Collection 1986 - Dutchman's Flat (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Yet it was nothing secure, merely a huge cottonwood log rushing downstream. Working his way along it, he managed to get a leg over and crawled atop it. Fortunately, the log did not roll over.

  Lying there in the blackness, he realized what must have happened. Behind the row of buildings that fronted on the street, of which the jail was one, was a shallow, sandy ditch. At one end of it the bluff reared up. The dry wash skirted one side of the triangle formed by the bluff, and the ditch formed the other. Water flowing off the bluff and off the roofs of the buildings and from the street of the town and the rise beyond it had flooded into the ditch, washing it deeper. Yet now he knew he was in the current of the wash itself, now running bank full, a raging torrent.

  A brief flash of lightning revealed the stream down which he was shooting like a chip in a millrace. Below, he knew, was Cathedral Gorge, a narrow boulder-strewn gash in the mountain down which this wash would thunder like an express train. Tack had seen such logs go down it, smashing into boulders, hurled against the rocky walls, and then shooting at last out into the open flat below the gorge. And he knew instantly that no living thing could hope to ride a charging log through the black, roaring depths of the gorge and come out anything but a mangled, lifeless pulp.

  The log he was bestriding hit a wave, and water drenched him. Then the log whirled dizzily around a bend in the wash. Before him and around another bend he could hear the roar of the gorge. The log swung, and then the driving roots ripped into a heap of debris at the bend of the wash, and the log swung wickedly across the current. Scrambling like a madman, Tack fought his way toward the roots, and then even as the log ripped loose, he hurled himself at the heap of debris.

  He landed in a heap of broken boughs, and felt something gouge him, and then scrambling, he made the rocks and clambered up into their shelter, lying there on a flat rock, gasping for breath.

  A LONG TIME later he got up. Something was wrong with his right leg. It felt numb and sore. He crawled over the rocks and stumbled over the muddy earth toward the partial shelter of a clump of trees.

  He needed shelter, and he needed a gun. Tack Gentry knew that now that he was free they would scour the country for him. They might believe him dead, but they would want to be certain. What he needed now was shelter, rest, and food. He needed to examine himself to see how badly he was injured, yet where could he turn?

  Betty? She was too far away and he had no horse. Red Furness? Possibly, but how much the man would or could help he did not know. Yet thinking of Red made him think of Childe. There was a place for him. If he could only get to Childe's quarters over the saloon!

  Luckily, he had landed on the same side of the wash as the town. He was stiff and sore, and his leg was paining him grievously. Yet there was no time to be lost. What the hour was he had no idea, but he knew his progress would be slow, and he must be careful. The rain was pounding down, but he was so wet now that it made no difference.

  How long it took him he never knew. He could have been no more than a mile from town, perhaps less, and he walked, crawled, and pulled himself to the edge of town and then behind the buildings until he reached the dark pack stairway to Anson Childe's room. Step by step he crawled up. Luckily, the door was unlocked.

  Once inside, he stood there in the darkness, listening. There was no sound. This room was windowless but for one very small and tightly curtained window at the top of the wall. Tack felt for the candle, found it, and fumbled for a match. When he had the candle alight, he started pulling off his clothes.

  Naked, he dried himself with a towel, avoiding the injured leg. Then he found a bottle and poured himself a drink. He tossed it off and then sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at his leg.

  It almost made him sick to look at it. Hurled against a root or something in the dark, he had torn a great, mangled wound in the calf of his leg. No artery appeared to have been injured, but in places his shinbone was visible through the ripped flesh. The wound in the calf was deep. Cleansing it as best he could, he found a white shirt belonging to Childe and bandaged his leg.

  Exhausted, he fell asleep—when, he never recalled. Only hours later he awakened suddenly to find sunlight streaming through the door into the front room. His leg was stiff and sore, and when he moved, it throbbed with pain. Using a cane he found hanging in the room, he pulled himself up and staggered to the door.

  The curtains in the front room were up and sunlight streamed in. The rain seemed to be gone. From where he stood he could see into the street, and almost the first person he saw was Van Hardin. He was standing in front of the Longhorn talking to Soderman and the mustached man Tack had first seen at his own ranch.

  The sight reminded him, and Tack hunted around for a gun. He found a pair of beautifully matched Colts, silver plated and ivory handled. He strapped them on with their ornate belt and holsters. Then, standing in a corner, he found a riot gun and a Henry rifle. He checked the loads in all the guns, found several boxes of ammunition for each of them, and emptied a box of. 45s into the pockets of a pair of Childe's pants he pulled on. Then he put a double handful of shotgun shells into the pockets of a leather jacket he found.

  He sat down then, for he was weak and trembling.

  His time was short. Sooner or later someone would come to this room. Either someone would think of it, or someone would come to claim the room for himself. Red Furness had no idea he was there, so would probably not hesitate to let anyone come up.

  He locked the door, and then dug around and found a stale loaf of bread and some cheese. Then he lay down to rest. His leg was throbbing with pain, and he knew it needed care, and badly.

  When he awakened, he studied the street from a vantage point well inside the room and to one side of the window. Several knots of men were standing around talking, more men than should have been in town at that hour. He recognized one or two of them as being old-timers around. Twice he saw Olney ride by, and the sheriff was carrying a riot gun.

  Starr and the mustached man were loafing in front of the Longhorn, and two other men Tack recognized as coming from the old London ranch were there.

  HE ATE SOME more bread and cheese. He was just finishing his sandwich when a buckboard turned into the street, and his heart jumped when he saw Betty London was driving. Beside her in the seat was her father, Bill, worn and old, his hair white now, but he was wearing a gun!

  Something was stirring down below. It began to look as if the lid was about to blow off. Yet Tack had no idea of his own status. He was an escaped prisoner and as such could be shot on sight legally by Olney or Starr, who seemed to be a deputy. From the wary attitude of the Van Hardin men he knew that they were disturbed by their lack of knowledge of him.

  Yet the day passed without incident, and finally he returned to the bunk and lay down after checking his guns once more. The time for the payoff was near, he knew. It could come at any moment. He was lying there thinking about that and looking up at the rough plank ceiling when he heard steps on the stairs.

  He arose so suddenly that a twinge of pain shot through the weight that had become his leg. The steps were on the front stairs, not the back. A quick glance from the window told him it was Betty London.

  What did she want here?

  Her hand fell on the knob and it turned. He eased off the bed and turned the key in the lock. She hesitated just an instant and then stepped in. When their eyes met, hers went wide, and her face went white to the lips.

  “You!” she gasped. “Oh, Tack! What have you been doing! Where have you been!”

  She started toward him, but he backed up and sat down on the bed. “Wait. Do they know I'm up here?” he demanded harshly.

  “No, Tack. I came up to see if some papers were here, some papers I gave to Anson Childe before he was—murdered.”

  “Yuh think I did that?” he demanded.

  “No, of course not!” Her eyes held a question. “Tack, what's the matter? Don't you like me anymore?”

  “Don't I like yuh?” His
lips twisted with bitterness. “Lady, yuh've got a nerve to ask that! I come back and find my girl about to go dancin' in a cheap saloon dance hall, and—”

  “I needed money, Tack,” Betty said quietly. “Dad needed care. We didn't have any money. Everything we had was lost when we lost the ranch. Hardin offered me the job. He said he wouldn't let anybody molest me.”

  “What about him?”

  “I could take care of him.” She looked at him, puzzled. “Tack, what's the matter? Why are you sitting down? Are you hurt?”

  “My leg.” He shook his head as she started forward. “Don't bother about it. There's no time. What are they saying down there? What's all the crowd in town? Give it to me, quick!”

  “Some of them think you were drowned in escaping from jail. I don't think Van Hardin thinks that, nor Olney. They seem very disturbed. The crowd is in town for Childe's funeral and because some of them think you were murdered once Olney got you in jail. Some of our old friends.”

  “Betty!” The call came from the street below. It was Van Hardin's voice.

  “Don't answer!” Tack Gentry got up. His dark green eyes were hard. “I want him to come up.”

  Betty waited, her eyes wide, listening. Footsteps sounded on the stairway, and then the door shoved open. “Bet—” Van Hardin's voice died out and he stood there, one hand on the doorknob, staring at Tack.

  “Howdy, Hardin,” Tack said, “I was hopin' yuh'd come.”

  Van Hardin said nothing. His powerful shoulders filled the open door, his eyes were set, and the shock was fading from them now.

  “Got a few things to tell yuh, Hardin,” Tack continued gently. “Before yuh go out of this feet first I want yuh to know what a sucker yuh've been.”

  “A sucker I've been?” Hardin laughed. “What chance have yuh got? The street down there is full of my men. Yuh've friends there, too, but they lack leadership. They don't know what to do. My men have their orders. And then I won't have any trouble with yuh, Gentry. Yore old friends around here told me all about yuh. Soft, like that uncle of yores.”

  “Ever hear of Black Jack Paris, Hardin?”

  “The gunman? Of course, but what's he got to do with yuh?”

  “Nothin', now. He did once, up in Ellsworth, Kansas. They dug a bed for him next mornin', Hardin. He was too slow. Yuh said I was soft? Well, maybe I was once. Maybe in spots I still am, but yuh see, since the folks around here have seen me I've been over the cattle trails, been doin' some Injun fightin' and rustler killin'. It makes a sight of change in a man, Hardin.

  “That ain't what I wanted yuh to know. I wanted yuh to know what a fool yuh were, tryin' to steal this ranch. Yuh see, the land in our home ranch wasn't like the rest of this land, Hardin.”

  “What do yuh mean?” Hardin demanded suspiciously.

  “Why, yuh're the smart boy,” Tack drawled easily. “Yuh should have checked before takin' so much for granted. Yuh see, the Gentry ranch was a land grant. My grandmother, she was a Basque, see? The land came to us through her family, and the will she left was that it would belong to us as long as any of us lived, that it couldn't be sold or traded, and in case we all died, it was to go to the state of Texas!”

  Van Hardin stared. “What?” he gasped. “What kind of fool deal is this yuh're givin' me?”

  “Fool deal is right.” Tack said quietly. “Yuh see, the state of Texas knows no Gentry would sell or trade, knowin' we couldn't, so if somebody else showed up with the land, they were bound to ask a sight of questions. Sooner or later they'd have got around to askin' yuh how come.”

  Hardin seemed stunned. From the street below, there was a sound of horses' hooves.

  THEN A VOICE said from Tack's left, “Yuh better get out, Van. There's talkin' to be done in the street. I want Tack Gentry!”

  Tack's head jerked around. It was Soderman. The short, squinty-eyed man was staring at him, gun in hand. He heard Hardin turn and bolt out of the room, saw resolution in Soderman's eyes. Hurling himself toward the wall, Gentry's hand flashed for his pistol.

  A gun blasted in the room with a roar like a cannon, and Gentry felt the angry whip of the bullet, and then he fired twice, low down.

  Soderman fell back against the doorjamb, both hands grabbing at his stomach, just below his belt buckle. “Yuh shot me!” he gasped, round eyed. “Yuh shot—me!”

  “Like you did my uncle,” Tack said coolly. “Only yuh had better than an even break, and he had no break at all!”

  Gentry could feel blood from the opened wound trickling down his leg. He glanced at Betty. “I've got to get down there,” he said. “He's a slick talker.”

  Van Hardin was standing down in the street. Beside him was Olney and nearby was Starr. Other men, a half dozen of them, loitered nearby.

  Slowly, Tack Gentry began stumping down the stair. All eyes looked up. Red Furness saw him and spoke out, “Tack, these three men are Rangers come down from Austin to make some inquiries.”

  Hardin pointed at Gentry. “He's wanted for murdering Anson Childe! Also for jailbreaking, and unless I'm much mistaken he has killed another man up there in Childe's office!”

  The Rangers looked at him curiously, and then one of them glanced at Hardin. “Yuh all the hombre what lays claim to the Gentry place?”

  Hardin swallowed up quickly, and then his eyes shifted. “No, that was Soderman. The man who was upstairs.”

  Hardin looked at Tack Gentry. With the Rangers here he knew his game was played out. He smiled suddenly. “Yuh've nothin' on me at all, gents,” he said coolly. “Soderman killed John Gentry and laid claim to his ranch. I don't know nothin' about it.”

  “Yuh engineered it!” Bill London burst out. “Same as yuh did the stealin' of my ranch!”

  “Yuh've no proof,” Hardin sneered. “Not a particle. My name is on no papers, and yuh have no evidence.”

  Coolly, he strode across to his black horse and swung into the saddle. He was smiling gently, but there was sneering triumph behind the smile. “You've nothin' on me, not a thing!”

  “Don't let him get away!” Bill London shouted. “He's the wust one of the whole kit and kaboodle of 'em!”

  “But he's right!” the Ranger protested. “In all the papers we've found, there's not a single item to tie him up. If he's in it, he's been almighty smart.”

  “Then arrest him for horse stealin'!” Tack Gentry said. “That's my black horse he's on!”

  Hardin's face went cold, and then he smiled. “Why, that's crazy! That's foolish,” he said. “This is my horse. I reared him from a colt. Anybody could be mistaken. cause one black horse is like another. My brand's on him, and yuh can all see it's an old brand.”

  Tack Gentry stepped out in front of the black horse. “Button!” he said sharply. “Button!”

  At the familiar voice, the black horse's head jerked up. “Button!” Tack called. “Hut! Hut!”

  As the name and the sharp command rolled out, Button reacted like an explosion of dynamite. He jumped straight up in the air and came down hard. Then he sunfished wildly, and Van Hardin hit the dirt in a heap.

  “Button!” Tack commanded. “Go get Blackie!”

  Instantly, the horse wheeled and trotted to the hitching rail where Blackie stood ground hitched as Olney had left him. Button caught the reins in his teeth and led the other black horse back.

  The Rangers grinned. “Reckon, mister,” he said, “yuh done proved yore case. The man's a horse thief.”

  Hardin climbed to his feet, his face dark with fury. “Yuh think yuh'll get away with that?” His hand flashed for his gun.

  Tack Gentry had been watching him, and now his own hand moved down and then up. The two guns barked as one. A chip flew from the stair post beside Tack, but Van Hardin turned slowly and went to his knees in the dust.

  At almost the same instant, a sharp voice rang out. “Olney! Starr!”

  Olney's face went white and he wheeled, hand flashing for his gun. “Anson Childe!” he gasped.

  Childe stood on the
platform in front of his room and fired once, twice, three times. Sheriff Olney went down, coughing and muttering. Starr backed through the swinging doors of the saloon and sat down hard in the sawdust.

  Tack stared at him. “What the—”

  The tall young lawyer came down the steps. “Fooled them, didn't I? They tried to get me once too often. I got their man with a shotgun in the face. Then I changed clothes with him and lit out for Austin. I came in with the Rangers and then left them on the edge of town. They told me they'd let us have it our way unless they were needed.”

  “Saves the state of Texas a sight of money,” one of the Rangers drawled. “Anyway, we been checkin' on this here Hardin. On Olney, too. That's why they wanted to keep things quiet around here. They knowed we was checkin' on 'em.”

  The Rangers moved in and with the help of a few of the townspeople rounded up Hardin's other followers.

  Tack grinned at the lawyer. “Lived up to your name, pardner,” he said. “Yuh sure did! All yore sheep in the fold, now!”

  “What do you mean? Lived up to my name?” Anson Childe looked around.

  Gentry grinned. “And a little Childe shall lead them!” he said.

  Author's Note

  TRAIL TO PIE TOWN

  BILLY HAMILTON, MOUNTAIN man, trapper, and more, tells of a shooting contest at a rendezvous at Brown's Hole. “Three posts were set in the ground about 25 yards apart. They stood six feet out of the ground and were ten inches in diameter. The top of the post was squared for a distance of about twelve inches. The arms to be used were Colt six-shooters. Horses were to be put at full speed, passing the posts not closer than ten feet and the contestant was to fire not less than two shots at each post.

  “Some of our party put two bullets in each post and all at least one. I tried it twice and was somewhat surprised to find the best I could do was to place one bullet in each post.”