"Milo Talon, huh?" The older man spat. "Well, Milo, I don't know you from Adam, but you make a kind of sense."
The redhead shook his head, grinning. "He's got too much nerve to shoot, ridin' down here to talk the four of us out of a herd of cows. Mister, you got more gall than one of these here lightnin'-rod salesmen I hear about. You surely have."
"Look, boys," I said, "conversation is all right. You boys surely do carry on with the words, but meanwhile that posse gets closer. Now I want this herd pointed north before they see you, else my arguments may come to nothing."
"What'll we tell Twin?" asked the older man.
"To hell with him!" the redhead said. "He offered us fifty bucks apiece to drive these cattle to San Antone. My neck's worth more'n fifty bucks to me. Come on, boys! Let's move 'em out!"
They swung around, turning the cattle, stringing them out toward the crossing of the Llano. Me, I mopped the sweat off my face with a bandana. As long as I had a Sackett for a mother, I was glad I had a smooth-talking Frenchman for a pa. He always told me that words were better than gunpowder, and now I could see what he meant.
We strung out the herd and pointed them north, and I rode up to take the point.
Chapter 28
Two hours north of the Llano, we raised a dust cloud on the horizon and, shortly after, the posse topped a rise and started down the slope toward us.
The redheaded puncher pulled up short. "I just remembered! I got a dyin' grandmother somewhere's east of Beeville! I'm takin' out!"
"You run now, and they'll start shooting," I said. "Hold your horses, boys. Let me handle this!"
"Last time somebody said that he was reachin' for a hangin' rope," said the redhead. "All right, mister, you do the talkin', an' I pray to God you use the right words!"
Balch and the major were in the lead, and right behind them was Ann. Riding beside her was Roger Balch. I rode out to meet them. "Here's your cattle, or most of them. These boys offered to help with the drive until we met you."
"Who are they?" Roger Balch demanded suspiciously. "I never saw any of them before!"
"They were just passin' through," I said glibly, "headin' for San Antone. They helped me make the gather and the drive."
"Thank you, men," Major Timberly said. "That was mighty nice of you!"
"Major, these boys were in quite a hurry, and I talked them into helping. Now if you could spare the price of a drink--" I suggested.
"Surely!" He took out a gold eagle. "Here, boys, have a couple on me. And thanks ... Thanks very much!"
"Don't mind if we do," the older man said. He spat, glancing at me. "Sure is a pleasure to meet an honest man!"
"See you in San Antone!" I said cheerfully. "I'd rather see you hanging out there than here!"
They trotted their horses away, and we started the herd again.
Ann rode over, followed by Roger. "We were worried," she said, "really worried. Especially after we saw the buzzards."
"Buzzards?" My expression was innocent.
"Father found a dead man. He had been shot. It wasn't you."
"I noticed that," I commented, dryly.
"There's been some shooting in Menardville, too," she added.
"What d' you know? Is that up yonder near the Presidio? Nothing ever seems to happen where I'm riding. Looks like I missed out all along the line."
Ann glanced at me sharply, but Roger didn't notice. "That's what I told Ann," he said. "You couldn't have been involved, because your messenger said you'd talked about the shooting right after it happened."
Fuentes had ridden alongside. "Talked to an hombre at the saloon. Said he'd never seen anything like it. Like shootin' a brace of ducks, one right, one left. Picturebook shooting, he called it."
"What about Twin Baker?" Balch demanded.
"Gone. His sister said he often went to San Antonio, so that's probably where he is."
"At least we got the cattle back," Fuentes said.
"Roger said we would," Ann said proudly. "He told me not to worry. We'd get them all back, and without trouble."
"I like confidence in a man," I said.
"Father didn't want me to come," Ann admitted, "but Roger said it would be all right. He said such rustlers had little courage, and Twin Baker would probably be gone before we got there."
Seemed to me Roger was expressing himself an awful lot, and being quoted more than usual. Fuentes was noticing it, too. His eyes carried that faintly quizzical expression.
"It's the memories that count," Fuentes said. "And never stay long enough to let 'em see you just put your pants on one leg at a--"
"The hell with that," I said irritably.
When we rode into the yard at Stirrup-Iron, all was dark and still. One light showed from the ranch-house kitchen, and a horse spoke to us from the corral.
"S'pose there's any grub in there?" I suggested hopefully.
"We can look. Maybe that's why the light's burning," said Fuentes.
Fuentes and I turned our horses in at the corral and I dropped my bedroll and saddlebags down on the stoop.
There was a plate of cold meat on the table, some bread and butter, and a couple of thick slices of apple-pie. The coffeepot was on the stove, so we got cups and saucers and sat down opposite each other in silence and gratitude.
"That hombre at the saloon," Fuentes said, "spoke to me of a man who was just sort of passing by ... riding a horse with black legs."
"He should've kept his mouth shut."
"He spoke only to me," Fuentes said. "Were they waiting for you? Laredo and Sonora?"
"Twin Baker paid them to kill a rider on a Stirrup-Iron horse, no names mentioned."
"The saloon keeper said you knew one of them?"
"Played poker with him a time or two. He was no friend of mine. He and Sonora had taken money for the job. They'd spent some of it."
Fuentes pushed back from the table. "At the poker table with Laredo that time ... Who won?"
"He did."
"You see? Nobody wins all the time, not with girls, guns or poker."
We walked outside under the stars, and Fuentes lit a cigar. "Nobody ... Not even you."
I looked at him.
"This time it is you who can ride away. The girl will marry the other man but she will remember you, who came so gallantly from out of the distance and then rode, gallantly, into another distance."
"Are you trying to tell me something?"
"Ann Timberly. She will marry Roger Balch. Did you not see it?"
"Two big ranches, side by side. It figures."
"And you but a drifting cowhand. You did not mention your ranch, amigo?"
"I told nobody. Nor will I."
"It is the way of things. I think we should sleep now."
"Harley and Ben with the herd?" I asked.
"Of course," Fuentes replied.
"How'd you leave Joe? Still in the house?"
"Of course." Fuentes snapped his fingers. "Hah! I had forgotten. There was a note came for you. It is in my coat, hanging on my saddle, and in the morning I will get it for you."
"Get it for me now, will you, Tony?"
"Now? But of course!" He turned away and I walked to the bunkhouse and picked up my blanket roll. For a moment I stood there, feeling the night, knowing the stars. Then, very carefully, I pushed the door open with my left toe and thrust my blanket roll into the door.
A stab of flame punched a hole in the night, and the thunderous blast of a shotgun slammed against my ears. In that same instant my right hand drew, the gun came level, and I put three bullets where the fiery throat of flame had been.
Drawing back, gun in hand, I waited.
A long, slow moment of silence, then the thud of a dropped gun. Then there was a slow, ripping sound as of tearing cloth, and something heavy fell.
The night was still again.
"Amigo?" It was the voice of Fuentes, behind me.
"All right, amigo," I said.
He came forward and we stood in the d
arkness together, looking from the ranch house to the bunkhouse. We had blown out the kitchen light when leaving, and no new light appeared, nor any sound.
"I have some miles to go before I camp. I'll saddle the dun," I said.
"You knew he was there?" asked Fuentes.
"There was a rifle near the kitchen door with prongs on the butt-plate," I said. "That was his fatal mistake. Leaving it there. I figured he was waiting in the bunkhouse."
"That was why you sent me away to get the note?"
"It was my fight."
"Muchas gracias, amigo."
At the corral I saddled the dun.
"We ride together, amigo ...bueno ?" he asked.
"Why not?" I replied.
He smiled, and I could see his white teeth.
The ranch house door creaked open, and an old man called into the night.
"John? ... John ... Twin?" There was no answer. And there would be no answer.
Fuentes and I rode out of the ranch yard. When morning came, and the stage stop at Ben Ficklin's was not far away, Fuentes said, "The note, amigo?"
It was a woman's handwriting. I tore it open.
I enjoyed the dancing. There will be another social soon. Will you take me?
--China Benn
Maybe not on that day. But on another, at some time not very far off.
About the Author
"I think of myself in the oral tradition -- of a troubadour, a village taleteller, the man in the shadows of the campfire. That's the way I'd like to be remembered -- as a storyteller. A good storyteller."
It is doubtful that any author could be as at home in the world recreated in his novels as Louis Dearborn L'Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally "walked the land my characters walk." His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L'Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.
Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L'Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, "always on the frontier." As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family's frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L'Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, assessment miner, and officer on tank destroyers during World War II. During his "yondering" days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L'Amour "wanted to write almost from the time I could talk." After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L'Amour published his first full-length novel,Hondo , in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 100 books is in print; there are nearly 230 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the best-selling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.
His hardcover bestsellers includeThe Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century historical novel)Jubal Sackett, Last of the Breed , andThe Haunted Mesa . His memoir,Education of a Wandering Man , was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and adaptations of many L'Amour stories are available on cassette tapes from Bantam Audio Publishing.
The recipient of many great honors and awards, in 1983 Mr. L'Amour became the first novelist ever to be awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the United States Congress in honor of his life's work. In 1984 he was also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.
Louis L'Amour died on June 10, 1988. His wife, Kathy, and their two children, Beau and Angelique, carry the L'Amour tradition forward with new books written by the author during his lifetime to be published by Bantam well into the nineties -- among them, four Hopalong Cassidy novels:The Rustlers of West Fork, The Trail to Seven Pines, The Riders of High Rock, andTrouble Shooter .
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the Man from the Broken Hills (1975) Page 22
