“I can’t leave you here. I’ll take you back to Horntown. It’s closer.”
Rousting around in the frozen brush, he found a couple of sticks and made a crude splint for the leg. Then he lifted the old man into the saddle. For a man of his frame he was surprisingly light. Matt Ben steadied him in the saddle. “Can you stick it? Damn it, Redman, you’re too old a man to be livin’ this kind of life.”
The sheriff looked down at him. “I know, son, but what else can I do? I kept the peace in the country while all the others got rich in the cattle or sheep business. All of a sudden I was an old man who had nothing but a star and a reputation for doin’ my job.”
Matt Ben climbed into his own saddle after leading Redman’s horse up the bank. “Come on, Zeke,” he said, “you got to show Redman you’re tough as he is. Let’s go home.”
It was slow going. The wind was an icy blast which stung their faces with frozen snow. The sheriff bowed his head into the wind and clung to the saddle horn. He made no sound, but Matt Ben knew he was suffering.
A long time later Matt Ben dismounted and stamped his almost-frozen feet. He was cold all the way through. He swung his arms in a teamster’s warming and walked around, rubbing the legs of the horses and of old Zeke, who stood patiently, as though he had lived all his life with men, when in fact he had run wild for years.
Mounting, he pushed on, followed by the others. From time to time he looked over his shoulder to see if they were still behind him.
They were riding right into the wind, and that should be right, but suppose the wind had shifted? Even if it shifted but little, it still might cause him to miss the canyon mouth and ride on into the endless wastes of the desert.
The horses were of little help, as neither was from Horntown. Their inclination was to turn their tails to the wind and drift but in that direction there was at least fifty miles of empty, windswept desert.
He looked around at Zeke. The old gray burro stood a few yards away, almost at right angle to their route, staring back at him. On a hunch, he turned the buckskin toward the burro and, as if waiting for that very thing, Zeke walked off, quartering into the wind.
“Hope you know where you’re goin’, old fellow,” Matt Ben muttered, “because I surely don’t.”
Zeke was obviously going somewhere. He walked steadily ahead, as though completely sure of his ground. What if the burro thought he was being herded in that direction? It was a risk he must take, but the old burro was desert-wise, and it stood to reason he would head for shelter.
Hours later, it seemed, half frozen and numb with cold, the buckskin stumbled. Matt Ben, jerked from a half doze, looked up to see the gray burro walking straight at a jumble of unfamiliar rocks. Above the rocks, barely visible through the snow, towered a mountain. It might be one of the mountains behind Horntown!
Yet nothing was familiar. He swung down and, leading his horse, he plodded ahead. Suddenly the wind was gone. Looking up, he found the burro had led them into a rock-walled canyon. Plodding after the burro, his feet clumsy with cold, he found himself back in the wind again. He stopped, not believing what he saw.
There before him was a cluster of buildings covered with snow!
Zeke was walking straight ahead, for Zeke knew where he was going. He was returning to Horntown!
Two hours later, a fire roaring in the fireplace, Matt Ben handed another cup of scalding coffee to the sheriff. “Hadn’t been for that old burro we’d have froze to death.”
“Yes,” Redman agreed, “and if you hadn’t been good-hearted enough to worry about that burro, I’d be dead by now. You could have left me there, anyway.”
“Huh?” Matt Ben stared at him sourly. “Now, why the devil would I do that? There wouldn’t be anybody to fight with, then.” He added a snowy log to the fire. “But you’d better get some help. You’re too old for this sort of thing.”
“How’d you happen to shoot that man in Carson?”
Matt explained. “He was fixin’ to kill me. He wanted the name of killin’ the last of the Jacksons of Horntown.
“The law has nothing against me but that. I’ve done a few things I shouldn’t have done but there’s nothing anybody can prove, and nothing they’ve got me tied to. I was through with all that. Being on the dodge all the time is no life for a man.”
“We might find witnesses,” Redman said thoughtfully. “Maybe somebody saw it. Seems to me that somebody always sees things, even when we think nobody is around. If we could prove that was a fair shooting we could get you off. That officer had a bad reputation among us who knew him. He had the instincts of a bully, and used his badge for protection.”
He tugged at his mustache. “Anyway, I’d say a man who would come back and help an officer who’d just taken him prisoner couldn’t be all bad.
“Another thing. You’re right about me gettin’ on in years. I need help. I need a deputy who can use a gun when needed but isn’t anxious to go around shooting folks.”
Matt Ben went out into the storm and crossed to the stable. The two horses and the old burro were chewing methodically on the grass in their mangers, and they rolled their eyes at him when he came in.
The sheriff had carried a little grub and a lot of coffee, and with what Matt Ben had they could live out the storm.
Matt Ben walked over to Zeke and rubbed the old burro’s back. “Zeke, you old gray devil. I think we Jacksons have come back to Horntown to stay.”
He stood a moment, his hand resting on the burro. Outside, the wind moaned around the eaves. It was cold out there, but the stable was snug and warm.
He went outside, closing the door carefully behind him, then, turning the top of his head into the wind, he crossed the street to The Waterhole.
At the door, half sheltered from the wind, he looked back. Old Enoch had built well. The barn was old but it was strong against the wind.
Enoch had meant to sink roots here, to found a family. Well, it was up to him now, to Matt Ben Jackson the Younger.
Ride or Start Shootin’
CHAPTER 1
THE BET
Tollefson saw the horses grazing in the creek bottom and pulled up sharply. “Harry,” his voice was harsh and demanding as always, “whose horses are those?”
“Some drifter name of Tandy Meadows. He’s got some fine-lookin’ stock there.”
“He’s passin’ through?”
“Well,” Harry Fulton’s reluctance sprang from his knowledge of Art Tollefson’s temper, “he says he aims to run a horse in the quarter races.”
Surprisingly, Tollefson smiled. “Oh, he does, does he? Too bad he hasn’t money. I’d like to take it away from him if he had anything to run against Lady Luck.”
Passman had his hat shoved back on his head. It was one of those wide-across-the-cheekbones faces with small eyes, a blunt jaw, and hollow cheeks. Everybody west of Cimarron knew Tom Passman for a gunfighter, and knew that Passman had carried the banner of Art Tollefson’s legions into the high-grass country.
Ranching men had resented their coming with the big Flying T outfit and thirty thousand head of stock. Passman accepted their resentment and told them what they could do. Two, being plainsmen, elected to try it. Harry Fulton had helped to dig their graves.
It was Passman who spoke now. “He’s got some real horses, boss.”
Tollefson’s coveting eyes had been appreciating that. It was obvious that whoever this drifter was, he knew horseflesh. In the twenty-odd head there were some splendid animals. For an instant a shadow of doubt touched him. Such a string might carry a quarter horse faster than Lady Luck. But the doubt was momentary, for his knowledge of the Lady and his pride of possession would not leave room for that. Lady Luck had bloodlines. She was more than range stock.
“Let’s go talk to him,” he said, and reined his bay around the start down the slope toward the creek.
Within view there was a covered wagon and there were two saddled horses. As they rode down the slope, a man stepped from behind the w
agon to meet them. He was a short, powerfully set up Negro with one ear missing and the other carrying a small gold ring in the lobe. His boots were down at heel and his jeans worn.
“Howdy!” Tollefson glanced around. “Who is the owner here?” The tone was suited to an emperor, and behind the wall of his armed riders, Tollefson was almost that. Yet there is something about ruling that fades the perspective, denying clarity to the mind.
“I’m the owner.”
The voice came from behind them and Tollefson felt sudden anger. Fulton, who was not a ruler and hence had an unblunted perspective, turned his head with the thought that whoever this man was, he was cautious, and no fool.
As they came down the hill the Negro emerged just at the right time to focus all their eyes, and then the other man appeared from behind them. It was the trick of a magician, of a man who understands indirection.
Tollefson turned in his saddle, and Fulton saw the quick shadow on Tom Passman’s face, for Passman was not a man who could afford to be surprised.
A tall man stood at the edge of the willows. A man whose face was shadowed by the brim of a flat-crowned gray hat, worn and battered. A bullet, Fulton noticed, had creased the crown, neatly notching the edge, and idly he wondered what had become of the man who fired that shot.
The newcomer wore a buckskin vest but had no gun in sight. His spurs were large-roweled, California style, and in his hand he carried a rawhide riata. This was grass-rope country, and forty-five feet was a good length, yet from the look of this rope it was sixty or more.
“You the owner?” Tollefson was abrupt as always. “I hear you’re plannin’ to race a quarter horse against my Lady Luck.”
“Aim to.” The man came forward, moving with the step of a woodsman rather than a rider.
“I’m Tollefson. If you have any money and want to bet, I’m your man. If you don’t have money, maybe we could bet some stock.”
Tandy Meadows pushed back his hat from his strong bronzed face, calm with that assurance that springs from inner strength. Not flamboyant strength, nor pugnacious, but that of a man who goes his own way and blazes his own trails.
“Yeah,” Tandy said slowly, digging out the makings, “I’ve two or three quarter horses. I figured to run one of them. It isn’t much point which of them.” He scratched a match on his trouser leg. “What made you figure I had no money? I got a mite of change I aimed to bet.”
Tollefson’s smile was patronizing. “I’m talking about money, man! I like to bet! I was thinking,” he paused for effect and he deliberately made his voice casual, “five thousand dollars.”
“Five?” Meadows lifted an eyebrow. “Well, all right. I guess I can pick up a few more small bets around to make it interesting.”
Tollefson’s skin tightened over his cheekbones. He was no gambling man, but it built his ego to see men back up and hesitate at the thought of five thousand dollars in one bet. “What do you mean? You want to bet more than five thousand dollars?”
“Sort of figured it.” Meadows drew deeply on his cigarette. “I heard there was a gambling man down here who liked to bet enough to make it interesting.”
Tollefson was deeply affronted. Not many men could afford to bet that kind of money, and he liked to flaunt big bets and show them who they were dealing with. Yet here was a man who calmly accepted his bet and hinted that it was pretty small potatoes. Somewhere in the group behind him he thought he detected a subdued snicker, and the casual indifference of this man Meadows irritated him.
“Whatever you want to put up,” he snapped, “I’ll cover! Name your price! I’ll cover all you can get at two to one odds!”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Tandy said, sliding his thumbs behind his belt. “Aren’t you the Tollefson from the Flying T? How about bettin’ your ranch?”
Art Tollefson was shocked. He was profoundly shocked. This down-at-heels stranger offering to cover a bet against his ranch! Against the Flying T, sixty thousand head of stock and miles of rolling grassland, water holes, and buildings!
Lady Luck was his pride, a symbol of his power and money. She was the fastest thing he had ever seen on legs, and he liked to see her win. Yet his bets were merely for the sake of showing his large-handed way with money, of making him envied. At heart he was not a gambler and only put his money up reluctantly, but he was rarely called. Yet now he had been, and he knew that if he backed down now he would become the laughingstock of the range. It was a humiliation he neither wanted nor intended to endure.
“That’s a rather large bet, my man,” he said, for suddenly he realized the man must be bluffing. “Have you any idea what you’re saying? You’d have to show a lot of money to cover it.”
Meadows smiled. It was the first flicker of expression that had come to his face, but the smile was pleasant. Yet there was a shadow beneath it that might have been faintly ironic. “What’s the matter, Tollefson?” he taunted gently. “Gettin’ chilly around the arches? Or were you bluffin’ with that big money talk? Back down, if you like, and don’t waste my time. I’ll cover your little spread and more if need be, so put up or shut up.”
Tollefson’s fury broke. “Why, you impudent chump!” He stopped, his jaw setting hard. “All right, get on your horse and come to the bank with me! John Clevenger knows my ranch, and he knows horses! If you’ve got the collateral, you can put it up, and you’ve made a bet!”
Tandy swung astride one of the saddled horses. Tollefson’s quick eyes saw the build of the animal. Arab, with a strain of Morgan by the look of it. If this horse was any evidence … He shook off a momentary twinge of doubt.
Meadows turned his horse, then hesitated. “Don’t you even want to see my horses? I’ve not decided which to run, but you’re welcome to look ’em over.”
“It’s no matter!” Tollefson’s fury was still riding him. He was bitter at the trap he had laid for himself. If this fool didn’t have the money, why, he would … Just what he would do he wasn’t sure but his face was flushed with angry blood.
Art Tollefson was not the only one who was feeling doubt. To Harry Fulton, who rode behind him, this seemed too pat to be an accident, and to Tom Passman it seemed the same way but with an added worry. Gifted at judging men, he knew Tandy Meadows should have been carrying a gun; yet there was none in sight, and it worried him.
Tandy Meadows looked straight down the road, aware that the crossroads of all his planning had been reached, and now everything depended on John Clevenger. He knew little about the banker except that the man was known and respected on the frontier, and that he was one of the original breeders of quarter horses. He was hardheaded, yet western man to the very heels of his boots, and a man with the courage of his convictions. It was rumored of him that he had once accepted four aces in a poker game as collateral for a bank loan.
The bank at El Poleo was a low, gray stone building that looked like the fort it had to be to survive. Situated as it was, across the street from the Poleo Saloon, half the town saw Art Tollefson and the stranger draw up before the bank. It was in the nature of things that in a matter of minutes everyone in town knew what they had come for. The town was aghast.
CHAPTER 2
A TRAP CLOSES
John Clevenger saw them coming with no idea of what they wanted. He had opened his bank against great odds and against even greater odds had kept it going. He had faith in his fellow man and his judgment of them, and was accustomed to the amazing ways of western men. More than once he had loaned money on sheer courage and character. So far he had not lost by it.
Tollefson was a shrewd, hardheaded businessman, yet one of overbearing manner who carried things with a high hand. Tollefson dealt in force and money power, Clevenger in character and self-respect. That Tollefson should make such a wager was beyond belief, yet Clevenger heard them out in silence.
“You have collateral for such a bet?” Clevenger asked. He studied Meadows thoughtfully and approved of what he saw.
Tandy drew a black leather case from his h
ip pocket and extracted a letter and some legal-appearing papers. Clevenger accepted them, started as if struck, then looked again and became very thoughtful. Twice he glanced up at Meadows. At last he got to his feet and pulled off his glasses. There was the ghost of a twinkle in his eyes as he studied Meadows. “I hardly know what to say, Mr. Meadows. I—” His voice faltered, then stopped.
“That’s my collateral,” Tandy said quietly. “I think you’re the best judge. Tollefson seems to want a big bet on this race. I’ve called him. We came to see if you would accept this as collateral and put up the money to cover the bet.” He glanced toward the flushed face of the rancher. “Of course, if he wants to welsh on the bet, now’s his last chance.”
“I’ll be double-slathered if I do!” Tollefson’s fury was increased by his panic. He wanted nothing so much as to be safely out of this, but could see no escape without losing prestige, as important to him as life itself.
Clevenger stared thoughtfully at the papers. “Yes,” he said at last, “I’ll put up the money. Your bet’s covered, Tollefson.”
“Here—let me see that!” Tollefson’s hand shot out, grabbing for the letter, but steely fingers caught his wrist.
Tandy Meadows jerked Tollefson’s hand back and their eyes clashed. Half blind with fury, Tollefson stared at the younger man. “Take your hands off me!” he shouted.
“Willingly,” Meadows replied shortly, “only you have neither the need nor the right to touch those papers. The contents are confidential. All you need is Clevenger’s word that he will put up the money.”
Stiffly, Tollefson drew back his hand, rubbing his wrist. He stared hard at Meadows, genuinely worried now. Who was this man? Where did he get such money? What had so astonished Clevenger about the papers? And that grip! Why, his fingers were like a steel trap!
Abruptly, he turned and walked from the bank followed by Fulton and Tom Passman. Together they entered the saloon. Fulton rubbed his jaw nervously, wanting to talk to Tollefson. This was a crazy bet! The equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars on a quarter-horse race against an unknown horse!
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3 Page 27
