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

by Louis L'Amour

  The bank money was passed over by silent and efficient tellers, the bandits remounted, and in leisurely fashion began to depart. And then something happened that was not included in their plans. It was something that created an impression wherever bad men were wont to gather.

  From behind a stone wall on the edge of town came a withering blast of fire, and in the space of no more than fifty yards, five of the bandits died. Two more were hung to a convenient cottonwood on the edge of town. Only one man, mounted upon an exceptionally fast horse, escaped.

  Along the dim trails this was put down to chance, but one man dissented, and that man was Big Red Clanahan, for Big Red had not forgotten the hard-bitten young rider who had accompanied him upon so many long trails, and who had stood beside him to cow a Dodge City saloon full of gunfighters. Big Red remembered Bill Gleason, and smiled.

  Twice in succeeding months the same thing happened, and they were attended by only one difference. On those two occasions not one man survived. Cholla was distinctly a place to stay away from.

  Big Red was intrigued and tantalized. Although he would have been puzzled by the term, Big Red was in his own way an artist. He was also a tactician, and a man with a sense of humor. He met Yaqui Joe in a little town below the border, and over frequent glasses of tequila, he probed the half-breed’s mind, searching for the gimmick that made Cholla foolproof against the outlaw raids.

  There had to be something, some signal. If he could learn it, he would find it amusing and a good joke on Bill to drop in, rob Cholla’s bank, and get away, thumbing his nose at his old pard.

  The time was good. Victorio was on the warpath and had run off horses from the Army, killed some soldiers, and fought several pitched battles in which he had come off well, if not always the victor. The country was restless and frightened and pursuit would neither be easily organized nor long continued when every man was afraid to be long away from home.

  “Think!” Red struck his hairy fist on the table between them. “Think, Joe! There has to be a signal! Those hombres didn’t just pop out of the ground!”

  Yaqui Joe shook his head, staring with bleary eyes into his glass. “I remember nothing—nothing. Except …”

  His voice trailed off, but Big Red grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

  “Except what, Joe? Somethin’ that was different! Think!”

  Yaqui Joe scowled in an effort to round up his thoughts and get a rope on the idea that had come to him. They had been over this so many times before.

  “There was nothing!” he insisted. “Only, while we sat in front of the bank, there was a sort of light, like from a glass and the sun. It moved quickly across the street. Like so!” He gestured widely with his hand, knocking his glass to the floor.

  Clanahan picked up the glass and filled it once more. He was scowling.

  “And that was all? Yuh’re shore?”

  Waiting until he was sure Gleason was out of town, Big Red rode in. He did not like to do it, but preferred not to trust to anyone else. At the bank he changed some money, glancing casually around. Then his pulse jumped, and he grinned at the teller who handed him his money.

  He walked from the bank, stowing away his money. So that was it! And of course, it could be nothing else.

  The bank stood in such a position that the windows caught the full glare of the morning light, and that sunlight flowed through the windows and fell full upon the mirror that covered the upper half of the door that led behind the wickets where the money was kept.

  If that door was opened suddenly, a flash of light would be thrown into the windows across the street! A flash that would run along the storefronts the length of the street, throwing the glare into the eyes of the bartender in the saloon, the grocer and the hardware man, and ending up on the faces of the loafers before the livery stable. One at least, and probably more, would see that flash, and the warning would have been given.

  He gathered his men carefully, and he knew the men to get for the job. Yaqui Joe, because when sober he was one lump of cold nerve, then Bronco Smith and the Dutchman because they were new in the Cholla country, and skillful, able workmen. Then he waited until Victorio was raiding in the vicinity, and sent a startled Mexican into town with news of the Apache.

  With Sheriff Bill Gleason in command, over half the able-bodied men rode out of town, and Big Red, with Yaqui Joe at his side, rode in. Bronco Smith and the Dutchman had come in a few minutes earlier, and it was Smith who blocked the opening of the mirrored door.

  The job was swift and smooth. The three men in the bank, taken aback by the blocking of their signal, were tied hand and foot and the money loaded into canvas bags. The four were on their way out of town before a sitter in front of the livery stable recognized the half-breed.

  Under a hot, metallic sky the desert lay like a crumpled sheet of dusty copper, scattered with occasional boulders. Here and there it was tufted with cactuses or Joshua palm and slashed by the cancerous scars of dry washes. A lone ranch six miles south of Cholla fell behind them and they pushed on into the afternoon, riding not swiftly but steadily.

  Clanahan turned in the saddle and glanced back. His big jaws moved easily over the cud of chewing tobacco, his gray-green eyes squinting against the hard bright glare of the sun.

  “Anything in sight?” Bronco did not look around. “Mebbe we’ll lose ’em quick.”

  “Gleason ain’t easy lost.”

  “You got respect for that sheriff.”

  “I know him.”

  “Maybe Joe’s idea goot one, no?” The Dutchman struck a match with his left hand, cupping it to his cigarette with his palm. “Maybe in Apache country they will not follow?”

  “They’ll follow. Only in Victorio’s country they may not follow far. When we shift hosses we’ll be all set.”

  “How far to the hosses?”

  “Only a few miles.” Red indicated a saw-toothed ridge on the horizon. “Yonder.”

  “We got plenty moneys, no?” The Dutchman slapped a thick palm on his saddlebags and was rewarded with the chink of gold coin. “Och! Mexico City! We go there and I show you how a gentlemans shall live! Mexico City with money to spend! There iss nothing better!”

  Two ridges gaped at the sky when they reached the horses, two ridges that lay open like the jaws of a skull. Red Clanahan turned his horse from the dim trail he had followed and dipped down into the gap where lay a wide space of flat ground, partially shaded by two upthrust ledges that held a forty-degree angle above the ground. Four horses waited there, and two pack mules.

  Smith nodded, satisfied. “Those mules will take the weight of the gold off our horses. Grub, too! Yuh think of everything, Red!”

  “There’s a spring under that corner rock. Better dump yore canteens and refill them. Don’t waste any time.”

  “How about south of here?” Bronco stared off over the desert. “Is there more water?”

  “Plenty water.” Joe accepted the question. “Latigo Springs tomorrow night, and the day after Seepin’ Springs.”

  “Good!” Smith bit off a chew of his own. “I was dry as a ten-year-old burro bone when I got here.”

  He needed nobody to tell him what that bleak waste to the south would be like without water, or how difficult to find water it would be unless you knew where to look.

  “How much did we get?” Dutch inquired. “How much? You know, eh?”

  “Fifty thousand, or about.”

  “I’d settle for half!” Smith spat.

  “Yuh’ll settle for a lot less.” Red turned his hard green eyes on Smith. “I’m takin’ the top off this one. Took me four weeks of playin’ tag with Gleason to get the layout.”

  “What do yuh call the top?”

  “Seventeen thousand, if she comes to fifty. You get eleven thousand apiece.”

  Bronco pondered the thought. It was enough. In seven years of outlawry he had never had more than five hundred dollars at one time. Anyway, he wouldn’t have stayed that close to Gleason for twice the money.
That sheriff had a nose for trouble.

  When Big Red first suggested the raid on Cholla, Smith had thought him crazy, but he had to chuckle when he remembered the astonishment on the cashier’s face when he stepped around and blocked the door with the mirror before it could be opened, and how Big Red had come in through the door on the other side that looked like it wasn’t there.

  The escape into Victorio’s country was pure genius—if they avoided the Apaches. Yaqui Joe’s idea had been a good one, but Red had already planned it in advance, as was proved by the waiting horses. Of necessity a pursuing force would have to go slow to avoid the Indians, and they would have no fresh horses awaiting them at the notch.

  Under a hot and brassy sky they held steadily southward over a strange, wild land of tawny yellows and reds, bordered by serrated ridges that gnawed at the sky. Clanahan mopped the sweat from his brow and stared back over the trail, lost in dancing heat waves. As usual there was nothing in sight.

  Hours passed, and the only movement aside from the walking of their horses was the wavering heat vibrations and, high under the sun-filled dome of the sky, the distant black circling of a buzzard. On the ground not even a horned frog or a Gila monster showed under the withering sun.

  “How much farther to water, Joe?”

  “One, maybe two mile.”

  “We’ll drink and refill our canteens,” Red told them, “but we stop no longer than that. We’ve got gold enough to do somethin’ with and we’d better be gettin’ on.”

  “No sign of ’Paches.”

  Red shrugged, then spat, wiping the sweat from the inside of his hatband.

  “The time to look for Injuns is when there’s no sign. Yuh can bet the desert’s alive with ’em, but if we’re lucky they won’t see us.”

  Latigo Springs was a round pool of milky-blue water supplied by a thin trickle from a crack in the sandrock that shaded it. The trickle waged a desperate war with the sun’s heat and the thirsty earth. Occasionally, it held its own, but now in the late summer, the water was low.

  They swung down and drank, then they held their canteens into the thin flow of the spring. They filled slowly. One by one they sponged out the nostrils and mouths of their horses and led the grateful animals to the water.

  Bronco wandered out to where he could look back over their trail. He shaded his eyes against the sun, but then as he started to turn back, he hesitated, staring at the ground.

  “Red.” His voice was normal in tone, but it rang loudly in the clear, empty air.

  Caught by some meaningful timbre in his tone, the others looked up. They were wary men, alert for danger and expecting it. They knew the chance they took, crossing Victorio’s country at this time, and trouble could blossom from the most barren earth.

  Big Red slouched over on the run-down heels of his worn boots. Mopping his face and neck with a bandanna, he stared at the tracks Bronco indicated.

  Two horses had stood here. Two riders had dismounted, but not for long.

  “Hey!” Clanahan squatted on his heels. “Those are kids’ tracks!”

  “Uh-huh.” Bronco swore softly. “Kids! Runnin’ loose in Apache country. Where yuh reckon they came from, Red?”

  Red squinted off to the south and west. The direction of the tracks was but little west of their own route.

  “What I’m wonderin’ is where they are goin’,” he said dubiously. “They shore ain’t headed for nowhere, thataway, and right smack into the dead center of the worst Injun country!”

  Smith stared off over the desert, shook his head wonderingly, then walked back to the spring and drank deeply once more. He was a typical man of the trail. He drank when there was water, ate whenever there was food, rested whenever there was a moment to relax, well knowing days might come when none of the three could be had. He straightened then, wiping the stubble of beard around his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Somet’ing iss wrong?” The Dutchman glanced at Red. “What iss, aboot a kid?”

  “Couple of youngsters ridin’ south. Boy, mebbe thirteen or fourteen, and a girl about the same age.” He mopped his face again, and replaced his hat. “Mount up.”

  They swung into their saddles and Red shifted his bulk to an easy seat. The saddle had grown uncomfortably hot in the brief halt. They started on, walking their horses. It was easy to kill a good horse in this heat. Suddenly the trail the kids were taking veered sharply west. Clanahan reined in and stared at it.

  “Childer!” the Dutchman exclaimed in a puzzled voice. “Und vhy here?”

  “They are shore headin’ into trouble,” Smith said, staring at their trail. His eyes stole sheepishly toward Clanahan, and he started to speak, then held his peace.

  The Dutchman sat stolidly in the saddle. “Mine sister,” he said suddenly, absently, “has two childer. Goot poys.”

  Yaqui Joe looked over his shoulder at their trail, but it was empty and still. Off on their far right a line of magenta-colored ridges seemed to be stretching long fingers of stone toward the trail the kids had taken, as though to intercept them. A tuft of cactus lifted from the crest of the nearest hill like the hackles on an angry dog.

  Red’s mouth was dry and he dug into his shirt pocket for his plug and bit off a sizable chunk. He rolled it in his big jaws and started his horse moving along the trail to the west, following the two weary horses the youngsters were riding.

  Smith stared at the desert. “Glory, but it’s hot!”

  He suddenly knew he was relieved. He had been afraid Red would want to hold to their own route. Safety lay south, only danger and death could await them in the west, but he kept thinking of those kids, and remembering what Apaches could do to a person before that person was lucky enough to die. Thoughtfully, he slipped a shell from a belt loop and dropped it into his shirt pocket.

  An hour had passed before Clanahan halted again, and then he lifted a hand.

  “Joe,” he said, “come up here.”

  The four gathered in a grim, sun-beaten line. Five unshod ponies had come in from the east and were following the trail the youngsters had left.

  “ ’Paches,” Joe said. “Five of them.”

  Red’s horse seemed to start moving of its own volition, but as it walked forward Red dropped a hand to the stock of his Winchester and slid it out and laid it across his saddlebow. The others did likewise.

  Suddenly, with the tracks of those unshod ponies, the desert became a place of stealthy menace. These men had fought Apaches before, and they knew the deadly desert warriors were men to be reckoned with. The horses walked a little faster now, and the eyes of the four men roved unceasingly over the mirage-haunted desert.

  Then the faraway boom of a rifle jarred them from their drowsy watchfulness. Red’s gelding stretched his long legs into a fast canter toward a long spine of rock that arched its broken vertebrae against the sky. Suddenly he slowed down. The rifle boomed again.

  “That’s a Henry,” Bronco said. “The kid’s got him a good rifle.”

  Red halted where the rocks ended and stood in his stirrups. A puff of smoke lifted from a tiny hillock in the basin beyond, and across the hillock he could see that two horses were down. Dead, or merely lying out of harm’s way?

  In the foreground he picked up a slight movement as a slim brown body wormed forward. The other men had dropped from their saddles and moved up. Still standing in his stirrups, Clanahan threw his Winchester to his shoulder, sighted briefly, then fired.

  The Apache leaped, screamed piercingly, then plunged over into a tangle of cholla. Bronco and the Dutchman fired as one man, then Joe fired. An Indian scrambled to his feet and made a break for the shelter of some rocks. Three rifles boomed at once, and the Indian halted abruptly, took two erect, stilted steps, and plunged over on his face.

  They rode forward warily, and Clanahan saw a boy, probably fifteen years old, rise from behind the hillock, relief strong in his handsome blue eyes.

  “Shore glad to see yuh, mister.” His voice steadied. “I rec
kon they was too many for me.”

  Red shoved his hat back and spat. “You was doin’ all right, boy.” His eyes shifted to the girl, a big-eyed, too-thin child of thirteen or so. “What in thunderation are yuh doin’ in this country? This here’s ’Pache country. Don’t yuh know that?”

  The lad’s face reddened. “Reckon we was headed for Pete Kitchen’s place, mister. I heerd he was goin’ to stay on, Injuns or no, an’ we reckoned he might need help.”

  Clanahan nodded. “Kitchen’s stayin’ on, all right, and he can use help. He’s a good man, Pete is. Your sister work, too?”

  “She cooks mighty good, washes dishes, mends.” The boy looked up eagerly. “You fellers wouldn’t be needin’ no help, would yuh? We need work powerful bad. Pa, he got hisself killed over to Mobeetie, and we got our wagon stole.”

  “Jimmy stole the horses back!” the girl said proudly. “He’s mighty brave, Jimmy is! He’s my brother!”

  Clanahan swallowed. “Reckon he is, little lady. I shore reckon.”

  “He got him an Injun out there,” Smith offered. “Dead center.”

  “I did?” The boy was excited and proud. “I guess,” he added a little self-consciously, “I get to put a notch on my rifle now!”

  Bronco started and stared at Red, and the big man hunkered down, the sunlight glinting on his rust-red hair.

  “Son, don’t yuh put no notch on yore rifle, nor ever on yore gun. That there’s a tinhorn trick, and you ain’t no tinhorn. Anyway,” he added thoughtfully, “I guess killin’ a man ain’t nothin’ to be proud of, not even an Injun. Even when it has to be did.”

  The Dutchman shifted uneasily, glancing at the back trail. Yaqui Joe, after the manner of his people, was not worried. He squatted on his heels and lighted a cigarette, drowsing in the hot, still afternoon.

  “We better be gettin’ on,” Clanahan said, straightening. “Them shots will be callin’ more Injuns. I reckon you two got to get to Kitchen’s all right, and this is no country to be travelin’ with no girl, no matter how good a shot yuh are. That Victorio’s a he-wolf. We better get on.”