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

by Louis L'Amour

  Suddenly, a dark figure moved from the shadow of the mesquite, and a low voice spoke softly. “I’ve got you covered. If you move I’ll shoot!”

  It was not Dan Spencer. But Record, perhaps?

  “Who’s moving?” he said calmly. “You’re doin’ a fool thing, buttin’ in on this deal.”

  “Am I?” The man stepped out from the darkness of the mesquite, and Cogar could see his face. The man was slim, wiry and hard-jawed. The gun he held brooked no argument. “Anyway, I’m in. Dan Spencer will be pleased to find I’ve stopped you from gettin’ away with his girl.”

  Milt Cogar held himself very still. There was only one way he could come out of this alive, and it required a gamble with his life at stake. The moment would come. In the meanwhile, he tried the other way, for which he had no hope.

  “Folks won’t let you steal this girl,” he said. “They’ll stand for everything but that.”

  “They’ll stand for that, too,” the man said. “Now turn around!”

  “Stay where you are!” Jennie’s voice was low, penetrating. “Johnny Record, I’ve got you covered. Drop that gun or I’ll kill you!”

  Record stiffened, but before he could realize that as long as Cogar was covered there was a stalemate, the girl’s voice snapped again.

  “You drop that gun before I count three or I’ll shoot! One! Two! Thr—”

  Her count ended as Record let go of his gun. Milt stepped up and retrieved it. Swiftly then, he spun Record around and tied him tightly, hand and foot.

  In the saddle and moving away, he glanced through the darkness toward Jennie. “I reckon as a hero I don’t count for much, you gettin’ us out of that fix!”

  “What else could I do? Anyway, I’d never have had the courage unless you were taking me away like this. With a man to help, I’m brave enough, I guess.”

  THEY RODE ON, holding a steady if not fast pace. There was small chance of them losing any pursuit. That would have to be met when it came. He couldn’t leave his horses behind, for they were all he had. He might need the money from their sale to help Jennie. She would be friendless and alone.

  The desert was wide and white in the moonlight, with only the dark, beckoning fingers of the giant cactuses or the darker blotches of the mesquite or distant mountains. He turned off the trail he had been following, heading into the canyon country. This would be rough going, but there were places ahead where one might stand off an army.

  Foothills crept out into the desert toward them, and they started the horses into a deep draw between two parted arms of hills. The rock walls grew higher and higher, and they lost the light, having only a small rectangle of starlit sky overhead. Milt took no time to rest, but pushed the horses relentlessly, taking no time for anything but getting on.

  He knew where he was going, and he knew he must make it by daylight. Jennie said nothing, but he could sense her weariness, judging it to an extent by his own, for her strength would not be equal to his.

  Finally, the canyon opened out into a wide flat valley in the mountains, and he moved the horses into the tall grass, giving them no rest, but pushing them diagonally across it. They were mounting toward the far wall of the valley before he drew up.

  “We’ll stop here, Jennie,” he said, “but we daren’t have a fire.”

  He divided the blankets and rolled up in his. In a moment, he was sound asleep. He was unworried about the horses, for they would be too tired to go far.

  The sun on his face awakened him, and he came to a sitting position with a start. Jennie was sitting about a dozen feet away with his rifle across her knees.

  Milt stared at her, red-faced. “I slept like a tenderfoot!” he said, abashed.

  “I’m not used to sleeping out, so I awakened early, that’s all. There was no need you being awake. Anyway, they just came into the valley.”

  “Spencer?”

  “Three of them. They came out of the ravine over there and are scouting for our trail. They haven’t found it yet.”

  “Probably not. There’s wild horses in this valley and their herd tracks are everywhere.” Jennie looked tired but her eyes were bright. “We’ll saddle up and get going.”

  When they were moving again, he hugged the wall of the canyon, knowing they would scarcely be visible against its darkness. They pushed on steadily, and from time to time his eyes strayed to the girl. She rode easily in the saddle, her willowy body yielding to every movement of the horse.

  He found he liked having her there. He had never realized how nice it was to know there was someone beside you, someone who mattered. That was the trouble. It was going to be lonesome when she was gone. To avoid that thought, he turned in his saddle and glanced back. They were coming, all three of them, and he had no more than a mile or two of leeway before they would catch up.

  Milt’s mind was quick, and he knew this valley. The hollow up ahead was the only possible chance. He rode up and turned the horses into it, backing them into the trees along the hillside out of range. Jennie had followed his glance when he looked back, and her face was pale.

  When the horses were safely under the trees, he walked back to the crest of the rise. It was a poor place for defense, yet nothing else offered. In the bottom of the hollow one was safely out of range unless they circled around and got on the mountain behind it. If that happened, there would be small chance for either of them. Still, Milt thought as he nestled down into the grass, there were only three outlaws.

  They came on, riding swiftly, and he knew they had seen the two of them ride into the hollow. Jennie moved up beside him.

  “I can load your rifle,” she whispered, “while you stand them off with the six-guns.”

  He nodded to indicate he understood, and lifted the .44 Winchester. When they were within rifle range, he sighted at them, then took the gun from his shoulder and let them come closer. At last he lifted the rifle again and put a shot into the ground ahead of them. They drew up.

  “That won’t get you no place!” Spencer roared. “You turn that girl loose and we’ll let you go!”

  Cogar made no reply, merely waiting. There was some talk down below, and then he called out. “You’ve come far enough. Don’t advance any further!”

  One of them, probably Martinez, although Milt could not be sure, wheeled his horse and started for the hollow at a dead run. Milt lifted the rifle and fired.

  The rifle leaped in his hand, and Martinez yelled and threw up his hands. He went off the horse as it veered sharply and cut away across the grass. Martinez staggered to his feet and, one arm hanging limp, started back toward the other two outlaws.

  Cogar let him go. He was not a killer, and wanted only to be let alone.

  Four more horsemen were coming up, and were scarcely more than a half mile away. They came on, and drew up with Spencer, where they began to talk.

  “That makes six of them out there, not counting Martinez,” Cogar said. “Looks like we’re in for it.”

  “You could let them have me,” Jennie suggested. Her cheek was pillowed on her forearm, and her wide eyes on his face.

  He did not take his eyes from them. “Don’t talk foolishness! I said I’d take you away, and I will. My promises are good.”

  “Is your promise the only reason?”

  “Maybe it is and maybe it ain’t. Womenfolks always have to see things personal-like. If you can be got out of this alive, I’ll get you out.”

  “You know, you’re really quite good-looking.”

  “Huh?” He looked around, startled at the incongruous remark. Then as it hit him, he flushed.

  “Oh, forget it! Looks ain’t gettin’ us out of this hole! What I’m afraid of is they’ll get somebody on the mountain behind us, or else they’ll fire the grass.”

  “Fire the grass?” Her head jerked up and her face went white. “Oh, no! They wouldn’t burn us!”

  “That outfit? They’d do anything if they got good and riled.”

  Some sort of a plan seemed to have been arrived at.
Dan Spencer shouted again:

  “One more chance! Come out with your hands up and we’ll turn you loose! Otherwise we’re comin’ after you!”

  They were barely within rifle range, and Milt Cogar knew the chips were down. His reply was a rifle shot that clipped a white hat from the head of a newcomer. They all hit dirt then.

  “I wanted to get him then,” Milt muttered. “That wasn’t to scare him.”

  Milt was scared, he admitted to himself. He was as scared as he’d ever been, yet in another way, he wasn’t. There was no way out that he could see, and if they fired the grass the only chance was a run for the horses and a wild break in an attempt to outrun the attackers. But there was small chance of that working, for there were too many of them. An idea came suddenly.

  “You slip back there,” he said. “Get the horses down into the hollow. We may have to make a break for it.”

  She glanced at him quickly, and then without a word, slid back down the slope and got to her feet. He heard a rifle spang, but what happened to the bullet, he didn’t know, and then there was a volley and he knew what happened to all the rest. Two whipped by right over his head, and one of them burned him across the shoulders. He rolled over and crept to another position. He could see nothing to shoot at, yet a moment later there was a movement down below, and he fired twice, fast as he could lever the rifle.

  The movement stopped, and he rolled over again, getting himself to a new position. If they got to the edge of the hollow, he was done for, but he couldn’t watch all the terrain. A bullet nipped the grass over his head and he fired at the sound.

  Stealing a quick glance backward, he saw Jennie coming out of the trees into the hollow with the horses. They seemed disturbed by the firing, and halted not far away.

  Spencer yelled then, and instantly, without replying, Milt snapped a shot at the spot, then one left and one right of it. He heard a startled yelp, but doubted from the sound that his shot had more than burned the renegade.

  “Get to your horse but keep your head down!” he warned Jennie. “Now listen: we’re going out of here, you and I, and fast when we go. We’re going to start our horses right down there into the middle of them, and try to crash through. It’s a wild chance, but from the way they act, they are scattering out to get all around us. If they do, we won’t have much chance. If we run for it now, right at them, they may get us, but we’ll have a chance of stampeding their horses.”

  He swung into the saddle and they turned the herd of fifteen horses toward the enemy, then with whoops and yells, started them on a dead run for Spencer. The rim of the hollow and the tall grass gave them a few precious moments of invisibility, so when the horses went over the rise they were at a dead run.

  Milt Cogar, a six-gun in each hand, blazed away over the heads of the horses at the positions of the attackers. He saw instantly that he had been right, for men were already moving on foot off to left and right to surround the hollow.

  With a thunder of racing hoofs, the horses charged down on Spencer’s position, nostrils flaring, manes flowing in the wind of their furious charge.

  Milt saw Dan Spencer leap to his feet and throw up a gun, but his shot went wild, and the next instant he turned and fled. Johnny Record had started to move off to the right, but he turned when he saw the charging horses, and threw his rifle to his shoulder. Cogar snapped a shot at him, and the yells of the men ahead swerved the horses.

  There was a moment of startled horror as Record saw death charging upon him, and then he dropped his rifle and started to run. He never made it, and Milt heard his death scream as he went down under the lashing hoofs. And then the herd was racing away down the valley.

  “Milt!” Jennie’s cry was agonized.

  He swung his horse and looked back. The gray had fallen with her, spilling her over on the ground even as she screamed. And running toward her was Dan Spencer.

  Milt Cogar’s horse was beside her in three bounds and he dropped from the saddle, drawing as he hit ground. His first shot was too quick, and he missed. Spencer skidded to a halt, his face triumphant.

  “Now we’ll see!” he shouted.

  The veins swelled in his forehead, and his eyes were pinpoints of steel. His gun bucked in his hand, and Milt’s leg went out from under him, but even as his knee hit ground, he fired. His bullet caught Spencer in the diaphragm, and knocked him back on his heels. Both men fired again, but Dan Spencer’s shot bit into the earth just in front of Cogar, and he thumbed his gun, aiming low down at the outlaw’s body. Spencer backed up, his jaw working, his eyes fiercely alive. Then a bloody froth came to his lips, and Milt, cold and still inside, fired once more. The outlaw’s knees gave way and he pitched over on his face.

  Milt stared at the fallen man, fumbling at his belt for more cartridges. His fingers seemed very clumsy, but he finally filled the empty chambers. Jennie was hobbling toward him.

  “I’ve sprained my ankle,” she said, “but it’s nothing!”

  She dropped beside him, and gasped when she saw the blood on his trouser leg. “You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.

  “Not much,” he told her. “Who’s that coming?”

  Her head came up sharply. Then her face whitened with relief. “It’s Joe Peters! And Thacker!”

  The two men walked up, the slender Peters looking even smaller beside the rope-girthed bulk of Thacker. Both men had rifles.

  “You two all right?” Thacker demanded. The hesitation and fear seemed to have left him. “We hurried after you to help, but we got here late.”

  “What happened to the other men with Spencer?” Cogar asked.

  “The horses got both Martinez and Record. We found one other man dead, one wounded. We kilt one our ownselves, and caught up the rest.”

  Red came up. “Reckon you started somethin’, mister,” he said to Milt. “When you took Jennie away so’s Spencer couldn’t have her, we decided it was right mean of us to let a stranger protect our women. So Thacker here, he seen Joe Peters, and a few others. Then we got together at my eatin’ place and started cleanin’ the town. We done a good job!”

  Thacker grinned, well pleased with himself. “You two can come back if you want,” he suggested. “This here deserves a celebration.”

  “Why, I’d like to come back, sometime,” Milt said, “but right now I’ve got to get my horses down to my own ranch and into the pasture there. I’d take Jennie to see the place, if she’ll go.”

  “A ranch might be nice,” Jennie said. Her eyes smiled at him, but there was something grave and serious in their depths. “I might like it.”

  “Only if you come, I might want to keep you,” Milt said. “It isn’t going to be the same after this.”

  “Why should it?” Jennie said.

  The gray had gotten to his feet and was shaking himself. Milt walked over to him, and his hand trembled as he examined the gelding’s legs. When he straightened up, Jennie was facing him, and her lips looked soft and inviting.

  “I reckon,” Thacker said, pleased, “that we’ll have to celebrate without them!”

  Murphy Plays His Hand

  Brad Murphy had been a prisoner in the box canyon for three months when he heard the yell.

  He jerked erect so suddenly that he dropped his gold pan, spilling its contents. Whirling about, he saw the three horsemen on the rim and he ran toward the cliff, shouting and waving his arms.

  One of the men dismounted and came to the edge of the ninety-foot precipice.

  “What’s the trouble?” he yelled.

  “Can’t get out!” Murphy yelled. “Slide wiped out the trail to the rim. I been a prisoner here for months!”

  “Made a strike?” The man on the rim gestured toward the stream and the gold pan.

  Instinct made Brad hesitate.

  “No,” he said cautiously. “Only a little color.”

  The man walked back and then he returned to the cliff edge, knotting together the ends of two riatas. While he was doing that, Brad Murphy walked back to the camp
and picked up his rifle. On a sudden hunch he thrust his pistol inside his shirt and under his belt. Then he picked up the sack of dust and nuggets. It wasn’t a large sack, but it weighed forty pounds.

  When they got him to the rim, the man who had done the talking stared at the heavy sack, his eyes curious. He lifted his eyes to Brad’s face, and the eyes were small, cruel, and sparkling with sardonic humor.

  “My name’s Butch Schaum,” he said quietly. “What’s yourn?”

  “Murphy,” Brad replied. “Brad Murphy.”

  The thin-faced man on the buckskin jerked his head up and turned toward Brad.

  “You the Brad Murphy used to be in Cripple Creek?”

  Brad nodded. “Yeah, I was there for a spell. You’re Asa Moffitt.” His eyes shifted to the third man on the paint. “And you’ll be Dave Cornish.”

  “Know us all, do you?” Schaum said; his eyes flickered over Brad’s height, taking in his great breadth of shoulder, the powerful hands. Then straying to the rifle.

  Murphy shrugged. “Who doesn’t know the Schaum gang? You’ve been ridin’ these hills for several years.” He rubbed his hands on his pants. “Any of you got a smoke?”

  Schaum offered the makings. “Go on an’ Dave can ride behind Asa,” he said. “His horse’ll carry double. I’ll take the sack.”

  “No.” Brad looked up and his green eyes were steady, hard. “I’ll do that myself.”

  “Be too heavy on the hoss,” Schaum declared.

  “I’ll carry the sack,” Murphy replied, “and walk.”

  “Ain’t necessary,” Moffitt interrupted. “My hoss’ll take the weight. It’s only six miles to the shack.”

  GRIMLY BRAD MURPHY kept his rifle in his hands. They didn’t know it was empty. They didn’t know he had run out of the heavy .40-65 ammunition over two months ago.

  Too much was known about Butcher Schaum. The man and his henchmen were cruel as Yaquis. They were killers, outlaws of the worst sort. Three years ago they had held up the bank in Silver City, killing the cashier and escaping with several thousand dollars. They killed one of the posse that followed them. In Tascosa, Dave Cornish had shot a man over a horse.