The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (38 page)

There was only one reason of which he could think for a smoke signal now. Somebody in town would be sending word to their rustlers that the sheriff had been notified, or that he was riding. Probably the former. He, Rossiter reflected, was only a cow town lawyer, and not a man to be feared.

He rode into Yucca Canyon and followed it north, then climbed the steel dust out of it, skirted the mesa, and headed east again. He was high in the chaparral now, where it thinned out and merged with a scattered growth of juniper. Weaving his way through, he was almost to the other side when he came upon the tracks of cattle.

It was a good-sized herd, and it had come out of the chaparral not long before. From droppings he spotted, he judged the herd had been moved not more than four or five hours before.

The country grew increasingly rugged. It was an area into which he had never ventured before, a wild, broken country of canyons and mesas with rare water holes. By sundown he was too far out to turn back. And he had no bedroll with him, no coffee, and worst of all … no gun.

Yet to turn back now would be worse than foolish. This was, without doubt, a rustled herd. Time enough to return when he discovered their destination. As there were still some minutes of daylight, he pushed on. On his right was a long tongue of a lava flow, to the left a broken, serrated ridge of rusty rock. Before him, at some distance, lifted the wall of the mountain range, and it seemed the cattle were being driven into a dead end.

Coolness touched his face and the trail dipped down. The desert was gone, and there was a sparse growth of buffalo grass that thickened and grew rich as he moved ahead. The lava flow now towered above his head and the trail dipped down, and rounded a shoulder of the lava. He found himself in a long, shallow valley between the flow and the pine-clad range. And along the bottom grazed more than a hundred head of cattle.

He swung the steel dust quickly right to get the background of the lava for concealment. Then he walked his mount forward until he could see the thin trail of smoke from a starting fire. Concealing his horse, he walked down the slope through the trees.

When he reached a spot near the camp the smoke had ceased, but the fire was blazing cheerfully. A stocky man with a tough, easy manner about him worked around the fire. He wore chaps, a faded red flannel shirt, a battered hat … and a gun.

Rossiter turned and started back through the trees. If he cut across country he could have Mulcahy and a posse here shortly after daybreak.

A pound of hooves stopped him and he merged his body with a pine tree and waited, alert for trouble. Through an opening between trees he saw three riders. Two men and a boy.

A boy …

With a tight feeling in his chest he turned abruptly about and carefully worked his way back toward the camp. Ed Blick, George Sprague—and Mike Hamlin.

Mike's face was white, but he was game. His hands were lashed to the pommel of his saddle.

The red-shirted man looked up. “What goes on?” He glanced from the boy to Sprague.

“Found him workin' our trail like an Injun.”

The man with the red shirt straightened and dropped the skillet. “I don't like this, George. I don't like it a bit.”

“What else can we do?”

“We can leave the country.”

“For a kid?” Sprague began to build a smoke. “Don't be a fool.”

“Lonnie said Frisby went to Rossiter, then Rossiter to the sheriff.” Blick was talking. “I don't like it, George.”

“You afraid of Rossiter?”

“That lawyer?” Blick's contempt was obvious. “Mulcahy's the one who worries me. He's a bulldog.”

“Leave him to me.”

Their conclusion had been obvious. Mike Hamlin had found their trail, and now he had seen them. They must leave the country or kill him. And they had just said they would not leave the country.

The red-shirted man had not moved, and Rossiter could see the indecision in his face. Whatever else this man might be, Rossiter could see that he was no murderer. The man did not like any part of it, but apparently could not decide on a course of action.

Rossiter had no gun.… He had been a fool to go unarmed, but he had intended only to ride to Frisby's to talk to Mike and look over the situation on the spot. He had never considered hunting the thieves himself, but there came a time when a man had to fork his own broncs.

Whatever they would do would be done at once. There was no time to ride for help. Blick lifted Hamlin from the saddle and put the boy on the ground some distance away. The red-shirted man watched him, his face stiff. Then Blick and Sprague slid the saddles from their horses and led them out to picket. Jim worked his way through the brush until he was close to the fire.

Rossiter knew there was little time and he had to gamble. “You going to let them kill that boy?” he asked quietly.

The man's head came up sharply. “Who's that?”

“I asked if you were going to let them kill that boy?”

He saw Rossiter now. His eyes measured him coolly. “You want them stopped,” he said, “you stop them.”

“I wasn't expecting trouble. I'm not packing a gun.”

It was his life he was chancing as well as Mike's. Yet he believed he knew men, and in this one there was a basic manhood, a remnant of personal pride and integrity. Each man has his code, no matter how far down the scale.

The fellow got to his feet and strolled over to his war bag. From it he took a battered Colt. “Catch,” he said, and walked back to the fire.

Jim Rossiter stepped back into the shadows, gun in hand. He had seen Mike's eyes on him, and in Mike's eyes there had been doubt. Rossiter was a reader of books, a thinker … and this was time for violence.

Sprague and Blick came back to the fire and Sprague looked sharply around. “Did I hear you talkin'?”

“To the kid. I asked if he was hungry.”

Sprague studied the man for a long minute, suspicion thick upon him. “Don't waste the grub.” He started to sit down, then saw the gap in the open war bag. With a quick stride he stepped to the boy and rolled him over, glanced at the rawhide that bound him, then looked around on the ground.

Blick was puzzled but alert. The man in the red shirt stood very still, pale to the lips.

The gambler straightened up and turned slowly. “Bill, where's that other gun of yours?”

“I ain't seen it.”

Rossiter smelled the acrid smell of wood smoke. There was the coolness of a low place and damp grass around him. Out on the meadow a quail called.

“You shoved it down in your pack last night. It ain't there now.”

“Ain't it?”

Bill knew he was in a corner, but he was not a frightened man. It was two to one, and he did not know whether the man in the shadows would stand by him—or even if he was still present.

“I'm not fooling, Bill. I won't stand for a double-cross.”

“And I won't stand for killin' the kid.”

Sprague's mind was made up. Ed Blick knew it, and Ed moved left a little. Bill saw that move and knew what it meant. His tongue touched his lips, and his eyes flickered toward the pines.

Rossiter took an easy step forward, bringing him into the half-light. “If you're looking for the gun, Sprague, here it is.”

The gun was easy in hand … Blick saw something then, and it bothered him. No lawyer ever held a gun like that. He tried to speak, to warn Sprague, but Rossiter was speaking.

“Bill,” he said, “untie that boy.”

Sprague's lips had thinned down against his teeth. The corners of his mouth pulled down, and the skin on his face looked tight and hard. “Leave him be. I'm not backing up for no cow town lawyer.”

“Watch it, George,” Blick said. “I don't like this.”

“He doesn't dare shoot. One of us will get him.”

“Untie the kid, Bill.” Rossiter's eyes were on Sprague, a corner of attention for Blick. He sensed that Blick was wiser at this sort of thing than Sprague. Blick was dangerous but he would start nothing. It would be Sprague who would move first.

Bill walked across to Mike and, dropping on his knees, began to untie him.

“Back off, Bill,” Sprague warned, “or I'll kill you, too.” He crouched a bit, bending his knees ever so slightly. “Get ready, Ed.”

“George!” There was sudden panic in Blick's voice. “Don't try—!”

Sprague threw himself left and grabbed for his gun. It was swinging up when Rossiter shot him. Rossiter fired once, the bullet smashing Sprague in the half-parted teeth, and then he swung the gun. He felt Blick's shot burn him, then steadied and fired. Blick backed up two steps and sat down. Then he clasped his stomach as if with cramp and rolled over on his side and lay there, unmoving.

Bill touched his lips with his tongue. “For a lawyer,” he said sincerely, “you can shoot.”

Rossiter lowered the gun. Mike was sitting up, rubbing his arms. He walked over to where the other man's kit lay on the ground and dropped the pistol onto a blanket. “Much obliged, Bill. Now you'd better saddle up and ride.”

“Sure.”

Bill turned to go, then stopped. “That gun there. I got it secondhand.” He rubbed his palms down his chaps. “I'll need a road stake. You figure it's worth twenty bucks to you?”

Rossiter drew a coin from his pocket and tossed it to Bill. It gleamed gold in the firelight. “It's a bargain, Bill. A good buy.”

Bill hesitated, then said quietly, “I never killed no kids, mister.”

 

Nobody was in the street when they rode in at daybreak. There was a rooster crowing and somewhere a water bucket rattled, then a pump squeaked. Rossiter walked his horse up the street, leading two others, the bodies of Sprague and Blick across them.

Mike started to turn his horse toward home, then said, “You never said you could shoot like that, Jim.”

“In a lifetime, Mike, a man does many things.”

Mulcahy came from the door of his house, hair freshly combed. “Ain't a nice sight before breakfast, Jim.” Mulcahy glanced at the two dead men. “You want me to put out a warrant for this Bill character?”

“No evidence,” Rossiter replied. “Let him be. The last of them is Lonnie Parker. I want you to let me come along.”

“Tomorrow,” the sheriff said.

 

It was noon when he got out of bed. He bathed, shaved, and dressed carefully, not thinking of what was to come. He left Bill's gun on the dresser and went to a chest in the corner and got out a belt, holster, and gun. The gun was a .44 Russian, a Smith & Wesson six-shooter. He checked the loads and the balance, then walked out into the street.

Magda was just leaving her gate. She hesitated, waiting for him. She looked from the gun to his eyes, surprised. “Jim … what are you doing?”

He told her quietly of what happened, and of Bill riding away.

“But,” she protested, “if they are dead and Bill is gone—”

“There were four rustlers, Magda,” he said gently. “I don't know what the other one will do.”

She got it then and he saw her face go white. One hand caught the gate and she stared at him. “Jim!” Her voice was a whisper. “Oh, Jim!”

He turned away. “I don't want trouble, Mag. I'm going to try to take care of him for you. After all,” he said with grim humor, “he may need a lawyer.”

Sheriff Mulcahy was waiting up the street in front of his office. The time had come.

He was gone three steps before she cried out, and then she ran to him, caught his arm.

“Jim Rossiter, you listen to me. You take care of yourself ! No matter what happens, Jim! Jim, believe me, there was never anybody else—nobody at all—not after I met you. The night he came to town I … I was just so glad to see him, and then you saw us and you wouldn't talk to me. He took too much for granted, but so did you.”

His eyes held hers for a long, long minute. Up the street a door slammed, and there were boots on the boardwalk. He smiled, and squeezed her arm. “All right, Mag. I believe you.”

He turned then, and felt the sun's heat on his shoulders and felt the dust puff under his boot soles, and he walked away up the street, seeing Lonnie Parker standing there in the open, waiting for them. And he was not worried. He was not worried at all.

Home Is the Hunter

Not even those who knew him best had ever suspected Bill Tanneman of a single human emotion.

He had never drawn a gun but to shoot, and never shot but to kill.

He had slain his first man when a mere fourteen. He had ridden a horse without permission and the owner had gone after him with a whip.

Because of his youth and the fact that the horse's owner was a notorious bully, he was released without punishment, but from that day forward Bill Tanneman was accepted only with reservations.

He quit school and went to herding cattle, and he worked hard. Not then nor at any other time was he ever accused of being lazy. Yet he was keenly sensitive to the attitudes of those around him. He became a quiet, reserved boy who accepted willingly the hardest, loneliest jobs.

His second killing was that of a rustler caught in the act. Three of his outfit, including the foreman, came upon the rustler with a calf down and tied, a heated cinch ring between two sticks.

The rustler dropped the sticks and grabbed his gun, and young Bill, just turned fifteen, shot him where he stood.

“Never seen nothin' to match it,” the foreman said later. “That rustler would have got one of us sure.”

A month later he killed his third man before a dozen witnesses. The man was a stranger who was beating a horse. Bill, whose kindness to animals was as widely acknowledged as his gun skill, took the club from the stranger and knocked him down. The man got to his feet, gun in hand, and took the first shot. He missed. Bill Tanneman did not miss.

Despite the fact that all three killings had been accepted as self-defense, people began to avoid him. Bill devoted himself to his work, and perhaps in his kindness to animals and their obvious affection for him he found some of that emotional release he could never seem to find with humans.

When riding jobs became scarce, Tanneman took a job as a marshal of a tough cow town and held it for two years. Many times he found himself striding down a dusty street to face thieves and troublemakers of every stripe. Always he found a strange and powerful energy building in him as he went to confront his adversaries. One look at that challenging light in his eyes was enough to back most of them down. Surprisingly enough, he killed not a single man in that time, but as the town was thoroughly pacified by the end of his two years, he found himself out of a job.

At thirty years of age he was six feet three inches tall and weighed two hundred and thirty compact and bone-tough pounds. He had killed eleven men, but rumor reported it at twice the number. He had little money and no future, and all he could expect was a bullet in the back and a lonely grave on Boot Hill.

Kirk Blevin was young, handsome, and had several drinks under his belt. At nineteen he was his father's pride, an easygoing young roughneck who would someday inherit the vast BB holdings in land and cattle. Given to the rough horseplay of the frontier, he saw on this day a man riding toward him who wore a hard, flat-brimmed hat.

The hard hat caught his gleeful attention and a devil of humor leaped into his eyes. His gun leaped and blasted … a bullet hole appeared in the rim … and Bill Tanneman shot him out of the saddle.

Tanneman's gun held the other riders, shocked by the unexpected action. From the dust at Tanneman's feet Kirk managed a whisper. “Sorry, stranger … never meant … harm.”

The words affected Tanneman oddly. With a queer pain in his eyes he offered the only explanation of his life. “Figured him for some tinhorn, gunnin' for a reputation.”

Milligan, who rode segundo for Old Man Blevin, nodded. “He was a damn fool, but you better make tracks. Seventy men ride for Blevin, an' he loved this kid like nothin' else.”

That Tanneman's reason for shooting had been the best would be no help against the sorrow and the wrath of the father. Curiously, Bill Tanneman's regret was occasioned by two things: that Kirk had shown no resentment, and that he had been a much-loved son.

For behind the granite-hard face of the gunfighter was a vast gulf of yearning. He wanted a son.

To see the handsome youngster die in the road had shocked him profoundly, and he was disturbed about the situation in general—he had no wish to fight against the man whose son he had accidentally killed. He thought of trying to speak to the old man, but did not intend to die, and the idea of having to shoot his way out of such a meeting chilled him to the core. The boy had given him no choice, but further tragedy must be avoided at all costs.

He swung swiftly into the hills, and with all the cunning of a rider of the lone trails, he covered the tracks and headed deeper and deeper into the wild vastness of the Guadalupes. He carried food, water, and ample ammunition, for he never started on the trail without going prepared for a long pursuit. When a man has lived by the gun he knows his enemies will be many and ruthless. Yet this time Bill Tanneman fled with an ache in his heart. No matter how justified his shooting, he had killed an innocent if reckless young man—the one bright spot in the life of the old rancher.

For weeks he lost himself in the wilderness, traveling the loneliest trails, living off the land, and only occasionally venturing down to an isolated homestead or mining claim for a brief meal and a moment or two of company.

Finally summer became autumn, and late one afternoon Bill Tanneman made his camp by a yellow-carpeted aspen grove in the shallow valley that split the end of a long ridge. From a rock-rimmed butte that stood like a watchtower at the end of the line of mountains, he scanned the surrounding country. Below him the slope fell away to a wide grass-covered basin several miles across. On the far side, against a low ring of hills, there was a smear of wood smoke and a glint of reflected light that indicated a town. Here and there were a few clusters of farm or ranch buildings. Noting that human habitation was comfortingly close yet reassuringly far away, he retired to his fire and the silence of the valley.

It was past midnight when he heard the walking horse. Swiftly he moved from under his blankets and, pistol in hand, he waited, listening.

The night was cold. Wind stirred down the canyon and rustled softly among the aspen. The stars were bright, and under them the walking horse made the only sound. A weary horse, alone and unguided.

It came nearer, then, seeming to sense his presence, the horse stopped and blew gently through his nostrils. Tanneman got cautiously to his feet. He could see the vague outlines of a man on the horse, a man slumped far forward, and something behind him … a child.

“What's wrong, kid?” He walked from the deeper shadows.

“It's my father.” The voice trembled. “He's been shot.”

Gently, Bill Tanneman lifted the wounded man from the saddle and placed him on the blankets.

He heated water from his canteen, and while the child looked on, he bathed the wound. It was low down and on the left side. From the look of the wound it had been a ricochet, for it was badly torn. Tanneman made a poultice of prickly pear and tied it on, yet even as he worked he knew his efforts were useless. This man had come too far, had lost too much blood.

When at last the wounded man's eyes opened, they looked at the dancing shadows on the rock wall, then at Tanneman.

“The kid?”

“All right.” Tanneman hesitated, then said deliberately, “Anybody you want to notify?”

“I was afraid … no, there's nobody. Take care of the kid, will you?”

“What happened?”

The man breathed heavily for several minutes, then seemed to gather strength. “Name's Jack Towne. Squatted on the Centerfire. Big outfit burned me out, shot me up. It was all I had.…”

Tanneman built a fire and prepared some stew, and when it was finished he dished some up for the child. He looked again at the dying man's run-down boot heels, the worn and patched jeans, the child's thin body. “I'll get your place back”—his voice was rough—“for the kid.”

“Thanks, anyway.” The man managed a smile. “Don't try it.”

“What was the outfit?”

“Tom Banning's crowd. It was Rud Pickett shot me.”

Rud Pickett … a money-taking killer. But a dangerous man to meet. And Banning was a tough old hide-hunter turned cattleman, taking everything in sight.

“Your kid will get that ranch. I'm Bill Tanneman.”

“Tanneman!” There was alarm in the man's eyes as he glanced from the big gunfighter to the child.

The big man flushed painfully. “Don't worry, he'll be all right.” He hesitated, ashamed to make the confession even to a dying man. “I always wanted a kid.”

Jack Towne stared at him, and his eyes softened. He started to speak, but the words never came.

Bill Tanneman turned slowly toward the child. “Son, you'd better rest. I—”

“I'm not a son!” The voice was indignant. “I'm a girl!”

Tanneman watched the child with growing dread. What was he going to do? A little girl would take special treatment, but he didn't even know where to start. A boy, now … but this was a
girl
. How did one talk to a girl kid? He spoke seldom, and when he did his voice was rough. This was a situation that was going to take some thought.

 

Thompson's Creek was a town of two hundred and fifty people, two saloons, one rooming house, one restaurant, and a few odds and ends of shops, and at the street's end, a livery stable.

Betty Towne and Bill Tanneman rode to town the next evening. Tanneman remained cautious, as was his nature, but his mind was stubbornly set on the problem of the little girl. Their horses stabled, he brushed his coat and hat while the child gravely combed her hair, then joined him to bathe her hands at the watering trough.

“Let's go eat,” he said, when she had dried her hands.

Her little hand slipped confidently into his and Bill Tanneman felt a queer flutter where his heart was, followed by a strange glow. A little more proudly he started up the boardwalk, a huge man in black and a tiny girl with fine blonde hair and blue eyes.

This had been her father's town, and it was near here that he had been shot, driven from the ranch where he had worked to create a home. And in this town were men who would kill Tanneman if they knew why he had come.

The life of Bill Tanneman had left him with few illusions. He knew the power of wealth, knew the number of riders that now rode for Tom Banning, and knew the type of man he was, and the danger that lay in Rud Pickett. Yet Tanneman was a man grown up to danger and trouble, knowing nothing else, and for the first time he was acting with conscious, deliberate purpose.

On the street near the café were tied several horses, all marked with the Banning brand. Tanneman hesitated for a moment, then led the girl toward the door. As they entered the café, he caught the startled glance of a woman who was placing dishes on the table. The glance went from the child to the weather-beaten man with white hair who sat at the end of the table. The man did not look up.

Also in the room there were three cowhands, one other man more difficult to place, and a tall, graceful girl with a neat gray traveling dress and a composed, lovely face.

At the sight of the man at the head of the table, Betty drew back and her fingers tightened convulsively. She looked up at Tanneman with fear in her light blue eyes. Deliberately, Tanneman walked around the table and drew back the two chairs on Banning's right.

The rancher glanced up irritably. “Sorry, that seat's reserved.” His glance flickered to the girl and then back to Tanneman, his eyes narrowing.…

Ignoring him, Tanneman seated Betty, then drew back the chair nearest the rancher. For an instant their eyes met, and Tom Banning felt a distinct shock. Something within him went still and cold.

Reassured by the presence of Tanneman, Betty began to eat. Soon she was chattering away happily. She looked up into the lovely gray eyes opposite her. “This is my Uncle Bill,” she said. “He's taking me home. At least, where we used to live. Our house was burned down.” She glanced nervously toward the head of the table, fearful that she had said too much.

Tanneman was stirred by a grim humor. “Don't worry, honey. The men who burned it are going to build you a new house, a much bigger, nicer one. It will belong to you.”

One of the cowhands put down his fork and looked up the table. Banning's eyes were on Tanneman, a hard awareness growing in them. The cowhand started to rise.

“You work for Banning?”

“Yeah.”

“Then sit down. If you figure on lookin' up Rud Pickett, don't bother. I'll hunt him myself.”

Coolly, Tanneman helped himself to some food. “I despise a man,” he stated calmly, “who hires his killing done. I despise a man who murders the fathers of children. A man like that is a white-livered scoundrel.”

Tom Banning's face went white. He half started to rise, then slid back. “I'm not packin' a gun,” he said.

“Your kind doesn't.” Tanneman gave him no rest. “You hide behind hired guns. Now you listen to me: I'm here to take up for Jack Towne's daughter. You rebuild that house you burned, you drive his stock back. You get that done right off, or you meet me in the street with your gun. Not your hired men—you, Tom Banning.”

He forked a piece of beef and chewed silently for a minute, and then he looked up. It was obvious that he had everyone in the café's attention. “This here little girl's father was murdered by riders, at Tom Banning's orders. That will be hard to prove, so I don't aim to try. I know it, an' everybody else around here does, too.

“He robbed this little girl of her daddy and her home. I can't give back her father, but I can give back her home.”

Tom Banning's face was flushed. The girl was looking at him with horror, and he quailed at the thought of what she must be thinking. In his youth a fire-eater, Banning had come more and more to rely on hired guns, yet this man had called him personally, and in such a way that he could not avoid a meeting. That the stranger had done so deliberately was obvious. And now Tanneman pointed it even more definitely. “Ma'am”—Tanneman glanced up at the older woman—“give that fellow some more coffee.” He indicated the cowhand who had started to rise. “He's worked for Banning awhile, I take it, and now he's got him a chance to see who his boss is, whether he's ridin' for a coward or a game man.”