The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (15 page)

Long since they had thrown the first two picks aside, their points worn away. They might have to return to them, but now they were using another, sharper pick. They were standing in a hole now. Once a flake of rock fell, and Bert held himself, expecting a crash. It did not come.

Rody moved suddenly. Frank lit the light with a brush of his palm. Rody looked at him, then reached for the pick. “Let me have it,” Rody said. “Hell, it's better than sittin' there suckin' my thumb. Give me the pick.”

Bert passed it to him; then he staggered to the muck pile and fell, full length, gasping with great throat-rasping gasps.

Rody swung the pick, attacking the bottom of the hole savagely. Sweat ran into his eyes, and he swung, attacking the rock as if it were a flesh-and-blood enemy, feeling an exultant fury in his blows.

Once he stopped to take five, and looking over at Frank, he said, “How goes it, big boy?”

“Tolerable,” Frank said. “You're a good man, Rody.”

Rody swelled his chest, and the pick swung easily in his big hands. All of them were lying down now because the air was better close to the muck.

“Hear anything?” Bert asked. “How long will it take them to reach us, Frank?”

“Depends on how much it caved.” They had been over this before, but it was hope they needed, any thread of it. Even talking of rescue seemed to bring it nearer. The numbness was all gone now, and his big body throbbed with pain. He fought it, refusing to surrender to it, trying to deny it. He held the pain as though it were some great beast he must overcome.

Suddenly Joe sat up. “Say! What became of the air line for the machine?”

They stared at each other, shocked at their forgetting. “Maybe it ain't busted,” Bert said.

Stumbling in his eagerness, Joe fell across the muck, bumping Frank as he did so, jerking an involuntary grunt from him. Then Joe fell on his knees and began clawing rocks away from where the end of the pipe should be, the pipe that supplied compressed air for drilling. He found the pipe and cleared the vent, unscrewing the broken hose to the machine. Trembling, he turned the valve. Cool air shot into the room, and as they breathed deeply, it slowly died away to nothing.

“It will help,” Joe said. “Even if it was a little, it will help.”

“Damned little,” Rody said, “but you're right, Joe. It'll help.”

“How deep are you?” Frank asked. He started to shift his body and caught himself with a sharp gasp.

“Four feet—maybe five. She's tough going.”

Joe lay with his face close to the ground. The air was close and hot, every breath a struggle. When he breathed, he seemed to get nothing. It left him gasping, struggling for air. The others were the same. Light and air were only a memory now, a memory of some lost paradise.

How long had they been here? Only Frank had a watch, but it was broken, so there was no way of calculating the time. It seemed hours since that crash. Somehow it had been so different from what he had expected. He had believed it would come with a thundering roar, but there was just a splintering sound, a slide of muck, a puff of wind that put their lights out, then a long slide, a trickling of sand, a falling stone. They had lacked even the consolation of drama.

Whatever was to come of it would not be far off now. Whatever happened must be soon. There came no sound, no breath of moving air, only the thick, sticky air and the heat. They were all panting now, gasping for each breath.

Rody sat down suddenly, the pick slipping from his fingers.

“Let me,” Joe said.

He swung the pick, then swung it again.

When he stopped, Bert said, “Did you hear something?”

They listened, but there was no sound.

“Maybe they ain't tryin',” Rody said. “Maybe they think we're dead.

“Can you imagine Tom Chambers spendin' his good money to get us out of here?” Rody said. “He don't care. He can get a lot of miners.”

Joe thought of those huge, weighted timbers in the Big Stope. Nothing could have held that mass when it started to move. Probably the roof of the Big Stope had collapsed. Up on top there would be a small crowd of waiting people now. Men, women, and children. Still, there wouldn't be so many as in Nevada that time. After all, Bert was the only one down here with children.

But suppose others had been trapped? Why were they thinking they were the only ones?

The dull thud of the pick sounded again. That was Rody back at work. He could tell by the power. He listened, his mind lulled into a sort of hypnotic twilight where there was only darkness and the sound of the pick. He heard the blows, but he knew he was dying. It was no use. He couldn't fight it any longer.

Suddenly the dull blows ceased. Rody said, “Hey! Listen!” He struck again, and it was a dull sound, a hollow sound.

“Hell!” Rody said. “That ain't no ten feet!”

“Let's have some light over here,” Rody said, “Frank—?”

He took the light from Frank's hand. The light was down to a feeble flicker now, no longer the proud blade of light that had initially stabbed at the darkness.

Rody peered, then passed the lamp back to Frank.

“There should be a staging down there.” Frank's voice was clear. “They were running a stopper off it to put in the overhead rounds.”

Rody swung, then swung again, and the pick went through. It caught him off balance, and he fell forward, then caught himself. Cool air was rushing into the drift end, and he took the pick and enlarged the hole.

Joe sat up. “God!” he said. “Thank God!”

“Take it easy, you guys, when you go down,” Frank said. “That ladder may have been shaken loose by blasting or the cave-in. The top of the ladder is on the left-hand side of the raise. You'll have to drop down to the staging, though, and take the ladder from there. It'll be about an eight- or nine-foot drop.”

He tossed a small stone into the hole, and they heard it strike against the boards down below. The flame of the light was bright now as more air came up through the opening. Frank stared at them, sucking air into his lungs.

“Come on, Rody,” Joe said. “Lend a hand. We've got to get Frank to a doctor.”

“No.” Frank's voice was impersonal. “You can't get me down to that platform and then down the ladder. I'd bleed to death before you got me down the raise. You guys go ahead. When they get the drift opened up will be time enough for me. Or maybe when they can come back with a stretcher. I'll just sit here.”

“But—” Joe protested.

“Beat it,” Frank said.

Bert lowered himself through the opening and dropped. “Come on!” he called. “It's okay!”

Rody followed. Joe hesitated, mopping his face, then looked at Frank, but the big man was staring sullenly at the dark wall.

“Frank—” Joe stopped. “Well, gee—”

He hesitated, then dropped through the hole. From the platform he said, “Frank? I wish—”

His boots made small sounds descending the ladder.

The carbide light burned lower, and the flame flickered as the fuel ran low. Big Frank's face twisted as he tried to move; then his mouth opened very wide, and he sobbed just once. It was all right now. There was no one to hear. Then he leaned back, staring toward the pile of muck, his big hands relaxed and empty.

“Nobody,” he muttered. “There isn't anybody, and there never was.”

One Night Stand

Stephen Malone was tall, handsome, immaculate, and broke. He lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, trying not to think about breakfast. Three weeks ago he had been playing lead roles in
Hearts of Oak, Hamlet,
and
Davy Crockett
on successive nights. Then the bookings ran out, the play closed, and the manager skipped town with the company funds, leaving them stranded.

For some time he had been aware of voices in the next room. A girl was speaking. “He can't! He wouldn't dare!”

The man's tone was touched with despair. “They say he's killed fourteen men. For the kind of money Mason would pay, the Kid wouldn't hesitate to make it fifteen.”

There was a pause. “Even before my hand was crippled I couldn't match him. Now I wouldn't stand a chance.”

“But Pa, if Hickok comes—?”

“If he can get here in time! He's not the kind to forget what I did for him, but unless he shows up I'm finished. Else, I'd give a thousand dollars to see Bill Hickok walk through that door right now!”

Stephen Malone knew a cue when he heard one. He stepped into the hall and rapped on the door of their room.

“Who's there?” It was the man's voice.

“Bill Hickok.”

The door opened and he was facing a thin old man with gray hair, and a pretty, dark-haired girl. “You aren't Bill Hickok!” The man was disgusted.

“No,” Malone said, “but for a thousand dollars I will be.”

“You're a gunfighter?” Else demanded.

“I'm an actor. It is my business to make people believe I am somebody else.”

“This is different. This isn't playacting.”

“He could kill you,” Else said. “You wouldn't have a chance.”

“Not if I'm a good enough actor. Not many men would try to draw a gun on Wild Bill Hickok.”

“It's a fool idea,” the man said.

“So there's an element of risk. I've played Hamlet, Macbeth, and Shylock. Why not Wild Bill?”

“Look, son, you've undoubtedly got nerve, and probably you're a fine actor, but this man is a killer. Oh, I know he's a tinhorn, but you wouldn't have a chance!”

“Not if I'm a good enough actor.”

“He's talking nonsense, and you both know it!” Else protested.

“To play Hickok, son, you've got to be able to shoot like Hickok.”

“Only if I play it badly. You say the Kid is a tinhorn, I'll trust to your judgment and my skill.”

Brady walked to the window. “It might work, you know. It just might.”

“It would be suicide!” Else objected.

Brady turned from the window. “I am Emmett Brady. This is my daughter, Else. Frank Mason wants my range, and the Pioche Kid is a friend of his. He was brought here to kill me.”

“The pleasure will be mine, sir.” Malone bowed.

“Did anyone see you come into the hotel?” Brady asked.

“Only the man at the desk. It was two o'clock in the morning.”

“Then it's all right. Jim Cooley is a friend of mine.”

“Get him to spread the story that Hickok is in town, and once the story is around, I'll make my play.”

“It's ridiculous!” Else declared. “Why should you risk your life for us?”

“Miss Brady, as much as I'd enjoy posing as Sir Galahad, I cannot. I'm no knight in armor, just a stranded actor. But for a thousand dollars? I haven't made that much in a whole season!”

“You've got sand, Malone. Else, fetch Jim Cooley.”

“You've still time to back out,” Else warned.

“I am grateful for your concern but this will be the first time I have been offered one thousand dollars for a single performance.”

Returning to his room, Malone opened his trunk and chose a blond wig with hair to his shoulders. He selected a drooping mustache. “… And the buckskin jacket I wore as Davy Crockett. Then I'll remove the plume from this hat I wore in
Shenandoah
—”

 

Thew Pioche Kid stared complacently into his glass. Brady was an old man with a bad right hand. He was nothing to worry about.

Jim Cooley came through the swinging doors. “Give me a shot, Sam.” He glanced around the room. “Wait until you boys hear who is in town! Wild Bill himself ! Rode in last night, all the way from Kansas because he heard his old friend Emmett Brady needed help!”

The Pioche Kid went sick with shock. Somebody was asking what Brady had on Hickok. “Nursed him back to health after a gunshot wound. Hickok nearly killed a couple of horses getting here. He's sleeping it off over at the hotel now.”

Wild Bill Hickok!
The Kid hadn't bargained for this. He took up his whiskey and tossed it off, but the shudder that followed was not caused by the whiskey.

“Sam …?” He pushed the empty glass toward him.

He could feel the excitement in the room. They were thinking they'd see the Pioche Kid shoot it out with Wild Bill Hickok, the most famous of them all.

Somebody mentioned the fourteen men the Kid was supposed to have killed, but the Kid himself knew there had been but four, and two of those had been drunken cowhands, and one of them a drunken farmer who had never held a pistol before.

Suddenly, desperately, he wanted out. How had he got into this, anyway? Hickok could
shoot
! He recalled the stories of Hickok's famous target matches with the renowned Major Talbot, at Cheyenne.

“He's the best,” Cooley was saying. “Eyes in the back of his head, seems like. Remember the time he killed Phil Coe, then turned and killed a man running up behind him?”

Cooley smiled at the Kid. “Should be something, you and him. You've killed more than he has if you discount those he killed while a sharpshooter in the Army. But I did see him take four at once. Killed two, a third died later, and the fourth was never any good for anything after.”

Cooley finished his drink. “I'm gettin' out of here. I've seen too many bystanders get gut-shot. Sorry I can't wish you luck, Kid, but Bill's a friend of mine.”

Men moved to the tables, away from the bar. One hastily paid for his drink and left the bar. The Kid was alone, isolated, cut off.

What the hell was happening? This was
Hickok
! If he won they'd all slap him on the back and buy him drinks, but if he lost they'd just stare at the body as they walked by. He mopped his face. He was soaked with sweat, and he knew why. He was scared.

Mason was at the door. “He's comin', Kid. Be something to be known as the man who killed Wild Bill.”

Malone paused in the door to wave at someone down the street, then he walked to the bar. All eyes were on him. “Rye, if you please.”

Sam put a bottle and a glass before him. The Kid licked dry lips with a fumbling tongue. Desperately he wanted to wipe his palm dry on his pants, but he was afraid Hickok would think he was going for a gun. Now was the time. He should open the ball. Sweat dripped from his face to the bar. He opened his mouth to speak, but Malone spoke first.

“Bartender, I'd like to find two men for a little job. I'll pay a dollar each. It's a digging job.”

“You said … a
digging
job?”

“That's right. I want two men to dig a hole about”—he turned deliberately and looked right at the Kid—“six feet long, six feet deep, and three wide.”

“Whereabouts do you want it dug?”

“On Boot Hill.”

“A grave?”

“Exactly.”

Sam motioned to two men at a nearby table. “Tom? Joe? Mr. Hickok wants a couple of men.” He hesitated ever so slightly. “To dig a grave.”

“And to make a slab for a marker,” Malone said.

Sam was loving every moment of it. “You want a name on it?”

“Don't bother with the name. Within the week they will have forgotten who he was, anyway. Just carve on it
HE SHOULD HAVE LEFT BE
-
FORE THE SUN WENT DOWN
.”

He finished his drink. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

He strolled to the door, paused briefly with his hand on the door, then stepped out on the boardwalk and turned toward the hotel.

Within the saloon a chair creaked as someone shifted weight. The Kid lifted a fumbling hand to brush away the sweat from his face and the hand trembled. He tossed off his drink, spilling a little on his chin. Never had death seemed so close.

What kind of a damned fool was he, anyway? What did he have to do with Brady? Let Mason do his own killing. Suddenly all he wanted was to be away, away from those watching eyes, staring at him, so willing to see him die.

What did he owe Mason? All he had to do was cross the street, mount his horse, and ride. Behind his back they would sneer, but what did that matter? He owed these people nothing, and there were a thousand towns like this. Moreover, he'd be alive … 
alive!

He wanted to feel the sunshine on his face, the wind in his hair, to drink a long, cold drink of water. He wanted to live!

Abruptly, he walked to the door. He had seen men die, seen them lie tormented in the bloody dust. He did not want to feel the tearing agony of a bullet in his guts.

There was Hickok, his broad back to him, only a few paces away. A quick shot … he could always say Hickok had turned.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, dimly he remembered
eyes in the back of
his head
. On that other occasion Hickok had turned suddenly and fired … dead center.

The Kid let go of his gun as if it were red hot.

Yet he could still make it. He was a pretty good shot … well, a fair shot. He could—

Two men emerged from the livery stable, each carrying a shovel. Tom and Joe, to dig a grave … 
his
grave?

He crossed the street, almost running, and jerked loose the tie-rope. He missed the stirrup with his first try, made it on the second, and was almost crying when he hit the saddle. He wheeled the horse from the hitch rail and left town at a dead run.

His saddle was hot from the sun, but he could
feel
it. The wind was in his face … he was free! He was riding, he was living, and there were a lot of other towns, a lot of country.

Brady turned from the window. “He's gone, Else. Malone did it.”

“Mason's leaving, too,” she added.

The door opened behind them and Stephen Malone stepped in, removing his hat, then the wig and the mustache. “That's one part I never want to play again!”

“Here's your money, son. You earned it.”

“Thanks.”

“What would you have done, Malone,” Cooley asked, “if the Kid had called your hand?”

“Done? Why this—!”

His draw was surprisingly fast, and he fired at Cooley, point-blank. Cooley sprang back, shocked. His hands clutched his abdomen.

His hands came away and he stared at them. No blood. No—!

Malone was smiling.

“Blanks!” Cooley exclaimed. “You faced the Kid with nothing in your gun but blanks!”

“Well, why not? It was all part of the act.”