turned, his gun coming up, Bowdrie slapped the gun aside and
down and hit him on the chin.
It was a short, wicked blow. Yates tottered and stumbled against his horse, the startled
bronc moved, and Yates lost his balance and fell. As he hit ground, Bowdrie kicked
the gun from his hand.
Yates came up fast and Bowdrie was too close to chance a draw. But Yates's rising
lunge met the battering ram of Bowdrie's rock-hard fist and the bone in Yates's nose
crushed under the impact, showering him with blood. The man was game, and shaking
his head, he got up. Bowdrie let him rise, taking time for one quick glance toward
the Rock Hut. No sign of life there at all.
The idea of Short discovering them frightened him and he stepped in quickly. For
all his size, Rad was no fistfighter. He threw a long swing and Bowdrie went inside
with a wicked right to the chin that dropped Yates. Grabbing the man's gun and taking
his rifle, he threw them, whirling, high over the brush. Then he ran for the Hut.
He was running on soft ground and he heard voices, then stopped. "How come you knowed
about this place?"
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"I heard you tell Rad you'd meet him here today. Then I realized this might be the
place."
Chick heard the chink of metal on metal. "You're hard luck, kid, you shouldn't have
come here."
Andy Short came through the door, his hands and pant legs dusted with dirt, dragging
a sack. His eyes went wide and he swung up the gun he carried in his right hand,
and fired. The shot was too quick, a startled response to the unexpected sight of
the Ranger. It missed.
Chick Bowdrie palmed his Colt and fired, but Short had dropped low and the bullet
took him through the shoulder. It knocked him around and his second shot missed,
and then Bowdrie put two fast bullets into him.
Bowdrie stepped back, his dark, Apache-like face grim and lonely. He began to shove
out the shells for reloading when from behind him he heard Yates's voice. But it
was a warning, not a threat.
"Bowdrie! Look out!"
Chick turned ... another rider sat his horse, and he held a four-shot Roper revolving
shotgun in his hands. It was Houdon, the marshal.
Bowdrie could see Yates, blood still streaming from his nose, and Yates had another
cut now-on his skull. But he was not out.
Houdon's face was grizzled and old, his jowls heavy, his small eyes no longer looked
dopey or sullen. Now they held amusement, and cunning.
"Killed Andy, did you? Can't say I'm sorry. Andy there could be right slick with
a gun."
Bowdrie watched the man carefully. Slowly, things began to fit together.
"You're the sixth man," he said suddenly. "You're the last survivor of the Chilton
gang."
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Houdon did not change expression for a moment, then he chuckled. It was a slow, fat,
easy chuckle. "Yep, an' I'm the one killed Dan. It wasn't Andy, like you prob'ly
figured. I took Andy's horse from the livery, knowin' a body could track them shoes.
I think that might've turned him against me, what d'you think?"
"You were all trying to find the treasure?"
"We were gonna be partners. But now . . . well, the deal's off. Knowed I had to move
quick when you told me Andy had been layin' for me back o' the saloon.
"I killed that cowpoke, too. Heard he was huntin' around up here."
Bowdrie was thinking. He held his six-shooter and it was still partly loaded. Did
Houdon know that? Or did he think because he had pushed out two shells that the gun
was empty? But where were the loads? For the life of him, he could not recall. There
should be one empty under the hammer, but was it there, or just above the loading
gate?
"How'd you get away? I ran right into that alley," he asked.
Houdon chuckled. "The office is raised up, maybe two feet off the ground. I went
under it, up into the trapdoor. I made that so's I could sweep right out and not
have to use no dustpan. Pays to be a lazy bachelor, sometimes."
He nodded at the gold. "Old Dan never guessed when we made that strike at the RM
that I'd wind up with it all. He sure didn't."
This was the last of the outlaws-what had his name been? Hopper? He had murdered
Chilton in cold blood. Had killed two in gunfights, but he was a sure-thing killer,
the kind who never gave anyone a break.
Chick Bowdrie smiled suddenly. He was a Ranger and this was his job. He felt the
skin drawing tight over his wide cheekbones. He lifted his left hand and moved his
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hat back on his head. "You know, Hop, I think-" He threw himself in a wild lunge,
low down and straight at the horse!
The startled bronc gave a leap, snorting. The shotgun blasted and dust kicked into
Chick's face. Then he came up to his knees as Houdon fought the frightened horse
and swung up his gun.
Houdon saw it coming, and left the saddle in a leap of agility surprising in a man
of his years. He hit the ground in a crouch and triggered the shotgun, but the muzzle
was high and the charge of shot blasted by, high and to the right.
Bowdrie's gun clicked on an empty chamber, then fired, then he threw himself into
a roll, came up, and fired again.
Houdon took the shot right along the top of the shotgun. Smashing into his chest.
He tried to come up, gasping, and Bowdrie shot into him again.
He fell, staring for one awful instant into Bowdrie's face, and then lay stretched
out, choking horribly, his fingers working.
Chick Bowdrie turned away and walked to Rose. She stood in the Rock Hut door, her
face in her hands.
He looked over his shoulder at Rad Yates. "Can you ride?"
Yates got slowly to his feet. His nose was smashed, and the cut on his head still
bled.
"I can ride."
"Then get on your horse and get out of here. Don't stop until you're somewhere else."
Rad Yates wiped blood from his face. He started for his horse, then halted. "That
Chilton kid ... you'll find him in the smokehouse with a headache. He wasn't man
enough for the job."
"Beat it," Bowdrie said.
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Rad Yates walked his horse away, and after a minute Chick told Rose, "Get your horse.
I'll load up the gold, then follow."
"There's blood on it," she said, dazed.
"Yeah"-Bowdrie's voice was dry-"but it'll buy cows."
117
 THE MAN FROM THE DEAD HILLS
The sagebrush flats shimmered in the white heat of a late-summer sun, and a gray
powder of dust lay thick upon the trail. Far away the hills loomed purple against
the horizon, but the miles between were endless flats dancing with heat waves.
Leosa Barron stood in the door, shaded her eyes against the glare, and searched once
more, as she had so often of late, for a figure upon the road. There was nothing.
The road was empty of life, vanishing in the far hills where lay a little cow town
known as Joe Billy.
She looked away. She must not expect him yet. Even if Tom Andrews received her letter
and was able to come, he could not arrive so quickly.
When her housework was finished, during which time she resolutely refused to look
at the trail, she walked again to the door. Yet there was nothing but the white dust
and the heat. Then her eyes turned back up the even lonelier trail to the badlands,
the trail to the dead and empty hills where nothing lived. Her lips parted suddenly,
and she
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stared, refusing at first to believe what she saw between her back fence and the
dark cliffs.
Someone was coming. Someone was coming from the direction of the Dead Hills.
Unable to return to the shaded coolness, she waited in the door watching. She was
a slender girl, taller than most, and graceful in her movements. She had a friendly
mouth, eyes that smiled easily, and lips that could laugh with her eyes. The few
freckles scattered over her nose only added a piquant touch to an already charming
face.
Much later she was still standing in the doorway when the solitary figure had shaped
itself into a man, a man walking.
His hat was gray and battered, his plain wool shirt had a dark spot on the shoulder
and was gray with dust. The man was unshaven, and the eyes under the dark brows flashed
with a quick, stabbing glance that made her start with something that was almost
fear.
The jeans he wore were roughened by wear, and his boots were run-down at the heel.
His belt was wide leather, and curiously handworked. Leosa thought she had never
seen a man in whom strength was so apparent, strength and ruthlessness.
Yet he wore no gun.
She had been watching him for two miles when he reached the gate. Now he fumbled
,with the latch and swung it open. He did not speak, but turned back, closing the
gate carefully.
As he faced her she knew she was looking at a man exhausted but not beaten, a man
whose lips were cracked with thirst, whose flanks were lean with starvation, but
a man in whom there burned an indomitable fire, a fire of whose source she knew nothing,
and could sense nothing.
Several times she had seen him stagger upon the road,
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and now as he faced her, his feet wide apart, it suddenly occurred to her that she
should be frightened. She was alone here, and this man was from the Dead Hills. Her
eyes went to that dark spot on the shoulder, a spot that could be only blood. His
face was haggard, a gray mask of dust and weariness from which only the eyes stared,
hard and clear.
He walked toward her, and his eyes did not leave hers, fastening to them and clinging
as though only their clear beauty kept him alive and on his feet. As in a trance,
she saw him stop at the well coping and lift the rope. He staggered, almost losing
balance, then she heard the bucket slap on the water.
Quickly she was beside him. "Let me do it- You're nearly dead!"
He smiled then, although the movement of his lips started a tiny trickle of blood
from the heat cracks. "Not by a durned sight, ma'am."
But he let her help him. Together they drew up the bucket, then he lifted it and
drank, the water slopping over his chin and down his shirtfront. After a minute he
put the bucket down and stared at her, then around the place. His eyes returned to
her. "You alone here?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
He held the bucket in his hands, and waited. She knew how the body yearns for water
and more water when one has been long without it, but this man waited. He impressed
her then as a man who could do anything with himself, a man who knew his strength
and his weaknesses. His eyes glinted at her, then he lifted the bucket, drank a little
more, and put it down.
Turning away from her, he picked up the washbasin and sloshed water into it. Stripping
off his shirt, he began to bathe his body. Standing behind him, she could see that
there was an ugly wound near the top of his shoulder and
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a dark stain of dried blood below and around it. Hurrying inside, she secured medicine
and clean linen and returned to him.
He accepted her ministrations without comment, only watching her with curious eyes
as she cleansed the wound and bandaged his shoulder.
As she worked she was wondering about him. Long ago she had taken a ride into that
remote desert country around the Dead Hills. Outlaws had lived there before the gangs
were wiped out, but nobody else. There were hideouts near some of the water holes,
but those water holes were hard to find unless one knew the country.
To a stranger the region was a waterless horror, a nightmare of grotesque stones
and gnarled and blasted cacti, a place where only buzzards and an occasional rattler
could be seen.
How far had this man come? What had happened to his horse, and where and how had
he been shot?
When she had finished with his wound, she stood back from him and looked up into
his eyes. He was smiling, and the expression in his eyes startled her, for it was
so different from the lightning of that first glance from the gate. His eyes were
warm and friendly, even affectionate. Yet he stepped by her and into the coolness
of the room beyond. Without a word he lay down on the divan and was at once asleep.
Returning to the door, she looked down the road again. If Tom Andrews were to arrive
in time, there was need that it be soon. If she lost possession of the ranch before
he arrived, she had been told there was small chance they would ever recover the
property.
Then, almost at sundown, she saw them coming. Not Andrews, but Rorick and Wilson,
the men she feared.
They came into the yard riding fast, drawing up with
121
 T
I
I i
the man from the dead hills / 119
out dismounting. "Well"-Van Rorick's voice was cool but triumphant-"are you ready
to leave? All packed?"
"I'm not leaving."
Leosa Barron stood straight and still. She knew these men, and for all Rorick's pretended
interest in her, she knew there was nothing he would not stoop to do if it obtained
results. Lute Wilson was just a tool for Van, and a dangerous man to cross. Yet it
was Rorick she feared the most, for she knew the depths of malice in the man, and
she had once seen him vent his hatred on a trapped wildcat.
"Then you leave us no choice, Leosa," Rorick replied. "We'll have to move you. If
we do that, we might have to handle you rather roughly. You've had plenty of time
to leave without trouble."
"I told you I was not going." Leosa stood even straighter. "You will leave this ranch
at once!"
Rorick's eyes narrowed a little, but he laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "If
you want to come to my place, I could make you comfortable. If you don't come with
me, there will be no place in Joe Billy where they will have you."
Leosa knew the truth of this. Van Rorick was known and feared in the cow town, but
more than that, she was herself a stranger, and unkind rumors had been set afloat
because of her living alone. She had no doubt that those rumors had been originated
by Rorick himself. He knew so well the prejudices of a small town.
"I told you I was staying."
Yet there was no chance of winning. Had Tom Andrews made it, she might have stood
them off. She could rely on Tom. Alone against them, she was helpless. And where
could she go? She had neither money nor friends. Only Andrews, who had failed her.
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"All right, Lute. I guess we move her."
Lute was the first to reach the ground. He turned to face the porch, then stopped,
his face stupid with shock.
Surprised, Leosa turned, and found the unshaven stranger at her side. He had belted
on her uncle's guns.
"You heard the lady. Get goin'! Get out of here!"
There was a low, ugly sound in the man's voice that frightened her and apparently
had something of the same effect upon Lute Wilson, for he froze where he stood, uncertain
how to move.
"Leosa," Rorick demanded, "who is this man? What is he doing here?"
The stranger stepped down to the ground, his movements swift and catlike. "Shut up,"
he said, and his voice was not hard, only somehow more deadly for it. "Shut up an'
get out!"
"My friend"-Rorick's face was a study in controlled fury-"you don't know what you're
buttin' into!"
"I can tell a coyote when I see one," the stranger said coolly.
Wilson reached for him. But the stranger sidestepped and smashed him in the stomach
with a lifting uppercut that stood Wilson on his toes. Before Rorick could think
to move, the stranger smashed a right and left to Wilson's face, and the rider went
down in the dust, his face smeared and bloody.
Rorick reached for his gun, reached . . . then stopped, for he was looking into the
muzzle of a pistol in the stranger's hand. "Get off your horse," the stranger said
quietly, and when Van Rorick, still amazed by the speed of that draw, had dismounted,
the stranger said, "Now turn around, take your friend, and start walkin'. When you're
out of sight I'll turn your horses loose."
The two men turned, and with Rorick half supporting
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the man from the dead hills / 121
Wilson, they lurched out of the yard. Together, the newcomer and Leosa stood watching
them go, and when they were out of gunshot, the stranger stooped and, lifting the
bucket, drank for
a
long time. It was only when he replaced the bucket that he turned the horses loose,
each with a ringing slap on the haunches.
"Those horses will run all the way home, so I figure we've nothin' to bother us for
a bit. Meanwhile, you can give me the hang of this so I'll know what's goin' on."
"Your shoulder," she said suddenly. "It's bleeding again!"
"Yeah." He grinned sheepishly. "I reckon I forgot all about it until I began throwing
punches. Man, but it hurts!"
"You've had a hard time." She hesitated, wanting to know what had happened to him,
but not liking to ask.
Then she hurried about, getting food on the table and making coffee. He sat in a
chair near the door and dozed; as she looked at him she marveled at the strength
of the man. Nowhere was he bulky, yet his shoulders were compact and hard looking
under the faded color of his shirt.
"Do you have a home?" she asked suddenly. "Or are you just drifting?"
His eyes opened sleepily, and he shrugged. "Home?" He shook his head. "I've no home.
I always"-his eyes showed a strange wistfulness-"always sort of wanted one."
"I see," she said softly, and she did.
"Who was that man?" he asked suddenly. "What's he want?"
She frowned. "Van was born around here, has lived here most of his life but for some
six years. He went away and joined the army, and when he came back, he seems to have
become a changed man. Or so they tell me. I've been
^
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122 / Louis L'AMOUR
here but a short time. I guess war does change some men," she added.
He shrugged, watching her. "Maybe. It may, like anything, bring out what's in him.
I don't know if it would put anything there that wasn't there before."
"Well, when he came back he moved onto a small spread and began expanding his herd.
He prospered, with Lute Wilson to help him. He gets along with some people, rides
roughshod over the others. He didn't get along with my uncle, who owned this place.
About a year ago my uncle was thrown by a bad horse, just after he had invited me
to come here to live with him.
"He died a few days later, and it seems he left some debts. Rorick heard of them,
and he bought up the notes and got a lien against this place. He offered to pay me
two hundred dollars and give me the notes if I would leave, and I would not.
"You see, there's a valley back of the house that is well watered and every year
my uncle got two good cuttings of hay off that piece, and a good deal of grazing
after the hay was cut. He also has an orchard and a good-sized garden plot. However,
that is only a part of it, for there are some five hundred acres that could be developed
into good hay land by putting in a dam on Placer Creek."
"No wonder he wants to get you off," he said dryly. "You could get rich with that
amount of hay, and this land." He looked up suddenly. "You haven't even asked who
I am."
"Well, I thought you'd tell me if you wanted to. We don't ask many questions around
here. Especially," she added, "from men who come out of the Dead Hills."
"I know." He said nothing for a minute, staring out the window. "Better call me Rock,"
he said. "It's a good name around here."
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 the man from the dead hills / 123
She laughed. "There's plenty of it, certainly!"
The way he looked at her made her wonder if she'd missed something. "You've no friends
to help you?" he said.
"There's one man. His name is Tom Andrews, and he used to ride for my uncle, and
he knew my father. I've written to him and he's on his way."
Rock nodded, then he said quietly, "You'd better stop waitin' for him." He drew a
wallet from his pocket. "Did you ever see this before?"
She took it in her fingers, and her lips trembled. She had seen it, many times. "Where
... where did you get this?"
"I found him back in the hills. He'd been wounded, and was in mighty bad shape. I
tried to help him, and got shot for my pains. They killed both our horses."
"Who was it? " Leosa asked quickly.11
"That"-his eyes were suddenly hard-"is what I'd like to know!" He got to his feet.
"About that dam now. How much money would it take?"
"Whiting, he's my lawyer, he said it could be done for a couple of thousand dollars
for wages if one used native rock and earth. He said a better dam could be built
later, if necessary."J j
"That makes sense. I'll look the spot over." He touchedj j
the guns on his hips. "I'll need these. Is it all right?"
"Of course! Do you . . . does that mean you intend to stay?"
He smiled. "If you'd like me to. I think you need me right now, and I've some resting
up to do. I want to get the lay of the land around here."
She nodded. "Please stay on. I don't know what I'd have done today without you. See
this through with me and I'll give you a share in the place."
"Now, that there's an interesting idea."
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"Good!" Leosa said quickly. "Fifty percent. It won't be worth anything if I lose."
"I'll settle for that." His eyes were thoughtful. "This Rorick got any property around
other than his spread?"
"Yes, he owns the Longhorn Hotel and Saloon, and I hear he has an interest in another
saloon. There are," she added, "nine saloons in Joe Billy. Nine saloons, four stores,
one hotel, one church, and a few other businesses, including a livery stable."
She watched him as he walked toward the empty bunkhouse. Her brow furrowed a little.
Was she wrong in accepting the help of a total stranger? In taking as a partner a
man she had known but a couple of hours? Who did not even volunteer his full name?
On the other hand, had she a choice? He had at least come to her aid in an hour of
need. He had brought Andrews's wallet to her and he seemed ready to accept the task
Andrews had been unable to attempt.
Leosa opened the wallet thoughtfully. There was money in it, almost a hundred dollars,
and a few papers. One of them was a scrawled signature on a piece of torn envelope.
Last Will: All my belongings to Leosa Barron, friend and daughter of a friend.
Tom Andrews
The signature was merely a scrawl, and her eyes filled with tears at the thought
of Tom, his last thoughts for her, a girl he had known only as a skinny child with
freckles and braids. And from him had come this stranger. With a shock of something
that was half excitement and half fear, she remembered the sheer brutality of his
attack on Wilson, the flashing speed with which the gun had leaped to his hand. Who
was he? What was he?
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 the man from the dead hills / 125
In the bunkhouse there was an empty bed with folded blankets/
 and several with no bedding beyond mattresses. Obviously, this was the bunk awaiting
Tom Andrews. Rock sat down and studied the room. It was strongly built, as everything
seemed to be on this ranch. No effort had been spared to make it strong or comfortable.
He walked to the door and stared toward town. Joe Billy ... his town!
There would be trouble when they knew, and plenty of it. They did not know him now,
yet already he had met Rorick and faced him down. His advantage had been surprise,
and next time they would be prepared for him. How soon, he wondered, would they realize
who he was and why he had come back? All hell would break loose then and Van Rorick
would be the one who led it.
In a way, Leosa's fight was his fight. His thoughts went back to the tall, rather
shy girl, who had accepted him so readily. He pulled off his shirt and hunted the
cabin for shaving gear. He found an old razor, and after a healthy stropping, he
shaved. It was dark when he had finished cleaning up, and he walked outside.
Whiting, that was the name of the lawyer that Leosa had mentioned. He would go to
him. He walked outside and roped and saddled a horse, then he mounted and rode to
the door. "Ridin' to Joe Billy," he said quietly. "You better stay in an' keep a
rifle handy."
She watched him ride away, liking the set of his shoulders and the way he rode. Queerly
disturbed, she returned inside, pausing to look into the fire. It was strange, having
this man here, yet somehow he did not seem strange, and she felt oddly happy. . ..
Security, that was it. What else could it be?
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126 / Louis i/amour
Ranee Whiting had an office over the squat gray bank building. Rock glanced at the
tall man who rose to greet him, and instantly liked the man. He had a thin face,
high cheekbones, and an aquiline nose. His eyes were gray, and friendly. An open
volume of Horace sat on the nearby table.
Rock glanced at the title, then at the lawyer. " 'We are dust and shadow/ " he quoted.
Whiting was surprised, and he measured the rider again. The cold green eyes, the
shock of dark curly hair, the bronzed features, blunt and strong, the wool shirt
under which muscles bulged. "You know Horace?" he asked.
Rock laughed. "Only that. Read it once, an' liked it. I used to read a good deal.
Hombre left a flock of books behind an' I was snowed in for the winter. Mostly Shakespeare
an' Plato."
"You were looking for an attorney?"
Rock drew several papers from a homemade buckskin wallet, a large wallet he took
from the inside of his shirt. It was bloodstained. Without further comment, he handed
it to Whiting.
The lawyer opened the papers curiously, then started and glanced up at Rock, then
back-at the papers. His face was curiously white. He skimmed over the others swiftly,
then sat back in his chair, looking up at the man before him. "You know what these
will mean, if you produce them? If you even hint they exist?"
Rock nodded.
"It means they'll kill you."
"They can try."
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 the man from the dead hills / 127
"Who sent you to me?" Whiting was measuring Rock with quick, curious eyes.
"Leosa Barron. I made a deal to help her out for a while."
"Then you're already in trouble! You can't stay there, you know, they'll run you
off."
"You mean Rorick and Wilson? They had a pass at run-nin' her off today. They didn't
get far."
"You stopped them? Alone?"
He shrugged and changed the subject. "I'm going to build that dam for her."
"You are biting off a chunk."
"We'll see."
"What do you want me to call you, young man?"
"My name is Rock."
"Yes . .. yes, I see. Who have you told? Anyone beside Miss Barron?"
"I only told her the last name. Figured it was enough for now."
Whiting lifted the papers, then got to his feet. "When do you want to use these?"
Rock shrugged. "I came to ask your advice, but my idea would be now, down in the
Longhorn."
"Now?" Whiting's exclamation faded into a smile. "Yes, it would be amusing. Can you
shoot, friend? This is going to blow the top off the town. It might even blow our
tops off."
Rock nodded. "It might. Let's do it this way. You put these in a safe place. Then
you make out bills to all the folks who owe me money. Make them out particularly
to Van Rorick. Then you go down to the Longhorn, and I'll drift in, too. Spring it
on him and let's see what happens."
"Not tell them who you are?"
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 128 / Lours i/amour
"Not right now. I'm not duckin' a fight, but what I want is to get the picture of
things. Also, I'd like to have a showdown with Rorick on Leosa Barron. Because before
he gets through, I'm goin' to give him so much trouble he'll forget her."
The lawyer considered. It was not a bad approach, and whatever was done had better
be done at once if they were going to block Van Rorick in his attempt to dispossess
Leosa Barron. He got to his feet. "You go first," he said, "then I'll drift in. This
should be fun."
The Longhorn was ablaze with light when Rock pushed through the door and walked to
the bar. Rorick was there, and he was seated at a table with Lute Wilson, whose face
was puffed and swollen out of shape, and another man. Rorick looked up, and Rock
felt the shock of his eyes, of the hatred in them.
The bartender served him without comment, and Rock scanned the room. He had never
seen it before, but he knew it from the countless tales he had heard. He was barely
tasting his drink when the door opened again and Ranee Whiting walked in. Without
seeming to notice Rock, he went to the bar and ordered a drink, then he glanced around
at Rorick. "Van," he said, "I've news for you. News, and a bill."
"A bill?" Rorick was puzzled but wary. "What do I owe you for?"
"Not me. A client. The owner of this property, in fact. You owe him rent for four
years on the Longhorn, and on the Placer Saloon, down the street. The total, according
to my figures, comes to nine thousand three hundred and seventy dollars."
Rorick's face was ashen, then blood turned it crimson
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 the man from the dead hills / 129
| and he started to his feet. "What's this you're givin' me?" he demanded. "I bought
this place from Jody Thompson!"
"That was unfortunate," Whiting replied calmly. "You should have investigated his
title. He owned neither the buildings nor the land on which they stand. Actually,
he was a squatter here, and had no legal rights. This is not, as he supposed, government
land. It belongs to my client, and has been in his family for forty years!"
Van Rorick was livid; also, he was frightened. He had built up his influence locally
partly on wealth, but mostly on strength. He had little cash, certainly nowhere in
the neighborhood of nine thousand dollars. If he were compelled to pay up, he could
do so only by selling off all his stock; furthermore, he could be dispossessed here.
His eyes searched Whiting's face. "This is some trick," he protested. "You and that
girl have rigged this on me. You won't get away with it!"
Ranee shrugged. Glancing toward the far wall of the saloon, he caught the eye of
an old man, bearded and gray, who sat there. "Mawson," he asked, "how did this town
get its name?"
"Joe Billy?" Mawson got to his feet, enjoying the limelight. "Why, she was named
for the son of the man that located the first claims hereabouts. He inherited this
chunk of land, something like forty thousand acres, from his father, who got it through
marriage to a Valdez gal."
Rorick walked to the bar. He was trapped, but he was thinking swiftly. He should
be able to make a deal with Whiting. Certainly, the man had no money. He owed a bar
bill, and he owed for supplies down the street. There was sure to be a way to swing
it.
Yet even deeper within him, there was a feverish desperation, anger at Whiting for
bringing this up, in public, and anger at it coming now when it might frustrate all
his
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|i';
plans. His eyes were calm, but inwardly he was seething. There had to be a way ...
and maybe Lute could handle it. Lute, or-his mind returned to the slim and silent
man who waited at the table with Wilson-or him.
"Your unsupported statement means nothing," Rorick said, fighting for calmness. "You
have some papers? Deeds?"
"I have everything that's necessary," Whiting replied. "When the time comes I'll
produce them. Not until then. I intend"-he smiled at Rorick-"to protect my client's
interests so they will not disappear until we meet, if must be, in court. That,"
he added, "would be in Santa Fe."
Van Rorick winced. He dared not show himself in Santa Fe. Did Whiting realize that?
But here . . . ? Anything might happen.
"We can make a deal, Ranee," he said quietly. "I can't pay that money now, and I'm
sure you don't want to hurry me. I can pay a part of it, and make a deal for the
rest."
Whiting shook his head. "No, the saloon is doing business," he said. "Some of that
profit can go to my client as well as to you. All he wants from you is the arrears
in rent."
He paused, his eyes studying Rorick. "That, or you leave the country."
"What!" Rorick's lips thinned down. "So that's it? I'll see you in hell first! And
whoever your client is!"
"You have five days. No more." Whiting finished his drink and placed the glass on
the bar.
After Whiting had gone, Van Rorick stood at the bar for a few minutes, and for the
first time recalled that the stranger from Leosa Barren's ranch was in the room,
and that he had entered just before Whiting! Was there a tie-up
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 the man from the dead hills / 131
there? No sooner had the thought entered his mind than he was sure such was the case.
That this had come up when the stranger arrived was too much for a coincidence.
Whiting, and this man. Who was he, then? Rorick was thinking swiftly. Somehow, he
must get rid of both. After all, hadn't he managed to rid himself of Tom Andrews?
With Whiting out of it and whatever papers he had in his possession, he would be
even more secure.
Thanks to his carefully planted rumors, Leosa Barron was disliked by all the women
of the town, and suspected by most of the men. The presence of Rock on her ranch
would make those suspicions seem fact. Moreover, his mysterious arrival would help
... but whatever was done must be done carefully to avert all suspicion from himself.
And there was a way ... with them gone, he could always claim Whiting had tried to
defraud him.|
Rock left the saloon and, without returning to see Whiting, headed for the ranch.
He had anticipated trouble, and knew that Rorick would not take this lying down.
The man's sudden quiet disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
At daybreak Rock was riding, and by noon he had made a careful survey of the site
chosen for the dam. It was a good spot, no doubt about it, and looking at the massive
stone walls above, he had an idea how it could be done.
He said nothing to Leosa, but after a quick lunch, took some giant powder from a
cache near the house and returned to the mountain. By nightfall he had his first
set of holes in, and had them charged.
Leosa, a new warmth in her eyes, reported no sign of Wilson or Rorick. A passing
neighbor, one of the few who condescended to speak, had told her there was a rumor
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that Art Beal and Milt Blue, the outlaws, were in the vicinity, that Blue had been
seen riding near Joe Billy.
Leosa said this last with averted eyes. She was remembering that flashing draw, and
the fact that Rock had come out of the Dead Hills. Milt Blue was a known killer,
and a deadly man with a gun. She had never seen him nor heard a description, but
she was afraid now. Afraid for Rock. Was he ... could he be Milt Blue?
Yet if the rumors meant anything to him, he said nothing. "Art Beal hasn't been around
much," he commented. "Disappeared a while back. Blue killed another man down to El
Paso, only a month ago."
The following day, Rock returned and put in his second round of holes. When he had
them charged, he studied the situation below. If the rock broke right, he would have
a fairly good dam across the canyon. Then another charge, to help things along, and
in no time the creek itself would finish the dam by piling up silt, brush and weeds
to fill up the holes and gaps in the rocks.
Rock carefully lighted his fuses, then descended the rock face to the bottom of the
draw. The fuses were long, for he had wanted to get both shots off approximately
together. The climb to the opposite side took him little time, and in a matter of
a minute he had spit those fuses and then slid rapidly down the steep declivity to
the bottom. He turned and started up the draw, then glanced back.
Light glinted high on the rock, and instinctively, he hurled himself to the right.
A rifle spoke, its distant bark swallowed by the huge, all-engulfing roar as the
first set of powder-charged holes let go. It was an enormous sound, magnified and
echoed again and again by the walls of the canyon, but Rock did not hear it. He was
going over headfirst into the rocks. He landed facedown, slid a short distance, then
his body ceased to slide and he lay sprawled
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 the man from the dead hills / 133
out and unconscious among the greasewood and boulders at one side of the draw.
Beyond him rocks fell, then ceased to fall, and dust rose slowly, in a great cloud.
When it stopped rising, there was a wall across the canyon, low in the middle, but
high enough. The mountain stream, trickling down its normal bed, found the way blocked,
it turned right, searching for a way under or through, but discovered no way to accommodate
the swelling strength of water behind it. Spreading left, it found no way out, and
so began to back up in a slowly widening and deepening pool.
It was dark when the lapping water reached the nest of rocks where the fallen man
lay. Cold fingers encircled his outflung hand, crept up his arm with exploring tentacles,
and flattened out, creeping along his side and toward his face.
A coyote, prowling nearby and sniffing blood, paused to stare at the man's dark body.
Curious, he came near, stepping daintily to keep his feet from the water. When the
man moved, drawing back a hand, the coyote drew back and trotted swiftly off.
It was the cold touch of the water that roused Joe Billy Rock. Water against his
face and water along his ribs. For an instant he lay still, and then the meaning
of the creeping coldness came to him with a rush, and he jerked back and lunged to
his feet. The startled reaction that brought him up also brought a rush of pain to
his head. His fingers lifted and explored. The bullet had caused chips of rock to
pepper his face and arm, but there was at least one other cut caused by his fall,
and his whole body was stiff and numb.
He staggered, splashing, toward higher ground. There
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he looked back, and saw that almost an acre of water had already gathered behind
his crude dam. A little work would make it more effective.
Memory returned, and he realized he had been shot at. Shot at the instant before
the explosion by someone perched on the very rocks he was blasting! Whoever that
unknown marksman had been, he was dead now. Survival, where he had been perched,
was out of the question.
A half hour of staggering and falling brought him to his horse, which looked up quickly
at the sight of him, tossing his head at the smell of blood. It was no more than
fifteen minutes of riding to the house. All was dark and still.
Carefully, Rock considered this. Had Leosa been at home, she would certainly have
a light. Moreover, she would be awaiting supper. The time he roughly estimated to
be nine or past, but she knew he was working and would have heard the explosion.
Had she gone out looking for him? Stealthily, he rode nearer, then dismounted. Ten
minutes of careful searching proved the house, barn, and the whole ranch was empty.
The stove was cold, no dishes on the table. No evidence that a meal had been prepared.
Squinting against the stinging pain in his cheek and forehead, he
tried to assemble his thoughts. Somehow they must have gotten her out of here; believing
him dead. Van Rorick had acted to seize the ranch.
The gray he was riding had a liking for the trail and he let him take it. He ran
like a scared rabbit until the town lights were plain, then Rock slowed him to a
canter and then a walk. He swung down from the horse near the livery barn, loosened
his guns in his holsters, and started up the street. Voices made him draw back into
the shadows. Between two buildings he waited while two men drew near.
"Hear about that gal out to the old Barron place? One said she was Barren's niece?
She skipped out with that
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 the man from the dead hills / 135
tough-lookin' hand who's been hanging around there. Somebody said they was seen on
the road to Cimarron, ridin' out of the country."
"Good riddance, I'd say. I hear she carried on plenty!"
Rock stared after them. Rorick was shrewd. His story was already going the rounds,
and it was a plausible yarn. But what had happened to Leosa?
He started up the street, moving more cautiously now. First, he must see Whiting.
The lawyer would know what to do, and would start a search here. Then he would head
for Rorick's own ranch.
It was possible that Rorick had killed the girl at once, or that Lute Wilson had.
But the man on the rock before the explosion was probably Lute. Rorick was too smart
to take such chances himself. It had been only bad luck that got Lute, however, for
the man could not have known of the loaded holes and spitted fuses.
Rock climbed the stairs, then pushed open the lawyer's door. Ranee Whiting's office
was dark and still. Fumbling in his pocket, he got a match and lighted it. Whiting
was sprawled on the floor, his shirt bloody, his face white as death.
Dropping to his knees, Rock found the lawyer had been stabbed twice, once in the
back, once in the chest. The room was in wild disorder.
Working swiftly, Rock got water and bathed the wounds, then bandaged them. The lawyer
was still alive, and the first thing was to get the bleeding stopped. When he had
him resting easily on the bed, Rock turned to the door. He was opening it when he
heard the lawyer's hoarse cry.
Instantly, he turned back. "The papers," Whiting whispered, "they . . ." His voice
trailed feebly away. He had fainted.
Leaving the light burning, Rock ran down the outside stairs to the street, glanced
once at the saloon, and then
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ran up the street to old Doc Spencer's home. In a few minutes he had the old man
started toward Whiting's office.
Joe Rock stared at the Longhorn. This was his town. He owned the whole townsite by
inheritance, and he intended to keep it, especially that part usurped by Van Rorick.
He walked swiftly to the saloon and, from a position near the window, studied the
interior. Rorick was there but he didn't appear happy. The same slight-figured man
who had been with him before was with him now. Lute was not, which was all the assurance
Rock needed that the man was dead. It was undoubtedly his failure to return that
worried Rorick.
Circling swiftly, he came to the rear door, but reached it only to hear the front
door open and close. When he looked in, Rorick and his friend had gone.
From the street came a sound of horses' hooves and then two men rode down the street
and out of town. Hurrying to his own horse, Rock swung into the saddle and, kicking
his feet into the stirrups, started in pursuit.
Rorick set a fast pace. Rock let his mind leap ahead, trying to get the drift of
the other man's thinking. Wilson had not returned, and that could mean he had failed.
It could also mean Wilson and Rock had killed each other. Rorick swung toward the
Barren homestead, and drew up, staring toward it. Rock was no more than a hundred
yards away and could see the men outlined against the sky.
Seeing the house dark, they evidently decided that Rock had not returned there. They
pushed on. When they reached the now dry creek, Rock heard a startled exclamation,
and then the riders turned toward the dam. He saw them ride up to it and look around,
heard a low-voiced conversation of which he could guess the sense but understand
no word. Then they mounted and rode on.
The course they followed now led deeper and deeper
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the man from the dead hills / 137
into the rocky canyons to the north. This was lonely country, and was not, Rock was
aware, toward Rorick's ranch. Suddenly the two men rode down into a hollow and disappeared.
Rock drew up, straining his eyes into the night, holding his breath for any sound.
There was none. He walked his horse a short way, and was about to go farther when
his eyes caught a vague suggestion of light. Turning, he worked his way through some
willows and saw among some boulders the darker blotch of a cabin from which gleamed
two lighted windows!
Swinging down, Rock stole toward the house, ghostlike in the night. She had to be
here! His heart pounding, his mouth dry, all the fear he had been feeling all evening
now tight and cold within him. What if something had happened to her? What if she
had been killed?
A door opened and a man stepped out. He was a stranger. "I'll put the horses up,"
he said over his shoulder, "an' grub's ready."
The fellow carried a lantern and he walked toward a rock barn that stood close under
a cliff. Joe Rock followed, and moved in behind him. The man placed the lantern on
the ground and reached for a bridle.
In that instant Rock's forearm went across his throat and jammed a knee into the
startled man's back, jerking him off balance. Then Rock turned him loose, but before
he could get breath to yell a warning, Rock slugged him in the wind. He doubled up,
and Rock struck him again. Then he grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against
the wall. He was trembling with fury. "Is that girl in there? Is she safe?"
The fellow gasped and choked. "She ... she's all right! Don't kill me! For Lord's
sake, man!"
"Who's in there?" Rock demanded in a hoarse whisper.
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"Just them two. Seal 'n Milt Blue."
Joe Rock froze. Then he said carefully, "Who did you say? Art Beal and Milt Blue?
The outlaws?"
"They ain't sky pilots," the man said, growling.
"You mean Beal is the hombre known in town as Rorick?"
"Yeah, maybe." The man was talking freely now. "He said there'd be no trouble. I
ain't no outlaw! I just needed a few dollars."
Roughly, Rock bound and gagged the man. He was aware now of his real danger, and
of Leosa's danger. If Rorick was Art Beal, that accounted for some of the six years
he had been away from Joe Billy, and also let Rock know just what sort of a man Rorick
was. Yet for all of that, the real risk lay in facing Milt Blue, the gunslinger.
He left the man bound on the dirt floor of the barn, loosened his guns in their holsters,
and started for the house. He carried the lantern with him, wanting them to believe
he was their helper. As he neared the door he shifted the lantern to his left hand
and drew his gun. Then he opened the door and stepped in.
Only Leosa was looking toward the door, and her eyes widened. Her expression must
have warned them, for as one man they turned, and Blue went for his gun. Instantly,
as though it had been rehearsed, Leosa threw her body against Rorick, knocking him
off balance.
Rock had his feet spread and his gun ready. "Drop it, Blue!" he yelled.
The gunman grabbed iron. His gun leaped free with amazing speed, and as the muzzle
cleared the holster Rock shot him in the stomach. He was slammed back by the force
of the bullet, but fought doggedly and bitterly to get his gun up. Despite the fierce
struggle against the wall, where Leosa fought desperately with Rorick, Rock took
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his time. He fired again. Blue's eyes glazed and the gun slid from his hand.
Rock turned and instantly Leosa let go and stepped back. Van Rorick stared across
the room. "You think you've won!" he cried. "Well, you haven't! I got the papers!
I burned them! Burned every last one of them! You've lost everything! And I sold
my claim on her place, so you'll lose that, too! And now I'm going to kill you, gun
or no gun."
His right hand had dangled behind him, and now it swung up, clutching a gun. Rock's
pistol leaped in his hand, and the room thundered with a shot. Rorick's face twisted
and he stepped back, shocked with realization. Awareness of death hit him, and his
eyes widened, then his mouth dropped open and he crumpled to the floor.
Rock caught Leosa in his arms and hurried her to the door.
Doc Spencer met them when they reached the top of the office stairs. "He's in bad
shape, but he'll pull through," he told them. "Few minutes ago he was conscious,
an' he said to tell you the papers are stuck behind his volume of Horace. Those he
left for Rorick to find were fakes he fixed up. He figured on somethin' like this."
They walked back down the steps to the silent street. Almost unconsciously, they
were holding hands.
"Rock," Leosa asked gently, "what will you do now? You own the town? I heard you
did." I
"I'm goin' to give all these folks who shape up right deeds to their property. It
ain't worth so much, anyway. The Longhorn I'll sell.".
"What about you?" she asked, looking up at him.I
"Me? . . . why, I was thinkin' of ranchin' an' watchin' hay crops grow out on the
Barren place ... with my wife."
142
 MONUMENT ROCK
CHAPTER I
Lona was afraid of him. She was afraid of Frank Mailer, the man whom she was to marry.
She realized that it was not size alone that made her afraid of him, but something
else, something she saw in his blue, slightly glassy eyes, and the harshness of his
thin-lipped mouth.
He was big, the biggest man she had ever seen, and she knew his contempt for smaller
men, men of lesser strength and lesser will. He was five inches over six feet and
weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. Whenever he stood near her, the sheer mass
of him frightened her and the way he looked at her made her uneasy.
Her father looked up at him as he came in. "Did you get that north herd moved before
the rain set in?"
"Yeah." Mailer did not look up, helping himself to two huge slabs of beef, a mound
of mashed potatoes, and liberal helpings of everything else. He commenced his supper
by slapping butter on a thick slice of homemade bread
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 142 / Louis i/amour
and taking an enormous bite, then holding the rest of it in his left hand, he began
to shovel food into his mouth with his right.
Between bites he looked up at Poke Markham. "I saw the Black Rider."
"On our range?"
"Uh-huh. Just like they were sayin' in town, he was ridin' the high country, alone.
Over toward Chimney Rock."
"Did you get close to him? See what he looks like?"
"Not a chance. Just caught a glimpse of him over against the rocks, and then he was
gone, like a shadow. That horse of his is fast." Mailer looked up and Lona was puzzled
by the slyness in his eyes as he looked at her father. "You know what the Mexican
boys say? That he's the ghost of a murdered man?"
The comment angered Markham. "That's foolishness! He's real enough, all right! What
I want to know is who he is and what he thinks he's doin'."
"Maybe the Mex boys are right. You ever see any tracks? I never did, an' nobody else
that I ever heard of. Nobody ever sees him unless it is almost dark or rainin', an'
then never more than a glimpse."
"He's real enough!" Markham glared from under his shaggy brows, his craggy face set
in angry lines. "Some outlaw on the dodge, that's who he is, hangin' out in the high
peaks so he won't be seen. Who's he ever bothered?"
Mailer shrugged. "That's the point. He ain't bothered anybody yet, but maybe he wants
one certain man." Mailer looked up at Poke, in his malicious way. "Maybe he's the
ghost of a murdered man, like they say, an' maybe he's tryin' to lure his murderer
back into the hills."
"That's nonsense!" Markham repeated irritably. "You'll have Lona scared out of her
wits, ridin' all over like she does."
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Frank Mailer looked at her, his eyes meeting hers, then running down over her breast.
He always made her uncomfortable. How had she ever agreed to marry him? She knew
that when he drank he became fiercely belligerent. Nobody wanted to cross him when
he was drinking. Only one man ever had tried to stop him when he was like that. Bert
Hayek had tried it, and Bert had died for his pains.
His fighting had wrecked several of the saloons in town. All, in fact, except for
the Fandango. Was it true, what they said? That Frank was interested in that Spanish
woman who ran the place? Nita Howard was her name. Lona Markham had seen her once,
a tall young woman with a voluptuous figure and beautiful eyes. She had thought her
one of the most beautiful women she had everi
seen. Lena's intended was often seen visiting with a beau[
tiful woman who ran a saloon and gambling hall and||
Lona found she didn't care ... not at all.'
When supper was over Lona left hurriedly. More and more she was avoiding Frank. She
did not like to have him near her, did not want to talk to him. He frightened her,
but he puzzled her, too. For more and more he seemed to be exerting authority here
on the Blue Hill ranch, and|
more and more her father was fading into the background. People said that Poke Markham
was afraid of no man, but|
of late she'd begun to wonder, for several times he had allowed Mailer to overrule
him.
She crossed the patio through a light spatter of rain to her own quarters in the
far wing of the rambling oldI
house. Once there, she hung up her coat and crossed to the window, looking off over
the magnificent sweep of land that carried her eyes away to the distant wall of the
moun-I
tains in the southwest. It was over there the strange rider had been seen.
Suddenly, as if in response to her thoughts, a horseman
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materialized from the rain. He was out there, no more than a hundred yards from the
back of the house, and scarcely visible through the now driving rain. As she looked
she saw him draw up, and sitting tall in the saddle, he surveyed the ranch. Under
his black flat-brimmed hat nothing of his face was visible and at that distance she
could not make out his features. He was only a tall horseman, sitting in the rain,
staring at the ranch house.
Why she did it, she never knew, but suddenly she caught up her coat, and running
out into the rain, she lifted her hand.
For a moment they stared at each other and then suddenly the horse started to walk,
but as he moved, the Black Rider raised a hand and waved!
Then he was gone. One instant he was there, and then he had vanished like a puff
of smoke... but he had waved to her! Recalling the stories, she knew it was something
that had never happened before. She returned to her room, her heart pounding with
excitement. She must tell Gordon about that. He would be as surprised as she was.
In fact, she paused, staring out at the knoll where the Rider had stopped, Gordon
Flynn was the only one who seemed to care much what she thought or how she felt.
Gordon, and of course, Dave Betts, the broken-down cowhand who was their cook.
Mailer dropped into a big chair made of cowhide. He rolled a smoke and looked across
at Markham. The old man was nodding a little, and it made Frank smile. Mark-ham,
if that's what he wanted to be called, had changed. He had aged.
To think how they all had feared him! All but he himself. All but Frank Mailer. Markham
had been boss here
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I
monument rock / 145
for a long time, and to be the boss of men like Kane Geslin and Sam Starr was something,
you had to admit. Moreover, he had kept them safe, kept them away from the law, and
if he had taken his share for all that, at least he'd held up his end of the bargain.
He was getting older now, and he had relinquished more and more of the hard work
to Mailer. Frank was tired of the work without the big rewards; he was ambitious.
Sure, they had a good thing going, but if one knew the trails, there were easy ways
out to the towns and ranches, and a man could do a good job on a few banks, along
about roundup time. It beat working for money, and this ranch was as good as his,
anyway, when he married Lona.
Looking over at the old man, he began to think of that. Why wait for it? He could
shoot the old man right now and take over. Still, it would be better to marry the
girl first, but he was not ready for that. Not yet. He wanted to move in on that
Spanish woman at the Fandango, first.
There was that bodyguard of hers to be taken care of. He did not like the big, dark
man who wore two guns and always sat near her door, faithful as a watchdog. Yet it
would pay to be careful. Webb Case had been a fairly handy man with a gun, and he
had tried to push this Brigo into a gunfight, planning to kill him. From all accounts,
it had taken mightily little of a push, but Webb's plans backfired and he took a
couple of slugs and got planted out on Boot Hill.
He began to think of that bank at the Crossing. Four ... no, five men. Geslin and
Starr, of course, among them. Geslin was a lean, wiry man with a pale, hatchet face
and white eyes. There was no doubt that he ranked among the fastest gunmen of them
all, with Wes Hardin, Clay Allison, Bill Hickok, or Kilkenny.
The bank would keep the boys happy, for however
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much Poke Markham was satisfied with the ranch, his boys were not. Poke made money,
but most of the men at Blue Hill ranch were not punchers. They were wanted, one place
or another, and when they'd tired of cooling their heels, they'd leave. Frank Mailer
wanted to take advantage of the situation before that happened. The bank should go
for eight or nine thousand, and they could make a nice split of that. Four men and
himself. That would be enough. Nobody would tackle a gang made up of Geslin, Starr,
and himself, let alone the other two he would pick.
Thoughtfully, Frank Mailer considered Geslin. How would he stack up with Geslin?
Or Starr? He considered it a moment, then shrugged. It would never happen. They were
his men, and they had accepted him as boss. He knew how to handle them, and he knew
there was a rivalry between Starr and Geslin. If necessary, he could play them off
against one another. As for Poke, he intended to kill Markham himself when the time
came.
He heaved himself out of his chair and stretched, enjoying the feeling of his powerful
muscles. He would ride into town and have a talk with that Howard woman at the Fandango.
He thought again of Jaime Brigo, and the thought bothered him. There was something
about the big, silent man that disturbed him. He did not think of Lona. The girl
was here when he wanted her, and he did want her, but only casually. His desire for
Nita Howard was a sharp, burning thing.
T
The Fandango was easily the most impressive place in Salt Creek, and finer than anything
in Bloomington. In fact, finer than anything this side of Santa Fe. Nita Howard watched
the crowd, well pleased. Her hazel eyes with tiny flecks of darker color were large
and her lashes were long.
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 monument rock / 147
Her skin was the color of old ivory, her hair a deep, beautiful black, gathered in
a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Although her lips were full, slightly sensual,
there was a certain wistful, elusive charm about them, and a quick, fleeting humor
that made her doubly beautiful. She was a tall woman, somewhere just beyond thirty,
but her body was strong, and graceful.
Standing in the door, she said, without looking down at the man in the tipped-back
chair, "Any message, Jaime?"
The Yaqui gunman glanced up. "No, senorita, there is none. He has been seen this
day near Monument Rock. You have seen the map."
Nita Howard relaxed. "Yes, I know. As long as he is well, we had best leave him alone."
"He is loyal. A long time ago Markham, he befriended the senor when he was wounded
and in danger. The senor does not forget. So he comes here. And you come here; so
this means I do, too." Brigo shrugged. "We are all loyal to one another, but for
now you must trust that our friend knows what he is doing."
The door opened suddenly and Frank Mailer stepped into the room; behind him were
Kane Geslin and Sam Starr with another man known as Socorro. Mailer's eyes brightened
with satisfaction when he saw Nita and he turned abruptly and walked toward her.
How huge he was! Could anything ever stop this man if he became angered? Nita watched
him come, her mind coolly accepting the danger but not disturbed by it. Her father
had died long ago and left her the doubtful legacy of a tough saloon on the Rio Grande
border. She had directed its fortunes herself, with Brigo at her side, he who loved
her like his own sister, and all because of her father's friendship to him.
Mailer stopped before her, his hard eyes surveying Nita
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 148 / Louis i/amour
with appreciation. "You're all woman, Nita!" he said. "All woman! Just the kind I've
been lookin' for!"
She did not smile. "It is said around town that you are to marry Lona Markham."
Mailer was irritated; there was no reason to think of Lona now and he disliked the
subject being brought up. "Come on!" he said impatiently. "I'll buy a drink!"
"Good!" she said smoothly. Lifting her eyes, she glanced over at the bartender. "Cain"-the
big bartender glanced 11|up sharply-"the gentleman is buying a drink." Her eyes
iturned to Mailer. "You meant you were buying for the
'house, did you not?"
Crimson started to go up Mailer's neck. He had meant nothing of the kind, yet he'd
been neatly trapped and he had the feeling that he would appear cheap if he backed
out. "Sure," he said grudgingly, "for the house! Now come on." He reached for her
arm. "You drink with me."
"Sorry, I do not drink. Cain will serve you." She turned and stepped through the
door, closing it behind her.
Frank Mailer's eyes grew ugly. He lunged toward the door at the end of the bar.
"Senor." Brigo was on his feet. "The senorita is ver' tired tonight. You understand?"
Mailer glared at Brigo, but the Yaqui's flat dark face was expressionless. Mailer
turned on his heel and walked to the bar in baffled fury.
The big bartender finished pouring the drinks, then looked over at Mailer. "That'll
be thirty bucks," he said flatly.
His jaws set, Mailer paid for the drinks. Geslin was in a game with several others.
One of them was a red-haired puncher, stocky and tough looking. Mailer dropped into
|Ian empty chair and bought chips.
i, iAt the end of the third hand the redheaded puncher
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 monument rock / 149
looked up at him. "Mailer, don't you ramrod that Blue Hill spread? I'm huntin' for
work."
Frank Mailer's eyes slanted to the redhead. He was a tough, capable-looking man with
hard, steady eyes. He packed his gun low. "You been anywhere I might've heard about?"
"I rode for Pierce an' for Goodnight."
"Then I can use you, all right." With the riding he planned to do with Geslin and
the others, he would need a few good hands. Also, unless his guess was altogether
wrong, this man had ridden the owl hoot himself. "Texas man, hey?"
"Big Bend."
"Know Wes Hardin?" Mailer asked. "I hear he's fast."
"Plenty, an' with both hands. Maybe as fast as Kilkenny."
"Kilkenny?" Geslin turned his white eyes toward the redhead. "You say he's faster
than Hardin? Did you ever see Hardin?"
"Uh-huh." Rusty Gates picked up his cards. "I seen Kilkenny, too."
All eyes were on him now. Men who had seen Kilkenny to know him were few and far
between. The strange drifting gunfighter had a habit of appearing under various names
and nobody ever really knew who he was until suddenly there was a blaze of guns and
then he was riding out of town. "What's he like?" Mailer asked.
"Fast."
"I mean, what's he look like?"
"Tall, black hair, green eyes that look right through you when he's riled up. Quiet
feller, friendly enough mostly."
"Is it true what they say? That he's killed forty or fifty men?"
Gates shrugged. "Doubt it. A friend of his told me
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it was no more than eighteen. An' he might have been exaggeratin'."
Hours later, when the game had broken up, Rusty Gates crossed to the bar for one
last drink. The others had started back to the ranch and he was to come out the following
day. He accepted his drink, and Cain grinned at him and shoved his money back. "I
got the job," Gates said.
"Good!" Cain nodded emphatically. "I'll tell the boss."
Bright sunlight lay across the Blue Hill when Lona left the house the following morning.
Frank Mailer had gone out early, and her father was fussing over some accounts in
his office. Yet the night had neither lessened her curiosity nor changed her mood,
and she started for the corral to catch up a horse, believing the hands were all
gone.
The ranch lay between two peaks with its back to the low bench where Lona had seen
the Black Rider on the previous night. These peaks lifted five hundred feet or so
above the ranch house, and it was from one of them that the ranch had taken its name.
The ranch house faced northwest, and off to the right, also running toward the northwest,
lay the Old Mormon Trail to Utah. Beyond the trail the cliffs lifted high, and at
one point a crown of rock reached out to need no more than a half mile to join the
twin peaks at Blue Hill.
She had reached the corral when sKe heard a boot scuff stones and turned to face
a strange, redheaded puncher who grinned at her in a friendly fashion. "Can I help,
ma'am? I'm Rusty Gates, a new hand."
"Oh, would you? I was going to saddle my horse. The black mare."
Gates nodded. "I been studyin' that mare, ma'am. She's sure all horse."
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He shook out a loop and caught the black. As the rope settled, the mare stood still,
and when she saw Lona she even walked toward the gate. Rusty led the horse outside
and glanced at Lona. She was very young, very pretty, and had a trim, neat figure,
auburn hair, and gray eyes. She caught his glance and he grinned. "Your hair's 'most
as red as mine, ma'am," he said. "I reckon that makes us partners."
There was something so friendly in his manner that she warmed to him instantly. On
impulse, she confided in him. "Rusty," she said, "don't you tell a soul what I'm
going to tell you, but I'm going to see the Black Rider!"
Rusty gave her a sidelong, cautious glance. "To see him? How do you figure to do
that?"
"I'm going to ride out and look along the ridges for him, then if I see him, I'll
leave it up to Zusa to do the rest. She'll run him down if anything can."
Gates was silent. After a while he asked, "You ever see the Rider?"
"I saw him last night, right back on the bench in the rain. I waved to him, and he
waved back! Isn't it exciting?"
She expected him to disapprove or to caution her, but strangely, he did not. He merely
nodded, then said, "Ma'am, if I wanted to see that Black Rider, you know what I'd
do? I'd head across the valley for Monument Rock, an' then if I saw him, I wouldn't
take after him none at all. I'd just sit still an' wait."
"Wait?" Lena's eyes widened doubtfully. "You mean he might come up to me?"
Rusty chuckled. "Ma'am, they do say that the Rider's a ghost, but flesh and blood
or ghost, if anything that is male or was
male saw you settin' a horse waitin' for him, he'd sure come a-runnin'!"
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She laughed. "Rusty, you're just like all the cowhands! Full of the old blarney!"
"Sure I am. But, ma'am"-his voice dropped a note lower and the look in his eyes was
not a teasing look- "you do what I say an' see if it don't work. But," he added,
"don't you ever tell anybody on this ranch I suggested it. Don't you tell."
"Thanks, Rusty. I won't." She turned to go and he caught her bridle rein.
"Ma'am," he said, "before you go ... who's your best friend on this ranch? I mean,
ma'am, somebody who really loves you."
Surprised, she looked down at him, but he was in dead earnest. The question brought
her up short, too, for it made her wonder. Who were her friends? Did she have any?
Frank? She shuddered slightly. Her father? For a long time she hesitated. He had
never been close to her, never since she returned from school. He had been strict
and stern, had given her what she wanted, but allowed her little freedom. She realized
suddenly that her father was almost a stranger to her.
"I... I guess I haven't many friends, Rusty," she said, in a small voice. "I guess
... Dave, the cook, and Gordon."
Gates relaxed his grip. "Well, ma'am," he said, his voice thick, "I reckon you can
count on another friend now. You can count on me. If ever you need a friend, I'd
admire to have you call on me." He turned away, then stopped and turned, glancing
up out of his bright blue eyes. "Maybe you've got more friends than you realize,
ma'am."
Lona turned the mare up the trail to the bench, and drawing up, she looked carefully
around. There were no tracks!
A curious little thrill of fear went through her. Was it possible the stories were
true? Had it been a ghost who
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waved at her? The rain could have wiped them out, of course, and there was much rock.
She rode on, cutting diagonally across toward the Old Mormon Trail, which would make
for easier riding until she had to leave the trail and ride across the rough grass
country toward the high cliffs at Monument Rock.
North and east of her, the cliffs made a solid barrier that seemed to cut off the
world from this valley, cliffs from four hundred to nine hundred feet high, a dark
barrier of dull red now, with the sun just showing above them. Yet that barrier was
not as solid as it appeared, for there were a score of places where a horseman might
find a way through, and there were, almost due east of the ranch, three canyons that
branched like three spread fingers from a given point. The only one she knew was
Salt Creekj I
Wash, and only the first half mile of that. Her father hadI
never liked her to ride up into those rugged mountains alone._
It was early spring, yet the air was warm and vibrant,I
clear as only desert air can be. The black mare felt good, and wanted to go, but
Lona held her in, scanning the country ahead and around her, hoping to see the Black
Rider.
She had been wrong to come in the morning, especially when it was clear, for he was
never seen but at dusk or in the rain. Was there method in that? So that he would
be impossible to follow for long? Dust arose from her horse's hooves and she rode
on until the cliffs began to rise above her and the sun was not yet high enough to
show above their serrated rim. She reined in and looked up at their high battlement
crest, then let her eye travel along it, but she saw no horseman, nothing but the
rock itself.
What she had expected, she did not know. If she had expected her presence to bring
the Black Rider suddenly
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springing from the solid rock, she was mistaken. It was still here, and lonely. She
had stopped with Zusa headed north, so she started on, walking her along the low
slope that ended in the cliffs.
Ahead of her she knew the cliffs took a bend eastward and through the gap flowed
the occasional waters of Salt Creek, but there was, she knew, another wash beside
Monument Rock, so she followed along and entered a narrow opening that had rock walls
lifting six hundred feet and more on either side of her. It was shadowy and cool
and so still as to be almost unbelievable. She rode on, the canyon echoing to her
horse's hooves.
She drew up in a sort of amphitheater, the dark pinons clustering against the wall,
and climbing it wherever a faint ledge gave precarious root hold. It was still here,
and she drew up, her eyes wide and every sense alert. Even Zusa was on edge, for
the mare's sensitive nostrils expanded and her eyes were wide and curious.
No sound disturbed the still afternoon. From the stillness she might have been sitting
in a mighty cathedral, yet there was no cathedral so splendid or so tall as this,
no man-made temple as grand or magnificent. And then Zusa's muscles twitched, and
turning her head, Lona Markham looked straight into the eyes of the Black Rider!
He was about fifty yards away, his horse standing on a tiny knoll, outlined sharply
against the green of the pinons behind him. The horse was a buckskin, a long-legged,
magnificent animal, and the rider was tall, broad in the shoulder, and clothed in
black trousers, a dark gray shirt, and a black Mexican-style jacket.
For an instant she might have turned and fled, so frightened was she, so startled
by the horseman's unexpected appearance, but she sat her mare, her eyes wide and
ex
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pectant, and then the buckskin started to walk down the knoll toward her.
Under the low flat brim of his black hat, the Rider's face was scarcely visible,
and as he drew near she noticed that he wore two guns, tied down. He drew up suddenly
and, to her relief, lifted a gloved hand and brushed his hat back.
She saw first that he was handsome, with a strong, rugged face, brown from wind and
sun, and green eyes that had the look of the desert at their corners. "You are Lona?"
he asked.
His voice was strong, clear, friendly. "Yes," she said, "how did you know my name?"
"I have known it for a long time," he said. "Why did you come here today?"
"Why, I ..." She hesitated. "I was curious!" she said. "Just plain curious."
He chuckled, and she liked the sound. There was droll humor in his eyes. "Don't blame
you! From what I hear, a lot of folks are curious. How about Frank Mailer an' Poke
Markham? Are they curious?"
"A little. I think Father is more curious than Frank."
At her use of the word father, he looked at her again. "You call him father?" he
asked.
"Why, of course! He is my father. What else would I call him?"
"I could think of a number of things," he said grimly. "Want to talk awhile?" he
suggested suddenly. "No use you coming clear out here to see the strange rider and
not getting to talk with him."
She hesitated, but he swung down, and so she dismounted. He took the bridle of her
horse and ground-hitched them both on a patch of grass in the lee of a cliff where
subirrigation kept the grass green. Then he took off
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his hat and walked toward her. He had dark curly hair and a quizzical humor in his
eyes.
"Don't worry about this," he said, smiling at her. "I know this is a mighty lonely
place for a girl to be talkin' to a stranger, but later you'll understand."
"What will I understand?" she said evenly. She was frankly puzzled by him and by
his attitude. He had known her name, and he seemed to know something about her, but
certainly there was nothing in his manner that would in any way offer a cause for
resentment.
"Lots of things." He dug out the makings and dropped to a rock facing her. He was,
she noticed, also facing the opening up which she had ridden. "How'd you happen to
come here?"
"I heard you had been seen on the rims, and that I should come here and wait. Rusty,
he's our new hand, told me that. Very mysterious, if you ask me!"
He grinned. "He's quite a guy, Rusty is. You can trust him."
"Oh, you know him?" She was startled.
"Rusty? If you ever need a friend, he's your man."
He drew deep on the cigarette. "You were away to school quite awhile, weren't you?
How old were you when you left?"
She looked at him seriously. "Oh, I was only five then. Father sent me away to the
sisters' school, said a ranch was no place to raise a girl who had so far to go.
I mean, so many years in which to grow up. I used to return for vacations after I
was fifteen. Once in a while, that is."
"I don't remember a lot of things from when I was five," he said casually. "Do you?
I mean, do you remember your father very well?"
"Some things about him, but it's all sort of funny and
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mixed up. He was awfully good to me, I remember that. He was sort of sweet, too.
I remember riding in a wagon for ever so long, and how he used to tell me stories
about my mother-she died a year before we started west-and about the ranch that was
waiting for us out here. The place where he had hoped to take my mother. He said
he had taken it in my name, and it would always be mine."
"Has your dad changed much?"
She nodded. "Quite a lot. But he's had trouble, I guess. He never says much anymore,
not to me, at least, and sometimes he acts sort of strange. But he's all right,"
she added hurriedly. "I love him."
He turned his green eyes full upon her and there was something so searching in those
eyes that she was disturbed. "Is that wrong?" she asked indignantly. "To love your
father?"
"No, it isn't." He threw down his cigarette and rubbed it out with his toe. "In fact,
that's the way it should be. On the other hand, maybe this particular gent doesn't
deserve loving." He looked over at her. "Lona, we've got to have more than one talk,
I can see that. Some things I might want to tell you, you wouldn't want to believe
now. Later I
you might.'
"But first off, I want to ask you to mention meeting me i
to no one. Rusty would be all right, if you could do it!
where nobody could hear. Remember this: I'm your friend and you've got to trust me.
You're in a position right now where you'll need friends, and badly!"|
"Why do you say that?" she demanded.
"Haven't they talked to you about marryin' Frank Mailer?"
She nodded. "Yes, of course. Father wants me to marry'
him."
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"You want to marry him?"
Lona hesitated. Why was this stranger asking all these questions? Who was he?
"No," she said honestly. "I don't."
"Then," he said, "you mustn't. No matter what they say or what they do," he insisted,
"don't marry him! Don't refuse right out, just evade the issue. Find excuses . .
. clothes you have to have, plans for the wedding, just anything. You won't have
to delay it long, because I think there will be a lot happening and soon. If the
worst comes to the worst, see Rusty. You can trust him, like I said."
He walked to the horses. "And can you meet me here again? The day after tomorrow?"
Lona hesitated. "Why should I? I don't know what you are talking about! These are
all riddles and I have no idea why you say I may need friends, or why I should trust
this new puncher! Or why I should either trust or listen to you!"
The Rider took a breath. "I don't blame you for that, but you must listen. You don't
know it yet, but you're in trouble. Your marriage to Frank Mailer was planned a long
time ago, Lona, before you ever heard of him, and it's bad! Plumb bad!
"Something else I want you to do," he added. "I want you to think about the times
when you were a youngster, before you ever went away to school. Every minute from
now on I want you to think about that Wagon trip. The way it started, everything
that happened. The more you try to remember, the more it will come back. It's very
important to you." He hesitated. "You see, I knew your mother."
"What?" She turned on him, wide-eyed. "You knew... ? But why didn't you tell me?"
Then suddenly she hesi-
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tated. Her eyes were suddenly frightened. "You ... what did you know about her?"
"That she was a mighty fine woman, Lona. You look a lot like her, too. Yes, she was
mighty fine. One of the sweetest, finest women I ever knew. I knew your father in
those days, and he was a fine man."
"Why don't you come to see him, then?" she said, frowning at him.
He hesitated. "Lona, that man is not your father. He is no relation to you at all.
There never was a 'Poke' Markham! Isiah Markham was your father. That man down there
is Poke Dunning, a onetime gunfighter and outlaw from the Big Bend country. I don't
know what it is he's doing here, but I aim to find out! Your father was once a friend
to me when I needed him. That's why I, now, am a,. _
friend to you."If II
CHAPTER 2
At the corral bars she slid from the saddle as if stunned,
then stood for a long time, staring at the far blue line of the I
cliffs from which she had just come.' I
Poke Markham was not her father!_.
The thought stood stark and clear in her mind, writtenI
across her consciousness in black, staring letters.11
After the first minutes of stunned disbelief had come the uneasy memories which she
had put aside and tried toI
forget. They came flooding into her mind. Little things and haunting details that
had made her unhappy and puzzled.
The vague memories of her father before she wenti
away to school had always been confused. Somehow
.U
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she'd never been able to sort them out, to shape them into any plain picture. She
knew now the reason for that confusion; it was that the memories of two individuals,
two separate men, had mingled in her mind. This was why whenever she looked back
to those years, the face of her father was always blurred, never sharp and clear.
The strange rider had said he was her real father's friend, that her mother had been
a fine, sweet woman.
It was that last that flooded her mind with relief, for always when she had asked
Poke Dunning about her mother, he had put her aside, evaded the issue, and so finally
she had come to believe there was something shameful in her past, something in her
story of which her father did not wish to be reminded. Lona had come to believe that
her mother must have done something that had hurt and disgraced them both. Now she
knew that was not true.
She knew?
Lona stopped at the thought, testing it, turning it over. Yes, she did know. The
Rider was a stranger to her, and yet his voice had in it the ring of truth, and it
was not only because she wanted so much to believe that her mother had been a fine,
splendid woman, but simply because she knew it was the truth.
Now that the thought was there, a thousand minute details of the past came flooding
back. Now she no longer had to fight the idea that she detested the man she had believed
was her father. Always she had made excuses for him, avoided the question of his
character and his little cruelties. Now she could face it, and she could wonder that
she had ever believed him to be her father.
She remembered how few his letters had been, how she had never had from him any of
the love or affection she wanted or that other girls had, how she had returned
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home on her first vacations with eagerness and then with increasing reluctance.
Stripping the saddle from the mare, Lona turned her into the corral. It was already
past mealtime, and the hands were gone again. Rusty Gates was nowhere around, nor
did she see Poke or Frank. She walked to the house and looked into the kitchen. Old
Dave Betts looked up and his red face wrinkled in a smile. "You're late, ma'am, but
come on in. I saved you something and kept it hot for you."
"Thanks, Dave."
!' He put out the food on the kitchen table. He was already preparing the evening
meal, getting a few things ready in order to save time later. He glanced at Lona.
"You aren't sick, are you?" he asked anxiously.
"No, Dave. Just thinking." She started to eat, but despite the long ride in the fresh,
clear air, she was not hungry. "Dave," she asked suddenly, "how long have you worked
for... Father?"
" If he noticed her hesitation, he gave no sign or it made no impression. "Most of
six years, ma'am. I come up to this country from Silver City. Went to Cimarron first,
worked in a eatin' place there, then went back to punchin' cows for the XIT, then
drifted back west an' come here. Poke Markham needed a cook, so I hired on. I was
gettin' too stove up for ridin' much."
"Was Frank with him then?"
"Mailer?" Betts's face became cautious. "Well, no. No, ma'am, he wasn't. Frank didn't
show up until shortly be fore you come home from school. He rode in here one day.Jj
with Socorro an' they both hired on. Mailer, though, he'd knowed your dad somewhere
else. That's why he hired him on as foreman."
"Is he really a gunman?" Lona looked up at Dave.
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Betts swallowed uneasily and, stepping to the door, peered into the dining room,
then outside. "I reckon there's no mystery about that. He sure is. Mighty bad ...
I mean, mighty good with a gun. So's Geslin." He looked at her quickly. "You better
not ask many questions about him, ma'am. Mailer's right touchy about that. He don't
like folks talkin' about him."
There was a sound of approaching horses and Lona glanced out the open door. Gordon
Flynn and Rusty Gates had ridden into the yard and were swinging down. Flynn glanced
toward the door, and when he saw her, he waved, then said something to Rusty and
walked toward the house.
"Howdy, ma'am!" he said, his boyish face flushing a little. He had removed his hat
and stood there, his wavy hair damp along his forehead where the hat had left a mark.
The admiration in his eyes was obvious. "See you had been ridin' some. Why didn't
you come over to the north range to see us?"
"Just riding," she said. "It was a pretty day for it and I wanted to think."
"I reckon there's no better way," he agreed. "It sort of just makes
a body think, ridin' slow across the hills with lots of distance around you." He
stepped into the room. "Dave, you got more of that coffee? Rusty an' me ... ?"
"It ain't grub time," Dave said testily, "but you pull up a chair. I reckon I can
do that for you, but! doubt if the boss would like either of you being' here right
now."
Rusty came into the room and took a quick, sharp look at Lona. He seemed satisfied
with what he saw, and turned to Dave. "We have to go down to Yellow Butte after some
cows and this was on our way. Drink up, Gord, and don't sit there looking calf-eyed
at Miss Lona."
Flynn blushed magnificently. "Who's lookin' calf-eyed?"
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he demanded, blustering. "Can't a man speak to a girl without folks sayin' things
like that?"
Gates turned a chair back to the table and straddled it, grinning from one to the
other. "Don't know's I blame you," he said. "She's a right pretty girl, and believe
you me, if I was as good-looking as you are and not so durned bowlegged, I'd sure
say my piece, too!" i
Flynn's face was grim. "You're new around here," he"
said. "Miss Lona is engaged to the foreman."
Gates shrugged and looked pointedly at Lona. "When did a man ever let a thing like
that stand between him and the girl he wanted? It sure wouldn't stop me!"
"Don't you be advisin' that sort of thing!" Betts turned irritably to Gates. "You
don't know Frank Mailer! Any-| If
body who steps on his toes or tries to move in on his girl had better be fast with
a gun! He durned near killed one of
the hands with his fists and boots just for talkin' to her!"'
"Then I'll be careful," Gates said. Gulping his coffee, he shoved back from his chair
and got up. "I just wouldn't let him catch me. But if I wanted a girl, I wouldn't
stand by and see her go to another man, unless I was right sure she wanted that other
man." He turned on his heel and walked out, letting the door slam behind him.
The kitchen was silent. Flynn was staring into his cup, and Lona's heart was pounding,
why she could not have said. Glancing up, she could see the stubborn, angry look
on Flynn's face and the sharp disapproval on the face of Dave Betts. After a minute
Flynn swallowed his coffee and ducked out without saying another word.
Lona gathered the dishes and placed them on the drain board, stealing a glance at
Betts's face from the corner of her eyes. "You be careful," Dave said suddenly, without
turning. "You don't know Frank Mailer like I do. Don't you let no fool puncher talk
you into trouble."
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Lona hesitated. "What's the matter, don't you think Gordon is a nice fellow?"
Dave Betts turned sharply. "I sure do, ma'am. Flynn's one of the finest boys I know,
an' he's a top hand, too. He's worth any four like Geslin or Starr, but he's too
nice a boy to see shot to doll rags, ma'am, or to see stomped to bloody ruin like
I've seen men stomped right here on this ranch!"
The canyon where Lona had come upon the Black Rider had several branches, all box
canyons. There was, however, a trail to the rim if one knew the way and rode a good
mountain horse. Not far up this steep trail there was a ledge that made a sharp turn
around a jutting corner of rock. Here, in an almost hidden corner of rock, was a
wide shelf, all of fifty yards across and something more in length. It was concealed
from the canyon below by pinons, so that from below one would believe the cliff was
unbroken. From above, due to a steep slide that broke off in the sheer drop, there
was no way of approaching the ledge or looking down into the rocky niche.
Here, in this secret place, was good green grass and a thin trickle of water from
a spring. At the back end of the niche was a deep undercut in which cliff dwellers
had built several houses, walling part of the undercut with stone. In this hidden
place the Rider had his retreat.
Dismounting, he stripped the saddle and bridle from the horse and let it go on a
long picket rope. There was grass enough here, and water. From the look of the place,
it had never been visited since the Indians had gone, yet one never knew. No better
hiding place could be found, and here, he hoped, he was secure.
His rides over the country had given him a fair knowl-
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edge of the lay of the land, and he had been watching the
Blue Hill ranch through his glasses and knew the daily
procedure, yet despite the progress he had made that day|
in his talk with Lona Markham, he was restless, and he
knew why. He wanted to see Nita.
She should never have come here, he knew. He had tried to convince her that the job
was his alone, but she would have none of it, and in the end he had given in. He
was pleased now that he had, for his restlessness was in a sense appeased by knowing
her nearness. Once it had been decided that she was to come, Brigo, of course, had
come, too. Jaime Brigo had been asked by Nita's father to watch over her, and that
was an oath he had never broken.
Cain Brockman, the bartender, doubled Nita's protection, and it had been simple enough
for Rusty Gates to hire out to the ranch, which put one of their own men in the enemy's
camp. Yet there was much to be done, even now.
That somehow Poke Dunning had taken Markham's place, taken his ranch and usurped
his position as father was obvious. Yet what had become of Markham? And what had
become of his wife, Lena's mother? Where did Poke fit in? Also, was there any evidence
that the ranch actually belonged to Lona other than Markham's statement to her? It
seemed that the mere fact that Dunning was carefully deceiving this young girl showed
that he was convinced that the ranch he had been running all these years actually
belonged to her. It also seemed that Poke Dunning had somehow gotten control of the
ranch by posing as her father, an act made all the easier by the fact that no one
in these parts had known the original Markham. For all anyone knew, Dunning was the
man who had given her the property, but now he was planning on transferring legal
control to Mailer by having the girl marry him. Once the wedding took place, Dunning
would not
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have to worry about his charade, and if something happened to Lona, Mailer would
inherit the ranch simply by being her husband.
Dunning would say nothing to Lona about her mother. Was that because he did not know?
And Lona had said her father had told her that her mother had died before they came
on west, but was that statement made by her real father, or by Dunning?
Before facing Dunning, it was necessary to learn how title to the ranch was placed,
and to have something substantial to go on. In so many years Dunning had had time
to shape stories and the papers that would give him title, yet why, if that was true,
had he kept the girl?
Collecting dry sticks that would make no smoke, he built a fire, and squatting above
it, the Rider prepared his evening meal. He was a tall man, and his eyes were green;
a sharp, straight look came into them at times that disturbed those he looked at,
and at times changed quickly to easy humor and a ready smile.
Shadows were long and his meal was finished when he heard a distant sound. He straightened
swiftly and, hitching his guns into place, moved swiftly from the side of the cliff
dwelling across the green sward of the ledge. His horse was standing with his head
up and his nostrils wide. "Easy, Buck!" he said gently.
Through the junipers he could look down into the canyon, and as he looked he heard
a tapping of metal on metal. He listened a moment, then grinned and spoke aloud,
knowing his voice would carry in the still air. "Straight ahead and left around the
boulder." ,In a few minutes he heard the horse, and then Rusty
'Gates appeared. It was dusk, yet light enough to see, and
the cowhand stared around him in astonishment. "Now,
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how in the ever-so-ever did you find this place?" he demanded. "A man would sure
never guess it was here!"
"It's well hidden. Come on back, I've put more coffee on."
When they were squatted over the small fire, Gates grinned across the coals at him.
"Kilkenny," he said, "you have the damnedest nose for hideouts of any hombre I ever
knew!"
The tall rider shrugged. "Why not? Lots of times I need 'em. It gets to be an instinct."
"You talked to Lona?"
"Uh-huh. I didn't tell her much, only that Poke was not her father."
"I thought so. She was walkin' in a trance when she got back to the spread. By the
way," he added, "there's a hand on that ranch that's so much in love with her he's
turnin' in circles. Name of Gordon Flynn. Nice lad."
"Well, they can work that out by themselves. I'm goin' to see she gets justice, but
I'll be durned if I'll play Cupid."
Rusty chuckled. "Leave that to me! I already put a bug in their ears." He pushed
a couple of sticks on the fire. "Lance, something is building down there, but I don't
know what. Mailer has been doin' a lot of talking, strictly on the private, with
Geslin, Starr, and Socorro. I think they've got somethin' up their sleeves."
"Not Dunning?"
"No, the old man isn't in on it. They are very careful not to get bunched up when
he's around."
"What do you think of Mailer, Rusty?"
"Damned if I know!" Gates looked up, scowling. "Good as Geslin is, he listens to
him. So does Starr. I guess they knowed each other before comin' to Blue Hill, too.
That Socorro came in with Mailer."
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"How's Nita?" Kilkenny asked, looking up.
"I was wonderin' when you'd get around to that. She's fine. Man"-he chuckled-"that
girl is good! She's got brains aplenty, but, Kilkenny, she's got troubles, too! Frank
Mailer is makin' a strong play for her."
Lance Kilkenny got to his feet. "Mailer?" He was incredulous. "I thought he was due
to marry Lona?"
Gates looked cynical. "How much difference would that make to a man like Mailer?
He's mostly interested in that ranch, I'm thinking, as far as she's concerned, anyway.
But he's red-eyed over Nita."
"Has there been trouble?"
"Not yet." Gates told what had happened at the Fandango and how Nita had handled
it. "So he wound up spending thirty bucks he hadn't figured on. But that won't be
the end of it."
"How do Dunning and Mailer stand?" Kilkenny asked thoughtfully.
"I've been thinkin' about that. From what I hear, they trusted each other at one
time, but I think a break is due. One thing: when it comes down to it, the old man
will be standing all alone. The boys are all with Mailer; that is, all but Flynn,
the cook, an' me. We're on the outside of that fuss."
Gates got to his feet. "I'd better get out of here before the moon comes up." He
turned to go, then hesitated. "Lance, you make no mistake, Frank Mailer is dangerous."
"Thanks. I'll remember that." He grinned over the fire at Rusty.
"Hope we beat this deal without a shootin'," Rusty said.
"Me, too," Kilkenny said, almost wistfully. "Especially with that girl around, that's
a tough crowd down there."
Long after Rusty Gates was gone, Lance Kilkenny sat
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over his lonely fire. There had been too much of this, too much of hiding out in
the wilderness, yet it was this or be recognized, and when he was recognized, there
was always some wild-eyed puncher who wanted the reputation of killing Kilkenny.
He had never intended to gain a reputation, but his own choice of keeping himself
anonymous had helped to begin the stories. He had become a strange, shadowy figure,
a drifting gunfighter whom no man knew, until suddenly, in a blasting of gunfire,
he wrote his name large across yet another page of Western history.
Long ago he had taken to haunting the lonely places or to roaming the country alone
under an assumed name. He would drift into a new country and for a time he would
punch cows or wrangle horses or hire out as a varmint hunter, and then trouble would
come, and Kilkenny, who had rarely drawn a gun in his own battle, would fight for
a friend, as he was fighting now.
This time, for the first time, he was not fighting alone. He had friends with him,
good friends, and he had Nita Riordan, now using the name Howard, for there were
those who knew that Nita Riordan was connected with Kilkenny.
Alone over his fire, he studied the situation. What was in the mind of Frank Mailer?
What did he plan? How much opposition could Poke Dunning offer, if it came to that?
If it came to a fight over the ranch? Kilkenny was enough of a strategist to appreciate
the fact that in a gunfight, Dunning and Mailer might eliminate each other and so
save him the trouble. Once they were out of it, he could face the others or they
would leave.
What he needed to know now was how Dunning had come into possession of the ranch.
When Markham had
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started west so long ago, he was going to this ranch, which he had acquired sometime
before. Hence, Dunning had to have come into the picture after Markham left Santa
Fe. Also, he must learn whether Markham's statement to Lona that the ranch was now
hers was merely an idle comment or whether he had actually given the girl the title.
Yet there was on him something else, a driving urge to see Nita. He got to his feet
and walked the length of the ledge, speaking softly to the buckskin, and then he
walked back. The fire was dying, the embers fading. Maybe now was the time, if he
could slip into Salt Creek quietly and get to the Fandango without noise. He turned
the idea over in his mind, contemplating every angle of it. At last he shook his
head, and replenishing the fire, then banking the coals, he crawled into his blankets
and was soon asleep.
Old Poke Dunning got restlessly to his feet. He was alone much of the time now. Lona
had been keeping to her quarters and he missed her. Scowling, he thought of that,
and his eyes narrowed as he remembered the time of her marriage was coming nearer.
That marriage was a deal that he had cooked up with Frank Mailer. But since that
time he had come to distrust the man. Soon after he made his offer to guarantee them
clear title to Blue Hill, Frank had started acting like he owned the place. Suppose
Mailer made up his mind to go it alone? He, Dunning, would have no status, nothing
that would stand up legally. Of late, Mailer had been making decisions without consulting
him.
If he had it out with Mailer, he decided, he would need
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an edge. Only a fool would take chances with Mailer. The man was too big, too tough.
He looked as hard to stop as a bull elephant.
That Rider. The presence of the Rider might not bother Mailer, but it did bother
him. He was suspicious and could find no reason for the man's continual evasion of
contact with anyone.
The Black Rider must have provisions. How did he obtain them? The logical place was
Salt Creek. Poke nodded; that was it. He would have a spy watching in Salt Creek,
and then when someone resembling the Rider appeared, he would trail him. After that
he would have a line on the man.
It was late, but he would ride into Salt Creek now and he knew just the man. The
road was white in the moonlight, but Dunning rode swiftly on a powerful gray. He
had not seen Mailer, and no doubt the man was again in town, and the boys with him.
Although well past fifty, Dunning was a strong and rugged man in the peak of condition.
Age was no problem to him as yet, for his outdoor life and the rough, hardy food
of the frontier had kept him in fine shape. He had made vast improvements on the
ranch and it had provided a welcome cooling-off place for men on the dodge, as he
once had been.
He had always insisted that the boys not pull any jobs while they "worked" for him,
and while he paid all his men monthly, those on the run had handed back far more
than their salaries in private. He also insisted that his hands not spend any of
their ill-gotten gain in town or do anything that would indicate who and what they
actually were. The kickbacks and free labor he had availed himself of over the years
had helped make Blue Hill a profitable
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enterprise. Poke Dunning took great pride in the ranch. There was just Mailer and
that matter of the girl and the confounded deed!
Salt Creek was a rough-looking town of some threescore buildings of which most were
homes and barns. Along the one street of the town, a dozen or more buildings stared
at each other, and the express office and Fandango were the biggest buildings in
town. The Express, as it was known, was much more than its name implied. It was a
general store as well as the post office and office of the justice of the peace,
and had a small bar where drinks were sold, mostly to the older men in the community.
Up the street only two doors was another saloon, this one run by Al Starr, a brother
of Sam, and beyond it another store and the livery stable, and beyond that the Fandango.
It was ablaze with light when Poke Dunning rode the gray into town, but he stopped
at the Express and shoved through the door.
Aside from Mr. Lisa, the Portuguese proprietor, only three men were in the Express.
A couple of oldsters who were dry-farming near town, and the man Dunning sought,
a hanger-on known about town as Kansas.
Kansas was more than a loafer, he was a man of unknown background and capacity. What
his life had been in the years before he arrived in Salt Creek, nobody knew. He had
a wife, and the two lived in a small cabin on the edge of town. It was nicer inside
than most houses, for Kansas seemed to have a knack with tools, and he had even varnished
the furniture and there were curtains in the windows and neatness everywhere. Moreover,
Kansas had a dozen books, more than the rest of the town combined.
Yet he was a loafer, a short, heavy man with a round face and somewhat staring eyes
who did odd jobs for his money. He smoked a corncob pipe, blinked like an owl,
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and had a faculty for knowing things or knowing how to find out. He had been in the
War Between the States, and someone said he had once worked on a newspaper in the
East. His conversation was more varied than customary in Salt Creek, for he knew
something more than cows and the range. In fact, he knew a little of everything,
and was nearly as old as Dunning himself.
"Howdy, Kansas!" Dunning said affably. "Have a drink?"
"Right neighborly of you, Poke! B'lieve I will!" He let the dark-faced Lisa pour
his drink, then looked over at Dunning. "We don't see you much anymore. I guess you
leave the business mostly to Mailer."
"Some things," Dunning agreed. It was the truth, of course, that Mailer had been
doing the business, yet it nettled him to hear it said. "Any strangers around town?"
he asked casually.
To Kansas, the question was not casual. He could not recall that Poke Markham had
ever asked such a question before, and he was aware that the conversation of people
will usually follow certain definite patterns. Hence it followed that the remark
was anything but casual and that Markham was interested in strangers, or some particular
stranger.
"Not that I know of," Kansas replied honestly enough. "Not many strangers ever come
to Salt Creek. Being off the stage route and miles from the railroad, it doesn't
attract folks. Were you expecting somebody?"
"No," Dunning replied, "not exactly." He steered the conversation down another trail
and let it ride along for a while before he opened up with another question. "I expect
like ever'body else you've seen that Black Rider they talk about," he suggested.
"Can't say I have," Kansas replied. So old Markham was forking that bronc, was he?
What was on his mind,
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anyway? There was a point behind these questions, but Kansas could not place it.
"I've got my own ideas about him," he added, "an' I'd bet a little money they are
true."
"What sort of ideas? You know who he is? Why he's here?" Poke was a little too anxious
and it showed in his voice. Kansas needed some extra money and this might be the
way to get it.
"Oh, I've been studyin' on it."
The two oldsters had started for the door and Lisa was opening a barrel of flour.
Poke Dunning leaned closer to Kansas. "You find out who he is and I'll make it worth
your while."
"How much is my while worth?" Kansas asked.
Poke hesitated, then dug into his jeans. "Twenty dollars?"
It was a talking point, but Kansas decided he might get more. He never accepted a
man's first offer. "Make it fifty," he said.
"Too much." Poke hesitated. "I'll give you thirty."
Kansas sighted through his glass. "All right," he said, "I'll find out for you."
"What was your hunch?" Dunning wanted to know.
Kansas hesitated. "You seen this Nita Howard over to the Fandango?"
"Not yet."
"You take a good look. I think she's Nita Riordan."
The name meant nothing to Dunning and he said as much. Kansas turned his head toward
Dunning. "Well, Nita Riordan is associated with Kilkenny. He met her down on the
border during that wire war in the Live Oak country. Then she was with him over to
the Cedars in that ruckus."
"Kilkenny . . ." Dunning's eyes narrowed as he half
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spoke, half gasped the word. Now there was a thought! Why, if he could hire Kilkenny
. . .! When the split came with Mailer, it would pay to have the mysterious gunman
on his side.
He scowled suddenly. "Why would he be here? What would he be doin' here?"
Kansas shook his head. "What he's doing here, I don't know. But Kilkenny keeps to
himself like this Rider does. Moreover, the Howard woman at the Fandango calls her
bartender Cain, an' Cain Brockman was with Kilkenny in that last fuss."
Dunning peeled a couple of twenties from a buckskin-wrapped roll of them and slapped
them in the man's hand. "If you can get word to him, I'll give you another thirty.
I want to see him on the quiet, an' don't let it get around, you hear?"
Kansas nodded, and Poke Dunning walked out and stopped on the step.
Kilkenny! If it were only he! But maybe he wouldn't take the job; there were stories
that Kilkenny's gun was not for hire. That was sure nonsense, of course, any man's
gun could be hired for enough money, and he had the money. To be rid of Mailer it
would be worth plenty.
Lona was up at daybreak, having scarcely slept a wink. She had followed the Rider's
instructions and tried to recall all she could of the ride on the wagon, but it was
little enough. She recalled the town where the fat lady had been so nice to her and
where she had given her maple sugar brought out from Michigan in a can. There had
been Indians there, and a lot of people. She was sure that town was Santa Fe.
S it .*
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She waited until the hands were gone and then got a hurried breakfast from Dave Betts.
"Rusty?" Betts asked. "Sure, I know where he went. He went south, down to Malpais
Arroyo. Mailer sent him down there to roust some stock out of that rough country
an' start it back this away."
Zusa was ready and eager to go, and Lona let the mare run. She was curious to talk
to Gates again, for she was sure now that he knew who the Rider was. Though he seemed
young, the Rider had known her father. Maybe Rusty would know.
She found him by as fine a flow of profanity as she had ever heard. He was down in
the brush fighting an old ladino who had Rusty's rope on his horns but who had plunged
into the brush even as the rope snagged it, and at the moment it was a stalemate,
with Gates venting his irritation in no uncertain terms.
"Hi!" she called. "Having trouble?"
He shoved his hat back on his sweaty forehead and grinned at her. "That goll-durned,
ornery critter!" he said. "I got to get him out of here, and the durned fool wants
to stay! You just wait, I'll show him!" Rusty eased his horse sideways and then loosened
his rope from the saddle horn. Before the steer could back up any farther into the
brush, he whipped the rope around the stub of an ancient tree and tied it off. "There!"
he said. "We'll just let him sit for a while."
Rusty walked over to her, his eyes curious, but if he had a question, Lona beat him
to the draw. "Rusty, who is the Black Rider?"
Gates wrinkled his nose at the fancy name. "He'll tell you, ma'am, when he's ready,
and he's the one to do it."
"But how could he have known my father?"
Rusty looked up quickly. "Ma'am, how he knew your
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father, I don't exactly know, only it seems to be your pa helped him when he was
a kid and havin' it tough. I guess your pa talked a good bit about his plans. He
only found out a short time ago that your pa was dead an' that there might be trouble
here. Naturally, being' the man he is, he had to do somethin' about it."
The sound of a horse made them both look up, and Lona felt herself grow pale as she
saw Frank Mailer!
"Lona!" His voice was hoarse with anger. "What's goin' on here? What are you doin',
meetin' this puncher down here?"
"I'm talking to him!" she flared. "Why shouldn't I? He works for me! And it might
be a good idea," she added with spirit, "for you to remember that you work for us,
too!"
Frank Mailer's face stiffened and his eyes narrowed. "You seem to forget that you
are the girl I'm to marry," he said, in a tone less harsh. "Naturally, I don't want
you around like this."
"Well, until we are married," she said coldly, "it happens to be none of your business!
If you'd like to change your mind, you may. In fact, I don't like your bullying tone
and I think I've changed
my mind!"
Frank Mailer was furious. He glared, struggling for speech. When he did speak it
was to roar at Gates. "Get that steer out of that brush, you blamed farmer! Get it
out an' you get them cows back to the ranch, pronto!"
Rusty Gates calmly went to work freeing the steer. Lona and Zusa started out of the
arroyo. "Wait!" Mailer shouted. "I want to talk to you!"
She turned in her saddle. "Until you learn how to act like a gentleman, I haven't
got a thing to say!"
Touching a spur to the mare, she was gone like a streak.
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Frank stared after her, then swearing bitterly, he reined his horse around and rode
away, ignoring Gates.
CHAPTER 3
Frank Mailer was in a murderous mood when he returned to Blue Hill. He left his saddled
horse to Flynn and went up the steps to the house. Poke Dunning was standing in front
of the fireplace when Mailer stormed into the room.
"Poke!" Frank said. "I've had about enough out of that girl! She threw her weight
around too much today! Let's fix that marriage for next week!"
Dunning was lighting his pipe and he puffed thoughtfully, his eyes on the flame.
Here it was, sooner than he wanted it. Well, there was more than one way to stall.
"What's the matter? What did she say?"
"I found her down at Malpais with that new puncher. I told her I didn't like it and
she told me it didn't matter whether I did or not, that I worked for her! For her!"
Dunning chuckled. "Well, in a way she's right!" he said slyly. "This here is her
ranch. And you're the foreman."
Mailer's eyes narrowed vindictively and he felt hot rage burning inside him. There
were times when he hated Dunning. He glared at him. "I'm a damn sight more than any
foreman!" he flared.
"Are you?" Dunning looked up under shaggy brows. His hands were on his hips, whether
by accident or design, but his eyes were cool and steady.
Frank Mailer felt everything in him suddenly grow still. He turned on Dunning, and
with a shock, he realized something he had been forgetting, that Poke Dunning was
a gunman himself, and that he was not, by any means, too old. Right now he looked
like a fairly dangerous proposi-
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tion, and Mailer found that he did not like it, he did not like it one bit. He felt
sure he could beat Poke, but he might get a slug in the process, and tomorrow they
would be leaving on that job.
No fight... not now.
"What's the matter, Poke? You on the prod?"
Dunning recognized the change in Mailer's tone and it puzzled him. He knew the big
man too well, yet here, with an even break between them, or almost an even break,
for Dunning all but had the butts of his guns in his hands, Mailer was avoiding the
issue. It puzzled Dunning, and worried him. He had known Mailer too long not to know
the man was a schemer.
"No, Frank, I'm not," he said quietly. "Only here lately you've been taking in a
little too much territory. We have our plans, but we can't ride into this roughshod.
That girl has a mind of her own, and suppose she lights out of here to Salt Creek
and raises hell about being' forced to marry you? It might stir up some talk, an'
we can't afford that.
"You've got to play it smart, Frank. You can't push Lona around; she's got too much
fight in her. Take it easy, win her over. You can't handle a woman by shouting at
her; they need soft talk."
There was truth in what Dunning said, and Mailer knew it. He was, he admitted, bullheaded.
And he had been taking on a lot of weight around here. Anyway, first things come
first, and there was that bank job to be handled. There would be time enough to take
care of Dunning when that was off his hands. Geslin and Starr both wanted the money
they would get from that job, and if he expected to keep them around, he must keep
them busy, give them a chance to make a few dollars.
"Maybe you're right," he agreed. "It's a shame that Markham had to fix things that
way."
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"He did, though," Dunning said. "We don't dare take over until you marry her, then
her property is legally yours an' we can do what we want."
"Sure, you've explained that," Mailer agreed grudgingly. He turned toward the door.
"By the way, Poke," he said, in more affable tones, "I'm takin' some of the boys
on a little trip tomorrow. I heard about some cattle and want to look them over.
We'll be gone two days. Flynn and Gates will handle things on this end."
Dunning nodded absently. "All right. Good luck on the trip."
Outside on the porch, Frank Mailer stared angrily into the darkness. "We'll need
it," he muttered. "And once I've married that girl, you'll need it!"
One thing he knew. The time was coming for a showdown. He would wait no longer. That
Spanish woman, now ... if he were owner of the Blue Hill, she would pay attention
to him. She liked him, anyway, but was just stalling. That was always the woman's
way, any woman. The fact that he would be married to Lona would matter but little.
He would have things in his hands then, and he would know how to handle matters.
Poke Dunning had to die.
Lance Kilkenny was riding to Salt Creek. Despite his desire to remain unknown, he
had missed Nita so much that he could no longer stay away. Also, with his instinct
for trouble and his knowledge of the situation in Salt Creek and on the ranch, he
knew the lid was about to blow off. It was high time that he appeared on the scene.
Yet reaching town, he did not ride immediately into the street, but studied it carefully.
He could see the lights of
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the Fandango, and nearer, the lights of Starr's Saloon and the Express. He rode the
buckskin into the street and swung down in front of the Express.
He stepped up onto the boardwalk, feeling all that tightness he always knew when
appearing for the first time in a strange town. His eyes slanted down the street,
studying each building with strict attention. Every sense was alert for trouble,
for a man who had used a gun as he had would have enemies, and in a strange town
one never knew whom one would see.
The street was empty and still, its darkness alleviated only by the windows of the
four or five lighted places in Salt Creek. He turned and opened the door to the Express
and walked in.
Down the left-hand side was a row of boxes and sacks backed by a wall of shelves
filled with various articles of cutlery and other tools. On his right were shelves
of clothing, a few wide hats, and nearer the counter at the end was the ammunition,
and beside it the bar. There were groceries and several opened barrels. Near a stove,
now cold, sat two old men. At the bar Kansas was talking to Lisa.
Kilkenny walked down the right side of the long room whose middle was also stacked
with boxes and barrels. As he approached the near end of the bar, Kansas looked up.
In that instant the gunfighter knew he was recognized.
"Rye, if you would," Kilkenny said quietly. His eyes turned to Kansas, alert, probing.
"What are you drinking, friend?"
Kansas's mouth was dry. He started to speak, swallowed, and then said, "Rye. Mine's
rye, too, Lisa."
The Portuguese noticed nothing out of the ordinary, and put the glasses on the bar.
His quick glance, however, noticed that the gray shirt was new and clean, the flat
']
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brimmed hat was in good condition, and Kilkenny was clean-shaven. He left the bottle
on the bar. He knew when a man could pay for his drinks.
Kansas recovered himself slightly. Here was his chance to do that job for Poke, dropped
right in his lap. Luck seemed to be with him, but he reflected uneasily that Kilkenny
did not have a reputation as the sort of man who would hire his gun. "Driftin' through?"
he said.
"Maybe."
"Nice country around here."
"Seems so."
"There's jobs. Mailer, he's foreman out to the Blue Hill, he took on a hand the other
day." He dropped his voice. "Poke Markham was talkin' to me. Seems he's huntin' a
particular man for a very particular job. From the way you wear those guns, you might
be just the man."
Kilkenny looked into his glass. Now, what was this? A trap? Or was Dunning looking
for gunmen? "We might talk about it," he said. "I just might be interested."
Kansas was pleased and disappointed at the same time. He had heard much of Kilkenny,
and while if he did this job for Poke, it might mean more money, which he could always
use, he was sorry that Kilkenny would consider such a thing.
"Many folks in town?" Kilkenny asked quietly.
"A few. Mailer's here, if you're interested, but better not talk to him about this
Markham job. I had the idea Markham was hiring someone confidential."
Kilkenny nodded. . . . So? Was there a break there? If so, it might work out very
well for him. And Rusty had said Mailer was planning some move in which Dunning was
not concerned. Maybe Poke knew more than Mailer realized.
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"This Mailer," he said carelessly, "what sort of hombre is he?"
"Mighty big an' mighty bad," Kansas replied honestly. "He's hell on wheels with a
gun an' ready to use one on the slightest provocation, but he would rather use his
fists and boots. Sometimes I think he likes to beat a man." There was animosity in
Kansas's voice, and Kilkenny noticed it at once.
"Where's he from?"
"You've got me," Kansas admitted. "Folks around here have done a lot of wondering
about that. Where he came from or what he was, I don't know. Somebody did say they
saw him talking to Port Stockton over to Bloomfield once."
Port Stockton was a name Kilkenny knew. Boss of the Stockton gang, marshal of Bloomfield,
and formerly in the Lincoln County War in the faction opposed to the TunstallMcQueen
outfit that had Billy the Kid. Stockton was no honest man, by all accounts, and a
dangerous one. It was worth looking into, that angle.
He straightened. "You tell Markham I'll talk to him. I'll get in touch with him myself
within the next couple of days." Turning, he walked to the door, scanned the street
briefly, and then stepped out.
The Fandango was ablaze with lights, and Kilkenny did not hesitate; he walked at
once to the doors and pushed them open. The place was crowded. Nita had a faculty
for knowing the sort of place the range people liked, and she gave them lots of light
and music. A half-dozen card tables were going now, and the long bar was lined with
booted and spurred men.
A few men in business suits mingled with the roughly dressed cowhands, but one and
all they were wearing
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guns. The first person who saw him was Jaime Brigo, and the big Yaqui did not smile,
merely reaching back with his knuckles and tapping a signal on the door.
Nita Riordan heard that signal. She was at her mirror, and for a minute she stared
at her reflection. She had known Kilkenny now for more than three years, and had
loved him every minute of them, but after one of these absences it never failed to
leave her breathless when she heard his voice, his step, or heard the signal that
signified his presence.
Kilkenny had walked to the end of the bar, and Cain Brockman moved at once to him
and placed a glass and a bottle there. His head moved ever so slightly, and Kilkenny's
eyes followed the movement. He saw Frank Mailer towering above the crowd, his face
red and flushed from drinking, his glassy-blue and slightly protuberant eyes bold
and domineering as they surveyed the crowd around him.
The slender hatchet-faced man would be Geslin, of course. Starr was there, and the
sallow, dark-haired Socorro.
Mailer, Kilkenny observed, kept turning his head to glance toward the door where
Brigo sat. Kilkenny studied him without seeming to, watching the man with the side
of his glance. The fellow was a bull, but big as he was, there was no evidence of
fat. Even his thick neck looked like a column of muscle; there was cruelty in the
man's eyes and in his thin lips, and there was brutality showing all through him.
Even without knowing who he was and why he was here, Kilkenny would have felt the
same animal antagonism for the man.
Suddenly Nita was in the room. He knew it without turning his head. He would always
know it, for there was that between them, that sharp, strong attachment, some
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thing physical and yet more than physical. He turned and their eyes met across the
room and he felt something well up within him. She smiled, ever so slightly, and
turned to the nearest card table, speaking to one of the players.
Frank Mailer had seen her, too, and he turned abruptly away from the bar. "So there
you are!" he boomed. "Come and have a drink!"
"I don't drink. I believe I have told you that."
"Oh, come on!" he insisted, reaching for her arm. "Don't be foolish! Come on an'
have a drink with me."
Suddenly Nita Riordan was frightened. Kilkenny had moved away from the bar; he was
coming toward them.
"I'm sorry," she said coldly. "I'll not drink with you. Why don't you join your friends?"
Kilkenny was beside her now, but Mailer had eyes for nobody else. He had been waiting
for this woman to come out, and he had been drinking, thinking of her, wanting her.
He told himself she wanted him, and there had been enough of foolishness. "Come on!"
he said roughly. "I want to talk to you!"
"But the lady does not want to talk to you!" Kilkenny said. Frank Mailer turned his
big head sharp around. For the first time he saw Kilkenny. "Get lost!" he snarled.
"Get
...I"
What he was going to say never came out. He was seeing Kilkenny, really seeing him
for the first time, looking into those hard green eyes, level and dangerous now,
into the bronzed face of a man that he instinctively recognized as being something
different, somebody new and perhaps dangerous. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
"The man who tells you the lady does not wish to talk to you," Kilkenny said. He
turned, "Miss Howard, do you wish to go to the bar?"
She turned instantly and started to go off with him.
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Mailer found himself left in the middle of the floor alone, and he had made his brags
about this woman and himself. They had an understanding, he had hinted. In fact,
he had convinced himself it was true. Somebody snickered, and Frank Mailer blew up.
Lunging, he grabbed at Nita's shoulder, but knowing his man, Kilkenny had been watching.
He moved swiftly and thrust the hand aside. Instantly, Frank Mailer struck. He struck
with his ponderous right fist that had already lifted with the violence of his grab
at the girl, but Kilkenny rolled his head and smashed a left and right to the body.
Lance Kilkenny knew the manner of man he was facing and knew that if ever he had
been in for a battle, he was in for one now. He struck fast and he struck hard, and
the blows smashed Mailer back on his heels. Before he could catch his balance, Kilkenny
hooked high and hard with a left and the blow knocked Mailer crashing to the floor.
He hit hard, in a sitting position, knocked back all of four feet, and as he hit
he knew he had been struck with such force that all the other blows he had taken
seemed mere child's play. He hit the floor drunk and raging, but he came up with
a lunge, and cold sober.
Skilled in the rough-and-tumble style of barroom brawling, Lance Kilkenny knew what
he was facing, yet he had more than that sort of skill on which to draw, for long
ago in New Orleans he had studied the art of boxing and become quite proficient at
it.
Mailer came up with a lunge and charged, swinging. Kilkenny nailed him on the mouth
with a straight, hard left and then smashed another right to the ribs before the
sheer weight of the rush smashed Kilkenny back against the bar. Mailer blazed with
fury and confidence. Now he had him! Against the bar!
One hand grasped Kilkenny's throat, pushing his head
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back. Then he jerked up his knee for Kilkenny's groin. Yet Kilkenny's own knee had
lifted an instant quicker and blocked the rise of Mailer's drive. At the same time
Kilkenny struck Mailer's left hand away from his throat by knocking it to the right,
and he lunged forward, smashing the top of his skull into Mailer's nose and mouth.
Blood streaming from his smashed lips, Mailer staggered, pawing at the air, and Kilkenny
let him go, standing there, breathing easily, and waiting. The crowd had been shoved
back, he saw, and Jaime Brigo was standing beside Nita with drawn gun. Over the bar
behind him he heard Brockman speak, Brockman whom he had once fought in just such
a battle, before they were friends. "Don't worry, boss. Nobody butts in!"
Mailer recovered his balance and stared at Kilkenny with malignant eyes. With the
back of his hand he mopped the blood from his lips, staring at Kilkenny. "Now," he
said, his voice low and dangerous, "I'm goin' to kill you!"
He moved in, his big fists ready, taking his time now. This man was not going to
be smashed down in a couple of driving rushes. Mailer was not worried. He had always
won, no man could stand against him.
Mailer moved in, feinted, then lunged. Kilkenny did not step away or retreat; he
stepped inside and his legs were spread and he smashed wicked, hooking drives to
the ribs that jolted and jarred Mailer. Frank shortened his own punches and caught
Kilkenny with a mighty right that knocked him to the floor. With a roaring yell,
Mailer sprang into the air and leaped to come down on Kilkenny's body, but Lance
rolled over and sprang to his feet like a cat, and Mailer, missing, lunged past him
against the bar. Kilkenny smashed a wicked right to the kidney, and as Mailer turned
and grabbed for him he swung the man over his back with a flying mare.
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Mailer came up fast and rushed and they stood toe-to-toe, swapping punches. Shifting
his feet, Kilkenny was caught with a foot off the floor and he went back into the
bar. The big man lunged and grabbed Kilkenny around the waist with both mighty arms.I
fl
I
Growling with fury, he tightened that grasp, but Kil kenny, caught with his hands
down and inside that mightyI ' ,| hug, jerked both thumbs into the lower abdomen,
low andm hard. Mailer jerked back from the thumbs, and instantly'" Kilkenny turned
his hips inside the hollow left between their bodies, and grasping Mailer's right
sleeve with hisH left hand, he slid his right arm around his waist, and jerk ing
down with the left, he swung Mailer across his hip and crashing to the floor with
a thud that shook the building.I He sprang back then, getting distance between them,
and mopping the blood and sweat from his eyes. Frank Mailer got to his feet, throttling
rage in his throat mingled with i«something else, something he had never felt before,
the '« awful, dreadful fear that he might be beaten!
He lunged, and Kilkenny stepped into him. The gunfighter was utterly savage now.
Watching, Cain Brockman cringed with the memory, for Kilkenny's fists cracked like
ball bats on Mailer's face. It was a driving, utterly furious attack, that smashed
Mailer back with solid blow after solid blow. Mailer lunged, grabbed him again, and
jerked him clear off the floor, hurling him down. Kilkenny hit hard, and one of his
guns went scooting, but Nita stooped quickly and caught it up.
Kilkenny was on his back and Mailer lunged for him. Kilkenny swung a boot up and
caught the oncoming man in the solar plexus and the drive of the rush, and the moving
boot carried the big man over like a catapult and he hit the floor beyond, his fall
broken by the crowd that could not move fast enough.
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monument rock / 189
Kilkenny rolled over and was on his feet. Punch-drunk, Mailer came up, and Kilkenny
let go with both hands. Mailer sagged and his knees buckled and Kilkenny threw an
uppercut with all the power that was in him. It lifted the big man from his feet
and turned him over, and Frank Mailer hit the floor on his shoulder blades, out cold!
Kilkenny drew back, feeling for his gun. The right gun was still with him and he
faced the crowd, his eyes desperate, blazing with cold fire. He swept the crowd until
he found Geslin and Starr. Their eyes met and he stood there, his chest heaving with
the struggle for air, sweat streaming down his face, his shirt in rags about him.
He stood there, and suddenly Nita spoke. "In your holster!" and he felt his left-hand
gun slide home. For a minute he held their eyes, steady, waiting.
Nobody moved, nobody spoke. He straightened then<
and glanced down at the beaten and bloody man who sprawled on the floor. "Tell him
all the roads are open, but they run one way ... out of town!"
It was a silent, grim bunch of men who took the trail that night back to Blue Hill,
but while they rode slowly, and Frank Mailer slumped heavily in his saddle, his great
head thudding with a dull ache, there was a man ahead of them who rode very swiftly
indeed. It was Kansas, and he was riding to be the first to report to Dunning. This
was something Poke would want to know, something he needed to know.
After Kansas was gone, Poke Dunning paced the floor alone. Frank Mailer whipped!
It was unbelievable! Had the earth opened and gulped down the Blue Hill, the ranch
and its neighboring peak, he could have been no
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more shocked. That Mailer might be beaten with a gun, he knew. But with fists? In
a rough-and-tumble fight? It was impossible!
But it had happened. Mailer was beaten. Despite his satisfaction, Dunning was worried.
He turned in late, but he did not sleep, lying there and staring up into the darkness.
He had worked a long time for this ranch, and he meant to keep it. He would kill
anybody who endangered his possession of the ranch. Even Lona. Even Lona, the girl
he had reared.
Kilkenny awoke early the following morning. He had returned at once to his hideout,
but now he was awake. His hands were swollen and battered, and in the mirror he carried,
he could see one eye was swollen almost closed. There was a welt on the corner of
his mouth and a blue swelling on his cheekbone. He heated water on the fire and soaked
his hands; carefully he cleaned the cuts and scrapes on his head and arms.
He was still tending to his injuries at noon when Gates appeared. He swung down and
crossed to Kilkenny with jingling spurs. "Man! Did you beat that big lug! He was
still punch-drunk when they left this morning!"
Kilkenny looked up sharply. He didn't feel too good himself. "They left? How many
of them?"
"Mailer himself and four hands". Geslin, Starr, Socorro, and a mean-faced hombre
with a scar that I've not seen around much."
"Thin? Stoop-shouldered with yellowish eyeballs?"
"That's him, who is he?"
"That's Ethridge, one of the Stockton gang." Kilkenny got to his feet, drying his
hands. "That gives me a hunch,
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now. I think I know who Mailer is. If I'm not wrong, he's one of a bunch that operated
out of Durango. Used a flock of names. One of them was Lacey or something like that."
"Yeah, I've heard of him."
Kilkenny studied his swollen hands. "Look," he said presently, "we're going to wind
this up. Lona should come to see me today, and I've got to go see Poke Dunning. He
left word with Kansas down at Salt Creek. He's got a proposition for me."
"Watch yourself."
"I will. But I want to see him. The lid's set to blow off anyway, and we might as
well start the ball rolling while Mailer is gone."
"He said he'd be gone two days."il, ]
"All right, that gives us some time. I'll talk to Lona, then^ H
I'll ride down and see Dunning. You be ready, and you talk to Flynn and that cook."
After Gates was gone, he thought it over again. Kilkenny had taken care to learn
something about the extent of the Blue Hill holdings, and the ranch was vast in area
and in stock. There were thousands of head of cattle, and in the breaks to the west
there were sheep. It was a big stake, truly.
How had Mailer worked into the deal? He was sure that Poke had started it alone ...
in fact, in his own mindi
he was sure that Dunning had killed Markham. But somehow Mailer had come into it.
He was thinking about that when he heard Lona ride into the amphitheater below, so
he got to his feet and swung into the saddle.
She smiled brightly when she saw him, then gasped as she saw his face. "Oh, what
happened to you? You're hurt!"
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Kilkenny chuckled. "No, not really. I had a fight last night. Didn't you hear about
it?"
"No ... how would I hear?"
He took off his hat and swung down to a seat near her on a boulder. "It was your
man Mailer I was fighting."
She came to her feet. "You ... fought Frank Mailer?"
He smiled, painfully. "If you think I look bad, you should see him!"
"You . . . whipped him?" Lona was amazed. The more she looked at the tall young man
on the rock, the more impossible it became that this man could have beaten Mailer.
Kilkenny grinned. He didn't like to brag, and yet . . . well, what man doesn't like
to have a pretty girl think well of him? "Well, to tell you the truth, I did, and
if you'll pardon my saying so, I did a bang-up job of it. Not that I didn't catch
a few!" He felt with delicate fingers of the lump on his cheekbone.
"He'll kill you now." She was very positive. "He'll never let you get away alive."
"It's going to get to that point anyway," Kilkenny said. "I'm going to make sure
that ranch is in your hands, all free and clear, with Poke Dunning and Mailer both
out of the picture. Do you believe now that Dunning's not your father?"
She looked at him seriously. "I ... I never really doubted that. He was always funny
around me, and he would never tell me anything about my mother. I remember a lot
of little things now."
"Anything about that wagon trip?" he asked quickly.
"Not much. I remember a town where there were Indians, and from all else I recall,
it must have been Santa Fe. There was another man with us then. And we came west
from there."
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"You remember nothing after that?"
"Well... sort of. It's not very clear, not at all, but I have a memory of a place
... of coming up a long canyon with a small stream in the bottom. We came up it for
a long, long way, it seems to me. Once we climbed out of it and I remember Father
pointing at a great peak or mesa that was far away. He ... I remember that because
he said something about an orphan at the time, and I pestered him to tell me what
an orphan was. I guess it wasn't long after that I became one."
Kilkenny nodded. "That helps. We're getting places now. I would bet fifty dollars
that the long canyon was Canyon Largo. The Orphan makes sense. You see, that's the
name of a mesa over in the desert near Largo. They call it El Huerfano ... the Orphan,
because it stands alone."
"Isn't that funny?" she said. "I never connected the mountain and the orphan, at
all! Now, let's see, there was something else, too. Last night I was thinking about
it and I dreamed something about a night when there was a fire and I woke up and
I could see the light dancing on a rock wall. I've thought about that real often.
You know how it is, you forget so much and then two or three things sort of stick
in your mind? It was that way with this.... I remember waking up and being afraid
because I could see that Father was not in his blankets, but when I called to him,
he spoke to me from far off and told me to be quiet. I went back to sleep then."
Kilkenny squinted his eyes at her. "You remember anything else about that?"
She shook her head. "No, only I think it was the next day that we got here and the
old Indian woman took care of me. I didn't see Father again for a long time."
"Probably you never saw him again, not actually."
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Kilkenny got to his feet. "You know, I've a hunch that night you woke up was the
night your father was killed, and if you got to the ranch the next day, it could
not have been far from here."
"Oh, but I can't be sure!" she objected. "It's been so long, and telling it this
way makes it seem a lot more real than it actually was! It's pretty vague."
"Nevertheless, I think I'm right. Before I see Dunning today, I'm going to have a
look."
"But how could you find it after all this time?" she asked.
"I'll have to be lucky," he admitted. "Mighty lucky. But there aren't many trails
across this country from Santa Fe, and I don't believe he ever brought the wagons
on much further than that. He may have burned them, and if he 'did, they may still
be there, or the rims may. I'll have a I
look, anyway."
"But why? What's to be gained?"
"I don't know," he confessed. "Maybe nothing. I'd like to get something on Dunning,
though. Something definite. And there might be a clue."
She nodded, looking out past the screen of pines toward the distant hills.fl
Then suddenly, almost as she turned her head, he was
gone from the rock! She stared, then started to her feet. Where in the world ...
?
"Lona!" She whirled. It was Gordon Flynn. "What in the world are you doin' way back
here1
?" he asked. He was sitting a dun pony that he often rode, and he looked around wonderingly.
"An' how did you ever find this place? I'd never have guessed it was here."
"I found it."
Kilkenny stepped from behind a clump of piflon, and Flynn gulped. "You ... you're
Kilkenny?"
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Lena's eyes flew open and she gasped, "Kilkenny!" "Yes, ma'am," he replied, "that's
my name."
CHAPTER 4
The hamlet of Aztec Crossing was born of a broken axle and weaned and reared on Indian
whiskey. For three weeks the town was a covered wagon and three barrels of whiskey,
but by that time "Hungry" Hayes, onetime buffalo hunter and freighter, had built
a dugout roofed with poles and earth.
With those three barrels of Indian whiskey to prime the pump of prosperity, and a
Winchester to back the priming, Hayes turned his broken axle and the river crossing
into a comfortable fortune. Indian whiskey is a simple concoction of river water,
not strained, straight alcohol (roughly two gallons to the barrel), three plugs of
chewing tobacco, five or six bars of soap (very strong lye soap), one half pound
of red pepper, and a liberal dose of sagebrush leaves. To this is added two ounces
of strychnine, and the resulting brew is something to make a mummy rear on his hind
legs and let out a regular Comanche yell. This recipe was not, of course, original
with Hungry Hayes. He merely adopted the formula in use throughout the Indian country,
the ingredients varying but little.
The first two settlers of Aztec Crossing halted because of proximity to the source
of supply, yet neither proved as hardy as the durable Hayes. The first to pass on
was helping Hayes mix the whiskey and decided that he preferred it straight, without
the addition of the river water. The following morning Hayes planted him on the bank
of the river with due ceremony. The second settler departed
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this world after a brief but emphatic altercation with four Apaches. His mistake
was entirely due to a youthful disdain for mathematics, for having slain three Apaches,
he straightened up from his protecting buffalo wallow to leave, and took an arrow
through his chest. He was buried, after an interval of sunshine and buzzards, by
Hayes, taking with him a surplus of arrows but considerably less hair.
Yet, as time passed, Aztec Crossing grew. Ranching began, and the town acquired a
general store, four saloons, a livery stable, a bank, and various other odds and
ends of business enterprise. Hungry Hayes, fat with money, departed for the East
and settled down in a comfortable Kentucky homestead, where people forever after
regarded him as a liar for telling what was actually less than the truth.
The latest institution, and from Frank Mailer's viewpoint, the most interesting,
was the Aztec City Bank.
With a dozen ranches nearer to Aztec than any other town, the bank was at times fairly
bulging with coin. This fact had not gone unnoticed, and the five hard-bitten gentlemen
who drifted into Aztec on the bright and sunny morning in question had decided to
give some attention to this money.
Aztec was drowsing in the sun. The weather-beaten boards of the walk in front of
the Aztec Saloon supported the posteriors of four old settlers, talking of great
deeds against the warlike Comanche. In front of the livery stable, half-asleep, old
Pete chewed tobacco in drowsy content. In the store, his glasses as far down on his
nose as possible, Storekeeper Worth studied a month-old newspaper. A dun pony flicked
a casual tail at a fly who buzzed in deep bass, and the morning was warm, pleasant,
and sleepy.
Frank Mailer, mounted on a blood bay, walked his horse down the main street with
the saturnine Socorro beside
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him. Reining in at the bank hitching rail, he swung down, and Socorro did likewise,
and stayed between the horses, fussing with some saddle gear, his carbine close at
hand.
Geslin and Starr came down from the opposite direction, and Geslin drew up, taking
time to light a smoke while his slate-gray eyes studied the street with a cold, practiced
gaze. Starr chewed tobacco, and sat his horse, his thick thighs bulging the cloth
of his jeans. Ethridge walked up from behind the bank and stopped at the corner of
the building. He carried a Henry rifle, and with Socorro faced one way and he another,
they could cover the street with ease.
Mailer, his face swollen and ugly, jerked his head at Geslin. Starr followed. Geslin
was worried, for he hadJ II j
never seen Mailer as he was today. Always brutal, the man was now in a vicious mood,
his whole manner changed. The beating he had taken had aroused all the ferocity innate
in his being. He pushed open the door and walked in and toward the office of the
president. Geslin went to one window, and Starr to the other. Starr took the man
who was standing there and spun him sharply, smashing a Colt down over the man's
skull.
"All right," he said, "sack it up!"
The cashier looked, paled, gulped, and reached for a sack. Mailer had the president
out, and with three men under their guns and the fourth on the floor out cold, they
proceeded to strip the bank.
Across the street Johnny Mulhaven was coming out of the saloon, and Johnny Mulhaven
had more nerve than brains. He saw the sudden collection of horses, he saw two men
facing the street with rifles, and he let out a shrill Texas yell and went for his
gun.
Ethridge dropped the rifle on him and fired ... the shot was too quick and too high.
It hit Johnny in the shoulder
>tf"
.'ju. I j:
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 198 / Louis i/amour
and he dropped his gun, but caught it in the air with his left hand and snapped a
quick shot at Ethridge. His shot was quick but lucky. Ethridge caught the bullet
where his ribs parted and dropped his rifle.
The old Comanche fighters dove for shelter, two of them under the walk, one behind
a watering trough; another dashed for the saloon. Without doubt he was headed for
a drink to ballast his shocked nerves, but he was doomed to die thirsty. He caught
a slug from Socorro's rifle and went down on the very step of his goal, and in a
matter of seconds the street was laced with gunfire, stabbing, darting flames.
Young Johnny Mulhaven was still on his feet, carrying enough lead for three men to
die, and he was still firing left-handed. Scar Ethridge had made one attempt to get
up, but Johnny made sure of him with a bullet through the skull. One of the horses
sprang away, and then the bank door burst open and three men charged into the street.
Mulhaven took the full blast of their fire and went down hard, blood staining the
gray boards of the walk. A rifle spoke from the livery stable, another from the store.
Three men were unlimbering guns from within the saloon. Old Pete, at the first shot,
had come erect with a lunge, swallowed his chewing tobacco, and methodically pulled
his old pistol, aimed, shot, and put a slug into Kane Geslin.
And then, suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Five men had come into town, and
four rode out. Two of them were wounded.
It was only then that the full story was known. Within the bank, the slugged man
told it. He had come out of it just in time to see Mailer strike the banker down,
then unlimber his pistol and kill all three of the men within the bank. Wisely, he
lay still and lived.
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Four men were dead, but Johnny Mulhaven, miraculously, was still alive, but with
nine wounds.
Headed east and riding fast were the four remaining outlaws. Geslin had a flesh wound
and Socorro had come out of it with a bloody but merely burned shoulder. All four
were ugly, despite the success of their venture, and three of them were worried.
They had known Mailer for a long time, but not the Mailer in the bank. They were
all men who had killed and would kill again, yet those three killings were cold-blooded,
unnecessary, and dangerous to their safety. Dangerous because while many a Western
town might overlook a bank robbery, they would never overlook a cold-blooded killing.
They swung north, leaving the trail for the rough country, and circled west, heading
for a crossing above White Canyon. They had good horses, and doubted if a pursuit
would immediately get under way. Silent, brooding, and bloody, the four men crossed
the Rio Grande and headed up Pajarito Canyon, crossed to Valle de los Posos, and
headed for the Rio Puerco.
Nobody talked. Geslin had lost blood and felt sick and sore. The movement of the
horse hurt him. Sweat smarted the burn on Socorro's arm and his mood became vile.
Steadily, they pushed on under a baking sun, their shirts stained with blood and
sweat, their horses plodding more wearily. Behind them there might be pursuit, and
they could easily be followed. There were Indian trackers at Aztec Crossing.
No clouds marred the faint blue of the sky where the sun hung brassy and broiling.
Nothing moved but the sage, and there was no wind, only a heavy, stifling heat. Sam
Starr alone seemed unaffected, but from time to time his eyes turned toward the huge
sullen figure of Frank
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200 / Louis l'amour._
Mailer. Mentally, he told himself he was through. When I get mine, he told himself,
I'm pullin' stakes.
Alkali dust lifted in soft clouds and dusted a film over their clothing. Socorro
cursed monotonously and Geslin stared ahead with bleak, desperate eyes, his lips
dry, his body aching for rest and water. Frank Mailer, indomitable and grim, rode
on ahead. Starr stared phlegmatically before them, his eyes squinting against the
intense white glare of the sun. He watched his horse carefully, keeping it to good
ground whenever possible, knowing how much depended on it.
At last the night came and shadows reached out and touched them with coolness. In
a tiny glade on the Rio Puerco, the men swung stiffly from their horses. Starr eyed
the sacks thoughtfully, and Socorro with greedy, eager eyes, watchful eyes, too,
for they shifted vaguely to the night, and then with more intentness on the men close
by.
Bulking black against the starry sky, looming almost above them, were the rugged
San Pedro Mountains. Starr got some food together, and nobody talked. Geslin bathed
his wound and bandaged it; Socorro did likewise. Mailer stared into the flames, hulking
and dangerous.
"Will we make it back tomorrow?" Socorro asked suddenly.
"No," Geslin replied, "there isn't a chance."
"Let's split the money now," Socorro suggested.
Starr wanted nothing more than that, "but he was hesitant to agree. His eyes shifted
to Mailer and they all waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. Starr had seen
men like this before when killing was on them. There was only one end to it. Death.
They killed and killed until they themselves were slain. He wanted no part of it.
He wanted to get away. He also wanted his money.
Dawn found them pushing northeast, heading up Capu-
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lin Creek. With the San Pedros to the south and the bulk of Mesa Prieta to the north,
there was no way to see if there was any pursuit or not. Geslin was willing to bet
there was, and Starr agreed. They told each other as much during a moment when they
had fallen behind.
It was dusk when they drew up at a spring and slid from their horses. "We'd better
stop," Geslin said. "My arm's givin' me hell!"
Mailer turned on him. "What's the matter?" He sneered. "You turnin' into an old woman?"
Geslin's face whitened and for an instant they stared at each other. "Go ahead!"
Mailer taunted. "Reach for it!"
Sam Starr stepped back, his eyes watchful. Geslin was in no shape for this. The man's
nerves were shot, he was weakened from loss of blood, and beaten by the endless riding.i
"What's the matter?" Mailer said. "You a quitter? You yellow?"
Geslin's hand flashed for his gun, and Frank Mailer swung his pistol up with incredible
speed. An instant it held, then the shot bellowed, thundering between the cliffs.
Geslin went down, his gun spouting fire into the dirt, shot through the heart.
Socorro touched his lips with his tongue, and Sam Starr stood very still, staring
at Mailer. The man was fast; he
was chained lightning.
Mailer's eyes went to Socorro, then sought Starr, but Sam had his back to darkness
and shooting at him would have been a poor gamble. "Anybody sayin' anything?" Mailer
demanded. He waited while one might have counted five, and neither man spoke. Then
he turned away. "No time for loaf in'. We're ridin' on."
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Three days before, Lance Kilkenny had set out on the trail of what he suspected was
a thirteen-year-old murder. Following Lena's vague memories of the journey to the
Blue Hill ranch and his own knowledge of the best route to that area from Santa Fe,
Kilkenny cut across country to a spot he hoped would intersect the path the Markham
wagon had taken. By morning he was in Canyon Largo, headed west, with the sun at
his back. Lona had told him that she had gone on only one more day after she'd been
told that her father had traveled on ahead. That meant that the site of that last
camp and possibly the site of the killing was relatively close to the ranch. By going
a good sixty miles farther east than would seem necessary, Kilkenny hoped to follow
the best path for a wagon and therefore have some hope that he might discover the
exact way that Markham, Lona, and Poke Dunning had approached the ranch. He was covering
ground faster than any wagon could have, not bothering to look for any true clues
of the Markham family's passing, just getting a feel for the slope of the land, watching
for deep arroyos and trying to think like a man would when driving with a heavy load.
By noon he had stopped at a place where the stream had eddied back on itself and
made a good watering hole. From the growth of trees and brush, Kilkenny figured that
it was a place that had remained unchanged for many years and was not the creation
of some recent alteration in the flow of water.
He got down and, leaving Buck to graze on whatever grass he could find, scouted around
on foot. In twenty minutes he had discovered nothing, so he mounted up and headed
off again figuring that he'd cross and head on out north of Angel's Peak. He had
not gone a score of yards when he saw it.
T
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monument rock / 203
He drew up staring at a crude drawing scratched on the rock wall of Largo Canyon.
It was scarcely three feet from the ground and was a crude, childish representation
of a girl with stick legs and arms. An Indian drawing? he wondered. But no Indian
had ever made a drawing like that!
He rode straight up now, his eyes searching the canyon walls and the sandy bed. Although
he had found no campsite, and Lona had not mentioned making this drawing, he was
sure that he had stumbled onto their route.
The following morning, scarcely ten miles from the ranch, he watered his horse and
rested on the east side of Thieving Rock. Idly wandering about, Lance Kilkenny suddenly
saw a charred wheel, then some bolts.
Near a sheltering overhang, half-hidden by brush, were the old remains of a large
fire. Here a few stones had been huddled together and blackened with soot. He dropped
to his knees and dug in the sand, feeling around to see what he might turn up.
At the bottom of the inner wall, the water or wind of some bygone age had scoured
out a small crevice in the stone. It was partly covered, but his eye caught a glimpse
of something more than sand, and stopping, he prodded at it with a stick. It moved
and he saw that it was an iron box!
Kneeling, he grabbed the corner, and brushing away the sand, he pulled out the box.
It was ancient and badly
I
rusted, so picking up a stone he struck at the lock.
Another blow and the box broke open. Within it were a few silver pieces, black with
age, and a handful of pa pers. Carefully, he picked them up. A birth certificate
for Lona! Markham's marriage certificate! A last will and tes tament! And the deed
to the ranch, placing it in Lona's name, along with the old original deed given him
when he i
himself acquired the ranch! I
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Probably he had been afraid of Dunning and had concealed this box each night to prevent
it being found by him if anything happened.
That evening Kilkenny had ridden down the Old Mormon Trail to Blue Hill. Rusty Gates
was mending a bridle and he glanced up at him as he rode in. Gordon Flynn was working
around the corral and Lona saw him coming and smiled nervously as he swung down.
"I'm hunting Poke Markham," Kilkenny said loudly. "Is he around?"
Dunning appeared in the door. He was wearing two guns, Kilkenny noticed, whereas
he had worn but one heretofore. "Come on in!" Poke said, and turned and walked back
into the room.
Lance followed him across the porch, then stopped, closing his eyes for an instant
so he would see better inside away from the sunlight. He took in the room with one
quick glance. A glance that gauged the distance to all the doors and placed the main
articles of furniture. A lot might happen before he left this room.
"You wanted to see me?"
Poke Dunning looked up from under shaggy gray brows. His eyes were hard, measuring.
"You're Kilkenny?"
"That's right."
"You whipped Frank Mailer the other evening. You reckon he will take it lyin' down?"
"He can take it as he chooses."
"He'll meet you with a gun, Kilkenny, and he's fast as greased lightnin'."
Kilkenny waited, saying nothing. This old man wore his guns with the butts well forward.
Some gunmen liked them that way.
"You can't get away from meeting him unless you run,
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an' you don't set up like a running man. I want you to meet him right away. Soon
as he comes back."
"Where's he gone?"
"How'd I know? Don't care, neither. He's a bad hombre, that one, and he's got to
be killed. You got to kill him, anyway, but if you hunt him down or kill him as soon
as he gets back, any way you like, I'll give you five hundred dollars!"
The way he said it made the sum sound big ... but was it big enough? What were the
stakes to Poke Dunning?
"No. I'll meet him when I have to. I won't hunt him down." Kilkenny pulled out his
tobacco and began to build a smoke. "Nice place you've got here. Had it long?"
Dunning tightened up inside. The old fear was always on him. "Quite a spell," he
replied. "Been some changes made."
"I heard it belonged to your daughter, to Lona."
"Well, you're right. I gave it to her when she was just a child."
"You going to start another place someday?" Kilkenny touched the tip of his tongue
to his cigarette, then placed it in his mouth. He dug out a match and lit up, glancing
through the first smoke at Dunning. "Let her have her inheritance?"
"Maybe," Poke said flatly. "Someday." Poke Dunning stared at Kilkenny. What was this,
anyway? He had the man out here to try to hire him, and now he was asking questions.
Too many questions.
"I was wondering. . . . Why is it that they call you 'Poke,' Mr. Markham? What was
your given name?"
He faced Kilkenny. "What's it to you?"
"Just curious."
"Too durned curious! You ain't takin' me up on Mailer?" Poke wanted to change the
subject.
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"No." Kilkenny moved a step toward the door. "But I'll be back to see you, 'Poke.'
" He stopped at the door. "You see, Ike Markham was a friend of mine!" As he spoke
he stepped quickly back into the shadows, dropped a hand to the porch rail, and vaulted
it neatly. "Buck!" he called.
The horse came to him, holding his head high and to one side so as not to step on
the trailing bridle reins. Catching them up, Lance Kilkenny wheeled the horse and
vanished into the darkness.
He need not have hurried. In the big room of the old ranch house, Poke Dunning was
standing where Kilkenny had left him, his face ashen, his cheeks sunken and old.
For all these years he had been afraid of just this. A dozen times he had thought
of what he might do if ever faced with somebody who knew Markham, and now the moment
had come and gone, and he had let the man get away. He should have killed him! But
why, if someone had to come, did it have to be Kilkenny, of all people?
Alone in his room, he paced the floor. After all these years! Why, there had to be
a way out! There had to be! There was no justice in it!
Mailer! If he could only steer Mailer into Kilkenny! They might kill each other off,
or at least make it easy for him to kill the survivor. In that case, there might
still be a chance.
He paced the floor, cursing Mailer's absence as once he had blessed it, eager for
the man to return.
It was this fear that had caused him to keep the gunmen on the payroll even after
he had given up banditry and rustling. This fear that someday, someone would come
over the Old Mormon Trail who knew the truth. He had made a bold play, that long-ago
night in the dark shadow of Thieving Rock. . .. Markham had been a friendly man when
they met, and he had talked cheerfully of the ranch
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he had for his young daughter, and little by little Poke had worked the information
out of him, that his wife was dead, that he had no near relatives but Lona. Poke
Dunning could see his big chance, and in the following nights he sat across the fire
from the man who was carrying him west, and waited for his chance. It came, finally,
only a day's drive from the ranch itself. It came when he was growing desperate with
anxiety, and he knew that Mark-ham had begun to suspect him, that the man moved his
bed at times, shifting it from one place to another after they had turned in.
Yet, in the accomplishment, it had been easy. He had tossed a stone into the darkness
near the horses, and Markham, seeing him lying there, apparently asleep, had risen
and walked out to the horses, fearful that a mountain lion might come down on them.
Poke Dunning had slid out of his blankets and followed him in his sock feet. He had
used a pick handle, and it was only after the third and last blow had fallen that
little Lona called from her blankets and he had replied that everything was all right,
keeping his voice low.
The next day he told the child her father had gone on ahead to make ready for them.
Later he told her that he was off doing business for the ranch and made arrangements
to send her to school. Once she was gone, he had gambled that she would not remember
after the years. He had even gone so far as to change his own ways, to use gestures
and mannerisms the father had used, and even grow a beard in the same style as her
father. It had been a bad moment when she returned on her first holiday, but after
eleven years the memory had dimmed, and although he saw doubt in her eyes, he soon
managed to make her forget those doubts. When she finally came home after many years,
the memories from when she was five or
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almost five had been erased but for a few moments. The rest was a shadowland where
memory and fantasy mingled, where the face of her father was never quite distinct.
Poke Dunning had made his big gamble, and he had won. Now he might lose. He would
lose if something was not done. For years he had built up the ranch. Though Lona
was the actual owner, in his mind the ranch was his and his alone. And now he was
threatened.
When she had first returned from school, Poke had been worried and he had started
planning how to take back control without raising a lot of questions. Frank Mailer
had been his first hope.
He had hoped that Frank Mailer, the outlaw that owed him for so much, would be a
fitting partner in the ranch. But now he was increasingly sure that Frank had his
own plans and that Poke Dunning did not figure in them. Mailer could be handled,
but somehow he must stall him on marrying Lona until after Kilkenny was out of the
way. Then he could take care of big Frank, and he would enjoy doing it. He was going
to make sure that Mailer died. He was going to make sure that Kilkenny died. And
now that his long-held plan to legally wrest ownership of the ranch from Lona had
fallen apart, he would kill her, too. If she died, wouldn't he, as her only surviving
relative, inherit the ranch? After all, wasn't he supposed to have given it to her?
Only Lona's
death had to look like an accident. Gunmen like Kilkenny and outlaws like Mailer
were always dying violently. He could shoot Mailer himself, and if he carefully revealed
what he knew about the big man's outlaw past and various aliases, no one would think
twice about it. But killing a woman, a girl, was another thing entirely.
As if his murderous fantasy was echoing in his mind, Dunning suddenly heard her voice.
She was in the kitchen talking to old Betts, and something was said about coffee.
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monument rock / 209
At this hour on nearly every night Dave Betts made coffee for the two of them. Dunning
suddenly heard a new voice, Flynn's, making some laughing comment.
Poke's eyes narrowed. What was going on here? What was Flynn doing in the house so
late at night? The hands rarely came for coffee this late unless working cattle close
by, and they were not now. He turned and started for the kitchen.
Voices suddenly stilled as he opened the door. He glanced at Lona, her face bright
with laughter, the light catching in her auburn hair, and then at Flynn. Dave had
drawn back near the big cooking range, his face drawn.
"What's goin' on here?" Dunning demanded. "Flynn, you should be in bed asleep. Ain't
nothin' for you at the house this time of night."
"I was just palaverin'," Flynn replied.
"We was havin' coffee," Betts offered. "You want a cup?"
"Yes, won't you have some?" Lona looked up at him, and there was something level
and hard in her eyes that he had never seen there before. "I like to talk to Gordon."
"So it's Gordon, is it?" He glared balefully at the puncher. "Get out!" he growled.
Flynn hesitated, and Dunning's gun flashed in his hand. He was thinking that something
else had been going on behind his back, that this Flynn . . . "Get out!" he said
quickly.
Gordon Flynn backed to the door. Never before had he seen the old man go for a gun,
and on his best day he could not have come within twice the time to match that draw.
He was no gunfighter. On the other hand, his eyes met Lona's. "Go, Gordon. I'm all
right." She spoke softly and he opened the door and backed out, his face white.
Poke Dunning stood very still, first glaring at Dave,
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then at Lona. "You come in here!" he said. "I want to talk to you!"
"All right." Lona got to her feet. She felt a queer, frightened sensation inside
her, yet in another sense she was perfectly calm, her thoughts working carefully.
Kilkenny had come to see Dunning. The man might know his secret, kept for so long,
was now about to be exposed. What would he do? What would he try?
She stepped past him into the big room and walked past the long dining-room table
in the huge old parlor of the ranch house. She crossed to the fireplace, and stood
there straight and looking suddenly taller than she was as she awaited him.
Poke Dunning slammed the door behind him and crossed the room. He dug his pipe into
a can of tobacco and tamped it home. Then he looked up, his eyes bitter and hard,
like flecks of steel under his shaggy brows. "We've got to have a talk. Sorry I got
sore out there. Don't like to think of you wastin' time on those cowhands. You're
too good for them."
"But you approve of Frank Mailer?" she asked coolly.
He looked up then, measuring her with his glance. "No," he said flatly, "and you
ain't goin' to marry him. That was a bad idea."
"I agree." Lona waited, wondering.
He rubbed his chin. "Lona," he said hesitantly, "I got a confession to make. When
Mailer first come down here, I figured him a right upstandin' young feller. Lately,
he ain't seemed so much what he should be; in fact I been hearin' some things from
up Durango way."
"Things?" She looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Stories. Stories of robberies and such. When he comes back I may have to fire Frank
Mailer."
T
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At that moment they both heard a shout, then a sound of running horses, and Mailer's
hard voice, talking to Socorro.
Dunning turned on the girl. "Get to your room!" he said. "An' Lona, you keep your
mouth shut to what we've been talking about!"
CHAPTER 5
Miles back, along the trails north and west of Aztec Crossing, there rode a small,
grim-faced group of men. In the van were three men on gray horses, three men who
answered to the names of Jim, Pat, and Terry Mulhaven, the brothers of Johnny, who
was alive but badly shot up back in Aztec.
There were eight of these men in all, headed by an Apache tracker, and these were
the men who had built the Crossing from nothing to a fairly stable little outpost.
Storekeeper Worth, answering to the name of Bill, was among them, his old Sharps
across his saddlebow.
The peace and contentment of their town had been violated and good citizens had been
done to death, so the attitude of the posse, self-appointed, was harsh and determined.
A dozen times they had lost the trail, and a dozen times they had found it again.
Their progress had been slow, but it was relentless.
Most often, it was the distinctive tracks of the blood bay ridden by Mailer that
they found. They knew this horse by sight, and they knew his tracks.
"I wonder how much further?" Worth asked.
"We got all summer," Jim Mulhaven replied shortly. "This is one trail I ain't leavin'
until those hombres stretch hemp."
A good day and a half behind the outlaws, they had
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come upon the body of Kane Geslin. The sign made evident what had happened here.
"Killed by one of his own men," Worth commented.
"One less for us," Pat said grimly. "Let's be ridin'!" They rode on, into the hot,
still afternoon, their eyes grimly upon the trail.
1
At Blue Hill, Mailer had wasted no time in facing Poke Dunning. He went at once to
the ranch house, opened the door, and closed it, looking at the older man across
the big room. "Poke, let's get this over with. Come Saturday, I'm marrying Lona!"
He could see that something had happened-what, he did not know-but Mailer was a changed
man, not suddenly insistent, demanding, but with some deeper, more deadly change.
"I don't think so, Frank. She doesn't want to marry you. And now I agree with her."
Frank Mailer looked at old Poke Dunning through narrowed eyes. "You double-crossin'
me, Dunning?" he asked.
"It could be I'm protectin' myself from a double cross. An' don't think that I'm
scared of you telling people who I really am. I've been here for years and most of
those that haven't forgot who Poke Dunning was are dead."
"What if you died, mighty sudden," Mailer suggested, his eyes holding Poke's, "an'
I married Lona?^'
Dunning shrugged. "The trouble with that is"-he spoke carefully, knowing how slender
was the thread along which their course was holding, a thread that might snap with
a burst of gunfire at any moment-"that Kilkenny knows."
"Who?" Mailer started at the name. "Kilkenny? Is he here?"
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"Who do you think whipped you, Frank?" Dunning asked. "That was him, all right. Kansas
tipped me off."
"Kilkenny!" All thoughts were suddenly gone from Mailer's mind but the one. It was
fantastic. He had heard of the gunfighter for years, but had never seen him. Remembering
the description that Gates had given in the saloon the first night they met, he knew
Poke was telling the truth. Despite himself, he was awed and worried.
Had anyone suggested that the name frightened him, he would have scoffed at it. He
had never been frightened of anything, but one could not hear the countless stories
surrounding that name without it taking on an almost magical quality. He felt a strange,
deadly chill within him. Kilkenny! And the man had beaten him with his fists, but
perhaps with a gun ... ?
"Look," Poke said softly, "we've had our troubles, Frank. We both have it in for
each other, but it ain't necessary. We started in this deal an' we can do all right
with it yet. I can't let you marry Lona yet. . . not until I can trust you. We can
settle this; the only thing in the way is this Kilkenny. We've got to get rid of
him."
"We?" Mailer looked at Dunning, trying to assemble his thoughts. The knowledge that
Kilkenny was in this deal disturbed him.
"Sure! Look, alone neither of us can win. Together we can. As long as Kilkenny is
in the picture, we stand to lose, so what we've got to do is get him out of it. Then
we can settle this deal between us, or work partners on it. Our first job is to be
rid of him."
"Maybe you're right," Mailer agreed grudgingly, "but that won't be so easy. Got any
ideas?"
"Sure. I've been thinking about it. Look, he came over to the ranch once, so we can
get him here again. He was a friend of Lona's father. All right, we send him a message
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from her. He'll come, an' when he does, we'll be waitin' for him. Geslin, Starr,
Socorro, an' us."
"Not Geslin. He's dead."
"Dead?"
"Yeah." Mailer's cold eyes shifted to Dunning's. "We had some words an' he tried
to draw on me. I killed him."
Poke Dunning absorbed that and didn't like it. He had known Mailer was good, but
if he was good enough to get Geslin and not even collect a slug in the process, then
he was even more dangerous than Poke had believed.
"Ethridge is dead, too." Mailer was rolling a smoke. "We took that bank at Aztec
Crossing."
Rage boiled up inside of Poke Dunning. He had refused to allow anything of the kind.
This was going directly against his orders. For an instant he was about to give vent
to his fury, but he throttled his anger. "That's no matter. We can use Socorro an'
Starr. It will be easy enough. You an' me an' Starr will be out of sight. We can
have Socorro mendin' a saddle or something. Kilkenny rides in, an' we take him in
a cross fire. Four guns. He won't beat that."
"All right," Mailer agreed. "It's a good plan. Can you get word to him?"
"Sure. Through Kansas or that Spanish girl."
"You're right, there's something between them."
"Yeah"-Dunning nodded-"we should have guessed it. She's that Nita Riordan who was
with him on the border and at the Cedars. Remember? We heard about her."
So that was it? Kilkenny's girl? But after Kilkenny died?
"Poke," Mailer said suddenly, "I think I'm goin' to like this. You get word to Kansas
or the girl. Let's get started on this an' get it over with."
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Sam Starr walked into the bunkhouse and pulled off his boots. Behind him Socorro
followed, and Rusty Gates opened his eyes and looked at them in the darkness. He
could see only vague outlines, but he heard Socorro's muttered curse, then Starr's
low question. "How do you feel?"
"Bad," Socorro said. "My whole arm and shoulder are so stiff it hurts to move."
"You feel better than Geslin."
Socorro did not say anything for a minute. Then he said, "Frank should have buried
him. If there's a posse, they are liable to stumble on the body."
Rusty Gates was wide-awake now. What went on here? To speak would cause them to clam
up, and he wanted to hear more. He lay still and listened.
"There will
be a posse," Starr said. "Aztec is a tough place. I knew that kid who opened up on
us. He was one of the Mulhaven boys, an' there's four or five more."
"Gunfighters?"
"No, but tough hands, and clannish as all get out. You can bet we've got a Mulhaven
on us now, somewhere."
"What you plannin' to do?"
Sam Starr let that question slide. It was not that he did not know, but Socorro was
pretty thick with Mailer. Starr planned to get his share of the loot and light a
shuck for Texas. But fast.
A long time after, Gates saw Gordon Flynn come into the room, get something out of
his bunk, and leave again. Mailer still had not come in. When he did he undressed
and fell right into bed.
After Mailer left him, Dunning moved swiftly. He had to prepare for battle on two
fronts. The trap had to be set for Kilkenny and he needed to be ready for Mailer's
next
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move, whether they'd done in Kilkenny or not. He crossed the patio and rapped lightly
on Lena's door. "Who's there?" she asked.
"It's me ... Pa. Get your clothes an' come out of there. You sleep in the back room
tonight. Beside Dave Berts."
Lona thought quickly. Why Dunning wanted her to move she could not guess, but being
close to Dave would make her feel much safer. She knew the old man's affection for
her, and his loyalty. "All right," she said after a minute.
"You'll be all right there. Mailer's back."
She said nothing but went to the room mentioned, barred the door, and climbed into
bed. Poke Dunning walked into Lona's bedroom and sat down on the empty bed with his
six-shooter in his hand.
His hunch might be wrong, but Lona was the pawn in the game now. Possession of her
person was as important as possession of the ranch itself, even more important, as
things stood. If Mailer came ... it was almost daylight when he heard the soft rustle
of grass, then heard a low voice. "Lona!"
He sat very still, and then a head and shoulders loomed at the open window. "Lona!"
the voice called.
Poke Dunning fired.
Mailer, Gates, and Starr came awake on the instant. Starr thought first of a posse,
Gates and Mailer were thinking of Kilkenny. Gates kicked off the blankets and reached
for his boots. Mailer stared at him, then leaned back in bed. Going out into that
yard was something he had no idea of doing right now. Firing a pistol and then waiting
might be just the trick Poke Dunning would try. "See what it is," he said, and sagged
back in his bunk.
Rusty Gates walked out into the yard, but there was no
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sound and no movement. He waited, then crossed the hard-packed earth of the ranch
yard toward the house. He heard a
faint stirring and turned toward the wing of the house. Someone had lighted a lantern,
and he rounded the corner to see the dark figure of a man bending over another one
on the ground.
Rusty had his gun out. "Who is it?" he demanded.
Dunning turned, saw Gates, and saw the gun. "It's Flynn," he said. "He tried to get
into Lena's window and got shot."
"Shot? Lona shot Flynn?" Gates could not believe that.
He bent over the cowhand. "Dead?"
"No, he ain't, but he's bad hurt. Let's get him inside."
Poke was cursing his luck, for when he fired he was11
sure that it was Mailer he had under his gun. But why was''
Flynn here? Had Lona planned to escape?.
When they put the boy down on Lena's bed, Gates'
worked over him, and Dunning watched. "Where do you stand in this, Gates?" Poke asked
suddenly.
Rusty looked up. He had wondered if he would be asked. "Now, that's a good point,
Dunning. I don't know where I stand. I don't know what the fuss is all about. However,"
he added, "this is a deal where I'd look to see where the money was."
"I've got it. You work for me an' you can make yourself a fast stake."
"That sounds good to me. What do I do?"
"Saddle a horse an' see that girl at the Fandango. Tell her Poke Dunning wants to
see Kilkenny tomorrow at three. Then you get back here and stand ready to side me
... against anybody."
"What does it get me?" Rusty knew the question was expected.
"Two-fifty for five days. Double if you have to fight."
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Rusty saddled up and rode out of the ranch but he did not ride more than a half mile
before he swung off the road and headed for Monument Rock. He would ride directly
to Kilkenny. Whatever this meant he did not know, but Kilkenny could make his own
decision after he apprised him of the facts.
Kilkenny heard him out in silence. The return of three men to Blue Hill when five
had gone out, the shooting of Gordon Flynn. "No," Gates said, when asked, "he's not
dead. But he's got a bad wound and lost a lot of blood. When I left, Dave was takin'
care of him, and old Betts is a good hand with a gunshot."
Kilkenny got to his feet and paced nervously beside the fire. It was daylight now,
but the morning was still cool. They wanted him there at three o'clock, and between
now and three many things could happen, and Gates was here. "You get back to the
ranch," he said. "You watch your chance, and if there is one, get that girl out of
there. If there isn't, watch her close. Maybe it's just best to do that."
"Are you comin' at three?"
"I think so."
"It may be a trap."
"Could be. Anyway, tell him I'll be there."
He watched Rusty go with misgiving. Dunning, Mailer, Starr, and Socorro would be
there to meet him, yet there seemed to be no suspicion of Rusty, and it would be
only a matter of hours until he would go himself.
Over his coffee, he considered the whole setup at Blue Hill, remembering every detail
of the ranch and its layout.
This was to be a showdown, he knew that. Whether or not Poke Dunning wanted to talk
business, Kilkenny
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knew very well that if he did not agree to whatever Dunning demanded, he would have
to fight his way out. Knowing this, he made plans to stay in. Dunning was going to
deal the cards, but he would play his own hand the way that suited him best.
The killing of Geslin interested him. Frank Mailer was fast, for Geslin had been
very fast and an excellent shot. And Mailer had killed him.
From what Gates said, they had been in some sort of a gun battle, for Ethridge, too,
was dead. They had brought back sacks stuffed with money, and that might mean a holdup
at any one of a dozen places.
Shortly before noon Kilkenny mounted the buckskin and left his hideout, but he did
not ride out into the flat-n
lands toward Blue Hill; instead he crossed Salt Creek Wash''
and rode up the canyon that opened opposite Monument Rock and ran due north. Emerging
from the canyon at aI
place just west of Popping Rock, he struck an old trail across the highlands back
of the cliffs that formed the northern boundary of the Blue Hill range. It was a
trail he had used before, and one he well knew. Within an hour of easy riding, he
was on the point of rocks opposite Blue Hill, and here, after concealing his horse
among the pinons, he found a place on the crest of the cliffs and began to make a
systematic study of the ranch through his glasses.
His point of observation could scarcely have been better, for he was at an altitude
of some six thousand feet, while the ranch itself was all of five hundred feet lower
and scarcely a mile away. From his vantage point in the clear mountain air, he could
easily see the figures and, knowing them, could distinguish one from the other, even
though features would not be discernible. Yet after fifteen minutes of careful study,
he saw no one.
Becoming increasingly anxious, Kilkenny moved down
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a little lower and somewhat closer to the edge of the cliff, and studied the terrain
still more carefully. A few of the buildings were concealed by the bulk of the nearer
peak, but the house and the burikhouse he could plainly see, and there was still
no movement.
He got up at last and rode west. He had a ride of at least two miles before there
was a way down from the rim, and when he made it, he was on the Old Mormon Trail.
Worried, he studied the trail, but there was no evidence of any recent travel. Turning
off the trail, he chose a way that would keep him close against the cliffs, where
he would have the partial cover of desert brush, pinon, and fallen boulders until
he could reach a point that would put the bulk of the peak between himself and the
ranch buildings.
From time to time he halted and studied the ranch anew through his glasses, and there
was still no movement. The place might have been deserted for years; it lay silent
and crystal clear in the bright noonday sun.
Far away across the desert the heat waves danced weirdly, and the towering shoulders
of Monument Rock were purple against the sky, while between rolled the salmon, pink,
and shadowed magenta of the desert, flecked with islands of cloud shadow. The air
was so still that one felt as if a loud voice might shatter it to fragments, or dissolve
the whole scene like something reflected in the rounded surface of a soap bubble.
Uneasily, Kilkenny pushed back his hat "and mopped the perspiration from his brow
and face. It was very hot. No breath of wind stirred the air. He dried his palms
on his handkerchief and stared thoughtfully at the silent ranch, then let the buckskin
pick his way forward another hundred yards. He hesitated again, every sense alert
for danger, and he loosened the guns in their holsters and squinted his green eyes
hard against the glare.
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monument rock / 221
He studied the ranch again, near enough now to discern the slightest movement, but
there was none. Removing the glasses from his eyes, he wiped them off, then studied
the ranch again. If he went much farther, he would have to ride out in the open,
and a marksman atop the peak would have him in easy shooting distance. For a long
time he studied the rim of the nearer peak, then the buildings and corrals of Blue
Hill, yet he saw nothing.
Something was radically wrong. Something had happened, and it must have happened
since Rusty left the ranch ... or after Rusty returned, for there was no sign of
him, either.
If it were indeed a trap, it had been set much too soon, for he was not due for almost
an hour. Furthermore, they would have left somebody in sight; they would have had
some natural, familiar movement to lull his suspicions. Yet there was nothing; for
all the movement, the scene might have been painted on glass.
Far away over the range a lonely steer moved, heading for water, miles away. Above,
the heat-dancing air, where a buzzard swung on lazy, waiting wings. Kilkenny shoved
his glasses back in the saddlebag and rode forward, clinging still to the cliff shadow
and its slight obscurity. Now he slid his Winchester from the scabbard and, turning
the buckskin away from the cliff, rode directly across to the shadow of the peak
opposite.
When he could ride no closer without presenting too large a target, he swung down
from the buckskin, and speaking to it softly, he moved forward. Always light on his
feet, he moved now like a wraith, then halted, scarcely forty yards away from the
ranch house, to look and listen. He waited there while a man might have counted a
slow fifty. There was no sound, no movement. A flat, uneasy stillness hung over the
place.
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222 / Louis i/amour
What had happened?
Kilkenny arose swiftly from behind the shrub and moved with swift, silent strides
to the wall of the building and along the wall to Lona's window, from which he had
seen the girl's shadow on that first day before she emerged to wave to him. The window
was open, and the lace curtain hung limp and lifeless in the dead, still air.
Inside the room a mirror hung on the wall, and from the side he could see it, and
it gave him a view of most of the inside of the room. There was nothing. He had left
his Winchester with the horse, but now he slid a Colt into his hand and stepped quickly
past the window to get the view from the opposite side. The room was empty. He stepped
over the sill and stood inside.
There was some blood on the sill where Flynn had been shot the previous night. The
door was open on the silent, sunlit patio. Kilkenny returned his gun to his holster
and crossed to the door, studying the patio.
Under the eaves of the porch hung an olla,
its sides dark with the contents of clear, cold water. Several strings of peppers
hung from the eaves across the way and a spring bubbled from the ground into a tiny
pool in the center of the patio, then trickled off through a stone pipe to empty
into the water trough away at the corral.
Listening, he heard nothing. Yet within any one of the half-dozen windows or two
doors, a gun might wait. Back inside the window where he would be invisible, either
Dunning or Mailer might stand, gun in hand. A gourd dipper hung near the
olla
and another at the spring. Kilkenny's mouth was dry and he longed for a drink. His
ears straining with the effort to hear some sound, he waited a moment longer, then
stepped out into the patio, and crossed it, to the door opposite. As he walked he
glanced sharply
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right toward the open side from which he could see the corrals and the stable. All
was bright and still.
The kitchen was empty. He placed a hand on the coffeepot, and it seemed to be vaguely
warm. Lifting the lid of the stove, he saw a dull red glow among the few coals atop
the gray of ashes and the grate. He stepped past the stove and walked into the dining
room, and then he stopped.
In a doorway on his left a hand was visible, lying flat and lax, palm down on the
floor. It was an old hand, worn and brown.
Stepping quickly around the table, Kilkenny saw the man who lay there, his bald head
rimmed with a fringe of graying hair, his shirt dark with blood, and the floor beneath
him stained with it.
A six-shooter lay near his hand and he still wore the apron that marked him for who
and what he was. Dave Betts was dead. He had been shot twice through the chest.
Stepping quickly past him, Kilkenny looked into the room from which Betts had apparently
emerged. It was definitely bachelor quarters. Turning to the room beside it, he found
a mussed bed, and bending over, he sniffed the pillow, detecting a faint perfume.
This, then, was where Lena had spent the night, but where was she?
And where were they all?
Stepping past the old man's body, Kilkenny moved the length of the long table and
stepped through the open door into the large living room.
No one. This, too, was empty and still.
Somewhere, thunder rumbled distantly, mumbling in the far-off hills like a giant
disturbed in his sleep. A faint breath of wind coming alive stirred out over the
desert, and he heard the rustle of the peppers on their strings in
*\\
'* ) ?;
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the patio, and the curtain stirred faintly as though moved by a ghostly hand.
Kilkenny mopped his face of sweat and moved carefully across the room. The wind stirred
again, and suddenly he heard another sound, a sound that sent a faint chill over
him, making his shoulders twitch with the feeling of it. It was the sound of a strained
rope, a rope that hung taut and hard, creaking a little, with a burden.
He stepped quickly to the door, his mouth dry. As though drawn by foreknowledge,
his eyes went to the stable, whose wide-open door he could now see. From the cross
beam over the high door, made high to admit racks of hay, he saw a long and heavy
form suspended by a short rope.
Nearer, sprawled upon the ground in the open, lay an outstretched body. Gun in hand,
Kilkenny stepped quickly outside, his eyes shooting right and left, then he ran across
to the stable. One glance at the face, and he straightened, sorely puzzled. The man
was a total stranger!
Crossing to the barn, he found where the rope was tied and unfastened it, lowering
the man who had been hanged. His spurs jingled as the dead man's heels touched the
ground. One glance at the blue face and he knew. It was Socorro.
Walking to the bunkhouse, he hesitated, for the steps were bloodstained. Then he
moved inside. On the floor before him lay another stranger, his body fairly riddled
with bullets, and against the end of the room sat Sam Starr, his head hanging on
his chest, guns lax near his hands, and his shirt and trousers soaked in blood.
Crouching beside him, Kilkenny lifted Starr's chin, and miraculously, the man's lids
stirred, and his lips worked to form words. "Shot... me," he whispered, his lips
working at the words he could not shape, "Mulhavens."
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Kilkenny motioned to the dead man inside the door. "Is that a Mulhaven?"
Starr indicated assent. "Tough," he said, "plenty . . . tough."
"Where's Dunning?"
Starr shook his head.
Kilkenny grasped the dying man's shoulder. "Tell me, man! Where's that girl! Where's
Lona? Dammit, speak up!"
Starr's eyes forced themselves open and he struggled to speak. "D ... d ... don't
know. Poke, he ... away."
"Poke Dunning has her," Kilkenny said. "Is that it?"
Starr nodded. "Mailer's craz ... y. Plumb gone bats ..." Sam Starr's voice trailed
away, and he fainted.
Carefully, Kilkenny eased the man to a prone position and grabbed a pillow for his
head from the nearest bunk.
Swiftly, he worked over the dying man, doing what he could to ease his position and
his pain. Then he hurried from the bunkhouse and made a quick survey of the ranch.
He found no one else. Four dead men and the dying Sam Starr. Dunning, Mailer, Lona,
Rusty Gates, and Gordon Flynn were all gone.
Hurrying back with a bucket of cool water, he found Starr conscious. Holding a gourd
dipper to the man's mouth, he helped him drink. Starr looked his gratitude. "Mailer's
gone after . .. after your girl," he gasped. "He's crazy!"
"My girl?" Kilkenny was dumbfounded. "At Salt Creek?"
Starr nodded weakly. "An'... an' the Mulhavens are after G ... G ... Gates."
"What?" Kilkenny sprang to his feet. "But he wasn't an outlaw!"
"You try tellin' 'em that!" Starr's face was turning gray.
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Kilkenny stood flat-footed and still above the dying man. Frank Mailer, kill-crazy
and full of fury, was gone to Salt Creek after Nita. Somewhere, Poke Dunning was
escaping with Lona, and his friend Rusty Gates, the man who had come into this only
to help him, and probably with a wounded man for company, was riding to escape a
blood-hungry posse whose reason had been lost in a lust for revenge for the killing
of their own friends and brothers!
Kilkenny knew of the Mulhavens. A family of tough Irishmen, three of them veterans
of the Indian wars. Hard, honest, capable men. He knew, too, the men of Aztec Crossing,
and they were not men to take the bloodletting Mailer had visited upon them without
retaliation. If they had trailed those men to this ranch, they would regard all upon
it as tarred with the same brush and would make a clean sweep. Two of their group
had died here, and that would make matters no easier.
Leaving Starr, he dashed outside and stopped in the sunlight. Where to go? Nita was
in danger. Rusty was being pursued by a hanging mob, and Lona ...
Kilkenny forced himself to coldness. Brigo was at Salt Creek with Nita, and so was
Cain Brockman. He would have to gamble that they were protection enough. Lona, wherever
she was, must wait, for it was not immediately apparent what danger she might be
in. Rusty had evidently taken Flynn and somehow managed an escape, knowing that the
wounded Flynn would certainly be taken as one of the outlaws. Rusty had come into
this only to help him, and to have him hanged by mistake would be a horrible responsibility.
He took swift strides toward the corral, glancing over the remaining horses. Rusty's
mount was not there.
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Turning, he whistled shrilly, and in a moment saw Buck come trotting around the building
toward him.
Again in the saddle, Kilkenny began a painstaking sweep of the ranch, yet his job
was in a measure simplified by knowing that Gates must make his escape by some route
that would take him from the rear of the buildings. Forcing himself to take his time,
Lance Kilkenny soon found the tracks of Gates's horse and another. He studied the
hoofprints of this other horse carefully, then mounted and worked the trail out of
the brush and rocks to a shallow dip south and west of Blue Hill.
Apparently, Rusty was heading for the rough country of Malpais Arroyo, and walking
his horses. Was that because of the wounded Flynn? Or to keep from attracting attention?
He was something over a mile south of the ranch when a bunch of tracks made by hard-running
horses came in from the north. Lance felt his stomach turn over within him. The Aztec
posse! They had seen them and were in pursuit. Touching a spur to the buckskin, he
went into a lope, then a run. The tracks were easy to follow now. The wind whipped
at his face, and thunder rumbled over the mountains beyond Monument Rock. The brim
of his hat slapped back against his skull, but the buckskin, loving to run, ate into
the distance with swiftly churning hooves.
The trail dipped into the arroyo and led along it, and heedless of ambush, thinking
only of his friend, Kilkenny rode on, his face grim and hard. He knew mobs and how
relentless and unreasoning they could be. There would be no reasoning with this bunch.
If he met them, it could well be a payoff in blood and bullets. He had never, to
his knowledge, killed an honest man, but to save his friend he would do just that.
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Suddenly he saw that the pace of the horses he followed had slowed, and he drew up
himself, walking his horse, and listening. Then, carried by the echoing walls of
the arroyo that had now deepened to a canyon, he heard a yell. Soon somebody called,
"Boost him up here, durn it! Let's get this job over with!"
The voices were just around a bend in the rocks ahead. His stomach muscles tight
and hard, his mouth dry, Kilkenny slid from his horse. His hands went to walnut-butted
guns and loosened them in their holsters, then he moved around the bend and into
sight.
There, beneath a huge old cottonwood, stood Rusty Gates, and beside him, Gordon Flynn.
The wounded man was being held up by a man who stood directly in front of him. There
were seven men here, seven hard, desperate men.
Flynn's eyes went past them and he saw Kilkenny.
"Kilkenny!" he yelled.
As one man, the posse turned to face the owner of that dread name.
He spoke, and his voice was clear and strong. "Step back from those men, damn you
for a lot of brainless killers! Get away, or I'll take the lot of you!"
CHAPTER 6
Surprise held the men of the posse immobile, and in the moment of stillness Kilkenny
spoke again. His voice was sharp and clear. "You've got the wrong men there! While
you try to string up a couple of honest cowhands, the real killers are gettin' away!"
"Oh, yeah?" Terry Mulhaven's voice was sharp. He had suddenly decided he was not
going to be bluffed, Kil-
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kenny or no Kilkenny. "You keep out of this! Or maybe," he added, his voice lowering
a note, "you're one of them?"
Kilkenny did not reply to him. Instead, he asked quickly, "Did any of you see the
holdup? Actually see it?"
"I did," Worth said sharply. "I saw it."
"All right, then. Look again at these men. Were they among those you saw?"
Worth hesitated, glancing uneasily at Terry Mulhaven. "The redhead wasn't. I saw
no redheaded man, but we wounded two of them, anyway, and this man is wounded." He
gestured at Flynn. "That's enough for me."
"It's not enough!" Kilkenny returned crisply. "If all you want to do is kill, then
kill each other or try killing me. But if you want justice, then try thinking rather
than stringing up the first men you meet!"
"All right, mister. You tell us how we should be thinking. You talk quick, though."
"That man was shot by Poke Dunning when he tried to help a girl get away from that
bunch of outlaws." Kilkenny spoke swiftly, for he had them listening now, and he
knew Western men. Quick to anger and quick to avenge an insult or a killing, they
were also, given a chance, men of good heart and goodwill, and essentially reasonable
men. They were also men of humor. Such men had been known to let a guilty man go
free when he made some humorous remark with a noose around his neck, or under a gun.
They respected courage, and given a chance to cool down, they would judge fairly.
He had them talking now, and he meant to keep them talking. "The men who rode to
the Crossing were led by Frank Mailer, the worst of the lot," he continued rapidly,
arresting and holding their attention by his crisp, sharp speech and the confidence
of his knowledge. "With him rode Geslin, Sam Starr, Socorro, an' Scar Ethridge.
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"Ethridge never came back. You hanged Socorro and killed Starr at the ranch. You
also killed an honest man, Dave Betts."
"We got Ethridge at the Crossin'," Mulhaven said, "but if that honest man was the
hombre on the floor inside the house, we didn't kill him. He was dead when we got
there!"
This was news to Kilkenny. Apparently Dave had given his life in trying to protect
Lona Markham. Dunning had evidently carried her off.
"Mailer's still loose and I'm after him myself," Kilkenny added. "These two men were
the only honest hands on the place aside from that old man you found dead."
Bill Worth walked over to Flynn and took the noose from his neck, then he removed
the loop from Rusty's neck. "Glad you showed up," he said shortly. "I tried to tell
these hombres that redhead wasn't among 'em!"
Kilkenny had no time for conversation. "Rusty," he said swiftly, "get Flynn back
to the ranch. I'm ridin' to Salt Creek after Mailer. Then we'll have to hunt Poke
Dunning."
Turning abruptly, he swung into his saddle, and with a wave at the posse and his
friends, he was off at a dead run.
Terry Mulhaven stared after him, then mopped his brow. "Man!" he said. "When I turned
around an' looked into them green eyes, I figured my number was up for sure!" He
glanced at Rusty. "Is he as fast as they say?"
"Faster," Gates said wryly.
Bill Worth looked at the Mulhavens. "Let's pick up the bodies," he said gently, "and
head for home. The folks will be worried."
"Yeah"-Terry nodded-"we better." He glanced sheepishly at Rusty and Flynn. "No hard
feelin's?"
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Gates stared at him, then his red face broke into a grin. "Not right now," he said,
"but a few minutes ago I was some sore!"
In a tight knot, the posse headed north for the ranch, and later, with the bodies
of the two fallen men across their saddles, they started toward home. They rode slowly
and they talked but little, and as a result they were startled by a sudden grunt
from their Apache tracker. "Look!" he said. "Big red hoss!"
They looked, and the tracks were there. Terry Mul-haven glanced at this brother,
then at Worth. "Well," he said, "we know that track. We followed it all the way from
Aztec. Let's see what we find this time!"
Grimly, they turned their horses down the trail made by(j
Frank Mailer's horse. This time somebody would pay the cost of the heavy burden the
two lead horses carried, the|
burden left upon them by the murdered men in the bank.
Due east of Monument Rock and the hideout used by Kilkenny was an old prospector's
cabin. This adobe shelter had been used by drifting cowhands, by rustlers and sheepherders
as a temporary shelter, but for some years now it had been passed by and forgotten.
It was huddled in a tight little corner of rock far down one of the southern-reaching
tentacles of Salt Creek Wash, and here Poke Dunning had taken Lona Markham.
She had not gone willingly. In the confusion of the Blue Hill ranch gun battle, Poke
had made his move. His first thought had been to try to put a bullet in Frank Mailer,
but as he moved to the window that faced the bunkhouse and the ongoing fracas, rifle
in hand, he'd spotted big Frank sliding down the side of the wash that ran across
one side
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of the ranch yard. He had a set of saddlebags over his shoulder and was out of sight
before Dunning could shoot. Poke figured that the saddlebags probably held the loot
from Mailer's robbery.
Realizing that no matter what happened during the shoot-out, he'd still have Mailer
to deal with, Dunning headed for Dave Betts's room and Lona. Knowing that he had
only moments before the posse turned its attention on the main house, he plunged
into the room.
"Out the window, quick!" he snapped. "We're gettin' out of here."
"You go. I'm staying here." Lona had made the mistake of thinking that Kilkenny had
come, and although she had been afraid because of all the shooting, she was now sure
that if Poke was running, then Kilkenny must be winning.
"Dammit, girl!" He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her toward the window.
"You hold up there, Mr. Markham!" Dave Betts was frightened by the fear he saw in
Lena's eyes ... something was wrong here. He grabbed Poke's shoulder.
Turning, Poke drew his right-hand gun and shot Dave twice in the chest; then, as
Lona opened her mouth to scream he knocked her unconscious with a diagonal swipe
of the barrel. He shoved her out the window, and then dropping out after her, he
headed for the corrals.
In the remote cabin, never visited in these days by anyone, he left Lona tied securely.
He had not been able to escape the ranch on either his or Lena's personal mount.
Her horse, Zusa, was essential to his new plan. He was tired of playing games with
Mailer and Lona and everybody else. Lona was going to
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die. The two of them escaped the confusion back at the ranch. Frank Mailer would
be revealed to be the vicious bank robber that he was, but in their escape there
would be a tragic accident ... a riding accident. His daughter would pass away and
no one would ask any questions about his continuing to live on the ranch. There might
eventually be some documents to be filed, but the right kind of lawyer could handle
that.
He was headed now for Blue Hill, intending to arrive there just after dark. With
this idea in mind, he cut an old trail south and rode on until he was in the tall
shadow of Chimney Rock. He drew up and got stiffly from the saddle.
This place was lonely and secure. He would wait heren
until almost dark, then he was going to sneak in and get^'
Lena's horse . . . once he'd done that, he could take her.
out, kill her with a blow to the neck, and fake the fall. Seat'
ing himself on the ground in the shadow of the Chimney, he filled his pipe and began
to smoke.
It bothered him to contemplate the idea of murdering the girl that had lived as his
daughter for so many years. She'd always been a tool, but he would admit that he
was fond of her. For a few minutes he considered taking the money he'd hidden away
and starting over somewhere else, but there wasn't quite as much as he'd have liked,
and after all, he'd never been a quitter.
Nearby, a huge old cottonwood rustled its leaves and he leaned back, knocking out
his pipe. There would be a couple of hours to kill, and he was in no hurry. He would
sleep a little while. His lids became heavy, then closed, his big hands grew lax
in his lap, and he leaned comfortably back among the rocks. It was a joke on Mailer
that he had taken the big bay, Frank's favorite horse. The cottonwood
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 234 / Louis L'AMOUR
had a huge limb that stretched toward him, and it rustled its leaves, gently lulling
him to sleep.
He did not hear the slowly walking horses, even when a hoof clicked on stone. He
was tired, and not as young as he once had been, but no thought of murdered men behind
him, or of the girl, bound and helpless in a remote cabin, disturbed him. He slept
on. He did not awaken even when the silent group of men faced him in a crescent of
somber doom. Silent, hard-faced men who knew that blood bay, and carried with them
the burden of their dead. It was the creak of saddle leather when Terry Mulhaven
dismounted that awakened him.
Five men faced him on horseback, another on foot. Still another had thrown a rope
over that big cottonwood limb, and Poke Dunning, who had lived most of his adult
years with the knowledge that such a scene might be prepared for him at any moment,
came awake suddenly and sharply, and his hand flashed for a gun.
He was lying on his side, his left gun beneath him, and somehow, in stirring around,
his right gun had slipped from the holster. Not all the way, but so far back that
when he grabbed it, he grabbed it around the cylinder, and not the butt.
The difference might seem infinitesimal. At this moment it was not. At this moment
it was the difference between a fighting end and a hanging. Pat Mulhaven's rifle
spoke, and the hand that held the gun was shattered and bloody.
Gripping his bloody hand, Poke Dunning stared up at them. "What do you want me for?"
he protested. "You've got the wrong man!"
"Yeah?" Pat Mulhaven sneered. "We heard that one before! We know that horse! We know
you!"
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"But listen!" he protested frantically. "Wait, now!" He got clumsily to his feet,
his left hand gripping the bloody right. Great crimson drops welled from it and dripped
slowly from his finger ends to the parched grass and sand beneath him.
He started to speak again, and then something came over him, something he had never
experienced before. It was a sense of utter futility, and with it resignation. Roughly,
they seized him.
"Give me a gun," he said harshly, "with my left hand! I'll kill the lot of you! Just
my left hand!" he said, his fierce old eyes flaring at them.
"Set him on his hoss," Bill Worth said calmly, "behind the saddle."
Sometime later they rode on, turning their horses again toward home, and walking
slowly, their task accomplished, with the feeling that their dead might ride on toward
that dim cow-country Valhalla, attended by the men who had handled the guns.
Behind them, the shadow of Chimney Rock grew wider and longer, and the leaves of
the cottonwood rustled gently, whispering one to the other as only cottonwood leaves
will do, in just that way. And among them, his sightless eyes lifted skyward as if
to see the last of the sunlight sky, and the last of the white clouds, looking through
the cottonwood leaves, was Poke Dunning.
The point shadows of night had infiltrated the streets of Salt Creek when Lance Kilkenny
came again to the town. The long-legged buckskin entered the dusty street with a
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 236 / Louis L'AMOUR
swinging trot and did not stop until it reached the hitching rail of the Fandango.
Yet already Kilkenny knew much. He knew that nothing had happened here tonight.
Before the Express, Lisa, the Portuguese, was sweeping the boardwalk, and he glanced
up to see Kilkenny ride in; then, unaware of his identity, he returned to his sweeping.
Before Starr's Saloon, Al Starr smoked his pipe, unaware that his brother was at
this moment lying dead and chockfull of Aztec Crossing lead on the bunkhouse floor
at Blue Hill. At the Fandango, Cain Brockman was arranging his stock for a big night.
All was sleepy, quiet, and peaceful. Although it was early, a lamp glowed here and
mere from a cabin window, and there was a light in the Express. The advancing skirmishers
of darkness had halted here and there in the cover of buildings, gathering force
for an invasion of the street. Lance swung down, spoke softly to the buckskin, and
stepped up onto the boardwalk. There he turned again, and swept the street with a
quick, sharp, all-encompassing glance. Then he pushed through the swinging doors
into the almost empty saloon.
Brockman looked up quickly and jerked his head toward the door where Brigo sat, but
Kilkenny walked directly to the bar, waving aside the bottle that Cain immediately
lifted. "Has Mailer been in? "
Cain's eyes sparked. "No, ain't seen him. What's up?"
"Hell to pay!" Swiftly, Kilkenny sketched out what had happened. "He was headed for
here," he added.
"Let him come!" Cain said harshly. "I've got an express gun loaded with buckshot."
Brigo was on his feet and coming over. Leaving Cain to tell him what had happened,
Kilkenny went swiftly to Nita's door and rapped. At her reply, he opened the door
and entered.
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She stood across the room, tall, lovely, exciting. He went to her at once and took
her hands, then stood and held them, as he looked at her, his heart swelling within
him, feeling now as no other woman had ever made him feel, as none ever could, none
but this Spanish and Irish girl from the far borderlands. "Nita, I've got to find
Lona and Frank Mailer . .. then I'm going to come back, and when I do, we're going
to make this a deal. If you'll have me, we'll be married. We'll go on further west,
we'll go somewhere where nobody's ever heard of Kilkenny, and where we can have some
peace, and be happy."
"You've got to go now?"
"Yes."
It was like her that she understood. She touched him lightly with her lips. "Then
go ... but hurry back."
He left it like that and walked back into the saloon. Brigo and Cain turned to look
at him. With them was a tall, sandy-haired cowhand.
"This fellow says he saw Dunning and Lona riding east. He was some distance off,
but he said it looked like she was tied. He lost them in the canyons of Salt Creek."
"All right. We'll have a look." Kilkenny took in the sandy-haired hand with a sharp,
penetrating glance. This was a good man, a steady man. "You want to ride to Blue
Hill and tell Rusty? Then if you want, have a look. That girl's in danger."
"I'll look," Sandy said. "I've heard about the fightin' this mornin'."
"You be careful," Kilkenny warned. "Poke Dunning is handy with a gun."
"I know him," Sandy said shortly. "We had trouble over some strays, once. He's right
handy with a runnin' iron, too."
Where to look for Lona was the next thing. While he
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 238 / Louis L'AMOUR
was looking for her he had to be cautious not to run afoul of Mailer. The man was
dangerous, and he would be doubly so now.
"Night and day," Kilkenny told Cain and Brigo, "one of you be around. Never let up."
In the morning Kilkenny mounted the buckskin. He returned to the house at Blue Hill
and scouted around, but the profusion of tracks told him nothing. Working the trail
a bit farther out proved helpful in that he found the tracks of several riders. They
seemed to be scouting around some and he figured they were out looking for the lost
girl, same as he was. Their tracks had obliterated the original trail and so he followed
them quickly, covering ground as fast as possible.
He had stopped at a well due west of Chimney Rock when he saw a rider approaching.
It was Sandy. His face was drawn and gray. "Been ridin'," he said. "Rusty is out,
too. An' that Flynn."
"How is he?"
"In no shape, but he won't quit. Head poundin' like a drum, I can tell. Pale around
the gills. We tracked Poke as far as Monument Rock, then lost him. Other tracks wiped
his out."
"The posse, maybe?"
"I reckon." Sandy wiped his chin after a long drink. "Maybe they got him."
"If they found him, somebody is dead." Kilkenny knew the men. "They didn't like it
even when I stopped them hanging the wrong men. They wanted an eye for an eye."
"Dunning won't be taken easy," Sandy said. "Where you headin'?"
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"Northeast. Look," he added, "why don't you swing back and follow the posse tracks?
If they turn off the route back to Aztec, you've got a lead."
Sandy turned his bronc. "See you," he said, and cantered off.
Kilkenny wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes were dark with worry.
Someplace in these bleak hills that girl was with Dunning. Someplace Mailer lurked.
Neither was pleasant to think of. He swung into the saddle and glanced northeast.
The tower of Chimney Rock loomed against the sky, beyond it the mountains, and there
was a trail into them by that route. He turned the buckskin.
He rode with a Winchester across his saddle, his eyes searching every bit of cover,
his ears and eyes alert. He saw nothing, heard nothing.
On a point of rocks near Eagle Nest Arroyo, Frank Mailer, his face covered with a
stubble of coarse black beard, watched Kilkenny riding north through his glasses,
and he swore softly. Twice, the gunfighter had been close to him, and each time Mailer
had held off rather than dare a confrontation. Being on the dodge had him worried,
for too long he'd lived the easy life at Blue Hill, taking off to do jobs outside
the territory but always with the safety of Dunning's ranch to return to if things
got bad. He had learned of what had happened, knew of the end of Sam Starr and Socorro.
He had found the body of Poke Dunning, lynched for the crimes that he, Mailer, had
committed, but strangely he felt depressed. There was the man that he had wanted
dead, and he was dead. He had the nine thousand dollars from the Aztec bank, a good
horse,
A ''« V -/
rH .«* V.
242
 240 / Louis i/amour
and a beltful of ammunition. But the good old days were gone. The hanging of Poke
Dunning affected him as nothing else had; there was an inevitableness about it that
frightened him.
Frank Mailer, six feet five in his socks and weighing over two hundred and fifty
pounds, walked back to his gray horse. He stood with a hand on the pommel, and something
was gone out of him. For the first time since he was a youngster, he was really on
the dodge. He was running.
Poke had run, too, and it hadn't done him any good. Dunning had beat the game for
years, and now look at him. Somehow it always caught up with you. Frank Mailer heaved
himself into the saddle and turned his horse across country.
The sight of Dunning's body had even driven the lush beauty of Nita Riordan from
his mind. He rode on, sullen and dazed; for the first time he had a feeling of being
hemmed in, trapped.
Kilkenny was hunting something; was it him? Now there was something he could do.
He could seek out a showdown with Kilkenny and beat him. There was a deep, burning
resentment against the man. If he had stayed out of it, all would have been well.
A mere half-dozen miles north, Kilkenny rounded a sandstone promontory and saw just
beyond a horseman picking his way over the rounded gray stones and gravel of a wash.
The man looked up and waved. It was Sandy again. "Found her," he said when they were
closer. "Flynn found her. She was tied in a shack back in the hills. Dunning left
her there with water and a little grub. Never saw nothin' like it. She was tied in
the middle of the 'dobe with ropes
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 monument rock / 241
running around her body an' off in all four directions. She couldn't move an inch
one way or the other, an' couldn't get free, but she had her hands loose. Those ropes
were made fast in the walls an' windows, knots so far away she couldn't reach 'em.
She picked at one of the ropes until her fingers were all raw, tryin' to pull it
apart."
"She's all right?"
"I reckon so. They took her to Blue Hill." Sandy eyed him thoughtfully. "Dunning
left her the day before yesterday. You ain't seen him?"
"No. Nor Mailer."
"I'm headin' home." Sandy was regretful. "The boss will be raisin' hell. See you."
He turned his horse, then glanced back. "Luck," he said.
Kilkenny sat his horse for a moment, then turned and started south again. Now he
was hunting Mailer, not to kill him, unless he had to, but to make sure he was gone,
out of the country before he relaxed his guard.
"He will want to see," Kilkenny told Buck. "If he's on the dodge but hasn't left
the country, he'll have headed for the ridgelines."
Shadows grew long and crawled up the opposite wall of the mountains, and Kilkenny
turned aside, and in a hollow in the rocks, he bedded down. He built no fire, but
ate a little jerked beef and some hardtack before crawling into his blankets.
He was out at dawn, and had gone only a few miles when he saw the tracks of a big
horse cutting across his trail. A big horse ... to carry a big man. Kilkenny turned
the buckskin abruptly. He had no doubt that this was Frank Mailer's horse. It was
rough terrain into which the trail was leading, country that offered shelter for
an ambush. Yet he followed on, taking his time, following the sign that grew more
and more difficult. A bruised branch
&n
244
 242 / Louis l'amour
of sage, a scratch on a rock, a small stone rolled from its place, leaving the earth
slightly damp where it had rested but a short time before. Once he saw a scar atop
a log lying across the trail where a trailing hoof had struck, knocking the loose
bark free and leaving a scar upon the bark and the tiny webs in the cracks beneath
the bark.
It was a walking trail. Whether Mailer knew he was tracked or not, once in the mountains
he had been exceedingly careful, and it could not be followed at a faster pace than
a walk. Sometimes Kilkenny had to halt, searching for the line of travel, but always
there was something, and his keen eyes read sign where another might have seen nothing,
and they pushed on.
Kilkenny drew up, and sitting his horse close against a clump of pinon, he rolled
a smoke. His mouth tasted bad and his hair was uncombed. He squinted his eyes against
the morning glare of the sun and studied the hills before him. He put the cigarette
in his lips and touched a match to it, feeling the hard stubble of beard on his chin
as he did so. His shirt felt hot and had the sour smell of stale sweat from much
riding without time to change. He felt drawn and hard himself, and he worked his
fingers to get the last of the morning damp out of them.
Then he rode out and he met the hard, flat sound of a rifle shot and felt the whip
of it, barely ahead of his hat brim. He left the saddle, Winchester in hand, but
there was no further shot. Staring up at the rocks, his eyes hard and narrow, he
waited. There was no sound.
The warm morning sun lay lazily upon the sandstone and sage; a lizard came out from
under a rock, and darted over another rock that was green with copper stain and paused
there. Lying where he was, Kilkenny could see the beat of its tiny heart against
its side. Then something flick
245
 monument rock / 243
ered and he saw a vanishing leg and fired quickly, the .44 thundering in the depths
of the canyon.
Chips flew from the rock where the leg had vanished and from the opposite side of
the rock where his second shot had struck. Then he heard the sound of a running horse,
and he came out and climbed into the saddle.
In a few minutes he had found the trail. A big horse carrying a heavy man and running
swiftly. He moved after it, riding more warily now, knowing that Mailer knew he was
on the trail, and that from now on it would be doubly hard.
He forded Coal Mine Creek, carrying little water now, and headed for the five-hundred-foot
wall of the Hogback, a high, serrated ridge biting with its red saw teeth at the
brassy sky. Then, suddenly, as though in a painting, horse and man were outlined
sharp against the sky. An instant only, but Kilkenny's rifle leaped to his shoulder
and the shot cracked out, echoing and reechoing from the wall of the Hogback. Kilkenny
saw the horse stumble, then go down, and the man spring clear. He fired again, but
knew he had missed.
Coming up through the brush, he dismounted near the fallen horse and returned his
rifle to its boot. The Hogback reared above him in a brown and broken-toothed height
that offered a thousand places of concealment. Kilkenny dug into his saddlebags and
got out his moccasins. Leaving his boots slung on the pommel, he moved out after
Mailer on foot.
There was no way of telling how he had gone, or where. Yet Kilkenny moved on, working
his way in among the boulders. Then, at a momentary pause, he saw some birds fly
up and directed his course that way, but working to get a little higher on the cliff.
He was on a narrow ledge, some
ft IV
V"* ' ''
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';*V
246
 244 / Louis l/amour
seventy feet above the jagged rocks below, when he heard a low call. Startled, he
looked up, to see Mailer on a ledge some fifty yards higher ahead of him.
The man was smiling, and as he smiled he lifted his pistol. Kilkenny drew left-handed
and snapped a shot. It was a fast draw and the shot was more to move Mailer than
with the expectation of a hit. Mailer lunged sidewise and his own shot clipped the
rocks above Kilkenny and spat dirt and gravel into his face.
A small landslide had scoured out a hollow in the mountain, and Kilkenny started
up it. The climb was steep and a misstep might send him shooting all the way to the
bottom, but the soft moccasins gave him a good toehold. When he reached the higher
ledge he was panting and winded.
The sun was blazing hot here, and even the rocks were hot under his hands. The burned
red sandstone was dotted with juniper and it broke off in a steep slope. Steep, but
not a cliff. He moved up behind a juniper and studied the mountain carefully. All
was hot and still. Sweat smarted his eyes and he rubbed them out, then mopped the
sweat from his brow and cheeks.
Overhead, an optimistic buzzard circled in widening sweeps. Far away over the valley
that lay in the distance, was Blue Hill. Almost due west was Salt Creek. A thin trail
of smoke lifted near the town. Below, the terrain was broken into canyons and arroyos,
and the color shaded from the deep green of the juniper to the gray green of sage,
and from the pale pinks and yellows of the faded sand to the deep burned reds and
magentas of the rock.
Some thirty yards away a tree had died and the dry white bones of its skeleton lay
scattered in a heap. Nearby a pack rat had built a mound of branches in a clump of
247
 monument rock / 245
manzanita. Kilkenny pulled his hat brim down to shade his eyes and moved out cautiously,
walking on his cat feet across the mountainside.
Ahead of him a startled jackrabbit suddenly sprang from the ground and charged full
tilt right at him. Kilkenny whirled aside and felt the blast of a bullet by his face.
He started forward, running swiftly, and saw Frank Mailer spring up, gun in hand.
Mailer fired and missed, and Kilkenny's shot blasted . . . too quick, but it cut
through Mailer's shirt and then the man dove for him.
Kilkenny fired again, but whether he scored or not he had no idea, for he sprang
forward and smashed a driving blow to Mailer's face. The punch was a wicked one and
it caught the big man lunging in, caught the corner of his mouth and tore the flesh,
so that Mailer screamed. Then he wheeled and grabbed Kilkenny's throat, wrenching
him backward. Lance Kilkenny kicked his feet high and went over with Mailer, the
sudden yielding carrying the big man off balance. Both went down and Mailer came
up, clawing for his pistol, and Kilkenny drew his left-hand gun and fired. Mailer
went to his knees, then grabbed wildly and caught Kilkenny's ankle. As Lance came
down he lunged to his feet and dove for shelter in a nest of boulders. Flat on the
ground, Kilkenny crawled to retrieve his gun, then loaded the empty chambers. Then
he saw blood on the ground, two bright crimson stains, fresh blood!
A shot kicked dirt in his teeth and he spat it out and shot back, then lunged to
his feet, his own position being too exposed, and sprang for the rocks and shelter.
He lit right into Mailer and the big man came up with a grunt and chopped for Kilkenny's
skull with a pistol barrel. Bright lights exploded in his head and he felt his knees
x ''^A
s- \ * ' '»>
fe)S; .f
248
 246 / Louis L'AMOUR
melting under him and slashed out with his own pistol, laying it across Mailer's
face. He hit ground, heard an explosion, and Mailer fell on him.
Panting, bloody, and drunk with fury and pain, Frank Mailer leaped to his feet and
stood swaying, a thin trickle of blood coming from a blue hole under his collarbone.
He lunged at Kilkenny.
Exhausted, beaten, and punch-drunk himself, Kilkenny swung wildly and his fist connected
with a sound like a rifle shot striking mud, and Mailer stopped, teetered, and fell.
Kilkenny backed up, his chest heaving, his lungs screaming for air, his skull humming
with the blow he had recently taken. He caught up a gun and turned just as Mailer
rolled on his back, a gun also in his hand. Both guns bellowed at once, and Kilkenny
was knocked back on his heels, but as he staggered he pulled his gun down and fired
again.
Where Mailer's ear had been there was blood, and the big man, seemingly indestructible,
was getting up. With a wild, desperate kind of fury, Kilkenny flung himself on the
rising man, and he heard guns bellowing, whether his own or Mailer's or both, he
did not know, and then Mailer rolled free and fell away from the boulders. Slowly,
ponderously, at each roll seemingly about to stop, the big man's body rolled over
and over down the slope.
Fascinated, Kilkenny stared after him. Suddenly the man caught himself, and then,
as if by magic, he got his hands under him. Something inside of Kilkenny screamed,
No! No! and then he saw Mailer come to his feet, still gripping a gun.
Mailer swayed drunkenly and tried to fire, but the gun was empty. His huge body,
powerful even when shot and battered, swayed but remained erect. Then, fumbling at
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 monument rock / 247
his belt for cartridges, he began, like a drunken man trying to thread a needle,
to load his gun. Kilkenny stared at him in astonishment, his own mind wandering in
a sort of a sunlit, delirious world. Mailer faced him and the gun lifted, and Kilkenny
felt the butt of his own gun jump and Mailer's hips jerked back grotesquely and he
went up on his tiptoes. Then his gun spat into the gravel at his feet and he fell
facedown on the slope.
When Kilkenny opened his eyes again, it was dark and piercing cold. A long wind moaned
over the mountaintop and he was chilled to the bone. He was very weak and his head
hummed. How badly he was wounded he had no idea, but he knew he could stand little
of this cold.
Near the pack rat's nest he found some leaves that crackled under his touch. And
shivering with such violence that his teeth rattled and his fingers could scarcely
find the matches, he struck and pushed the match into the leaves. The flames caught
and in a moment the nest was crackling and blazing.
He knew he had been hit once, and perhaps twice. He had a feeling he was badly wounded,
and how long he could survive on this mountaintop he did not know. He did know that
it was in view of Salt Creek, if anyone happened to be outside. The flames caught
the gray, dead wood and blazed high and he lay there, watching the inverted cone
of flame climbing up toward the stars, filled with a blank cold and emptiness.
Finally, as the fire died and its little warmth dissipated, he turned and crawled
back among the boulders and lay there, panting hoarsely and shivering again with
cold.
When he got his eyes open again, the sky was faintly gray. He could distinguish a
few things around him and
ay ;^
250
 248 / Louis i/amour
there were here and there a few scattered sticks. He got them together with a handful
of grass and put them on the coals of last night's fire, then cupped his hands above
the small flame. He felt a raw, gnawing pain in his side and his face was stiff and
his hands were clumsy. Overhead, a few stars paled and vanished like moths flying
into smoke, and he added another small stick and felt for his gun. It was gone. He
moved, scraping the fire along until he was beneath the dead tree. Slowly he built
up the fire around its dried-out trunk, and as it caught he rolled backward, away
from the flames. He lay there as the white branches went up in a rush of smoke and
flame, and as he passed out he prayed for help.
His eyes flickered open again at a sun-brightened world and he saw a huge turkey
buzzard hunched in a tree not fifty yards away. He yelled and waved an arm, but the
buzzard did not move. It sat there, waiting, and then its head came up, and it launched
itself on lazy wings and floated off over the desert.
Kilkenny lay still, staring up into the brassy vault of the sky, his mind floating
in a half-world between delirium and death. Out of it floated a voice, saying, "Here's
a hat!"
And then another voice. "They can't be up there! It ain't reasonable!"
There was a long silence, and suddenly his eyes flashed open. That was no delirium!
Somebody was searching! Hunting for him! He tried to call out, but his voice would
muster no strength, and then he gathered himself, and picking up a small stick from
near the fire, he threw it.
"He's got to be here. You saw all that smoke an' that's Buck down there, an' where
you find that horse he ain't far away!"
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 monument rock / 249
"Do you see him?" The voice was unfamiliar, sarcastic. "I don't."
Then the other. "I'm goin' on top!"
"You're crazy!"
A long time later a loud whoop and then running feet. "Here's Mailer! Hey, would
you look at that? Man, what happened up here, anyway?"
He tried to call out again, and this time they came hurrying. Cain Brockman, Rusty
Gates, Gordon Flynn, his head bandaged and his face thin, and with them several men
from town. "You all right, Lance?" Gates pleaded, his face redder still with worry.
"What do you think?" Kilkenny muttered.
And when he opened his eyes again, he was lying in darkness between clean white sheets
and he felt vastly relaxed and comfortable. And Nita came in, walking softly, and
sat down beside him. "Everything all right?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," he whispered. "As long as when I'm well we're goin' to California to
sit by the sea."
She smiled, "There's a little port town called San Pedro, and I expect the railroad
workers and dock men will want a gambling hall as much as anyone." She kissed him
gently. "When I see you're better, I'll have Cain start packing the wagons."
252
 Afterword
by Beau L'Amour
This book contains the last of Louis L'Amour's unpublished western stories, the history
of which I set down in the introduction to
West of Dodge.
It also marks the end of an era for the western genre. For fifty-seven years Louis
L'Amour's westerns have been published, first in pulp magazines, then in paperback
originals, and now in hardcovers. Louis grew up in the time just after the closing
of the frontier; born on the North Dakota plains in 1908, his world as a child was
one of wheat farms and cattle ranches, Civil War veterans and aging Indian warriors.
At the time of his death, Louis may have been the last writer of western fiction
to have actually met the kinds of characters that he often wrote about. In his youth
he occasionally had the opportunity to sit and listen to the likes of Buffalo Bill
Cody, Bill Tilghman, Jeff Milton, Chris Madsen, Elfageo Baca, George Coe, Tom Pickett,
Frenchy McCormack, Deluvina Maxwell, and a hundred other less historically notable
men and women who remembered the days when the West was wild. Although his vision
of the frontier was essentially that of
«v'v -.;< v*
*T,i '^
253
 252 / Louis l'amour
an author of romantic entertainment, Louis L'Amour was, in reality, one of our world's
last links to the nineteenth century.
This book that you hold in your hands rounds up the last stragglers in the Kilkenny,
Bowdrie, and Cactus Kid series. It contains an additional tale of the Utah Elaine
character, whom Louis may have once planned a series around, and the last Talon story.
We still have a couple more collections to be published, so keep a lookout in the
late spring for the next several years for more books of Louis's classic adventure,
detective, sports, and the last few western stories from the old pulp magazines.
There are still several adventure and mystery stories that have never been published
before and quite a few that were only published back in the 1940s or '50s.
The Louis L'Amour biography continues. A more com plete list of the names of people
that I am trying to learn about can be found on pages 254 to 261. It is a fantastic
experience for me when someone who knew Louis or knew about him writes in. Many people
have been a great help and I have learned many new facts and a few lessons
One of those has been the responsibility of dealing with history and my perception
of what history is. In a recent radio interview in Jamestown, I made some premature
and ill-advised conjectures about my grandparents' state of mind at the time they
left North Dakota. My opinion had been based on some evidence that I had discovered
earlier that day, but that evidence was far from all-inclusive. A few weeks later
I got a letter from some members of my father's family, some of whom knew my grandfather
and grandmother. They expressed their displeasure with my statements and informed
me of several aspects of my grandfather's nature that I should have been able to
deduce but had not taken into consideration
254
 afterword / 253
when my tongue slipped and poured the contents of my mind into a microphone and out
over much of the upper Midwest. I vowed that the contents of this letter and anything
else that I learn would be fully digested by the time I write this book. I am sure
that there will always be someone somewhere who will not agree with whatever it is
that I finally write, but in this case I realize that I didn't agree with myself!
The material to be included in this biography may have occurred in the past but it
is not disconnected ancient history. There are still many of you out there to whom
the story or parts of the story are personal and the more of you who can write in
the better, for the more information I have the better and more accurate a book it
will be.
This book also marks the tenth anniversary of Louis's death in June of 1988. Both
my family and all the people at Bantam Books wish to extend our gratitude to all
of you who have continued to follow the work of Louis L'Amour for so long after he
left this earth. I think that Dad would be amazed at his continuing popularity and
proud that he will be continually published even after the year 2000.
Thank you all for your continued readership.
Here are the names of the people that I would like to contact. If you find your name
on the list, I would be very grateful if you would write to me. Some of these people
may have known Louis as "Duke" LaMoore or Michael "Micky" Moore, as Louis occasionally
used those names. Many of the people on this list may be dead. If you are a family
member (or were a very good friend) of anyone on the list who has passed away, I
would like to hear from you, too. Some of the names I have marked with an asterisk
(*); if there is anyone out there who knows anything at
': *..
255
 254 / Louis L'AMOUR
all about these people, I would like to hear it. The address to write to is:
Louis L'Amour Biography Project P.O. Box 41183 Pasadena, CA 91114-9183
Marian Payne
-Married a man named Duane. Louis knew her in Oklahoma in the mid-to-late 1930s.
She moved to New York for a while; she may have lived in Wichita at some point.
Chaplain Phillips
-Louis first met him at Fort Sill, then again in Paris at the Place de Saint Augustine
Officers' Mess. The first meeting was in 1942, the second in 1945.
Anne Mary Bentley-Friend of Louis's from Oklahoma in the 1930s. Possibly a musician
of some sort. Lived in Denver for a time.
Pete Boering*
-Born in the late 1890s. Came from Amsterdam, Holland. His father may have been a
ship's captain. Louis and Pete sailed from Galveston together in the mid-1920s.
Betty Brown
-Woman whom Louis corresponded with extensively while in Choctaw in the late 1930s.
Later she moved to New York.
Jacques Chambrun*-Louis's agent from the late 1930s through the late 1950s.
Des-His first name. Chambrun's assistant in the late 1940s or early 1950s.
Joe Friscia*
-One of two guys that joined Hagenbeck & Wallace circus in Phoenix with Louis in
the mid-1920s. They rode freights across Texas and spent a couple of nights in the
Star of Hope Mission in Houston. May have been from Boston.
Harry "Shorty" Warren*-Shipmate of Louis's in the mid
256
 afterword / 255
1920s. They sailed from Galveston to England and back. Harry may have been an Australian.
Joe Hollinger*
-Louis met him while with Hagenbeck & Wallace circus, where he ran the "privilege
car." A couple of months later he shipped out with Louis. This was in the mid-1920s.
Joe Hildebrand*
-Louis met him on the docks in New Orleans in the mid-1920s. Then ran into him later
in Indonesia. Joe may have been the first mate and Louis second mate on a schooner
operated by Captain Douglas. This would have been in the East Indies in the later
1920s or early 1930s. Joe may have been an aircraft pilot and flown for Pan Am in
the early 1930s.
Turk Madden*
-Louis knew him in Indonesia in the late 1920s or early 1930s. They may have spent
some time around the "old" Straits Hotel and the Maypole Bar in Singapore. Later
on, in the States, Louis traveled around with him putting on boxing exhibitions.
Madden worked at an airfield near Denver as a mechanic in the early 1930s. Louis
eventually used his name for a fictional character.
"Cockney" Joe Hagen*
-Louis knew him in Indonesia in the late 1920s or early 1930s. He may have been part
of the Straits Hotel-Maypole Bar crowd in Singapore.
Richard LaForte*-A merchant seaman from the Bay Area. Shipped out with Louis in the
mid-1920s.
Mason or Milton*
-Don't know which was his real name. He was a munitions dealer in Shanghai in the
late 1920s or 1930s. He was killed while Louis was there. His head was stuck on a
pipe in front of his house as a warning not to double-cross a particular warlord.
Singapore Charlie*
-Louis knew him in Singapore and served with him on Douglas's schooner in the East
Indies. Louis was second mate and Charlie was bosun.
257
 256 / Louis i/amour
He was a stocky man of indeterminate race, and if I remember correctly, Dad told
me he had quite a few tattoos. In the early 1930s Louis helped get him a job on a
ship in San Pedro, CA, that was owned by a movie studio.
Renee Semich
-She was born in Vienna (I think) and was going to a New York art school when Louis
met her. This was just before WWII. Her father's family was from Yugoslavia or Italy,
her mother from Austria. They lived in New York; her aunt had an apartment overlooking
Central Park. For a while she worked for a company in Waterbury, CT.
Aola Seen/
-Friend of Louis's from Oklahoma City in the late 1930s. She was a member of the
"Writer's Club" and I think she had both a brother and sister.
Enoch Lusk-Owner of Lusk Publishing Company in 1939, original publisher of Louis's
Smoke from This Altar.
Also associated with the National Printing Company, Oklahoma City.
Helen Turner*-Louis knew her in late 1920s Los Angeles. Once a showgirl with Jack
Fine's Follies.
James "Jimmy" Eades-Louis knew him in San Pedro in the mid-1920s.
Frank Moran
-Louis met him in Ventura when Louis was a "club second" for fighters in the later
1920s. They also may have known each other in Los Angeles or King-man in the mid-1920s.
Louis ran into him again on Hollywood Boulevard late in 1946.
Jud and Red Rased*
-Brothers, cowboys, Louis met them in Tucumcari, NM. Also saw them in Santa Rosa,
NM. This was in the early-tomid-1920s.
Olga Santiago-Friend of Louis's from late 1940s Los Angeles. Last saw her at a book
signing in Thousand Oaks, CA.
Jose Craig Berry-A writer friend of Louis's from Okla-
258
 afterword / 257
homa City in the late 1930s. She worked for a paper called the Black Dispatch.
Evelyn Smith Colt
-She knew him in Kingman at one point, probably the late 1920s. Louis saw her again
much later at a Paso Robles book signing.
Kathlyn Beucler Hays
-Friend from Choctaw, taught school there in the 1930s. Louis saw her much later
at a book signing in San Diego.
Floyd Bolton*
-A man from Hollywood who came out to Oklahoma to talk to Louis about a possible
trip to Java to make a movie in 1938.
Lisa Cohn
-Reference librarian in Portland; family owned Cohn Bros, furniture store. Louis
knew her in the late 1920s or early 1930s.
Mary Claire Collingsworth-Friend and correspondent from Oklahoma in the 1930s.
C. A. Donnell-Man in Oklahoma City in the early 1930s who rented Louis a typewriter.
Captain Douglas*-Captain of a ship in Indonesia that Louis served on. A three-masted
auxiliary schooner.
L Duks*
-I think that this was probably a shortened version of the original family name.
A first mate in the mid-1920s. I think that he was a U.S. citizen, but he was originally
Russian.
Maudee Harris-My aunt Chynne's sister.
Parker LaMoore and Chynne Harris LaMoore*
-Louis's eldest brother. Parker was secretary to the governor of Oklahoma for a while,
then he worked for the Scripps-Howard newspaper chain. He also worked with Ambassador
Pat Hurley. He died in the early 1950s. Chynne was his wife and she lived longer
than he did, but I don't know where she lived after his death.
Mrs. Brown-Who worked for Parker LaMoore from the 1930s to the 1950s.
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Haig*
-His last name. Louis described him as a Scotsman, once an officer in the British
army in India. Louis said he was "an officer in one of the Scottish regiments." Louis
knew him in Shanghai in the 1930s; we don't know how old he would have been at the
time. He may have been involved in some kind of intelligence work. He and Louis shared
an apartment for a while, which seems to have been located just off Avenue King Edward
VII.
Lola LaCorne
-Along with her sister and mother, she was a friend of Louis's in Paris during World
War II. She later taught literature at the Sorbonne, had (hopefully still has) a
husband named Christopher.
Dean Kirby-Pal
from Oklahoma City in the late 1930s who seems to have been a copywriter or something
of the sort. Might have worked for Lusk Publishing.
Bunny Yeager-Girlfriend of Dean Kirby's from Oklahoma City. Not the famous photographer
for Playboy.
Virginia McElroy-Girl with whom Louis went to school in Jamestown.
Guardsman Penwill-A British boxer in the period between the mid-1920s and the mid-1930s.
Arleen Weston Sherman
-Friend of Louis's from Jamestown, when he was thirteen or fourteen. I think her
family visited the LaMoores in Choctaw in the 1930s. Her older sister's name is Mary;
parents' names are Ralph and Lil.
Harry Bigelow
-Louis knew him in Ventura. He had a picture taken with Louis's mother, Emily LaMoore,
at a place named Berkeley Springs around 1929. Louis may have known him at the Katherine
Mine, near Kingman, AZ, or in Oregon.
Tommy Pinto-Boxer from Portland; got Louis a job at Portland Manufacturing.
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Nancy Carroll
-An actress as of 1933. Louis knew her from the chorus of a show at the Winter Garden
in New York and a cabaret in New Jersey, where she and her sister danced occasionally,
probably during the mid-to-late 1920s.
Judith Wood-Actress. Louis knew her in Hollywood in the late 1920s.
Stanley George-The George family relocated from King-man, AZ, to Ventura, CA, possibly
in the late 1920s.
Francis Lederer*
-Actor whom Louis knew in the late 1920s in Los Angeles. I'm looking for anyone who
knew him in Hollywood between 1926 and 1931.
Lieutenant Rix-Who served in the 3622 Quartermaster Truck Co. in Europe in 1944-45.
Pablo De Gantes*-Ex-soldier of fortune who occasionally wrote magazine articles for
Lands of Romance
in the 1930s. This man used several names and I believe he was actually a Belgian.
He lived in Mexico at one time.
Lieutenant King
-Who traveled all the way from Camp Beale, CA, through Camp Reynolds, PA, and on
to England with Louis when he was shipped overseas in early 1944.
K. C. Gibson or his two nephews
-Louis met them when they picked him up hitchhiking in October of 1924. They were
crossing New Mexico and Arizona bound for Brawly, CA.
Wilma Anderson-A friend of Louis's from Oklahoma who worked in the Key campaign headquarters
in 1938.
Johnny Annette-A boxer with whom Louis fought a bout in Woodward, OK (or KS), in
the 1930s.
Harry Bell-A boxing promoter Louis worked with in Oklahoma City in the 1930s.
Joe Bickerstaff*-Also an occasional boxing promoter. He knew Louis in Klamath Falls
in the late 1920s.
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 260 / Louis L'AMOUR
Pat Chaney-Friend of Louis's from Choctaw, OK, in the
late 1930s. Mr. Lettsinger*-An older man whom Louis knew in
Klamath Falls, OR, in the late 1920s. I think he was from
the Midwest or South. Tommy Danforth*-A boxing promoter from Prescott, AZ, in
the mid-1920s. Was using the VA hospital at Ft. Whipple. Ned DeWitt*-Knew Louis in
Oklahoma in the 1930s, also
a friend of Jim Thompson. Austin Fullerton-Who sold tickets for athletic events in
Oklahoma City in the late 1930s. Martha Nell Hitchcock-A friend from Edmond, OK,
in the
1930s. Joe Hollinger*-Who ran the "privilege car" for the Hagen-
beck
& Wallace circus and shipped out to England in
the mid-1920s. Tommy Tucker*-Boss Stoker on British Blue Funnel ships
from the mid-1920s to mid-1930s. Dynamite Jackson*-An African-American fighter that
Louis
helped promote in Oklahoma in the 1930s. Orry Kelly-Designer in Hollywood, Louis
knew him in
the late 1940s. Dorothy Kilgallen-A newspaper columnist who worked in
L.A. in the 1950s. Henry Li-Whom Louis knew from 1943 when he was at
Camp Robinson, AR.
Savoie Lottinville*-Of the University of Oklahoma. Julio Lopez-Whom Louis worked
for very briefly in
Phoenix in the mid-1920s. Joe May-A rancher Louis boxed with in Ft. Sumner, NM,
in the 1920s. Ann Mehaffey-Friend of Louis's from the time he spent at
Camp Robinson, AR.
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 afterword / 261
Sam Merwin or Sam Mines*-Who once worked with Leo Margulies at Standard Magazines/Better
Publications.
Jack Natteford-Screenwriter who worked with Louis in the 1950s.
Joe Paskvan-Once part of the Oklahoma Writer's Project-Louis knew him in the late
1930s.
Billy Prince-Who went to sea in the late 1930s on the Wallace E. Pratt, a Standard
tanker.
Countess Dulong de Rosney (Toni Morgan)*-Whom Louis knew in France in the mid-1940s.
Dot and Truitt Ross-Brother and sister whom Louis knew in Oklahoma in the 1930s.
Mary Jane Stevenson-A friend of Louis's from L.A. in the late 1940s.
Orchid Tatu-Who lived in Sparta, WI, in the mid-1940s.
Florence Wagner-Wife of Rob Wagner of Rob Wagner's Script.
Doris Weil-A roomer in the flat where Louis lived in the late 1940s.
Sandra Widener-Who wrote an article on Louis called "The Untold Stories of Louis
L'Amour."
Anyone who served on the S.S. Steel Worker
between 1925 and 1930. In particular Captain C. C. Boase, second mate Ralph Jones,
third mate Raymond Cousins, radio operator Stanley Turbervil, carpenter George Mearly,
bosun H. Al-lendorf, chief engineer C. B. Dahlberg, first assistant engineer O. E.
Morgan, second assistant engineer W. Haynes, third assistant engineers George G.
Folberth and William Stewart, oilers A. Chagnon and A. Kratochbil, firemen William
Hohroien, J. Perez, Manfrido Gonzales, John Fen-nelly, and E. G. Burnay, wipers A.
Sanchez, J. J. Dalmasse, and F. Clifford, steward J. Shiel, messmen Dean Bender,
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 262 / Louis l'amour
William Harvey, and J. H. Blomstedt, able-bodied seamen Ernest Martin, Chris Moore,
Karl Erickson, Steve Schmotzer, Michael Llorca, Louis Armand, Joseph Morris, Herbert
Lieflander, William Reichart, and H. F. Waite.
Anyone familiar with Singapore in the late 1920s, the "old" Straits Hotel, and the
Maypole Bar.
Anyone who is very knowledgeable about the military history, and/or politics of western
(Shansi, Kansu, and Sinkiang provinces) China between 1928 and 1936.
I am also looking for seamen who served on the following ships: the Catherine G.
Sudden, between 1925 and 1936; the
Yellowstone, between 1925 and 1936; the S.S. Steadfast, between 1924 and 1930; the
Annandale,
a four-masted bark, between 1920 and 1926; the
Randsberg, a German freighter, between 1925 and 1937.
Anyone who knows anything about an old square-rigged sailing vessel called the Indiana
that was used in movies in the 1920s and 1930s. This ship was docked at San Pedro.
Anyone who knows anything about the following boxers: Jonny "Kid" Stopper, Jack Horan,
"Kid" Yates, Butch Vierthaler (Bill Thaler), Ira O'Neil, Jimmy Roberts, Jimmy Russo,
Jack McGraf, or Jackie Jones. Louis met these men in Arizona in the 1920s.
Anyone who knows anything about a fight (I assume with small arms) between two trading
schooners that was stopped by a British warship near Pinaki in the South Pacific.
This would have been between 1926 and 1932.
Anyone from the family or group that Louis guided around Egypt sometime between 1926
and 1937. Although he very much looked the part, Louis finally admitted that he wasn't
a real guide and that he'd been using a tour book from a library to learn about the
sites to which he led his group. They may have stayed at Shepherd's. Some or
264
 afterword / 263
all of the party were Americans and there may have been as many as twelve of them.
Anyone who might know about a flight that Louis took across Africa with a French
officer with stops at Taudeni and Timbuktu. This would have been between the mid19205
and late 1930s.
Anyone familiar with an island in the Spratly group called Itu Aba.
Anyone who knows anything about a very short-lived magazine published in Oklahoma
City in 1936 called
Uptown Magazine.
Anyone who knows if Norman Foster and Rex Bell (George Francis Beldam) ever went
to sea during the 1920s or early 1930s.
Anyone who knows where the personal and business papers of B. P. Schulberg (not Budd)
and Sam Katz are archived. Both of these men worked at Paramount Publix Pictures.
The period that I am interested in is the late 1920s to the early 1930s.
Anyone familiar with the Royal Government Experimental Hospital in Calcutta, India.
I would like to hear from men who served in the following military units: the 3622
Quartermaster Truck Company, between June 1944 and December 1945; the 3595 Quartermaster
Truck Company, after October 1945 and before January 1946; the 670th Tank Destroyer
Battalion, in 1943 at Camp Hood, TX; the 808th Tank Destroyer Battalion, at Camp
Phillips, KS in 1943.
Soldiers or officers who: took basic training at Camp Robinson, AR, between September
1942 and January 1943; took winter training at Camp McCoy, WI, and near Land o' Lakes
and Watersmeet on the northern Michigan peninsula between October 1943 and February
1944; remember Louis in early 1944 when he was staying at the St. Francis
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Hotel and the Belleview in San Francisco. During this time he worked at the Oakland
Air Base, and Fort Mason, CA. Later he was at Camp Beale, CA.
Anyone who worked with the Oklahoma WPA Writers Project.
Any recordings that anyone knows about of any of Louis's speeches.
266
 About Louis L'Amour
"/ 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 people, 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
267
 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, miner, and 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 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
magazines, Mr. L'Amour published his first full-length novel,
Hondo,
in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 100 books is in print; there
are nearly 230 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 feature 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.
The recipient of many great honors and awards, in 1983 Mr. L'Amour became the first
novelist ever to be awarded
268
 the Congressional Gold Medal by the United States Congress in honor of his life's
work. In 1984 he was also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.
Louis L'Amour died on June 10,1988. His wife, Kathy, and their two children, Beau
and Angelique, carry the L'Amour tradition forward with new books written by the
author during his lifetime to be published by Bantam.
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