The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (51 page)

“But I'd have sworn that was the sheriff! I heard him plain! He—”

“Charlie Venk is a good mimic,” Bowdrie commented. “Did you try to trail him?”

“What for? We figured it was a good joke on the sheriff, an' he wasn't much account, anyway.”

         

There was a trail when Bowdrie left town, a good clean trail, as the sorrel had a nice stride. Bowdrie followed the trail into an area of small rolling hills, across slabs of rock that left but indistinct white scars to mark Venk's passing, and when Bowdrie rode up to the next water hole there was a message scratched in the mud.

Whoever's trailin' me better light a shuck. I ain't foolin'.

Bowdrie glanced at it, then drank and filled his canteen and led the roan to drink. As the horse drank, Bowdrie's eyes kept moving, and when he was again in the saddle he continued his searching of the hills. His dark features were somber, for he had no illusions about the man he trailed. Charlie Venk watched his back trail, and Venk would be either seeing him now or at some time within the next few minutes. From here on it would be tough, and the advantage lay with Venk in that he knew where he was going and could choose the ground. If he wanted a battle, he could also choose the place.

Four years now Bowdrie had been riding with the Rangers, and if they wanted a man, they got him. If not now, later, but get him they would.

The odds were all against the criminal, for the law had time, and the law was tireless. An outlaw might scoff and claim that he was “smarter than any dumb Ranger.” Even that was doubtful, but was he smarter than fifty Rangers? And the thousands of citizens who had eyes in their heads and could remember?

Very few things that people do remain unnoticed by somebody. All the law has to do is find that somebody who saw or heard something. Not always easy, but always possible.

Bowdrie rode on into the dancing heat waves where the dust devils did their queer, dervishlike dances out upon the white bottoms where no water was. Blue lakes appeared and vanished. Again and again he lost the trail. Again and again he found it.

He followed the man on the sheriff's sorrel where the only trace was left by the wind, and he followed him where the wind died and curled itself in sleep among the dead hills or against the hot flat faces of the cliffs. By desert, ridge, and mountain, by alkali sink and timberline, by deep green forest and bald hill, through lands where the ghosts of long-dead Apaches rode, and to the trails where the stages followed their rutted routes.

He ate where Venk had eaten, slept where he had slept, and came to know his little ways and how he thought and acted. He drank with men who had drunk with Venk, and four times he found places where Venk had circled back to get a look at the strange dark rider who followed him. Then the trail disappeared. It ended at the edge of an alkali lake and there was nothing … not a track, not a wisp, simply nothing at all.

Yet the trail of a man is not left on sand alone or on the broken twigs or the scars upon rock. The trail of a man is worked into the way he thinks and in what he wants, so the silent Ranger rode on, his mind reaching out ahead of his horse. His thoughts crossed ridges and searched out in memory of towns he knew and of talk among Rangers as to places and possibilities, and one Saturday afternoon Bowdrie rode into a quiet little cowtown.

He was, he believed, four days behind the sheriff's sorrel, but he had noticed the stride was shorter. Occasionally the sorrel stopped; there had been places where it was almost too tired to graze. The sorrel was going to have to stop or fall dead in its tracks. The roan was unchanged. It was just as tireless and just as mean as ever.

When Bowdrie rode into town, almost the first thing he saw was the sorrel, standing head hanging, in a corral. When he rode closer, he could see the horse had been curried, cared for. He rode his own horse to a livery stable, led it to a stall, fed, watered, and curried it. Few western horses were used to being curried. The roan was, and it liked it, but had no intention of letting its rider know. Twice the roan tried to kick, and once it reached around to nip the Ranger. Bowdrie skillfully avoided the nip with a skill born of long experience, cuffed the roan lightly on the nose, and walked to a bench.

He sat down on the bench, and one at a time, keeping one always loaded and ready for use, he cleaned his guns.

There were nine saloons in town, and the usual assortment of subsidiary structures. The town was like other such towns in other such places. The same horses dozed at the hitching rails, the same dogs slept in the dust, and their tails slapped the dust or the gray boards as he approached with the pleasant acknowledgment that all was friendly in this sunny, dusty world and all they wanted was to be left alone.

Chick Bowdrie pushed through the batwing doors and walked to the bar. He accepted the rye whiskey pushed toward him and downed a glass, then filled it again. His eyes kept to the bar, then lifted to the mirror behind it. His mind spelled out the faces in the room. The man he wanted was not present, but he had not expected him to be.

An aging cowhand in faded blue denim with a tobacco tag hanging from his breast-pocket, his face seamed with years, weather, kindness, and irony. The town drunk; his face was a mirror for lost illusions, his eyes hungry with hope, his boots worn, and the old hands trembling. The solid, square-built rancher with new heels on his boots and an air of belligerent prosperity and affluence. The bartender, slightly bald back of the plastered black hair above a smooth, ageless face and brow. The wise, cold eyes and the deft, active hands.

They were types, men without names, faces from a page of life he had turned many times, and faces he had often seen, like the husky young cowboy at the end of the bar who had a split lip and a welt on his cheekbone.

A movement stirred beside him and Bowdrie's muscles relaxed like those of a cat, relaxed to a poised alertness that preceded movement.

In the mirror he saw it was the drunk. Sober now, but hopeful.

“Howdy, stranger.” He looked at Bowdrie in the mirror. “I could use a dollar.”

Bowdrie's expression did not change. “If I gave you a dollar, how do I know you wouldn't spend it for food?”

For a moment the drunk simply blinked. Then he drew himself up and with great dignity replied, “Sir, I assure you that no such idea ever crossed my mind.”

Bowdrie's eyes wrinkled at the corners. “I'm in a good mood. I'll buy you a drink, and then you can show me where the best restaurant is and we'll eat. Both of us. After that, I'll buy you another drink.”

They had their drink. “A quiet town,” Bowdrie suggested. “A good place to sleep.”

“You should have seen it last night. See that gent with the split lip? He got himself into an argument with a big stranger. He had two partners to help, but this stranger, he whipped all three.”

“Is he still around?”

“Seemed like he was in a hurry when he came into town, but that was before he saw Lucy Taylor.”

“What was the argument about?”

“Whether Tuscaloosa was in Alabama or Arkansas.” The drunk looked regretfully at his empty glass, but Bowdrie was starting for the door. He was tired of fixing his own grub and he was a lousy cook, anyway. The drunk followed him, talking. “This here stranger said it was in Arkansas. One word led to another, and they started to slug it out. Mister, that stranger was hell on a bicycle! He whipped the three of them.”

“Who is this Lucy Taylor you mentioned?”

“Purtiest gal in these parts. Or any parts, for that matter. Lives yonder by the creek where you see all those cherry blossoms. That big stranger, he seen her an' fell like a ton of bricks, and, mister, if that gent can court like he can fight, he's top man around here now, although Lucy is mighty hard to get.”

“Who did he fight with? Local men?”

“You know, I been thinking about that. All three of those gents were courting Lucy. He simply wiped out all the competition at one stroke.”

Chick smiled. “Want to know something? That man who did the fighting was born in Alabama. In Tuscaloosa.”

“But he claimed it was Arkansas!”

“Know any better way of startin' a fight than by insistin' a man is dead wrong when he
knows
he's right?”

“He started that fight a-purpose?”

“They were courtin' this Lucy you speak of. He fell for Lucy. If they get beat up, they can't go callin' for days. So how does that brand read?”

         

Among the cherry trees was a house built of native stone, vine-clad and lovely. Nearby was a stream shaded by willows and cottonwoods, and one big cottonwood loomed over the back porch of the house and the yard before it. A girl in a clean, starched gingham dress was hanging clothes on the line.

Her hair was strawberry blond, over a very cute nose a few freckles were scattered, and when she stood on tiptoe to pin clothes on the line, Bowdrie noticed she had very pretty legs.

Removing his hat after a careful glance around, he said, “Good mornin', ma'am.”

She turned quickly, with three clothespins in her mouth. He laughed and she hastily removed the clothespins. Then she laughed, too. She
was
pretty!

“You surprised me. Are you looking for Dad?”

“Who would look for your father when you're here?”

“Wait until I get these things hung out to dry and I'll get you some coffee. Are you the one who is looking for Charlie Venk?”

Surprised, he said, “Why, yes. Were you expectin' somebody?”

“He told me you'd be along. Said to treat you real nice. He said you'd had a long, hard ride and were probably all worn out. He said age was catching up with you, and long rides were hard on you.”

“I'm no older than he is,” Bowdrie protested. “Is he still around?”

She hung the last garment. “Come inside. The coffee should be ready by now.” She led the way, speaking over her shoulder. “You're here two days earlier than Charlie expected.”

“Known him long?”

“Only one day. It seems like I've known him forever.” She blushed a little. “He's very handsome.” She filled the cup. “And he's not like the boys around here.”

“No, I reckon he ain't,” Bowdrie said dryly.

“He said you were probably a Texas Ranger.”

“I reckon he was right, ma'am.” Bowdrie glanced at the rows of books on the shelves behind her. Many of the titles were foreign, some French, some German. “You folks keep a lot of books. I never had a chance to get much schoolin'. “

“My father taught me. He was a college man. He is a lawyer.”

They talked idly and drank coffee. Finally she went to the sideboard and cut a piece of pie for him. He ate it with appreciation.

“You sure can cook, bake, or whatever,” he said. “No wonder Charlie was taken with you. Although,” he added, “I don't think it was just the cookin'. “ He paused. “A right curious kind of man, that Charlie Venk.”

“I think he's a fine man!” she insisted indignantly. “He said you began chasing him because of a horse he borrowed. Why didn't you give him time to explain?”

Bowdrie looked as meek as he could and said nothing.

“I think it's a shame! You turn a nice young man like that into a criminal! And over nothing!”

Chick Bowdrie looked regretfully into his empty cup. “Trouble was,” he replied mildly, “there was a man settin' on that horse he wanted to borrow.”

“On it?” She was puzzled.

“Yes, ma'am. Charlie was in a sort of hurry to leave because of some other problems he had, and he needed a horse right bad and this gent objected.”

“Well?”

“Charlie shot him out of the saddle.”

“I don't believe it!”

“No, ma'am. I don't reckon you do. If a man is young and nice-lookin' and is somebody you know, you just don't believe those things about him, but the State of Texas believes it, ma'am, an' that's why I'm here.”

He got up from the table just as a tall older man came into the room. He nodded at Bowdrie.

“Good evening, sir.”

The older man turned to Lucy and spoke quickly in French. She glanced at Bowdrie, who was staring at the books on the shelf. He took one down that was printed in English. It was a copy of Plutarch's
Lives of Illustrious Men
. The girl's father noticed it.

“You must have a gift for choosing the best. Are you familiar with this book?”

“Carried it in my saddlebags for two years. Gent gave me a copy when I was fourteen. Took me a while to read it.” He glanced at the older man. “I never got much schoolin'. Learned to read some, an' cipher. But Plutarch, I grew up with that book. Used to set by the campfire an' study over it, tryin' to make out what was meant. I finally got around to it.”

He glanced from the man to Lucy. “This time it just sort of fell open to the part about Alcibiades. Now, there was a nice-seeming young fellow who came from a good family, had good education, just about everything. But he turned out to be a traitor and worse.

“Just goes to show you. A man may be good in some respects, no good in others.”

Lucy Taylor flashed her eyes at him, then glanced away. Chick Bowdrie picked up his hat and turned to go. “Reckon I better be gettin' on. I don't want Charlie to get too much lead on me.”

“What?”
Lucy turned swiftly. “What do you mean?”

Bowdrie's slow smile gathered around the corners of his eyes and then he spoke in French. “I heard what your father said, and your reply, so I know that Charlie saw me and has gone. I know he was hidden not far away when I arrived. And you knew it.”

“You speak French! You told me you had not been to school!”

“Ma'am, I grew up down Castroville way, around there an' D'Hanis. Now, when I was a youngster most folks around there spoke both French and German. I learned to speak those languages as soon as I did English.