Lando (1962)

by L'amour, Louis - Sackett's 08

  “You got it to learn,” the other man said irritably. “You’re a damn’ fool, Dun.

  Falcon Sackett is one of the most dangerous men on earth, and to hear the Bishop talk about it, he’s almighty important. So much so the Bishop has spent years hunting down every piece of that Spanish gold to find him.”

  “But he’s dead!”

  “You seen body? Nothing else would convince the Bishop. I ain’t so sure he’d even believe it then.”

  “Are you goin’ to talk all night about a dead man? Let’s go get the horses,” and they moved on.

  It was no use waiting any longer. If I was going to get away from here it had to be now. Stepping through the opening, I started out into that pasture after my mare and not feeling any too good about it, either.

  Jacks are a mean lot. If I was caught in the middle of this pasture by either the stud or the owner I might be lucky to get out alive.

  It was almighty dark, and every step or two I’d hold up to listen. Once I thought I heard hoof-beats off to my left; but listening, I heard nothing more. Back behind me I heard rustling in the brush.

  Suddenly, something nudged my elbow and there was my mare. All day I’d been feeding her bits of a carrot or some turnips, so she found me her ownself. More than likely it was the first time anybody’d ever fussed over her.

  Hoisting myself to her back, I turned her toward that opening in the fence.

  The Bishop had been mentioned, and he was a known man. River-boat gambler, river pirate, and bad actor generally, he was one of the top men at Natchez-under-the-Hill, and one of the most feared men along the river.

  “Whoever went in there,” somebody said, “is still there.”

  A light glowed close to the ground as he spoke, then vanished.

  Didn’t seem no call to be wasting around, so I booted the mare in the ribs and she jumped like a deer and hit the ground running—and brother, she had plenty of scat.

  She went through that fence opening and when a man reared up almost in front of her she hit him with her shoulder, knocking him rump over teakettle into the brush. The other man jumped to grab me and I stiff-legged him in the belly and heard the ooof as his breath left him. He went back and down out of sight, and the mare and me, we dusted around that clump of brush and off down the pike.

  There was no need to meet the Tinker at the crossing of the Tombigbee, for I came up to him just as false dawn was spreading a lemon-yellow across the gray sky. He had stopped alongside the road and put both packs down. It looked to me like he was about to open mine when I came up to him.

  “You got the wrong pack there,” I said.

  He turned sharp around, braced for trouble.

  He’d been so busy he’d not heard the mare coming in that soft dust. When he saw it was me he eased up and let go his hold on my pack.

  “I was looking for the coffee,” he said. “I thought you put it in your pack last night.”

  I didn’t believe he thought anything of the kind, but I was not going to argue with him. Only it started me thinking and trying to add together two and two, which is not always as easy as it seems.

  “Take it from me,” I advised, “and let’s get back off the trail before we coffee-up.

  We may be sought after.”

  He pointed ahead. “There’s an old trace runs up over the hills yonder. I was only down this way once, but I traveled if for a day or so.”

  Two days later I swapped my old Ballard for a two-wheeled cart. The Ballard wasn’t much of a gun but I knew it so well I could make it shoot, and I let a farmer see me bark a squirrel with it. Now barking a squirrel is a neat trick, but most mountain boys could do it. A squirrel has little meat, and so’s not to spoil any of it you don’t shoot the squirrel, you shoot the branch he’s setting on or one close by. It knocks him out of the tree, stuns him, and sometimes kills him with flying chips.

  “You’ve a straight-shootin’ gun,” this farmer said to me. “Would you be of a mind to swap?”

  We settled down to dicker. He was a whittler and a spitter, but I was natural-born to patience, so I waited him out. He was bound and determined to make a trade, and few folks came that way. That beat-up old cart hadn’t been used in years, but the Tinker and me, we could fix it up. From now on we’d be in the flatlands where it would be handy.

  Between storytelling and talk of the Settlements, we dickered. We dickered again over hominy grits and sidemeat for supper, and we dickered at breakfast, but about that time I got awful busy making up my pack, talking to the Tinker and the like, and he began to think he’d lost me.

  Upshot of it was, I let him have that Ballard and I taken the cart, three bushels of mighty fine apples, a worn-out scythe, and a couple of freshly tanned hides. The Tinker and me turned to and tightened the iron rims and the spokes, and loaded our gear.

  It took two weeks of walking to reach the river, but by that time we had done a sight of swapping.

  The little mare was looking good. Our daily marches were not long and the load she carried most of the way was light. We babied her along on carrots, turnips, slices of watermelon, and greens from along the road, and she fattened up on it.

  We saw no sign of the three Kurbishaws, but they were never out of mind.

  All the time I kept trying to dicker the Tinker out of one of his knives. He carried a dozen in his pack, and two belted at his waist.

  A third was slung down the back of his neck under his collar. They were perfectly balanced and the steel tempered to a hardness you wouldn’t believe. We both shaved with them, they were that good. In the mountains a man would trade most anything for a Tinker-made knife.

  Walking along like that, neither of us much to talk, I had time to think, and I remembered back to the Tinker asking about that gold. A man has a right to be interested in gold, but why that gold in particular? And Spanish gold, they said.

  Why was the Tinker starting to open my pack? If he had found what he wanted, would he have made sure I didn’t come up to him at the Tombigbee or anywhere?

  Was it something about that gold that started the Kurbishaws after me?

  I had no gold, and never had had any. So what did I have that they might want?

  Nothing.

  Nothing, unless maybe there was something in ma’s keepsake box. The first time I was alone I’d go through that stuff of ma’s again. I never had really looked at it—mostly, I kept it because it was all I had of hers.

  All I had else was some worn-out clothes, some Indian blankets, and a couple of extra shirts.

  Like I’ve said, walking gives a man time to think, and a couple of things began to fit. Pa had never spent any of that gold that I could recall, but after Caffrey got it, some was spent. Not much right at first—he was afraid of pa coming back. And it was not long after Caffrey started to spend it that the Tinker showed up.

  Not right away … it must have taken him some time to find out where that gold came from.

  The Tinker was not a sociable man, but he had made a point of being my friend. He had spent time with me, and I believed he was really my friend, but I now believed he had some other interest in that gold.

  That night we reached the Mississippi and the ferry. We were avoiding main-traveled roads, and the ferry we came up to was operated by a sour, evil-smelling old man who peered suspiciously at us. We dickered with him until he agreed to take us across for a bushel of apples.

  He stared at our packs as if he was trying to see right through them, but mostly he looked at Tinker’s knives. Neither of us had any other kind of a weapon, except that I carried a long stick to chase off mean dogs, of which we’d met a-plenty.

  “Country’s full of movers,” the ferryman said. “Where mought you folks be goin’?”

  “Where folks don’t ask questions,” I told him.

  He threw me a mean look. “Doubtless you’ve reason,” he said. “We git lots of ‘em don’t want questions asked.”

  “Tinker, did you ever operate a ferry?”


  “Not that I recall.”

  “I’ve got a feeling there’s going to be a job open around here—unless somebody can swim with a knot on his head.”

  The ferryman shut up, but when we made shore near a cluster of miserable-looking shacks I thought I saw him make a signal to some rough-looking men loitering on the bank.

  “Trouble,” I said, low-voiced, to the Tinker.

  A bearded man with a bottle in his hand, his pants held up by a piece of rope, started toward us. Several others followed.

  The bearded man was big, and he was wearing a pistol, as were some of the others.

  My walking staff was a handy weapon, if need be. A Welshman in the mountains had taught me the art of stick fighting, and I was ready.

  The bearded man stopped in our path as we drove off the ferry. He glanced from the Tinker to me, and it was obvious that neither of us had a gun.

  Four men behind him … a dirty, boozing lot, but armed and confident. My mouth was dry and my belly felt empty.

  “Stoppin’ around?”

  “Passin’ through,” I said.

  One end of my stick rested on my boot toe, ready to flip and thrust. A stick fighter never swings a wide blow—he thrusts or strikes with the end, andforthe belly, the throat, or the eyes.

  “Have a drink!” The big man thrust the bottle at the Tinker.

  “Never touch it,” the Tinker replied.

  Two of the other men were closing in on me, about as close as I could afford for them to get.

  “You’ll drink and like it!” The big man suddenly swung with the bottle, but he was too slow. The Tinker’s hand shot out, flicking this way and that as though brushing the big man with his fingers’ ends, but the big man screamed and staggered back, his face streaming blood.

  Even as he lifted the bottle, the two men nearest me jumped to get close. My stick barely had room, but the end caught the nearest man in the throat and he fell back gasping horribly. As he did so, without withdrawing the stick I struck sidewise with it, not a hard blow, but the other man threw up an arm to block it and staggered. Instantly I jerked back the stick, which was all of five feet long and broom-handle size, and grasping it with both hands, struck him in the face with the end of it.

  The fight was over. The Tinker glanced at the other two men, who were withdrawing. Then he coolly leaned over and thrust the blade into the turf near the road to cleanse it of blood.

  Three men were down and the fight gone out of the others, and it hadn’t been twenty seconds since they stopped us. No doubt they’d robbed many a traveler at this point and believed us easily handled.

  We paid them no more mind, starting off up the rise toward the high ground back of the river. And that big man was dead. From time to time I’d seen fighting done, but not a man killed before, and it seemed there ought to be more to it. One moment he was coming at us blustering and confident, and the next he was dying in the trail mud.

  We did not stop that night, but went on, wanting distance between us and trouble. West and south we kept on going, through sunlight and rain, the Tinker plying his trade, and me swapping here and there.

  The mare was filling out, carrying her colt, and I was in fine shape.

  Down at Jefferson in Texas, we laid in supplies. We walked out of town before we made camp, and we were just setting up to eat when we heard horses soft-footing it along the trail.

  Turning to warn the Tinker, I saw him standing outside the firelight, a blade in his hand.

  Me, I held to my place at the fire, letting them think me alone.

  The riders stopped out beyond the firelight and a voice called out, not loud, “Hello, the fire!

  Can we come in?”

  “If you’re friendly, you’re welcome.

  Coffee’s on.”

  Those days nobody rode right up to a fire or a house. It was customary to stop off a bit and call in—it was also a whole lot safer.

  There were three of them, one about my own age, the other two a mite older. They were roughly dressed, like men who were living out in the brush, and they were heavily armed. These men, by the look of them, were on the dodge. his’Light and set. We’re peaceful folk.”

  They sat their horses, their eyes missing nothing, noting the Tinker there, knife in hand.

  “You with the knife.” The speaker was a handsome big man with a shock of dark, untrimmed hair. “You wishin’ trouble?”

  “Fixed for it. Not hunting it.”

  The big man swung down, keeping his horse between himself and the fire. “You look like movers,” he said pleasantly. “I was a mover one time … moved to Texas from Tennessee.” He gestured to the others. “These here are gen-u-ine Texans.”

  He hunkered down beside the fire as the others dismounted, and I passed him the coffee pot. He was wearing more pistols than I ever did see, most men being content with one. He had two belted on in holsters and a third shoved down in his waistband.

  Unless I was mistaken, he had another, smaller one in his coat pocket.

  Loading a cap-and-ball pistol took time, so a man apt to need a lot of shooting often took to packing more than one gun. There was an outlaw up Missouri way who sometimes carried as many as six when on a raid. Others carried interchangeable cylinders so they could flip out an empty and replace it with a loaded one.

  When the Tinker walked up to the fire they saw the other knives.

  “You don’t carry a pistol?”

  “I can use these faster than any man can use a gun.”

  The youngest of them laughed. “You’re saying that to the wrong man. Cullen here, he’s learned to draw and fire in the same instant.”

  The Tinker glanced at the big man. “Are you Cullen Baker?” [The First Fast Draw, Bantam Books, 1959]

  “That I am.” He indicated the quiet-seeming man beside him. “This here’s Bob Lee, and that’s Bill Longley.”

  “I’m the Tinker, and this here is Orlando Sackett.”

  “You’re dark enough for an Indian,” Cullen Baker said to the Tinker, “but you don’t shape up to be one.”

  “I am a gypsy,” Tinker said, and I looked around, surprised. I’d heard tell of gypsies, but never figured to know one. They were said to be a canny folk, wanderers and tinkerers, and he was all of that.

  Cullen Baker and his friends were hungry, but they were also tired, and nigh to falling asleep while they ate.

  “If you boys want to sleep,” I said, “you just have at it. The Tinker and me will stand watch.”

  “You’re borrowing trouble just to feed us,” Bob Lee said. “We’ve stood out against the Carpetbag law, so Governor Davis’ police are out after us.”

  “We’re outcasts,” Baker said.

  “My people have been outcasts as long as the memory of man,” the Tinker said.

  “No Sackett,” I said, “so far as I know, was ever an outlaw or an outcast. On the other hand, no Sackett ever turned a man from his fire. You’re welcome to stop with us.”

  When they had stripped the gear from their horses the other two went back into the brush to sleep, avoiding the fire; but Cullen Baker lingered, drinking coffee.

  “What started you west?” he asked.

  “Why,” I told him, “it was one of those old-timey gospel-shouters set me to considering it.

  He preached lively against sin. He was a stomper and a shouter, but a breast-beater and a whisperer, too.

  “When he got right down to calling them to the Lord, he whispered and he pleaded, and right there he lost me. Seems if the Lord really wants a man it doesn’t need all that fuss to get him worked up to it. If a man isn’t ready for the Lord, then the Lord isn’t ready for him, and it’s a straight-forward proposition between man and God without any wringing of the hands or hell-fire shouting.

  “When that preacher started his Bible-shouting and talking large about the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah, I was mighty taken with him. He seemed more familiar with the sins of those foreign places than he did with those of Richmond or Atla
nta, but mostly he was set against movers.

  “Sinful folk, he said, and the Lord intended folks to stay to home, till the earth, and come to church of a Sunday. By moving, they set their feet on unrighteous paths.

  “Fact was, he talked so much about sin that I got right interested, and figured to look into it. A man ought to know enough to make a choice; and pa, he always advised me to look to both sides of a proposition.

  “Back in the hills mighty few folks ever got right down to bed-rock sinning. Here and there a body drank too much ‘shine and took to fighting, but rarely did he covet his neighbor’s wife up to doing anything about it, because his neighbor had a squirrel rifle.

  “That parson ranted and raved about painted women, but when I looked around at Meeting it seemed to me a touch of paint here and there might brighten things up. He talked about the silks and satins of sin until he had me fairly a-sweating to see some of that there. Silks and satins can be almighty exciting to a man accustomed to homespun and calico. So it came on me to travel.”

  Baker cupped his hands around the bottom of his coffee cup, and taken his time with that coffee. So I asked him about that fast draw I’d heard them speak about.

  “Studied it out by my ownself,” he said.

  “Trouble is apt to come on a man sudden-like, and he needs a weapon quick to his hand. When Mr.

  Sam Colt invented his revolving pistol he done us all a favor.

  “Best way is just to draw and fire. Don’t aim … point your gun like you’d point your finger.

  You need practice to be good, and I worked on it eight or nine months before I had to use it. The less shooting you’ve done before, the better. Then you have to break the habit of aiming.

  “It stands to reason. Just like you point your finger.

  How many times have you heard about some female woman grabbing up a pistol—something she maybe never had in her hands before—and plumb mad, she starts shooting and blasts some man into doll rags.

  Nobody ever taught her to shoot—she just pointed at what she was mad at and started blazing away.”

  He reached inside his shirt and fetched out a gun. “This I taken from a man who was troubling me—and you’ll need a gun in the western lands, so take it along. This here is a Walch Navy, .36 caliber, and she fires twelve shots.”