Collection 1983 - Law Of The Desert Born (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Although he had eaten nothing since morning, Reb had no thought of food. Slowly, he looked around the cabin that had been his home. What should he take with him? Though men may die, the living must continue to live, and he must think of food, bedding, ammunition, guns.

  Guns…his father’s fine old Sharps .50, the new Winchester .44 which his father had…

  The Winchester was gone!

  Reb felt a tingle of excitement go through him. The Sharps was in its place on the rack, but the new Winchester was gone! And there had been no scabbard on the saddle of his father’s horse. Knowing his father, Reb was certain he would never have gone out at night without taking a rifle, and that meant the Sharps. Despite the fact that Reb had made him a present of the Winchester, his father had kept it on the rack and continued to carry his familiar old buffalo gun.

  Aware of something wrong, Reb stood stock-still in the middle of the cabin. Suddenly, he thought of his father’s carefully hoarded cache of money. A few hundred dollars only, it had been his insurance against illness or old age. Reb dropped on his knees and slid the board from its grooves in the floor. The money was gone!

  Slowly Reb got to his feet. There had been no money in his father’s pockets. And his father had worn a pistol. That in itself was strange, for Jim Farrell had not worn a belt gun in years. Three things were wrong—the missing Winchester, the missing money, and the presence of a belt gun on his father. But what could it all mean?

  Looking around the cabin, Reb suddenly noticed the coffeepot on the stove and going to it, lifted the lid. There were grounds in the pot. Either somebody else had made that coffee and left the pot or Jim Farrell had been drawn from his fire while making coffee, for Jim had habits of neatness acquired from years of living with his meticulous wife. He never left a pot on the stove and never left a dish unwashed.

  As he packed the remaining food the conviction grew in Reb Farrell’s mind that either his father had been somehow alarmed and left the cabin or he had been taken from it by force.

  And why the belt gun? His father’s right wrist had been weak for years, not up to swinging the heavy Colt. Suppose…suppose he had not put that belt on himself? Suppose somebody else had put it on for him? But why? And who?

  It was daylight when Reb Farrell finally left the cabin. He took with him two packhorses and four head of saddle stock aside from the horse he himself rode. There were Rocking F cattle around that belonged to him, but they would have to wait.

  Reb struck for the hills above Indian Creek. Of one thing he was certain. He was not leaving the country until he discovered exactly what had happened. He knew his father had never done anything dishonest. There had been too many times in the past when he might have profited without anyone the wiser, but Jim Farrell had not taken one single thing that did not belong to him.

  As Reb rode up the narrowing canyon he thought the matter over. His father had no enemies. A kindly man, he never had trouble with anyone. Therefore, if his cabin had been looted it had been by chance thieves. Or…the thought came to him suddenly…enemies of Reb’s!

  But who were his enemies? Aside from a few fist-fights at dances, none of which led to enmity, Reb had no enemies.

  Except…except the rustlers themselves. Reb had found and recovered two herds of stolen cattle, and he had upon several occasions trailed the rustlers for miles. In fact, he had been the only man they had reason to fear. Suppose they had chosen this way to strike at him?

  Skirting South Peak, Reb Farrell rode into a narrow canyon, and circling into the back of the canyon, he dismounted near an old corral he had built years ago, and turned in his horses. Then he switched saddles from the animal he had been riding to a long-legged zebra dun. There was plenty of grass in the corral, growing rich and green, and a small stream flowed through one corner of it.

  There was no cabin, but the deep overhang of a cliff provided all the shelter he needed, and the firs growing before it would keep his fire from reflecting by night and would dissipate his smoke by day. Reb had no intention of leaving the country.

  The dun was a fast and tough horse, one whose staying power and heart he had tested before this. In the saddle, he headed for town. First, he had to see Laura Embree.

  PALO SECO WAS resting when he rode into town. There were lights in the two saloons and in a few scattered houses. One of these was Nathan Embree’s townhouse. Knowing well the hard-headedness of his former boss, Reb dismounted in the cottonwoods some fifty yards from the house and walked up along the rail fence surrounding the Embree garden. Easing into the yard, he glanced through the window.

  Laura was alone at the piano. Swiftly, he mounted the porch and tapped gently on the door. A second time he tapped, and then the music stopped. He heard the sound of steps and the door opened.

  “Reb!” Laura’s hand went to her lips and her eyes widened. “If Father finds you here, you’ll be killed!”

  “Maybe. But I had to see you.” His eyes searched her face. “Where do you stand, Laura? Do you believe I was a rustler?”

  “No.” There was the merest flicker of hesitation. “No, I don’t. But your father—”

  “Then you do believe he was? A kind old man like him? Never took a dishonest dime in his life!”

  “But Reb, you…you shot and he…you killed him! He was riding with them!” she protested.

  “No,” he said quietly, “maybe nobody else will believe me but I know he was dead before he ever reached that herd! Dead or close to it!”

  Laura drew back a little. “I’m sorry, Reb, but you’d better go.”

  “Laura!” Reb protested. “Listen to me!” She made a move to close the door and he put his hand against it. “I tell you it’s the truth! When I left your father, I rode home and found Dad’s new Winchester was gone. Someone had stolen that gun! I know Dad hadn’t taken it himself because he never used it, still favoring his old Sharps. An’ somebody had strapped a gun on him—Dad hasn’t used a pistol in years. His right wrist is too weak!”

  “I’m sorry, Reb.” Laura’s face had grown stiff. “It just won’t do. It’s hard to believe that you were a cattle thief, but I don’t see what else I can believe. Now if you’ll take your foot out of that door, I’ll—”

  “Laura?” It was Nathan Embree’s voice. “Who’s there? Who you talkin’ to?”

  Reb withdrew his hand. “All right,” he said quietly, “but if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll—”

  The door closed in his face, and he stood staring at it, his world collapsing around him.

  Laura, too! Stunned, he turned away and walked back to the dun.

  One hand on the pommel, Reb Farrell hesitated, scowling. All right, he had to begin somewhere. He knew his father was not a rustler. He knew his father had not been out there willingly. So then, as long as he knew it, there was a chance to prove himself right.

  One other person, perhaps several others, knew the truth also. The rustlers knew he had been framed.

  But who was doing the rustling? The most likely person was Lon Melchor over on Tank Mesa. Melchor had rustled cattle before but had always been too slick to be caught at it. But somehow he could not believe that Lon would kill his father. They had been on opposite sides of the fence, but they had always been friendly. Anyway, it was a place to start.

  Hard riding put him on Lon’s place shortly after midnight. All was dark and still. Swinging down from the dun’s saddle, Reb moved swiftly along the sidehill toward the cabin. There was something about the feel of the night that he did not like. Hesitating, he tried to resolve the feeling into something concrete and definite.

  He moved up to the corner of the house. The door was standing open, which was unusual for the night was cool. Straining his ears he could hear hoarse breathing but no other sound.

  He spoke softly, “Lon!”

  All was still. He stepped into the door of the cabin and pushed the door shut, listening. Again he spoke the old rustler’s name, but again there was no sound. Then he took a chance and st
ruck a match.

  Lon Melchor was sprawled on the floor, lying in a stupor, his shirt stained with blood!

  Reb dropped to his knees and made a quick examination of the old man, and then he began to work swiftly. He got a fire going and put water on the stove. Then he put a pillow under the old man’s head and stretched him out easier, rolling him onto a blanket which he placed on the floor. When the water was hot he bathed the wound, a nasty gunshot high on the left side, and only when he had the wound bandaged did he turn to look around.

  Lon’s gun lay on the floor, and picking it up, Reb saw it had been fired three times. His rifle was nowhere about and was probably on his horse. Slipping out of the door, Reb looked about until he found the horse. The saddle was wet with blood where the old man had bled. Lon stripped the saddle from the horse and turned him into the corral. There was water in the trough, and he forked some hay to the horses, then returned to the cabin.

  Lon’s eyes were open. “Reb!” he gasped. “You seen ’em? Them rustlers, I mean?”

  “Who were they, Lon? Did they shoot you?”

  “Yep,” he stared up at the younger man, his misery showing in his face. “It’s my fault, too. I knowed Joe Banta was a bad—”

  “Joe who?” Reb Farrell leaned over the bunk. “Did you say Joe Banta?”

  “Yep. He come in here wantin’ a hideout, maybe three weeks ago. I knowed he was a plumb bad hombre, but I let him stay on. Fact is, I couldn’t have drove him away. Then he did leave, but he came back with a bunch of hard cases. They started for the herd, and I raised hob. Joe, he turned right on me and shot, then he let me drop an’ left me.

  “I got into the saddle, how I’ll never know.” The old man’s voice was weak. “I started for your place, but I never made it. Your old man found me. He got me back in the saddle, but when I told him what was up, he took off to tackle them rustlers by his ownself.”

  “They got him, Lon. They killed him.” Briefly, Reb explained all that had taken place. The old man was angry.

  “Nathan Embree always was a pigheaded fool!” he snorted. He grabbed Reb’s hand. “Get you some men, son. I know where he’ll go. He’ll head for the old hideout at Burro Springs. You got to follow Dark Canyon to get there. Right up the canyon through all them boulders. He’ll have the cattle there where he can get ’em over the Border easy. He can sell that herd to the minin’ camps easy as pie.”

  Reb hesitated, but the old man waved him on. “Don’t mind me. I’ll get along.”

  Reb wheeled and ran to the door. There was no time to go for help, and there was a chance he might be shot if he did go back.

  Day was just breaking in the east when he first found the opening into Dark Canyon and rode down from the lip of the mesa into the deep, shadowy green recesses of this oasis in the desert. Long suspected as a possible hangout for rustlers, the canyon had been searched several times in the past year, but searchers had always been stopped by the seemingly impassable jumble of boulders, some of them so close together there seemed no way through. Moreover, the place was exceedingly dangerous. If caught in the canyon bottom during a heavy rain, a man would have small chance of escaping the roaring flood which came down the canyon.

  Now Reb knew there was a way through those boulders. He rode now with extreme caution, pausing often to study the canyon ahead of him, and then pushing on. Soon the huge boulders that had hitherto blocked all progress in the ancient river bed were before him. He searched for a way between them, but try as he might, he could find none that would allow the passage of a horse or cow. Yet, with Lon Melchor’s statement to urge him on, he persisted, and it was finally a mark on the canyon wall that tipped him off. It was such a mark that might have been made by the brushing of a stirrup. Riding close to the wall, ducking his head because of the overhang, Reb suddenly saw the opening, barely wide enough to allow for passage. He rode through, then paused in the deep shadow.

  The canyon appeared to be nothing but a jumble of boulders for some distance ahead. After a careful study of the rocks and walls, he rode on, then turned up a narrow path that showed at one side of the canyon. It was a little-used trail, probably made by wandering cattle or wild horses. It led him into the broken rock of the shattered canyon wall, and then onto a green-topped mesa. Crossing this, he paused under some trees and looked down. Below him the canyon widened out into a long, green, and well-watered valley of some five hundred acres. Two huts and a long bunk-house were against the wall of the canyon below him. There was a stable and some corrals, and scattered over the canyon, several hundred head of cattle were feeding.

  As he watched, two men came from the long building and strolled toward the corrals. They walked as men do who have enjoyed a good meal and are in no hurry to go to work. One of them was Joe Banta.

  BANTA HAD NEVER been known to operate in this part of the country, and Nathan Embree would have been the first to scoff at such an idea. Yet here he was, and in plain sight. He was a stocky man of considerable breadth and little height, a swarthy fellow with a battered gray hat. Even from a distance, Reb could recognize him without trouble. When the two men turned around, Reb recognized the second as Ike Goodrich, a small-time outlaw and occasional cowhand who had once worked for Embree.

  Two hours of waiting and watching while his horse cropped grass contentedly gave Reb Farrell the knowledge that at least four men were below. Aside from Banta and Ike, there was the cook, whom Reb had seen come to the door to throw out some water, and a thin, redheaded fellow who walked with a slight limp and appeared to favor that leg considerably as though it had been recently injured. This man went to the corral and saddled four horses.

  There was no time to go for help. It would take hours to get out and hours to get back. Even if he could convince somebody of the truth of his story, by the time they returned, the cattle would be gone, for obviously there was another way out of the canyon, probably the route that led over the Border.

  Leading his horse, Reb left the mesa top and made his way slowly down a back trail into a deep draw that opened on the valley. Leaving his horse in the brush, Reb walked down the canyon, rifle in hand. From the mouth he looked out over the valley. The nearest corral was not twenty yards away, the back of the nearest shack about the same distance. The stable and the other corrals formed an open corner with the corral near which he stood. He was facing north, the stable faced west, and the houses faced north as he did. The redhead was standing in front of the stable, tightening a saddle girth.

  Reb walked out of the canyon mouth and strolled along the corral bars until he was facing the man in front of the stable. Nobody else was in sight.

  “All right, Red!” His voice was low but strong enough. “Unloose your gun belts and turn around! One wrong move and you die!”

  Red turned slowly, his hands wide. His face was tight with surprise. “Where’d you come from?” he demanded.

  “Unloose your belt, Red! Quick!”

  Red’s hands went to the buckle, then he hurled himself to one side and grabbed his gun. Reb’s Winchester barked and the redhead kept falling, the gun slipping from his fingers and sliding along the earth a foot from the outstretched hand.

  A chair slammed over inside the house and Goodrich jumped into the doorway. Reb was waiting for him and fired. The shot burned Ike on the neck, cutting along that side nearest the cabin. Goodrich jerked away from the pain and fell out of the door.

  From the window a bullet slammed near Reb, and he ducked and ran. Goodrich grabbed his gun and rolled over on his face. Reb chanced a running shot and saw the bullet kick dirt in Ike’s eyes. While the gunman swore and grabbed at his eyes, Reb dropped his rifle, grabbed a gun, and lunged through the door. He took a chance, gambling that Joe Banta would be expecting nothing of the kind. Banta wheeled as Reb came through the door and both men fired at once and both missed. It was close range, but both were moving. Reb grabbed the edge of the table to stop his forward movement and fired again. Banta jerked hard and his shot went wild. Then Reb jumped
at him, clubbing with his six-gun barrel. Banta went down to his hands and knees. He was starting to get up when Reb hit him a second time.

  Wheeling, he sprang to the door. Goodrich was crawling for the rifle Reb had dropped, and Reb put a bullet in the ground before him. Goodrich stopped, and glared at the doorway. “You’ll suffer for this. If I live a thousand years, I’ll never forget it!”

  A board creaked and Reb looked up. The cook was facing him across a double-barrelled shotgun.

  “Drop it!” he said, his eyes bright with satisfaction. “Drop it or I’ll cut you in two!”

  Reb Farrell’s gun was level and he did not hesitate. “You fire,” he said, “and I’ll kill you. You’ll get me, but I’ll take you with me. Now go ahead and shoot, because I’ll not miss at this range!”

  The cook stared, gulped and his eyes shifted. He didn’t like the situation even a little. That Reb would not surrender in the face of the scattergun was something of which he had never dreamed. Now it was quite obvious that while he would kill Reb, the bullet from the pistol would unquestionably kill him. And he was not ready to die.

  “Shoot,” Reb said, “or drop it!”

  “Go ahead!” Ike shouted. “Shoot, you greasy fool!”

  The cook’s eyes wavered. “Yeah,” he sneered, “a lot you care what happens to me.” His eyes swung back to Reb and the six-gun was unwavering. “Never was much of a poker player. I reckon you got me. I’d rather be alive an’ in jail then dead on this ground.” He bent over and placed the shotgun carefully on the ground and took a step back. “Hope you’ll recall that when the trial comes.”

  Quickly, Reb gathered up the loose weapons, tied the hands of Ike and the cook, and bandaged Banta’s wounds. The redhead was dead. The .44 from Reb’s Winchester had cut into the center of his chest at an angle from right to left and had drilled the redhead right through the heart.