The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (11 page)

“Let him go, Locklin,” John Shippey said. “He's whipped.” Then he added, “I never thought I'd see the day!”

Seated in the kitchen, Army bathed Locklin's face, tenderly wiping the blood from his features. “You've got some bad cuts,” she protested.

“They'll heal,” he said. “They always did before.”

Pike was explaining the situation to Shippey. He had gotten George Locklin's letters from a saddlebag, and showed them to the rancher. “Those were writ by no man who thought of sellin'!” Pike insisted.

Locklin pushed Army's hands gently aside. He got to his feet, staggering a little. His big hands were swollen and battered. “Shippey, I won't get into town in time. It would be a favor if you'd ride in and hold Burt an' Castle until I get there. Nearly Pike will ride with you.”

“Where you goin'?” Pike demanded.

“I've had a thought, and if I'm right we'll have our killer.”

John Shippey nodded his head. “I'll do my best.” He turned suddenly to Pike. “Where'd you get a name like that?”

“Wal, it was like this here, Mr. Shippey. My folks was named Pike. We headed west from Kentucky for Missouri. Bein' named Pike, we figured to live in Pike County, and I was to be born there. Well, we didn't make it. We had to stop some miles short, so they named me for it. Nearly Pike.”

Army was looking at Locklin, an odd light in her eyes, a look of something close to fear. Women, Jim reflected, would never understand a man's fighting.

Ives got slowly to his feet, staggered a little, then stood erect. His face was a mask of blood and dirt. He leaned against his horse for a moment, then hoisted himself into the saddle. He said nothing until he had gathered the reins. “You're a hard man, Locklin,” he said grudgingly, “I reckon I bit off more'n I could chaw.”

Locklin watched him go, then turned to his horse, which Pike had saddled and ready. Army came to him. “Don't go, Jim! I'm afraid! And you're in no shape to go!”

He tried to smile, but his face was too swollen. He leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder. “You ride to town with them. Stay close to Pike. This is something I must do.”

Jim Locklin rode toward Antelope Valley, then took a dim trail up to the bench. He rode through the pines, his face throbbing with every hoof-beat, his ribs aching from the bruises. His head ached and the sun was hot. At Butler Creek he dropped on his face and drank deep of the clear, cold mountain water. Then he bathed his face with it.

Rising, he glimpsed the tracks of two people across the narrow stream. Crossing on scattered rocks in the stream-bed he studied the tracks with care. Some were fresh, yet others were older. Obviously, whoever they were, they had met here several times. Some cowhand and his girl, no doubt.

He went back across the stream to his horse but as he started to mount the combination of sun and the fighting proved too much. He backed up and sat down on the grass. Then he dragged himself back into the shade and slept.

He awakened suddenly. A glance at the sun told him he had slept for all of an hour, yet despite the fact that his head still throbbed, he felt better. Later, he cut the tracks of one rider, heading toward Horse Heaven. The tracks were several days old.

He turned down into the canyon of the Savory, and almost at once was enclosed by towering walls, and the sound of the stream rose in volume. Then the canyon widened, and before him was a sandy shelf strewn with the gray bones of ancient trees. Beyond it, the cave.

Swinging down, he leaned against the saddle to still the momentary dizziness that beset him. Then he walked up to the cave.

He stopped then, quite abruptly, his mouth dry but his brain sharply alert. He was looking into the peculiar white-gray eyes of Chance Varrow!

There was a taunting triumph in Varrow's eyes. “Took you long enough to get here. Long enough so I could beat you to it. Now you can die the way your brother died. Funny, you blaming Reed Castle. He had the idea, all right, but we beat him to it.”

“You killed George?” Even as he spoke he was thinking less of what he was saying and more of his own swollen, battered hands and the gun-slick deftness of the man he faced.

“Sure! At least I finished him off. He was already down and crippled. Reed wanted that ranch, all right, and was trying to work out some way of gettin' it. Well, we wasted no time.

“He could have the ranch, because we knew of that silver strike he'd made, near Bald Mountain. We gambled on that, and now we've won.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why not? Nobody knows I'm in this but Reed Castle, and he wouldn't talk. If he did nobody would believe him. Your coming upset things but that's ended now.”

Locklin's mind was working swiftly. Who did he mean by “we”? How had Varrow known he would be coming to the cave?

Ives? Probably.

But why, in all this time, had they not taken possession of the silver strike, sold it, and skipped? The reason was obvious—they didn't know where it was!

“You're not killing me, Varrow. It's not in the cards, no more than your friend Ives could whip me. It's you who will die here in this cave, Varrow, right here on this sand.

“You've wasted your time and your killing. You've never laid hands on an ounce of that silver because you don't know where it is.

“I know where it is,” he lied, “and if I die you will never get it. Why? Because nobody else knows, nobody at all!”

“I'm going to kill you, all right,” Varrow's face was tight and cruel. “I'll gamble on finding the silver.”

Locklin swayed on his feet, suddenly weak. “A thousand have looked for it, and nobody found it until George, and he had a clue. He knew something nobody else knew. The same thing he passed on to me.”

At the first sign of faintness Chance Varrow's hand dropped to his gun. Suddenly Locklin's knees buckled and he went to the sand. Then he sagged back on his heels. “Sorry, Varrow, I'm in pret—ty bad—” he lifted a trembling hand to his brow, yet even as the hand seemed to touch his face, it darted like a striking snake, spraying sand in Varrow's face!

The gunman sprang back, one hand clawing at his eyes, the other reaching for his gun. His gun came clear, but the moment's respite was all Locklin needed. He got his clumsy fingers on his own gun, swung it up, steadied it with the other hand, and fired!

Varrow's gun roared, but, blinded by the sand, he missed.

Locklin's bullet, at point-blank range, caught Varrow in the diaphragm, striking up and in. Varrow tried to swing his gun, but Locklin fired a second time, then a third.

Chance Varrow crumpled into the sand, his fingers relaxing their grip on the gun.

The gunshots echoed in the canyon and there was an acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with dusty dampness. Then the echoes died, and there was only the soft chuckling of water over stones.

Dusk was blending the shadows in the streets of Toiyabe when Jim Locklin cantered down the street and drew up at the hotel door. Pike rushed out and grabbed his stirrup leather. “You all right, boy? I been out of my skull with worry.”

“Where are they, Pike?”

“Inside. What took you so long?”

“A bit of trouble.” All eyes turned to him as he entered. Castle's looked pale, angry, and uneasy; those of Creighton Burt, John Shippey, and Fish Creek Burns indicated only sharp interest. Armorel Locklin stared at him, her eyes showing her anxiety. Patch, looking surly, sat behind her.

Locklin leaned his hands on the table. “Castle, I had you wrong. You are a thief, but you are not a murderer.”

“I bought that ranch!” Castle protested. “Here's my bill of sale!”

“An obvious forgery. The trouble was, you had never actually seen my brother's signature. You didn't worry because nobody else had, either. I have several letters signed by him, and I also have his will. The will was written as he was dying, with the knowledge that he was dying, and he leaves the ranch and all property to me, including the mine on Bald Mountain.”

“What about this young woman? She was his wife.”

“That's just it,” Jim's eyes turned to Army. “She never was his wife.”

“I married them,” Burt said quietly, “right in my own office.”

“The marriage wasn't valid, because she was still married to Chance Varrow.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“I am sure. The two of them were teamed up, trimming suckers out in Frisco, and when Reed came to town flashing money around and talking big about his ranch and mining interests, they latched onto him.

“Army came over here to marry him, then found out he had lied, and backed out. Chance had come along to enforce her claim, and he got wind of George's silver strike.

“They let Reed Castle keep the ranch to quiet him down.” Locklin drew a deep breath. He was tired, very tired. He wanted this over, he wanted to be away from here. “She has takin' ways, this girl does, and I nigh fell for her myself. George left me a note telling me all about it.

“She found him alone and lonesome, buttered him up some, let him think he was saving her from Castle, and then, after they left town, she shot him in the back.

“That back shot puzzled me, for George was touchy about anybody coming up behind him. I couldn't see a man getting such a chance, but a woman might. As she shot him, Chance came out of the woods to finish him, but George got away.

“Varrow had to wait until daylight to pick up the trail, and by that time George had left his horse and crawled into the cave. His legs were paralyzed, but he wrote the details, then stuffed his notes, his will, what else he had, into a tin box he kept there.

“On that sandstone he scratched the old L Bar brand that would mean nothing to anybody but us.”

“Where's Varrow, then?” Shippey demanded. “Let's get the sheriff and round him up.”

Army's eyes were on Jim, wide and empty. She knew, and he could see that she knew.

“He was waiting for me at the cave. I left him there.”

Jim dropped the notes and the will on the table before Burt. “There it is. There was enough to hang Varrow, and enough to send Castle away for a good long stretch.”

Burt glanced at Patch. “Where does he fit in?”

“She my half-sister,” Patch said sullenly. “She no good. Some white man bad, some Indian bad. She no good.”

Locklin looked over at Patch, liking what he saw. “You want a job? A permanent job?”

“Uh-huh. I work good.”

Army's eyes were sullen with hatred. Having them know she was a 'breed bothered her more than being accused of murder. Jim looked at her, marveling. When would people realize it wasn't race that mattered, but quality and integrity?

“How'd you work it out?” Burt wondered.

“The first thing was the back shot; then George's guns were gone. Later, I saw them hanging on a nail in her cabin. George's holsters and belt with his name carved into them were left; only his guns were taken.

“George took those guns off for nobody, and the holsters in the cabin weren't his. That started me on the right track.

“Then I found tracks where she and Varrow had been meeting over on Butler Creek. My head was aching so bad I could scarcely think; then it dawned on me where I'd seen her tracks before. Varrow's I did not know.

“My brother had seen her talking to Varrow one time, but did not want to believe there was anything between them.”

Locklin got to his feet. “That winds it up.” He looked over at Castle. “I'm moving onto the Antelope Valley place tomorrow. All your personal effects will be sent to town.”

The door opened behind them, and a short, heavy man stepped into the door. “I'm Jacob Carver, of Ellsworth, Kansas. I'm holding six hundred head of cattle outside of town, but I hear you folks got this country closed up. Is that right?”

Shippey started to speak but Locklin interrupted. “No, of course not. There's some unused range up in Grass Valley, northwest of here. As long as a man is honest and a good neighbor we've room for him. Glad to have you.”

As Carver left Locklin glanced at Shippey. “He's a good man. I knew his brand back in Kansas. This country can use his kind.”

Locklin left followed by Pike. Fish Creek Burns glanced after him, then said, glancing from Shippey to Burt, “Things are clearin' up around here, and she looks like fair weather ahead.”

He stood up. “Looks like we've got a new pair of pants in the saddle. It surely does!”

The Ghosts of Buckskin Run

For two days they had seen no other traveler, not even a solitary cowhand or an Indian. There had been the usual stops to change teams, an overnight layover at Weston's ranch, but no other break in the monotony of the journey.

There was no comfort in the west-bound stage. The four passengers alternately dozed or stared miserably at the unchanging desert, dancing with heat waves.

No breeze sent a shaft of coolness through the afternoon's heavy heat. Aloma Day, bound for Cordova, a tiny cowtown thirty miles further along the trail, felt stifled and unhappy. Her heavy dress was hot, and she knew her hair “looked a fright.”

The jolting of the heavy coach bouncing over the rocky, ungraded road had settled a thin mantle of dust over her clothes and skin. The handkerchief with which she occasionally touched her cheeks and brow had long since become merely a miserable wad of damp cloth.

Across from her Em Shipton, proprietor of Cordova's rooming and boarding establishment, perspired, fanned, and dozed. Occasionally she glanced with exasperation at Aloma's trim figure, for to her the girl seemed unreasonably cool and immaculate. Em Shipton resembled a barrel with ruffles.

Mark Brewer, cattle buyer, touched his mustache thoughtfully and looked again at the girl in the opposite corner of the stage. She was, he decided, almost beautiful. Possibly her mouth was a trifle wide, but her lips were lovely, and she laughed easily.

“I hope,” he ventured suddenly, “you decide to stay with us, Miss Day. I am sure the people of Cordova will do all they can to make your visit comfortable.”

“Oh, but I shall stay! I am going to make my home there.”

“Oh? You have relatives there?”

“No,” she smiled, “I am to be married there.”

The smile left his eyes, yet hovered politely about his lips. “I see. No doubt I know the lucky fellow. Cordova is not a large town.”

Loma hesitated. The assurance with which she decided upon this trip had faded with the miles. It had been a long time since she had seen Rod Morgan, and the least she could have done was to await a reply from him. Yet there was no place in which to wait. Her aunt had died, and they had no friends in Richmond. She had money now for the trip. Six weeks or a month later she might have used it all. Her decision had been instantly made, but the closer she came to Cordova the more uncertain she felt.

She looked at Brewer. “Then you probably know him. His name is Roderick Morgan.”

Em Shipton stiffened, and Mark Brewer's lips tightened. They exchanged a quick, astonished glance. Alarmed at their reaction, Loma glanced quickly from one to the other.

“What's the matter? Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Em Shipton had never been tactful. “I should say there is! Rod Morgan is an insufferable person! What can you be thinking of to come all this way to marry a man like that?”

“Please, Em,” Brewer interrupted. “Remember, you are speaking of Miss Day's fiancé. Of course, I must admit it is something of a shock. How long since you have seen him, Miss Day?”

“Two years.” She felt faint, frightened. What was wrong? What had Rod done? Why did they—

All through her aunt's long illness, Rod's love for her had been the rock to which she clung, it had been the one solid thing in a crumbling world. He had always been the one to whom she knew she could turn.

“That explains it, then,” Brewer said, sympathetically. “A lot can happen in two years. You haven't been told, I presume, of the murders in Buckskin Run?”

“No. What is Buckskin Run?”

“It's a stream, you know. Locally, it is the term used to designate the canyon through which the stream runs, as well as the stream itself. The stream is clear and cold, and it heads far back in the mountains, but the canyon is rather a strange, mysterious sort of place, which all decent people avoid like the plague. For years the place has been considered haunted, and there are unexplained graves in the canyon. Men have died there under unexplained circumstances. Then Rod Morgan moved into the canyon and built a cabin there.”

“You—you spoke of murders?”

“Yes, I certainly did. About a year ago Morgan had trouble with a man named Ad Tolbert. A few days later a cowhand found Tolbert's body not far from Morgan's cabin. He had been shot in the back.”

“And that was only one of them!” Em Shipton declared. “Tell her about the pack peddler.”

“His name was Ned Weisl. He was a harmless old fellow who had been peddling around the country for years. On every trip he went into Buckskin Run, and that seemed strange, because until Morgan moved there nobody lived in the Run country. He had some wild story he told about gold in Buckskin Run, some gold buried there. About a month ago they found his body, too. And he had been shot in the back.”

“You mark my words!” Em Shipton declared. “That Rod Morgan's behind it all!”

The fourth passenger, a bearded man, spoke for the first time, “It appears to me that you're condemning this young man without much reason. Has anybody seen him shoot anybody?”

“Who would go into that awful place? Everybody knows it's haunted. We warned young Morgan about it, but he was too smart, a know-it-all. He said all the talk about ghosts was silly, and even if there were ghosts he'd make them feel at home!

“We thought it was strange, him going into that dark, lonely place! No wonder. He's deep, he is! With a sight of crime behind him, too!”

“That's not true!” Loma said. “I've known Rod Morgan for years. There isn't a nicer boy anywhere.”

Em Shipton's features stiffened with anger. A dictator in her own little world, she resented any contradiction of her opinions.

“I reckon, young lady, you've a lot to learn, and you'll learn it soon, mark my words!”

“There is something to what Mrs. Shipton says,” Brewer commented. “Morgan does have a bad reputation around Cordova. He was offered a good riding job by Henry Childs when he first arrived, but he refused it. Childs is a pioneer, and the wealthiest and most respected man in the country. When a drifter like Morgan refused such a job it aroused suspicion. Why would a man want to live in that canyon alone, when he could have a good job with Childs?”

“Maybe he simply wants to be independent. Maybe he wants to build his own ranch,” the bearded man suggested. “A man never gets anywhere working for the other man.”

Mark Brewer ignored the comment. “That canyon has always had an evil reputation. Vanishing wagon trains, mysterious deaths, and even the Indians avoid the place.”

He paused. “You've only one life to live, Miss Day, so why don't you wait a few days and make some inquiries before you commit yourself? After all, you do admit you haven't seen the man for two years.”

Aloma Day stared out over the desert. She was angry, but she was frightened, also. What was she getting into? She knew Rod, but two years is a long time, and people change. So much could have happened.

He had gone west to earn money so they could be married, and it seemed unlikely he would think of building a home for her in a haunted valley. He was, she knew, inclined to be hot-headed and impulsive.

But
murder
? How could she believe that of him?

“It doesn't make a man a murderer because he lives in a nice little valley like Buckskin Run,” the bearded man said. “You make your inquiries, ma'am, that's a sensible suggestion, but don't take nobody's word on a man on evidence like that. Buckskin Run is a pretty little valley.”

Mark Brewer gave the man his full attention for the first time. “What do you know about Buckskin Run? Everybody agrees it's a dangerous place.”

“Nonsense! I've been through it more than once. I went through that valley years ago, before your man Childs was even out here.

“Pioneer, is he? I never heard of him. There wasn't a ranch in the country when I first rode in here. As far as Indians are concerned, Buckskin Run was medicine ground. That's why they never went there.”

“How do you explain the things that have happened there?”

“I don't explain 'em. There's been killings all over the West, and will be as long as there's bad men left. There were white men around when I first came in here, renegades most of 'em, but nobody ever heard any talk of haunts or the like. Men like Tarran Kopp camped in there many's the time!”

“You were here,” Brewer asked, “when Tarran Kopp was around?”

“Knowed him well. I was through this here country before he ever seen it. Came through with Kit Carson the first time, and he was the one named it Buckskin Run. Favorite camp ground for Kit, that's what it was.

“My name's Jed Blue, and my feet made trails all over this country. I don't know this man Morgan, but if he's had the sense to settle in Buckskin Run he's smart. That's the best growing land around here!”

Em Shipton glared at Jed Blue. “A lot you know about it! That valley is a wicked place! It's haunted, and everybody from Cordova to Santa Fe knows it. What about the wagon trains that went into it and disappeared?

“What about the graves? Three men buried side by each, and what does it say on their markers? ‘No visible cause of death on these bodies.' ”

The Concord rumbled through a dry wash, then mounted the opposite bank with a jerk, bumped over a rock in the trail, and slowed to climb a steep, winding grade.

Talk died as suddenly as it had begun, and Loma clenched her hands in her lap, fighting back the wave of panic that mounted within her.

If Rod had become what they said, what would she do? What
could
she do? Her money was almost gone, and she would be fortunate if she had enough to last a week. Yet, what would have happened had she remained in the East? To be without money in one place was as bad as another.

Yet, despite the assurance with which they spoke, she could not believe Rod was a murderer. Remembering his fine, clean-cut face, his clear, dark eyes, and his flashing smile, she could not accept what they said.

The Concord groaned to the top of the grade, and the six horses swung wide around a curve and straightened out, running faster and faster.

Suddenly there was a shot, a sharp yell, and the stage made a swerving stop so abruptly that Loma was thrown into Em Shipton's lap. Recovering, she peered out of the window.

A man lay flat in the middle of the trail, blood staining the back of his vest. Beside his right hand lay a six-shooter.

To the left of the road were four riders, sitting their horses with hands uplifted. Facing the four from the right side of the road was a young man with dark, wavy hair blowing in the wind. He wore badly worn jeans, scuffed star boots and a black and white checkered shirt. There was an empty holster on his hip, and he held two guns in his hands.

“Now pick up your man and get out of here! You came hunting it, and you found it.”

Loma stifled a cry. “Rod!” she gasped. “Rod Morgan!”

Her voice was low, but Jed Blue overheard. “Is that your man?” he asked.

She nodded, unable to speak. It was true then, she thought. He
was
a killer! He had just shot that man.

One of the horsemen caught the riderless horse and two of the others dismounted to load the body across the saddle. The other man sat very still, holding his hand on the pommel of his saddle.

As the other riders remounted he said, “Well, this is one you won't bury in Buckskin Run!”

“Get going!” Morgan said. “And keep a civil tongue in your head, Jeff. I've no use for you or any of your rustling, dry-gulching crowd.”

Loma Day drew back into the stage, her hands to her face. Horror filled her being. That limp, still body! Rod Morgan had killed him!

“Well!” Em Shipton said triumphantly. “What did we tell you?”

“It's too bad you had to see this,” Brewer said. “I'm sorry, ma'am.”

“That's a right handy young feller!” Blue said admiringly. “Looks to me like you picked you a good one, ma'am. Stood off the five of them, he did, and I never seen it done better. Any one of them would have killed him had they the chance, but he didn't even disarm them. And they wanted no part of him!”

The stage started to roll.

“Hey?” Blue caught at Loma's arm. “Ain't you even goin' to call to him? Ain't you goin' to let him know you're here?”

“No! Don't tell him! Please, don't!”

Blue leaned back, shaking his head admiringly. “Handy, right handy! That gent who was down in the road was drilled plumb center!”

Loma did not hear him. Rod! Her Rod! A
killer
!

         

As the stage swung back into the road and pulled away, Rod Morgan stooped and picked up the dead man's six-shooter. No use wasting a good gun, and if things went on as they had begun he would have need of it.

He walked back to where his gray mustang was tethered, and swung into the saddle. A brief glance around and he started back up the canyon. There was so much to do, and so little time.

Perhaps he had been wrong to oppose the ingrained superstition and suspicion of the Cordova country, but working as a cowhand would never allow him to save enough to support a wife or build a home. Buckskin Run, from the moment he had first glimpsed it, had seemed the epitome of all he had dreamed.

The stream plunged happily over the stones, falling in a series of miniature cascades and rapids into a wide basin surrounded by towering cliffs. It flowed out of that basin and through a wide meadow, several hundred acres of good grassland. High cliffs bordered the area on all sides, and there were clumps of aspen and spruce.

Below the first meadow lay a long valley also bounded by sheer cliffs, a valley at least a half-mile wide that narrowed suddenly into a bottleneck that spilled the stream into another series of small rapids before it swung into the timbered land bordering the desert.