Novel 1969 - The Empty Land (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Laurie turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Did you hear that, Joss?”

  “I heerd, an’ I reckon he’s right. You mind if I ride along, too?”

  “We’ll all go.” Laurie spoke quietly. “I can handle a rifle as well as most men, better than some. I will just ride along.”

  “Now see here, ma’am—” Joss started to protest.

  “Don’t waste our time. I am going, too. Joss, will you saddle some horses while Tucker eats?”

  *

  CONFUSION CAME SLOWLY to life on this night. There were no random shots, fired in careless exuberance by some drunken miner, and the street was less crowded than on recent nights.

  A piano in the Main Chance began to play, followed by a music box in one of the gambling tents. A drifting cowboy, travel-stained and weary, rode in at sundown. He swung down, eased the girth on his saddle, and tied his horse.

  Pausing on the street, he rolled and lit a cigarette, looking uneasily around. Another music box, in the Bucket of Blood, began to jangle. The cowboy looked down the street, then he went back to his horse and tightened the cinch, hesitated, and went into a counter lunch just off the street. A few men were gathering at the Main Chance, a few more at the Bucket.

  Madge Healy had gone to her claim for a last check before nightfall. She had rented a cabin from a miner who had squatted on the hillside not far back of the stage office, and she would go back there to sleep. But when she returned from the claim she prepared a small meal for herself, and sat down to wait. When she poured her coffee the brush of evening was painting the eastern hills with mauve and shadow, with here and there a streak of vivid light along the crests of the ridges.

  But Madge Healy was not thinking of the sunset, nor of the events in the hours to come. She was thinking of Matt Coburn. Her common sense told her he was a man going nowhere but to his death in some dusty street; yet from the first time she had seen him, when she was only a child and he had not known who she was, she had felt strangely drawn to him. He would not remember that meeting, with a child whom he touched for a moment on the shoulder, and to whom he had spoken gently.

  She had seen him several times since then, and never without excitement. That he was going nowhere meant nothing to her; she herself had done well in these past few years, better than anyone knew or was likely to know. That was one thing her aunt had done for her: she had taught her to think for herself and plan for herself, but now she had it and here she was, fighting a man’s fight against men, when all she wanted was a home and a man…Matt Coburn.

  He was the only man she had ever known who made her feel protected. He made her feel safe, secure. And the feeling was strange to her.

  From her window she could see the house on Discovery, so she saw Dick Felton when he came out into the street. He always dressed well, and he was dressed with exceptional care tonight. And he wore a gun.

  “I hope they don’t make you use it,” she said aloud.

  How many such towns had she seen? From the Mother Lode country of California to the Comstock in Nevada, and to Montana, Utah, Idaho, Colorado, and Arizona. She had been performing for six years before she ever saw the inside of a theatre. She was not the only one, of course. Lotta Crabtree had begun the same way, dancing on stumps or barrel-tops, on planks or boxes—anywhere at all. Most of the homesick men hadn’t seen a child in so long they would have paid just to see her, even if she had not performed…and at first she must have been pretty bad.

  Lights came on in the town now as she sat there, and the sounds picked up, yet they seemed somehow muted, for the town was waiting, crouching like a beast in its lair.

  Dick Felton started down the street. There was no sign of Matt Coburn.

  Dan Cohan walked outside the stage station with Simmons and Clyde. He carried a shotgun in the hollow of his arm.

  “Don’t do it, Dan,” Simmons warned. “There’s no use you both getting killed. Felton might just swing it.”

  “You know he won’t. As for me, I came west with him. We went partners in this deal, and I’m a partner all the way.”

  “They know you, Dan. They’ll expect you, be sure of that. Whatever it is they’ve planned for tonight, they’ll be ready for you, too.”

  Madge Healy came up and stopped in the street close to Dan Cohan. “Where’s Matt?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  Newt Clyde pointed toward the back of Jim Gage’s place. His wagon was drawn up there, half loaded with goods. “He’s pullin’ out,” Clyde said. “Well, there it is, boys. I never knew Gage to miss. When he leaves, the town is finished.”

  “Not this town.” Cohan was adamant. “He’s goin’ to be wrong this time.”

  Simmons stood by the door. “I wonder where Matt is. I’m going to lock up. If the place starts to burn, this office might escape the fire, being off by itself the way it is.”

  Sturdevant Fife nodded toward the street. “Ain’t one of Fletcher’s killers in sight. He’s pulled ’em all off the street.”

  Tucker Dolan, still several miles out of town, had called it right. Matt Coburn could not stay out of it. When a town was in bad trouble, he was like an old fire horse. He had to be there. Despite the fact that there had been antagonism between Felton and himself, he respected the man too much to let him go alone into the hell that lay before him. Also, during their last talk Felton had been less assertive, more willing to listen.

  Matt Coburn had a feeling that Felton would have liked to back up, but simply did not know how. He had stated his case, and was going to follow through if it killed him—and it probably would. So Matt Coburn had quietly disappeared.

  This was an old trick, and one he had learned long ago. It was a handy thing to do sometimes, for there was much a good officer of the law should not notice. Many little difficulties settled themselves if ignored, but if pushed they explode into real trouble. Matt had learned to disappear when such things developed.

  He studied a town like a chessboard. He knew where every alley led, where back fences might get in the way, whether back doors were locked or unlocked. He had never entered a town in the past seven or eight years without mentally scouting it. Within a few hours after his arrival he could tell you what doors and windows covered what particular portions of the street.

  He knew every possible firing point, every bit of cover, every means of getting quickly from one place in the town to another. He knew every point where he might be subjected to a cross-fire. And now he had an idea of what would happen when Felton went down into the town.

  At first, all would be quiet, to lull him into a feeling of security. Then there would be a disturbance, a fight faked for his benefit, or something requiring his attention. When Felton arrived, they would crowd around, pushing closer and closer until he could no longer move, or even draw a gun. Then they would have his guns, and would begin to bait him, pushing, shoving, getting more and more violent until it ended in a killing or maiming.

  Or they might choose to fake a shooting in the street, and when he came to stop it, they would open fire from concealment and simply kill him. That would be Ike Fletcher’s way. Big Thompson, a rowdy at heart, would incline toward the other, rowdy way of doing things.

  There were dozens of ways of killing a man or of breaking him down to size, and Matt Coburn knew them all. And so it was that a few hours before darkness settled, Matt had quietly dropped from sight.

  Behind the Bon-Ton Restaurant the hillside curved away from the narrow gulch started by that long-dead coyote and merged with the wash that lay at the foot of the slope. Scattered on the hillside were slabs of rock, and higher up were a few cabins, dugouts, and tents. Among the rock slabs Matt had noticed one place that offered shelter from observation.

  He had eaten a meal of beef and chili and enjoyed several cups of coffee, and after that he had walked out back and seated himself on a rock in the sun. After a while he stood up, idly checked a few chunks of float picked up from the hillside, and then he disappeared into
his chosen place of concealment. One moment he had been idling along the hillside, the next he was gone. He felt that he had not been seen, and he settled back to rest.

  Dusk had come, and the town awakened slowly and cautiously to its night life. In the darkness on the hillside, Matt Coburn came out of hiding. He hitched his guns into place, one in its holster, the other in his waistband. Then he went down to the back of the Bon-Ton and walked along the dark alleyway that led to the street. He paused there, still in the darkness, watching the street.

  He knew at that moment that he wanted to go away. He wanted to turn around, go back up the hill to his horse, saddle up, and ride away—he did not care where. But in the back of his mind there was the memory of a ranch house with curtained windows and the sunlight falling across the floor, the memory of the smell of coffee and the sense of quiet.

  Was it really that he wanted? Or was he, like Madge Healy, just trying to escape from what he was and what he had been? Was it the warmth and comfort of a home he wanted, or was it the cool stillness of the high, pine-covered plateaus? And would he be willing to remain where there was peace, or would he return always to these new towns peopled by tough, brawling men who could build towns, but who carried within themselves their own destruction? Perhaps wherever he was, he would have to be the lawman, the preserver of the peace.

  He shook himself. He was thinking too much. This was no time for thinking. That came before, or it came after; now was a time for feeling, for sensing—and for action, if need be.

  He could hear footsteps, and knew it was Dick Felton.

  Outside the Bucket of Blood a man struck a match to light a cigarette…or was it a signal? At the Main Chance a man strolled through the swinging doors and stopped on the edge of the walk…a momentary glimpse as he passed through the doors showed that it was Kid Curtis.

  A moment later Matt realized that the man who had lighted the cigarette was Parsons, who had been at the stage station with Tucker Dolan. Matt Coburn eased himself further toward the street, but he was still in the shadows. Dick Felton had gone into the Bon-Ton. Another man came out and leaned against the awning post. It was Peggoty Gorman.

  This was it, then. The thing Matt did not know was their plan of action. He had an idea there would be a fake shooting, and when Felton came to interfere they would kill him with a “stray” bullet. If it happened that way there could be no repercussions from Felton’s partners or friends.

  These men were the lawless, rowdy element that centered around Thompson, not the more cool-headed hired gunmen Ike Fletcher would have. Fletcher would be planning to move when trouble started in town. With everybody busy there, he could strike quick and hard against Madge Healy’s claims.

  Medley, the gunman who worked partners with Parsons, was nowhere in sight, but he would be involved if Parsons was, so he must be around somewhere, in concealment.

  Suddenly, the saloon doors were pushed open and Dick Felton stepped out on the boardwalk. Matt Coburn took a careful step closer to the street, and slipped the thong from his gun.

  Nobody moved. The street, lighted from nearby doors and windows, was quiet. Kid Curtis lounged nearby. Peggoty Gorman leaned against the awning post near Felton. Parsons was across the street.

  A man was on each side of Felton, a man across the street, but nobody moving, not a word being spoken.

  Chapter 15

  *

  DICK FELTON HESITATED. He must have sensed a trap, for these men were known to him as troublemakers, yet all they were doing was just standing there.

  The swinging doors moved again, and two more men came out. They stopped right behind Felton.

  Matt was on the edge of the street now, but he was still hidden in the shadow, close against a building.

  One of them spoke. “Howdy, Mr. Marshal.” That was Peg Gorman. “You bringin’ the law to Confusion?”

  “I am.” Felton’s voice was calm. “And it’s about time.”

  “I like that. A public-spirited citizen. We boys know how to appreciate a public-spirited citizen, don’t we, boys?”

  “Sure do,” came from one of the men behind Felton. “That’s why we brung a bottle along. Seems to us a public-spirited citizen should be almighty dry right now. Spirits to the spirited, ain’t that what we say, boys?”

  “A drink,” Gorman said. “We’ll all have a drink. You’ll drink with us, won’t you, Marshal?”

  “You boys have the drink. I’ll wait until I’m off duty.”

  “We take that unkindly, Mr. Marshal. You figure you’re too good to drink with us boys? Course, we ain’t big tall lawmen, and we don’t own any fancy minin’ claims, but we’re good boys and we figured you’d have a drink with us. After all, what’s one little snort?”

  Matt Coburn could understand the hesitation in Felton’s mind. Should he, or shouldn’t he? Were they really out to make trouble, or could he by this small gesture win their cooperation?

  “Sorry.” Felton even made his voice sound as if he meant it. “Not while I’m on duty. You boys come up and see me tomorrow, and I’ll break out a bottle. Now I’ve got to get along.”

  “Wait.”

  Felton looked at Gorman. Across the street, Parsons stepped off the walk. Felton heard Kid Curtis stirring behind him.

  Matt knew Felton was thinking: What should I do? But it was already too late for thinking; he should be moving.

  “Now, you wouldn’t walk out on us, would you, Marshal?” Gorman’s tone was sly, teasing. “Ain’t often we get your comp’ny down here. I figure we should make the most of it.”

  “I think he should drink with us,” Curtis said flatly. “I think that’s only fair.” He put his hand on Felton’s shoulder, and Felton turned sharply to push it off.

  “Kind of touchy, ain’t you, Marshal? You too good for us boys?”

  “This has gone far enough.” Felton spoke sternly. “Back off now!”

  Somebody laughed. Then Curtis said. “He’s right, Peg,” and he pushed Peggoty back on his heels. “Leave him alone. This here town needs a good marshal.”

  “You leave me alone!” Gorman retorted, and he shoved Curtis back, but somehow he shoved him against Felton, and Felton staggered, falling against the two men behind him. One grabbed his right arm and belt, the other his gun. Then they shoved him away and the others backed off, forming a circle around him.

  Disarmed and trapped, Felton stood in their midst, and he knew they were going to destroy him.

  At that instant, Dan Cohan appeared in the street. He held his shotgun, and he spoke loud and clear. “All right, boys, back off from him now or I’ll kill you!”

  A gunshot rolled a smashing reverberation against the walls, and Cohan fell. So that was where Medley was…on the roof.

  Immediately other men began to appear from doors, edging toward the street. “Come on, boys!” Curtis yelled. “We got us a marshal! Let’s see how he’d look in tar an’ feathers!”

  Matt Coburn was still in the shadow, but suddenly his voice sounded, sharp and clear to all. “Peg Gorman! This is Matt Coburn! Drop your gunbelt, and get back against the building…Gorman, you’ve got thirty seconds to get rid of that belt!”

  A split second of hesitation, and Gorman stripped the belt and dropped it. “You too, Curtis! Fast! The rest of you get off the street!”

  They couldn’t see him. They knew about where he was, but there was no clear target, and everybody knew about Matt Coburn…he would kill.

  The crowd that had been gathering began disappearing. Curtis gingerly unfastened his gunbelt and let it drop.

  “Medley! Get off that roof!” Matt called. “Don’t make me come up there after you! And throw down your gun!”

  Parsons alone had not moved. He was staring hard into the shadows. “Coburn, you ain’t got me bluff—”

  Coburn’s gun stabbed flame and the man staggered back and went down. Parsons made a feeble effort to rise, but he fell back.

  Medley was down in the street now. “I’ll kill you for t
hat, Coburn!” he shouted.

  “All right, Med! Pick up your gun. You can have your chance right now. Go ahead…pick it up!”

  “I’ll be damned if—!”

  “Pick it up, Med! Pick it up, or I’ll shoot you where you stand!”

  Medley hesitated, then he dived for his gun. There was no shot. He grasped the gun, got slowly to his feet.

  Coolly, Matt Coburn stepped into view. “All right, Med. If you want to kill me, here I am. You’ve got your chance.”

  Unbelievingly, Medley stared at him. He held the gun half raised. Matt Coburn also held his. Medley began to sweat. Here it was, his chance to kill Coburn.

  “Go ahead, Medley. You asked for it. Shoot, or drop that gun. But if you drop it, you ride out of town before sunrise, or I’ll shoot you on sight.”

  Medley started to lift the gun, looking across at Coburn, who stood waiting, his own gun half lifted, an almost amused smile on his face. Abruptly, Medley dropped his gun and, turning on his heel, walked from the street.

  “Felton, get your gun from that man,” Matt said, “and go over and check on Dan.”

  Moving carefuly so as to keep out of Coburn’s line of fire, Felton retrieved his gun, and went to Dan.

  Matt Coburn waved the others together with his pistol. “I’m not going to give any orders,” he said quietly, “but from now on I’m running this town. If any of you have any doubts about what that means, ask Mr. Parsons yonder.

  “If you boys want to work, you file claims or get jobs. Otherwise…move. Mr. Felton and the council want a clean town and I’m going to give it to them. Now, scatter out and drift…if I see any of you on the street tonight you’d better see me first. I won’t give any warnings.”

  Slowly, they filed from the street. During all of this, Matt had moved with care so as to offer no chance to a hidden marksman, and when the men had gone he simply stepped back into the shadows and worked his way along the street, noting whoever was visible in the saloons as he passed them.