Hondo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Below him, near the worn poles of the corral, a small boy was playing. Suddenly, attracted by some sound, he lifted his head and looked up the slope at the descending man.

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

  A woman came to the door of the cabin, shading her eyes against the sun. Then she walked out to the child and spoke to him, and together they watched the man on the hillside. He walked still more slowly, the fatigue of the long days and his heavy burden at last catching up with even his iron strength. She hesitated, then turned quickly and walked back to the cabin.

  Hanging in a holster from a peg on the cabin wall was a huge Walker Colt. She lifted the heavy weapon from its holster and walked back to the door, placing it under a dish towel on the table where it would be immediately available.

  She put her hand on the child’s head. “You let Mommy do the talking,” she said quietly. “Remember!”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  Hondo reached the bottom of the slope and walked slowly toward the cabin. As he drew near his eyes went from the house to the corrals and the open-face shed that sheltered an anvil, a forge, and a few tools. His eyes went beyond, searching, still wary. Not even the presence of the woman and child in the doorway dispelled his suspicion.

  “Remember,” the woman whispered, “no talking.”

  Hondo lowered his saddle to the ground under the shed and took off his hat as they walked toward him. He mopped his face. “Morning, ma’am. Howdy, son.”

  “Good morning. You look like you’ve had trouble.”

  “Yep. I lost my horse while I was gettin’ away from Indians a few days ago. Made a dry camp above Lano last night.” He gestured toward the dog. “Then Sam here smelled Apaches, so I thought I’d make some more miles.”

  “But why? We’re at peace with the Apaches. We have a treaty.”

  Hondo ignored her comment, looking around at the stables. There were several horses in the corral. “Yes, ma’am, and now I’ve got to get me a new horse—borrow or buy one. I’ll pay you in United States scrip. I’m ridin’ dispatch for General Crook. My name’s Lane.”

  “I’m Mrs. Lowe. Angie Lowe.”

  “Can you sell or hire me a horse, Mrs. Lowe?”

  “Of course. But I’ve only got the plow horses and two that are only half broken. The cowboy that was training them for me got hurt and had to go to town.”

  They walked toward the corral together. Two of the horses were obviously mustangs, wild and unruly. Hondo Lane moved around, studying them carefully. Both were good animals.

  “I’m sorry my husband isn’t here to help you. He’s up in the hills working some cattle. He would pick this day to be away when we have a visitor.”

  “I’d enjoy meetin’ him, ma’am.” He glanced toward the boy, who was walking toward Sam. “I wouldn’t pet that dog, son. He doesn’t take to petting. And now, ma’am, if you’ll allow me, I’ll give those horses a try.”

  “Of course. And I’ll get you some food. I imagine you’re hungry.”

  Lane grinned. “Thank you. I could eat.”

  Lane hesitated before going to the corral. There was work that needed to be done around here. The little things that are done by a man constantly living around were undone. The recent rains had run off the barn and started to run back under the foundation timbers, gouging out a hole. Another rain and that hole would be much larger. It should be filled and the water trenched away toward the arroyo.

  He rolled a smoke and lighted it, then leaned on the corral bars. The two mustangs moved warily, edging away from the man smell and the strangeness. Both had good lines and showed evidences of speed and power. There was a lineback that he liked, a dusky, powerful horse, still wearing his shaggy winter coat.

  Lane went through the bars and into the corral, rope in hand, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. The horses moved away from him, circling against the far side of the small corral. He watched them moving, liking the action of the lineback, and studying the movements of both horses.

  He talked quietly to the horses and dropped his cigarette into the dust. He was conscious that the boy was perched on the corral, watching with excitement. Dust arose from the corral, and he shook out a loop. The lineback dun tossed his head and rolled his eyes, moving away from the threat of the loop.

  Hondo smiled, liking the horse’s spirit. He spoke softly, then moved in. When he made his throw it was quick, easy, and deft. The loop dropped surely over the bronc’s head, and the horse stopped nervously. He knew the feel of a rope, at least. That much he had learned, even if he had not learned the meaning of a saddle.

  Leading him to the corral bars, Hondo talked softly to him, stroking his neck and flanks. The mustang shied nervously, then began to quiet down. Finally he nosed at Hondo curiously, but shied when Hondo reached for his nose.

  Making no quick movements, Hondo walked to the bars and crawled through. When he had his saddle and bridle he walked back, dropped them near the horse, talked to him a little, and then after rubbing his hand over the dun’s back he put the saddle blanket on him. Then the saddle. The horse fought the bit a little, but accepted it finally.

  Once, glancing toward the house, he saw Angie Lowe watching from the doorway.

  Leaving the saddle and bridle on the horse so the animal could get used to them, Hondo left the corral. He stood beside the boy, letting his eyes trace the line of the hills. It was amazing to find this woman and her child here, in Apache country.

  Suddenly curious, he walked toward the stable, then circled around the bank of the stream and back to the house. The only horse tracks entering or leaving since the rain were his own. Thoughtfully he studied the hills again, and, turning, walked back to the house.

  There was a tin washbasin on a bench beside the door, a clean towel and a bar of homemade soap beside it. Removing his hat and shirt, he washed, then combed his hair. Donning the shirt again, he stepped inside.

  “Smells mighty good, ma’am,” he said, glancing at the stove. “Man gets tired of his own fixin’.”

  “I’m sorry my husband picked today to go hunting those lost calves. He would have enjoyed having a man to talk to. We welcome company.”

  Lane pulled back a chair and sat down opposite the plate and cup. “Must be right lonely here. Specially for a woman.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I was raised here.”

  Sam came up to the door and hesitated, then came inside, moving warily. After a minute he lay down, but he kept his attention on Hondo. He seemed somehow remote and dangerous. There was nothing about the dog to inspire affection, except, perhaps, his very singleness of purpose. There was a curious affinity between man and dog. Both were untamed, both were creatures born and bred to fight, honed and tempered fine by hot winds and long desert stretches, untrusting, dangerous, yet good companions in a hard land.

  “What can I feed your dog?”

  “Nothin’, thanks. He makes out by himself. He can outrun any rabbit in the territory.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” She turned back to the stove and picked up a dish, looking around for scraps.

  “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d rather you didn’t feed him.”

  Curiously she looked around. The more she saw of this man, the more she was impressed by his strangeness. Yet oddly enough, she felt safer with him here. And he was unlike anyone she had ever known, even in this country of strange and dangerous men.

  Even when he moved there was a quality of difference about him. Always casually, always lazily, and yet with a conservation of movement and a watchfulness that belied his easy manner. She had the feeling that he was a man that lived in continual expectation of trouble, never reaching for it, yet always and forever prepared. Her eyes dropped to the worn holster and the polished butt of the Colt. Both had seen service, and the service of wear and use, not merely of years.

 
“Oh, I think I understand. You don’t want him to get in the habit of taking food from anyone but you. Well, I’ll just fix it and you can hand it to him.”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t feed him either.”

  When her eyes showed their doubt, he said, “Sam’s independent. He doesn’t need anybody. I want him to stay that way. It’s a good way.”

  He helped himself to another piece of meat, to more potatoes and gravy.

  “But everyone needs someone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hondo continued eating. “Too bad, isn’t it?”

  She moved back to the stove and added a stick of wood. She was puzzled by him, yet there was a curious attraction, too. Was it simply that he was a man? That the woman in her needed his presence here? That the place had been needing a man too long?

  She stirred up the fire, turned over a charred stick, and moved back to the table. He ate slowly and quietly, not talking, yet without the heedlessness of manner of so many Western men, accustomed as they were to living in camps and bunkhouses and away from the nearness of women.

  His boots were worn and scuffed. And there was a place on his left thigh where the jeans had been polished by the chafing of some object. A place that might have been made by a holster. Only this man wore his gun on his right side. Had he, then, worn two guns? It was unlikely. Not many men did.

  “You’re a good cook, ma’am.” Hondo pushed back from the table and got to his feet.

  “Thank you.” She was pleased, and showed it. She smoothed her one good apron with her hands.

  “A woman should be a good cook.”

  He walked to the door and hesitated there, looking out over the yard, then at the trees, the arroyo, and finally the hills. As he did this he stood just within the door, partly concealed from the outside by the doorjamb. Then he put on his hat, and turning he said, “I’m a good cook myself.”

  CHAPTER 2

  IT WAS HOT and still in the afternoon sun. The boy perched on the corral bars and watched Hondo Lane lead the lineback dun through the gate, then replace the bars. From the lean-to he got a sack of grain and put it across the saddle. The dun humped his back and sidled nervously away, but when Hondo walked off, leading him, he hesitated only briefly, then followed along.

  The mustang was used to rope, and had probably been saddled before, but not often. Angie Lowe had said that he had never been ridden, and there was little time to waste. Hondo walked around the yard a few times, then removed the grain sack and proceeded to take off and put back the saddle several times.

  He glanced at the boy. “Gets him used to it,” he said. “He’ll learn it’s nothin’ to be scared of. First thing they’ve got to know: not to be scared. After that, if they find out the man in the saddle is boss, then they’ll do to ride.”

  He talked to the horse a bit, then stripped off the saddle and bridle, returning him to the corral. As he did so, Hondo stepped back and looked around at the hills, a slow, studying glance.

  Angie Lowe came from the house and the boy trotted away and began picking sticks from under the cotton-woods, where a few dried twigs and branches lay.

  “It surprises me that you picked the most savage horse,” Angie commented. “He’s always been a fighter.”

  “Wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for one wouldn’t fight. Horse without spunk will let you down when the going’s tough.”

  He glanced toward the woodpile and then at the boy, starting toward the house with an armful of kindling.

  “Only fair I should trade kindling for a meal.” He picked up the ax and placed a chunk of wood against a log, in position for splitting. Then he glanced at the ax. It had no edge. Obviously it had not been sharpened in some time. It was equally obvious that it had suffered much misuse.

  “No edge,” he said. “I’ll turn the grindstone if you’ll hold the ax, Mrs. Lowe.”

  “I’ll be glad to. That ax has been driving me crazy.”

  The grindstone was a heavy, old-fashioned type and turned heavily. He started the stone turning and the rasping whine of steel against stone cut into the clear, still air of the afternoon. He paused in the turning and poured water in the funnel-shaped can that allowed slow drops to fall on the turning stone. “You were raised here on the ranch, Mrs. Lowe?”

  “Yes, I was born here. My husband was raised here on the ranch, too.”

  He glanced at her, starting the wheel turning again. Watching her intent eyes as she moved the ax against the turning stone, he found himself liking the stillness of her face. She was, he suddenly realized, a beautiful woman. Even the hardness of desert wind and sun had not taken the beauty from her skin. But there was a shadowing worry around her eyes that disturbed him.

  It made no sense, a woman living like this. Not this woman, anyway. Maybe she had been born to it, maybe she was doing a better job here than almost any woman could be expected to do. It still was not right.

  He straightened from the wheel and glanced around briefly at the hills, then bent to the turning again. The woman was skillful with the sharpening ax, he had to admit that.

  When he straightened again she returned to the subject of her husband. “He was an orphan. His parents died in a wagon-train massacre. My father took him in and raised him here.”

  “Handy,” he said.

  The wheel turned again and the ax showed an edge, carefully honed down now.

  He straightened, taking the ax from her hands. She looked at him, not understanding his use of the word. She said as much.

  “Figures are against it. Only young fellow in a thousand square miles, only young girl in a thousand square miles, and they get in a whirl about each other. That’s what I mean. Handy.”

  “I guess it was a coincidence. But they say the right two people are going to meet by an arrangement of destiny.”

  He held the ax in his hands. He looked at her thoughtfully. “You believe that, Mrs. Lowe?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He studied her for a minute, and she met his eyes frankly, a little puzzled, and faintly excited. He turned away. “Interesting,” he said.

  He walked slowly to the woodpile. There were several logs and a number of large trimmed branches. There were also some stumps that had been grubbed out, and some chunks of ironwood. These last were all their name implied, hard as iron, but they burned with a bright and beautiful flame.

  His first swing of the ax split the chunk he had chosen. Methodically he went to work, and for a few minutes she stood watching him. There was a beautiful and easy rhythm in his movements. He handled his body as if it were all one beautifully oiled and coordinated machine. Nor was he awkward on his feet, as are so many riding men. He moved, she thought, like an Indian.

  He did not look up, moving easily from stick to stick. He cut through the log, then cut through it again, handling the ax with the skill of long use. Several times he paused, each time his eyes circled the hills rimming the basin.

  Keeping clear of the ax, the boy gathered the big chips into a neat pile, watching as Hondo swung the blade. Sinking it into a log for the last time, Hondo straightened. “Son, always sink the blade into a log when you’ve finished cutting wood. The edge stays clean of rust.”

  Angie walked from the house, watching him repile the wood to keep too much of it from becoming rain-soaked at any one time. As he piled it, the boy looked toward Sam, who watched from close by.

  The child hesitated, looked longingly toward the dog, then at Hondo. “Pet?”

  “You do what you want to, young one.”

  Hesitantly the boy reached his hand toward the dog. Sam bristled, then snapped. The boy drew back quickly, frightened and half ready to cry.

  Angrily Angie turned on Hondo. “Really, Mr. Lane, if you knew the dog bites, why would you—”

  “Mrs. Lowe,” Hondo said patiently, “I told the boy earlier not to touch the dog, b
ut still he wanted to pet him. People learn by gettin’ bit. The youngster learned.”

  To cover her confusion, she turned sharply on the boy. “Johnny, don’t ever touch that dog again!”

  Johnny looked up at Hondo, and Hondo grinned, dropping a hand to the child’s head. “Don’t let it get you, old-timer. You’ll get snapped at a lot in this life. Might as well get used to it. Don’t trust nothin’ too much.”

  He wiped his hands on his shirt front. “And now I’ll get back to that horse.”

  The lineback had been thinking it over. He was losing his fear of the saddle and bridle, for already he had discovered they did him no harm, but he did not like the bit, and he did not like being led around. Yet he had learned the folly of fighting a strangling noose.

  He stood quietly, trembling a little, as Lane came down the rope toward him. He submitted to being tied, and although he jerked his head back several times, he finally took the bit. He worked it in his jaws, not liking it. He jumped a little and tightened when the blanket was thrown over his back, and then the saddle.

  Later he would learn to blow himself up against the girth, but that he had not discovered as yet. He felt it tighten and tensed again. The man’s voice was soothing, and he was so sure of himself that the horse almost unconsciously relaxed. Then he was led outside and the man gathered the reins.

  Angie, half frightened, had come to the door to watch. Johnny clutched her hand, wide-eyed and excited. Hondo Lane stepped into the saddle.

  Instantly the horse bunched his muscles and bucked. The man remained in the saddle. Angrily the dun tried to get his head down so he could really go to bucking, but the man in the saddle kept his head up. Then suddenly the reins slacked a little and the lineback began to pitch. He buck-jumped across the yard, swapped ends swiftly, and tried to throw himself over backward. Yet the man stayed with him.