The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (4 page)

Suddenly, he noticed a cloud of dust above the trail in the distance. The stage. He got up, and stood watching it as it drew nearer. He could see that everything was as it should be, and turning, he walked back to his horse. When he was about a dozen steps away, he halted in midstep, and drew back. There on the ground, over one of his own tracks was a fresh boot print, one heel rounded badly, and a queer scar across the toe!

His hand shot to his gun, but before he could draw, something crashed down over his head, and he tumbled forward into blackness.…

It was hours later when he opened his eyes. When he tried to lift his head a spasm of pain shot over him, and he groaned desperately. Then for a long moment he lay still, and through the wave of pain from his throbbing head, he remembered the stage, the boot print, the gold.

Desperately, he got to his hands and knees. The ground where his head had lain was a pool of blood, and when he lifted one hand, he found his hair matted with it and stiffened with sand. Crawling to his feet, he had to steady himself against a boulder. Then he retched violently, and was sick.

After he staggered to his horse and took a drink from his canteen, he felt better. Summoning all his resolution, he went back and examined the ground. The man had evidently followed him, waited behind a boulder, and as he returned to his horse, knocked him over the head. Quite obviously, he had been left for dead.

Clip walked back to his horse, checking his guns. They hadn't been tampered with. When he swung into the saddle and turned the big black down the trail, his lips were set in a tight, grim line. He loosened the big guns, and despite his throbbing head, cantered down the trail.

He didn't have far to ride. Only about three hundred yards from where he had waited, he found the coach, lying on its side, one wheel smashed. A dead horse lay in a tangle of harness, and sprawled on the ground was the stage driver. He had been shot between the eyes with a rifle.

About twenty yards away, evidently killed as he was making for the shelter of a circle of boulders, was the messenger.

 

         

It was two hours before Clip Haynes rode up in front of the High-Stake Palace and tied the black to the hitching rail. His head throbbing, he stepped in.

At once the hard round muzzle of a gun jammed into his spine.

Clip stopped, his hands slowly lifting.

“Back up, an' back careful!” he heard Buff McCarty saying, his voice deadly. “One false move an' I'll drill you, gunman or no gunman!”

“What's the matter, Buff?” Clip asked. His head throbbed and he felt his anger mounting.

“You ask what's the matter!” Wade Manning snapped. Stepping up he jerked Clip's guns from their holsters. “We trusted you, and then you—”

“We found the money, that's what!” Buff snarled, his voice husky with rage. “The money you took off Tommy! We shook down your duffle bag an' found it there—the whole three thousand dollars you murdered him for!”

“Listen, men!” he protested. “If you found any money there it was a plant. Why—”

“I'm sorry, boy,” Doc Greenley interrupted, shaking his head gravely, his usual smile gone. “We've got you dead to rights this time!”

Clip started to protest again, and then his jaw clamped shut. If they wanted to be like that, argument, he figured, was useless. He turned to walk out, and found himself facing Porter.

The big man sneered, and, for just an instant as Clip watched him, he saw the man's eyes flash a message to one of his captors. Then Porter was past, and Clip was being rushed to jail.

When the cell door clanged shut he walked across the narrow room, dropped on his bunk and was almost immediately asleep.

It seemed a long time later when he was awakened. It was completely dark, and listening, he knew the jail was deserted.

Clip walked across to the window, and took hold of the bars.

Then he heard a whisper. “Haynes!”

“Who is it?” he asked softly.

“It's me—Rafe. Stick your hand through the bars. I've got a key!”

Clip Haynes thrust his hand out, and felt the cold metal of a jail key in his hand. Then he heard Rafe speaking again. “Better make it quick. Porter's got a mob about worked up to lynching you.”

In two strides he was across the cell. The key grated in the lock, and the door swung wide. Then he turned and stepped back, throwing the blankets into a rough hump to resemble a sleeping figure. Going out, he locked the door after him. His gun belts were on the desk in the outer office, and he swept them up, hurriedly checking the guns as he stepped outside.

Rafe Landon was waiting there. Surprisingly, Rafe had the black horse with him. Without a word, Clip gripped the gambler's hand, and then swung up.

“Listen,” Rafe said, gripping his wrist. “Whoever robbed that stage today kidnaped Ruth!”

“What!” Clip jerked around, his jaws set.

“She rode out along the trail just before the stage left town. She told me she wanted to watch you. She hasn't returned yet, and Wade's just found out. There's only one place she can be—with the Barlows!”

“You know where they hang out?” Clip snapped.

“Somewhere back of the Organ. There's a box canyon up there, that might be it. Take the west route around the Organ and you'll find the trail, but watch your step!”

Clip looked down at Rafe in the darkness, his eyes keen. “Just what is Ruth Manning to you?” he demanded.

Clip thought he detected the ghost of a smile. “Does it matter? The girl's in danger!”

“Right!” Clip swung his horse. As he did so he heard someone shout, and glancing back, he saw a crowd of men spew from the doors of the High-Stake.

The big black stretched his legs and sprang away into the night, swinging around the town to the trail in tireless, space-eating strides.

CHAPTER
4

The huge pinnacles of rock known as the Organ loomed ahead. For years during his wanderings, Clip Haynes had heard of them. Some queer volcanic effect had shot these hollow spires up into the sky, leaving them thin to varying degrees, and under the blows of a stick or rock they gave forth a deep, resonant sound. Around them lay rugged, broken country.

For a half hour he cut back and forth through the rocks before he located the box canyon. And then it was the horse that found the narrow thread of trail winding among the boulders. A few minutes of riding, and he sighted the dim light that came from a cabin window.

He dismounted and slipped a gun into his hand. Then he walked boldly forward, and threw the door open.

A startled Mexican jerked up from his seat on a box and dropped a hand for his gun, but at the sight of Clip, he reached for air. “Don't shoot, señor!” he gasped. “
Por dios,
don't shoot!”

Clip stepped in and swung his back to the wall. “Where's the girl?” he snapped.

“The señorita, she here. The Barlows, they go.”

Clip stepped quickly across the room and spun the Mexican around. Picking up a handful of loose rope, he bound the man hand and foot. Then stooping, he untied Ruth.

“Thanks,” she said, rubbing her wrists. “I was beginning to think—”

“No!” he exclaimed dryly.

Her face stiffened abruptly. Clip grinned at her. “You had that coming, lady. Let's get out of here!”

Suddenly, he stopped. In the corner was a heap of sacks taken from the stage earlier that day. Pausing, he jerked the tie string. The sack toppled slowly over. And from its mouth spilled nothing more than a thin stream of sand!

“Why—!” Ruth gasped. “Why, where's the gold?”

“I'll show you later!” Clip said grimly. “I suspected this!”

There was no talk on the ride homeward. Clip rode at Ruth's side, seemingly intent only on reaching town. It was almost daylight when they rode swiftly up the dusty street.

“Should you do this?” she protested. “Aren't they looking for you?”

“If they are, they better not find me!” he snapped. “I'm doing some looking myself. You ride to your brother, quick, and tell him about that sand. Tell him to bring Buff McCarty to the High-Stake just as quick as he can make it!”

His eyes narrowed. “And you,” he went grimly, “will have a chance to drop by the Sluice Box and see your precious lover, who didn't have guts enough to come after you himself!”

Her eyes widened with amazement, but before she could speak, he wheeled his horse and rode rapidly back up the street and dismounted. Then he walked into the Sluice Box, his face dark with rage.

Rafe Landon stood just inside the door. He walked up to Clip, smiling gravely. “I heard what you said to Ruth,” he said. “I want to tell you just two things, Haynes. The first has to do with my want of—guts—as you put it. Once I offered you my hand, and you refused it. Will you take it now?”

Something in his manner seemed strange. Clip glanced down at the gloved hand. Then he took it. Amazement came into his eyes.

“Yes,” Rafe said, “you're right. It's iron. The blacksmith in Goldfield made it, several years ago. I lost both my hands after a fire.”

Clip looked up, his face tight. “Rafe, I—”

“Forget it. As for Ruth—”

The doors burst open, and Clip wheeled. Wade Manning stood in the door, Buff McCarty beside him. “The Barlows are coming!” he exclaimed, his face tense. “Both of them, Clip, and they've been bragging all morning that they'll kill you on sight!”

He stepped into the street, his steps echoing hollowly as he stepped across the boardwalk. He stopped in the edge of the dusty street and looked north.

The Barlows, Joe and Gonny, were standing on the porch in front of the old hotel building. Then they saw him, and started toward the steps.

Somewhere a horse whinnied, and in the saloon, a man's nervous laughter sounded strangely loud. Clip Haynes walked slowly, taking measured steps.

Joe Barlow's hand was poised over his gun. Gonny waited carelessly, slouching, a shock of hair hanging down over his eyes.

When they were fifty feet apart, the Barlows stiffened as though at a signal, and drew. Joe's hand moved; Clip Haynes shot.

The street broke in a thundering roar through which he found himself walking straight toward them, his guns hammering. He knew the first shot he had taken at Joe had been too quick. Suddenly it seemed as if a white hot branding iron had hit his left shoulder. He dropped that gun, feeling the warm blood run down his sleeve. His arm was useless—but his right gun kept firing.

Suddenly, Joe was falling from the steps, and almost as in a dream Clip saw the man straighten out, arms widespread, blood staining the dust beneath him.

Clip started to step forward, and realized suddenly that he was on his knees. He got up, feeling another slug hit him in the side. Gonny was facing him, legs spread wide, a fire-blossoming gun in either hand. A streak of red crossed his jaw.

Clip started toward him, holding his last bullet. Something slanted a rapier of pain along his ribs, and one of his legs tried to buckle, but still Clip held his fire. Then, suddenly, about a dozen feet away from Gonny, Clip Haynes turned loose his gun.

Almost before his eyes Gonny's gray flannel shirt turned into a crimson, sodden mass. The gunman started to fall, caught himself, and lifted a gun. They were almost body to body when the shot flamed in Clip's face. Something struck him a terrific blow on the side of the head, and he fell.…

Actually it was only a minute, but it seemed hours. Men were running from every direction, and as Clip Haynes caught at somebody's leg and pulled his bloody body erect, he heard Wade gabbling in his ear. But he didn't stop. It was only a dozen feet, but it seemed a mile. Step by step, he made it, fumbling shells into his gun.

Weaving on his feet, he stopped, facing Doc Greenley. His eyes wavered, then they focused.

Doc's face went sickly with fear. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to speak. Then suddenly he broke, and went for his gun.

It was just swinging level when Clip shot him. Then Clip pitched over on his face, and lay still.

He must have been a long time coming out of it because they were all there—Ruth, Rafe Landon, Wade Manning, and Buff McCarty—when he opened his eyes. He looked from one to the other.

“Doc?” he questioned weakly.

“You got him, Clip. We found the gold in his safe. He never moved an ounce of it, just sand. We made Porter confess. He robbed Tommy of the three thousand dollars, and later Doc Greenley made him plant it on you. One of the Barlows slugged you.

“We found the note you left in the jail. You were right. It was Doc who killed Tommy, trying to kill you. He didn't know you were Clip Haynes at first.

“I told him,” Wade continued, “never suspecting he was the guilty one behind all this. He knew he couldn't fool you. Felt he'd given himself away somehow. He confessed before he died.”

Clip nodded. “At first—at the mine. He said Clip Haynes got ten thousand. Only the law and the bandits knew it was that much.” Clip paused, a wan smile twisting his features. “He was the one planned that job—not Haynes. I was the law. The express company hired me. When he said that, I was suspicious.”

Clip closed his eyes, and lay very still. When he opened them again everyone was gone but Ruth. She was smiling, and she leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips.

“And Rafe?” he questioned.

“I tried to explain, but you ran away. He's my uncle—my mother's brother. He started Wade in business here, but no one knew. He thought it might hurt Wade if people knew a gambler backed him.”

“Oh,” he said. For a moment he was silent. Then he looked up, and they both smiled.

“That's nice,” he said.

Man Riding West

Three men were hunkered down by the fire when Jim Gary walked his buckskin up to their camp in the lee of the cliff. The big man across the fire had a shotgun lying beside him. It was the shotgun that made Gary uneasy, for cowhands do not carry shotguns, especially when on a trail drive, as these men obviously were.

Early as it was, the cattle were already bedded down for the night in the meadow alongside the stream, and from their looks they had come far and fast. It was still light, but the clouds were low and swollen with rain.

“How's for some coffee?” Jim asked as he drew up. “I'm ridin' through, an' I'm sure hungry an' tuckered.”

Somewhere off in the mountains, thunder rolled and grumbled. The fire crackled, and the leaves on the willows hung still in the lifeless air. There were three saddled horses nearby, and among the gear was an old Mother Hubbard–style saddle with a wide skirt.

“Light an' set up.” The man who spoke was lean jawed and sandy haired. “Never liked to ride on an empty stomach, m'self.”

More than ever, Gary felt uneasy. Neither of the others spoke. All were tough-looking men, unshaven and dirty, but it was their hard-eyed suspicion that made Jim wonder. However, he swung down and loosened his saddle girth and then slipped the saddle off and laid it well back under the overhang of the cliff. As he did so he glanced again at the old saddle that lay there.

The overhang of the cliff was deep where the fire was built for shelter from the impending rain. Jim dropped to an ancient log, gray and stripped of bark, and handed his tin plate over to the man who reached for it. The cook slapped two thick slabs of beef on the plate and some frying-pan bread liberally touched with the beef fryings. Gary was hungry and he dove in without comment, and the small man filled his cup.

“Headed west?” The sandy-haired man asked, after a few minutes.

“Yeah, headed down below the rim. Pleasant Valley way.”

The men all turned their heads toward him but none spoke. Jim could feel their eyes on his tied-down guns. There was a sheep and cattle war in the valley.

“They call me Red Slagle. These hombres are Tobe Langer and Jeeter Dirksen. We're drivin' to Salt Creek.”

Langer would be the big one. “My name's Gary,” Jim replied. “Jim Gary. I'm from points yonder. Mostly Dodge an' Santa Fe.”

“Hear they are hirin' warriors in Pleasant Valley.”

“Reckon.” Jim refused to be drawn, although he had the feeling they had warmed to him since he mentioned heading for the valley.

“Ridin' thataway ourselves,” Red suggested. “Want to make a few dollars drivin' cattle? We're shorthanded.”

“Might,” Gary admitted. “The grub's good.”

“Give you forty to drive to Salt Creek. We'll need he'p. From hereabouts the country is plumb rough, an' she's fixin' to storm.”

“You've hired a hand. When do I start?”

“Catch a couple of hours sleep. Tobe has the first ride. Then you take over. If you need he'p, just you call out.”

Gary shook out his blankets and crawled into them. In the moment before his eyes closed he remembered the cattle had all worn a Double A brand, and the brands were fresh. That could easily be with a trail herd. But the Double A had been the spread that Mart Ray had mentioned.

It was raining when he rode out to the herd. “They ain't fussin',” Langer advised, “an' the rain's quiet enough. It should pass mighty easy. See you.”

He drifted toward the camp, and Gary turned up his slicker collar and studied the herd as well as he could in the darkness. They were lying quiet. He was riding a gray roped from the small remuda, and he let the horse amble placidly toward the far side of the meadow. A hundred yards beyond the meadow the bulk of the sloping hill that formed the opposite side of the valley showed blacker in the gloom. Occasionally there was a flash of heat lightning, but no thunder.

Slagle had taken him on because he needed hands, but none of them accepted him. He decided to sit tight in his saddle and see what developed. It could be plenty, for unless he was mistaken, this was a stolen herd, and Slagle was a thief, as were the others.

If this herd had come far and fast, he had come farther and faster, and with just as great a need. Now there was nothing behind him but trouble, and nothing before him but bleak years of drifting ahead of a reputation.

Up ahead was Mart Ray, and Ray was as much a friend as he had. Gunfighters are admired by many, respected by some, feared by all, and welcomed by none. His father had warned him of what to expect, warned him long ago before he himself had died in a gun battle. “You're right handy, son,” he had warned, “one of the fastest I ever seen, so don't let it be known. Don't never draw a gun on a man in anger, an' you'll live happy. Once you get the name of a gunfighter, you're on a lonesome trail, an' there's only one ending.”

So he had listened, and he had avoided trouble. Mart Ray knew that. Ray was himself a gunman. He had killed six men of whom Jim Gary knew, and no doubt there had been others. He and Mart had been riding together in Texas and then in a couple of trail drives, one all the way to Montana. He never really got close to Mart, but they had been partners after a fashion.

Ray had always been amused at his eagerness to avoid trouble, although he had no idea of the cause of it. “Well,” he had said, “they sure cain't say like father, like son. From all I hear your pappy was an uncurried wolf, an' you fight shy of trouble. You run from it. If I didn't know you so well, I'd say you was yaller.”

But Mart Ray had known him well, for it had been Jim who rode his horse down in front of a stampede to pick Ray off the ground, saving his life. They got free, but no more, and a thousand head of cattle stampeded over the ground where Ray had stood.

Then, a month before, down in the Big Bend country, trouble had come, and it was trouble he could not avoid. It braced him in a little Mexican cantina just over the river, and in the person of a dark, catlike Mexican with small feet and dainty hands, but his guns were big enough and there was an unleashed devil in his eyes.

Jim Gary had been dancing with a Mexican girl, and the Mexican had jerked her from his arms and struck her across the face. Jim knocked him down, and the Mexican got up, his eyes fiendish. Without a word, the Mexican went for his gun, and for a frozen, awful instant, Jim saw his future facing him, and then his own hand went down and he palmed his gun in a flashing, lightning draw that rapped out two shots. The Mexican, who had reached first, barely got his gun clear before he was dead. He died on his feet and then fell.

In a haze of powder smoke and anguish, Jim Gary had wheeled and strode from the door, and behind him lay a dead and awful silence. It was not until two days later that he knew who and what he had killed.

The lithe-bodied Mexican had been Miguel Sonoma, and he had been a legend along the border. A tough, dangerous man with a reputation as a killer.

Two nights later, a band of outlaws from over the border rode down upon Gary's little spread to avenge their former leader, and two of them died in the first blast of gunfire, a matter of handguns at point-blank range.

From the shelter of his cabin, Gary fought them off for three days before the smoke from his burning barn attracted help. When the help arrived, Jim Gary was a man with a name. Five dead men lay on the ground around the ranch yard and in the desert nearby. The wounded had been carried away. And the following morning, Jim turned his ranch over to the bank to sell and lit a shuck—away from Texas.

Of this, Mart Ray knew nothing. Half of Texas and all of New Mexico, or most of it, would lie behind him when Jim reached the banks of Salt Creek. Mart Ray was ramrodding the Double A, and he would have a job for him.

         

Jim Gary turned the horse and rode slowly back along the side of the herd. The cattle had taken their midnight stretch and after standing around a bit, were lying down once more. The rain was falling, but softly, and Gary let the gray take his own time in skirting the herd.

The night was pitch dark. Only the horns of the cattle glistened with rain, and their bodies were darker blobs in the blackness of the night. Once, drawing up near the willows along the stream, Jim thought he detected a vague sound. He waited a moment, listening. On such a night nobody would be abroad who could help it, and it was unlikely that a mountain lion would be on the prowl, although possible.

He started on again, yet now his senses were alert, and his hand slid under his slicker and touched the butt of a .44. He was almost at the far end of the small herd when a sudden flash of lightning revealed the hillside across the narrow valley.

Stark and clear, glistening with rain, sat a horseman! He was standing in his stirrups, and seemed amazingly tall, and in the glare of the flash, his face was stark white, like the face of a fleshless skull!

Startled, Gary grunted and slid his gun into his hand, but all was darkness again, and listen as he could, he heard no further sound. When the lightning flashed again, the hillside was empty and still. Uneasily, he caught himself staring back over his shoulder into the darkness, and he watched his horse. The gray was standing, head up and ears erect, staring off toward the darkness near the hill. Riding warily, Gary started in that direction, but when he got there, he found nothing.

It was almost daylight when he rode up to the fire which he had kept up throughout the night, and swinging down, he awakened Dirksen. The man sat up, startled. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “You forget to call me?”

Jim grinned at him. “Just figured I was already up an' a good cook needed his sleep.”

Jeeter stared at him. “You mean you rode for me? Say, you're all right!”

“Forget it!” Gary stretched. “I had a quiet night, mostly.”

Red Slagle was sitting up, awakened by their talk. “What do you mean—mostly?”

Jim hesitated, feeling puzzled. “Why, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure whether I saw anything or not, but I sure thought I did. Anyway, it had me scared.”

“What was it?” Slagle was pulling on his pants, but his eyes were serious. “A lion?”

“No, it was a man on a horse. A tall man with a dead-white face, like a skull.” Gary shrugged sheepishly. “Makes me sound like a fool, but I figured for a moment that I'd seen a ghost!”

Red Slagle was staring at him, and Jeeter's face was dead white and his eyes were bulging. “A ghost?” he asked, faintly. “Did you say, a
ghost
?”

“Shucks,” Gary shrugged, “there ain't no such thing. Just some hombre on a big black horse, passin' through in the night, that was all! But believe me, seein' him in the lightnin' up on that hill like I did, it sure was scary!”

Tobe Langer was getting up, and he, too, looked bothered. Slagle came over to the fire and sat down, boots in hand. Reaching down he pulled his sock around to get a hole away from his big toe; then he put his foot into the wet boot and began to struggle with it.

“That horse, now,” Langer asked carefully, “did it have a white star between the eyes?”

Gary was surprised. “Why, yes! Matter of fact, it did! You know him?”

Slagle let go of the boot and stomped his foot to settle it in the boot. “Yeah, feller we seen down the road a ways. Big black horse.”

Slagle and Langer walked away from camp a ways and stood talking together. Jeeter was worried. Jim could see that without half trying, and he studied the man thoughtfully. Jeeter Dirksen was a small man, quiet, but inclined to be nervous. He had neither the strength nor the toughness of Slagle and Langer. If Gary learned anything about the cattle it would be through his own investigation or from Jeeter. And he was growing more and more curious.

Yet if these were Double A cattle and had been stolen, why were they being driven toward the Double A ranch, rather than away from it? He realized suddenly that he knew nothing at all about Red Slagle or his outfit, and it was time he made some inquiries.

“This Double A,” he asked suddenly, “you been riding' for them long?”

Dirksen glanced at him sharply and bent over his fire. “Not long,” he said. “It's a Salt Creek outfit. Slagle's segundo.”

“Believe I know your foreman,” Gary suggested. “I think this was the outfit he said. Hombre name of Mart Ray. Ever hear of him?”

Jeeter turned sharply, slopping coffee over the rim of the cup. It hissed in the fire, and both the other men looked around at the camp. Jeeter handed the cup to Gary and studied him, searching his face. Then he admitted cautiously, “Yeah, Ray's the foreman. Ranch belongs to a syndicate out on the coast. You say you know him?”

“Uh-huh. Used to ride with him.” Langer and Slagle had walked back to the fire, and Dirksen poured coffee for them.

“Who was that you rode with?” Slagle asked.

“Your boss, Mart Ray.”

Both men looked up sharply; then Slagle's face cleared and he smiled. “Say! that's why the name was familiar! You're
that
Jim Gary! Son of old Steve Gary. Yeah, Mart told us about you.”

Langer chuckled suddenly. “You're the scary one, huh? The one who likes to keep out of trouble. Yeah, we heard about you!”

The contempt in his tone stiffened Jim's back, and for an instant he was on the verge of a harsh retort. Then the memory of what lay behind him welled up within, and bitterly he kept his mouth shut. If he got on the prod and killed a man here, he would only have to drift farther. There was only one solution, and that was to avoid trouble. Yet irritating as it was to be considered lacking in courage, Langer's remark let him know that the story of his fights had not preceded him.

“There's no call,” he said after a minute, “to go around the country killin' folks. If people would just get the idea they can get along without all that. Me, I don't believe in fightin'.”