Novel 1969 - The Empty Land (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Suddenly the door opened, and Tucker Dolan stood there. “Matt, there’s a lady to see you.”

  Matt got to his feet shakily. The reaction had set in now; his muscles were trembling, and he felt sick at his stomach. “All right. I’ll see her. Come in, Madge.”

  Only it wasn’t Madge—it was Laurie Shannon.

  If Laurie had heard the name she made no comment, but said only, “Matt, are you all right?”

  She saw his face then, as he turned toward her. “Oh, Matt! Your poor face!”

  He looked in the mirror. There was a dark welt under his right eye, a cut over the left one, and his jaw was swollen. He touched it tenderly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said. “Laurie, you’d better leave. This has only started.”

  “We thought you might need help. Tucker wanted to come, and so did Joss.” She smiled. “I found that I wanted to come with them, and we’re going to stay…if you don’t object.”

  Abruptly, Matt sat down. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m still kind of shaky.”

  He stared at his hands. The knuckles were cut and swollen. His fingers were bruised and sore, and he worked them cautiously. Desperately he wanted to try them on a gun, but did not dare while anyone could see. He knew all too well how people would talk, even the best-intentioned ones. Moreover, he did not want anyone’s fear for him to communicate itself to him. The one thing he had going for him in that lawless crowd was fear…a fear born of knowledge of his skill with a gun.

  He might have been a fool to beat Big Thompson with his fists, but he hoped the roughest element could be demoralized by his doing so. If he could defeat their leader, their bully, he might win without killing anyone else. But two men were dead…and he felt sure there would be others.

  He looked at Clyde. “Have you seen Fletcher?” he asked.

  “No sign of him. Nobody’s seen him for hours. Or any of his crowd, for that matter.”

  “I’ve got to stop them.”

  Nobody spoke. Matt’s head was hanging and he closed his eyes. His head throbbed, and his eyes burned. Just closing them was relief. His knuckles, too, throbbed heavily, but he kept flexing and unflexing his fingers. He dare not let them get stiff, but they were thick and clumsy, and he did not know if he could even hold a gun.

  “Dick,” he said, “keep an eye on the street for me, will you?”

  Tucker spoke up. “Matt, you want me to take a walk down in the town? I might find somebody who’d talk. I know most of that bunch with Fletcher.”

  “Be careful.”

  Dolan disappeared through the door, and Laurie went to the stove, stirred up the fire, and put on a kettle.

  Matt was aching in every muscle, not only with bruises, but with weariness. His very bones ached. Thompson had been such a big man to fight, and the very effort of hitting him, wrestling with him, and pushing him off had taken Matt’s strength. He forced himself to consider what lay ahead.

  Slowly his mind considered those whose names he had listed. How many of them would leave?

  Simmons came in. “The stage is leaving,” he said, “and she’s full. We’re getting a wagon that will go as far as Ely…sixteen men are going in it.”

  Well, that was a few of them, anyway.

  Felton, standing close by, finally spoke. “Coburn, I owe you an apology. I made a damned fool of myself.”

  “You tried. You’re too decent a man, Felton—they don’t operate that way. They take decency for weakness, and weakness represents opportunity to them. You’re a good man, but you’ve lived too long in an orderly civilization. It’s different out here in the open.”

  He paused, holding his fingers against his swollen eye. “I’m one of them, you see. I can be a wolf among the wolves.”

  “Thanks, anyway. You pulled me out of a hole.”

  Felton went out, and walked up to the collar of the shaft where Zeller was waiting. Zeller threw him a sharp glance. “Somedings iss wrong?”

  “His hands. They’re in awful shape, Zeller. I don’t see how he can draw a gun.”

  “Broken?”

  “No…but bruised and swollen. It was one hell of a fight. I wouldn’t have believed anybody could whip Thompson with his fists, but Coburn did it, and good, too.”

  Zeller looked down at the town and said, “Somedimes the goodt dings come hardt, Dick. Idt iss nodt easy to buildt a town.”

  Back in the house, Laurie brought a pan of water to the table beside Matt. “Sit up now. I’m going to sponge off your face.”

  Carefully, she began to wipe away the dried blood and to clean around the cuts. She indicated his hands. “What are you going to do about those? You can’t go down there tonight.”

  “I have to.”

  “They’ll be waiting for you, Matt. They’ll know your hands are in bad shape.”

  “I laid down the law. I’ve got to enforce it.”

  She sat down beside him. “Matt, why did you do it? You told me you were through with all this.”

  “The town was in trouble, and they had Felton in a corner.”

  “Was it the town, or was it Madge Healy.”

  “The town. Oh, sure, Madge needed help. She still does.”

  Laurie’s lips tightened a little. He grinned at her.

  “Don’t look like that. She’s a girl alone, fighting a tough fight. I helped you with those cow thieves, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He smiled and got up, flexing his hands. Then he suddenly remembered what she had told him. “You said Joss came with you. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He turned off somewhere down the street on some business of his own. He didn’t say what it was.”

  He looked at her. “Dorset’s in town. I should have put his name on the list, but I didn’t.”

  “I don’t think he’s really bad, Matt. I really don’t. He’s just got a lot of foolish notions.”

  “He thinks he’s a gunman,” Matt replied. “I don’t know of any faster way to get yourself killed.”

  The day drew on slowly. The stage left and then two wagons followed. Several riders could be seen along the trail, but there were too few of them, Matt thought.

  Suddenly he sat up. “Tobe Burnside! Laurie—”

  Tucker Dolan stood in the doorway. “What about him?” he interrupted. “If you’re askin’ if he’s gone, he ain’t. He’s in the Bucket waitin’ for you.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  “Fletcher and his crowd are holed up back in the canyon waiting for some word from Kingsbury. It seems Kingsbury sent a rider out of town to get somebody, somebody who’s job it’ll be to get you if you interfere.”

  Matt looked at Dolan thoughtfully. “Now who would that be? Just who would he send for?”

  “You know as well as me. There’s only one man around who’d want to brace you with a gun in your hand.”

  “Who?” Laurie asked. “Who does he mean, Matt?”

  “Bell,” Matt replied. “Calvin Bell.”

  Chapter 17

  *

  LAURIE BATHED MATT’S swollen hands with hot water, hoping to take away some of the stiffness and to get the blood to circulating properly.

  Tucker Dolan had left, but he returned again to tell Matt that twenty-seven of the names on the list could be checked off, for five women and twenty-two men had already left town. But the doors of Burnside’s Bucket of Blood remained open, and Tobe Burnside was at the bar…waiting.

  “They’re ready for you, Matt. It’s a trap if I ever saw one. Let me go down there for you. My hands are in good shape, and they won’t be expecting anything from me.”

  “It’s my job, Tuck. But thanks, anyway.”

  Matt lay back on the cot, his head throbbing with a dull, heavy ache. He had taken some wicked punishment, and he could feel it now, but his mind worked on the problem presented by the Bucket.

  Mentally he drew a picture of the layout, both inside and on the street. Tobe was a tough man, and he must be gambling on Matt’s
bad hands and the possibilities for a fist fight.…And there was Ike Fletcher, who had taken this as his opportunity to remove one who was a danger.

  Despite the dull ache in his head and the soreness in his body, Matt forced himself to concentrate. To win the struggle that faced him, he must consider every move, plan for every possibility. Tucker Dolan would help, but Matt worked better alone. Then there would be no one to get in the way, no one but himself to consider. He liked it that way; for he had no tendency to lean on anyone, to depend on anyone but himself.

  Long ago he had learned that problems could often be solved by that part of the mind that worked beneath the surface; that, given the elements of a problem, it was the nature of the mind to attempt to solve it, or at least to cope with it. The first essential was to see clearly what the problem was, to frame the problem correctly, and the means of solving it would often come without too much working at it.

  He had turned his reactions in the same way. The body of every man, like the body of every animal, contains those factors necessary for survival, and one could not depend only on what was consciously seen and heard. One must depend on the subtle senses beyond the range of consciousness, the movements beyond the periphery of one’s vision, and even on changes of atmosphere, on the actual feeling of menace.

  But always the first thing was to state the problem to one’s self, to alert the senses by this means. The senses, if made use of, had a way of developing, growing even more sensitive. And over the years Matt Coburn had come, like many another such man, to depend upon the subconscious feelings.

  In considering his problem now he was not only consciously considering what might be done to trap him and what moves he could make to avoid the trap, but he was preparing himself mentally for what was to come, he was conditioning his body and his mind, and these would control his muscles and his reactions.

  Finally, he sat up and dried his hands. Did they actually feel better, or was he imagining it?

  Tucker started to speak again. “Matt—”

  “Don’t say it, Tuck. You don’t like that bunch down there any more than I do, but I took on the job, and it’s me they are waiting for.”

  Laurie had gone to the window and was looking down the street. “It’s awfully quiet,” she said.

  Suddenly there were footsteps outside, and then the door opened and Madge stepped in. “Matt—” She broke off on seeing Laurie. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Laurie said. “I’m just a friend.”

  Madge looked at her and smiled. “If you are, you’re crazy,” she said. “He’s a mighty good man going to waste.”

  She turned back to Matt. “If you’re going down there tonight, go loaded for bear. Big Thompson and Peg Gorman sneaked back into town, and they’re hiding out at the Bucket. That’s what I came to tell you.”

  “Thanks, Madge.”

  That might explain it. If they were hiding at the Bucket, it would be enough to give Burnside confidence. Matt did not like it.

  Suddenly he made up his mind. “I’m going to let him sweat,” he said aloud. “Tobe is waiting for me to come down there. He’s all geared and ready, and there’s nothing harder than waiting to spring a trap. The longer you wait, the less ready you are.”

  He loaded his pockets with shotgun shells and, taking the gun, he went out, carrying it in his left hand, and strolled down the street to the Main Chance. As he went in the front door, somebody ran out the back, but Matt made no attempt to follow. For a few minutes he watched a poker game, then he went across the street to the Nugget, and after that to the Sixty. In none of the places did he see any of those he had ordered out of town.

  He walked on down the street and talked briefly to Buckwalter, then turned back abruptly. He thought of the tension in Burnside’s Bucket of Blood, where they would be wondering and waiting. He went into the Bon-Ton and ordered a cup of coffee and sat where he could watch the street.

  He took his time over the coffee, and after a few minutes he saw a man emerge from the Bucket and stand idly on the walk. It was Kid Curtis.

  After a few minutes Curtis went back inside, and Matt smiled grimly. He was prepared to wait, and in comfort.

  From his position at the window of the Bon-Ton he had a clear view of the street. The coffee tasted good, and suddenly he was feeling better. He decided he was feeling better because he was doing something at which he was good.

  It was like a chess game, he supposed—although he had never played chess—with the difference that he had several opponents, and while moving against one he must never forget the others who might choose that moment to move against him. And of course, he thought grimly, the stakes were higher in this game. A wrong move meant death.

  He preferred to move quickly, to get his enemies off balance and never let them get set. He preferred to drive hard and straight ahead, but in this case he would wait, and he was like an Indian for patience. They would grow more tense as time went on, more uncomfortable, more irritable, and more apt to move too quickly and rashly when they did move.

  Thompson, Gorman, and Curtis…three dangerous men. Tobe Burnside, too, although Matt had an idea that Tobe would not move until his move could be decisive. Since Curtis was there, Skin Weber might also be, although Skin might be inclined to act on his own.

  Fletcher and Kingsbury would not be involved in this, but they probably knew of it. This was not their kind of play. Matt ordered another cup of coffee and sat back.

  Would they finally move against him? When he did not appear, would they leave their trap and try to hunt him down? This was the point to be considered.

  Now a man appeared in front of the Bucket, and strolled idly up the street…too idly altogether. It was Alec, an occasional shill at gambling games, and sometimes a swamper in the saloons. Matt was quite sure that Alec was being sent up the street to find out just what he was doing.

  A shabby, down-at-the-heels man, Alec walked along, pausing now and again to peer into doorways. When he reached the Bon-Ton he was about to pass by when he glanced in the window and saw Matt sitting there. He stopped abruptly, started as if to go on, then turned and came into the restaurant.

  The Bon-Ton was empty except for Matt, and as Alec entered, Matt ordered another cup of coffee. “Bring me a pot of it,” he added. “I haven’t felt so relaxed in a long time.”

  Alec sat down at another table, ordered coffee and a piece of pie. He looked at Matt from time to time with quick, curious glances.

  As Matt filled his cup, Laurie came through the door. He indicated the pot. “Sit down and have some coffee. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to rest and relax since I hit town.”

  Laurie glanced at Alec and sat down. “Look,” Matt said in a lower tone, but one still audible to Alec, “I can move against those boys down the street any time. Let ’em worry. Are the boys up the street armed and ready?”

  Laurie realized at once that Matt was speaking for effect, although she had no idea who Alec was, or why he might be important.

  “Yes,” she said, “they’re ready.”

  “Good! Now let’s talk about you.” Matt slipped easily into conversation about the ranch and about Laurie’s plans, bringing out casually the fact that Tucker Dolan was in town.

  “When he knew you were in for a fight,” Laurie said, “he couldn’t stay away, Matt. Joss is in town, too.”

  Alec finished his coffee, paid for it, and slipped out the door.

  Instantly Matt was on his feet. “Stay here and keep out of the way,” he said to Laurie. “I’m going down there.”

  He went quickly through to the rear door, and looked both ways. The Bon-Ton’s back door could not be seen from anywhere but the surrounding hills, and Matt saw that they were empty. He went outside and moved down the backs of the buildings, ducking below windows, using what cover he could. He was at the rear door of the Bucket of Blood when Alec walked in the front door.

  He heard Alec say, “He’s just a-settin’ up there, dr
inkin’ coffee an’ lallygaggin’ with that Shannon woman from the Rafter—seems to have all the time in the world. But he’s cookin’ somethin’.”

  “What d’you mean?” Burnside asked.

  “Some of that crowd up at Discovery are all armed and waitin’. Tucker Dolan’s there, too—you know, that Arizona gunfighter. An’ they mentioned somebody called Joss.”

  “Joss Ringgold,” Gorman said. “He’s an old outlaw who’s been workin’ for that Shannon girl. He’s a real ol’ curly wolf, that one.”

  “What d’you suppose he’s got in mind?” Curtis asked.

  Matt had seen the boot-prints where men had waited outside the back window. The sash was raised, and two men with guns could sweep the floor between the wall and the bar, while they themselves remained under cover. Undoubtedly other men had been concealed elsewhere.

  He knew there was no question of getting them to surrender—they simply weren’t the type. They had forted up for a fight, and there was no choice—it was fight or die. Matt knew there was no alternative for him.

  As Curtis spoke, and before anyone could reply, Matt stepped in, eased the door shut behind him and answered. “Just this, gentlemen. You called the tune, let’s see how you dance.”

  All the men were armed, and three of them had weapons in their hands. As Matt finished speaking, he was firing.

  He shot Peggoty Gorman first, because he thought he might fall against Thompson, disturbing the big man’s aim. He shot Gorman right in the belly with the shotgun, then let Curtis have the other barrel. Dropping the shotgun, he went to one knee, to offer a smaller target, drawing as he dropped.

  His hand was stiff, but he grasped the six-shooter, brought it level as Thompson’s first shot missed by a hair. Matt fired twice, taking his time and pointing his shots low for Thompson’s broad hips and belly.

  Alec had hit the floor, crying out that he was not armed, which Matt was willing to believe. Flipping a quick shot at Burnside, a shot that missed, Matt dropped the six-gun into its holster and broke the shotgun and removed the empty shells. He had rehearsed this many times and it worked swiftly and smoothly, his slightly stiff fingers bothering him scarcely at all.