Novel 1969 - The Empty Land (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Half an hour later he was back in the stage office at the head of the street. “All right,” he said. “I didn’t want the job, but Felton was too good a man to have that happen to him. If you want me to wear the badge I’ll do it…until your town has been cleaned up.”

  “You’d better have some deputies,” Clyde said.

  “No, I’ll handle it alone.”

  He took the badge, and listened to them telling him that Dan Cohan was not badly hurt. The bullet had been slightly deflected by a button on his shirt and had skidded upward, ripping a long gash in his chest and shoulder and knocking him down. For a moment he had been stunned, unable to move.

  *

  MATT COBURN AWOKE before daylight with a bad taste in his mouth. Swinging his feet to the floor, he got up and padded across the room the storekeeper Gage had offered him. He stared into the mirror without pleasure, and then dressed and shaved.

  As he shaved, he listened to the sounds of the town. They told him all was normal. He had heard a screen door open and close, a windlass squeaking and groaning. Occasionally a rooster crowed.

  When he was dressed he looked around the room until he found a tablet that Gage had been using to total orders, and sitting down he began to write. When he had filled two pages, he got up, found some tacks and a hammer, and went outside.

  The street was empty. The gray of early morning hung over it, while here and there up on the hillside a lamp or lantern still burned. Back of Buckwalter’s he found some scrap lumber and some nails. He tacked a board to a post, and carried it right into the middle of the street in front of the Bon-Ton, and there he drove the sharpened end of the post into the ground. When it was up, he tacked on the two sheets on which he had written.

  In the Bon-Ton Newt Clyde was already at breakfast, and when Matt came in he gestured toward the post outside. “What’s that?”

  “You tell Wayne he’s going to have to put on a couple of extra stages for a few days. If he hasn’t got the stages, tell him to use freight wagons—anything.”

  Clyde looked at him curiously. “Heard you pulled Dick out of a hole last night. I thought you two didn’t like each other.”

  “He doesn’t like me,” Matt said. “I’ve nothing against him. I figure he’s a pretty good man…too good to lose to that bunch.”

  “Did you have to kill Parsons?”

  “If I hadn’t killed him I’d have had to kill Medley, and maybe some others. Parsons has been buckin for it for years.”

  When Newt Clyde finished his coffee he got up and went out to read the sign. Several others were already there.

  Notice

  To Thieves, Murderers, and Short-card Artists;

  You are no longer welcome in Confusion.

  Those listed below can get out or shoot it

  out, and start any time they are ready.

  There followed a list of seventy names. The name signed to the notice was simply: MATT.

  Newt Clyde whistled softly. A man behind him said to his companion, “Come on, let’s get loaded up.”

  “What’s the matter?” the other man sneered. “You scared?”

  “Mister, have you ever seen the way Matt Coburn cleans up a town?”

  Matt came out of the Bon-Ton, glanced up and down the street, then crossed over, walking quickly, eyes alert, ears taking in every sound. He stopped before the Nugget, where Big Kate was standing. “How are you going to run it, Kate?”

  “It’s your town, Matt. I’ll run it clean.”

  “Thanks, Kate. If you have any trouble, call on me.”

  “If I have any trouble”—Kate put her big fists on her hips—“I’ll handle it myself.”

  At the next door down the street, he paused again. This was Rocking-Chair Emma’s, and the woman came out. She had once been slim and attractive; now she was slat-thin and nail-hard. “Em, we understand each other. You give cause for one complaint, and you get out.”

  “There’s men around wouldn’t want to see me go,” she said with a sneer. “What would you do about that?”

  “You’ve been told, Em. And you’ll find their names out there”—he indicated the sign—“so they know what they can do.”

  “Thompson will kill you, Matt. Big Thompson will wipe the earth with you!”

  He grinned at her. “Em, the one thing we know about life is that we’ll never get out of it alive. Thompson’s name is on the list.”

  Slanting Annie heard the talk and came to the door. “What is it, Matt?”

  “The town’s on notice, Annie. You’ve always run a straight place. Stay on as long as you like.”

  He went from place to place. At the Bucket of Blood, he stepped inside and looked around. Kid Curtis was there, and behind the bar was Tobe Burnside, a Barbary Coast bully. “Check the list,” he told them. “Your names are posted.”

  Burnside smiled and leaned his ponderous forearms on the bar. “I’m going to wait, Coburn. I’m going to wait until Thompson gets through with you.”

  “You do that, Tobe. But when I’m through with Thompson you’d better hit the street running. If you wait that long you won’t be taking anything with you but a little hide…and not much of that.”

  Matt started up the street to where Wayne Simmons, Clyde, and Zeller were waiting. Suddenly a voice sounded behind him. It was Nathan Bly.

  Matt turned slowly. Bly was standing in the center of the walk, staring at him. All along the street, people had stopped to watch.

  Bly indicated the sign with a jerk of his head. “My name’s not on the list. Why?” His pale blue eyes staring into Matt’s, he waited.

  “Because you’re a gentleman, Nate. You’re a damned good man with cards, but you have your proper pride. You’ve never cheated anybody in your life.”

  Nathan Bly’s face showed nothing, but when he spoke there was a faint surprise in his tone. “You called me a gentleman, Matt.”

  “Well, aren’t you? Nate, I’ve seen you around for six or seven years. I never knew you to be anything else. You go ahead and run your place, but don’t shoot anybody unless you have to.” Abruptly, he turned and walked back up the street toward the waiting men.

  Nathan Bly went back to his gambling tent and stepped inside. The gamblers were waiting, watching him. “You boys heard that,” he said harshly, “so you know what to do. Any man who tries any fancy stuff will answer to me, d’you hear? We run it straight, we run it honest.”

  Dan Cort got up from behind his table. “I quit,” he said coldly. “I’ll start my own house. Right here in town.”

  “You do that,” Nathan replied shortly.

  “As for Matt Coburn,” Cort said, “I’ve never seen any of his graveyards.”

  Nathan Bly smiled. “You will, Cort. You will!”

  Dan Cort hitched his gun into place, then slipped on his coat. “You watch this!” he said. “Just watch!”

  He stepped out on the street, Matt Coburn was standing talking to Clyde and Simmons. Cort stepped into the middle of the street. “Matt! Matt Coburn!”

  Coburn turned as the men he’d been talking to broke for shelter. As he turned, Dan Cort drew and fired. It was a blazingly fast draw, and Cort fired instantly.

  The bullet kicked up dirt six feet in front of Coburn, and the second bullet scattered splinters from the boardwalk near Matt’s knee.

  Matt had drawn easily, almost casually. Now he fired.

  Dan Cort took a slow step forward, his knees buckled and he fell.

  Inside the gambling tent Nathan Bly looked over at his swamper. “Mixter, get somebody to help you and dig Dan a grave, will you? Put a marker on it that reads: He drew against Matt Coburn.”

  Clyde came out of his office, his face pale. “That was close!” he said.

  Coburn shrugged. “He was too anxious to get his gun out. The fast draw is only part of it. You have to make the first shot count.”

  “Now what?” Clyde asked.

  Matt smiled. “I’m going to get Big Thompson,” he said quietly. “I want
him to read that sign. And give me that shotgun, will you? I don’t want him to try to draw on me until I’m through saying what I’ve got to say.”

  Taking the shotgun, Matt went between two buildings and around another, approaching Thompson’s cabin from the corner on the side where there was no window. He walked up to the door, drew back his foot, and kicked hard at the lock. The flimsy door flew open and Matt stepped in quickly, double-barreled shotgun in his right hand.

  Peggoty Gorman was sitting up in bed, blinking. Big Thompson rolled up to one elbow, astonished and unbelieving.

  “All right, Thompson! Roll out and put on your pants!”

  “What is this?” Big Thompson’s eyes found the badge on Coburn’s shirt. “Come to that, has it? I been waitin’ for it.”

  Matt Coburn moved suddenly, holding the sawed-off shotgun in his right hand. He grabbed the flimsy cot with his left hand, and with one powerful jerk upward he dumped Thompson on the floor.

  The big man scrambled for an instant, and lunged to his feet. Matt took a step back, the shotgun fixed on Thompson’s belly. “That’s better. Glad you sleep in your socks, Thompson, come on.”

  “Where to?”

  “Just down in the street. You, too, Peggoty. And if you boys want to get funny, just try it and I’ll cut you in two.”

  Thompson stared at him. “You give me an even break, an’ I’ll cut you down.”

  “That’s what Dan Cort thought. He got his break.”

  “Cort?” Cort was a known friend of Thompson’s. They had been in Silver Reef together.

  “He’s dead,” Matt said.

  “It’s like I tried to tell you, Big,” Gorman said. “You were too drunk to listen. He killed Parsons last night.”

  Thompson walked out of the door, and Gorman followed. As two dozen people watched, Matt Coburn marched them to the center of the street. There at least fifty men had already collected, staring at the sign.

  “Back up, boys,” Coburn said to them pleasantly. “I want these two chickens to read the notice. Then we’ll let them hunt a new roost.”

  Clyde was there, and Simmons, Buckwalter, and Zeller, and now Dick Felton. Three of them had rifles, two were armed with shotguns.

  Big Thompson stared at the list, then looked around at Matt Coburn. “Get out or shoot it out, eh? An’ me without a gun?”

  Matt Coburn unbuckled his belt, removed the gun from his waistband, and handed them to Felton. “You boys see that we’re not interrupted, will you? Thompson’s brag is that he can break any man with his hands. Maybe he’s right.”

  “You bet I’m—”

  Matt feinted a right and stabbed a quick left to Big Thompson’s mouth. It was unexpected and jarring. Big shook his head and put the back of a hand to his mouth, to find blood on it. He leaped at Matt, wanting to get his hands on him, and expecting him to move away. Instead, Matt stepped inside one of the huge arms and smashed short, wicked punches to the belly.

  They caught Thompson coming in, and he grunted with the impact of the blows. Then Matt whipped a right uppercut to the chin that snapped Thompson’s head back, hard.

  But Thompson was old in the rough game of fighting. He had taken punches before. He pulled his head down and rolled his huge weight against Coburn. Matt hooked hard to the belly, caught a jarring blow to the jaw that staggered him, and a back-hand blow to the cheek-bone that sent him reeling against the water trough.

  Thompson rushed to get close, punching hard with both hands. Matt swung a left to the belly as the big man came in, but he caught two more high hard ones to the head. He ducked, smashed upward with the top of his head against Thompson’s chin, then stamped on his instep.

  The big man howled with pain and backed off. For a moment they circled.

  “I’m going to kill you, Coburn! I’m goin’ to wreck you good.”

  Thompson was wary now, but he was a powerful man, and he knew what he could do. He had killed a man with his fists before this.

  Chapter 16

  *

  MATT COBURN WAS aware that the crowd had increased. He was aware that the sun was higher, and that it had grown warmer. All this he knew, but in a secondary way. The one fact that stood out now was that he had underestimated Big Thompson.

  He had known that he was strong. He had expected him to be a tough fighter, but he had not expected such a brute of strength and fury as now faced him.

  They circled each other warily. Matt was a big man himself, although sixty pounds lighter than Thompson. He had done his share of fighting and brawling, and he had learned long since that in most cases the very big man, having been large even as a boy, had never had to fight as much as a smaller man had, and so had never developed the fighting skill or ferocity a smaller man must need to develop to survive. But this was not true of Thompson. The big man was not only big, not only strong—he was also a real fighter.

  Instinctively, Matt had gone for the body. His old policy had always been to “get them where they live.” Many a man can take them on the chin, but very few have their stomach muscles developed to the point where they are impervious to blows. Moreover, Matt knew that even the tough ones cannot stand up to much battering in the mid-section.

  Thompson moved in. He not only had big fists, but somewhere, at one time or another, he had done some boxing.

  Coburn circled, and Thompson feinted suddenly and threw a whistling right hand to the head, but Coburn went under it, smashing a right to the ribs that made the big man gasp. Then Thompson grabbed him, heaving him off his feet and clasping both hands against Coburn’s sides in a crushing grasp. One arm free, Matt hooked again and again to Big Thompson’s face, smashing him with short, wicked blows as the bigger man bent him back and back. Excruciating pain caught Coburn in the back, and suddenly he kicked up with both feet, tumbling both of them to the ground. The fall broke Thompson’s hold and Coburn rolled free.

  He was the first on his feet and he caught Thompson in the mouth with a roundhouse swing as the bigger man was getting up. The blow dropped Thompson to his knees, and started the blood flowing from his mouth.

  Coburn backed off, wanting to catch his wind. Thompson got to his feet, his face twisted with rage. In a half-crouch, he came toward Matt, who waited. Suddenly Matt stepped in, smashing a left jab to the mouth and a right to the chin. Both blows struck solidly, but Thompson merely bowed his head and drove in, butting Coburn in the chest.

  Knocked off balance, Matt went down, and Thompson leaped high to come down on him with both feet. Twisting sharply away, Matt kicked out, missed, kicked again as Big Thompson started for him again. The kick caught Thompson on the knee, stopping him momentarily.

  Matt scrambled to all fours and drove at Thompson with a smashing tackle. Thompson side-stepped, and when Matt sprawled on the ground he leaped astride him.

  But quick as Big Thompson was, Matt rolled over and met his leap with raised knees and a fierce shove, throwing Thompson to the ground. Both men came up fast and lunged at each other, swinging hard. Matt felt jarring blows to his head, and one that smashed into his ribs with knifing pain, and then he connected with a right that split Thompson’s cheek, showering him with blood.

  Thompson put his head down and plowed in, but Matt rolled away from the rush, smashing a hard one to the ribs, and when Thompson straightened, Matt smashed another hard right to the mouth. Thompson grabbed at him, ripped his shirt, then caught his arm and jerked him into a clinch. Matt dropped his head to Thompson’s shoulder in time, and spreading his legs, struck at his belly with short, vicious blows.

  They broke apart and stood for an instant, gasping and bloody, and then with one accord they moved in quickly. But instantly Matt changed tactics. Grasping one of the extended arms, he turned and threw Thompson with a rolling hip-lock. The big man went down hard, and for an instant he lay as if stunned.

  Matt moved back, hands working, waiting for Thompson to get up. He got up slowly, and Matt walked in, suddenly avid for the kill. He smashed at the big pulpy face
with terrible blows, beating Thompson to his knees. He made one more effort to get going, but Matt moved away from his grasping hands, slapped a blow aside, and countered with a right to the face.

  Circling warily, still wary of the big man’s strength, Matt jabbed a left, crossed a right, and moved away, circling slightly. Thompson turned clumsily to face him, and Matt suddenly went in, ducked a swing and, setting himself, smashed five wicked blows to the head and face, followed by a ripping uppercut to the wind. As Thompson started to fall, Matt caught him by the hair and jerking him up, smashed him again in the face before he dropped him.

  Deliberately then, he walked over to Felton and took back his gunbelt. At the water trough he splashed water over his face and held his hands under the pipe that emptied cold water into the trough. Then from Clyde he took a shotgun.

  “All right,” he said. He motioned to Thompson, who lay sprawled and bloody in the dust. “Take him away.

  “Peggoty, you and Thompson be out of town before daylight tomorrow, or I’ll throw you both in the bottom of the deepest shaft around here and leave you there until it rains.”

  Gorman nodded dumbly, staring unbelievingly at Big Thompson, whom he had believed invincible.

  The crowd still waited, as if expecting something more. “Any of you whose names are on that list,” Coburn said, “are advised to leave. Any who don’t will be given a chance to shoot it out. I’m cleaning up…we’ll run this town clean, we’ll run it honest. Have all the fun you want, but I’ll stand for no crooked work.”

  He turned and walked back up the street to Felton’s cabin. Once inside, he put down the shotgun and sagged into a chair, breathing slowly and painfully.

  “You hurt?” Cohan asked.

  Matt looked around and said wryly, “He could punch, Dan. Every time he hit me, it hurt.”

  “Will this end it?”

  “No.” Matt Coburn waited a moment, breathing heavily. “No, this won’t end it. I’ll need my guns now. And there’s still Kingsbury. This won’t impress him, not a bit. Nor Ike Fletcher.”