Riders of the Dawn

by Louis L'Amour

  The fourth man had been maneuvering for a shot at me, but among the plunging horses he was afraid of hitting his own friends. Wheeling my horse, I fired as he did and both of us missed. He tried to steady his horse and swung. Buck did not like it and was fighting to get away. I let him go, taking a backward shot at the man in the saddle, a shot that must have clipped his ear for he ducked like a bee-stung farmer, and then Buck was laying them down on the trail to town.

  Feeding shells into my gun, I let him run. I felt better for the action and was ready for anything. The town loomed up, and I rode in and swung down in front of Mother O’Hara’s. Buck’s side looked bad, for the spurs had bit deep, and I’m a man who rarely touches a spur to a horse. After greasing the wounds and talking Buck into friendship again, I went inside.

  There was nobody around, but Katie O’Hara came out of her kitchen. One look at me and she could see I was spoiling for trouble.

  “Morgan Park in town?”

  She did not hesitate. “He is that. A moment ago I heard he was in the saloon.”

  Morgan Park was there, all right. He was sitting at a table with Jake Booker, and they both looked up when I entered. I didn’t waste any time. I walked up to them.

  “Booker,” I said, “I’ve heard you’re a no-account shyster, a sheep-stealing, small-town shyster, at that. But you’re doing business with a thief and a murderer, and the man I’m going to whip.” With that I grabbed the table and hurled it out of the way, and then I slapped Morgan Park across the mouth with my hat.

  Morgan Park came off his chair with a roar. He lunged and came up fast, and I smashed him in the teeth with a left. His lips flattened and blood showered from his mouth, and then I threw a right that caught him flush on the chin—and I threw it hard!

  He blinked, but he never stopped coming, and he rushed me, swinging with both of those huge, ironlike fists. One of them rang bells on my skull and the other dug for my midsection with a blow I partially blocked with an elbow, then I turned with his arm over my shoulder, and I threw him bodily across the floor against the bar rail. He came up fast, and I nailed him with another left. Then he caught me with both hands, and sparks danced among the stars in my skull. That old smoky taste came up inside of me, and the taste of blood in my mouth, and I walked in smashing with both hands! Something busted on his face, and his brow was cut to the bone and the blood was running all over him.

  There was a crowd around, and they were yelling, but I heard no sound. I walked in, bobbing and weaving to miss as many of those jarring, brutal blows as possible, but they kept landing and battering me. He knocked me back into the bar, and then grabbed a bottle. He took a terrific cut at my skull, and I ducked, smashing him in the ribs. He staggered and sprawled out of balance from the force of his missed swing, and I rushed him and took a flying leap at his shoulders. I landed astride and jammed both spurs into his thighs and he let out a roar of agony.

  I went over his head, lighting on all fours, and he sprang atop my back. I flattened out on the floor with the feeling that he had me. He was yelling like a madman, and he grabbed my hair and began to beat my head against the floor. How I did it I’ll never know, but I bowed my back under his weight and forced myself to my hands and knees. He ripped at me with his own spurs, and then I got his leg, and threw him off.

  Coming up together, we circled, more wary now. His shirt was in ribbons, and he was covered with blood. I’d never seen Morgan stripped before. He had a chest and shoulders like a Hercules. He circled, and then came into me, snarling. I nailed that snarl into his teeth with both fists, and we stood there swinging freely with both hands, rocking with the power of those punches and smelling of sweat, blood, and fury.

  He backed up, and I went into him. Suddenly he caught my upper arms and, dropping, put a foot in my stomach and threw me over his head! For a fleeting instant I was flying through the air, and then I lit on a poker table and grabbed the sides with both hands. It went over on top of me, and that was all that saved me as he rushed in to finish me with the boots. I shoved the table at him and came up off the floor, and he hit me again, and I went right back down. He dropped a big palm on my head and shoved me at the floor. I sprawled out and he kicked me in the side. It missed my ribs and glanced off my gun belt, and I rolled over and grabbed his boot, twisting hard.

  It threw him off balance and he hit the floor, which gave me a chance to get on my feet. I got him just as he was halfway up with a right that knocked him through the door and out onto the porch. I hit the porch in a jump, and he tackled me around the knees. We both were down then, and I slapped him with a cupped hand over his ear and knew from the way he let go that I’d busted an eardrum for him. I dropped him again with a solid right to the chin, and stood back, gasping and pain-wracked, fighting for breath. He got up more slowly, and I nailed him, left and right in the mouth, and he went down heavily.

  Sprawled out, he lay there on the edge of the walk, one hand trailing in the dust, and I stared down at him. He was finished—through! Turning on my heels, I walked back inside, and, brushing off those who crowded around me, I headed for the bar. I took the glass of whiskey that was shoved at me and poured it in my hands and mopped the cuts on the lower part of my face with it. Then I took a quick gulp from the glass that was again put before me, and turned.

  Morgan Park was standing three feet away from me, a bloody, battered giant with cold, ugly fury blazing from his eyes. “Give me a drink!” he bellowed.

  He picked up the glass and tossed it off. “Another!” he yelled, while I stared at him. He picked that up, lifted it to his lips, then threw it in my eyes!

  I must have blinked, for instead of getting the shot glass full, I got only part of it, but enough to blind me. And then he stepped close. As I fought for sight, I caught a glimpse of his boot toes, wide spread, and I was amazed that such a big man had such small feet. Then he hit me. It felt like a blow from an ax, and it knocked me into the bar. He faced around, taking his time, and he smashed one into my body, and I went down, gasping for breath. He kicked at me with the toe of one of those deadly boots that could have put an eye out, but the kick glanced off the side of my head.

  It was my turn to be down and out. Then somebody drenched me with a bucket of water, and I looked up. Key Chapin was standing over me, but it was not Key Chapin who had thrown the water. It was Olga.

  Right then I was only amazed that she was there at all, and then I got up shakily and somebody said “There he is!” and I saw Park, standing there with his hands on his hips, leering at me, and with the same mutual hatred we went for each other again.

  How we did it I don’t know. Both of us had taken beatings that would have killed a horse. All I knew was that time for me had stopped. Only one thing remained. I had to whip that man, whip him or kill him with my bare hands, and I was not stopping until I was sure I had done it.

  “Stop it, you crazy fools! Stop it or I’ll throw you both in jail!” Sheriff Will Tharp was standing in the door with a gun on me. His cold blue eyes were blazing.

  Behind him were maybe twenty men, staring at us. One of them was Key Chapin. Another was Bodie Miller.

  “Take him out of here, then,” I said. “If he wants more of this, he can have it in the morning.”

  Park backed toward the door, then turned away. He looked punch-drunk.

  After that I sat up for an hour putting hot water on my face.

  Then I went to the livery stable and crawled into the loft, taking a blanket with me. I had worn my guns and had my rifle along.

  How long I slept I have no idea except that, when I awakened, bright sunlight was streaming through the cracks in the walls of the old stable, and the loft was like an oven with the heat. Sitting up, I touched my face. It was sore all right, but felt better. I worked my fingers to loosen them up, and then heard a movement and looked around. Morgan Park was on the ladder, staring at me. And I knew then that I was not looking at a sane man.

  X

  He stood there on the la
dder in that hot old barn, staring at me with hatred and a fury that seemed no whit abated from the previous night.

  “You back again?” I spoke quietly, yet lay poised for instant movement. I knew now the tremendous vitality that huge body held. “After the way I licked you last night?”

  The veins distended in his brow and throat. “Whipped me?” His voice was hoarse with anger. “Why, you …!” He started over the end of the ladder, and I let him come. Right then I could have cooled him, knocked him off that ladder, but something within me wouldn’t allow it. With a lesser man, one I could have whipped easily, I might have done it just to end the fighting, but not with Morgan Park. Right then I knew I had to whip him fairly, or I could never be quite comfortable again.

  He straightened from the ladder, and I could see that he was a little stiff. Well, so was I. But my boxing with Mulvaney and the riding I had done had been keeping me trim. My condition was better than his, almost enough to equalize his greater size and strength. He straightened and turned toward me. He did not rush, just stood there studying me with cool calculation, and I knew that he, too, had come here to make an end to this fight and to me.

  Right then he was studying how best to whip me, and suddenly I perceived his advantage. In the loft, one side open to the barn, the rest of it stacked with hay, I was distinctly at a disadvantage. Here his weight and strength could be decisive. He moved toward me, backing me toward the hay. I feinted, but he did not strike. He merely moved on in, his head hunched behind a big shoulder, his fists before him, moving slightly. Then he lunged. My back came up against the slanting wall of hay and my feet slipped. Off balance, lying against the hay, I had no power in my blows. With cold brutality he began to swing, his eyes were exultant and wicked with sadistic delight. Lights exploded in my brain, and then another punch hit me, and another.

  My head spinning, my mouth tasting of smoke, I let myself slide to a sitting position, then threw my weight sidewise against his knees. He staggered and, fearing the fall off the edge of the loft, fought for balance. Instantly I smashed him in the mouth. He went to his haunches, and I sprang past him, grabbed a rope that hung from the rafters and dropped to the hard-packed earth of the barn’s floor.

  He turned and glared at me, and I waited. A man appeared in the door, and I heard him yell, “They’re at it again!” And then Morgan Park clambered down the ladder and turned to me.

  Now it had to be ended. Moving in quickly, I jabbed a stiff left to his face. The punch landed on his lacerated mouth and started the blood. Circling carefully, I slipped a right, and countered with a right to the ribs. Then I hit him, fast and rolling my shoulders, with a left and right to the face. He came in, but I slipped another punch and uppercut hard to the wind. That slowed him down. He hit me with a glancing left and took two punches in return.

  He looked sick now, and I moved in, smashing him on the chin with both hands. He backed up, bewildered, and I knocked his left aside and hit him on the chin. He went to his knees, and I stepped back and let him get up.

  Behind me there was a crowd and I knew it. Waiting, I let him get up. He wiped off his hands, then lunged at me, head down and swinging. Sidestepping swiftly, I evaded the rush, and, when he tried it again, I dropped my palm to the top of his head and spun him. At the same instant I uppercut with a wicked right that straightened him up. He turned toward me, and then I pulled the trigger on a high hard one. It struck his chin with the solid thud of the butt end of an ax striking a log.

  He fell—not over backward, but face down. He lay there, still and quiet, unmoving. Out cold.

  Sodden with weariness and fed up with fighting for once, I turned away from him and picked up my hat and rifle. Nobody said anything, staring at my battered face and torn clothing. Then they walked to him.

  At the door I met Sheriff Tharp. He glared at me. “Didn’t I tell you to stop fighting in this town, Sabre?”

  “What am I going to do? Let him beat my head off? I came here to sleep without interruption and he followed me, found me this morning.” Jerking my head toward the barn’s interior, I told him, “You’ll find him in there, Tharp.”

  He hesitated. “Better have some rest, Sabre. Then ride out of town for a few days. After all, I should have peace. I’m arresting Park.”

  “Not for fighting?”

  “For murder. This morning I received an official communication confirming your message.”

  Actually, I was sorry for him. No man ever hates a man he has whipped in a hand-to-hand fight. All I wanted now was sleep, food, and gallons of cold spring water. Right then I felt as if it had been weeks since I’d had a decent drink.

  Yet all the way to O’Hara’s I kept remembering that bucket of water doused over me the night before. Had it really been Olga Maclaren there? Or had I been out of my head from the punches I’d taken?

  When my face was washed off, I came into the restaurant, and the first person I saw was Key Chapin. He looked at my face and shook his head. “I’d never believe anything human could fight the way you two did!” he exclaimed. “And again this morning! I hear you whipped him good this time.”

  “Yeah.” I was tired of it all. Somberly I ate breakfast, listening to the drone of voices in my ears.

  “Booker’s still in town.” Chapin was speaking. “What’s he after, I wonder?”

  Right then I did not care, but, as I ate and drank coffee, my mind began to function once more. After all, this was my country. I belonged here. For the first time, I really felt that I belonged some place.

  “Am I crazy, or was Olga here last night?”

  “She was here, all right. She saw part of your fight.”

  “Did she leave?”

  “I think not. I believe she’s staying over at Doc and Missus West’s place. They’re old friends of hers.” Chapin knocked out his pipe. “As a matter of fact, you’d better go over there and have him look at those cuts. At least one of them needs some stitches.”

  “Tharp arrested Park.”

  “Yes, I know. Park is Cantwell, all right.”

  Out in the air I felt better. With food and some strong black coffee inside of me, I felt like a new man, and the mountain air was fresh and good to the taste. Turning, I started up the street, walking slowly. This was Hattan’s Point. This was my town. Here, in this place, I would remain, I would ranch here, graze my cattle, rear my sons to manhood. Here I would take my place in the world and be something more than the careless, cheerful, trouble-hunting rider. Here, in this place, I belonged.

  Doc West lived in a small white cottage surrounded by rose bushes and shrouded in vines. Several tall poplars reached toward the sky and there was a small patch of lawn inside the white picket fence.

  He answered the door at my rap, a tall, austere-looking man with gray hair and keen blue eyes. He smiled at me. “You’re Matt Sabre? I was expecting you.”

  That made me grin. “With a face like this, you should expect me. I took a licking for a while.”

  “And gave one to Morgan Park. I have just come from the jail where I looked him over. He has three broken ribs and his jaw is broken.”

  “No!” I stared at him.

  He nodded. “The ribs were broken last night sometime, I’d guess.”

  “There was no quit in him.”

  West nodded seriously. “There still isn’t. He’s a dangerous man, Sabre. A very dangerous man.”

  That I knew. Looking around, I saw nothing of Olga Maclaren. Hesitating to ask, I waited and let him work on me. When he was finished, I got to my feet and buckled on my guns.

  “And now?” he asked.

  “Back to the Two Bar. There’s work to do there.”

  He nodded, but seemed to be hesitating about something. Then he asked, “What about the murder of Rud Maclaren? What’s your view on that?”

  Something occurred to me then that I had forgotten. “It was Morgan Park,” I said. “Canaval found the footprint of a man nearby. The boots were very small. Morgan Park … and I noticed i
t for the first time during our fight … has very small feet despite his size.”

  “You may be right,” he agreed hesitantly. “I’ve wondered.”

  “Who else could it have been? I know I didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t believe you did, but …” he hesitated, then dropped the subject.

  Slowly I walked out to the porch and stopped there, fitting my hat on my head. It had to be done gently for I had two good-size lumps just at my hairline. A movement made me turn, and Olga was standing in the doorway.

  Her dark hair was piled on her head, the first time I had seen it that way, and she was wearing something green and summery that made her eyes an even deeper green. For a long moment neither of us spoke, and then she said, “Your face … does it hurt very much?”

  “Not much. It mostly just looks bad, and I’ll probably not be able to shave for a while. How’s Canaval?”

  “He’s much better. I’ve put Fox to running the ranch.”

  “He’s a good man.” I twisted my hat in my hands. “When are you going back?”

  “Tomorrow, I believe.”

  How lovely she was! At this moment I knew that I had never in all my life seen anything so lovely, or anyone so desirable, or anyone who meant so much to me. It was strange, all of it. But how did she feel toward me?

  “You’re staying on the Two Bar?”

  “Yes, my house is coming along now, and the cattle are doing well. I’ve started something there, and I think I’ll stay. This,” I said quietly, “is my home, this is my country. This is where I belong.”

  She looked up, and, as our eyes met, I thought she was going to speak, but she said nothing. Then I stepped quickly to her and took her hands. “Olga, you can’t really believe that I killed your father? You can’t believe I ever would do such a thing?”