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

by Louis L'Amour

  “Could be,” McQueen admitted softly. “Where you from?”

  Baldy looked up out of wise eyes. “Animas. Rid with ‘Curly Bill’ some, but I ain’t no rustler no more. I left the owlhoot.”

  Red Naify was walking back. He looked at Ward thoughtfully.

  “Yuh tired?” he asked suddenly. “I been workin’ these boys pretty regular. How’s about you night-herdin’?”

  “Uh-huh.” McQueen got up and stretched. “I didn’t come far today. No use a man ridin’ the legs off his hoss when he ain’t got to get noplace particular.”

  Naify chuckled. “That’s right.”

  WARD MCQUEEN SADDLED up and rode out toward the herd. He was very thoughtful. He couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong. He shook his head. Baldy Jackson might or might not be off the owlhoot, but there was someone around whom Baldy didn’t trust.

  Idly, he let the roan circle the herd, bringing a few straying steers closer to the main herd. There was plenty of grass. It was a nice, comfortable spot to hole up for a few days.

  An hour later, as the sun was just out of sight, he had an idea. Picking out one of the steers McQueen rode in and roped it. In a matter of seconds the young steer was tied. With a bit of stick he dug into the dirt on one hoof. A few minutes of examination, and he got up and turned the steer loose. It struggled erect and hiked back to the herd.

  Ward McQueen mounted again, his face thoughtful. That critter had never crossed the alkali desert! There was no caked alkali dust on the hoof, none of it in the hair on the animal’s leg. Wherever the cattle had come from, it hadn’t been across the vast, salt plain where animals sank to their knees in the ashy waste. They had traveled in fairly good country, which meant they had come down from the north.

  There was three hundred head of prime beef here, and it had been moved through pretty good country.

  It was almost two o’clock in the morning and he had started back toward the camp when he saw the lean height of young Bud Fox walking toward him. He spotted him in the moonlight and reined in, waiting.

  “How’s it go?” Bud asked cheerfully. “I woke up and thought maybe yuh’d like some coffee?” He held up a cup and held another for himself.

  McQueen swung down and ground-hitched the roan.

  “Tastes mighty good!” he said, after a pull at the coffee. He glanced up at Bud. “How long you and Baldy been with this herd?”

  “Not long,” Bud said. “We joined ’em here, too. We was ridin’ down from the Blue Mountains, up Oregon way. Hoyt and Naify was already here. Said they’d been here a couple of days. Had two punchers when they come, they told us, but the punchers quit and headed for Montana.”

  “Yuh ever punch cows in Montana?” McQueen asked.

  “Nope. Not me.”

  McQueen watched Bud walk back to camp and then forked the roan and started off, walking the horse. The stories of Baldy and Bud sounded straight enough. Baldy was admittedly from New Mexico and Arizona. Bud Fox said he had never ridden in Montana, and he looked like a southern rider. On the other hand, Red Naify, the foreman, who said he had driven in from Wyoming, rode a big horse and carried a thick, hemp lariat. Both were more typical of Montana cowhands.

  It was almost daylight when McQueen heard the shot.

  He had rounded the herd and was nearing the willows when the sudden spang of a rifle stabbed the stillness.

  The one shot, then silence.

  Touching spurs to the roan, he whipped it through the willows to the camp. Red Naify was standing, pistol in hand, at the edge of the firelight, staring into the darkness.

  Both Baldy and Bud were sitting up in their blankets, and Baldy had his rifle in his hand.

  “Where’d that shot come from?” McQueen demanded.

  “Up on the mountain. It was some distance off,” Naify said.

  “Sounded close by to me,” Bud retorted. “I’da sworn it was right close up in them trees.”

  “It was up on the mountain,” Naify growled. He looked around at McQueen. “Them cows all right?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll go back.”

  “Wait.” Fox rolled out of his blankets. “I’ll go out. You been out all night.”

  “We’re movin’ in a couple of hours,” Red Naify said. “Let him go back.”

  Ward McQueen turned the roan and rode back to the herd. It was not yet daylight. He could see the campfire flickering through the trees.

  THE HERD WAS QUIET. Some of the cattle had started up at the shot, but the stillness had quieted them again. Most of them were bedded down. With a quick glance toward the fire, McQueen turned the roan toward the mountain.

  Skirting some clumps of pñon and juniper, he rode into the trees. It was gray, and the ground could be seen, but not well. He knew what he was looking for. If there had been a man, there must have been a horse. Perhaps the shot had been a miss. In any event, there had been no sound of movement in the stillness that followed. The roan’s ears were keen, and he had given no indication of hearing anything.

  He was riding through a clump of manzanita when he heard a horse stamp. He caught his own horse’s nose, then ground-hitched it, and walked through the trees.

  It was a fine-looking black horse, all of sixteen hands high, with a silver-mounted saddle. A Winchester ’73 was in the scabbard, and the saddlebags were hand-tooled leather.

  Working away from the horse, McQueen started toward the edge of the woods. He was still well under cover when he saw the dark outline of the body. He glanced around, listened, then moved closer. He knelt in the gray dimness of dawn. The man was dead.

  He was a young man, dressed in neat, expensive black. He wore one gun and it was in its holster. Gently, McQueen rolled the man on his back. He had been handsome as well as young, with a refined, sensitive face. Not, somehow, a Western face.

  Slipping his hand inside the man’s coat, McQueen withdrew a flat wallet. On it, in neat gold lettering, was the name Dan Kermitt. Inside, there was a sheaf of bills and other papers.

  Suddenly McQueen heard a light footstep. Quickly, he slid the wallet into his shirt and stood up. Red Naify was standing on the edge of the woods.

  “Looks like somebody got who he was shootin’ at,” McQueen said quietly. “Know him?”

  Naify walked forward on cat feet. He looked down, then he shrugged.

  “Never saw him afore!” He looked up, his piglike eyes gleaming. It was light enough now for McQueen to see their change of expression. “Did you kill him?”

  “Me?” For an instant McQueen was startled. “No. I never saw this hombre before.”

  “Yuh could’ve,” Red said, insinuatingly. “There wasn’t nobody to see.”

  “So could you,” McQueen replied. “So could you!”

  “I got an alibi.” Red grinned suddenly. “What the devil? I don’t care who killed him. Injuns, probably. Find anythin’ on him?”

  “Just startin’ to look,” McQueen replied carefully. How much had Red seen?

  Naify stooped over the body and fanned it with swift, skillful fingers. In the right-hand pocket he found a small wallet containing a few bills and some gold coin. Ward McQueen stared at it thoughtfully, and when Naify straightened, he asked a question.

  “Anythin’ to tell who he was?”

  “Not a thing. I’ll jest keep this until somebody calls for it.” He pocketed the money. “Yuh want to bury him?”

  “Yeah. I’ll bury him.” McQueen stared down at the body. This was no place to bury a nice young man like this. But then, the West did strange things to people, bringing a strange grave to many a man.

  “Hey.” Red paused. “He should have a hoss. I better have a look around.”

  “Leave it to me,” McQueen said quietly. “You got the money. I already found the hoss.”

  Red Naify hesitated, and for an instant his face was harsh and cruel. McQueen watched him, waiting. It was coming, sooner or later, and it could be now as well as later.

  Naify shrugged, and started to turn away, th
en looked back. “Was it—the hoss, I mean—a big black?”

  “Yeah,” McQueen told him, unsmiling. “So yuh did know him?”

  Naify’s face darkened. “No. Only I seen somebody follerin’ us that was ridin’ a big black. Could’ve been him.” He strode off toward camp.

  Carrying the young man to a wash in the steep bank, he placed the body on the bottom, then caved dirt over it.

  “Not much of a grave, friend,” he said softly, “but I’ll come back an’ do her proper.” He turned and as he walked away he added quietly, “And when I do, amigo, yuh can rest easy.”

  STANDING IN THE BRUSH near the black horse, he took out the flat leather wallet and opened it. He thrust his hand inside, then gulped in amazement. He was staring down at a sheaf of thousand-dollar bills!

  Swiftly, he counted. Twenty-five of them, all new and crisp. There were two letters and a few odds and ends of no importance. He opened one letter, in feminine handwriting. It was short and to the point.

  We have gone ahead to Fort Mallock. Come there with the money, as Kim has located a good ranch. I don’t know what we’d have done without Iver, however, as ever since Father was killed, he has advised and helped me. The cattle are coming west with two of the most trustworthy hands, Chuck and Stan Jones.

  Ruth

  Replacing the wallet in his shirt, Ward McQueen swung into the saddle. He rode the black horse back to where his own horse waited, then leading his horse, he rode back to the camp.

  Red Naify looked up at him, and then glanced at the horse, envy and greed shining in his eyes. Baldy looked up, too, and his eyes narrowed a little, but he said nothing. Bud Fox was already bunching the herd to start them moving.

  Naify mounted up and joined him while McQueen ate. Twice he glanced up from his food to Baldy.

  “Say,” he said finally, “where was Red when yuh first looked up after that shot?”

  “Red?” Baldy looked up, and put his big red hands on his hips. “Red wasn’t in sight. Then I looked around, and he was standin’ there. He could’ve been there all the time, but I don’t think he was.”

  McQueen nodded up the hillside. “There was a dead man up there. He’d been lookin’ us over from the cover of the trees. Right nice-lookin’ gent. No rustler.”

  “Yuh think somebody’s pullin’ a steal?” Baldy asked shrewdly, stowing away the camp gear in the chuck wagon.

  “Don’t you?” Ward said quietly.

  “Uh-huh. So what happens?” Baldy asked.

  “My guess would be they don’t intend to let us have no part of the profits. To us, the deal is supposed to be on the level. We don’t know that it ain’t,” he added. “Actually, we don’t know a thing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Baldy crawled up on the wagon. “So we keep our eyes peeled, huh?”

  “And a six-shooter handy,” McQueen agreed grimly.

  He tied the black horse to the wagon, then swung aboard the roan as the chuck wagon rumbled out after the cattle. McQueen started the roan after the herd at a canter, scowling thoughtfully.

  The letter had referred to two trusted hands, Chuck and Stan Jones. Trusted men didn’t ride away and leave a herd. Not to go back to Montana or anywhere. What had happened to them, then? Where were they?

  The trail wound slowly up toward the pass in the Toana range. The cattle moved slowly, reluctant to leave the green meadows bordering Pilot Creek. There was little time for thinking as two old steers had no intention of leaving the creek and made break after break trying to get away.

  Late in the afternoon, Bud Fox rode up beside McQueen. He lighted a smoke, then glanced across the herd at Naify.

  “Nice hoss yuh got back there,” he commented casually. “Hombre what owned him’s dead, I s’pose?”

  “Uh-huh. I buried him. A darned good rifle shot killed him.”

  Bud rode quietly. “Yuh know,” he said softly, “I been wonderin’ a mite. When Baldy and me come up the trail, we got us a glimpse of somethin’. Way north of where we was, but on the Montana trail. We seen us some buzzards circlin’—like maybe a dead critter was lyin’ there.”

  “Or dead men.” Ward McQueen’s voice was grim. “Men who might object to what was goin’ to be done with these cows.”

  “Uh-huh,” Fox agreed, “like that. Or maybe riders the boss didn’t have no intention of payin’. On a long drive, yuh know, ain’t nobody goin’ to be surprised if a cowpoke never comes back. He could’ve gone on to Californy, or maybe south of the Colorado country. Or he could’ve just started driftin’.”

  THE HERD MOVED steadily westward, camping one night at Flower Lake, a grass-covered and spring-fed swamp, then moving on up the steep slopes of the Pequops through a scattered forest of mountain mahogany, juniper, and piñon. Ward McQueen, his battered gray hat pulled low over his eyes, his lean-jawed face ever more quiet, ever more watchful.

  Red Naify held to the point, rarely leaving it even for a few minutes. The blocky, hard-faced foreman rode cautiously, and once, when they sighted several horsemen, he let the herd veer southward, away from them.

  On the west side of the Pequops the herd ambled slowly across a sage-covered valley toward the distant violet and purple of mountains, and finally, almost in the shadow of the Humboldt Range, the herd was circled for a night stop on the edge of Snow Water Lake.

  Naify rode back. “Bed ’em down here,” he said. “We’ll spend the night and let ’em feed some more. No use losin’ too much beef on this move.”

  “Where’s Mallock?” McQueen asked suddenly.

  Naify turned his head and looked squarely at him. “Don’t worry about it. We ain’t goin’ near Mallock!”

  Thoughtfully, Ward watched Red ride away. Red Naify knew nothing of the letter in McQueen’s pocket. In that simple statement he had given himself away. The girl was waiting at Fort Mallock for the cattle. Iver Hoyt was probably with her. He was the trusted adviser, and he was stealing her herd!

  In McQueen’s pocket, given to him by a friend before he ever started for this country, was a map. It showed Mallock, the fort built only a short time before, to be not far beyond the Humboldt Mountains. He made a sudden decision.

  Wheeling his horse, he rode to the chuck wagon, where Baldy had unhitched the team. The cattle were drinking, and Bud Fox was sitting his horse nearby, rolling a smoke.

  “Listen,” he said, reining in the roan beside the wagon. “I’m ridin’ out of here. I got me an idea. You two better keep plenty close watch. I figger this is where she happens!”

  Fox nodded. “Red said he’d be back sometime tomorrow or the day after. That we was to sit tight. Where yuh goin’?”

  “Fort Mallock. I’m ridin’ the black.”

  It was dark when the black horse cantered down the dusty street of the little community that had grown up around the fort. Ward McQueen rode up to the hitching rail and swung down. He hitched his belt and loosened his guns. He had just stepped up on the walk when a wiry, broad-shouldered man stepped out from the batwing doors.

  For an instant the man stood stock-still, his eyes on the black horse, then his eyes shifted to McQueen.

  “Your hoss, podner?” he queried gently.

  McQueen felt something inside him tighten. There was something in the faint suggestion of that voice that warned him. This man was dangerous.

  “I’m ridin’ him,” he replied quietly.

  “Where’d you get him?” the stranger asked, stepping away from in front of the door.

  “Before I answer that,” McQueen said quietly, “s’pose you tell me why you’re askin’.”

  The young man stared back at him, and McQueen decided there was something in the black eyes and brown, young face that he liked.

  “My name,” the young man said evenly, “is Kim Sartain. And the man who owned that hoss, and that saddle, was a friend of mine!”

  “So you’re Kim,” McQueen said softly. “You know an hombre name of Iver Hoyt?”

  Sartain’s face darkened and his eyes grew cautious. “
Yeah, I know him. A friend of yours?”

  “No.” McQueen looked at him thoughtfully. “You know where Ruth Kermitt is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then take me to her. I’ll talk there.”

  Leading the black horse, Ward McQueen followed Kim. The young man walked alongside him, his left side toward McQueen, who grinned to himself at this precaution.

  “You don’t take no chances, Sartain,” he said. “But I think we’re on the same side.”

  Kim’s hard face did not relent. “I’ll know that when you tell me where you got that hoss.”

  McQueen tied the horse to a hitching rail, followed Sartain into a small hotel, and into a back parlor, a small, comfortably furnished room. There was a girl sitting on the divan, and she rose quickly when they came in.

  McQueen halted, his face suddenly blank. He had expected anything but the tall, lovely girl who faced him. Probably twenty years old, she was erect, poised, and lovely, her black hair gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, her blue eyes wide.

  Kim spoke, his voice flat. “This hombre wants to talk with you, ma’am. He rode into town on Dan’s hoss.”

  “Ma’am,” McQueen said quietly, “I’m afraid I’m bringin’ bad news.”

  “It’s Dan! Something’s happened to Dan!” Ruth Kermitt came toward him quickly.

  McQueen’s face flushed, then paled a little. “He’s—he’s been killed, ma’am. Shot!”

  Her face turned deathly white, and she fell back a step, her eyes still wide. Swiftly, Kim crossed to her side.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “Better hold yourself together. We got to get this hombre’s yarn. He may need killin’ hisself.” He spoke this last in a low, dangerous tone.

  Briefly, with no details, McQueen explained, saying nothing about the herd except to mention the names of the men riding with it.

  Kim stared at him. “A herd of three hundred white-faces? And with Red Naify? Who’re those others you mentioned?”

  “Baldy Jackson and Bud Fox. Good men. Naify told us the other riders rode off and left ’em.”

  “Like the devil they did!” Kim snapped. “Somebody’s lyin’, ma’am!”