The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (30 page)

An hour dragged slowly by, an hour of unrelenting heat and the endless white glare. A buzzard swung in lazy circles, high overhead. Wells left the muzzle of his rifle leaning against the sill, and put his head against the wall near the window. He dozed, only coming out of it at intervals to stare toward the wall. They might be gone, and they might not. He knew Apaches.

Once he tried a swallow of the thick, alkali water, but it choked him and he was only more thirsty than before. He tried a shot at the rock, but drew no answering fire. Then, after an interval, another shot. Silence, silence and the heat.

It would soon be stage time. He was very sleepy. He leaned his head against the wall and his lids grew heavy. His head bobbed loosely on his neck. Then he slept.

An instant only. His subconscious jerked him awake, frightened at what might have happened. He fired again, three quick shots.

There was no sound, no movement.

He crawled across the floor and looked from the window facing east. Only the wheelmarks showed, the wheelmarks that reached to the crest of the low rise that obscured his eastern view of the long, alkali basin and the distant hills. He returned to his vantage point and tried another shot.

 

He would get out of this on the next stage after the one coming. She had been right, of course, those eighteen years ago when she picked Ed instead of him. Ed settled into a quiet, easy life, but as for himself, he had lived on, a hard, lonely life along the frontiers. He had the ranch, of course, a cozy little place, and pleasant, but memories of her always drove him away, even after eighteen years.

A long hour dragged away before he heard the stage. It came over the rise and swept down upon the station with its pursuing cloud of dust, then braked to a halt. Wells got to his feet and lounged to the door. His eyes threw a brief glance at the desert and the wall, then he walked out to the stage.

“Howdy, Jim! How was the trip?”

“Hot.” Jim climbed down from the stage top. “Where's the hosses?”

“Been sort of busy,” Wells said. “I'll get them.”

While Jim unhooked the spent team he went down to the stone barn. More asleep than awake he threw the harness on the horses. Jim came down to help him.

“Got the old man aboard,” he said. “Macomber.”

“Wonder if I'll get that powder?”

“Blazes, no! Judson says all he talks about is cuttin' expenses!”

They led the horses back and noticed that Price Macomber and his niece were out of the stage. Judson was watching them, wearily. Some little thing about the girl's face looked familiar to Wells.

“Any fresh water, my man?” Macomber asked.

“No”—Wells looked around, his eyes bloodshot and hard—“but there's the well.”

The name was the same, of course. Wells looked at the girl again. Price Macomber was glaring at him.

“I'd think,” Macomber replied testily, “you could at least have some water ready for the passengers!”

Wells looked around, glaring. Then he saw the girl. She was standing helplessly, staring at him. Perspiration had streaked the dust on her face. She was the first woman he had seen in two months.

He straightened from fastening a trace chain, staring at the girl. She paled a little, but watched him, wide-eyed and fascinated.

Macomber noticed his stare and was suddenly angry. “Here!” he demanded. “Get us some water!”

Wells turned his head and looked at Macomber. His black eyes were cold and ugly. “Get it yourself !” he said.

Molly moved away from them and looked off across the alkali. She heard her uncle talking, low-voiced, to Judson. She heard him say, “We'll discharge this man!”

Judson was protesting. “Macomber, don't do it. We can't get anybody else. They are all afraid of this station because of the Apaches!”

“Nonsense! No man is indispensable!”

Molly noticed something bright and gleaming lying on the ground near a bundle of dusty hides and clothing. Curious, she started toward it. Then she stopped sharply, and her breath seemed to leave her. She felt as if she were going to faint. It was not a bunch of old hides and clothing, it was a dead man. A dead Indian.

“Uncle Price!” she cried. She turned and started on a stumbling run for the stage, her eyes great spots of darkness in her dead-white face.

“What's the matter?” Price Macomber wheeled about. “A snake?”

“No,” she gasped, one hand on her heart, “it's a dead man! A dead—Indian!”

Price Macomber had heard about dead Indians, but he had never seen any kind of a dead man. He put one arm around his niece and stared at it, alarmed and fascinated.

Wells had not noticed. He was helping Jim carry bundles of food and ammunition into the stage station. When Jim put his armload down, he glanced around, noticing the bright brass of the empty shells. Mentally, he calculated, and then he looked up at Wells, his eyes respectful. “Trouble?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Wells peeled the wrapping off a fresh plug of chewing.

“Guess I got 'em all run off. I didn't have time to look. They hit me about noon, yesterday.”

“That—?” Jim wet his dry lips with his tongue. With chill and unhappy realization he thought of what would have happened had the stage rolled up here with the Indians waiting. Him sitting up there on the box in plain sight, too.

They went outside. Macomber was helping his niece toward the stage. “What's up?” Jim asked, looking at them.

Judson glanced at Wells, seeing for the first time the mark of sleeplessness, the bullet-burned hand, the blood on his side. “You all right?” he demanded.

“Yeah,” Wells replied shortly, “bring that powder?”

“No,” Judson said, “Macomber says you don't need it.”

 

Macomber was scarcely less shaken than his niece. He tried to avoid seeing the dead Indian. From here it was just a brown and patchy-looking hump on the alkali.

Wells walked over to him. “You get me some powder,” he said flatly, “or get another man, and get that powder out here by the next stage!”

“See here!” Macomber's poise was shaken, but at this blow to the subject closest to his heart as well as to the respect he believed he deserved, his head came up. “Don't be talking to me like that! I don't see any reason for any powder out here. I told Judson that and I'll tell you now. We can't waste a lot of money on useless expenditure!”

Wells looked at him with hard, bitter eyes. “Those rocks out there”—he gestured at the wall—“need blasting out.”

He turned on his heels and started for the corral. Then he stopped on a sudden hunch and looked back. “Say,” he said, “are you any relation to Edwin Macomber, of Denver?”

Price was startled. He turned around. “Why, I'm his brother. Why do you ask?”

Wells looked at him for a moment, and then he began to smile. Suddenly, he felt better. He walked on to the corral.

Price Macomber hesitated, staring after him, then he shrugged. Judson beside him, he walked to the wall. It was all nonsense, of course. This wall was completely out of the way, and no earthly excuse would warrant its blasting. He felt better, despite the smile on Wells's face, because this had proved his theory again, that most such unexplained items were the result of the impractical whims of impractical men.

He wanted the appearance of fairness, so he would at least look at the wall, but this was just another of the little details that proved how right he was in his theory. The dead Indian was not explained, but that could wait. He would ask about that when—

Price Macomber glanced across the wall and his face turned green. He backed away, retching violently. When he straightened, he dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief and stared at Judson, eyes bright with horror. There were three dead Indians beyond the wall. Each of them had been hit several times with jagged, ricocheting bullets.

Macomber stumbled a little as he hurried back toward the stage. This was an awful place! He must get out of here. Jim was on the box, holding the lines and waiting. Molly was talking to Wells, showing him something.

Price Macomber got hurriedly into the stage and sat down beside his niece. As they started to roll away, Judson waved to Wells. Macomber did not look back.

When they had gone a little way, he stiffened his face. “Send him that powder, Judson. The wall is an obstruction.”

A thought occurred to him, and he turned to his niece. “What were you showing him? What did he say to you?”

She looked around. “I meant to tell you. He said he thought he knew my father and mother, so I showed him that picture of us. This one—”

Judson glanced at the picture as she handed it to her uncle, and could scarcely repress a smile. It was a picture of a prim-faced man who might have been Price Macomber himself. He wore spectacles and stood beside a very fat woman with two chins and a round, moonlike face. A face that once might have been quite pretty. Price Macomber nodded. His brother Ed, a solid, substantial man. He handed the picture back.

“What did he say when he saw the picture?”

She frowned, her eyes puzzled. “Why, he didn't say anything! He just stood there and laughed and laughed!”

 

His loaded rifle beside the door, the man called Wells began to sweep up the empty shells. “The ranch will look pretty good after this,” he said aloud, “but after all, there are worse things than Apaches!”

Stage to Willowspring

He was a medium-tall man with nice hands and feet, and when he got down from the stage he stood away from the others and lit a small Spanish
cigarro
. Under the brim of the gray hat his features were an even sun-brown, his eyes gray and quiet.

Under a nondescript vest he wore a gray wool shirt, and a dark red bandanna that was worn to exquisite softness. His boots had been freshly heeled, and when he walked it was with the easy step of a woodsman rather than that of a rider. His gun was thrust into a slim, old-fashioned holster almost out of sight behind the edge of his vest.

Koons saw him there when he came out to the stage, and he took a second look, frowning a little. There was a sense of the familiar about the man, although he was sure he had never seen him before.

Avery was standing alongside the stage watching them load the box. Koons was pleased to see Avery. They were carrying a small shipment of gold and he liked to have a steady man riding shotgun.

There were five passengers to ride inside and a sixth riding the top. Everybody along the run knew Peg Fulton. She was sixteen when her parents died and she married a no-account gambler who soon ran off and left her. She had gone to a judge for a divorce, an action much frowned upon. She had since been treated as a fallen woman, although there was no evidence to prove it. Koons regretted his part in what had happened to Peg. He had believed he was too old to marry her but the gambler, who was also his age, had not hesitated. Peg's father had been a dry farmer named Gillis, and she came of good stock.

Bell was a fat, solid little man who had been riding the stages for eight years, a drummer for an arms outfit. Gagnon had a couple of rich claims in Nevada and carried himself with the superior feeling of one who is a success—without realizing his good fortune was compounded of ninety percent luck. The man riding the top was a stranger, an unwashed man with weak eyes and a few sparse hairs trying to become a beard. He carried a Spencer .56 and wore a Navy Colt.

The last passenger came from the stage station, and Koons looked again, surprised at her beauty. She had dark, thick hair and the soft skin of a girl of good family and easy living. Her traveling dress was neat and expensive and she had a way of gathering her skirt when about to get into the stage that told Koons she was a lady.

Bell moved over to Koons. “See the fellow in the gray hat?”

“Who is he?”

“That's Scott Roundy, the Ranger who went into Mexico after Chato.”

“Him?” Koons looked again. Curiosity impelled Armodel Chase to pause on the iron step of the stage, listening. “Of course he's not a Ranger anymore, but they say he's killed ten men. Wonder if he knows about Todd Boysee?”

“Likely. Wonder what he's doin' up here? Seems mighty far off his range.”

“Boysee will ask him.”

Gagnon had been listening, and he said, “He doesn't look so tough to me.”

Bell glanced at him irritably. “That's what Chato thought. That Mex killed nine, ten men in gunfights, murdered a dozen more. Roundy followed him to Hermosillo and shot him to death in a cantina.”

“I heard the Rurales don't like that sort of thing.”

“Huh!” Bell said. “They were so glad to get rid of Chato they looked the other way.”

Armodel gathered a skirt again, and suddenly beside her there was a low question—“May I?”—and a hand to help her. She accepted it naturally, without coy hesitation, then glanced at the man. It was Scott Roundy.

He got into the stage and sat opposite her beside Peg Fulton. A whip cracked, the stage jolted, then lunged and they were off, and the dust began to rise behind them. The weather was comfortable, even slightly warm in the direct sun, but after a few minutes the shade had a frosty bite to it that indicated winter was waiting just beyond the horizon. This was a country of rolling hills, sparse grass, and piñon-crested ridges. In the shallow valleys there were scattered oaks.

Peg Fulton's head nodded and after a while fell to Roundy's shoulder. Awakening with a start, she apologized and he said quietly, “That's all right, ma'am. I don't mind.”

Armodel looked at him thoughtfully but said nothing. She saw his eyes stray to her several times, and then she dozed a little. It seemed hours later when she awakened to find the stage had come to a stop. Dust climbed into the coach and settled upon their clothes. Koons came to the door. “Might get down a few minutes. One of the mules is a mite sick. Thought I'd let him rest up a little.”

Avery walked to a point where he could see over the edge of the arroyo, and with a glance toward him, Roundy moved over to Armodel. “Would you like to have a seat, ma'am? There's a flat rock under the oak.”

After she seated herself she saw Peg Fulton looking around helplessly, and she said quickly, “Won't you sit here with me? There's room enough.”

Peg thanked her and sat down. Gagnon's eyes flashed irritably and he muttered something to Bell, who ignored it. The passenger with the Spencer had squatted on his heels with his back to the rear wheel of the coach and was smoking.

“Are you traveling far, Mr. Roundy?” The blue-green eyes met his.

“I am Armodel Chase, and I am going to Willowspring.”

“Not far.… I am stopping there also. If I can be of service, please call on me.”

Gagnon spoke abruptly. “Ma'am, being new to the West I am afraid you do not know the character of the young woman beside you. I believe I should—”

“And I believe you shouldn't!” The blue-green eyes were dark and cool. “Miss Fulton and I are comfortable here, and I do not believe that a woman's marital misfortune is any reason to withhold one's friendship or civility.” Peg bit her lower lip and averted her eyes, but her hand sought out Armodel's and for a moment gave it a tight squeeze.

She caught the faint smile on Scott Roundy's face as Gagnon turned away, his back stiff with offended righteousness.

Later, back on the stage, Armodel studied Roundy when he was not looking. His was a quiet, thoughtful face, his smile almost shy. It was preposterous that this man could have killed ten men.

Gagnon broke the silence, speaking abruptly to Roundy. “What you figure to do when Boysee braces you?”

“Excuse me, I don't know what you are talking about.”

Armodel felt the chill in the Ranger's voice, saw the flicker of irritation there.

“Aw, you heard of Todd Boysee! He's marshal of Willowspring. Killed seventeen or eighteen men. They say he's hell on wheels with a six-gun. He killed Lew Cole.”

“Cole's been asking for it for years.”

“Maybe he thinks you have, too.”

Scott Roundy's voice was cold. “I don't care to continue the conversation, my friend. Todd Boysee's business is his own. I'm sure he won't look for any trouble where there's none to be had.”

Gagnon could not resist a final word. “He'll meet the stage.” He smiled without warmth. “We'll see then.”

Bell opened his eyes. “Nothin' to that talk, Roundy. Boysee's a good man. The men he's killed had it comin'. He's kinda touchy about strangers wearin' guns, though.”

The conversation lapsed. Atop the stage they heard the passenger with the Spencer moving around. The air grew noticeably colder and the wind seemed to be mounting. A gust almost lifted the stage. “A norther,” Bell said, “bad place to meet it. All flat country for miles.”

Scott Roundy lifted the curtain and peered out. Darkness had fallen, but there was sifting snow in the air, and a scattering of it on the ground.

He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. It was always the same. Once they knew you were a gunfighter they would not let it alone. Men had been killed in utterly senseless battles created by idle talk, the sadistic urge to see men kill, or the simple curiosity of mild men eager to see champions compete. It was an age-old, timeless curiosity that would live as long as men had the courage for battle. He had heard the endless arguments over what would happen if Hickok shot it out with Ben Thompson, or Wyatt Earp with John Ringo, or Boone May with Seth Bullock. Men compared their respective talents, added up their victories, exaggerated the number they had killed.

It was starting again now. “Charlie Storms,” Gagnon was saying, “is one of the fastest men alive. Never saw him beat. I don't think Earp would have a chance with him.”

Bell, who heard everything, opened his eyes again. “Charlie Storms is dead,” he said quietly. “Luke Short killed him in Tombstone.”

“Short?” Gagnon was contemptuous. “I don't believe it.”

“I heard it, too,” Peg Fulton said quietly.

Armodel looked again at Scott Roundy. He was leaning back and had his eyes closed, apparently hearing nothing. Yet he was awake. She had seen his eyes open slightly only a minute or two before. How he must feel to hear this talk. Would that man be waiting for him? If so, what would happen? Half frightened, she looked at Roundy. To think that he might soon be dead!

“None of them are as good as they're cracked up to be,” Gagnon said, staring at Roundy. “Meet the right man an' they take water mighty fast.”

Roundy's eyes opened. “Did you ever face a gun?” he asked mildly.

“No, but—”

“Wait until you do.” Roundy closed his eyes and turned his shoulder away from Gagnon.

Through the crack of the curtain he could see the snow was falling fast, but most of it was in the air. For some time now, the stage had slowed to a walk.

Bell was not asleep. Scott Roundy and Todd Boysee. It would be something to see—and something to tell. He knew how avidly men gathered about to hear stories of a famous gun battle. Concannon had seen the fight between Billy Brooks and the four brothers who came to Dodge hunting him. He had been at the restaurant window when Brooks stepped to the door and killed all four of them in the street. It was history now, but Concannon could hold a crowd anytime, just telling of it. Long as he had been in the West, he had known all the great names among gunfighters, but he had never seen a shoot-out between two top men.

This Roundy was cool. He had killed Con Bigelow at Fort Griffin, and Bigelow was ranked with the best. Roundy beat him to the draw and put two slugs into his heart. Bigelow had been a wanted man who laughed at the Rangers and evaded them, until that afternoon when cornered by Scott Roundy.

Roundy hunched into the corner. Irritably, he was thinking of the talk. They never let up. Always after a man.

Todd Boysee … no longer a youngster. That meant a cagey and straight-shooting man. But what kind of a man? Was he like Jeff Milton or Jim Gillette, who shot only when absolutely necessary? Or was he a reputation hunter like Old John Selman who had killed more than one man under doubtful, to say the least, circumstances. Some of those hard-bitten old town marshals felt the simplest way to maintain their position was to kill any man who threatened it, even by his presence.

He wanted no trouble, but it would pay to be careful. Once a man had a reputation with a gun there was no rest short of the grave.

The stage rumbled on through the night. During a momentary stop he got blankets out and spread them over the knees of Peg and Armodel. Then he relaxed again in his corner. There was the estate to settle, or he would just ride on through Willowspring. He suddenly knew he did not want to stop. Yet, even if he did not want to, he must. If the idea got around that he had taken water for any man, he would have to kill a half dozen who would want to build reputations at his expense.

He settled down to get some sleep. Outside the snow fell and the wind rocked the stage, moving slowly to keep to the ill-defined trail.

 

Old Todd Boysee was a grim and hard-bitten man. He had found Willowspring a roistering boomtown with two and three killings a night. He had killed four men during his first month on the job, and two later that year. After that there had been little trouble.

Occasionally he laid a pistol barrel over the head of some malcontent who believed he could tree the town, and once he had faced down a mob who intended to lynch a prisoner. Lately, it was becoming difficult. Twice in the past year men had come to town hunting him, one a pink-faced youngster who believed himself a dangerous man, the other a burly loudmouth who believed, and said, that Todd Boysee was too old for his job.

Both of them were buried now, out on Boot Hill. The boy had too much nerve for his skill, and the loudmouth, who might have backed down at the last minute, might also have come back to take a shot from ambush. Todd Boysee had not lived to become fifty-four by taking chances. By the ages of gunmen he was an old man, but his hand was sure, his aim straight.

It was snowing lightly and the wind was blowing when he walked down to the Gold Star. A snow-covered rider was at the bar, pouring a glass of whiskey. He glanced up at Boysee. “Here he is now,” he said. “Ask him.”

A heavy-set rancher with ill-fitting false teeth turned to Boysee. “Todd,” he said, “we was just a-talkin'. Who do you reckon is best man with a gun? Wyatt Earp or Scott Roundy?”

Boysee pulled the end of his white mustache and his cold eyes measured the rancher. He did not like talkative men. “I have no idea,” he said coldly.

A thin-legged man with amazingly narrow hips and a long, loose jaw said, “Roundy's comin' up the trail. Jess seen him gettin' on the stage.”

The rancher was watching Boysee, his watery blue eyes eager. “Wonder what he's comin'
here
for? He used to be a Ranger, but this ain't Texas.”

Boysee ignored them, waiting for the bartender to set up his evening drink. They were loafing, loose-mouthed men who would be better off at home. The rancher had been one of those in the lynch mob he had stopped, and Todd Boysee had not forgotten it. Yet when he found a rustler on his place he ran for help instead of bracing the man then and there.

Yet, what
was
Scott Roundy coming here for? This was far from his usual haunts. It made no kind of sense, and Todd Boysee had made it his business to know about men like Roundy. The man's reputation was good. He had never killed but in performance of his duty, although he was always in the dangerous spots. A couple of times he had not even fired until shot at. A man who did that had a streak of weakness in him. Given a break, men would kill you sooner or later. You had to shoot first, and shoot to kill.