Riders of the Dawn

by Louis L'Amour

  He got to his feet, and he could have been nothing over five feet four but weighed all of 200 pounds, and his shirt at the neck showed a massive chest covered with black hair and a neck like a column of oak.

  “The fact that you’ve the small end of a fight appeals to me.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Katie has said I’m to go to work for you an’ she’d not take it kindly if I did not.”

  “You’re Katie’s man, then?”

  His eyes twinkled amazingly. “Katie’s man? I’m afraid there’s no such. She’s a broth of a woman, that one.” He grinned up at me. “Is it a job I have?”

  “When I’ve the ranch back,” I agreed, “you’ve a job.”

  “Then let’s be gettin’ it back. Will you wait for me? I’ve a mule to get.”

  The mule was a dun with a face that showed all the wisdom, meanness, and contrariness that have been the traits of the mule since time began. With a tow sack behind the saddle and another before him, we started out of town. “My name is Brian Mulvaney,” he said. “Call me what you like.”

  He grinned widely when he saw me staring at the butts of the two guns that projected from his boot tops. “These,” he said, “are the Neal Bootleg pistol, altered by me to suit my taste. The caliber is thirty-five, but good. Now this,” from his waistband he drew a gun that lacked only wheels to make an admirable artillery piece, “this was a Mills seventy-five caliber. Took me two months of work off and on, but I’ve converted her to a four-shot revolver. A fine gun,” he added.

  All of seventeen inches long, it looked fit to break a man’s wrists, but Mulvaney had powerful hands and arms. No man ever hit by a chunk of lead from that gun would need a doctor.

  *

  Four horses were in the corral at the Two Bar, and the men were strongly situated behind a log barricade. Mulvaney grinned at me. “What’d you suppose I’ve in this sack, laddie?” he demanded, his eyes twinkling. “I, who was a miner, also?”

  “Powder?”

  “Exactly! In those new-fangled sticks. Now, unless it makes your head ache too much, help me cut a few o’ these sticks in half.”

  When that was done, he cut the fuses very short and slid caps into the sticks of powder. “Come now, me boy, an’ we’ll slip down close under the cover o’ darkness, an’ you’ll see them takin’ off like you never dreamed.”

  Crawling as close as we dared, each of us lit a fuse and hurled a stick of powder. My own stick must have landed closer to them than I planned, for we heard a startled exclamation followed by a yell. Then a terrific explosion blasted the night apart. Mulvaney’s followed, and then we hastily hurled a third and a fourth.

  One man lunged over the barricade and started straight for us. The others had charged the corral. The man headed our way suddenly saw us, and, wheeling, he fled as if the devil was after him. Four riders gripping only mane holds dashed from the corral, and then there was silence.

  Mulvaney got to his feet, chuckling. “For guns they’d have stood until hell froze over, but the powder, the flyin’ rocks, an’ dust scared ’em good. An’ you’ve your ranch back.”

  *

  We had eaten our midday meal the next day, when I saw a rider approaching. It was Olga Maclaren.

  “Nice to see you,” I said, aware of the sudden tension her presence always inspired.

  She was looking toward the foundation we had laid for the new house. It was on a hill with the long sweep of Cottonwood Wash before it. “You should be more careful,” she said. “You had a visitor last night.”

  “We just took over last night,” I objected. “Who do you mean?”

  “Morgan. He was out here shortly after our boys got home. He met the bunch you stampeded from here.”

  “He’s been puzzling me,” I admitted. “Who is he? Did he come from around here?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not talkative, but I’ve heard him mention places back East. I know he’s been in Philadelphia and New York, but nothing else about him except that he goes to Salt Lake and San Francisco occasionally.”

  “Not back East?”

  “Never since we’ve known him.”

  “You like him?”

  She looked up at me. “Yes, Morgan can be very wonderful. He knows a lot about women and the things that please them.” There was a flicker of laughter in her eyes. “He probably doesn’t know as much about them as you.”

  “Me?” I was astonished. “What gave you that idea?”

  “Your approach that first day. You knew it would excite my curiosity, and a man less sure of himself would never have dared. If you knew no more about women than most Western men, you would have hung back, wishing you could meet me, or you would have got drunk to work up your courage.”

  “I meant what I said that day. You’re going to marry me.”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. You’ve no idea what you are saying or what it would mean.”

  “Because of your father?” I looked at her. “Or Morgan Park?”

  “You take him too lightly, Matt. I think he is utterly without scruple. I believe he would stop at nothing.”

  There was more to come and I was interested.

  “There was a young man here from the East,” she continued, “and I liked him. Knowing Morgan, I never mentioned him in Morgan’s presence. Then one day he asked me about him. He added that it would be better for all concerned if the man did not come around anymore. Inadvertently I mentioned the young man’s name, Arnold D’Arcy. When he heard that name, he became very disturbed. Who was he? Why had he come here? Had he asked any questions about anybody? Or described anybody he might be looking for? He asked me all those questions, but at the same time I thought little about it. Afterward, I began to believe that he was not merely jealous. Right then I decided to tell Arnold about it when he returned.”

  “And did you?”

  There was a shadow of worry on her face. “No. He never came again.” She looked quickly at me. “I’ve often thought of it. Morgan never mentioned him again, but somehow Arnold hadn’t seemed like a man who would frighten easily.”

  Later, when she was mounting to leave, I asked her, “Where was D’Arcy from? Do you remember?”

  “Virginia, I believe. He had served in the army, and before coming West had been working in Washington.”

  Watching her go, I thought again of Morgan Park. He might have frightened D’Arcy away, but I could not shake off the idea that something vastly more sinister lay behind it. And Park had been close to us during the night. If he had wanted to kill me, it could have been done, but apparently he wanted me alive. Why?

  “Mulvaney,” I suggested, “if you can hold this place, I’ll ride to Silver Reef and get off a couple of messages.”

  He stretched his huge arms and grinned at me. “Do you doubt it? I’ll handle it or them. Go, and have yourself a time.”

  And in the morning, I was in the saddle again.

  VI

  High noon, and a mountain shaped like flame. Beyond the mountain and around it was a wide land with no horizons, but only the shimmering heat waves that softened all lines to vagueness and left the desert an enchanted land without beginning and without end.

  As I rode, my mind studied the problem created by the situation around Cottonwood Wash. There were at least three, and possibly four sides to the question. Rud Maclaren with his Bar M, Jim Pinder with his CP, and myself with the Two Bar. The fourth possibility was Morgan Park.

  Olga’s account of Arnold D’Arcy’s disappearance had struck a chord of memory. During ten years of my life I had been fighting in foreign wars, and there had been a military observer named D’Arcy, a Major Leo D’Arcy, who had been in China during the fighting there. It stuck in my mind that he had a brother named Arnold.

  It was a remote chance, yet a possibility. Why did the name upset Park? What had become of Arnold? Where did Park come from? Pinder could be faced with violence and handled with violence. Maclaren might be circumvented. Morgan Park worried me.


  Silver Reef lay sprawled in haphazard comfort along a main street and a few cross streets. There were the usual frontier saloons, stores, churches, and homes. The sign on the Elk Horn Saloon caught my attention. Crossing to it, I pushed through the door into the dim interior. While the bartender served me, I glanced around, liking the feel of the place.

  “Rye?” The smooth-pated bartender squinted at me.

  “Uh-huh. How’s things in the mines?”

  “So-so. But you ain’t no miner.” He glanced at my cowhand’s garb and then at the guns in their tied-down holsters. “This here’s a quiet town. We don’t see many gun handlers around here. The place for them is over east of here.”

  “Hattan’s Point?”

  “Yeah. I hear the Bar M an’ CP both are hirin’ hands. Couple of hombres from there rode into town a few days ago. One of ’em was the biggest man I ever did see.”

  Morgan Park in Silver Reef! That sounded interesting, but I kept a tight rein on my thoughts and voice. “Did he say anything about what was goin’ on over there?”

  “Not to me. The feller with him, though, he was inquirin’ around for the Slade boys, Sam and Jack. Gunslicks, both of them. The big feller, he never come in here a-tall. I seen him on the street a couple of times, but he went to the Wells Fargo Bank and down the street to see that shyster, Jake Booker.”

  “You don’t seem to like Booker.”

  “Him? He’s plumb no good! The man’s a crook!”

  Once started on Booker, the bartender told me a lot. Morgan Park had been in town before, but never came to the Elk Horn. He confined his visits to the back room of a dive called the Sump or occasional visits to the office of Jake Booker. The only man whoever came with him was Lyell.

  Leaving the saloon, I sent off my telegram to Leo D’Arcy. Then I located the office of Booker, spotted the Sump, and considered the situation. Night came swiftly and miners crowded the street, a good-natured shoving, pushing, laughing throng, jamming the saloons and drinking. The crowd relaxed me with its rough good humor, and for the night I fell into it, drifting, joking, listening.

  Turning off the street near Louder’s store, I passed the street lamp on the corner, and for an instant was outlined in its radiance. From the shadows, flame stabbed. There was a tug at my sleeve, and then my own gun roared, and, as the shot sped, I went after it.

  A man lunged from the side of the store and ran staggeringly toward the alley behind it. Pistol ready, I ran after him. He wheeled, slipped, and was running again. He brought up with a crash against the corral bars, and fell. He was crawling to his feet, and I caught a glimpse of his face in the glow from the window. It was Lyell.

  One hand at his throat, I jerked him erect. His face was gaunt and there was blood on his shirt front. He had been hit hard by my sudden, hardly aimed shot. “Got you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, damn you, an’ I missed. Put … put me down.”

  Lowering him to the ground, I dropped to one knee. “I’ll get a doctor. I saw a sign up the street.”

  He grabbed my sleeve. “Ain’t no use. I feel it. You got me good. Anyway,” he stared at me, “why should you get a doc for me?”

  “I shouldn’t. You were in the gang killed Ball.”

  His eyes bulged. “No! No, I wasn’t there! He was a good old man! I wasn’t in that crowd.”

  “Was Morgan Park there?”

  His eyes changed, veiled. “Why would he be there? That wasn’t his play.”

  “What’s he seeing Booker for? What about Sam Slade?”

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel, and a man carrying a lantern came up the alley.

  “Get a doctor, will you? This man’s been shot.”

  The man started off at a run and Lyell lay quietly, a tough, unshaven man with brown eyes. He breathed hoarsely for several minutes while I uncovered the wound. “The Slades are to get Canaval. Park wants you for himself.”

  “What does he want? Range?”

  “No. He … he wants money.”

  The doctor hurried up with the lantern carrier. Watching him start work, I backed away and disappeared in the darkness. If anybody knew anything about Park’s plans, it would be Booker, and I had an idea I could get into Booker’s office.

  Booker’s office was on the second floor of a frame building reached by an outside stairway. Once up there, a man would be fairly trapped if anyone came up those stairs. Down the street a music box was jangling, and the town showed no signs of going to sleep. Studying that stairway, I liked no part of it. Booker had many friends here, but I had none, and going up there would be a risk. Then I remembered all the other times I’d had no friends, so I hitched my guns easier on my thighs and went across the street.

  Going up the steps two at a time, I paused at the door. Locks were no problem to a man of my experience and a minute later I was inside a dark office, musty with stale tobacco. Swiftly I checked the tray on the desk, the top drawer, and then the side drawers, lighting my exploration with a stump of candle. Every sense alert, ears attuned to the slightest sound, I worked rapidly, suddenly coming to an assayer’s report. No location was mentioned, no notation on the sheet, but the ore had been rich, amazingly rich. Then among some older papers at the bottom of a drawer I found a fragment of a letter from Morgan Park, signed with his name.

  You have been recommended to me as a man of discretion who could turn over a piece of property for a quick profit and who could handle negotiations with a buyer. I am writing for an appointment and will be in Silver Reef on the twelfth. It is essential that this business remain absolutely confidential.

  It was little enough, but a hint. I left the assayer’s report but pocketed the letter. The long ride had tired me, for my wounds, while much improved, had robbed me of strength. Dousing the candle, I returned it to its shelf. And then I heard a low mutter of voices and steps on the stair.

  Backing swiftly, I glanced around and saw a closed door that must lead to an inner room. Stepping through it, I closed it just in time. It was a room used for storage. Voices sounded and a door closed. A match scratched, and light showed under the door.

  “Nonsense! Probably got in some drunken brawl! You’re too suspicious, Morgan.”

  “Maybe, but the man worries me. He rides too much, and he may get to nosing around and find something.”

  “Did you see Lyell before he died?”

  “No. He shot first, though. Some fool saw him take a bead on somebody. This other fellow followed it up and killed him.”

  The crabbed voice of Booker interrupted. “Forget him. Forget Sabre. My men are lined up and they have the cold cash ready to put on the line! We haven’t any time for child’s play! I’ve done my part and now it’s up to you! Get Sabre out of the way and get rid of Maclaren!”

  “That’s not so easy,” Park objected stubbornly. “Maclaren is never alone, and, if anybody ever shot at him, he’d turn the country upside down to find the man. And after he is killed, the minute we step in, suspicion will be diverted to us.”

  “Nonsense!” Booker replied irritably. “Nobody knows we’ve had dealings. They’ll have to settle the estate and I’ll step in as representative of the buyers. Of course, if you were married to the girl, it would simplify things. What’s the matter? Sabre cutting in there, too?”

  “Shut up!” Park’s voice was ugly. “If you ever say a thing like that again, I’ll wring you out like a dirty towel, Booker. I mean it.”

  “You do your part,” Booker said, “and I’ll do mine. The buyers have the money and they are ready. They won’t wait forever.”

  A chair scraped and Park’s heavy steps went to the door and out. There was a faint squeak of a cork twisting in a bottle neck, the gargle of a poured drink, then the bottle and glass returned to the shelf. The light vanished and a door closed. Then footsteps grated on the gravel below. Only a minute behind him, I hurried from the vicinity, then paused, sweating despite the cool air. Thinking of what I’d heard, I retrieved my horse and slipped quietly out of town. Bedded
down among the clustering cedars, I thought of that, and then of Olga, the daughter of Maclaren, of her soft lips, the warmth of her arms, the quick, proud lift of her chin.

  *

  Coming home to Cottonwood Wash and the Two Bar with the wind whispering through the greasewood and rustling the cottonwood leaves, I kept a careful watch but saw nobody until Mulvaney himself stepped into sight.

  “Had any trouble?” I asked him.

  “Trouble? None here,” he replied. “Some men came by, but the sound of my Spencer drove them away again.” He walked to the door. “There’s grub on the table. How was it in Silver Reef?”

  “A man killed.”

  “Be careful, lad. There’s too many dyin’.”

  When I had explained, he nodded. “Do they know it was you?”

  “I doubt it.” It felt good to be back on my own place again, seeing the white-faced cattle browsing in the pasture below, seeing the water flowing to irrigate the small garden we’d started.

  “You’re tired.” Mulvaney studied me. “But you look fit. You’ve thrown a challenge in the teeth of Park. You’ll be backing it up?”

  “Backing it up?” My eyes must have told what was in me. “That’s one man I want, Mulvaney. He had me down and beat me, and I’ll not live free until I whip him or he whips me fair.”

  “He’s a power of man, lad. I’ve seen him lift a barrel of whiskey at arm’s length overhead. It will be a job to whip him.”

  “Ever box any, Mulvaney? You told me you’d wrestled Cornish style.”

  “What Irishman hasn’t boxed a bit? Is it a sparrin’ mate you’re wantin’? Sure ’n’ it would be good to get the leather on my maulies again.”

  *

  For a week we were at it, every night we boxed, lightly at first, then faster. He was a brawny man, a fierce slugger, and a powerful man in the clinches. On the seventh day, we did a full thirty minutes without a break. And in the succeeding days my strength returned and my speed grew greater. The rough-and-tumble part of it I loved. Nor was I worried about Morgan’s knowing more tricks than I—the waterfronts are the place to learn the dirty side of fighting. I would use everything I’d learned there, if Morgan didn’t fight fair.