The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (25 page)

He was working on the firing pin of a Walker Colt when he heard the door open. He did not look up, just said, “Be with you in a minute. What's your trouble?”

“Same thing you're workin' on I reckon. Busted firin' pin.”

Riley McClean looked up into a dark, flat face and flat, black eyes. He thought he had never seen eyes so devoid of expression, never seen a face more brutal on a young man. With a shock of realization he knew he was looking into the eyes of the Mohave Kid.

He got to his feet and picked up the gun the Kid handed him. As he picked it up, he noticed that the Kid had his hand on his other gun. Riley merely glanced at him and then examined the weapon. The repair job was simple, but as he turned the gun in his hand, he thought of how many men it had killed.

“Take a while,” he said. “I s'pose you're in a hurry for it?”

“You guessed it. An' be sure it's done right. I'll want to try it before I pay for it.”

Riley McClean's eyes chilled a little. There were butterflies in his stomach, but the hackles on the back of his neck were rising. “You'll pay me before you get it,” he said quietly. “My work is cash on the barrelhead. The job will be done right.” His eyes met the flat black ones. “If you don't like the job, you can bring it back.”

For an instant, their eyes held, and then the Kid shrugged, smiling a little. “Fair enough. An' if it doesn't work, I'll be back.”

The Mohave Kid turned and walked out to the street, stopping to look both ways. Riley McClean held the gun in his hands and watched him. He felt cold, chilled.

Ab Kale had told the Kid to stay away from Hinkley, and now he must meet him and order him from town. He must do that, or the Kid would know he was afraid, would deliberately stay in town. The very fact that the Mohave Kid had come to Hinkley was proof that he had come hunting trouble, that he had come to call Kale's bluff.

For a minute or two, Riley considered warning the marshal, but that would not help. Kale would hear of it soon enough, and there was always a chance that the Kid would get his gun, change his mind, and leave before Kale did know.

Sitting down, Riley went to work on the gun. The notion of doctoring the gun so it would not fire properly crossed his mind, but there was no use inviting trouble. Running his fingers through his dark rusty hair, he went to work. And as he worked, an idea came to him.

Maybe he could get the Kid out of town to try the gun, and once there, warn him away from Hinkley himself. That would mean a fight, and while he had no idea of being as good as the Kid, he did know he could shoot straight. He might kill the Mohave Kid even if he got killed in the process.

But he did not want to die. He was no hero, Riley McClean told himself. He wanted to live, buy a place of his own, and marry Ruth. In fact, they had talked about it. And there was a chance this would all blow over. The Kid might leave town before Ab Kale heard of his arrival, or something might happen. It is human to hope and human to wish for the unexpected good break—and sometimes you are lucky.

As Riley was finishing work on the gun, Ruth came in. She was frightened. “Riley”—she caught his arm—“the Mohave Kid's in town and Dad is looking for him.”

“I know.” He stared anxiously out the window. “The Kid left his gun to be repaired. I've just finished it.”

“Oh, Riley! Isn't there something we can do?” Her face was white and strained, her eyes large.

He looked down at her, a wave of tenderness sweeping over him. “I don't know, honey,” he said gently. “I'm afraid the thing I might do, your father wouldn't like. You see, this is his job. If he doesn't meet the Kid and order him to leave, he will never have the same prestige here again. Everybody knows the Kid came here on purpose.”

 

Ab Kale had heard that the Mohave Kid was in town, and in his own mind he was ready. Seated at his desk he saw with bitter clarity what he had known all along, that sooner or later the Kid would come to town, and then he would have to kill him or leave the country. There could be no other choice where the Kid was concerned.

Yet he had planned well. Riley McClean was a good man, a steady man. He would make a good husband for Ruth, and together they would see that Amie lacked for nothing. As far as that went, Amie was well provided for. He checked his guns and got to his feet. As he did so, he saw a rider go by, racing out of town.

He stopped dead still in the doorway. Why, that rider had been Riley McClean! Where would he be going at that speed, at this hour? Or had he heard the Kid was in town …? Oh, no! The boy wasn't a coward. Ab knew he wasn't a coward.

He straightened his hat and touched his prematurely white mustache. His eyes studied the street. A few loafers in front of the livery stable, a couple more at the general store, a half-dozen horses at the hitch rails. One buckboard. He stepped out on the walk and started slowly up the street. The Mohave Kid would be in the Trail Driver's Saloon.

He walked slowly, with his usual measured step. One of the loafers in front of the store got to his feet and ducked into the saloon. All right, then. The Kid knew he was coming. If he came out in the street to meet him, so much the better.

Ruth came suddenly from Riley's shop and started toward him. He frowned and glanced at her. No sign of the Kid yet. He must get her off the street at once.

“Hello, Dad!” Her face was strained, but she smiled brightly. “What's the hurry?”

“Don't stop me now, Ruth,” he said. “I've got business up the street.”

“Nothing that won't wait!” she protested. “Come in the store. I want to ask you about something.”

“Not now, Ruth.” There was still no sign of the Kid. “Not now.”

“Oh, come on! If you don't,” she warned, “I'll walk right up to the saloon with you.”

He looked down at her, sudden panic within him. Although she was not his own daughter, he had always felt that she was. “No!” he said sharply. “You mustn't!”

“Then come with me!” she insisted, grabbing his arm.

Still no sign of the Kid. Well, it would do no harm to wait, and he could at least get Ruth out of harm's way. He turned aside and went into the store with her. She had a new bridle she wanted him to see, and she wanted to know if he thought the bit was right for her mare. Deliberately, she stalled. Once he looked up, thinking he heard riders. Then he replied to her questions. Finally, he got away.

He stepped out into the sunlight, smelling dust in the air. Then he walked slowly across and up the street. As he reached the center of the street, the Mohave Kid came out of the Trail Driver and stepped off the walk, facing him.

Thirty yards separated them. Ab Kale waited, his keen blue eyes steady and cold. He must make this definite, and if the Kid made the slightest move toward a gun, he must kill him. The sun was very warm.

“Kid,” he said, “your business in town is finished. We don't want you here. Because of the family connection, I let you know that you weren't welcome. I wanted to avoid a showdown. Now I see you won't accept that, so I'm giving you exactly one hour to leave town. If you are here after that hour, or if you ever come again, I'll kill you!”

The Mohave Kid started to speak, and then he stopped, frozen by a sudden movement.

From behind stores, from doorways, from alleys, stepped a dozen men. All held shotguns or rifles, all directed at the Kid. He stared at them in shocked disbelief. Johnny Holdstock … Alec and Dave Holdstock … Jim Gray, their cousin … Webb Dixon, a brother-in-law … and Myron Holdstock, the old bull of the herd.

Ab Kale was petrified. Then he remembered Riley on that racing horse and that today was old Myron's fortieth wedding anniversary, with half the family at the party.

The Mohave Kid stared at them, his face turning gray and then dark with sullen fury.

“You do like the marshal says, Kid.” Old Myron Holdstock's voice rang in the streets. “We've protected ye because you're one of our'n. But you don't start trouble with another of our'n. You git on your hoss an' git. Don't you ever show hide nor hair around here again.”

The Mohave Kid's face was a mask of fury. He turned deliberately and walked to his horse. No man could face all those guns, and being of Holdstock blood, he knew what would come if he tried to face them down. They would kill him.

He swung into the saddle, cast one black, bleak look at Ab Kale, and then rode out of town.

Slowly, Kale turned to Holdstock, who had been standing in the door of his shop. “You needn't have done that,” he said, “but I'm glad you did.…”

 

Three days went by slowly, and then the rains broke. It began to pour shortly before daybreak and continued to pour. The washes were running bank full by noon, and the street was deserted. Kale left his office early and stepped outside, buttoning his slicker. The street was running with water, and a stream of rain was cutting a ditch under the corner of the office. Getting a shovel from the stable, he began to divert the water.

Up the street at the gun shop, Riley McClean got to his feet and took off the leather apron in which he worked. He was turning toward the door when it darkened suddenly and he looked up to see the bleak, rain-wet face of the Mohave Kid.

The Kid stared at him. “I've come for my gun,” he said.

“That'll be two dollars,” Riley said coolly.

“That's a lot, ain't it?”

“It's my price to you.”

The Kid's flat eyes stared at him, and his shoulder seemed to hunch. Then from the tail of his eye he caught the movement of the marshal as he started to work with the shovel. Quickly, he forked out two dollars and slapped it on the counter. Then he fed five shells into the gun and stepped to the door. He took two quick steps and vanished.

Surprised, Riley started around the counter after him. But as he reached the end of the counter, he heard the Kid yell,
“Ab!”

Kale, his slicker buttoned over his gun, looked around at the call. Frozen with surprise, he saw the Mohave Kid standing there, gun in hand. The Kid's flat face was grinning with grim triumph. And then the Kid's gun roared, and Ab Kale took a step backward and fell, face down in the mud.

The Mohave Kid laughed, suddenly, sardonically. He dropped his gun into his holster and started for the horse tied across the street.

He had taken but one step when Riley McClean spoke:
“All right, Kid, here it is!”

The Mohave Kid whirled sharply to see the gunsmith standing in the doorway. The rain whipping against him, Riley McClean looked at the Kid. “Ab was my friend,” he said. “I'm going to marry Ruth.”

The Kid reached then, and in one awful, endless moment of realization, he knew what Ab Kale had known for these several months, that Riley McClean was a man born to the gun. Even as the Kid's hand slapped leather, he saw Riley's weapon clearing and coming level. The gun steadied, and for that endless instant the Kid stared into the black muzzle. Then his own iron was clear and swinging up, and Riley's gun was stabbing flame.

The bullets, three of them fired rapidly, smashed the Mohave Kid in and around the heart. He took a step back, his own gun roaring and the bullet plowing mud, and then he went to his knees as Riley walked toward him, his gun poised for another shot. As the Kid died, his brain flared with realization, with knowledge of death, and he fell forward, sprawling on his face in the street. A rivulet, diverted by his body, curved around him, ran briefly red, and then trailed on.

People were gathering, but Riley McClean walked to Ab Kale. As he reached him, the older man stirred slightly.

Dropping to his knees, Riley turned him over. The marshal's eyes flickered open. There was a cut from the hairline on the side of his head in front that ran all along his scalp. The shattered end of the shovel handle told the story. Striking the shovel handle, which had been in front of his heart at the moment of impact, the bullet had glanced upward, knocking him out and ripping a furrow in his scalp.

Ab Kale got slowly to his feet and stared up the muddy street where the crowd clustered about the Mohave Kid.

“You killed him?”

“Had to. I thought he'd killed you.”

Ab nodded. “You've got a fast hand. I've known it for months. I hope you'll never have to kill another man.”

“I won't,” Riley said quietly. “I'm not even going to carry a gun after this.”

Ab Kale glanced back up the street. “So he's dead at last. I've carried that burden a long time.” He looked up, his face still white with shock. “They'll bury him. Let's go home, son. The women will be worried.”

And the two men walked down the street side by side, Ab Kale and his son.…

A Mule for Santa Fe

“Sell the mules,” Hassoldt advised, “you want oxen. Less water for 'em an' their feet flatten out on the prairie country where a mule's dig in. If you get hard up for grub you can always eat an ox.”

“If I get that hungry,” Scott Miles replied shortly, “I can eat a mule.”

Hassoldt was an abrupt man. He turned away now, his irritation plain.

“Suit yourself, Miles. But you'll need another mule and I haven't any for sale.”

Bitterly, Scott Miles turned away and went out the door. Rain lashed at his face, for outside the building there was neither awning nor boardwalk. Head bowed into the rain, he slopped along toward the Carter house where young Bill was waiting.

Hassoldt wanted those mules badly, and no wonder. There would be a big demand for them in a few months, and nobody had mules like those of Scott Miles. They were well-bred and well-fed, strapping big mules with plenty of power. If he could get them west there would be money in them.

Everywhere he went they advised against the mules. On roads they were fine. On rocks they were all right. But out on the prairie?

Pembroke advised against them, too. However, after much argument he had agreed to accept the wagon in his company if Miles had a full team of six mules. Four, Pembroke insisted, were not enough. Not even, he added, if the mules were big as those of Miles's team.

There were half a dozen people in the hotel when he stepped in. Pembroke was there, a big, fine-looking man with a tawny mustache. He was talking to Bidwell, a substantial farmer from Ohio who had been the first to sign for Pembroke's fast wagon train.

Miles looked around and found Billy. He was talking to a pretty woman with dark red hair who sat in a big, leather-bound chair.

Bill saw him at once. “Pa,” he said excitedly, “this is Mrs. Hance.”

She looked up and he was immediately uneasy. She had blue eyes, not dark eyes like Mary's had been, and there was a friendliness in them that disturbed him. “Bill's been telling me about you, Mr. Miles. Have you found a mule?”

Glad to be on familiar ground, he shook his head. “Hassoldt won't sell. I'm afraid I'm out of luck.” He was absurdly conscious of his battered hat, its brim limp with rain, and his unshaven jaws. He wanted to get away from her. Women like this both irritated and disturbed him. She was too neat, too perfectly at ease. He knew what such women were like on the trail, finicky and frightened of bugs and fussing over trifles. Also, and he was frank to admit it to himself, he was a little jealous of Bill's excited interest.

“We'd better go, Bill. Say good-bye to Mrs. Hance.”

 

He walked out, red around the ears and conscious that somehow Bill felt he had failed him. It was not necessary for him to have been so abrupt. Just because he looked like a big backwoods farmer was no reason he should act like one.

They lived in the wagon. It was a big new Conestoga, and his tools were all new. He had his plowshare, he'd make the plow when he got there, and he had two rifles and plenty of ammunition. Bill was nine, but already he could shoot, and Scott Miles wanted his son to grow up familiar with weapons. He wanted him to be a good hunter, to use guns with intelligence.

A boy needed two parents, and being an observant man Scott had not failed to notice the wistfulness in Bill's eyes when other children, hurt or imagining a hurt, ran to mother. Bill would never do that with him, he was too proud of being a little man in front of his father. But it wasn't right for the boy.

Farmer Bidwell had a daughter, a pretty, flush-faced girl with corn-silk hair. She had been casting sidelong glances at him ever since their wagon rolled alongside. Tentatively, Scott Miles touched his chin. He had better shave.

He did, and he also trimmed down his mustache. He wore it Spanish style and not like the brush mustaches of Bidwell or so many of the company. He got into a clean shirt then. Bill eyed him critically. “Gettin' all duded up,” he said. “You goin' back to see Mrs. Hance?”

“No!” He spoke sharply. “I may go to see Grace Bidwell, later.”

“Her?” Bill's contempt was obvious. So obvious that Scott looked at the boy quickly. “She isn't as pretty as Mrs. Hance.”

Scott Miles sat down. “Look, Bill,” he said, “we're going into a mighty rough country, like I've told you. We won't be in a city. We'll be in the mountains where I'll have to fell trees and trim them for a cabin.

“Now I need a wife, and you need a mother. But just being pretty isn't enough. I've got to have a wife who can cook, who can make her own clothes, if need be. A wife who can take the rough going right with me. I need somebody who can help, not hinder.”

Bill nodded, but he remained only half convinced. Scott Miles was shouldering into his coat when Bill spoke again. “Pa”—he was frowning a little—“if we get a new mother, shouldn't it be somebody we like, too?”

Scott Miles stared into the rain, his face grim. Then he dropped his hand to Bill's shoulder. “Yes, son,” he said quietly, “it would have to be somebody we like … too.”

 

The rain stopped, but the sun did not come out. Slopping through the mud, Miles made inquiries about mules. Yes, there was an old hardcase downriver who owned a big black mule. The man's name was Simon Gilbride. Sell him? Not a chance! He wouldn't even talk about it. Nevertheless, Scott Miles saddled his bay mare and rode south. As he started out of town he saw Mrs. Hance on the hotel steps. She waved, and he waved back.

He saw something else, too. Something that filled him with grave disquiet. Hassoldt was standing on the steps talking to three rough-looking men from the river. All wore guns. They turned and looked at him as he passed, and Scott had the uncomfortable feeling they had been talking about him.

Gilbride came to the door when Scott arrived. He was a tall, old man with a cold patrician face and the clothes of a farmer. “Sell my mule? Of course not!” And that was final.

It was dusk before Scott returned to the wagon. He was tired and he sagged in the saddle. It was not so much physical weariness, for he was a big man and unusually strong, but the weariness of defeat. Only a few hours remained and there was only one mule in the country the size of his. Of course, wagons were arriving all the time. If he could keep circulating …

He pulled up. There was a fire going and Bill was squatted beside it. He was laughing and eating at the same time, and the girl who was cooking was laughing also. “Good!” he muttered. “Grace has finally got to him. Now things will be easier all around.”

Only when she straightened from the fire it was not Grace. It was Mrs. Hance.

She smiled, a little frightened. “Oh! I didn't expect you back so soon. I—I was worried about Bill going without his supper.”

The food was good. Had a flavor he didn't know, but mighty good. And Bill was eating as if he hadn't eaten in years. Of course, Bill could digest anything.

“Mr. Miles,” she spoke suddenly as if nerved for the effort. “I have a favor to ask. I want to ride in your wagon to Santa Fe.”

He blinked. Of all things, this was the least expected. Bill had looked up and Scott could almost feel him listening.

He shook his head. “I am sorry, Mrs. Hance. The answer is no. It is quite impossible.”

 

He walked to the door of the hotel with her, then back to the wagon. Suddenly he decided to check the mules and, nearing them, he was almost positive he saw a shadow move in the darkness near where they were picketed. He waited, his gun ready, but there was no further movement, no sound.

He waited for a long time in silence, seriously worried. Hassoldt wanted mules badly, with a big contract to fill for the government, and he did not impress Miles as a very scrupulous man. In such a place as this there would be thieves, and Hassoldt impressed him as a man likely to stop at nothing to obtain something he wanted.

When he reached the hotel next morning there was no sign of Mrs. Hance. He hesitated, faintly disappointed at not seeing her. Pembroke and Bidwell were together. “Well, Miles.” Pembroke was abrupt. “Have you found a mule? I'm sorry, of course, but if you haven't one tomorrow we'll have to make other arrangements.”

Wearily Miles walked back to camp, leading the mare. He was walking up to the wagon when the mare whinnied. He looked up. Tied to a wagon wheel was a magnificent sorrel stallion. At least sixteen hands high, it had a white face and three white stockings. After tying the mare, Scott Miles walked admiringly around the stallion. It was one of the finest animals he had ever seen.

Mrs. Hance came out of the trees with Bill. They hung back a little, then walked toward him.

“This,” he inquired, “is your horse?”

“You like him?”

“Like him? He's splendid! All my life I've wanted to own just such a horse. Of course,” he added quickly, “I could never afford it.”

“With your mare it might be very profitable,” she assured him quietly. Then she lifted her chin. “Mr. Miles, what would you do for another mule?”

He laughed grimly. “Anything short of murder,” he said, “if I got him before tomorrow.”

“Even to sharing your wagon with a widow?”

He chuckled. “Even that!”

“Then prepare to have a passenger. I've got a mule!”

He shook his head. “That's impossible. There isn't a mule within miles and miles of here. I've looked.”

“I have a mule,” she said, “as big as yours. He was sold to me by Simon Gilbride.”

Scott Miles sat down, and she explained very quietly. Determined to go to Santa Fe, she had decided the only thing to do was to personally see the old man.

Gilbride, it turned out, had been in her father's command in Mexico. That, a little pleading, and a little flattery had done the trick. “So,” she said, “I have a mule. I have the only mule. So if you go you take me. What do we do?”

Scott Miles got to his feet and bowed politely. “Mrs. Hance, will you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to Santa Fe?”

She curtsied gravely, then her eyes filled with mischief. “Mr. Miles,” she replied formally, “I was hoping you'd ask!”

Pembroke was in the hotel, seated with Bidwell and several others, shaping last details of the trip.

“Count me in.” Scott could scarcely keep the triumph from his tone. “I've got my mule!”

As he explained he saw Bidwell's face stiffen. Pembroke frowned slightly, then shook his head. “It won't do, Miles,” he said. “The women would never stand for it. We can't have an unmarried couple sharing a wagon. It just won't do.”

“Look,” he protested, “I—” Argument was fruitless. The answer was a flat no. Disgusted, angry, and desperate, he started back toward the wagon. He was nearing it when he heard a shot, then another. Running, he whipped his pistol from his waistband and broke through the trees to the wagon.

 

Mrs. Hance stood behind the wagon with a smoking rifle. Her face was white. “They got away,” she said bitterly, “they've stolen our mules!” She continued icily, “Have you decided to just stand there or are you going to take Admiral and go after them?”

“Admiral?” He was astonished. “They didn't get him? You mean he was tied here?”

“Behind the wagon,” she said shortly. “Now take him and get started!”

“He might be killed,” he warned

Her lips tightened. “Take him! We're in this together!”

It was morning when he realized he was closing in. Admiral was not merely a beautiful horse, but one with speed and bottom. And one of the men was wounded. He had come upon the place where they bathed and dressed his wound at daylight. He had found fragments of a bloody shirt and fresh boot-tracks.

Two hours later he stopped on the edge of a grove and saw them disappearing into a cluster of piñons a half mile away. They had the mules roped together and they were moving more slowly. The wounded man was riding his mare.

He had no illusions about fair play. They would kill on sight. If he survived he must do the same. Studying the terrain, he saw a long draw off on the right that cut into the plain to the south. If he could get into that draw and beat them to the plain …

Admiral went down the bank as if mountain-bred and on the bottom he stepped out into a run. Despite the long night of riding, the big horse had plenty left. He ran and ran powerfully, ran with eagerness.

At the draw's opening, Scott Miles swung down. Grimly, he checked the heavy pistol he carried. Thrusting it into his waistband, he walked along through the scattered greasewood and piñon until he was near the entrance of the larger draw down which they were coming.

The mules came out of the draw with the men behind them. Scott Miles drew his pistol and stepped from the piñons, but as his foot came down a rock rolled and he lost balance. He fell backward, seeing the riders grabbing for their guns. He caught himself on his left hand and fired even as a bullet whisked by his face.

 

He rolled to one knee and fired again. The second shot did not miss. One man lurched in his saddle and there was blood down the back of his head, and then he fell into the dust, his horse stampeding.

The wounded man had disappeared, but the third man leaped his horse at Scott. There was an instant when Scott saw the flaring nostrils of the horse, saw the man lean wide and point the gun straight at his face. And then Scott fired.

The man's body jolted, seeming to lift from the saddle, and was slammed back as the horse leaped over Miles, one hoof missing him by a hair. The rider hit the sand and rolled over. Taking no chances, Miles fired again.

One man left. Sitting on the sand, half-concealed by brush, Miles reloaded the empty chambers. Then he started through the brush, moving carefully.

The wounded man sat on the ground, holding his one good arm aloft. “Don't shoot!” he begged. “I tossed my gun away.”