The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3

by Louis L'Amour

  “Shore thing.” Steve swung into the saddle and pocketed the extra pistol. He put the ammunition in his saddlebags. “Good luck.”

  “Hope yuh catch him!” the man called.

  Steve touched a spur lightly to the big buckskin and was gone in a clatter of hoofs. Behind him the fire twinkled lonesomely among the dark columns of the trees, and then as he went down beyond a rise, the light faded and he was alone in the darkness, hitting the road at a fast trot.

  Later, he saw the white radiance that preceded the moon, and something else—the white, gleaming peak of Mount Shasta, one of the most beautiful mountains in the world. Lifting its fourteen-thousand-foot peak above the surrounding country, it was like a throne for the Great Spirit of the Indians.

  In darkness and moving fast, Steve Mehan rode down the trail into Shasta and then on to Whiskeytown.

  A drunken miner lurched from the side of a building and flagged him down. “No use hurryin’,” he said. “It ain’t true!”

  “What ain’t true?” Steve stared at him. “What yuh talkin’ about?”

  “That Whiskey Creek. Shucks, it’s got water in it just like any creek!” He spat with disgust. “I come all the way down here from Yreka huntin’ it!”

  “You came from Yreka?” Steve grabbed his shoulder. “How’s the trail? Any Indians out?”

  “Trail?” The miner spat. “There ain’t no trail! A loose-minded mule walked through the brush a couple of times, that’s all! Indians? Modocs? Man, the woods is full of ’em! Behind ever’ bush! Scalp-huntin’ bucks, young and old. If yuh’re headin’ that way, you won’t get through. Yore hair will be in a tepee ’fore two suns go down!”

  He staggered off into the darkness, trying a song that dribbled away and lost itself in the noise of the creek.

  Mehan walked the horse down to the creek and let him drink.

  “No whiskey, but we’ll settle for water, won’t we, Buck?”

  The creek had its name, he remembered, from an ornery mule who lost the barrel from its pack. It broke in Whiskey Creek, which promptly drew a name upon itself.

  Steve Mehan started the horse again, heading for the stage station at Tower House, some ten miles up the road. The buckskin was weary but game. Ahead of him and on his right still loomed the peak of Mount Shasta, seeming large in the occasional glimpses, even at the distance that still separated them.

  He almost fell from his horse at Tower House, with dawn bright in the eastern sky beyond the ragged mountains. The stage tender blinked sleepy eyes at him and then at the horse.

  “Yuh’ve been givin’ him blazes,” he said. “In a mite of hurry?”

  “After a thief,” mumbled Steve.

  The man scratched his grizzled chin. “He must be a goin’ son of a gun,” he commented whimsically. “Want anything?”

  “Breakfast and a fresh hoss.”

  “Easy done. Yuh ain’t figurin’ on ridin’ north, are yuh? Better change yore plans if yuh are, because the Modocs are out and they’re in a killin’ mood. No trail north of here, yuh know.”

  With a quick breakfast and what must have been a gallon of coffee under his belt, Steve Mehan swung into the saddle and started once more. The new horse was a gray and built for the trail. Steve was sodden with weariness, and at every moment his lids fluttered and started to close. But now, for a while at least, he dared not close them.

  Across Clear Creek he rode into the uplands where no wagon road had ever been started. It was a rugged country, but one he remembered from the past, and he wove around among the trees, following the thread of what might have been a trail. Into a labyrinth of canyons he rode, following the vague trail up the bottom of a gorge, now in the water, then out of it. Then he climbed a steep trail out of the gorge and headed out across the long rolling swell of a grass-covered mountainside.

  The air was much colder now, and there was an occasional flurry of snow. At times he clung to the saddle horn, letting the horse find his own trail, just so that trail was north. He rode into the heavily forested sides of the Trinity Mountains, losing the trail once in the dimness under the tall firs and tamaracks, but keeping on his northern route. Eventually he again hit what must have been the trail.

  His body ached, and he fought to keep his eyelids open. Once he dismounted and walked for several miles to keep himself awake and to give the horse a slight rest. Then he was back in the saddle and riding once more.

  Behind him somewhere was Jake Hitson. Jake, he knew well, would not give up easily. If he guessed what Mehan was attempting he would stop at nothing to prevent it. And yet there was no way of preventing it unless he came north with the boat and reached Portland before him. And that would do no good, for if the boat got to Portland before him, the news would be there, and nothing Hitson could do would be any worse than the arrival of that news.

  Egan and Smith would have their eyes on Jake Hitson, but he might find some means of getting away. Certainly, Steve thought grimly, nothing on horseback was going to catch him now.

  The wind grew still colder and howled mournfully under the dark, needled trees. He shivered and hunched his shoulders against the wind. Once, half asleep, he almost fell from the horse when the gray shied at a fleeing rabbit.

  As yet there were no Indians. He peered ahead across the bleak and forbidding countryside, but it was empty. And then, not long later, he turned down a well-marked trail to Trinity Creek.

  He swung down in front of a log bunkhouse. A miner was at the door.

  “A hoss?” The miner chuckled. “Stranger, yuh’re shore out of luck! There ain’t a hoss hereabouts yuh could get for love or money!”

  Steve Mehan sagged against the building. “Mister,” he mumbled, “I’ve just got to get a hoss. I’ve got to!”

  “Sorry, son. There just ain’t none. Nobody in town would give up his hoss right now, and they are mighty scarce at that! Yuh’d better come in and have some coffee.”

  Steve stripped his saddle and bridle from his horse and walked into the house. He almost fell into a chair. Several miners playing cards looked up. “Amigo,” one of them said, “yuh’d better lay off that stuff.”

  Mehan’s head came up heavily, and he peered at the speaker, a blond giant in a red-checked shirt.

  “I haven’t slept since I left Sacramento,” he said. “Been in the saddle ever since.”

  “Sacramento?” The young man stared. “You must be crazy!”

  “He’s chasin a thief,” said the miner Steve had first seen. He was bringing Steve a cup of coffee. “I’d want a man awful bad before I rode like that.”

  “I got to beat the steamer to Portland,” Steve said. It was a lie in a way, but actually the truth. “If I don’t the fellow will get away with fifteen thousand dollars!”

  “Fifteen thou—” The young man laid down his hand. “Brother,” he said emphatically, “I’d ride, too!”

  Steve gulped the coffee and lurched to his feet.

  “Got to find a hoss,” he said and lunged outside.

  It took him less than a half hour to prove to himself that it was an impossibility. Nobody would even consider selling a horse, and his own was in bad shape.

  “Not a chance!” they told him. “A man without a hoss in this country is through! No way in or out but on a hoss, and not an extry in town!”

  He walked back to the stable. One look at his own horse told him the animal was through. There was no chance to go farther with it. No matter what he might do, the poor creature could stagger no more than a few miles. It would be killing a good horse to no purpose. Disgusted and discouraged, numbed with weariness, he stood in the cold wind, rubbing his grizzled chin with a fumbling hand.

  So this was the end. After all his effort, the drive over the mountains and desert, the long struggle to sell out, and then this ride, and all for nothing. Back there in the Pahute the people he had left behind would be trusting him, keeping their faith. For no matter how much they were sure he would fail, their hopes must go with him. And now he had
failed.

  Wearily he staggered into the bunkhouse and dropped into his chair. He fumbled with the coffeepot and succeeded in pouring out a cupful. His legs and feet felt numb, and he had never realized a man could be so utterly, completely tired.

  The young man in the checkered shirt looked around from his poker game.

  “No luck, eh? Yuh’ve come a long way to lose now.”

  Steve nodded bitterly. “That money belongs to my friends as well as me,” he said. “That’s the worst of it.”

  The blond young fellow laid down his hand and pulled in the chips. Then he picked up his pipe.

  “My sorrel out there in the barn,” he said, “is the best hoss on the Trinity. You take it and go, but man, yuh’d better get yoreself some rest at Scott Valley. Yuh’ll die.”

  Mehan lunged to his feet, hope flooding the weariness from his body.

  “How much?” he demanded, reaching for his pocket.

  “Nothin’,” the fellow said. “Only if yuh catch that thief, bring him back on my hoss, and I’ll help yuh hang him. I promise yuh.”

  Steve hesitated. “What about the hoss?”

  “Bring him back when yuh come south,” the fellow said, “and take care of him. He’ll never let yuh down.”

  Steve Mehan rode out of Trinity Creek ten minutes later, and the sorrel took to the trail as if he knew all that was at stake, and pressed on eagerly for Scott Valley.

  The cold was increasing as Steve Mehan rode farther north and the wind was raw, spitting with rain that seemed to be changing to snow. Head hunched behind the collar of his buffalo coat, Steve pushed on, talking low to the horse, whose ears twitched a response and who kept going, alternating between a fast walk and a swinging, space-eating trot.

  Six hours out of Trinity Creek, Steve Mehan rode into Scott Valley.

  The stage tender took one look at him and waved him to a bunk.

  “Hit it, stranger,” he said. “I’ll care for yore hoss!”

  Stumbling through a fog of exhaustion, Steve made the bunk and dropped into its softness.…

  Steve Mehan opened his eyes suddenly, with the bright sunlight in his face. He glanced at his watch. It was noon.

  Lunging to his feet, he pulled on his boots, which somebody had removed without awakening him, and reached for his coat. The heavyset red-haired stage tender walked in and glanced at him.

  “See yuh’ve got Joe Chalmers’s hoss,” he remarked, his thumbs in his belt. “How come?”

  Steve looked up. “Chasin’ a thief. He let me have it.”

  “I know Chalmers. He wouldn’t let Moses have this hoss to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. Not him. Yuh’ve got some explainin’ to do, stranger.”

  “I said he loaned me the hoss,” Steve said grimly. “I’m leavin’ him with you and I want to buy another to go on with. What have yuh got?”

  Red was dubious. “Don’t reckon I should sell yuh one. Looks mighty funny to me, you havin’ Joe’s hoss. Is Joe all right?”

  “Well,” Steve said wearily, “he was just collecting a pot levied by three treys when I talked to him, so I reckon he’ll make out.”

  Red chuckled. “He’s a poker-playin’ man, that one! Good man, too.” He hesitated and then shrugged. “All right. There’s a blaze-faced black in the stable yuh can have for fifty dollars. Good horse, too. Better eat somethin’.”

  He put food on the table, and Steve ate too rapidly. He gulped some coffee, and then Red came out with a pint of whiskey.

  “Stick this in yore pocket, stranger. Might come in handy.”

  “Thanks.” Mehan wiped his mouth and got to his feet. He felt better, and he walked to the door.

  “Yuh ain’t got a rifle?” Red was frankly incredulous. “The Modocs will get yuh shore.”

  “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of one yet!” Steve said, smiling. “I’m beginnin’ to think they’ve all gone east for the winter.”

  “Don’t you think it!” Red slipped a bridle on the black while Steve cinched up the saddle. “They are out, and things up Oregon way are bad off. They shore raised ructions up around Grave Creek, and all the country around the Klamath and the Rogue is harassed by ’em.”

  Somewhere out at sea the steamer would be plowing over the gray sea toward Astoria and the mouth of the Columbia. The trip from there up to the Willamette and Portland would not take long.

  The black left town at a fast lope and held it. The horse was good, no question about it. Beyond Callahan’s, Steve hit the old Applegate wagon trail and found the going somewhat better and pushed on. Just seventy hours out from Knights Landing he rode into Yreka.

  After a quick meal, a drink, and a fresh horse, he mounted and headed out of town for the Oregon line. He rode through Humbug City and Hawkinsville without a stop and followed a winding trail up the gorge of the Shasta.

  Once, after climbing the long slope north of the Klamath, he glimpsed a party of Indians some distance away. They sighted him, for they turned their horses his way, but he rode on, holding his pace, and crossed Hungry Creek and left behind him the cairn that marked the boundary line of Oregon. He turned away from the trail then and headed into the backcountry, trying a cutoff for Bear Creek and the village of Jacksonville. Somewhere, he lost the Indians.

  He pushed on, and now the rain that had been falling intermittently turned to snow. It began to fall thick and fast. He was riding out of the trees when on the white-flecked earth before him he saw a moccasin track with earth just tumbling into it from the edge.

  Instantly he whipped his horse around and touched spurs to its flanks. The startled animal gave a great bound, and at the same instant a shot whipped by where he had been only a moment before. Then he was charging through brush, and the horse was dodging among the trees.

  An Indian sprang from behind a rock and lifted a rifle. Steve drew and fired. The Indian threw his rifle away and rolled over on the ground, moaning.

  Wild yells chorused behind him, and a shot cut the branches overhead. He fired again and then again.

  Stowing the Smith & Wesson away, he whipped out the four-barreled Braendlin. Holding it ready, he charged out of the brush and headed across the open country. Behind him the Modocs were coming fast. His horse was quick and alert, and he swung it around a grove of trees and down into a gully. Racing along the bottom, he hit a small stream and began walking the horse carefully upstream. After making a half mile, he rode out again and took to the timber, reloading his other pistol.

  Swapping horses at every chance, he pushed on. One hundred and forty-three hours out of Knights Landing, he rode into Portland. He had covered six hundred and fifty-five miles. He swung down and turned to the stable hand.

  “That steamer in from Frisco?”

  “Heard her whistle,” said the man. “She’s comin’ up the river now.”

  But Steve had turned and was running fast.

  The agent for the banking express company looked up and blinked when Steve Mehan lurched through the door.

  “I’m buying cattle,” Steve told him, “and need some money. Can you honor a certificate of deposit for me?”

  “Let’s see her.”

  Steve handed him the order and shifted restlessly. The man eyed the order for a long time and then turned it over and studied the back. Finally, when Steve was almost beside himself with impatience, the agent looked up over his glasses at the bearded, hollow-eyed young man. “Reckon I can,” he said. “Of course there’s the deduction of one-half of one percent for all amounts over a thousand dollars.”

  “Pay me,” Steve said.

  He leaned over the desk, and suddenly the deep-toned blast of the steamer’s whistle rang through the room. The agent was putting stacks of gold on the table. He looked up.

  “Well, what do you know? That’s the steamer in from Portland. I reckon I better see about—”

  Whatever he was going to see about, Steve never discovered, for as the agent turned away, Steve reached out and collared him. “Pay me!” he said sharply. “Pa
y me now!”

  The agent shrugged. “Well, all right! No need to get all fussed about it. Plenty of time.”

  He put out stacks of gold. Mentally, Steve calculated the amount. When it was all there, he swept it into a sack—almost fifty pounds of gold. He slung the sack over his shoulder and turned toward the door.

  A gun boomed, announcing the arrival of the steamer, as he stepped out into the street. Four men were racing up the street from the dock, and the man in the lead was Jake Hitson!

  Hitson skidded to a halt when he saw Steve Mehan, and his face went dark with angry blood. The blue eyes frosted and he stood wide legged, staring at the man who had beaten him to Portland.

  “So!” His voice was a roar that turned the startled townspeople around. “Beat me here, did yuh? Got yore money, have yuh?” He seemed unable to absorb the fact that he was beaten, that Mehan had made it through.

  “Just so yuh won’t kick anybody out of his home, Jake,” Steve said quietly, “and I hope that don’t hurt too much!”

  The small man in the black suit had gone around them and into the express company office. The other men were Pink Egan and a swarthy-faced man who was obviously a friend of Hitson’s.

  Hitson lowered his head. The fury seemed to go out of him as he stood there in the street with a soft rain falling over them.

  “Yuh won’t get back there,” he said in a dead, flat voice. “Yuh done it, all right, but yuh’ll never play the hero in Pahute, because I’m goin’ to kill yuh!”

  “Like yuh killed Dixie and Chuck?” challenged Steve. “Yuh did, yuh know. Yuh started that landslide and the Mohaves.”

  Hitson made no reply. He merely stood there, a huge bull of a man, his frosty eyes bright and hard under the corn-silk eyebrows.

  Suddenly his hand swept down.

  When Steve had first sighted the man, he had lowered the sack of gold to the street. Now he swept his coat back and grabbed for his own gun. He was no gunfighter, and the glimpse of flashing speed from Hitson made something go sick within him, but his gun came up and he fired.