The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7

by Louis L'Amour

  “That right, Utah?”

  The razor smoothed a patch on his chin. “Yeah. Fact is, I’ve had a lead ever since I came to town. From the very hour I got in, you might say.”

  Pickard finished his job and dusted Blaine’s face with powder. Utah sat up in the chair and felt his face. “You sure do give a fine shave, Pickard…. Close,” he said, looking at the barber, “but not too close.”

  When they had gone, Blaine and Church walking together, Pickard stared after them. A lead since the very moment … he might have seen Hibbs!

  Yet, what could he have seen? And suppose he had seen Hibbs come to him? It would prove nothing, and Hibbs could not talk. He would not dare to talk. So there was nothing to worry about. Nevertheless, he did worry.

  He had not been fooled by Blaine. The tall gunfighter was too friendly, too casual. His manner did not go with his cold, watchful eyes and the strong-boned face. Alone in the apartment back of his shop, Pickard paced the floor and thought.

  It was time to go, but he must be careful. Suppose Blaine was only waiting for him to uncover his loot and so be caught with the goods? Or suppose he frightened Hibbs in some way and forced him to talk? The more he considered, the more he worried. He had been a fool to wait so long. He could have gone long ago. Why, he had over sixty thousand dollars!

  Slowly, he went over the problem again. Hibbs might talk, of course, but he had already made plans for Hibbs and it was time he put them into operation. Pickard was a coolheaded man and utterly coldblooded. He had long known that before he left, Hibbs must die. Aside from the knowledge of Hibbs’s past, the one thing he knew was that Hibbs would wait for him to recover the hidden loot, and then Hibbs would try to murder him for it. Pickard knew that idea lay in Hibbs’s mind as if he himself had written it there. And to an extent, he had.

  If Hibbs betrayed him, he’d never get a chance at the money. It also allowed him the chance to trap Hibbs. So now to prepare that trap, he had to lead Hibbs out of town into the hills, and then kill him.

  BLAINE HAD FORMED the habit of riding out of town at least once each day. He varied the times of these rides so as to allow for no easy planning of future crimes or observation of his moves.

  First, he rode to the scenes of the crimes and studied the terrain and approaches. There were, of course, no tracks. There had been rain and wind since, but they were not what he was searching for. Nor was he looking for any clue that might have been dropped. He was trying to imagine how the killer would have concealed his loot, for he would not have dared to risk being seen carrying it back into town.

  The other rides were short, and they ended in a small clump of juniper atop a ridge outside of Squaw Creek. There, with a pair of field glasses, Utah Blaine watched the town.

  The break came suddenly. On one bright and sunny Sunday morning he saw Hibbs come from the hotel and walk across the street. Going down the alley between the buildings, Hibbs turned suddenly into the old, abandoned store building on his right. Not two minutes later he stepped out, only now he had a rifle and a canteen.

  Utah Blaine settled himself firmly and watched with care. Hibbs went down into an arroyo and out of town, working his way up the hill right toward Blaine’s position! Just when he was sure he must move or be seen, Hibbs stopped and, settling down, began to wait.

  Almost an hour passed and then Pickard came from the back door of the barbershop and slid down into the creek bed. Watching, Blaine saw the man working his way downstream, then saw him come out among some boulders. Hibbs got up and began to work his way along the flank of the mountain, keeping Pickard in view. Keeping higher and staying among the junipers, Blaine kept pace with Hibbs. Then the junipers grew more sparse and scattered out. Reluctantly, Blaine swung over the crest and kept the ridge between himself and the two men. From time to time he climbed higher and let his eyes seek out the clerk, then suddenly the man was gone.

  Blaine swore bitterly. To cross the ridge within view of either Hibbs or Pickard would ruin the whole plan, and his only chance lay in riding ahead to intercept their trail as it left the ridge, which ended a few miles farther along. So swinging his horse, he rode down into the wash and followed it out until the ridge ended. It was only then that he realized how that ridge had betrayed him.

  Some distance back the ridge divided into a rough Y, and he had been following the southernmost of the two arms, while Hibbs had obviously followed along the northern. It was at least two miles across the bottom to the other ridge and it was very hot now, and close to noon.

  Before crossing the gap, he studied it with care, but there was no sign of either man. He crossed as quickly as he could, then climbed the far ridge and, taking a chance, mounted the crest. As far as the eye could reach, there was no living thing.

  Irritated, he rode down the far side, scouting for tracks. He found none. The two men, and both on foot, had lost him completely. How long since he had lost Hibbs? He checked the sun and his memory. It must have been almost an hour, as best he could figure. Turning back, he rode toward town. He had gone no more than two hundred yards when he drew up sharply.

  Before him on the trail lay the sprawled figure of a man, half-covered with the rocky debris of a landslide. Blaine dropped from his horse. It was Hibbs, and he was quite dead. Climbing the hillside, Blaine found scuff marks in the dirt where someone, almost certainly Pickard, had sat, bracing himself while he forced a large boulder from its socket of earth with his heels.

  Pickard must have known Hibbs would follow, or had seen him, and had pushed down these boulders, probably coming by later to make sure there was no doubt. Yet allowing for the time it took Hibbs to get to this point on foot, it could have been no more than twenty to thirty minutes ago that he had been killed!

  If he rode swiftly now, he might overtake Pickard before he could get back to Squaw Creek!

  Yet his ride was in vain. All was quiet when he rode into town and stabled his horse. Pickard was quietly shaving Tom Church and had the job half-done. He glanced up at Blaine and nodded. “Hot day for riding, I guess,” he said conversationally. “You can have it. I’d rather stay in my barbershop.”

  Baffled and irritated, Utah did not trust himself to speak. There was no way the man could have gotten back here that fast. It must be someone else whom he had seen, it must—He stopped. Suppose Pickard had a horse waiting for him out there on the ridge somewhere? And had raced back, changed shirts quickly, and returned to his work as he did each day? But where was the horse? And where had he been concealed?

  UTAH BLAINE DROPPED in at the saloon for a drink and the first man he saw was Red Williams. The latter grinned, “Howdy, Marshal! No hard feelin’s?”

  Blaine chuckled. “Why should there be? What are you doin’ in town in the middle of the week?”

  “Come in after some horses. The boss keeps a half-dozen head of good saddle stock down at his creek barn in case any of the boys need a change of horse.”

  “Creek barn? Where’s that?”

  “Just outside of town a ways. We got two outfits, one west of town, an’ the other seventeen miles northeast. We switch horses at the creek barn every now and again. It’s a line shack right out of town.”

  “You taking all the horses?”

  “Nope. Just four head. We’re mighty short of saddle stock right now, the boys haven’t rounded up the bunch off the west range yet. Funny thing,” he said, “durned kids been ridin’ ’em, I guess. One of Tom’s best horses is stove up.”

  Utah Blaine turned his glass in his fingers. “Red, you want to do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Take all those horses with you and keep ’em away from that line shack for a week. If the boss says anything, I’ll explain it.”

  Red shrugged. “Sure, I’ll do it.” He looked curiously at Utah. “Wish you’d let me in on it, though.”

  “Later. But don’t even whisper it to anybody, you hear? And don’t let anybody see you if you can help it. I’ve got a feelin’ we’re go
in’ to make a murderin’ skunk mighty unhappy!”

  THE DEATH OF HIBBS was amazing to Squaw Creek only because the hotel clerk had been out of town. The curiosity of the loafers at the barbershop was aroused and they speculated at random on what he had been doing in that dusty wash when he was usually at work on the hotel books.

  Blaine listened thoughtfully. Then he got up and settled his hat on his head. Inside the barbershop, Pickard was stropping a razor. “I figure he was hunting the loot from those robberies,” he said, “and he had some idea where it was … only he was too late.”

  “Too late?” Childress looked up. “You mean somebody found it?” The razor stropping had stopped abruptly.

  “Uh-huh,” Utah said, weighting his words carefully. “That’s just what I mean…. Well”—he stepped down off the walk—“be seein’ you.”

  He walked away, feeling their stares on his back. It was rather obvious bait, but would Pickard really have the choice not to bite on it? Could he coolly ignore the possibility that all he had planned so carefully for … killed for, might be gone?

  Pickard stared out the window after Blaine. What did he mean by that? He was sure that nobody could find the money. It was still there where he’d hidden it, it had to be…. He returned to his stropping of the razor, but his mind was not on his work. He scowled. How had Blaine found Hibbs’s body so soon? He must have been out in the hills … he might even have followed Hibbs.

  Yet that could not be, for if he had, he would have been close by when Hibbs was killed … or had he been close by? Suppose Blaine was less interested in finding the killer than in finding the loot … and keeping it for himself?

  Worried now, Pickard grew irritable and restless. If Blaine found that loot, then all his time here was wasted. Pickard would be chained to this barber chair! He would have killed and robbed and risked his life, for nothing!

  Yet suppose it was only a trap? That might be Blaine’s idea, but it would not work. He knew how … he glanced at the building’s shadow. Two hours yet to sundown.

  ALONE IN HIS SHOP, Pickard worked swiftly. There was no time to lose. Trap or not, he must know whether his loot had been found, and if it was a trap … well, they’d find out that their quiet town barber had teeth. He thrust a pistol into his waistband and picked up a shotgun.

  When it was dark he slipped from the back of the shop and ducked quickly into the bed of the stream. Hurrying along it, he came out near the TC line shack and crossed quickly to the stable. Quickly, he struck a match and picked up the lantern … and then he stopped. The horses were gone!

  Pickard froze where he was and the match burned down to his fingers before he dropped it. He had seen Red Williams in town, but he had no idea … now there was no other way. He must go on foot.

  Suppose somebody came for him while he was gone? He would have to chance that. The shop was closed and he had left everything locked tight. He started down the draw, moving swiftly. At night and without a horse, it seemed much farther than the three miles he had to go, yet despite his hurry, he took his time when reaching the area where the loot was concealed. He waited, listened, then went forward.

  Quickly, he moved a rock and reached into the cavity beneath. Instantly, his heart gave a bound. The loot was there! Blaine had been talking through his hat! It was safe! He struck a match, shielding it with his cupped hands. All there … should he take it with him now, or should he wait and pick it up, as he had planned, after leaving town?

  Much of it was gold, but there was a good bit of paper money, too. It would be a load, almost a hundred pounds of it, but he could get it back. No, he changed his mind swiftly. He would take one sack of gold, just in case. He could always come back after the rest.

  Taking the sack out, he carefully replaced the stone, then lit a match and had a careful look around to make sure the stone was in place and no damp earth was showing. As the match went out his eyes caught a flicker of white on the ground and he guardedly struck another. He stooped … merely some whitish-gray mud or damp earth. He dropped the match and, picking up his bag, started back.

  Pickard hurried, desperately worried for fear of discovery, and his breath was coming hoarsely when he reached the back door of his shop. He opened the door, stepped in, and turning, he struck a match and lighted the lamp. Just as he replaced the chimney a shock of fear went through him … he had left the door locked!

  Pickard turned sharply, half-crouched like an animal at bay, a sickness turning him faint with shock. Facing him from chairs ranged around the room were Tom Church, Childress, Hunt, and Red Williams!

  Clutched in his hand was the sack of stolen gold, and then Utah Blaine spoke. “Drop your guns, Pickard! You are under arrest!”

  His years of planning, working, scheming, his murders and robberies, the hot, stifling nights when he waited, when he struck with the knife or club, or tossed the noose over a neck, and strangled … all gone! All for nothing! All because … !

  Like a cat he wheeled and plunged for the door. The move was so swift that Blaine swung, not daring to shoot toward the other men, knelt, and thrust out his foot.

  Pickard tripped and sprawled through the door onto the step. Springing to his feet, his hands lacerated from the silvery-gray wood, he grabbed for his gun.

  “Hold it!” Blaine yelled.

  Pickard’s gun swung up … and he felt his finger close, and then somebody smashed him a blow in the chest. He staggered, trying to bring his gun to bear, and another blow hit him, half turning him around.

  What … what th—! His eyes blurred and the gun would not seem to come up and then something struck him on the back of the head and he was on the ground and he was staring up at the stars and then the stars faded and he realized … nothing more.

  Tom Church stared at the fallen man, white-faced. “Dead center, Utah,” he said quietly, “but you had to do it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s only part of the stolen money,” Childress said. “You reckon he spent the rest of it?”

  Utah Blaine indicated the dead man’s boots, their soles stained with a muddy whitish substance. “I figure it’s cached. He left the rest of it, but those white boots will lead us right to it.”

  “What is that stuff?” Church asked. “Never saw any clay like that around here.”

  “It’s white paint,” Blaine replied, “I spilled plenty of it inside the door of the TC barn and corral. I knew he’d come there, and that white paint would leave his marks to trail him by.”

  Hunt and Williams carefully picked up the body and carried it off down the street. Blaine stood in the alley while Tom Church locked up Pickard’s shop. After a moment Childress swore softly. “What’s worryin’ me now,” he said, “is what are we goin’ to do for a barber!”

  Merrano of the Dry Country

  Nobody even turned a head to look his way as Barry Merrano entered the store. They knew he was there, and their hatred was almost tangible, he felt it pushing against him as he walked to the counter.

  Mayer, who kept the store, was talking to Tom Drake, owner of the TD and considered the wealthiest man in the valley; Jim Hill, acknowledged to be its first settler; and Joe Stangle, from the head of the valley. After a moment Mayer left them and walked over to him.

  The storekeeper’s lips offered no welcoming smile although Barry thought he detected a faint gleam of sympathy in the man’s eyes.

  In a low voice, Barry gave his order, and several times the others glanced his way, for they could still overhear a part of what he was saying and he was ordering things they could no longer afford.

  “I’ll have to ask for cash,” Mayer said. “With the drouth and all, money’s short.”

  Barry felt a sudden surge of anger. There was a moment when he thought to bring their world crashing about them by asking how long it had been since the others had paid cash. He knew what it would mean. Suddenly they would be faced with the harsh reality of their situation. The Mirror Valley country was broke … flat broke.
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br />   No sooner had the feeling come than it passed. He had no desire for revenge. They hated him, and he knew why they hated him. They hated him because he was the son of Miguel Merrano, the Mexican vaquero who married the most beautiful and sought-after girl in the valley. They hated him because he had the audacity to return after they had driven his father from the area. They hated him because when they built a fence to keep his cattle from water he had found water elsewhere. Worst of all, he himself had kept up the fence they built, building it even stronger.

  They hated him because he had the nerve to tell them they were ruining their land, and that drouth would come and their cattle would die.

  “That’s all right,” he told Mayer, “I have the money and I can pay.”

  He took his order and paid for it with three gold pieces placed carefully on the counter. Joe Stangle looked at the gold, then stared at him, his eyes mean. “I’d like to know,” he said, “where a greaser gets that kind of money. Maybe the sheriff should do some looking around!”

  Barry gathered his armful of groceries and put them in a burlap sack. “Maybe he could”—he spoke gently—“and maybe you could, too, Joe. All you’d have to do would be to use your eyes.”

  He went out, then returned for a second and a third load. “That greaser father of yours knowed what he was doin’ when he bought that land,” Stangle said.

  “The land my father bought was the same sort of land you all have. Once there was good grass everywhere but you overstocked your land and fed it out of existence. Then the brush came in and the underlying roots killed off more grass. When the grass thinned out your stock started eating poison weeds. There’s nothing wrong with your land that a few good years won’t cure.”

  “We heard all that preachin’ before. No greaser’s goin’ to come around and tell me how to run my range! Jim Hill an’ me were runnin’ cattle before you was born!”