Louis L'Amour (8 page)

We could hear the swish of our horses’ hoofs as they moved through the grass, the creak of saddles, and somewhere a night bird called. Every second we looked for a rifle shot, but we heard nothing, saw no one. Only the grass moving in the wind, only the sky darkening overhead.

And then we saw a horse standing, head down, cropping grass on a flat at the head of Prairie Dog Creek.

The dead man lay close by. The wind ruffled his shirt and touched the edge of his silk handkerchief. There was no need to get down, for I knew him at once. Johnny Ward had been a good hand … repping for an outfit from over toward Ekalaka when I’d last seen him.

The bullet had gone in under his left shoulder blade and ripped out the pocket of his shirt. From the angle of the shot and the place it hit, I judged he had been shot from fairly close up.

He had been a nice-looking boy, and he still was, lying there with the dark curls ruffling in the wind. He had folks somewhere back east, I recalled.

W
E WEREN’T TALKING much when we got back to the cabin, and we didn’t ride up to the door until it was nigh on to noontime.

Nobody in his right mind takes a man’s death lightly, and Johnny Ward had been young and full of living. It worried me, seeing him lie like that, but it worried me more when I scouted around, for I found the tracks of that horse with the leather-shod hoofs.

Johnny had been shot in the back whilst walking away from somebody or something, and my guess he was shot at a range of no more than seventy feet or so. Studying out what sign I could find, it was plain enough that Johnny was in no hurry, wherever he figured to go or whatever he was walking away from.

After a lifetime of reading sign a man can see a lot more than appears on the ground, and although I hadn’t much to go on, it was my feeling that the last thing Johnny Ward expected was to get shot. He had stopped once as he walked away, maybe to say something or to wave, and then he had walked on four or five steps further.

Whoever had fired that shot had pulled off about as cold-blooded a killing as I ever did see, nailing him with the first carefully aimed shot, and killing him dead.

There was nobody at the cabin when we got back,
and no sign that anybody had been there. Neither of us felt much like talking, or even making up a meal. Eddie put together some baking powder biscuits, and we had some baked beans. We made a meal of those, and then I went to the ford and studied to see if anybody had crossed, but there were no tracks.

Standing there beside the Hanging Woman, listening to the water ripple along the banks, I suddenly realized that Eddie and me were fairly up against it. This was no scare. This was the real thing, and we were facing up to trouble, sure enough.

It gave a man something to ponder, realizing of a sudden that he might go the way Johnny Ward had. There was a good boy, a good rider, and a good hand, and if ever there was an honest man, he was one. And surely that was why he was dead, because he had been honest when somebody wanted him to be otherwise. Or that was how it shaped up.

If it so happened that I was to go like Johnny, there was nobody to mind, nobody that would give it a thought after a few days had passed. It made a man wonder what he had done with his life.

When I went back to the cabin Eddie was reading an old newspaper. He looked up at me. “You think the one who killed that man was the same one who’s been shooting at the door?”

“No, there ain’t a chance of it. The person who killed Johnny wouldn’t have wasted lead. He would’ve laid out and waited for that one perfect shot, and at fairly close-up range.

“Eddie, we got to face it. We’re up against a sure-enough killer. You see anybody riding a horse with
leather-shod hoofs, don’t you turn your back—no matter who.”

He sat quiet for a spell, and then he said, “You going to take the body in?”

“Uh-huh. And I may have to stay for an inquest. Looks to me you’re going to be maybe a week or more on your own.”

“Don’t you worry about me,” he said. “You just ride along about your business.”

T
HERE WERE FOLKS standing along Main Street when I rode in with Johnny. One of the first men I saw was Granville Stuart; another was Bill Justin.

Justin was surprised when I named the dead man. “Johnny Ward? The last I heard of Johnny he was punching cows up on Cherry Creek.”

Briefly, I told what I knew, and as I talked several men gathered around, listening. Standing on the walk some distance off, but within earshot, was a man who looked familiar, but I couldn’t make out who he was. Stuart asked me a question, and after I answered him I looked around, but the man was gone.

Suddenly it came to me who he looked like. There’d been something about him that made me think of Van Bokkelen, whom I’d last seen back to Dakota.

Next day they had the inquest and I gave my evidence—or as much of it as I felt should be given. In my own mind I was sure whoever rode that leather-shod horse was the guilty party, but to most people that would mean an Indian, and I wasn’t about to start an Indian scare.

There’d be loose talk, and then somebody would organize a raid and the Indians would fight back, and we’d have a first-class war on our hands. I was sure in my mind that whoever rode that horse was no Indian, so I kept still and testified to what I had found, adding the fact that Johnny Ward was obviously shot by somebody he knew and had talked with … that he was shot down without warning, at fairly close range.

One thing I did say that I was immediately sorry for. They asked me could I identify the track of the killer if I saw it again, and I said I believed I could.

And with those words I stood myself up right in the target rack of a shooting gallery.

There were two or three strangers at the back of the room where the inquest was held, and I didn’t get a good look at them. And there was somebody else in the room who was no stranger. Jim Fargo was there.

The place I’d got for myself was across from the livery stable, where they had a few rooms for rent. That night, on a hunch, I shifted the bed as quietly as I could, moving it to the opposite side of the room. No more than a cot it was, and it was no trick to just pick it up and move it. I had pulled off my boots and was getting undressed when I thought of those strangers at the inquest, and it came to me that one of them was Duster Wyman, who’d loaned me ten dollars back in Jimtown—the man who was supposed to be Tom Gatty’s representative in the Dakota town.

If I hadn’t been so dog-tired I’d have saddled up and lit out for the hills right then.

Like I said, I was never any hand with a six-gun, but since Justin supplied them, I’d been carrying
both a six-shooter and a Winchester. When I finally stretched out on the cot I had both of them to hand.

The night noises slowly died away. Boots sounded on the boardwalk, a door down the street slammed, then somebody tripped over a board and swore. At last all was quiet, and I dropped off to sleep.

Suddenly the night exploded with gunfire and I jerked up to a sitting position, six-shooter in hand. Even as I sat up I heard the ugly smash of another bullet that came through the wall, and promptly I fired through the wall in return.

Then there was a moment of stillness, followed by a sudden uproar of voices. In the hall angry questions were called out, followed by a pounding on my door. I swung my feet to the floor and went over and opened up. The proprietor was there, and the night policeman; behind them crowded half a dozen people.

“What happened?” the night policeman asked.

“Somebody shot at me,” I said, “an’ I jerked up out of a sleep and fired back.”

They walked across the room, holding a lamp high. Two bullet holes had come through the thin wall, and if I hadn’t moved the bed both of them would have hit me.

“You moved the bed,” the proprietor said. “Did you figure on this?”

“Man on the other side of that partition snores,” I said, “so I moved over here.”

Funny thing was, they believed me. Most of those men knew me and they couldn’t figure any good reason for somebody wanting to kill a harmless gent like myself. For that matter, neither could I … unless I was getting in somebody’s way.

After they left I moved the bed back across the room and went to sleep, but before I dozed off I lay there thinking that maybe this was my time to see California. Somehow I’d always wanted to go there, and they say it can be right pleasant in the winter.

Only thing was, I’d left Eddie Holt out there at the line camp, and he would need help to get through the winter.

The more I thought of it the madder I got, and I’d never been one to back up from trouble. Maybe I would have been better off if I had.

Come daybreak, I went up the street to the Macqueen House and treated myself to a first-rate breakfast, with all the trimmings. It was true I hadn’t much cash, but there was enough for that.

I was still sitting there when Bill Justin came in and sat down with me.

“How’re things?” he asked.

“You saw Johnny Ward,” I answered.

“I mean how’re the cattle?”

“Good shape, mostly. I’d say they needed culling. Mr. Justin, you’re carrying a lot of dead weight out there. You could round up and ship a good herd of culls.”

We talked cow business for a few minutes, and then Granville Stuart came in and walked over to the table. He said good morning to us and sat down.

“Pike,” he said, “there are some of us believe it is about time to make a clean-up of eastern Montana—maybe even western Dakota.”

Me, I just looked at him, although I was pretty sure I knew what was coming.

“You’ve got the reputation of being a fighter.”

“With my fists, maybe.”

“A fighter is a fighter. I want a few good men, Pike, and we’ve got a few.” He named a couple, and when he did I looked at him and shook my head. Granville Stuart was a fine man and a good cattleman, and he was making his mark in Montana; but I’d never put much stock in vigilantes.

“I’m no hand with a gun,” I said, “and when it comes to the law, I leave it to the law. If they can’t handle it, you’d best get somebody new.”

“They aren’t equipped to handle it,” Stuart said. “It’s the same situation as they had at Virginia City.”

Well, maybe it was. “No, sir,” I said. “I’ll stick to punching cows.”

“You’re right in the middle of the rustlers,” Stuart said, showing his irritation. “You’ve got them all around you out there.” He paused. “You’ve even been shot at.”

“Looked like it,” I agreed, “and maybe that’s what it was. Well, I’ll fight for any stock I’m riding herd on, and I’ll do as good a job as I know how, but I’m not a manhunter.”

After that they left me. I finished up my meal and ordered more coffee. Compared to what we made at the line camp it was mighty weak stuff, but it was still coffee.

I was paying no attention to anything around me when suddenly a girl spoke to me.

Well, I’d been so taken up with listening to Stuart and Justin that I hadn’t noticed that girl before. She had come in after I had and was sitting at the next table. Now I saw that she was a right pretty girl.

“I beg your pardon, sir. Could you tell me how to reach Otter Creek?”

“Where on Otter? That’s a long stretch of creek, ma’am.” And then I added, “And nothing out there a lady could go to.”

“I want to go to Philo Farley’s place.”

She was slender, and got up mighty stylish, and she had the look of a thoroughbred.

“Are you kin?” I asked.

“Kin?” She looked puzzled, but then her face cleared. “Oh, yes! He is my brother.”

Turning around in my chair, I said, carefully as I could, “That ain’t much of a place, ma’am. I mean Farley’s doing all right … or was last I saw him, maybe a year ago, but he built that cabin himself and he wasn’t much of a builder.

“He’s got him a few cows, and some good horses, and given time he’ll make out, but I wouldn’t say it was any place for a city woman.”

“He needs help.” The way she said it was matter-of-fact, no nonsense about it. “If I can help him, I shall.” And then she added, “There is no one else.”