Borden Chantry

by Louis L'Amour

  He rode the blue roan Appaloosa with a splash of dotted white across the hips, a horse that loved a trail through wild country and kept its ears pricked for the crossing of each ridge, the turning of the bend.

  The cicadas sang in the brush, and the air was hot and still. And high above the land, a buzzard swung in lazy circles down the evening sky, secure in the knowledge that where men will ride, men will die, and content to await their dying. From all earthly troubles the buzzard was aloof, untouched by wrangle and debate, the song of bullet or the whine of arrow, the pounding hooves, the sudden fall, the choking thirst or the flaming heat. He had only to bend a dark wing where the sky hung its clouds against the sun, and to await the inevitable end.

  Borden Chantry was riding in his own country, in wild country. He liked the movement of his horse, the feel of it between his knees, he liked the trickle of sweat down his cheek. He liked squinting against the sun, the creak of saddle leather and at night the wolf howl against the moon.

  He held to low ground and took his time. The Appaloosa was a good trail horse, blending well with the terrain and with a liking for rough country and hard work.

  The trails he rode were the trails left by buffalo, used occasionally by wild mustangs. He made no attempt to find and follow the trail left by Lang Adams, for the trails of men in a western land are apt to be channeled by their needs. Water, food, and companionship of their kind—these are the things that make trails converge.

  Lang Adams was not a western man, but he had been a hunted man. And a hunted man is like a hunted wolf or any other animal, and he would be wary. Not only would he be wary, but he would be ready and waiting to kill. And Lang Adams had wasted no lead on the men he had killed. His work had been done with neatness and precision—and with utter ruthlessness. So far as Borden Chantry knew, Lang Adams had never missed a shot.

  Somewhere up ahead, somewhere not very far off, Lang would be waiting. He might hope that Boone Silva had done his work, but he might lay other, similar plans. Just as Chantry knew something about the manner of man Lang was, Lang knew as much or more about him. Lang had reason for concealing himself from others, Chantry was a frank and open man.

  He veered suddenly to the south, crossing the bed of Carrizo Creek and following it back toward the east for a half mile before emerging among some rocks and low brush. He scanned the country, then rode on and fell into an old Indian trail, well-worn but long unused. He cut to right and left but found no tracks.

  The Old Santa Fe Trail lay off to the south, a day or two days’ ride…He did not know how far, only that it lay there. Long abandoned now, it was only a maze of ruts cut deep into the earth. Six thousand wagons and sixty thousand mules had used that trail annually, and enough men to people a good-sized town had traveled over it every year. He had always told himself he would someday ride south and see it, but he never had. There had always been work to do.

  Several times he cut to right and left to check for tracks, but found none. He seemed to be riding alone in a lonely land. When he found the stone house, he was surprised.

  It was empty, long abandoned. He tried the windlass in the well and brought up some water. After he had pulled several buckets, he let his horse drink, then pulled another and drank himself.

  He lifted the latch and opened the door. Pack-rats had been there, but they had abandoned it, too. He took the dried wood from their nest and built a fire in the chimney, made coffee and fried some bacon. He ate part of the lunch Bess had put up for him and then he moved outside and bedded down under the stars.

  By daybreak he had been two hours in the saddle. He was deep in the winding canyons of the Mesa de Maya, and by mid-afternoon he was watering his horse in the Cimarron near the western end of Black Mesa.

  He had crossed the river and was coming out of the water on the far side when he saw the track.

  He recognized it at once. Lang Adams’s big black. The tracks were no more than an hour old.

  Chantry turned abruptly, and at a canter rode his horse east a short distance, hit an old trail going up an intermittent stream and followed it into the broken country beyond. He watched for sign, saw none, and guessed that Lang had gone up the Cimarron, a safe guide toward the west.

  Robbers’ Roost lay east, but Madison was west, and a more likely spot for Lang, anyway. Borden Chantry had no intention of riding into Robbers’ Roost. He was after but one outlaw, and had no intentions of trying to shoot his way through the bunch that hung out at Coe’s place.

  He kept to the canyons and mesas, saw no tracks, and came within sight of the Cimarron only occasionally. By nightfall his best guess put him twenty-five to thirty miles east of Madison.

  Choosing a place on the lee side of a leaning juniper, he put together a quick fire of dry sticks. There was little smoke—that little dissipated by passing through the foliage of the juniper. He ate another of the sandwiches Bess had made, then packed his gear and rode on for more than a mile before he found what he wanted. Staking the Appaloosa on some grass, he moved up to a ledge slightly above the horse, and went to sleep.

  He wanted, if possible, to make his arrest without shooting. He had no desire to kill any man, let alone one who had but recently been a friend.

  How he was to bring this about, he had no idea.

  It was sundown on the following day when he rode into Madison from the south. He had cut away from the Cimarron and reached the trail somewhat north of the towering peak known as Sierra Grande.

  There were but half a dozen buildings scattered along the street, and several houses and cabins clustered or scattered where convenience had chosen the spot. There were three corrals within sight; none of them held a black horse. There was what appeared to be a stable, and a dozen horses were tied at the hitching rail in front of what appeared to be a saloon.

  The sun was down but there was still a red glow on the crest of Emery Peak, named for Madison Emery—for whom the town was also named.

  Without a doubt, some of the horses belonged to outlaws from the Roost, and he would find no friends among them. Nor anywhere in town unless it was Devoy, whom he had heard was a good man. Yet he had no desire to put any of them in a position of helping the law. His was the job to do, and he was asking no help.

  A lot of men had died, and Lang had attempted to kill him.

  He dismounted and stood for a moment in the darkness beside his horse, considering his next step. He had no desire to be shot down as he entered the saloon. Yet he was tired, hungry, and irritable because of it.

  He stood for a moment, and was just about to step up on the walk when a man came out of the saloon, walked to the edge of the porch and stretched. Then he saw Borden Chantry, a dark figure looming in the gray light near his horse. The man’s arms came down slowly.

  “You don’t have to get edgy,” Chantry commented, “I’m not hunting you.”

  “That’s a comfort.” The man’s voice was amused. “I just had me one drink too many and my shooting might not be so good.”

  “Where can a man put up his horse and get some grub?”

  “You can get the grub inside. The horse you’ll have to take yonder to the stable, unless you want to chance the town corral. I might add that the town corral is the first place a man runs to when he needs a horse bad…And mostly they aren’t choosy about whose horse they take.”

  Chantry chuckled. “I set store by mine,” he said. “He’s carried me a far piece.”

  “Put him in the stable. Cost you fifty cents and worth it. Nobody touches them horses, as riders hereabouts know their welcome would run out mighty fast.”

  He seemed to be trying to see Chantry in the dark. “Do I know you?” he asked suddenly.

  “Doubt it. I’ve heard of this place, but was never here before.”

  “That’s the way it is with most of us. This place is off-course for the law, so we set about and cut a few whing-dings or whatever you call it.

  “Good booze,” he added, “if you’re a drinker. I’m not, but
a man was buying and I had a couple. Isn’t often you find a live one around here.”

  “Big handsome man? Just rode in?”

  “Seems about right. Talks mighty easy, and carries a rifle as well as a six-gun. Makes me think he might be expectin’ trouble. Are you it?”

  “Might be, although I’m hoping there won’t be any.” Chantry paused a moment. “Knowing you’re feelin’ queasy, I hate to tell you this, but I’m the law.”

  “You come to the wrong place, Law. Was I you I’d put old Ap there between my knees and show some dust.”

  “You know, that’s right good advice. I just wish I could take it. One thing you might spread around, though. And that is that I’m not looking for anybody else, or noticing anybody but one man.

  “It’s not just a matter of law. This gent shot at me here and there. Makes me nervous, a feller shooting at me like that—especially from cover. Figured the only way I could get over that nervousness was to sort of round him up and put him away somewheres.

  “I might add that that man I’m huntin’ killed a Sackett, and ol’ Tryel, he’s back over in my town right now waitin’ to see if I bring him back. If I don’t, he and some of his kinfolk might ride right down here and see if this place will burn—and how many of you boys will fight to keep it from burning.”

  “We ain’t likely to scare very easy, Mister Chantry. None of us boys are. However, none of us are feelin’ warlike here at the moment. Also, Logan Sackett was in camp awhile back, and somehow or other I do believe folks like to leave him alone. He struck me as a a man with a rough edge on him.

  “Who’d you say you wanted? Was he ridin’ a black horse? Big man?”

  “Sounds like him. I knew him as Lang Adams, but that wasn’t really his name. Back east…he’s an eastern thief, anyway, not western…back east, some knew him as Ford Mason.”

  “Well, now. I’m again that. We’ve enough broke outlaws out here now without havin’ that eastern labor come in to take the bread an’ butter right out of our mouths.

  “Yes, that man is in there right now. Not in the saloon rightly, but in a room at the back of the bar, eatin’ by hisself. He sets facin’ the door with a rifle on the table and a six-shooter in his holster.”

  “Fine.” Chantry paused just a moment. “Friend, I’m going to put my horse in the stable. You go in there and order me some supper and when it’s ready, you have it taken right back to that room and put it on the table in front of him. You needn’t tell him who’s going to eat with him, but I’ll be right in.”

  When he had put his horse in a stall with enough hay to keep him busy, Borden Chantry took the thong off his six-shooter and kept his Winchester in his left hand.

  When he pushed open the saloon door and stepped in, all eyes turned toward him. A man in a white apron was just coming from behind the bar with a slab of meat, some beans and bread on a plate. He started toward the opened door of the back room and walked in, putting the plate on the table.

  “What the hell?” It was Lang’s voice and he was angry. “Damn it, I said I wanted to be alone! Now you get that damn—”

  Borden stepped into the door. “Now, that’s unkind, Lang,” he said quietly. “You never acted that way before.”

  “You, is it? Damn you, Bord, I told you not to follow me!”

  “Lang, it’s my job. It’s what those people pay me for. I never figured to be very good at it, but you know how it is…It’s a living.”

  Coolly, he pulled back a chair and sat down, laying his rifle across one knee, his left hand on the action.

  “You travel fast, Lang. Never figured I’d have to come so far. I kind of expected you to wait for me.”

  Lang stared at him, angry, yet alert for any chance. “We’ve been friends, Bord. No reason why we have to have trouble just because the folks back in that town got all worked up. If you had just let that body be buried the way you found it, none of this would have happened. I told you that you were taking this job too seriously.”

  “It’s a fault…People pay me for a job, I have to do it. Boone Silva felt the same way.”

  “Boone? What happened to Boone?”

  “You wasted your money, Lang. He just wasn’t the man for the job.”

  “I was told he was the fastest—”

  “That’s what he thought, Lang. But fast is relative, you know. Maybe he was a right fast man where he came from, but this here’s a big country.”

  Borden Chantry picked up his cup with his right hand. “I’ve got to take you back for trial, Lang. Of course, you’re a good talker and, too, if you get a good lawyer you might get off.”

  Lang stared at him. “Bord, sometimes I don’t know whether you’re a very smart man or a damn fool.”

  “More than likely I’m the fool. I just sort of make out around, Lang. But you see, I need this job. My folks would go hungry without it, and now I’ve got Billy to feed, too…It takes money, Lang.”

  Lang’s tongue touched his lips. His right hand was on the very edge of the table. “How about money, Bord? I’m not holding much, but I could stake you. And when the store is sold, there’ll be some coming from that…Nobody needs to know you ever found me.”

  “Lang, if I took money from you I’d be a worse man than Boone Silva. In his own way, you know, he was an honest man, and he tried to do what you paid him for.”

  “What happened?”

  Borden gestured casually. “Like I said, fast is relative. He led with a six and I played an ace. It was a showdown and he just didn’t have any more cards.”

  Lang’s tongue touched the lips. His eyes were very bright, and there was almost a taunt on his lips and he leaned forward just a little.

  “What was it, Lang? How’d it happen with Sackett?”

  Lang shrugged. “I managed to be in the kitchen when the coffee was poured. I slipped him a mickey. Then when he left, I followed him. Lucy Marie tried to get him to come back and sleep there, and she worried me there for a bit. But he wanted to go on to the hotel.

  “By the time he got back of the Corral, he was ready to fall, and I was coming up behind him. Just then, some drunken miner in front of the Mex café started to fire off his pistol, so I shot Sackett.

  “I picked him up and took his buckskin coat which he’d been carrying over his arm, and took him into the old Simmons barn. I’d just finished swapping shirts with him when he started to come out of it and I had to shoot him again. Then I got his coat on, and put on his shirt…it was too small for me, though…and went on home.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Why? Are you crazy? He was hunting me. He was hunting me for that shooting down below when I killed old Cunningham.”

  For once Borden Chantry was pleased with what he had to do. “No, Lang,” he said quietly, “Sackett wasn’t looking for you. Nobody was. Cunningham did not die, and his daughter talked him out of preferring charges.

  “Lang, you were the damn fool. You killed all those people for nothing. You were running scared and nobody was chasing you.”

  “You’re a liar!”

  “No, Lang. I am not a liar. That is the way it was. George Riggin figured it out, and he was going to tell Blossom to stay away from you. Then you killed him.

  “You made every mistake in the book. When you cut that brand away, I knew it had to mean something. But what you didn’t guess was that people in a western town notice brands. I just had to keep prying until I found someone who had seen that one.”

  Both of Lang’s hands were above the table edge, and he was smiling—that brilliant, boyish, friendly smile that people liked so well, and that he knew they liked.

  “Well, Bord, I guess this is good-bye, isn’t it? I’m sorry you had the long ride for nothing.”

  His left hand dropped suddenly, grabbing Borden Chantry’s right wrist while his own right hand went for his gun.

  Borden did not struggle. He looked right into Lang’s eyes until the gun muzzle was coming over the edge of the table, and then he shot h
im.

  The Winchester muzzle was within inches of Lang’s belly when the shot squeezed off, and instantly Chantry lunged to his feet, shoving the table hard against Lang Adams. And as the bigger man fell back, Borden Chantry worked the lever on his Winchester and stood looking down at Lang.

  With a casual boot, he kicked the gun from Lang’s hand.

  Several men came into the door, watching. Lang stared up at him. “Damn you, Bord! You were always a damn fool! You were never smart! You could have…Why, I’d have given you five hundred dollars just to ride home! You damn fool, you—!”

  His hand went to his belt. “Look, damn you, I’ve got—”

  Borden Chantry felt only pity then. “Lang…you’ve got nothing. Nothing at all. Not even time.”

  There was a moment then, when he seemed to know. “Bord!” he begged. “Please, I—”

  Borden Chantry stepped back and looked at the men in the doorway. “I am sorry, gentlemen. As I said, it was a personal matter.”

  Over the back of Lang’s chair had been hanging a pair of saddlebags. Chantry picked them up. On the bag was burned with a branding-iron ED G—Ed Galey.

  Lang’s last theft…the little money he knew Blossom kept in the house.

  In the saddlebag was the small leather sack with several gold pieces. Sackett’s gold.

  “There’s money on him,” Chantry said. “Quite a lot, I think. Take it, bury him decent, and split it among you.”

  “What name shall we use?” It was the stocky outlaw he had talked to out front.

  “Ford Mason…Lang Adams…Whatever you will. Names meant nothing to him when he was alive, and they mean nothing to him now.”

  He was five miles up the trail toward home when he realized that he was broke, his horse was tired, and he hadn’t even eaten.

  About Louis L’Amour

  * * *

  “I think of myself in the oral tradition—

  as a troubadour, a village tale-teller, the man

  in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way