Riders of the Dawn

by Louis L'Amour

  “You’re talkin’.” He studied me from under shaggy brows. He looked like a patriarch right out of the Bible, a hard-bitten old man of the tribe who knew his own mind and how to make it stick. He listened as I explained our setup and our plans. Finally, he nodded. “All right, Sabre. We’ll swap. My boys will help you drive ’em back here.”

  “No need for that. Once started down the cañons, I’ll need no help. No use you getting involved in this fight.”

  He turned his fierce blue eyes on me. “I’m buyin’ cows,” he said grimly. “Anybody who wants trouble over that, let ’em start it!”

  “Now, Paw!” Mother Benaras smiled at me. “Paw figures he’s still a-feudin’.”

  Old Bob Benaras knocked out his pipe on the hearth. “We’re beholden to no man, nor will we backwater for any man. Nick, roust out an’ get Zeb, then saddle up an’ ride with this man. You ride to this man’s orders. Start no trouble, but back up for nobody. Understand?” He looked around at me. “You’ll eat first. Maw, set up the table. We’ve a guest in the house.” He looked searchingly at me. “Had any trouble with Jim Pinder yet?”

  It made a short tale, then I added, “Blacky braced me in town a few days ago. Laid for me with a drawn gun.”

  Benaras stared at me and the boys exchanged looks. The old roan tamped tobacco into his pipe. “He had it comin’. Jolly had trouble with that one. Figured soon or late he’d have to kill him. Glad you done it.”

  All the way back to the Two Bar we watched the country warily, but it was not until we were coming up to the gate that anyone was sighted. Two riders were on the lip of the wash, staring at us through a glass. We passed through the gate and started up the trail. There was no challenge.

  Nick said suddenly, “I smell smoke!”

  Fear went through me like an electric shock. Slapping the spurs to my tired buckskin, I put the horse up the trail at a dead run, Nick and Zeb right behind me. Turning the bend in the steep trail, I heard the crackle of flames and saw the ruins of the house!

  All was in ruins, the barn gone, the house a sagging, blazing heap. Leaving my horse on the run, I dashed around the house. “Ball!” I yelled. “Ball!” And above the crackle of flames, I heard a cry.

  He was back in a niche of rock near the spring. How he had lived this long I could not guess. His clothes were charred and it was obvious he had somehow crawled, wounded, from the burning house. He had been fairly riddled with bullets.

  His fierce old eyes were pleading. “Don’t let ’em git … git the place. Yours … it’s yours now.” His eyes went to Nick and Zeb. “You’re witnesses. I leave it to him. Never to sell … never to give up!”

  “Who was it?” For the first time in my life I really wanted to kill. Although I had known this old man for only a few days, I had come to feel affection for him, and respect. Now he was dying, shot down and left for dead in a blazing house.

  “Pinder.” His voice was hoarse. “Jim an’ Rollie. Rollie, he … he was dressed like you. Never had no chance. Fun- … funny thing. I … I thought I saw … Park.”

  “Morgan Park?” I was incredulous. “With the Pinders?”

  His lips stirred, but he died forming the words. When I got up, there was in me such hatred as I had never believed was possible. “Every one of them!” I said. “I’ll kill every man of them for this!”

  “Amen!” Zeb and Nick spoke as one. “He was a good man. Pappy liked him.”

  “Did you hear him say Morgan Park was with the Pinders?”

  “Sounded like it,” Zeb admitted, “but it ain’t reasonable. He’s thick with the Maclarens. Couldn’t have been him.”

  Zeb was probably right. The light had been bad, and Ball had been wounded. He could have made a mistake.

  The stars went out and night moved in over the hills and gathered black and rich in the cañons. Standing there in the darkness we could smell the smoke from the burned house and see occasional sparks and flickers of tiny flames among the charred timbers. A ranch had been given me, but I had lost a friend. The road before me stretched dark and long, a road I must walk alone, gun in hand.

  III

  For two days, we combed the draws and gathered cattle, yet at the end of the second day we had but three hundred head. The herds of the Two Bar had been sadly depleted by the rustling of the big brands. On the morning of the third day we started the herd. Neither of the men had questioned me, but now Zeb wanted to know, “You aim to leave the ranch unguarded? Ain’t you afraid they’ll move in?”

  “If they do, they can move out or be buried here. That ranch was never to be given up, and, believe me, it won’t be!”

  The cañon channeled the drive and the cattle were fat and easy to handle. It took us all day to make the drive, but my side pained me almost none at all, and only that gnawing fury at the killers of the old man remained to disturb me. They had left the wounded man to burn, and for that they would pay.

  Jonathan and Jolly Benaras helped me take the herd of young stuff back up the trail. Benaras had given me at least fifty head more than I had asked, but the cattle I had turned over to him were as good as money in the bank, so he lost nothing by his generosity.

  When we had told him what had happened, he had nodded. “Jolly was over to Hattan’s Point. It was the Pinders, all right. That Apache tracker of theirs along with Bunt Wilson and Corby Kitchen an’ three others. They were with the Pinders.”

  “Hear anything about Morgan Park?”

  “No. Some say Lyell, that rider of Park’s, was in the crowd.”

  That could have been it. Ball might have meant to tell me it was a rider of Park’s. We pushed the young stuff hard to get back, but Jonathan rode across the drag before we arrived.

  “Folks at your place. Two, three of ’em.”

  My face set cold as stone. “Bring the herd. I’ll ride ahead.”

  Jonathan’s big Adam’s apple bobbed. “Jolly an’ me, we ain’t had much fun lately. Cain’t we ride with you?”

  An idea hit me. “Where’s their camp?”

  “Foot of the hill where the house was. They got a tent.”

  “Then we’ll take the herd. Drive ’em right over the tent!”

  Jolly had come back to the drag. He chuckled. “Why, sure!” He grinned at Jonathan. “Won’t Nick an’ Zeb be sore? Missin’ all the fun?”

  We started the herd. They were young stuff and still full of ginger, ready enough to run. They came out of the cañon not more than four hundred yards from the camp and above the gate. Then we really turned them loose, shooting and shouting; we started that herd on a dead run for the camp. Up ahead we saw men springing to their feet, and one man raced for his rifle. They hadn’t expected me to arrive with cattle, so they were caught completely off guard. Another man made a dive for his horse and the startled animal sprang aside, and, as he grabbed again, it kicked out with both hoofs and started to run.

  Running full tilt, the herd hit the camp. The man who lost his horse scrambled atop a large rock and the others lit out for the cliffs, scattering away from the charging cattle. But the herd went through the camp, tearing up the tent, grinding the food into the earth, smearing the fire, and smashing the camp utensils into broken and useless things under their charging hoofs.

  One of the men who had gotten into the saddle swung his horse and came charging back, his face red with fury. “What goes on here?” he yelled.

  The horse was a Bar M. Maclaren’s men had beaten the CP to it. Kneeing my horse close to him, I said, “I’m Matt Sabre, owner of the Two Bar, with witnesses to prove it. You’re trespassing. Now light a shuck!”

  “I will like hell!” His face was dark with fury. “I got my orders, an’ I …”

  My fist smashed into his teeth and he left the saddle, hitting the ground with a thud. Blazing with fury, I lit astride him, jerking him to his feet. My left hooked hard to his jaw and my right smashed him in the wind. He went down, but he got up fast and came in swinging. He was a husky man, mad clear through, and for about t
wo minutes we stood toe to toe and swapped it out. Then he started to back up and I caught him with a sweeping right that knocked him to the dust. He started to get up, then thought the better of it. “I’ll kill you for this!”

  “When you’re ready,” I said, then turned around. Jonathan and Jolly had rounded up two of the men, and they stood waiting for me. One was a slim, hard-faced youngster who looked like the devil was riding him. The other was a stocky redhead with a scar on his jaw.

  The redhead stared at me, hatred in his eyes. “You ruined my outfit. What kind of a deal is this?”

  “If you ride for a fighting brand, you take the good with the bad,” I told him. “What did you expect when you came up here? A tea party? You go back and tell Maclaren not to send boys to do a man’s job and that the next trespasser will be shot.”

  The younger one looked at me, sneering. “What if he sends me?” Contempt twisted his lips. “If I’d not lost my gun in the scramble, I’d make you eat that.”

  “Jolly. Lend me your gun.”

  Without a word, Jolly Benaras handed it to me.

  The youngster’s eyes were cold and calculating, but wary now. He suspected a trick, but could not guess what it might be.

  Taking the gun by the barrel, I walked toward him. “You get your chance,” I said. “I’m giving you this gun and you can use it any way you like. Try a border roll or shoot through that open-tip holster. Any way you try it, I’m going to kill you.”

  He stared at me, and then at the gun. His tongue touched his lips. He wanted that gun more than anything else in the world. He had guts, that youngster did, guts and the streak of viciousness it takes to make a killer, but suddenly he was face to face with it at close range and he didn’t like it. He would learn, if he lived long enough, but right now he didn’t like any part of it. Yet he wore the killer’s brand and we both knew it.

  “It’s a trick,” he said. “You ain’t that much of a fool.”

  “Fool?” That brought my own fury surging to the top. “Why, you cheap, phony, would-be badman! I’d give you two guns and beat you any day you like! I’ll face you right now. You shove your gun in my belly and I’ll shove mine in yours! If you want to die, that makes it easy! Come on, gunslick! What do you say?”

  Crazy? Right then I didn’t care. His face turned whiter but his eyes were vicious. He was trembling with eagerness to grab that gun. But face to face? Guns shoved against the body? We would both die; we couldn’t miss. He shook his head, his lips dry.

  My fingers held the gun by the barrel. Tossing it up suddenly, I caught it by the butt, and without stopping the motion I slashed the barrel down over his skull, and he hit the dirt at my feet. Turning my back on them, I returned the pistol to Jolly.

  “You!” I said then to the redhead. “Take off your boots!”

  “Huh?” He was startled.

  “Take ’em off! Then take his off! When he comes out of it, start walking!”

  “Walkin’?” Red’s face blanched. “Look, man, I’ll …”

  “You’ll walk. All the way back to Hattan’s Point or the Bar M. You’ll start learnin’ what it means to try stealin’ a man’s ranch.”

  “It was orders,” he protested.

  “You could quit, couldn’t you?”

  His face was sullen. “Wait until Maclaren hears of this! You won’t last long! Far’s that goes,” he motioned at the still figure on the ground, “he’ll be huntin’ you now. That’s Bodie Miller!”

  The name was familiar. Bodie Miller had killed five or six men. He was utterly vicious, and, although lacking seasoning, he had it in him to be one of the worst of the badmen.

  We watched them start, three men in their sock feet with twenty miles of desert and mountains before them. Now they knew what they had tackled. They would know what war meant.

  The cattle were no cause for worry. They would drift into cañons where there was plenty of grass and water, more than on the B Bar B.

  “Sure you won’t need help?” Jolly asked hopefully. “We’d like t’side you.”

  “Not now. This is my scrap.”

  They chuckled. “Well,” Jolly grinned, “they cain’t never say you didn’t walk in swingin’. You’ve jumped nearly the whole durned country!”

  Nobody knew that better than I, so, when they were gone, I took my buckskin and rode back up the narrow Two Bar Cañon. It narrowed down and seemed to end, and, unless one knew, a glance up the cañon made it appear to be boxed in, but actually there was a turn and a narrower cañon leading into a maze of cañons and broken lava flows. There was an ancient cliff house back there, and in it Ball and I had stored supplies for a last-ditch stand. There was an old kiva with one side broken down and room enough to stable the buckskin.

  At daybreak, I left the cañon behind me, riding watchfully, knowing I rode among enemies. No more than two miles from the cañon toward which I was heading, I rounded a bend and saw a dozen riders coming toward me at a canter. Sighting me, they yelled in chorus, and a shot rang out. Wheeling the buckskin, I slapped the spurs to him and went up the wash at a dead run. A bullet whined past my ear, but I dodged into a branch cañon and raced up a trail that led to the top of the plateau. Behind me, I heard the riders race past the cañon’s mouth, then a shout as a rider glimpsed me, and the wheeling of horses as they turned. By the time they entered the cañon mouth, I was atop the mesa.

  Sliding to the ground, Winchester in hand, I took a running dive to shelter among some rocks and snapped off a quick shot. A horse stumbled and his rider went over his head. I opened up, firing as rapidly as I could squeeze off the shots. They scattered for shelter, one man scrambling with a dragging leg.

  Several of the horses had raced away, and a couple of others stood ground-hitched. On one of these was a big canteen. A bullet emptied it, and, when the other horse turned a few minutes later, I shot into that canteen, also. Bullets ricocheted around me, but without exposing themselves they could not get a good shot at me, while I could cover their hideout without trouble.

  A foot showed and I triggered my rifle. A bit of leather flew up and the foot was withdrawn. My position could not have been better. As long as I remained where I was, they could neither advance nor retreat, but were pinned down and helpless. They were without water, and it promised to be an intensely hot day. Having no desire to kill them, I still wished to make them thoroughly sick of the fight. These men enjoyed the fighting as a break in the monotony of range work, but, knowing cowhands, I knew they would become heartily sick of a battle that meant waiting, heat, no water, and no chance to fight back.

  For some time, all was still. Then a man tried to crawl back toward the cañon mouth, evidently believing himself unseen. Letting go a shot at a rock ahead of him, I splattered his face with splinters, and he ducked back, swearing loudly.

  “Looks like a long hot day, boys!” I yelled. “See what it means when you jump a small outfit? Ain’t so easy as you figured, is it?”

  Somebody swore viciously and there were shouted threats. My own canteen was full, so I sat back and rolled a smoke. Nobody moved below, but the sun began to level its burning rays into the oven of the cañon mouth. The hours marched slowly by, and from time to time, when some thirsty soul grew restive at waiting, I threw a shot at him.

  “How long you figure you can keep us here?” one of them yelled. “When we get out, we’ll get you!”

  “Maybe you won’t get out!” I yelled back cheerfully. “I like it here! I’ve got water, shade, grub, and plenty of smokin’ tobacco! Also,” I added, “I’ve got better than two hundred rounds of ammunition! You hombres are riding for the wrong spread!”

  Silence descended over the cañon and two o’clock passed. Knowing they could get no water aggravated thirst. The sun swam in a coppery sea of heat; the horizon lost itself in heat waves. Sweat trickled down my face and down my body under the arms. Where I lay, there was not only shade but a slight breeze, while down there heat would reflect from the cañon walls and all wind would be
shut off. Finally, letting go with a shot, I slid back out of sight and got to my feet.

  My buckskin cropped grass near some rocks, well under the shade. Shifting my rifle to my left hand, I slid down the bank, mopping my face with my right. Then I stopped stock-still, my right-hand belt high. Backed up against a rock near my horse was a man I knew at once although I had never seen him—Rollie Pinder.

  “You gave them boys hell,” he said conversationally, “an’ good for ’em. They’re Bar M riders. It’s a shame it has to end.”

  “Yeah,” I drawled, watching him closely. He could be waiting for only one reason.

  “Hear you’re mighty fast, but it won’t do you any good. I’m Rollie Pinder.”

  As he spoke, he grabbed for his gun. My left hand was on the rifle barrel a few inches ahead of the trigger guard, the butt in front of me, the barrel pointed slightly up. I tilted the gun hard and the stock struck my hip as my hand slapped the trigger guard and trigger.

  Rollie’s gun had come up smoking, but my finger closed on the trigger a split second before his slug hit me. It felt as if I had been kicked in the side, and I took a staggering step back, a rock rolling under my foot just enough to throw me out of the line of his second shot. Then I fired again, having worked the lever unconsciously.

  Rollie went back against the rocks and tried to bring his gun up. He fired as I did. The world weaved and waved before me, but Rollie was down on his face, great holes torn in his back where the .44 slugs had emerged. Turning, scarcely able to walk, I scrambled up the incline to my former position. My head was spinning and my eyes refused to focus, but the shots had startled the men and they were getting up. If they started after me now, I was through.

  The ground seemed to dip and reel, but I got off a shot, then another. One man went down, and the others vanished as if swallowed by the earth. Rolling over, my breath coming in ragged gasps, I ripped my shirt tail off and plugged cloth into my wounds. I had to get away at all costs, but I could never climb back up to the cliff house, even if the way were open.